The first snowfall of 1992 arrived later than usual.
On the day before term resumed, Sherlock and his friends reunited on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, greeted by flurries of snow dancing in the sky.
After bidding farewell to their families, the four boarded the Hogwarts Express, just as they had half a month earlier.
The train's heating fogged up the windows, and in Hermione's lap, Magical Drafts and Potions flipped at an unnaturally fast pace, as if the pages had a will of their own.
Ron's eyes were fixed on a Chocolate Frog that had fallen under the seat. It crawled in a zigzag pattern, heading for Harry's sneakers.
It didn't take long for Sherlock, Harry, and Ron to realize something was off with Hermione.
It seemed she'd had a row with her father.
Since boarding the train, she hadn't said a word—just kept flipping through her textbook, clearly stewing.
Sherlock had already deduced the gist of it but didn't seem particularly concerned.
Harry and Ron exchanged glances and wisely decided not to poke the hornet's nest.
Unfortunately, avoiding trouble often invites it anyway.
Just as Hermione flipped past the final page, she suddenly slammed the book shut and snapped,
"Sherlock, you never told us you had a brother!"
Her long, chestnut hair shook with the force of her words, like it had been enchanted with a rage-boiling charm.
She was clearly furious about missing the chance to meet Mycroft.
In fact, she hadn't spoken to Mr. Granger for days—he had been the one to stop her from visiting Sherlock's home.
"Even if your dad had let you go," Harry tried to reason gently, "there's no guarantee you would've run into Sherlock's brother that same day…"
Harry glanced at Sherlock, who remained utterly unfazed, and decided to gently appeal to Hermione's logic.
Big mistake.
Hermione gave a cold, sharp laugh and turned her full fury on him.
"Right—and why didn't you call me that day? I already told you last time to keep me posted!"
Harry: (＠_＠;)
Should've kept my mouth shut!
Ron tried—and failed—to stifle a laugh.
Mate, you've already gotten burned once. Why are you still touching the stove?
As someone with five older brothers and a little sister, Ron knew all too well:
Throwing a tantrum is a woman's right. Being unreasonable is their privilege.
But just as he was congratulating himself for staying out of it, Hermione's attention snapped to him.
"And you, Ronald! I told you before! Why didn't you remind Harry to call me? Do you think him messing up makes you look better?"
Ron: （｀へ）
Who are you—Hermione Granger or Severus Snape?
Sherlock, meanwhile, was calmly examining frost patterns on the window with the magical magnifying glass Harry had given him, treating the argument like background noise.
Hermione, seeing him so detached while she scolded the other two into silence, grew even more irritated.
She turned on him. "Sherlock, aren't you going to say anything?"
Sherlock lowered the magnifying glass and said calmly,
"Hermione, you never asked me."
"…"
Out of Hermione's line of sight, Harry and Ron quietly gave Sherlock a thumbs-up.
Classic Sherlock.
Hermione, though prepared for his cold rationality, hadn't expected him to shut the whole conversation down with a single sentence.
"…Even so, you could've invited me too," she muttered, disappointment softening her tone. "We are friends."
"I don't see meeting that guy as something to be encouraged," Sherlock replied.
"But he's still your brother. He had Harry and Ron keep an eye on you because he genuinely cares—"
"That's just his wishful thinking," Sherlock cut in, stowing the magnifying glass and leaning back with his hands steepled under his chin. "For someone who constantly causes their parents worry, he ought to sort out his own messes before trying to take care of his younger brother."
That killed the conversation.
Though Hermione found the brotherly rift a bit immature, one look at Sherlock's sour expression told her exactly how awkward Christmas dinner must have been.
Even though she was Sherlock's friend, this was clearly a family issue—and she knew better than to pry.
Still, she shot one last glare at Harry and Ron.
(︿)
This really has nothing to do with us…
As long as they didn't mention Mycroft, the four could talk normally again.
Harry even offered to treat everyone to magical sweets.
The trio—Hermione, Sherlock, and Harry—collected more Chocolate Frog cards, except Ron, who already had nearly 500 and was only missing two: Agrippa and Ptolemy—both ultra-rare SSR cards.
Not that he cared much anymore.
Even among SSRs, those two were absurdly rare. He'd long since stopped hoping.
Better to focus on catching that rogue Chocolate Frog under his seat.
Which, naturally, didn't escape his clutches either.
By the time they reached Hogwarts, the sky was fully dark and the snow in the Scottish Highlands had stopped falling.
With many students still yet to return, the castle was quieter than usual.
The moment they stepped off the train, Fred and George Weasley came bounding over.
After saying a quick hello to everyone except Ron, they tackled their younger brother with delight.
"Little Ronnie! It's been two weeks and your face looks rounder!"
"Looks like the food at the Holmes household is top-notch!"
"So heartbreaking—off cavorting with new friends and abandoning your beloved older brothers!"
"Such betrayal! A disgrace to wizarding kinship! Utter moral collapse!"
Ron, flanked left and right by his brothers, didn't stand a chance.
No matter how he struggled, they dragged him off like prize captives.
In a desperate bid for salvation, he spotted Percy walking past and called for help.
But Percy simply walked away, pretending not to notice.
No surprise. Even as their elder brother, he wouldn't dare cross the twins.
Just days ago, they'd teased him for the "P" on his Weasley Christmas sweater—not for Percy, but for Prefect.
Percy, ever the rule-follower, had tried to scold them… only to be physically lifted and carried away by the twins.
Lesson learned: never pick a fight you can't win.
Seeing Ron suffer the same fate brought Percy a secret sense of justice.
At last—I'm not the only one.
Not long after Ron was taken away, Seamus from the next dorm, bored from arriving too early, dragged Harry off to test out some new wizard chess moves.
That left only Sherlock and Hermione.
"Feel like getting some fresh air?" Hermione asked.
Sherlock nodded absently. It gave him time to plan the evening ahead.
Together, they strolled into the snowy Hogwarts grounds.
The castle was beautiful under the moonlight and snow.
A silver-blue path stretched across the snowy field. The distant trees of the Forbidden Forest sagged under the snow's weight, their branches bent at 45-degree angles, crystals glittering like they were under a floating charm.
The snow was over three inches thick. Every step gave off a soft crunching sound, oddly satisfying.
Hermione glanced at their twin rows of footprints and felt something stir.
"I did some reading over the holiday," she said, suddenly stopping. "I finally pieced together what was going on."
Sherlock kept walking.
Hermione: (｀へ*)ノ
"Sherlock! I'm talking to you!"
"Sorry," he replied innocently. "What were you saying?"
Hermione took a deep breath, then got straight to the point.
"The Philosopher's Stone can turn any metal into pure gold and produce the Elixir of Life, making the drinker immortal. The only known stone belongs to Nicolas Flamel—a famous alchemist and opera enthusiast.
He's a friend and partner of Professor Dumbledore. So it makes perfect sense that Dumbledore would be asked to guard the stone.
Quirrell—or should I say Voldemort—let loose the troll on Halloween to distract everyone, giving him the chance to sneak into the chamber where the stone is hidden.
And during the Quidditch match, when Harry's broom went haywire, it's very possible that was also Voldemort. He's afraid Harry might be the one from the prophecy meant to destroy him!"
She finished in one breath and looked at Sherlock.
"You have a real gift for deduction," Sherlock said.
"But forming theories without data is a dangerous mistake. People often twist facts to fit theories, rather than the other way around.
That's why most people suspect Snape over Quirrell. I'm glad you were able to extract key clues and connect them logically."
"But you figured it out at Hagrid's. I only just realized now…"
Even with his praise, Hermione sounded a bit sulky.
"My dear friend," Sherlock said lightly, "for your first attempt at deduction, you're already three Rons ahead of the average Scotland Yard officer.
I've told him repeatedly the difference between seeing and observing. But he's only grasped it in one instance."
Hermione frowned. "What instance?"
"He never mistakes a Sugar Quill for a regular quill—even though they look almost identical."
Hermione: (_)
"…I'm going to study. See you tomorrow!"
With that, she dashed back to the castle.
She'd reached a clear conclusion:
Sherlock definitely hadn't read the copy of The Art of Charming Conversation she gave him.
Once she was gone, Sherlock lingered briefly in the snow before heading back to the Gryffindor common room.
Harry and Seamus were deep into their third or fourth round of chess.
Harry had picked up some tricks over the break from Ron and was now testing them all on Seamus, who was thoroughly flustered.
The chess pieces, once skeptical of Harry, were finally starting to listen—much to Harry and Seamus's delight.
After Seamus left, Sherlock and Harry returned to their dorm.
Ron, exhausted from twin-related torture, was already snoring.
Neville and Dean's beds were still empty—they hadn't yet returned.
Without another word, Sherlock looked at Harry.
Harry got the message immediately—and pulled out the Invisibility Cloak.
His heart started pounding.
A nighttime adventure at Hogwarts.
Something inside him was waking up.
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