The Mending Charm was an extremely practical spell, capable of repairing most damaged objects.
As with every other subject, Sherlock approached his first Charms class with sharp focus, constantly raising questions for Professor Flitwick.
His goal, as usual, was to gain a comprehensive understanding of the subject.
To his surprise, Professor Flitwick was absolutely delighted to see such a studious student, and as a result, Sherlock not only achieved his original aim—he gained something extra.
He learned a highly useful spell from Flitwick: the Warming Charm.
As the name suggested, casting it enveloped the caster in a comfortable heat, as if wrapped in a thick, wool-lined garment.
For Sherlock, still recovering from illness and dealing with the damp, chilly Hogwarts weather, it was a game-changer.
The others could only watch in envy.
After all, even mastering the Mending Charm on the first try was rare. Aside from Sherlock, only a handful of students—Hermione among them—managed it.
But even Hermione couldn't spare the energy to learn an additional spell.
And that drove her to clench her fists with determination.
Holmes, I won't lose to you!
Following Tuesday afternoon's Charms class was Transfiguration, and the schedule left little breathing room in between.
This was especially taxing for Gryffindor students—mainly because of Harry.
Compared to the fuss in the Great Hall during breakfast, the crowd outside the classroom had only grown.
Students with free periods queued up in the corridors, craning their necks for a glimpse of the boy who, as a baby, had defeated the Dark Lord.
Some even doubled back after passing him, just to stare again.
A few looked as though they might walk right up and ask to inspect the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
Harry sincerely wished they wouldn't. The walk to class was already a nightmare.
First-years didn't know the way—and to make matters worse, Hogwarts itself didn't always cooperate.
The staircases moved unpredictably. Some led to different destinations at different times. Some vanished halfway, forcing students to remember where to jump. Certain doors weren't real doors at all, just solid walls pretending to be one.
Even the portraits changed positions constantly, making them impossible to use as landmarks.
With everything shifting, remembering routes was a monumental challenge.
Harry's problem was made worse by the human obstacle course of gawking students.
"Sherlock, you're amazing!" Harry exclaimed in admiration.
Under Sherlock's lead, he and Ron had made it past misbehaving staircases, leapt over two disappearing steps, dodged a prank from Peeves the Poltergeist, and opened a door that didn't even look like one—finally making it through the maze.
"How on earth do you remember all this?"
Sherlock smiled. "You could do it too."
"Me?" Harry pointed to himself, clearly baffled.
"Yes, dear Harry. I've told you this before: you and I see the exact same world. If I can do it, so can you."
"That can't be true!"
Before Harry could respond, Ron chimed in.
"As far as I know, there's no one in the entire first year—no, the entire school, who can memorize the way to every classroom like you. Maybe Fred and George, but that's it."
Harry nodded in agreement.
Sherlock sidestepped a ghost that suddenly emerged from behind a wall. His calm, indifferent reaction visibly disappointed the ghost.
He turned to Harry. "Remember how surprised you were when I correctly guessed that your uncle brought you to the train station?"
"I do," Harry said, recalling their first meeting vividly.
"But once I explained my reasoning, you found it obvious, didn't you?"
"Yes. Every time you explain your logic, it sounds ridiculously simple—like something even I could figure out."
Harry scratched his head. "But until you do explain it, I can never guess your next step."
"Same here!" Ron interjected, not wanting to be left out. "But I still think our eyesight isn't any worse than yours!"
"You're not wrong," Sherlock replied.
"Huh?"
Ron blinked, stunned. Wait—I was just talking. You're agreeing with me?
"The difference," Sherlock continued, "is that you two are looking. I'm observing. There's a big difference."
Harry and Ron exchanged confused glances.
"To give you an example," Sherlock said, "we've been at school for three days now. Do you know how many staircases there are in the castle?"
Harry: "No idea."
Ron: "Who would even count that?"
"That's my point," Sherlock said. "You're only looking—not observing.
"Hogwarts has one hundred and forty-two staircases. They come in three sizes: nine, twelve, and fourteen steps.
"Gryffindor Tower is on the east side of the castle. The common room is on the eighth floor. Along with the Astronomy Tower and Ravenclaw Tower, it's one of the three highest points in the school.
"I know all this because I observe—not just look."
Harry and Ron were floored.
"…Alright," Sherlock said, "we've arrived. We can talk more about this later."
Thanks to Sherlock's guidance, they reached the classroom five minutes early.
Even so, the room was already a mess.
That was because Professor McGonagall hadn't arrived yet.
As Head of Gryffindor House and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, she was famously strict and fair.
No student would dare misbehave in her presence.
"Why is there a cat here?" Ron exclaimed, scanning the room.
Sherlock, naturally, had noticed the tabby cat perched on the desk long before.
He studied it for a few seconds before a curious smile tugged at his lips.
"Harry, want to guess where this cat came from?"
"Maybe it's Professor McGonagall's pet?" Harry ventured
"Nope."
"No?"
"Let me show you what I mean by deduction through observation."
Amid the stunned gazes of nearby students, Sherlock confidently walked to the front of the class and picked the cat up by the scruff of its neck—
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