Gemma drew scissors from her robes, her fingers tightening slightly around the metal handles.
A flash of cold light, and she had already precisely snipped a lock of Sherlock's hair.
The movement was swift, without the slightest hesitation.
Gemma's action in obtaining Sherlock's hair was extremely light and fast—the scissors' opening and closing produced almost no excess sound.
It was as if she feared that the slightest delay would cause Sherlock to change his mind.
The moment of cutting was so gentle there was almost no tactile sensation.
For Sherlock, he merely detected an extremely subtle sound near his ear, like butterfly wings fluttering as the hair separated.
The entire process took only a few seconds.
After obtaining a small lock of Sherlock's hair, Gemma quickly withdrew her hand, clutching the black hair tightly in her palm, her fingers were almost embedding it between them.
Her knuckles whitened from the force, the movement was concealing a trace of barely noticeable nervousness.
It was as if what she held wasn't ordinary hair, but a precious, fleeting beam of white moonlight.
In fact, for Gemma, Sherlock's hair represented exactly that significance.
From the Middle Ages through the 19th century in Europe, the custom of exchanging locks of hair had always been popular.
People would cut their own hair and weave it together with their lover's into rings, brooches, bracelets, and other ornaments, then present them to each other as tokens of love.
Hair taken from one's beloved symbolized life and loyalty.
This intimate and unique item carried the deep affection of giving part of oneself to another.
Victorian lovers especially often used this as commemoration.
Even when separated, they could feel their bond through this personal object.
"That's enough."
Gemma's voice was steadier than before, yet still carried a barely detectable tremor.
Sherlock turned around and slowly opened his eyes.
He saw Gemma raise her other hand and, with equal decisiveness, cut a lock of her own chestnut hair.
His gaze naturally fell to her clasped palms.
One lock was his own hair, with its ink-black luster that he knew all too well.
The other was chestnut-colored like autumn leaves, soft and warm—belonging to Gemma Farley.
Now she held them together in her palm, her fingertips gently caressing the ends of the strands, as if cradling an invisible yet weighty oath.
A trace of inquiry flickered through Sherlock's gaze.
Although he had just closed his eyes, his keen perception had still clearly caught Gemma's action of taking his hair.
Sherlock hadn't stopped her. His first thought was that Gemma was obtaining his hair to make Polyjuice Potion.
But seeing her expression now, that clearly wasn't the case.
Gemma didn't explain, only showed Sherlock a faint smile.
The curve of her lips held a touch of mischief, like a carefully planned trick that had finally succeeded, though her eyes gleamed with a light only she understood.
Then, with a deft flick of her wrist, her wand appeared in her hand.
As she murmured a brief incantation, the two utterly different yet equally resilient locks of hair suddenly began to intertwine of their own accord.
They seemed to possess life, weaving tightly together, their different lusters complementing each other, inseparable.
In the blink of an eye, a delicate ring had quietly taken form in her palm.
From Sherlock's perspective, the ring's body seemed woven from transparent thread, radiating a faint silvery glow.
His and Gemma's two locks of hair were cleverly embedded in the core, appearing quite plain from the outside, even possessing a certain handcrafted roughness.
Yet in Gemma's eyes, this simple ring weighed more than a thousand pounds, carrying her unspoken feelings.
After completing this, Gemma almost immediately tucked the ring into her pocket.
The movement was so quick, as if she were avoiding something—afraid Sherlock would see the details, even more afraid he would ask questions.
"There!" she said in a light tone. "It's a small amulet. I hope it will bring me some good luck."
Gemma deliberately avoided the word "token," and made no mention of the ancient meaning hair represented—life, loyalty, and connection.
Based on her understanding of Sherlock, Gemma was certain he might not know this significance.
Of course, Gemma also knew that with Sherlock's perceptiveness, seeing what she had done, he could guess something.
After all, hair held too special a meaning, and her actions just now had been so obvious.
But even so, she chose to keep her true feelings unspoken.
I'm just going to play like this!
As long as Sherlock didn't ask, she wouldn't tell.
If Sherlock asked, she would obfuscate.
Though she had already recognized her own heart, doing this much was already her limit.
Compared to the guilty-conscienced Gemma, Sherlock's gaze slid from her fingers clutching her pocket and finally returned to her eyes.
Despite Gemma's best efforts to conceal it, he still caught the blush on her cheeks that hadn't completely faded.
And at the bottom of her eyes, that gleam like a blue lake surface moistened by morning dew.
Just as Gemma had thought, Sherlock truly didn't know about the custom of exchanging hair locks.
But he still keenly realized the abnormality behind this behavior.
The scene of Gemma giving him that Galleon back then was still vivid in his mind.
Yet this current behavior—taking hair on the spot, crafting it immediately, and taking it away at once was completely different from her usual pattern of giving gifts.
A deduction quickly formed in Sherlock's mind.
This was a form of secret possession, a mark with extremely strong intimacy.
However, even so, Sherlock didn't press for details, only nodded.
"It is indeed a unique amulet, though..."
Seeing he hadn't pressed further, Gemma secretly breathed a sigh of relief, her fingertips were lightly pressing against the ring's outline through her pocket.
She knew Sherlock must have noticed the abnormality, but he had chosen to respect this silence, and that was already enough.
But hearing Sherlock say "though," she immediately tensed up.
"Though what?"
"Though the craftsmanship seems a bit rough."
Sherlock's gaze returned to her fingers clutching her pocket, saying with complete seriousness. "Not refined enough."
Gemma: "!"
She looked at Sherlock somewhat helplessly. "I really don't know how someone like you has friends, and more than one at that."
"You should ask yourself that question, dear Gemma."
Sherlock shrugged. "I remember very clearly—you were the one who first proposed being friends with me."
"You..."
Gemma was choked by Sherlock's words.
She took a deep breath and wisely decided to skip this topic.
"Consider this a gift you've given me. Now it's my turn."
"Oh?"
This was indeed something Sherlock hadn't expected. Taking his hair as a gift wasn't enough—she was going to give him a gift too?
Was this reciprocity?
Gemma had already raised her hand to unfasten the second button at her collar.
Under Sherlock's somewhat surprised gaze, she carefully removed her Head Girl badge, its silver surface was gleaming coldly in the candlelight.
That wasn't all—her other hand withdrew another slightly different badge from her pocket.
With Sherlock's keen observation, he naturally recognized it at a glance as the Slytherin Prefect badge she had worn last year.
The two silver badges lay side by side in her palm, glowing with warm light under the lamp.
"They represent my proudest and most difficult years at this school."
Gemma opened her palm, pushing the two silver badges toward Sherlock.
She smiled sweetly, that smile was carrying both relief and barely noticeable bitterness.
"You personally witnessed how I put them on and bore the responsibilities they brought.
I think having you keep them would be more meaningful than leaving them in my jewelry box.
They don't just belong to me—they also belong to that friend who saw through all my calculations and efforts—Sherlock."
This was the first time Gemma had openly admitted her scheming in front of Sherlock.
Perhaps because she was revealing her true feelings, her voice carried a trace choking, the final tones were trembling slightly.
But even so, her eyes were exceptionally bright, filled with unprecedented honesty and reluctance.
"For me, they're not burdens—they're symbols of memory.
When you have time to organize your mind palace, seeing them might remind you of those interesting days we spent together.
Remind you of that Slytherin Prefect who always wanted to prove her worth to you, and... the Head Girl who later became a bit different."
Looking at the two silver badges in Gemma's palm that witnessed power and growth, Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't immediately respond.
His silence seemed to last an eternity for Gemma.
The air in the Room of Requirement seemed to freeze, leaving only their steady but somewhat heavy breathing.
This made Gemma worry—had her action just now been too bold?
Just as Gemma thought he wouldn't respond further and prepared to suppress her disappointment to say something else, Sherlock finally moved.
He gently picked up the two badges and held them in his palm.
"Thank you for your parting gift, dear Gemma."
Sherlock looked deeply at Gemma, his tone was still calm.
"I'll keep them safe. After all, this is the first time you've treated them so solemnly.
Previously, I've only seen Percy Weasley treat these two badges this way."
The first half of Sherlock's sentence was like a piece of candy; the second half like a sour lemon.
Gemma didn't know whether to laugh or cry, yet the corners of her mouth curved up irrepressibly.
"Thank you very much, Sherlock, but this isn't a parting gift."
"It's not?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his tone carrying a trace of surprise.
"You're sure?"
"Of course, I'm sure."
Gemma smiled mischievously, her eyes sparkling.
She walked toward Sherlock with light steps.
At this moment, they stood extremely close—close enough to feel each other's breath brushing their cheeks.
The candlelight behind them cast two overlapping shadows that swayed slightly with the flickering flame, as if merging into one.
Sherlock didn't avoid her, only looking at her with some confusion.
Those gray eyes that could always see through everything showed, for the first time, an indecipherable bewilderment.
This was extremely rare for him.
Because at this moment, Gemma seemed to have erased all the subtle signals about herself that could be analyzed, like a mystery shrouded in dense fog.
What was she trying to do?
"Well then, goodbye, Sherlock."
Gemma's voice was as light as a feather brushing across strings, carrying both decisiveness and indescribable tenderness.
The instant the last syllable fell, she quickly extended both arms like a blessing, resting them on Sherlock's shoulders, then pressed her warm, soft lips to his left cheek.
This kiss was as light as a snowflake falling on one's palm, as quick as a fleeting glimpse, yet carried the fragrant scent from between the young woman's hair.
It was also like a scorching brand, instantly burning through Sherlock's customary composure.
She lingered by his cheek for an extremely brief moment.
So brief that Sherlock had only just captured the sensation of cool lips intertwined with warm breath, so brief that all the precisely operating analytical logic in his mind seemed to freeze for an instant.
Then, Gemma withdrew without hesitation, her movement fluid as if she had rehearsed it a thousand times.
Her cheeks were now as bright as the morning glow, her blue eyes shimmering with light, shyness and determination strangely coexisting at the bottom of her eyes.
She gave Sherlock no chance to see her expression clearly, nor did she wait for any form of response from him.
Only when turning away were her ear tips red enough to drip blood.
"Take care."
This whisper was so soft it would almost be scattered by the wind, accompanied by the graceful arc of her chestnut hair swinging as she turned lightly.
Beneath the shirt collar with two buttons undone, the skin at her collarbone rose and fell slightly, as if still carrying the vibration of her accelerated heartbeat.
She walked quickly toward the door, pulling the bolt with a soft "click."
The breeze from the corridor blew in, carrying Hogwarts Castle's characteristic cool breath mixed with stone walls and old book pages.
This wind stirred her skirt hem and hair, also dispersing the last trace of her fragrance in the room.
At the moment before the door closed completely, she glanced back one last time.
Sherlock still stood in place, those two gleaming silver badges in his palm faintly reflecting light, dyeing his fingertips with a layer of cold white as well.
His profile faced her, half bathed in candlelight, half hidden in shadow.
His expression appeared somewhat blurred at the boundary between light and dark, like a silent, contemplative statue.
Gemma had no time to discern the meaning in that expression.
Being able to do this much was already her limit.
If she could, she naturally would have wanted to kiss a place that could express a more intimate relationship.
But she couldn't do that yet.
"Click."
The door closed completely.
The Room of Requirement instantly returned to silence, leaving only Sherlock alone, along with those two suddenly acquired tokens in his hands, carrying the weight and warmth of life.
The Prefect badge and Head Girl badge in his palm still retained the lingering warmth from Gemma's fingertips.
The sensation on his cheek hadn't yet dissipated, and the air seemed still to carry the fragrance from her hair.
"Just a kiss on the cheek—was that really necessary?"
Sherlock tilted his head, finding it somewhat incomprehensible.
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