HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

Harry buried his face as low as he could, almost touching his knees.

He secretly wiped away tears with his robe.

He could feel Remus’s gaze resting on him.

And Sherlock’s eyes—those eyes that seemed to see through everything were also watching him at this moment.

This made his cheeks burn with shame and stubbornness.

Only now did Remus notice that Harry’s face was covered not just with sweat, but with tears as well.

His face instantly became even paler than usual, and he couldn’t help but say.

”Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I completely understand—”

”No, I want to continue!”

Harry suddenly raised his head. Though his green eyes were still misty with moisture, they shone remarkably bright.

”I want to try again. It must be that what I was thinking of just now wasn’t happy enough, that’s why it happened!”

”But—”

Seeing Harry’s stubborn gaze, Remus hesitated.

”Let’s try once more.”

Sherlock suddenly spoke. ”Have faith in Harry.”

Harry quickly added. ”That’s right, Professor, please believe in me!”

”All right then—”

Remus finally relented, though his tone still carried hesitation. ”You may need to select a different memory, I mean a happy memory, and concentrate on it. The one just now didn’t seem strong enough—” He paused, his expression becoming complex.

As if suddenly remembering something, Remus asked with some hesitation, ”You—you heard James’s voice just now?”

”Yes.”

Harry nodded, his tone lightening somewhat.

He knew Remus was his father’s best friend, just like Sirius.

So, at this moment he spoke without reservation, telling him everything he had heard while unconscious.

After listening, Remus pressed his lips into a straight line, his expression becoming even more somber than before.

He turned away, his back to Harry, his shoulders were slightly sagging.

Sherlock, however, showed a thoughtful expression.

Harry had faced Dementors several times now and heard some fragmentary scenes.

Two years ago, Voldemort had possessed Quirrell and said some things to Harry in the room with the Philosopher’s Stone.

Sherlock combined the two, discarding the false and retaining the true, and deduced the circumstances of that night.

Voldemort learned the location of James and Lily’s residence from the traitor Peter and went alone to Godric’s Hollow.

Because they trusted Peter too much—judging from the current situation, James and Lily, like Sirius and Remus, had never imagined he would betray them.

So, when Voldemort broke through the door, the couple were probably still in a state of complete unpreparedness, perhaps doing nothing more unusual than comforting their child.

James knew very well that facing the Dark Lord, who at that time was nearly unbeatable, he was essentially throwing himself against certain death.

Even so, he still rushed forward at the first moment, standing before his wife and child.

He tried to hold off Voldemort, to buy time for his wife and child to escape.

The result was that he was killed by the Killing Curse in a single encounter, barely managing to delay Voldemort at all.

Given this, Sherlock made a deeper inference.

In his haste, James probably didn’t even have time to grab his wand before rushing forward.

His only weapons were a father and husband’s instinct and courage.

After Voldemort killed James, he turned again toward Harry.

This time Lily stood before her son, pleading desperately, hoping Voldemort would spare her child, even if it meant exchanging her own life.

Voldemort naturally refused.

His target from the beginning had been Harry, the boy in the prophecy destined to defeat him.

Whether James or Lily, they were merely obstacles to be cleared in this targeted killing of Harry.

So, after a brief struggle with Lily, he impatiently casted the Killing Curse again and murdered her.

However, when he cast that night’s third Killing Curse on the infant Harry, it was reflected by the ancient protective magic Lily had cast at the cost of her life and maternal love.

That green light left only a scar on Harry’s forehead.

Voldemort, on the other hand, was struck by his own Killing Curse, his soul shattered and scattered, fleeing to the furthest reaches.

Until two years ago when he parasitically attached himself to the back of Quirrell’s head, barely surviving, reappearing at Hogwarts in an attempt to obtain the Philosopher’s Stone.

But in Sherlock’s view, by that time he had become utterly brain-dead and pathetic, completely lacking the terrifying aura of his former self.

The Quirrell he had chosen was no better—not only had Dumbledore already taken precautions against him, but he was also, like his master, a self-important clown.

In the end, this master-servant pair naturally failed as expected.

So, the question was.

As soon as Voldemort saw them, he killed James without hesitation, without the slightest pause.

But when facing Lily, he was delayed for a period of time before killing her.

It seemed like an insignificant detail, but Sherlock keenly discovered the blind spot.

Someone like Voldemort would never have any notion of mercy toward women.

So why did Voldemort kill James in one encounter, but hesitate when facing Lily?

Could it be that like certain psychopaths, he enjoyed hearing victims kneel before him and beg for mercy?

Sherlock quickly rejected this speculation.

This didn’t fit Voldemort’s extremely arrogant and impatient personality.

Judging from the fragment of his mother’s final voice that Harry had said he heard, it seemed more like Voldemort had originally intended to spare Lily, but because Lily refused to stop protecting Harry and kept standing in his way...

He lost patience and finally struck her down.

If that was truly the case—

Sherlock’s gaze deepened.

Just then, Remus’s words interrupted his train of thought. ”Sherlock, why don’t you go first this time?”

Sherlock’s consideration of this matter took a long time to describe, but in reality, it was only a brief instant.

Seeing Remus look toward him, Sherlock collected his thoughts and nodded.

”No problem.”

For now, he would store this question temporarily in his memory palace and investigate it together with new clues when they emerged.

Remus turned back around. ”Harry, have you thought of a happier memory?”

”I have—but when the Boggart faces Sherlock, it shouldn’t turn into a Dementor, right? Is it okay for him to go first?”

Harry asked worriedly while chewing on chocolate.

Sherlock smiled slightly. ”It’s fine. I’ve actually been wanting to see what I’m most afraid of.

After I deal with the Boggart, you can take over just like in Defense Against the Dark Arts class.”

Harry nodded and was about to speak when he heard Sherlock continue.

”Then when you pass out, I’ll just treat it as a Dementor again.”

Harry: ”...”

Remus: ”...”

To be fair, Sherlock was fine in every way, except for that mouth—sharper than his own teeth when he transformed into a werewolf.

Remus shook his head slightly and made a gesture for Harry to step back.

Harry immediately retreated to the edge of the classroom, his eyes fixed tightly on the box containing the Boggart, looking even more nervous than when he faced the Dementor himself.

When Sherlock walked to the center of the classroom, Remus placed his hand on top of the box and asked Sherlock. ”Ready?”

His voice carried a trace of barely detectable curiosity.

After all, no one knew what a genius like Sherlock would fear most.

Seeing Sherlock nod, Remus suddenly lifted the lid.

Just as when the Dementor appeared last time, a blurred figure emerged from the box.

It was an old oak wheelchair, the armrests worn shiny, with a faded velvet cushion on the seat.

A person sat in the wheelchair.

The next moment—

Harry’s glasses slipped to the tip of his nose with a click, and Remus drew in a sharp breath.

Because the person in the wheelchair was none other than Sherlock Holmes himself!

Except this Sherlock was very old, aged and decrepit beyond imagination.

Silver-gray hair—no, to be precise, dry gray-white hair, messy like withered winter grass plastered to his scalp.

Eyes that had once been sharp as a hawk’s were covered with a cloudy white film, like dusty glass beads staring vacantly ahead, oblivious to everything around them.

That face that once conveyed a thousand thoughts through subtle expressions now had only sagging flesh, marked with dull wrinkles, as if time had drained away all vitality.

What made Harry and Remus lose their composure most was that the elderly Sherlock’s mouth hung open with a line of glistening drool slowly dripping onto the nightgown on his chest, spreading into a small damp patch.

The nightgown was stained with filth, the collar hanging crookedly open.

As for those hands that had once played exquisite violin pieces, precisely prepared potions, and wielded fists and wands—they now hung limply at his sides, fingers slightly curled like a few dead branches.

On his knees lay several crumpled pages, their edges yellowed and brittle.

Harry and Remus couldn’t see clearly what was written on them, but inexplicably felt their chests tighten.

Sherlock, however, recognized them at a glance—they were his own notes recording countless deductive conclusions and chemical formulas.

Those treasures of wisdom he had once cherished were now waste paper.

Harry and Remus were completely stunned.

Both stood frozen in place as if petrified, unable to say a word.

The scene before them was terrifyingly quiet, yet more suffocating than any screaming, grotesque monster.

They even smelled the odor of disinfectant and decaying human body.

Without exaggeration, this scene was no less frightening than what the Dementor had just inflicted on Harry.

This—this was the scene Sherlock feared most?

A version of himself whose life was like a candle in the wind?

Was what he feared most... death?

Sherlock didn’t think so.

He quietly observed this elderly version of himself in the wheelchair, his gray eyes showing no fear, only a kind of almost clinical scrutiny, as if staring at a toad specimen on a dissection table.

”Senile dementia? Vascular degeneration? Or something more complete and blank?”

At this moment, his brain was like an overloaded machine, instantly flashing through countless cold medical terms, beginning to deconstruct the scene before him.

”Sherlock, this—”

Harry finally couldn’t help but speak tremblingly, but was gently pressed on the shoulder by Remus.

Remus’s palm was burning hot. He had already vaguely understood that this scene didn’t represent Sherlock’s fear of death.

For Sherlock, this was a terror heavier than death—the collapse of intellect, the complete extinction of self.

Sherlock naturally understood what this scene represented.

Early-stage cognitive impairment from Alzheimer’s, late-stage apraxia from vascular cognitive decline, frontal lobe dementia combined with severe aphasia and executive function disorder—

Complete loss of autonomous thinking ability, existence losing its subjective meaning.

”I see.”

Sherlock slowly nodded, a flash of clear understanding in his gray eyes.

This wasn’t just aging—this was a living soul being hollowed out, leaving only a physiological shell waiting unknowingly for decay.

For him, this was indeed far more horrifying than any sword, spell, or death itself.

Death was an endpoint; decay was death by a thousand cuts.

Once stripped of his proudest weapon—that invincible sword of deduction and insight, it was equivalent to erasing the core value of his existence.

Just then, the elderly Sherlock in the wheelchair suddenly grinned.

Drool slid down his chin as he made a discordant, hollow sound.

Those cloudy eyeballs seemed to move, sweeping meaningfully across Sherlock’s face.

But he froze.

Because Sherlock smiled.

His smile was faint, because laughing too much would make the Boggart disappear.

”I’m somewhat curious, actually.”

He tilted his head, his tone as calm as if discussing the weather.

”Why didn’t you transform into me after receiving the Dementor’s Kiss—in that state, I would also have lost my soul.”

He paused, his gaze falling on the crumpled notes on those knees, then suddenly understanding.

”Oh—right, in that state the body would still be healthy—but what I fear is the dual decay of both body and mind.”

Sherlock said as if talking to himself.

”The Mirror of Erised showed me what I desire most, and the Boggart has shown me what I fear most—

The magical world is truly fascinating.”

Before his words fell, he raised his wand and flicked his wrist lightly.

”Riddikulus!”

With a light ”snap,” the decrepit ”old Sherlock” in the chair instantly changed.

A soft sound accompanied dispersing smoke as the withered image in the wheelchair scattered like a sand painting blown by strong wind, rapidly reorganizing into a completely different silhouette.

Where the smoke cleared, the scratched oak wheelchair had become a dark sofa.

The aged Sherlock Holmes also disappeared, replaced by a young man in his twenties.

Though this young man reclined lazily on the sofa, his spine was straight as a drawn bow, his posture upright as a pine.

He wore a fitted black overcoat with a deerstalker cap on his head.

His right hand held an ebony walking stick firmly planted on the ground, while his left hand’s curved fingers held a briar pipe.

A thin layer of ash-white tobacco ash accumulated on the bowl, and blue smoke wound around his fingertips.

Under the brim, those sharp hawk-like gray eyes pierced through the smoke, carrying an all-seeing calm and wisdom transcending time and space, slowly sweeping across the room.

When his gaze passed over Sherlock, those eyes flashed with an extremely faint smile.

Harry and Remus were stunned once again.

Another Sherlock Holmes!

What was happening?

Why had the elderly Sherlock transformed into a younger version of himself after Sherlock cast the spell specifically for dealing with Boggarts?

Shouldn’t this spell make the Boggart transform into whatever one found most amusing?

Could this be what Sherlock considered most joyful?

Rejuvenation?

However, what shocked them even more was yet to come.

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