HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

”When did Mrs. Smith die?” Sherlock asked without hesitation the moment they resumed their seats, his question cutting straight to the point.

Harry’s face registered shock as he glanced at Sherlock. He hadn’t even fully emerged from the memory, and Sherlock was already asking the crucial question. This leap in reasoning left him momentarily struggling to follow.

As for the underlying meaning of the question itself, it was positively staggering.

How could Sherlock possibly be certain that Hepzibah Smith was dead?

Dumbledore did not deny the premise. Instead, he sighed softly, his tone tinged with unmistakable sorrow. ”Two days after these events.”

Upon hearing this, Sherlock released a cold laugh, his eyes were full of disdain for Voldemort’s nature. ”It seems he was more impatient than I imagined. I suppose he was confident he could escape without consequence, correct?”

Dumbledore studied Sherlock for a long moment, a flash of approval crossing his expression. His answer aligned perfectly with Sherlock’s deduction. ”The Ministry of Magic ultimately determined that Hokey, the house-elf, accidentally placed poison in her mistress’s evening cocoa.”

”That’s impossible! Absolutely impossible!” Harry leaped to his feet, his hands pressed against the tabletop, his voice was filled with fury and bewilderment.

How could that frail, timid house-elf commit such a crime against her own mistress? Even Kreacher, who despised Sirius to the depths of his being, had never done more than curse his master behind closed doors. He had never entertained thoughts of actual harm.

How could an honest, docile elf like Hokey possibly do such a thing?

As these thoughts appeared, Harry suddenly understood the significance of Sherlock’s question. He wasn’t stupid—quite the opposite, actually. He was quite intelligent. Perhaps not as brilliant as Hermione in terms of raw intellect, but possessing greater wisdom overall.

The issue was his inherent goodness. When faced with situations, he habitually inclined toward optimistic interpretations, never proactively exploring humanity’s capacity for evil.

After viewing the memory, Harry had recognized that Voldemort must have desired those two artifacts belonging to Hogwarts’ founders and would pursue them relentlessly. In simple terms, he had considered theft but never considered murder.

Sherlock, by contrast, had pierced directly through appearances to underlying reality. Relying solely on his penetrating analysis of Voldemort’s character, he had arrived at the cruelest possible conclusion. if a noblewoman possessed artifacts that Voldemort had observed, she was essentially marked for death. Voldemort would never let her live.

What Sherlock hadn’t anticipated was how quickly Voldemort would act—murdering her mere days after seeing the objects.

”Of course it’s impossible,” Sherlock said calmly, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

”Allow me to speculate. This murder, like the one at the Riddle House, follows the exact same pattern, doesn’t it? I’d venture that the Ministry’s final conclusion was that the house-elf Hokey confessed to murdering her mistress.

As for the young Tom Riddle, he has absolutely nothing to do with the matter. In fact, he likely never entered the Ministry investigators’ field of vision at all. Yet there remains one problem that doesn’t quite fit—the magical contract binding house-elves fundamentally prevents them from harming their own masters.”

”You and I are in complete agreement, Sherlock,” Dumbledore nodded, his approval deepening. ”These two cases are indeed remarkably similar. In both, the perpetrator prepared a scapegoat in advance. Both scapegoats retained clear memories of the supposed crime.

However, you’re absolutely correct—house-elves cannot harm their own masters. The truth is, this case differs somewhat from Marvolo’s murder of his brother-in-law. Marvolo openly admitted to killing all three victims, even boasting about it proudly.

Hokey merely remembers placing something in her mistress’s cocoa. Only later did she discover it wasn’t sugar but a rare and fatal poison.

Consequently, the Wizengamot’s final ruling was that she acted without premeditation—merely an elderly elf’s poor eyesight causing her to mistake poison for sugar.”

”A convenient excuse indeed!” Harry said bitterly, unable to help himself.

Whether then or now, the Ministry of Magic seemed continuously the same. Whether their identified criminals were actually guilty appeared utterly irrelevant. So long as they could close the case quickly and offer the public an explanation, all was well.

”In truth, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey from the start—simply because she was a house-elf,” Dumbledore said with undisguised frustration.

”Add to that her old age and sluggish responses, the Ministry had no further interest in investigating alternative possibilities once she admitted to placing something in the beverage. It’s precisely like Marvolo’s situation—he confessed, so the Ministry stopped investigating.

By the time I located Marvolo, he was dying in Azkaban. This house-elf met the same fate. By the time I found her and extracted her memories, she was also at death’s door. As for the memories themselves—they only prove that Voldemort was aware of the cup and pendant box’s existence. They cannot validate anything else.”

Sherlock and Harry fell silent, the office settling into quiet contemplation.

In that moment, Harry found himself genuinely sympathizing with Hermione’s organization the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, if he recalled correctly. These house-elves, enslaved for so long, couldn’t even secure basic human rights in the wizarding world. They became scapegoats at the slightest provocation.

Sherlock broke the silence with a direct question. ”The woman Hepzibah mentioned—the one who sold the pendant box to Borgin... was that Voldemort’s mother, Merope Gaunt?”

”Precisely,” Dumbledore sighed deeply, his expression becoming distant and heavy.

”I don’t believe I’ve told you yet that Caractacus Borgin obtained this pendant box from a young witch. According to Borgin’s account, it occurred shortly before Christmas. The woman was poorly dressed, haggard in appearance, and pregnant. She recognized the box as a Slytherin heirloom but was entirely ignorant of its true value. She accepted merely ten Galleons and departed contentedly.”

Sherlock immediately responded, his analysis was solid. ”This establishes that Merope was alone in London during the late stages of pregnancy and desperately needed money for survival. Ultimately, she was forced to sell her most valuable possession—that pendant box. But why did she possess it in the first place? Shouldn’t it have belonged to Marvolo or Morfin?”

”Well... that is...” Dumbledore’s expression grew uncomfortable, his gaze becoming evasive.

Sherlock understood immediately, raising an eyebrow with a knowing tone. ”This is the content you omitted from the memory you recounted to me previously, isn’t it?”

”Yes, Sherlock. Yes, it is.” Having been caught out, Dumbledore appeared even more embarrassed, clearing his throat before explaining.

”The truth is, that pendant box had always hung around Merope’s neck. After Marvolo and Morfin were imprisoned, she departed the Gaunt hovel with it, together with Tom Riddle Senior.

In Morfin’s memory, when he saw the young Voldemort, he even demanded the pendant box from him. He didn’t realize that Voldemort had been raised in an orphanage and assumed the boy had lived with his mother all along.”

Sherlock simply observed Dumbledore silently, his gaze carrying quiet judgment.

Dumbledore felt the weight of his look and cleared his throat again, hastily reassuring. ”I give you my word—if there are more memories with crucial details, I’ll bring you to view them in the Pensieve directly. It truly is a remarkable tool for presenting truth most vividly.”

This incident once again vindicated Sherlock’s insistence on witnessing things firsthand.

Harry stood nearby, feeling somewhat awkward himself. While Sherlock was certainly right, Dumbledore was, after all, the Headmaster of Hogwarts—one owed him some respect.

But Sherlock cared nothing for such social niceties. Having received Dumbledore’s confirmation, he continued.

”Now the entire picture becomes wonderfully clear. In Voldemort’s mind, the Slytherin pendant box is rightfully his—his mother’s inheritance. As for Hufflepuff’s cup, having seen it, how could someone of his nature possibly overlook it?

Let me further speculate. afterward, Hepzibah’s family discovered that the two most valuable treasures in her collection had vanished without trace. But given the considerable time that passed, combined with Hepzibah’s meticulous guardianship and absolute refusal to reveal her collection to outsiders, her family required an extended period before confirming the theft.

Is that correct? And that handsome, charming, well-mannered young shop assistant also tendered his resignation not long after, disappearing without trace. No one knew where he went.”

”Every detail, exactly as you’ve described,” Dumbledore said slowly.

”If our deductions are sound, then the newly-of-age Voldemort committed yet another murder. This time, not for revenge but for material gain. He wanted those precious objects the pitiful old woman had shown him—just as he once stole his uncle’s ring. After this incident, he vanished. Even the manager of Borgin and Burkes never saw him again.”

”The logic is sound, but surely it’s madness,” Harry interjected, his brow furrowed. ”To take such enormous risks, to abandon his job, all for—”

”For two seemingly worthless ancient objects?” Sherlock’s laugh carried contempt. ”My dear Harry, it appears you still don’t fully understand Voldemort.”

”I don’t follow, Sherlock,” Harry admitted.

”As I just explained, he believes the pendant box rightfully belongs to him. It originally belonged to his mother—in his view, he’s merely returning what should have been his all along.

As for murder, such a person has never grasped the value of life. Or rather, he recognizes only his own life as valuable. That’s precisely why he would shatter his soul into seven pieces to achieve immortality. Other people’s lives? To him, they’re utterly beneath consideration—worthless as….”

”I still don’t understand,” Harry continued, shaking his head. ”Even if he believes the pendant box is his, what claim could he possibly make on the cup?”

He simply could not fathom such extreme possessiveness.

”Because he believes that objects imbued with ancient power deserve ownership only by someone as ’great’ as himself,” Sherlock’s eyes turned icy. ”In his view, the moment these two things appeared before him, they became his. He sees himself as merely taking back what naturally belongs to him.”

”Sherlock expresses my thoughts precisely, Harry,” Dumbledore added, observing Harry’s lingering confusion.

”Perhaps this behavior seems insane to you, but to Voldemort, it’s entirely logical. I hope you can understand, as Sherlock and I do, what these objects meant to him specifically. Both the pendant box and the cup once belonged to Hogwarts’ founders. As I mentioned before, Hogwarts itself holds extraordinary fascination for Voldemort. He is utterly incapable of resisting any artifact saturated with the school’s history.”

”Therefore, after obtaining them, Voldemort created two more Horcruxes from these treasures,” Sherlock continued.

”This means his requirements for the remaining two Horcruxes should be artifacts from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. However, Gryffindor’s artifact—that sword is currently in your possession. So even if he finds Ravenclaw’s relic, we still lack any leads regarding the final Horcrux.”

”Correct. And truthfully, we have no leads at all as to what Ravenclaw’s artifact actually is,” Dumbledore nodded, concern evident in his tone.

”No matter. I trust in your abilities,” Sherlock smiled slightly, his voice was warm with confidence. ”Besides, now that we’ve confirmed this direction, I can begin gathering clues.”

”No, I’ll handle this myself,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head with determination. ”You both have far too much on your plates already. For now, successfully completing the Triwizard Tournament must be your primary focus. You cannot afford distractions.”

Harry felt a jolt upon hearing Dumbledore mention the Triwizard Tournament. His mind had grown fuzzy—the conspiracy surrounding Voldemort’s resurrection and the matter of the Horcruxes had consumed all his thoughts, causing him to nearly forget about it entirely.

”However, before that, I would still like you both to examine one more memory,” Dumbledore said, changing direction. ”It will help you—Sherlock and Harry further understand Voldemort’s past and, more importantly, his vulnerabilities.”

”An excellent suggestion,” Sherlock nodded before asking directly. ”Whose memory is it this time?”

”Mine,” Dumbledore replied.

”Sir, if it’s your own memory, isn’t it unnecessary to view it in the Pensieve? Couldn’t you simply recount it to us?” Harry felt that Sherlock’s earlier direct confrontation with the Headmaster had been somewhat impolite, so he instinctively sought to offer Dumbledore a graceful exit and ease the tension.

He hadn’t anticipated Sherlock’s immediate, emphatic response. ”Absolutely not! Precisely because it’s the person’s own memory must we witness it firsthand. Retellings invariably carry subjective coloration. Only direct observation can capture the most authentic details.”

Harry: Σ(っ°Д°;)っ

His attempt to ease the tension had only made things more awkward instead.

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