In the Potions classroom, every Gryffindor was nervously watching Sherlock.
They all knew that Snape was notoriously biased—favoring Slytherin, and targeting Gryffindor.
And after witnessing the way he'd treated Harry Potter today, that much was crystal clear.
But none of them expected that Sherlock, too, would draw Snape's ire.
"What was so funny?"
Snape loomed over Sherlock, his voice icy and low.
"To be studying such a precise and refined science under a professor of your caliber—isn't that something to be happy about?" Sherlock replied earnestly.
Harry: '(°ー°〃)
Ron: (゜ー゜)
Hermione: Σ(っ°Д°;)っ
The Lions & The Snakes: w(Д)w
Sherlock… actually said that?!
Everyone was stunned.
Even Snape was briefly thrown off. He narrowed his eyes and sneered:
"Holmes, don't try to be clever with me. I'm not one of those fools who gets giddy at a few empty compliments."
"I apologize if I gave you that impression, but I meant every word," Sherlock replied, meeting Snape's eyes calmly, his tone sincere and polite.
Snape felt like he had swung a fist into thin air.
"…Since you love studying so much," he said coldly, "you should know the answers to those questions, shouldn't you?"
Gryffindors collectively held their breath.
Sure, Sherlock had excelled in all his classes so far—but after that disastrous Astronomy class the other night, it was only natural to worry.
The Slytherins, on the other hand, looked gleeful—nothing pleased them more than seeing Gryffindors stumble.
Sherlock, still composed, began to recite in an even, emotionless tone:
"Powdered root of asphodel mixed with an infusion of wormwood produces the Draught of Living Death.
"A bezoar can be found in the stomach of a goat."
"There is no difference between monkshood and wolfsbane—they are two names for the same plant."
Straightforward and precise.
He didn't bother mentioning the potion's nickname, the antidotal properties of bezoars, or the classification of aconite—those details were unnecessary here.
But…
When Snape had first asked Harry the asphodel question, Sherlock had caught a faint, fleeting expression on the professor's face—a hint of pain, even grief.
Almost imperceptible, but unmistakable to someone like Sherlock.
So he decided to test a theory.
Staring directly at Snape, he added, just to probe:
"Asphodel is a type of lily. In Victorian flower language, it means 'my regrets follow you to the grave.'"
"Wormwood symbolizes absence and bitter sorrow."
"The Draught of Living Death represents a kind of cursed, empty existence."
"So, taken together—"
"That's enough."
Snape's bark cut through the air like a whip.
Both Gryffindors and Slytherins had been listening with rapt attention, but now the room turned ice-cold.
Snape's face had darkened to the point of blackness, his eyes flat and void, staring daggers at Sherlock.
"Spare us your sentimental nonsense. This is a Potions class.
"I'm starting to wonder if a troll bashed your head in—or if someone shoved a bezoar into your skull.
"For your arrogance and pointless rambling—Gryffindor loses one point."
Sherlock… smiled.
He'd gotten the confirmation he wanted.
But then he smiled again—and that got him in even more trouble.
"What are you smirking at?"
"I just remembered—"
"Disrupting the class. Another point from Gryffindor."
"That's not fair!" Hermione finally stood up, no longer able to stay silent. "Sherlock answered every question correctly!"
"Typical Gryffindor," Snape snapped, whirling on her. "Challenging a professor—is that a house tradition?
"Your name?"
"Hermione Granger."
"Very well. For your disrespect—Gryffindor loses one more point."
Hermione: Σ(っ°Д°;)っ
"And you, Potter. Can't even answer a simple question, yet you think you can tell me who I should be calling on?"
"Gryffindor loses three points."
Harry: Σ(｀д′*ノ)ノ
What?! That has nothing to do with me!
And why did I lose the most?!
He opened his mouth to protest, but Ron kicked him under the table.
"Don't speak," Ron muttered. "Unless you want us to lose even more."
Harry: (;Д`)
With the deductions dealt, Potions class continued.
Students paired up to brew a simple remedy for boils.
Of course, that did nothing to improve Gryffindor's situation.
Snape criticized nearly everyone—except Draco Malfoy, who mysteriously escaped unscathed.
As for Harry and Sherlock—they became his main targets.
Harry because Snape already had a clear bias.
And Sherlock… because of that comment about lilies.
Still, Sherlock's technique was flawless, and Harry, under Sherlock's guidance, performed perfectly too.
Snape tried several times to find fault—but came up empty.
At least he didn't deduct any more points from other Gryffindors, which gave the rest of the House some relief.
But then—Neville had an accident.
No one knew exactly what he did, but his cauldron, shared with Seamus, cracked open and spilled its contents all over the stone floor—burning holes through several classmates' shoes.
A burst of acidic green smoke hissed out, followed by loud sputtering.
"Idiot!"
Snape roared, stepping forward to intervene—only for Sherlock to calmly raise his wand.
"Scourgify."
With a swift motion, the mess vanished instantly.
Snape's eyes briefly lit up at the smooth execution—but his expression darkened again just as quickly.
Turning on Neville, he snarled:
"You didn't take the cauldron off the flame before adding porcupine quills, did you?"
Neville couldn't even answer.
Soaked in potion and now covered in red, swollen boils, he burst into tears under the weight of Snape's fury.
"Take him to the Hospital Wing," Snape barked at Seamus, then spun on Harry and Sherlock.
"Potter—why didn't you stop him? Think his failure makes you look better? Gryffindor loses one point."
Harry: 凸(艹皿艹)
"And you, Holmes—if you're capable of cleaning up with a spell, then you could have stopped the spill before it happened."
"Another point from Gryffindor."
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