Evening Astronomy class was, as always, devoted to stargazing through telescopes.
Recently, the young wizards' main assignment had been to sketch astronomical charts of Jupiter, in order to familiarize themselves with the movement of the largest planet in the solar system and its many moons.
Among all the classes at Hogwarts, if Sherlock had to name one he disliked even more than Professor Quirrell's Defense Against the Dark Arts, it would be Astronomy.
Yes, he'd rather sit through a lecture by the ghostly Professor Binns on the History of Magic.
Despite Professor Aurora Sinistra repeatedly emphasizing the importance of Astronomy—like fostering scientific thinking, enhancing observational and concentration skills, stimulating curiosity and exploration, and even supporting Divination and other magical disciplines—Sherlock found almost none of these points meaningful. Perhaps only the last one had some value.
But even that wasn't worth much in his opinion.
Divination was an elective, only available starting third year. And based on everything Sherlock had learned so far, relying on Divination to predict the future was far less accurate than his own methods of deduction.
So he had already resolved to aim for a bare pass in the subject.
Most of the time, he spent Astronomy lessons mentally wandering off, barely paying attention.
That is, until just before class ended, when he leaned over and whispered two quick sentences to Harry.
Harry's eyes widened with sudden excitement, but the class was already full of murmured conversations, so no one noticed the exchange.
Everyone dispersed as usual at the end of the lesson and returned to their dormitories.
Near eleven o'clock, Sherlock finished his preparations and made his way to the Entrance Hall.
There, he saw Harry, Hermione, Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus lined up in a row, blocking his path.
Sherlock took one glance and deduced exactly what had happened.
Harry gave him a helpless look.
Hermione stepped forward, her voice laced with concern.
"Sherlock, we're going with you."
"There's no need," Sherlock replied calmly. "I can manage alone."
"No way! I've heard Filch is a complete maniac!" Seamus chimed in, eyes wide. "I heard a student once got detention and he tried to hang them from the rafters and whip their backside!"
"Oh, Seamus, Filch is terrible, sure—but if he ever tried that on Sherlock, he'd be the one who ought to worry about his own backside," Hermione snorted.
"Ronald, your friend is about to get detention, and you're joking?" she snapped.
Ron mumbled, "I was just telling the truth…"
"…But Sherlock's a good guy. He wouldn't do anything wrong," Neville muttered under his breath.
At that moment, the man in question—Argus Filch—arrived.
"My, my. Quite the crowd," he sneered. "What's the matter? Realizing you should be scared? Too late for that!"
He lit a lantern with a click and added smugly,
"Next time you think of breaking school rules, maybe you'll think twice, hmm?"
(￣ヘ￣）
No one answered him.
Filch narrowed his eyes and muttered bitterly,
"Oh yes… If you ask me, hard labor and suffering are the best teachers…
It's a shame they got rid of the old punishments. Hanging kids by the wrists from the ceiling for days on end…
Still got the chains in my office. I oil them now and then—just in case they come back into use."
Everyone instinctively turned to look at Ron.
Even Hermione couldn't help sneaking a glance.
Filch: (╬￣皿￣)———≡≡≡
Being stared at like that made Filch uneasy, though he couldn't quite figure out why.
"Alright, let's move! Don't even think about running, or you'll be in even worse trouble.
And the rest of you—off to bed, unless you want detention too!"
Everyone exchanged glances.
Sherlock frowned. "Go."
This time, they obeyed.
Back inside the castle, Dean swore under his breath.
"Filch is such a nasty piece of work—always out to make people miserable. I'll never forgive him for this."
For some reason, whenever Dean spoke quickly, it always had a bit of a rap rhythm to it.
"Don't worry so much, Dean," Ron said. "Sherlock'll be fine!"
"Yeah—he's not the one going into the Forbidden Forest," Hermione shot back with a scowl.
Ron thought she wasn't giving Sherlock enough credit.
As they bickered, Harry suddenly clutched his stomach and darted off, claiming he felt unwell.
The group blinked in confusion.
"Maybe he caught a chill?"
"Yeah, it's freezing out."
Only Hermione frowned. Something didn't feel right.
But she was quickly distracted again—this time by Ron's immature comments.
"Ronald, shut up. I know more about Sherlock than you do! You don't know what's in that forest—"
Meanwhile, Harry had slipped away to a hidden corner and pulled on the Invisibility Cloak.
Thanks to Sherlock's recent training, his stealth and counter-surveillance skills had improved dramatically. With the cloak, he was practically undetectable.
He skillfully trailed Filch and Sherlock, soon catching up. But what he saw surprised him.
Sherlock appeared to be scolding Filch… and Filch was actually listening.
Harry hesitated, not wanting to get too close. He circled around and moved to a position ahead of them.
And saw that Sherlock was holding… a cat?
Harry immediately recognized the cat as Mrs. Norris—Filch's beloved, widely despised pet.
But the situation puzzled him.
Trying to mimic Sherlock's usual approach, Harry observed the scene and made deductions.
To his astonishment, he concluded that Sherlock was indeed reprimanding Filch—and that Filch was paying attention.
Unbelievable!
Even Filch himself thought so.
A student about to be punished… lecturing him?
And yet, here they were.
Earlier, as the trio passed through the dark grounds, Sherlock had suddenly pointed to Mrs. Norris and asked flatly:
"Mr. Filch, do you… abuse your cat?"
"What?!"
Filch halted, glaring at Sherlock in fury.
"How dare you!"
Everyone knew how much he doted on Mrs. Norris. Abuse? What nonsense was this?!
If looks could kill, Sherlock would've dropped dead on the spot—but this was the magical world. And Filch couldn't even use magic.
Sherlock remained unmoved.
"Forgive my bluntness," he said, "but are you seriously suggesting her current condition has nothing to do with you?"
The moonlight shimmered above—then faded as clouds passed by, plunging them into darkness.
Filch's heart thudded.
"You… you're wrong! I didn't—she's just… a picky eater, that's all…"
His voice trembled with uncertainty.
"It's gastritis," Sherlock replied firmly.
"For cats, rapid eating, food intolerance or spoilage, environmental stress—all can cause bloating. Over time, this leads to nausea, weight loss, even intestinal blockage."
"Stop!"
Filch looked up with a desperate, almost pleading expression.
"Just stop… What do I do?"
"It's simple."
In a blur, Sherlock grabbed Mrs. Norris by the scruff and lifted her up.
"Put her down! What are you doing to my cat?!"
Filch lunged forward.
"Filch, you don't want Mrs. Norris to waste away from bloating, do you?"
Sherlock calmly ran a hand over the cat's sides.
Skin and bones. Distended belly. Just as he suspected.
In fact, he'd noticed months ago that Mrs. Norris was unnaturally thin with a dull coat. But he'd been too busy to intervene—until now.
From his pocket, he pulled out a small green leaf and held it near the cat's mouth.
Mrs. Norris tensed. Even held by the scruff, she struggled.
But the scent caught her attention.
A moment later, she made up her mind and lunged at the leaf, chewing eagerly.
So fast that Filch couldn't react.
"What did you feed her?!"
"Nepeta cataria," Sherlock answered. "Muggles call it catnip."
"Catnip?!"
Filch's eyes lit up.
"Can it cure her?!"
"Catnip doesn't directly treat bloating," Sherlock replied, dashing Filch's hopes—then continued, "but it can help indirectly.
It induces euphoria in cats, relieving stress and tension—hence its nickname.
It also encourages activity—rolling, jumping, chasing imaginary prey—exercise that helps stimulate digestion.
But to fully treat her, more steps are needed."
"What steps?"
Filch leaned in, anxious again.
---
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