Having money really does allow one to do whatever they want.
Even in the Wizarding World, as long as society is stable, this saying holds true. (TN: Wizarding World is backward as hell.)
Take Draco Malfoy, for example.
Last year, because Harry showed extraordinary Quidditch talent during Flying Class, Professor McGonagall specially recruited him into the Gryffindor team, making him the youngest Seeker at Hogwarts in a century.
This left Malfoy, who had failed to win Harry's friendship on the train to Hogwarts, consumed by jealousy.
So, by the second year, Malfoy, feeling his own Quidditch skills weren't enough to join the Slytherin team, begged his father to "donate."
In his name, he donated seven new flying broomsticks to the Slytherin team, prompting Flint to make an exception and promote Malfoy to the position of the team's Seeker.
A smug Malfoy naturally wanted to find a time to show off in front of Harry.
This morning was the perfect opportunity.
However, his bragging didn't have the desired effect.
Harry's friend, Hermione, a girl from a Muggle family, sharply pointed out that Malfoy's place on the Quidditch team was entirely due to his father's wealth rather than his own ability.
This made him unable to resist hurling that incredibly foul slur.
"No one asked you, you filthy little Mudblood!"
Instantly, the faces of everyone around who knew the meaning of that word changed.
Ron couldn't hold back, angrily drawing his wand and aiming a curse at Malfoy.
However, he forgot his wand was broken; the spell not only missed Malfoy but backfired on him, making him a laughingstock.
Sherlock had already arrived silently behind the group of students when Malfoy spat that slur at Hermione.
Seeing Ron hit by his own spell, he stepped forward from behind the crowd.
"An excellent Slug-vomiting Charm, Weasley. If you had achieved such an effect in my class, I would have given Gryffindor five points."
Sherlock's cold voice immediately silenced everyone on the field.
As soon as he finished speaking, he pointed his wand at Ron and cast an advanced General Counter-Charm, rescuing him from the predicament of constantly vomiting slugs.
Then, he turned his gaze toward Malfoy.
To be honest, he knew the boy wasn't inherently bad; it was just poor parenting that had turned him into a typical brat.
Unfortunately, Sherlock hated brats the most.
"Twenty points from Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy. For the next week, you will clean all the boys' bathrooms in the Castle. Professor Snape will also hear about this; I will tell him personally at dinner tonight."
Sherlock's voice was very cold, and his gaze seemed capable of freezing someone.
Malfoy only met his eyes for a moment before instinctively looking away.
He looked extremely aggrieved but couldn't do anything to Sherlock. Ultimately, he could only leave the Quidditch Pitch with a sullen face, along with the rest of the Slytherin team.
Sherlock knew that the significance of Malfoy saying this to Hermione was the same as an arrogant bus lady with "royal" lineage markings on her forehead saying, "You stinking outsiders have come to our city to beg for food." (TN: Wtf?)
As hateful as that lady was, Malfoy's behavior was just as disgusting now.
Harry and the others naturally cheered at the "just verdict" following Sherlock's appearance.
Ron's face was flushed; still immersed in Sherlock's praise, he stuttered his thanks.
"Thank you, Professor Cavendish."
Sherlock only left them with a cool and handsome view of his back.
"The weather is nice today. I hope you have a good time on the pitch."
The female members of the Gryffindor team watched him leave with eyes full of infatuation.
"I wish I could marry Professor Cavendish after I graduate," Alicia Spinnet murmured to herself. (TN: I understand that people say that at times but this feels so cringe.)
Angelina mocked her.
"You're only in your fourth year and already thinking about these things? Even if there were a chance to marry Professor Cavendish, it should be me first. After all, I'm graduating next year!"
"Humph, once you graduate, you won't see Professor Cavendish anymore, but I'll be able to see him every day at school!"
They fell into internal strife over who had a better chance with Sherlock, while Wood, the captain, just wanted to get on with training. He couldn't wait to win the Quidditch championship this year.
However, just as they were about to mount their flying broomsticks and return to the air above the pitch, dark clouds suddenly shrouded the previously clear sky.
A blinding flash of lightning streaked over Harry and the others' heads, followed by large raindrops pouring down, soaking their robes and dampening their newly improved mood for practice.
Wood was wailing at the sky, lamenting the bizarre weather.
Harry wiped the rain from his face and muttered gloomily to himself.
"And yet Professor Cavendish just wished us a good time..."
...The conflict on the pitch was just a minor episode for Sherlock today.
He walked from the Quidditch Pitch through Hogwarts Castle. Just as he was planning to head out the main gate to Hogsmeade, it suddenly started raining heavily.
He still hadn't gotten used to Britain's unpredictable weather.
Fortunately, the convenience of magic could be seen in every aspect of life.
Sherlock casually found an old broom in a storage room on the first floor, waved his wand to turn it into a large umbrella, and simultaneously cast a water-repelling charm on his robes.
Holding up the large umbrella, he strolled leisurely into the curtain of rain.
Summer rain makes the air fresher and the temperature more pleasant, making it quite suitable for going out with an umbrella.
Although it was his first time walking the path to Hogsmeade, he was very familiar with it.
This was naturally thanks to the Marauder's Map he had confiscated from the Weasley twins.
That map was so useful that Sherlock couldn't help but admire the ingenious ideas and creativity of its creators.
Since it wasn't Hogsmeade weekend for the upper-year students, and because of the sudden heavy rain, there weren't many pedestrians in the wizarding town.
Walking straight along the main road, Sherlock easily found the Three Broomsticks Pub that Professor McGonagall had mentioned.
He pushed open the main door of the pub, and a warm, sweet aroma wafted out from within.
Under the soft orange light, wizards sat in small groups at round tables, drinking and chatting. As Sherlock entered, a familiar voice called out to him.
"Over ere, Sherlock."