0107 Solution

Under Harry and Hermione's expectant gazes, Sherlock's lips curved slightly upward as he chuckled:

"Harry, please take out the Christmas gift Professor Snape gave you."

Hearing this, Harry's eyes instantly lit up.

He hurriedly reached into his robes, his movements carrying both urgency and careful caution.

Soon, he produced a crystal-clear small bottle.

Under the flickering yellow light, the bottle refracted dreamlike brilliance.

The bottle was filled with a liquid that sparkled with golden light, the radiance dancing gently like fireflies on a summer night.

Just from its appearance alone, one could sense this was high-grade goods.

"My God, it's Felix Felicis!"

Hermione couldn't help but exclaim, quickly covering her mouth with both hands, her eyes full of shock and excitement.

As a top student, she knew the value of this potion all too well.

The materials alone for brewing this potion were all rare, high-grade ingredients:

Known components included Ashwinder eggs, horseradish, squill bulbs, Murtlap essence, tincture of thyme, Occamy eggshells, and powdered rue.

Not to mention its brewing process was extremely complex, often requiring a full six months.

The brewer needed complete concentration, eyes fixed on the cauldron, stirring rod moving in specific rhythms—every movement allowing no margin for error.

Any mistake in any step could have unimaginable consequences.

It might cause a earth-shattering explosion or create some strange and dangerous substance.

Just thinking about it was frightening.

The high cost and complex brewing process resulted in effects that were magical beyond imagination:

Not only could it enhance the user's abilities, but it could also bring good luck.

More specifically, within 12 hours of consumption, it could put the user in a wonderful state where they weren't controlled by emotions.

In extreme situations, the mind would be exceptionally clear, making precise and accurate actions.

It could significantly improve abilities in all aspects, making everything go smoothly, as if invisible hands were pushing things along.

It would also bring good fortune, making everything proceed smoothly with unlimited opportunities.

And don't let the seemingly small amount in this bottle fool you—such generous high-grade potions could probably only be given by the few potion masters like Snape in all of Hogwarts.

"Mix them together, and the three of us will drink it separately."

Hearing Sherlock's words, Harry's eyes immediately lit up.

Right, how hadn't he thought of this?

With Felix Felicis's magical effects, combined with the potion that could already pass through the flames, it would definitely be enough to help them enter the next room.

Not only that, drinking Felix Felicis would play an even greater role in what was to come.

After all, in the final room, they would very likely have to fight Quirrell again, or even Voldemort.

Thinking of this, a flash of determination crossed Harry's eyes as he clenched his fists tightly.

Hermione hadn't expected Sherlock to solve the problem this way either.

She bit her lip gently, her eyes were full of conflict.

Originally, she wanted to say this precious potion should be saved for more important moments later.

But on second thought, this time they were facing Voldemort!

Could there be a more important moment than this?

Even for a rare potion like Felix Felicis, this was the highest stakes game.

So, she nodded in agreement, stepping forward with a concerned expression to remind:

"Don't pour it all in—just ensure each of us has a small sip."

Though Felix Felicis was a good thing, excessive consumption also had dangers.

It could not only cause dizziness, recklessness, and arrogance, but could even make one overconfident, losing the instinct for self-preservation.

Harry nodded at Hermione's reminder.

He carefully picked up the bottle and slowly tilted it.

The golden Felix Felicis flowed out like a nimble stream.

Finally, Harry poured out half the Felix Felicis, and after mixing it with the potion in the small bottle, the three divided and drank it.

The Felix Felicis-mixed potion felt like cold water, instantly flooding their entire bodies.

A cool sensation spread from their throats to their limbs, making their bodies feel light as if they could fly.

Then the three walked toward the menacing black flames.

Although the black flames made crackling sounds, constantly licking at their bodies, they felt nothing at all.

The next moment, they arrived at the final room.

This room's furnishings were even more poor than Snape's potion challenge.

The entire room contained only one luxurious and imposing mirror.

It was precisely the Mirror of Erised that Sherlock and Harry had encountered during their night wandering at Hogwarts.

'The final test was this mirror?'

Seeing this, Sherlock immediately understood why the old man had refused to tell him about his arrangement.

Unlike Sherlock, Harry and Hermione focused more attention on the person standing before the mirror.

Pale complexion, signature large scarf.

It was Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirinus Quirrell.

Different from usual, his eyes no longer twitched as they normally did.

Quirrell calmly looked at the three who had entered the room, finally focusing his gaze on Harry:

"You've come."

Harry and Hermione looked at each other.

Though they had received warnings from Sherlock more than once, when Quirrell actually stood there, they couldn't help but feel absurd.

"Hello, Professor Quirrell. We meet again."

Sherlock stepped forward half a step, carefully observing Quirrell as they reunited.

"It seems you've recovered well?"

As soon as Sherlock mentioned this, Quirrell's expression immediately turned ugly.

He hadn't forgotten that on that night in the Forbidden Forest, it was this young wizard who had given him a sword thrust.

That sword thrust had kept him resting until after Easter!

Being wounded by a first-year student with a sword was simply a humiliation for Quirrell.

He took a deep breath: "Holmes—I was just wondering if I'd encounter you here.

And Potter, after all, the one who always likes to obstruct me should be Snape."

Sherlock was noncommittal about this statement: "It seems you still haven't obtained the Philosopher's Stone? I really overestimated you."

"You, you're not stuttering anymore!"

Harry suddenly cried out. He was shocked to discover that Quirrell had spoken that long passage very fluently which was ompletely different from his usual stuttering performance.

Seeing Harry's surprised expression, the anger from Sherlock's earlier mockery was suppressed.

"St-st-stuttering? Hahahaha!"

Quirrell laughed loudly, this laughter wasn't his usual sharp, trembling tone, but a chilling cold laugh.

"Potter, compared to your friend, you're really quite lacking.

But thinking about it, that makes sense. Snape is like a giant bat flying around everywhere, making himself universally hated.

With him there, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-st-stuttering Professor Quirrell?"

At the end, Quirrell deliberately switched to his usual halting manner.

The mockery was at maximum level.

"So, it was you who tried to kill me during the Quidditch match, and Professor Snape was trying to save me? He refereed the second match for me too?"

Harry stared straight at Quirrell.

He was somewhat surprised to find that he didn't feel much fear facing Quirrell.

He wondered if the Felix Felicis was taking effect.

"Oh, it seems you're not completely stupid."

Seeing Harry's performance, Quirrell seemed somewhat surprised as he said coldly:

"He indeed wanted to ensure I couldn't harm you again. The other teachers all thought Snape wanted to prevent Gryffindor from winning.

I must say, he succeeded. With him as referee, I really couldn't do anything to you.

And the first Quidditch match was also because he kept reciting counter-curses—"

He paused here: "Potter, I can only say your luck is very good.

If my robes hadn't suddenly caught fire that day, I would have already knocked you off your broomstick. No matter how many counter-curses Snape recited, it wouldn't have helped."

Saying this, he looked toward Hermione.

Meeting Quirrell's cold gaze, Hermione couldn't help but shiver.

This professor, whom everyone had treated as a joke, now gave her an extremely dangerous feeling.

She couldn't help but move closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned and spat out two words: "Idiot."

"What did you say?"

Quirrell suddenly turned his head.

If his hatred for Harry stemmed from his master's mission, then his hatred for Sherlock came from Quirrell himself.

Not only had Sherlock stabbed him with a sword, but just now he had mocked him with that contemptuous tone. Quirrell's anger was imaginable.

However, he never expected this was just the beginning.

"Quirrell, I really wonder if the Sorting Hat was secretly napping when you entered school."

Sherlock said with complete disdain.

"What did you say?"

Quirrell's voice suddenly rose.

The entire room's magic surged, even the temperature seeming to drop several degrees.

Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened, and continued:

"You were right just now—indeed no one would suspect you. That's because you were originally just a self-proclaimed clever clown.

If the flames hadn't reached your pale neck, you'd still be staring at Harry casting spells. A wizard who lacks even the most basic situational awareness.

I really should suggest your master throw you into logic and common-sense classes to relearn how to observe the world, stop embarrassing yourself and making people laugh.

Honestly, even Longbottom's pet toad is cleverer than you—at least it can ensure it never truly gets lost."

"Shut up!"

Quirrell was furious and the veins were bulging on his forehead.

Sherlock continued as if he hadn't heard:

"Heh, you're truly eye-opening. Walking around daily with that paper-pale face, wrapped in that ridiculous turban, yet facing clues right in front of you, you can only stare blankly.

Those twitching eyes of yours are probably too busy showing fear to learn how to read information from them.

That stuttering mouth of yours probably can't spit out half a useful deduction at critical moments.

Obviously backed by Voldemort, here in this Hogwarts Castle where magical knowledge gathers, with such advantageous conditions, yet you've made such a mess of things.

No wonder you've achieved nothing so far, becoming the pitiful creature in this competition."

Sherlock went full force, ending with a regretful statement:

"You've lowered the entire IQ of Ravenclaw house."

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