The rules of the Triwizard Tournament had drawn clear boundaries from the beginning. all champions could only carry their own wands as their sole weapon and equipment.
Sherlock's customary sword and shield were naturally excluded. However, the sword would have had minimal effect against a dragon's scales and flames anyway. As for the shield, which could effectively resist impacts and scorching, it was likewise prohibited from being carried.
Under these circumstances, Sherlock decisively took an alternative route, stuffing rock cakes baked by Hagrid himself into his robe pockets. The cakes were hard enough to use as stone slabs and had even helped Sherlock resist an Unforgivable Curse before—now they could serve perfectly as a temporary shield.
Just as he had told Madam Pomfrey. no one could say how long this competition would last, so bringing some food was perfectly reasonable. Even better, besides him and Harry, not even Hagrid himself would associate this inconspicuous food with equipment, let alone anyone else.
Facts proved that this seemingly ordinary rock cake had indeed played a crucial role on the field. Even so, the consistently rigorous Madam Pomfrey still wasn't reassured. She cast a comprehensive restorative spell on Sherlock, and only after pale green light circulated around him and dissipated did she relent.
Then she planted her hands firmly on her hips, her brow furrowed into a tight knot, her gaze locked firmly on Sherlock and Cedric. "Alright, now you two sit quietly for five minutes, both of you sit down!"
As soon as she finished speaking, she couldn't help shaking her head at the air. Her voice lowered somewhat, carrying a few traces of helpless muttering. "However, this time Potter at least didn't have an accident, that boy always gives me no peace—every time something happens, he's involved!"
Clearly, Harry's reputation as a trouble magnet had long been deeply etched in Madam Pomfrey's mind.
Hearing this, Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and the tapping rhythm of his fingertips paused for half a second. Cedric pressed his lips together to suppress a laugh, his shoulders were shaking slightly, both found it hard not to laugh.
The next five minutes were rather difficult for both Sherlock and Cedric. Sherlock was never one who could sit still. His fingertips unconsciously tapped out rhythms at his side, his gaze rapidly scanning the rows of herb bottles and bandage rolls in the tent.
The labels on the bottles, the number of creases in the bandages, even the concentration of herbal scent in the air—all became material for his rapidly operating brain. Making his mind stop iterating and just sit there doing nothing was more torturous than facing a dragon.
Cedric wasn't much better off. His hands were clasped on his knees, his toes lightly tapping the ground, his eyes full of barely contained excitement and anxiety. After all, they had just passed the first round of the Triwizard Tournament in such a clean and efficient manner, how could this excitement be easily suppressed?
So, when Madam Pomfrey indicated that the five minutes were up, Cedric practically bounced up from the bed. The chair legs scraped out a sharp sound against the floor from his movement.
He looked at Sherlock, his tone carrying some uncertainty. "Now... they should be scoring us, right?"
Sherlock saw through his thoughts at a glance, a faint smile appearing on his face. "You're planning to go out and watch?"
"Er... honestly, I actually think having Harry there watching is enough, but... I still want to see the scores with my own eyes." Cedric seemed somewhat embarrassed.
"If you want to see, then go see." As Sherlock spoke, he stood up decisively, patting the creases from his robes. "Let's go."
"Let's go, let's go!" Cedric immediately perked up, his tone full of impatience.
The two walked side by side toward the tent entrance. They had just lifted the coarse curtain hanging at the door and hadn't walked far when a figure came rushing toward them, nearly colliding with them head-on.
Unexpected, yet reasonable—it was Hermione.
"Sherlock!" Her voice was hoarse and somewhat distorted, as if something had blocked her throat. Even just calling out his name made her breathing quicken.
Sherlock looked carefully and was somewhat surprised. Several fresh red marks on Hermione's face were particularly striking, these were what she had scratched out with her fingernails in her earlier panic, some places were even breaking the skin.
The stray hairs on her forehead were plastered to her skin by cold sweat, and her originally neat temples were also disheveled. Her eye sockets were red like blood-soaked cherries, filled with tears that were about to overflow.
Clearly, she had been truly frightened. Although she had learned the content of the first task from Harry beforehand, only by witnessing with her own eyes the champions maneuvering under the dragon's flames did she truly experience the suffocating fear that the beast brought.
"You were so amazing! So amazing!" She grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, her fingertips turning white from exertion. She repeated this phrase over and over, tears spinning in her eyes, several crystal droplets already hanging on her eyelashes.
Seeing this, Cedric's eyes flashed with knowing amusement. He quietly gave Sherlock a meaningful look, said nothing more, and walked past the two with light steps toward the enclosure.
Instantly only the two of them remained.
As soon as Cedric left, Hermione could no longer suppress her surging emotions and suddenly threw herself at Sherlock. Her arms tightly encircled his waist, her cheek pressed against his chest, with such force as if wanting to embed herself into his body.
"Hermione, I'm fine, you..." Sherlock instinctively began to comfort her. Before he finished speaking, the girl in his arms suddenly let out a suppressed sob.
Large tears rolled down Hermione's face, pattering as they soaked the fabric of Sherlock's robes, bringing a patch of cool sensation.
This left Sherlock somewhat bewildered. He rarely dealt with such intense emotions. He raised his hand and gently patted her back, his movements obviously awkward. "Oh, my friend, there's nothing to cry about!"
"Yes, I'm so foolish!" Hermione suddenly raised her head, her voice was sharp from crying. As she spoke, she stamped her foot hard on the ground.
The next second, her crying completely burst forth, transforming from suppressed sobs into unreserved wailing, her shoulders were heaving violently.
The usually logical Miss Know-It-All who could clearly list knowledge points and maintain calm rationality in crises had vanished without a trace. At this moment, only a little girl remained, frightened by extreme danger and terror, transforming all her worries into tears.
Though unaccustomed to such intense emotional expression, Sherlock clearly felt the trembling in her chest and the scalding genuine feeling in her tears.
Sherlock rarely comforted people. Or rather, his way of comforting people was always different. But at this moment, his heart, long accustomed to logic and deduction, also trembled lightly.
After a moment's hesitation, his fingers first hung suspended in mid-air, pausing, before finally gently falling. He patted her back repeatedly, his movements were slightly clumsy yet exceptionally gentle.
"It's alright, I'm fine, aren't I? We're all fine. Although it looked dangerous, nothing happened to any of us."
Hermione's crying didn't immediately stop because of this somewhat clumsy comfort. She seemed to pour out all the fear, worry, and lingering fright accumulated during the entire competition through this crying.
Her somewhat petite body trembled violently in Sherlock's arms, her hands were tightly gripping his robes, her knuckles were turning white.
"I thought... I thought you were just... hit by dragon breath... or... or caught by claws..." She sobbed, speaking brokenly, every word carrying a heavy nasal tone. "You... you were so close... that fire... that fire almost burned you..."
"Probabilistically, our positioning at the time and the evasion space I reserved made the possibility of being hit head-on very low, not to mention I had contingency plans." Sherlock tried to comfort her with his usual rational analysis, but his voice was much gentler than usual.
"As for flame splatter, I made adequate protective measures. Remember Hagrid's rock cakes? They have considerable physical and magical resistance. We planned thoroughly, calculated precisely, the risks were controllable."
"But that was a dragon!" Hermione finally managed to stop crying and looked up at him with a tear-stained face.
Her eyes were swollen red like walnuts, undried tears hung on her eyelashes, her nose tip was also red, yet she still carried a trace of stubborn seriousness. "Not obstacles in a Quidditch training ground! Not practice dummies in Charms class! One mistake could... could have cost you your life!"
By the end, her voice carried a crying tone again, and she couldn't continue. Finally, both angry and frightened, she buried her face back in Sherlock's chest, though this time the crying was lighter, becoming intermittent sobs.
Sherlock looked down at the top of her head. The soft brown strands were dampened by sweat in a small patch, emanating a faint fragrance of shampoo.
He suddenly realized that the problem before him was completely different from deducing cases or designing tactics. This was a friend's unreserved concern, caring mixed with fear.
He was silent for a moment, not trying again to convince her with probabilities and plans, only softening his voice. "I know the danger, but we all completed our objective safely and soundly, didn't we? My dear friend, why don't you listen to the cheers outside—I think the judges are scoring us."
This was probably the most straightforward comfort he could offer. The earth-shaking cheers outside grew louder and louder, as if confirming his words.
Hermione's sobbing gradually subsided, and the arms around Sherlock's waist loosened somewhat, though she didn't immediately let go. She first used the back of her hand to wipe the tear tracks on her cheeks.
When her emotions stabilized a bit, she suddenly reached out to touch the burned hem of Sherlock's robes, her fingertips lightly pressing on the charred fabric, her brow furrowing into a small knot again.
"This place is really okay?"
She paused, suddenly remembering something, anxiously searching her pockets. "I have calendula ointment in my bag—my mum sent it, a Muggle formula, gentler than magical potions... Oh no—I threw my bag on the stands when I rushed in!"
Only now did she realize how improper she had been. Looking at the large wet patch on Sherlock's chest, her ear tips flushed red. She quickly stepped back half a step, muttering quietly.
"I... I didn't mean to cry, it's just when I saw you almost get hit by dragon breath, my brain just went blank..."
Seeing the smile at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, she suddenly felt a bit annoyed and lightly kicked a pebble on the ground. "You're still smiling!"
Sherlock's smile faded somewhat, but his gaze softened. "My friend, I wasn't laughing at your concern for me."
This statement made Hermione's cheeks burn hotter. She turned her face away, suddenly feeling an inexplicable frustration well up inside.
She had been so focused on crying that she seemed to have forgotten to ask if Sherlock was tired or uncomfortable anywhere, and nearly delayed him from seeing his scores.
This feeling was familiar—just like a few days ago when she forced Harry to re-recognize Ginny, focusing only on feeling wronged for Ginny without noticing Harry's furrowed brow.
Looking at the water stain on Sherlock's chest, that bit of frustration surfaced again in her heart. It turned out her worrying was never "excessive," but her way of expressing it always seemed wrong.
For Ginny, it was forcing Harry to recognize his feelings. For Sherlock, it was crying all over his clothes without regard.
"Um..." She raised her head, meeting Sherlock's gaze. Her ear tips were still red, but she still said quietly. "Let's hurry and see the scores... I'll go to the stands to get my bag and bring you the ointment. And... sorry about just now, I was too hasty."
The two walked together toward the enclosure. Hermione suddenly thought of Harry and Ginny, and her footsteps paused. Perhaps regarding them, she should also change her approach.
At the same time, at the judges' table on the edge of the enclosure, score evaluation had already begun.
Harry sat with Ron and Ginny, watching Cedric walking over alone, and asked curiously. "Hey, why are you alone? Where's Sherlock?"
"Oh... he's with Miss Granger." Cedric seemed somewhat embarrassed. If he had continued staying there, he might very well have witnessed Hermione crying. Honestly, he wasn't very familiar with Hermione, and staying there would only feel awkward.
"Oh, she did seem like she was about to cry just now." After successfully completing the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, Ron now found Cedric much more agreeable. Hearing Cedric's words, he said somewhat helplessly, "Really crazy, don't know what she's thinking... when you're all clearly fine."
Harry also sighed, thinking of how Hermione had rushed out earlier, and instinctively nodded. "Yeah, there really isn't anything to cry about."
"Harry, Hermione was worried about you all." Ginny interjected softly at this point. Her gaze fell on the direction of the tent, her tone serious.
"She was standing at the very front of the stands just now, gripping the railing the whole time—her knuckles turned white. When Sherlock dodged the dragon breath, she almost fell down. I was the one who caught her—she was truly frightened."
Because of Hermione's earlier words, Harry still felt slightly awkward facing Ginny now. But noticing Ginny's tone was as calm as ever, he nodded gently and agreed in a low voice. "It really was quite dangerous just now."
"What about you, Ginny? Why weren't you afraid?" Ron couldn't help asking curiously.
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