HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

The morning mist had barely lifted when Sherlock and Dumbledore set foot upon the country lane.

On both sides of the road, hedgerows grew taller than a man, their bare branches interlacing like withered fingers. Even stripped of leaves, one could imagine how dense and verdant they must be in the height of summer.

The earth beneath their feet was mixed with fragments of dead grass, producing a soft rustling sound with each step. Occasionally they startled a few sparrows hiding beneath the hedges.

The winter sky overhead was unusually clear, blue as forget-me-not petals freshly washed in water, so crystalline it held not a single wisp of cloud.

Gazing at that expanse of sky, Sherlock suddenly thought of Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color, which bore some resemblance to this very shade.

”Has Professor Lockhart still not regained consciousness?”

He withdrew his gaze and looked toward Dumbledore beside him.

At that moment, Dumbledore was bending over to examine a wooden signpost on the left side of the path. His silvery beard hung down across his chest as his fingertips lightly traced the worn lettering on the sign.

The signpost bore two tin arrows. One pointed east, carved with the words ”Great Hangleton, 5 miles.” The other pointed west, reading ”Little Hangleton, 1 mile.” The edges of the lettering had grown rusty.

Hearing Sherlock’s question, Dumbledore straightened up, a flash of surprise behind his half-moon spectacles. ”Sherlock, why would you suddenly think to ask about Gilderoy?”

He paused, then continued without waiting for an answer. ”The staff at St. Mungo’s say he’s been recovering well lately. There’s hope he might wake up within the next couple of years.”

Sherlock nodded, then raised his hand to point at the signpost. ”So our destination this time is Little Hangleton?”

”That’s correct. That’s the village where Tom Riddle’s father—Voldemort’s father—was born,” Dumbledore confirmed with a nod, then a glimmer of curiosity flashed in his eyes, like an audience member anticipating a performance. ”What’s your plan?”

Dumbledore had already given Sherlock all the newspapers related to the case. Combined with what he’d heard from Flitwick and Hagrid about the young detective’s investigative experiences, he was particularly eager to witness the teenage sleuth in action.

”First, we’ll examine the crime scene,” Sherlock said without hesitation. ”After that, if necessary, we’ll visit the nearby police station to retrieve the case file on the disappearance and confirm the details.”

Since Sherlock had proposed this trip himself, Dumbledore naturally had no objections.

The two continued along the small path. Apart from the hedges and sky, there was nothing else to see around them. Only the wind whistling through the branches, occasionally punctuated by the distant cawing of crows from the farmland.

They proceeded along this country lane, surrounded by nothing but the towering hedgerows and the vast blue winter sky overhead.

After about ten minutes, the path suddenly turned left and descended steeply down a hillside. Sherlock and Dumbledore slowed their pace, as the soil on the slope was somewhat loose and one could easily slip if not careful.

When they reached the bottom of the slope, a valley suddenly opened up before them.

Nestled between two steep hillsides, Little Hangleton lay quiet as an oil painting. Gray-tiled, white-walled houses were scattered about irregularly. The church spire gleamed coldly in the sunlight, surrounded by numerous cypresses near the graveyard.

On the hillside opposite the valley stood an imposing manor house, particularly conspicuous. It was surrounded by extensive grounds, and even from this distance, one could see that its scale far exceeded any other dwelling in the village.

”Closer than the signpost indicated. The actual distance is less than a mile,” Sherlock observed.

His gaze swept quickly across the entire village before settling on that grand manor house. That was the Riddle House, the place where Voldemort’s grandfather and father had once lived.

The villagers of Little Hangleton mostly knew each other, and strangers would inevitably draw curious stares. But Sherlock and Dumbledore clearly needn’t worry about such things.

Dumbledore was, after all, the greatest white wizard of the age. A simple spell was all it took to make passersby unconsciously overlook their presence. Not to mention that Sherlock, with years of investigative experience, had long since mastered the art of blending into his surroundings. Even without Dumbledore’s help, if he so chose, he would not be noticed.

Thus, the two walked one behind the other along the village paths, drawing no attention whatsoever.

Upon reaching the gates of the Riddle House, Sherlock stopped and looked around.

The manor occupied the high point of the hillside. Standing here, one could clearly see every small path in the village, every rooftop of every house.

”Excellent positioning. Commanding view, able to monitor all the village’s movements.”

Several of the manor’s windows were boarded up, the nails on the boards rusted. The roof was missing quite a few tiles, exposing the blackened wooden beams beneath.

Dumbledore had originally expected Sherlock to burst through the door immediately, eager to examine the crime scene. After all, during their previous conversation, he’d shown tremendous interest in this case.

To his surprise, now that they’d actually arrived, Sherlock seemed in no hurry at all.

Dumbledore followed behind, watching as Sherlock adopted an almost casual air, wandering slowly through the grounds as if out for a stroll.

Sometimes he stared blankly at the ground, his fingers lightly brushing the soil beneath the dead grass. Sometimes he looked up at the sky, then down to observe the orientation of the manor’s windows and the wooden fence along the back courtyard wall. The fence boards had already rotted, with several pieces broken off and lying on the ground.

Then he bent down to examine cracks in the walls and reached out to touch the ivy covering them. The vines had long since withered, their dark green leaves curled up.

Sherlock circled back to the front entrance, frowning as he studied the carved decorations on the door panels. The brass knocker on the front door had lost its luster, covered in thick dust, clearly indicating that no one had lived here for a very long time. Despite the dust, one could still discern the original craftsmanship.

”Before it fell into disrepair, this was absolutely the most spacious and grand building for miles around.”

Finally, his gaze settled on the small two-story wooden cottage, and he walked directly toward it.

”I need to examine this alone, Professor. Just wait for me at the door,” Sherlock said to Dumbledore over his shoulder, then pushed open the cottage door.

The wooden door was unlocked. It creaked as it opened, raising a cloud of dust.

Dumbledore stood at the doorway as requested, not entering. He watched Sherlock move back and forth inside the cottage, his fingers occasionally touching the furnishings within—a dilapidated wooden table, two chairs missing legs, gardening tools piled in the corner.

During this time, Sherlock stopped twice: once crouching in a corner for a long while, and another time breaking into a satisfied smile while examining a hook on the wall.

Dumbledore couldn’t understand what Sherlock hoped to discern from these apparently unremarkable objects. However, over the past four years, Sherlock had proven his keen powers of observation time and again.

So Dumbledore didn’t ask questions. He stood patiently at the door, waiting quietly. He trusted that Sherlock could see many things that he himself could not.

About ten minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the cottage, dusting off his clothes. ”All right, let’s go have a look at the main house.”

To Dumbledore’s surprise, Sherlock didn’t choose to enter through the front door. Instead, he circled around to the back of the house and stopped beside a door almost completely obscured by ivy.

He reached out and pushed. The door swung open.

This turn of events made Dumbledore even more astonished. Though this was clearly Sherlock’s first visit, he gave the impression of being intimately familiar with every blade of grass and tree here. He’d even found the house’s back door so easily.

The two entered through the back door and immediately found themselves in a large kitchen. Despite it being daytime, the interior was as dark as a cave because the windows had been boarded up. Only a few rays of sunlight penetrated through gaps in the boards, casting thin strips of light on the floor.

The air was thick with a damp, musty smell, mixed with dust and the scent of rotting wood, acrid enough to make one wrinkle their nose involuntarily.

”Do you need light, Sherlock?” Dumbledore asked proactively, raising his hand to cast a spell.

”That would be best, thank you,” Sherlock nodded.

A soft white light appeared at Dumbledore’s fingertip. His illumination charm was naturally extraordinary. The bright white light appeared in an instant, like a high-wattage electric bulb, immediately flooding the entire kitchen with illumination.

The kitchen stove had long since rusted, the sink was filled with thick grime, and several broken pottery jars were piled in the corner.

The two soon found the door leading to the hallway. The hinges emitted a piercing sound when they pushed it open.

The hallway was slightly brighter than the kitchen because the large mullioned windows on either side of the front door hadn’t been sealed. Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting diamond-shaped patterns of light on the floor. However, the musty and dusty smell was even stronger here. One could even see dust particles floating in the sunbeams.

”Wait a moment.”

Sherlock suddenly stopped, pulling a magical magnifying glass from his pocket—the very gift his friends had given him. He crouched down, carefully observing the thick dust on the stone steps. The lens of the magnifying glass refracted faint light, illuminating minute traces in the dust.

This time, Dumbledore clearly saw a satisfied smile appear on Sherlock’s face.

”Let’s go.”

Sherlock put away the magnifying glass, stood up, and quickly climbed the stone steps to the landing.

The landing was covered in dust. Every step left a clear footprint.

Sherlock glanced left and right, his gaze sweeping over the doors on both sides of the corridor, then strode without hesitation toward the end of the right-hand corridor and pushed open the door at the very back.

The instant the door opened, an even more pungent musty odor wafted out.

This was a large, square room that appeared particularly spacious due to its near-complete lack of furniture. The walls were covered with cheap wallpaper, its red pattern already faded, with dark green mold spots in some places. Large sections of wallpaper had peeled away from the walls, revealing the yellow plaster beneath.

To the right of the entrance was a handsome fireplace with a white faux-marble mantelpiece that, despite being dusty, still showed signs of its former elegance.

A tattered carpet lay in front of the fireplace, its pile matted and its color transformed from what had been deep red to dark brown.

At one end of the mantelpiece sat a stub of red candle, its wick long since extinguished, leaving only congealed wax.

The room’s only piece of furniture was an ancient armchair positioned directly in front of the fireplace. The chair’s armrests were worn, its fabric punctured with several holes that exposed the cotton stuffing within.

The room had only one window, its glass as murky as if covered with a layer of fog. Sunlight filtering through became dim and hazy, casting the entire room in a gloomy tone. Combined with the thick layer of dust, the whole room appeared all the more sinister and desolate.

”Exactly as I imagined.”

As Sherlock spoke, his nimble fingers touched this and pressed that. That blank expression returned to his eyes.

However, Dumbledore noticed that this time Sherlock’s examination was even more meticulous.

Besides using the magical magnifying glass to observe the armchair’s armrests, he also took out a silver measuring tape from his pocket and carefully measured the distance from the fireplace to the armchair, then measured from the window to the door.

He even crouched down, repeatedly measuring some scratches on the floor, marks that Dumbledore couldn’t discern at all.

More than ten minutes later, Sherlock put away the measuring tape and magnifying glass, dusted off his hands, straightened his body, and with a relaxed smile on his face said, ”It’s truly hard to believe that one day I’d actually be grateful that the police aren’t clever enough.”

Even without understanding exactly what Sherlock had just been doing, based on his performance over the past four years, Dumbledore understood perfectly well that every minute action had a practical and definite purpose.

”So then... regarding this disappearance case, Sherlock, what’s your assessment?”

Sherlock’s opening statement startled Dumbledore. ”First of all, Professor, I need to correct one point. This isn’t a disappearance case—it’s a murder case.”

”A murder case?”

”That’s right. A murder case.”

Sherlock’s tone was emphatic, his gaze sweeping across the entire room as if reconstructing the scene as it had occurred.

”That old man—if I remember correctly, his name should be Frank Bryce, the gardener at the Riddle House. At the end of last July, he was already murdered. This is the primary crime scene.”

Dumbledore watched Sherlock quietly, waiting for him to continue.

Sherlock didn’t disappoint, laying out all of his deductions in one breath.

”The victim was over seventy years old with mobility problems in his right leg. Even with the assistance of a cane, he still walked with a limp. His hearing was severely impaired, and the village boys would often bully him.

On the night he was killed, he’d originally been standing by the sink filling it with water, I deduce he was planning to fill a hot water bottle to warm his stiff knees. Later, he noticed there was light in this very room where we’re standing now and mistakenly assumed it was those boys who normally bullied him breaking into the Riddle House.”

At this point, Sherlock couldn’t help but sigh. ”He took his keys and came to this room along the very route we just followed. Unfortunately, he ran straight into Voldemort and his minions or should I say, his allies.”

Here, Sherlock looked at Dumbledore and emphasized again,

”So this was an accidental murder, not premeditated. They originally had no intention of killing him. It was only after being discovered that they eliminated him to silence him.

However, given what I know of Voldemort’s temperament, in his current state he’s capricious and volatile. It’s very likely that the killing was done on a whim, without even the motive of ’silencing a witness.’”

Dumbledore looked deeply at Sherlock, his eyes full of astonishment and admiration.

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