When Hermione brought up Poirot, Sherlock's look of disdain eased just slightly.
"Poirot can at least be considered a real detective. His reasoning is far stronger than Dupin's. He can solve cases with sheer intellect, and his deductions are, for the most part, quite meticulous.
"But he dislikes fieldwork. Being physically incapable, he relies on the police to lay the facts before him like a platter, so he can analyze them using his so-called 'little grey cells.'
"The problem is, if what the police bring him isn't factual, then his inability to gather evidence firsthand will inevitably lead him astray—and he'll make conclusions that deviate from the truth."
"But he always finds the culprit!"
Hermione couldn't hold back anymore. Hearing her two favorite fictional detectives so casually dismissed made her defensive.
"Dear Ms. Granger," Sherlock smiled, "that's because he's in a novel."
Faced with Hermione's challenge, Sherlock's tone remained amused.
"As the author, Agatha Christie can simply make sure Poirot's intuition is always correct. The same goes for Miss Marple. But in real life, things rarely work out so conveniently.
"By the way, like many popular novelists, Christie piles on elaborate setups and detailed descriptions, but often neglects the real core of a good story: an exciting plot and vividly developed characters.
"So when the deductive parts of the story drag on too long, readers lose patience and just want the murderer to show up already.
"Only someone like me would still care about the process of deduction—but alas, I'm not exactly what you'd call 'normal.'"
At first, Hermione had been irritated by Sherlock's dismissal of her favorite detectives. But hearing how harsh he was on himself made her feel like her anger wasn't really worth holding on to.
Calling himself abnormal... When someone criticizes even themselves that brutally, is there really a need to argue?
Still, she stopped talking to him for the moment.
And Sherlock, unsurprisingly, said nothing either.
So the two walked in silence—yet there was a strange sort of mutual understanding in it.
It wasn't until they reached the Gryffindor common room that something new caught their attention: a notice had been posted on the bulletin board.
A month into the school year, Flying Class was finally starting.
It was a first-years-only course, held on Thursday afternoons after Charms. The instructor was Madam Rolanda Hooch, and the class would cover the basics of broomstick flying.
"We have to share the class with the Slytherins again?"
Hermione frowned at the notice. "Why do they always pair us with them?"
"You shouldn't hold prejudice against a House," Sherlock replied, far more composed. "There's no superiority or inferiority among the four. Professor Severus Snape, head of Slytherin, is also a capable teacher..."
"You're joking, right?" Hermione looked stunned. "You really think Professor Snape is a good man?"
"While I think it's a bit reductive to label people as simply 'good' or 'bad,' if we're going by your standard, then yes—Professor Snape is a good man."
"But he's been targeting you and Harry all term!"
At this point, Hermione truly believed Sherlock was right about himself—not normal.
"As a professor, he's done nothing wrong. Taking points is within his authority. As for whether he's targeting us…"
Sherlock smiled faintly. "You might not believe this, Miss Granger, but he may very well be the one person in this entire school who most desperately wants Harry to stay safe."
Hermione: (°ー°〃)
After a long pause, she exhaled deeply.
"If you say so... but I doubt Harry would agree with that."
"Honestly, his opinion doesn't matter."
"You're right about that. Snape's already taken thirty points off Harry alone this month—that's more than double what the rest of Gryffindor's lost combined."
Hermione couldn't help but laugh a little at the absurdity of it.
Poor Harry Potter—celebrated and admired by everyone else, but none of that seemed to work on Snape.
After a few more exchanges, Hermione gave up trying to change Sherlock's mind and returned to the girls' dormitory.
But just before leaving, she hesitated again.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Miss Granger? You've got something to say?"
"…"
Hermione took a deep breath. "Can you… start calling me Hermione?"
Sherlock blinked, then nodded. "Of course."
After she left, Sherlock shook his head slightly.
Switching from surnames to first names—it's something that naturally happens as people grow closer. Was there really any need to ask permission for it? And with such an awkward tone?
His father had been right. Sometimes, not even he could understand the way women think.
---
Flying Class was causing far more buzz among first-years than anyone expected.
Nearly every student from a wizarding family spent their spare time boasting about their childhood flying experiences—apparently most of them had grown up riding broomsticks across fields and forests.
Ron was no exception.
As long as someone was willing to listen, he'd recount the time he nearly crashed into a hang glider while flying on Charlie's old broom.
Of course, the tale was slightly exaggerated, but at least it was more believable than Draco Malfoy's constant brushes with helicopters.
Students like Sherlock, Harry, and Hermione—who had all grown up in Muggle households—were also intrigued by flying class, but didn't display the same over-the-top excitement.
Neville Longbottom was the outlier.
While others were excited yet slightly nervous, he was just flat-out anxious.
Despite coming from a wizarding family, Neville's gran had never let him near a broomstick.
That's why he spent the days leading up to the class hanging on Hermione's every word—she'd dug up some flying tips from the library book Quidditch Through the Ages.
Sherlock had read it too, but found it mostly useless.
In his view, flying was like driving. Book smarts only got you so far—you had to practice to really learn.
After all, plenty of people had a license but still couldn't drive properly.
And then—Thursday afternoon finally arrived, much to everyone's excitement.
Sherlock, while looking forward to it, wasn't nearly as giddy as his classmates.
In fact, when Charms class ended, he still tried to ask Professor Flitwick a few more questions.
Only under Harry and Ron's repeated urging did he finally leave.
Still, by the time the Gryffindors hurried down the sloping lawn to the field, the Slytherins were already there.
As the Gryffindors arrived, the Slytherins' gazes sharpened immediately.
True to their reputation, the brave Gryffindors didn't flinch—returning the glares in full.
Tension hung thick in the air, especially between Harry and Draco Malfoy, who were locked in an intense stare-down.
Sherlock remained unfazed.
His eyes were focused—on something far beyond them.
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