Wood, upon hearing that Harry had never played Quidditch before, opened the crate and revealed the match balls.
"I'll explain the rules first—"
"No need for all that," Sherlock interrupted. "Just bring out two broomsticks."
Wood looked toward McGonagall, who gave a subtle nod. Without another word, he fetched two broomsticks.
Sherlock handed one to Harry and mounted the other, soaring straight into the air. Once airborne, he gestured for Harry to follow.
Wood's eyes lit up immediately.
As the saying goes—a pro reveals their skill the moment they move.
As team captain, he could tell a lot from just one takeoff. Clearly, both boys had solid flying instincts.
Hovering alongside Sherlock, Harry asked nervously, "Sherlock, what are we doing up here?"
Sherlock pulled something from his robes and held it up for Harry to see.
"Look!"
It was a glass orb, glinting under the sunlight.
"Neville's Remembrall? Why do you have it?"
Harry recognized it instantly.
"Snatched it from him on the way to McGonagall's office," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
Harry was stunned. "But… we were together the whole time! When did you—?"
"That's not important, Harry," Sherlock cut him off. "Your task is simple: don't let it touch the ground."
"Huh?"
Harry was bewildered. Wasn't the Remembrall in Sherlock's hand? How would it fall?
Sherlock didn't explain. He just smiled faintly.
"Dear Harry, you wouldn't want Neville to be heartbroken if his Remembrall got smashed, would you?"
Harry: w(Д)w
The moment he heard that, Harry had a terrible feeling.
And the next second—
"Go!"
Sherlock hurled the Remembrall.
He didn't give Harry any time to prepare—or rather, his earlier warning was the preparation.
Harry never expected Sherlock to actually throw it.
Thankfully, his reflexes kicked in faster than his thoughts.
Without hesitation, Harry pointed his broom downward and dove at full speed.
Accelerated by gravity and magic, he gained speed at an alarming rate, hurtling toward the ground.
The wind howled in his ears. He could vaguely hear Ron screaming—but he wasn't nervous.
Not at all.
In fact, he was strangely calm—even exhilarated.
At the last possible moment, just one foot above the ground, he snatched the glass orb out of the air.
He pulled up just in time, letting the broom settle gently onto the grass. His fingers curled tightly around the Remembrall.
By then, Sherlock had already landed and was about to speak—when a furious voice erupted behind them.
"Potter!"
McGonagall stormed over, her wand still in hand, her palm slick with sweat.
She had been moments away from using magic to intervene.
"I've been at Hogwarts for so many years… never—!"
The déjà vu made Sherlock raise an eyebrow.
"How dare you—you could've broken your neck!"
"…"
Harry was speechless. He truly didn't know what to say.
It felt like anything he said would just make things worse.
Luckily, Sherlock stepped in.
"Professor, I believe that performance speaks for itself. Harry clearly has the talent."
His calm, level tone stood in stark contrast to McGonagall's fury.
"Sherlock Holmes!"
The moment he spoke, McGonagall redirected her anger entirely onto him—allowing Harry to exhale a quiet breath of relief. His gratitude toward Sherlock grew even deeper.
"Sending a classmate into such a stunt—are you mad? If anything had happened to Potter, you would be held entirely responsible!"
"He was never in danger. I trust him. And I trust you, Professor."
"You—!"
McGonagall was so flustered she couldn't find a retort.
"A natural—an absolute natural!" Wood chimed in at just the right time, cutting into the building tension.
"He dove fifty feet and caught that ball without a scratch! Not even Charlie Weasley could've pulled that off!"
Wood practically launched himself to Harry's side.
He clutched the hand that still held the Remembrall, his eyes burning with admiration and excitement. McGonagall's lips twitched at the sight.
"Professor, he needs a proper broom! A Nimbus 2000, or maybe a Comet 260—no, it has to be a Nimbus!"
His passionate outburst left McGonagall no room to scold Sherlock further.
"Wood, Potter is a first-year…"
"That's not a problem!"
Wood waved her off, standing proud and assertive.
"Professor, you have to talk to Dumbledore! We must break the rule for him.
If you don't go, I will!
You know as well as I do—we need a better Quidditch team than last year!
Harry, welcome to the Gryffindor team.
As captain, I'm officially putting you in training starting next week!"
McGonagall: (⊙﹏⊙)
Watching Wood go on and on, McGonagall suddenly felt a little redundant.
Oliver Wood really was an excellent student—disciplined, well-rounded.
But when Quidditch was involved, it was like he turned into someone else entirely.
Still, she had to admit: Wood wasn't wrong.
Harry Potter—he truly was a prodigy.
"Potter."
Harry quickly turned to her, adopting his most obedient expression.
"I expect you to train hard. Otherwise, I will change my mind and punish you."
At that moment, Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing.
Was this real?
Had he just been… exceptionally promoted?
"Keep this secret, alright?" Wood grinned. "You'll be the youngest player in a century—a secret weapon!"
From the look on his face, you'd think he'd already secured the House Cup.
"Let's hope so," Sherlock replied noncommittally.
He had little hope this would remain a secret.
"And as for you, Mr. Holmes…"
McGonagall turned to Sherlock. "Harry's performance means no points will be deducted, and you're excused from detention—but don't think that excuses your reckless behavior."
Sherlock sighed. He already knew what was coming next.
Sure enough, McGonagall seized the moment to press her advantage:
"So I don't want to hear again that you've been skipping Professor Quirrell's Defence Against the Dark Arts class!"
"Yes, Professor."
Sherlock's straightforward reply actually caught her off guard—and left her a little disappointed.
She had half-expected this eccentric little boy to resist a bit more.
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