"Dearest Hermione, we weren't hiding anything from you."
Sherlock smiled and shook his head at Hermione's words.
"That's right, Hermione. It's just that you haven't been paying attention to something," Harry said, grinning as well.
"Paying attention to what?" Hermione still hadn't caught on.
"Quidditch," said Harry. "The first match of the season is starting—us against Slytherin."
"Oh!"
Only then did it click for Hermione.
True enough, of all the things going on, Quidditch was simply not something she'd been keeping up with.
"Knowing Miss Brown's character, when the time comes, she'll be cheering Ron on with everything she's got."
"As long as we win, and Ron saves a few goals, they'll probably patch things up between them."
Listening to Sherlock and Harry, Hermione took on a thoughtful expression.
"You two are so sure we're going to win? The team's brought in so many new players this year..."
"Relax, Hermione!" Harry said, brimming with confidence. "Gryffindor isn't losing to Slytherin, and I'm not losing to Malfoy!"
And then reality punched him in the gut.
Harry had always known Ron's form was unsteady—he had the ability, but he choked under pressure and lacked confidence.
Unfortunately, the approach of the season's first match seemed to have dredged up every one of those old psychological hang-ups at once.
In practice, he let six goals slip past him in a row, most of them shot by Ginny.
His technique grew more and more chaotic from there, until he ended up punching Demelza Robins square in the mouth as she flew toward him. "My fault, sorry, Demelza, I'm so sorry!"
Knowing he'd botched it badly, Ron shouted after her retreating figure.
Demelza wobbled unsteadily back down to the ground, blood dripping everywhere.
"I'm just—"
"Too nervous?"
Ginny snapped, furious. She landed beside Demelza and examined her swollen lip.
"You useless git, Ron, look at the state of her!"
"I can fix it—no need to go to Madam Pomfrey."
Ever since scoring well on his O.W.L.s, Harry had grown steadily more confident with magic. He landed beside the two girls, pointed his wand at Demelza's mouth, and murmured, "Episkey."
In no time, Demelza's mouth had healed. Eyes rimmed red, she said "thank you" to Harry.
"Ginny, I won't have you calling Ron useless. I'm the captain of this team, not you—"
Facing Harry's rather forceful tone, Ginny didn't get angry at all. She gave a small cough.
"Oh, you seem rather too busy to call him useless yourself. I suppose someone ought to fill in for you—"
Harry nearly burst out laughing, but managed to hold it in.
He kept a straight face and said, "Everyone, up in the air. Let's go again..."
All in all, it was the worst practice they'd had all term.
But with the match drawing near, Harry decided that blunt honesty wasn't the best strategy.
"Well done, everyone!"
Harry cheered them on with as much energy as he could muster.
It wasn't entirely a lie, either, since everyone except Ron had actually played well.
The new recruits—Ginny, Demelza, and Katie Bell had worked together with real precision.
The newly selected Beaters, Peakes and Coote, had been improving steadily too.
The only trouble was Ron.
"I want you all to know, in all my time on this team, we have never once lost to Slytherin!
"Keep this up and we're bound to flatten Slytherin!"
Even as he said it, Harry was silently thinking to himself: Sherlock, allow me to borrow your line.
[I try not to lie—unless it's necessary.]
Harry felt it had actually worked.
After all, when the Chasers and Seekers left the changing room, their spirits seemed decent enough.
Once back at the castle, Harry told Sherlock and Hermione all about it.
Sherlock only smiled and said nothing, while Hermione spoke seriously:
"You need to find a way to deal with him, Harry, or things are only going to get worse from here."
"But I can't stand the thought of holding a whole new house try-out—"
Harry sighed.
"Then swap him out," Hermione said, unable to hold back. "If Ron truly isn't up to it, you can't go easy on him just because he's your friend."
"Hermione's right," Sherlock said, siding with her as expected.
"There are only two options now: either solve the problem, or solve Ron—if you want to win, that is."
Harry felt both options were difficult, but he didn't want to lose, either.
"But," Harry said hesitantly, "maybe Ron will just play normally at the next practice. Sherlock, you know him—he has the talent..."
"My dear Harry, in competitive sport, the ability to withstand pressure is part of the talent."
"I know, I know. Let's just wait a bit longer..."
"Sounds like you've chosen the first option," Sherlock said with a nod. "You're the captain. It's your call."
Regrettably, what Harry had hoped for did not come to pass.
Over the practices that followed, Ron's performance showed no improvement.
Worse more, his rapidly deteriorating keeping only made his temper flare hotter.
At the final Quidditch practice before Saturday's match, he failed to save a single shot from the Chasers—and that alone would have been bad enough.
He also started shouting at everyone, and reduced the team's newest member, Demelza Robins, to tears.
That was when everyone else had had enough.
What right did he have?
As a Keeper, you can't guard your own goalposts, and instead you blame the Chasers?
Not even if you're the captain's friend!
"Shut it, leave her alone!"
Peakes, one of the Chasers, was the first to speak up.
He stood barely two-thirds Ron's height, but the heavy Beater's bat in his hands gave him all the courage he needed.
Even Ginny—Ron's own sister—couldn't take it anymore. She flew over to stand beside Peakes, glaring furiously at Ron alongside him.
That was when Harry remembered she was widely acknowledged as skilled at the Bat-Bogey Hex, and hurried over to intervene before things spiralled out of control.
"Peakes, go and collect the Bludgers.
"Demelza, chin up—you played really well today."
Only once the other players had drifted far enough away not to hear did Harry turn with grim face, and say to Ron: "You're my best friend. But if you keep treating people like this, I'll kick you off the team."
It was only in that moment that he truly understood what Sherlock's words had meant.
Either solve the problem, or solve Ron.
Even as he said it, he'd braced himself for the possibility that Ron might come at him swinging.
If it came to that, he wouldn't have minded using the iron fist Sherlock had taught him to knock some sense into Ron.
But what he hadn't expected in the slightest was for what came next to be even worse.
Astride his broom, Ron seemed to deflate completely, all his fighting spirit gone. He said: "I quit—I'm rubbish."
"That's how it went."
Once they were back at the castle, Harry said dejectedly to Sherlock and Hermione.
"Ah. He threw in the towel," Sherlock said, not the least bit surprised.
"It's my fault. I shouldn't have dragged this out so long."
"No, Harry, you don't have to pile every mistake onto your own shoulders," Hermione said soothingly.
Harry shook his head. "But I'm the captain. I should be responsible for this team."
"So what are you going to do now?" Hermione asked, watching him.
Harry said, looking thoroughly frustrated:
"Ron did promise me he won't quit before tomorrow's match, since he knows there's no time left for me to find another Keeper.
"But he also said that if we lose this match, he'll leave the team on his own—by the sound of it, he's already convinced we're going to lose."
"Some sense of responsibility. Not much, though," Sherlock offered his assessment once more.
"Sherlock, is there really nothing even you can do?" Harry looked at Sherlock, still holding out hope.
"I already told you—there are only two ways: solve the problem, or solve Ron."
Harry thought to himself that solving Ron was no longer an option at this point. As for solving the problem, the only way was to help him find his confidence again.
But the trouble was, something like that could only come from Ron himself. What could they possibly do about it?
"Tomorrow's weather should be quite fine."
Just then, Sherlock suddenly glanced toward the window.
"Sherlock?"
Harry looked at him, puzzled, wondering why he'd bring up the weather now, of all times.
It wasn't as if they'd just run into each other that morning and were exchanging pleasantries.
"As far as I know, Slytherin's Chaser took a Bludger to the head during practice. He won't be able to play in the match."
"Sherlock, you—"
"I'm not nearly skilled enough to go interfering with another house's team practice, dear Harry."
Sherlock smiled faintly and explained:
"But where a Quidditch match is concerned, both the weather and an injury to the opposing side's star player are good things.
"If we can get Ron to feel that everything is going his way, and let that carry him into playing at his real level, then the problem will cease to exist."
"Everything going his way? You mean—Felix Felicis!"
But Harry was shaking his head again almost at once. "No, that's not possible. Professor Slughorn said it's banned in matches!"
Hermione, listening quietly to the exchange between Sherlock and Harry, hadn't said a word.
She knew Sherlock's character well.
If it were a matter of saving a life, that would be one thing—but if it were merely for a Quidditch match, Sherlock would never suggest that Ron take Felix Felicis.
And yet, that was exactly what he had done.
Which could only mean—
"I understand now!"
Just then, it was as if Harry, too, suddenly saw the light.
"We don't need to actually give Ron Felix Felicis at all—we just need to make him believe his luck is good enough today!"
At that, Sherlock and Hermione exchanged a knowing smile.
That settled it.
The next day.
Just as Sherlock had said the night before, the weather was clear, with only the faintest breeze.
It was, in short, perfect weather for a match.
The Gryffindor table blazed red and gold.
As the Quidditch players walked past, the little lions cheered wildly.
Harry smiled and waved. Ron managed a forced grimace and shook his head.
At this, Hermione said something to Lavender Brown, who hesitated a moment before finally calling out loudly:
"Keep your chin up, Ron! I know you'll be brilliant!"
Ron hesitated for a moment as well, but in the end still paid her no mind.
Surprisingly, Lavender didn't get angry at all—if anything, she watched him with a hint of worry.
The scene made Hermione nod quietly to herself.
Just as she'd thought—Lavender really was well-suited to Ron.
Then she turned her gaze to Harry.
According to the plan they'd worked out the night before, it was time to open the act.
"Tea?"
Harry asked Ron. "Or coffee? Pumpkin juice?"
"Whatever."
Ron said gloomily, biting glumly into a piece of bread.
A few minutes later, Luna came over.
She was wearing her famous lion hat.
"Sherlock, I need to talk to you about something."
Direct and to the point—true to her character.
Once Sherlock and Luna had left, Hermione turned to Harry and Ron.
"How are you two feeling?"
"All right," Harry said, passing a glass of pumpkin juice over to Ron. "Here, Ron, drink up."
Glumly, Ron took the glass on reflex and had just raised it to his lips when Hermione suddenly said sharply:
"Don't drink that, Ron!"
Both Harry and Ron looked up at her.
"Why not?" said Ron.
Hermione stared at Harry blankly, as if she couldn't believe her own eyes.
"You—what were you just doing?"
"What are you talking about?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
Hermione lowered her voice. "You just put something in that drink."
"Don't be ridiculous." Harry seemed a little flustered.
"You heard exactly what I said—I saw it with my own eyes!
"You just poured something into Ron's drink.
"And that bottle is still clenched in your hand right now!"
"Hermione, I honestly don't know what you're talking about." Harry spoke even as he hurriedly shoved a small bottle into his pocket.
"Ron, I'm warning you, don't drink that!"
Hermione repeated herself, alarmed, but Ron only shot her a glare and drained the glass in one gulp.
"Stop bossing me around."
Watching the two of them, Hermione looked both shocked and furious.
She leaned in, lowering her voice again so no one else would hear:
"You're going to get expelled over this—I can't believe you'd actually do something like this, Harry!"
With that, Hermione stormed off in a huff to the other end of the table.
Watching her go, Harry thought to himself, looking quite pleased—that was a convincing performance.
Ron eyed Harry suspiciously. "Harry, did you actually just—"
"I don't know what you're talking about. Come on, it's time to head to the pitch."
By the time the group reached the changing room, Ginny announced the news that Vaisey, Slytherin's Chaser, wouldn't be playing.
"Our luck is unbelievable!" Everyone burst out laughing.
"Vaisey's out? He's their best scorer; I can't believe it—wait!"
Ron lowered his voice, sounding both anxious and thrilled. "Harry, tell me the truth—that drink of mine... my pumpkin juice... did you actually...?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Harry raised an eyebrow and said only: "The match starts in five minutes. You'd better get your boots on."
Ron stood rooted to the spot, staring after Harry's retreating back.
A moment later, the dejected look that had clung to him all this time slowly began to fade.
He drew in a deep breath, straightened his spine, and a proud gleam even crept into his eyes.
He'd never imagined that his best mate Harry would go this far for his sake.
So then right at that moment, all Ron wanted to do was shout it out loud:
"I am inevitable!"
Ahem! Sorry wrong sentence from Author.
So then right at that moment, all Ron wanted to do was shout it out loud:
"I am unbeatable!"
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