HP: Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts

After seeing Hannah Abbott off, Hermione sat down across from Sherlock, staring at him intently.

"What's wrong, my friend?" he asked.

"Detective Sherlock Holmes," Hermione said with a sigh, "where exactly am I supposed to find the security flaws in the Ministry of Magic's system?"

"Oh, that…" Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head. "I already spotted a few in the case report the Ministry provided earlier."

"Huh?" Hermione stared at him in disbelief.

"Unfortunately, even though I've identified those vulnerabilities, I have no way to exploit them. After all, this is the magical world. Now, if I were twenty years old… well, seventeen would probably be enough."

Hermione: |(*′口`)

What's that supposed to mean? Are you seriously thinking about pulling off a heist at the Ministry?

"But what really surprised me," Sherlock continued, "is that the wizarding world apparently has its own version of Scotland Yard."

If it had been Harry or Ron, they probably wouldn't have caught the implication.

But Hermione understood immediately.

"Sounds like you don't think much of Scotland Yard," she said.

"Well, they do have a certain level of competence in conducting basic investigations," Sherlock admitted. "In routine cases, they can collect evidence and question suspects in an orderly fashion. But too many of their detectives are stuck in rigid thinking patterns, bound by procedural norms and lacking the imagination or daring for bold deductions.

"They especially struggle with complex crimes. Their response is often slow, their strategies clumsy. Take the burglary case before school started—because they missed key evidence, the case stalled."

Hearing Sherlock's blunt critique of Scotland Yard, Hermione wasn't sure what to say.

She'd heard her parents and other adults complain about its inefficiency before, but no one had ever broken it down so clearly.

"What I didn't expect," Sherlock went on, "was that the Ministry of Magic would be just as bad."

"In fact, this case was quite simple," he continued. "Just like the ones I've solved for others before. They give me the evidence, and I use my intuition and analysis to steer the investigation in the right direction.

"All crimes share patterns. If I can recall a thousand case details but can't make sense of the thousand-and-first, that would be strange.

"When a case is complicated, sure, I might have to get involved directly. But in this case, the difficulty lay in the sheer number of clues—important ones were buried beneath irrelevant distractions.

"Truthfully, the Ministry's report alone contained enough information. It just needed someone to sort and connect the right points in the correct order. But the Ministry overlooked the clues hidden beneath the surface."

Sherlock frowned deeply.

"To be honest, the Ministry seems more interested in wrapping the case up quickly than finding the real culprit. Even with the correct deduction in hand, I'm afraid Mrs. Abbott will still have to go through quite the ordeal to clear her husband's name.

"That said, since she managed to bring us the investigation report—and with Professor Sprout's help—I believe the case will eventually reach a fair resolution."

He paused for a moment.

"Oh, and by the way—thanks for reminding me of that girl's name earlier."

"Wait, what?" Hermione blinked.

So if she hadn't said "Hannah Abbott" at the start, would he seriously have forgotten who they were talking to?

Then again, she really shouldn't be surprised.

Sherlock had long said his brain worked like a hard drive: he refused to store information he deemed useless.

It wasn't the first—or second—time he'd failed to remember a classmate's name.

Hermione even suspected that if Ron weren't his dormmate, Sherlock probably wouldn't remember his name either.

Time slipped away like sand through fingers.

Between learning magic, training Harry in the mornings, teaching Hermione to fly, and solving problems for fellow students, Sherlock had now been at Hogwarts for nearly four months.

And that meant… Christmas was coming.

Like Halloween, this originally religious holiday had evolved into a widely celebrated public event across the West. On Christmas Day, people exchanged gifts and gathered for feasts.

To heighten the atmosphere, Christmas trees, stockings, Santa hats, and festive wreaths were all proudly on display.

It was a lively time, to say the least.

For young witches and wizards at Hogwarts, Christmas was even more special than Halloween.

On one hand, it marked the end of the first term. Students and faculty alike would enjoy a full two-week break, not returning until New Year's Day.

On the other, children eagerly awaited the visit of a red-hatted, white-bearded man bearing gifts—though in the wizarding world, owls usually handled the deliveries.

Still, the charm of the fantasy remained intact.

The school had already started preparations, asking all students to indicate whether they'd be staying at Hogwarts over the holiday.

Unsurprisingly, most chose to go home.

After all, in all seven years at Hogwarts, students only had two chances a year to return home.

But there were exceptions.

"I really do feel bad for those poor kids," Draco Malfoy sneered in Potions class. "Having to spend Christmas at someone else's house—because their own families don't want them."

Despite being rebuffed by Harry time and again, Draco never missed a chance to provoke him.

Of course, thanks to Sherlock, he didn't dare go too far. He resorted to petty verbal jabs instead.

And by now, Draco had realized something important.

As long as he didn't cross the line, Sherlock wouldn't even bother responding.

That discovery thrilled him.

So of course, he wasn't about to waste an opportunity like this.

But this time, neither Sherlock nor Harry took the bait.

Harry, especially, had no intention of spending Christmas on Privet Drive with the Dursleys.

So when Draco aimed his taunts at Harry—complete with Crabbe and Goyle snickering beside him—Harry wasn't upset in the slightest.

In fact, he found it kind of funny.

Which only made Draco sulk more, like he'd punched a pillow instead of a person.

For Harry, this Christmas might well become the best one of his life.

When Professor McGonagall first came around with the sign-up sheet for students staying over the holiday, Harry had been ready to put down his name.

"Sherlock, I'm not going home for Christmas—"

"No, you are," Sherlock interrupted.

"Go home?" Harry blinked. "You do remember what my home's like, right?"

"I meant my home," Sherlock replied calmly. "My parents want to meet my friend."

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