Harry had just thanked Snape.
Snape's expression instantly darkened.
"Ugh, disgusting," he sneered. "I never thought I'd hear that word from a Gryffindor."
He stared at Harry and added in the most grating tone possible:
"Po—tter, has a troll smashed your brains in? Or did someone stuff a Dungbomb in your skull?
I hardly think what just happened is anything worth thanking me for."
Harry: (ー`ー)
No wonder Snape was so universally disliked.
He had a knack for turning even a simple conversation into something unbearable.
Harry took a deep breath, silently repeating to himself he's protecting me, over and over, just to resist the overwhelming urge to snap back.
When Harry didn't argue, Snape looked surprised.
But his eyes soon shifted toward the stands, and he said with malicious delight,
"Too bad… it looks like your little detective friend and your troll-loving pal are in trouble now."
Alarmed, Harry quickly followed his gaze.
The battle on the Quidditch pitch had ended—but the real chaos had only just begun in the stands.
The rain poured relentlessly.
The atmosphere? Anything but friendly.
Malfoy had curled up in a muddy corner, a swelling bruise at the corner of his mouth from Sherlock's punch.
Crabbe and Goyle were slumped over each other near the railing, both completely incapacitated.
Sherlock had moved swiftly. The three hadn't even managed to draw their wands before he took them down effortlessly.
"Gryffindor brutes!"
Pansy Parkinson's shrill voice cut through the air like a knife. The Slytherin first-year pointed her wand, and in the next instant, a flash of red light shot from its tip.
"Look out!"
Hermione cried out, warning Sherlock.
But he didn't even flinch.
Instead, he calmly drew his wand and said in a steady voice:
"You attacked first. Petrificus Totalus."
Parkinson's spell missed—hitting only a seat beside Sherlock.
Before she could cast again, his Full Body-Bind Curse hit her squarely. Her arms and legs snapped together, and she dropped like a stiff plank to the floor.
"Help Malfoy!"
"Down with Holmes!"
"Get Parkinson some justice!"
With Sherlock having taken down four Slytherin students in quick succession, the rest of the young snakes lost all restraint.
Someone rallied the crowd, and suddenly, all the Slytherin first-years surged forward in a wave.
"You think we're just going to stand here?!"
Ron had already been itching to jump in. Seeing Sherlock about to be swarmed, he immediately drew his wand.
"C'mon, lads—side by side!"
Seamus and Dean followed at once. Even Neville, after a moment's hesitation, rushed into the fray.
The first-years from both houses drew their wands and started hurling spells at each other.
But it didn't take long to realize something:
None of them knew enough combat spells yet.
They quickly discovered that fists and feet worked better than magic.
And so, the wands were mostly abandoned as the crowd descended into a good old-fashioned brawl.
Only those stuck in the back rows were still casting the occasional spell, which ironically made them more likely to hit someone by accident.
Poor Neville got hit with a Leg-Locker Curse by who-knows-who and went down with a thud.
Hermione hurried to lift the jinx.
She was about to jump in to help when Seamus—completely unpredictably—fired off some unstable spell that exploded in the middle of the crowd, hitting both Slytherins and Gryffindors alike.
Hermione had no choice but to cast a few healing charms.
"Seamus! Put your wand away!" Ron bellowed through the chaos.
"Just go punch someone instead!"
At the heart of the brawl, naturally, was Sherlock—Gryffindor's champion and top target.
Almost every Slytherin first-year wanted a piece of him.
Unfortunately for them, he was also dishing out the most damage.
A veritable boss tank and top DPS rolled into one.
As the angry, wild-eyed Slytherins swarmed him, Sherlock stayed composed.
His strategy?
Start with distraction.
As the first attacker charged, Sherlock pulled out Neville's pet toad, Trevor—whom he'd just recently found and hadn't returned yet.
With a quick Levitation Charm, Trevor zoomed through the air, croaking loudly and wildly.
While the toad blocked the Slytherin's view, Sherlock landed a clean right hook to the attacker's cheek.
K.O.
Down in one hit.
"Despicable!"
Hermione's voice rang out behind him.
But Sherlock moved faster. Before she finished speaking, he raised his left elbow and blocked another sneak attack from the side.
He didn't see anything wrong with what he was doing.
This was a fight—there were no rules, only winners and losers.
Besides, that punch had been so poorly executed. The only thing it had going for it was strength.
After blocking, Sherlock struck again, flooring his second opponent.
A quick step left.
A reverse elbow strike to the jaw of another would-be attacker.
Thud!
Third down.
A punch to the ribs.
Fourth.
A straight jab down the middle.
Fifth.
A knee to the diaphragm.
Sixth.
Every strike landed solidly—fast, clean, brutal.
No one stood after taking a hit from Sherlock.
Gender didn't matter.
With such a powerhouse leading the charge, the Gryffindors roared with excitement.
Within moments, the tide of the battle had completely shifted.
The Gryffindors were dominating.
Seeing this, some older Slytherin students began to stir.
But then a cold voice rang out:
"Hold your students back, Gemma Farley—or things will get a lot worse for you, I promise."
Percy Weasley stood tall, Prefect badge gleaming.
Despite the all-out melee, only first-years had been involved so far.
Since they hadn't learned many combat spells, it was chaotic but mostly harmless.
If older students joined in, that would change.
"Percy Weasley," Gemma Farley, Slytherin Prefect, replied coolly.
"Slytherin hasn't sunk to that level."
Her eyes swept over her own housemates.
Her expression was filled with disappointment.
They couldn't even win against first-years from another house—and now they wanted to escalate?
Shameful.
The rain was now pouring harder than ever.
Hermione was preparing to draw her wand and hit a few Slytherins who were trying to sneak up on Sherlock—
But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw Professor McGonagall marching toward them.
She quickly shoved her wand away.
Not only that, she shouted anxiously:
"Stop!"
"Stop fighting!"
"PLEASE, STOP FIGHTING!"
The rain drenched them all.
Both Gryffindor and Slytherin students turned to her in disbelief.
Had she gone mad?
Or had the rain scrambled her brain?
"That's enough!"
McGonagall's furious voice exploded across the stands, accompanied by the chilling sound of ice creeping over the wooden floorboards.
Every last spell fizzled out at once.
Sherlock's fist froze mid-air, just inches from a young witch's face.
Millicent Bulstrode recoiled in fear.
He was going to punch me?!
Wait, no—he already had punched girls before!
Professor McGonagall had arrived just in time.
She looked thunderous, commanding respect without needing to raise her voice further.
Her eyes swept over the soaked battlefield—the bruised Slytherins, the triumphant Gryffindors, and Hermione desperately trying to keep the peace.
Finally, her gaze locked on Sherlock, calm and unbothered amid the chaos.
"Can anyone explain to me what on earth happened here?"
Percy and Gemma both stepped forward, each giving their version of the story.
"Physical assault on fellow students—blatant misconduct. Gryffindor, minus fifty points.
Verbal provocation and deliberate antagonism. Slytherin, minus ten points.
Prefects Percy Weasley and Gemma Farley—failure to intervene. Both houses, minus ten points.
You lot… are the worst class I have ever taught!"
Her words struck like steel.
Even the downpour couldn't extinguish the heat behind them.
"But Professor, it was Malfoy who started it—"
"Silence, Miss Granger. The first to raise his hand was Mr. Holmes."
Hermione: (-'`-)
"Mr. Holmes," McGonagall said sternly, "As punishment for your actions, you will serve detention. Report to Mr. Filch in the Entrance Hall tomorrow at eleven p.m. sharp."
Sherlock didn't argue.
He had thrown the first punch. The punishment was fair.
In fact, this had been part of his plan all along.
Despite the deductions and detention, the Gryffindor first-years were elated.
No one seemed upset.
Except Hermione.
She was still trying:
"Professor, please—surely—"
"Miss Granger, you do not tell me what I can or cannot do.
Now, Prefects—escort your houses back to their dormitories. Immediately."
Hermione looked utterly dejected—and deeply worried.
Harry had won the match, securing victory against Hufflepuff.
But Sherlock had cost Gryffindor a total of sixty points in one go.
Sixty points!
That blow alone might have knocked them out of the running for the House Cup.
After the troll incident, Hermione no longer cared as much about points.
What she did care about was Sherlock.
She feared that with so many points lost, he'd be ostracized by the others.
Sherlock might not care—but she did. She knew that feeling all too well.
She'd hoped her academic performance might make up for the loss.
Now she realized she'd been far too naive.
What she didn't expect was that upon returning to the common room, she would walk into a grand celebration.
Sherlock wasn't shunned—he was hailed as a hero.
As was Harry, who had broken a Quidditch record and secured victory.
And Ron, who'd delivered a series of devastating insults to Malfoy and the Slytherins.
The Weasley twins had somehow conjured up an entire feast.
Their friend Lee Jordan gave Sherlock a thumbs-up.
"Holmes, Potter, Weasley—true Gryffindors, all of you. You made us proud!"
"Well done!"
"Yeah, brilliant job!"
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