HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

”Why are those three posing for a photo with Sherlock’s family?” Ron watched as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and the two Holmes brothers gathered with Hermione, Gemma, and Fleur, all jostling to find their places in front of the camera. He rubbed the tip of his nose, genuinely baffled. ”Why wasn’t I invited? I’m one of Sherlock’s best friends too!”

”And what exactly would you contribute—volume?” Ginny rolled her eyes. Her brother really had no sense of occasion whatsoever. She wasn’t sure where to begin with him.

”I’m just asking a question—there’s no need to bite my head off!” Ron muttered, preparing another complaint, when Sirius suddenly waved across the lawn at Ginny.

The siblings followed Sirius’s gaze. Harry had already taken his place beside the Dursleys: Uncle Vernon, for once, had not arranged his face into a scowl, and Aunt Petunia was straightening her collar with unusual care.

What made Ginny’s face light up entirely was the sight of Cho Chang, who had appeared at Harry’s side as if from nowhere, offering him a smile.

Whatever irritation she had felt dissolved on the spot. Without a word, Ginny ran toward Sirius.

Under Sirius’s direction, Cho and Ginny took their places on either side of Harry, and the three of them beamed at the camera. Sirius and the Dursleys stood behind them; Uncle Vernon’s expression was still a touch rigid, but he had made no effort to look disagreeable.

Together, they held their smiles as the moment was captured—a rare and fleeting group portrait.

Hmm.

Ron looked left, then right, then up, then down, and at last arrived at a realization.

Every girl here, it seemed, was operating on an entirely different level.

All across the grounds, people laughed and chattered and danced and sang, celebrating the end of the Triwizard Tournament as the night sky rang with the sound of it.

”That will do for tonight!”

Dumbledore stood in the center of the grounds, his silver beard catching the starlight, his robes drifting on the evening breeze. He wore his usual gentle smile, and his voice—amplified by magic—reached every corner of the celebration:

”I declare this Triwizard Tournament concluded—and wish you all a very good evening!”

The crowd was reluctant to leave, but what could they do? If even Dumbledore was calling it a night, there was nothing left but to turn, somewhat forlornly, back toward the castle.

Harry spotted his two fellow champions in the crowd and hurried after them.

”Sherlock, Cedric—what’s the plan for splitting the prize money?”

Cedric was still speaking with his parents. He turned, clapped Harry on the shoulder, and smiled.

”You hang onto it for now. Get a good night’s rest—we can sort it out tomorrow. No rush.”

”Er… all right, then.” Harry hesitated, weighing the heavy coin bag in his hand, then nodded. Cedric was right. Tonight was not the time to be haggling over Galleons.

They parted ways. Harry exhaled slowly, rolled his shoulders, and let out a long, contented sigh.

”Finally. It’s over.”

The whole year had been shaped by the Tournament—from the moment the Goblet of Fire had, inexplicably, spat out his name, through one dangerous task after another.

And now, at last, he could breathe.

”Over?”

Sherlock turned to look at him. One corner of his mouth curved into a knowing smile, and he shook his head slowly.

”No, my dear Harry. The real game is only just beginning.”

”What?”

Harry stopped dead. The third task was done. They’d taken the cup. What else could possibly be waiting for them?

Before he could begin to untangle his thoughts, Gemma was walking toward them quickly, her expression more serious than usual.

”Sherlock, Harry—Dumbledore wants you both in his office now. He says it’s important.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. The Headmaster was summoning them at this hour? Was it something to do with the Tournament? But Gemma’s face suggested it was rather more than that.

”Let’s go.” Sherlock reached over and lifted the heavy coin bag from Harry’s hands, holding it out to Gemma. ”Take this for now.”

Gemma accepted the bag—one thousand Galleons and held Sherlock’s gaze, her worry plain to see.

”Sherlock. Both of you—please be careful.”

”The hunter is in position,” said Sherlock. ”All that remains is for the prey to walk into the trap.”

His confidence, and Gemma’s knowledge of how thoroughly this had all been prepared, eased some of her fear. She studied them both, then added softly:

”Go straight there. I’ll let the others know.”

They left her behind and started toward the castle.

It didn’t take long before Harry’s curiosity won out.

”Sherlock. What’s actually going on?”

”Do you remember your dream?” Sherlock didn’t answer directly. He glanced sideways at Harry.

”My dream?”

Harry blinked and then it hit him. His expression sharpened.

”You mean Voldemort’s plan. He was going to use the Tournament to make his move.”

Of course. In the dream, Voldemort had told his ally in plain terms: the Triwizard Tournament was where they would strike. And then there was Barty Crouch Jr.—by Sherlock’s reckoning, he had been inside Hogwarts for months.

But the Tournament had ended, and everything appeared perfectly calm. Which was precisely what made it so wrong.

”Very good. And now,” said Sherlock, his voice carrying a note of anticipation, ”we’re going to have a little reunion with an old acquaintance.”

Harry noticed it then—the brightness in Sherlock’s eyes, the energy coiled in his movements. He had not looked like this during the maze, nor in the moment of their victory. This—this was what made Sherlock come alive.

Harry’s pulse quickened.

Voldemort, again.

He didn’t know how Sherlock had located him, but that hardly mattered now.

”Is there… anything I need to do?”

”Not a thing,” said Sherlock easily, placing a hand briefly on Harry’s shoulder. ”At a moment like this, all you need to do is smile.”

When they reached the headmaster’s office and Dumbledore’s voice beckoned them in, they found the room considerably more crowded than either had expected.

Dumbledore sat at the head of the room. On either side stood the four Heads of House: Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Snape—all grave and composed alongside Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Lupin.

That was the school’s contingent. Beyond them stood Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge, and Ludo Bagman, who had presided over the entire Tournament as Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

The Triwizard Cup itself sat on the desk, still gleaming with its old, tempting light.

Harry felt the unease settle into his bones.

”Sherlock, Harry—good, you’re here.”

Dumbledore smiled as they entered, and his warmth cut through some of the room’s tension.

”Albus, what on earth are they doing here?” Fudge’s brow furrowed the moment he laid eyes on them, his tone sharp with displeasure. ”You told me this was about You-Know-Who. What do two children have to do with anything?”

”Voldemort,” said Dumbledore, his voice perfectly calm. ”Say his name, Cornelius.”

Fudge and Bagman flinched simultaneously, their faces draining of color.

”I have said it many times, and I will say it again,” Dumbledore continued, as if he had not noticed. ”Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. If we cannot even bring ourselves to speak it, how shall we ever find the courage to face him when he returns?”

”Do you truly believe he has returned?” Fudge looked as though he might topple over. He steadied himself and pressed on, his voice pleading. ”Albus, I understand the need for vigilance, but if you mean to manufacture a panic—”

”Manufacture?” Snape’s voice was ice.

He stepped forward without ceremony, reaching past Dumbledore to thrust his left arm directly in front of Fudge’s face, sleeve pushed back to the elbow.

”Look at it. The Dark Mark. Hardly ambiguous, is it?”

His tone was contemptuous, his gaze withering.

”Every Death Eater carries Voldemort’s brand—the mark by which we recognized one another, and the means by which he will call us back to his side. This past year, it has been growing darker. Karkaroff’s too. You may ask yourself why Karkaroff has been unable to sit still. It is because we have both felt it, plainly—his power is growing. He is coming back.”

”Impossible. Absolutely impossible!” Even with the evidence inches from his nose, Fudge seemed unwilling or unable—to accept it.

He swayed on his feet, his bowler hat spinning between his hands, his face a study in controlled panic.

Finally, he found his voice:

”He can’t come back. He was defeated by Harry—years ago. He simply cannot—”

”Denial does not alter facts, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, and there was something in his tone now that stopped Fudge cold.

Dumbledore paused, and in the silence that followed, they all heard it: knock, knock, knock—the distinctive rhythm of a wooden leg against stone floor.

”Come in.”

Moody pushed through the door. His magical eye swept the room in an instant, taking in the charged atmosphere, the stiff postures, the barely contained tension. His brow furrowed slightly.

”Albus. You said there was news of the Dark Lord.” His gaze moved through the gathered faces and lingered on Harry—a long, complicated look. ”What’s happened?”

”I have strong reason to believe Voldemort may have returned,” said Dumbledore, watching ”Moody” with quiet steadiness.

Both Fudge and Bagman stiffened sharply.

As for Moody—his color went as grey as Fudge’s. He stared at Dumbledore without blinking.

”Are you certain? What evidence do you have?”

”I am not certain—which is precisely why I wanted to verify it with you.” Dumbledore’s tone remained even.

”With me?”

Moody’s magical eye clicked in a swift, searching arc. Something in the room had shifted, and he felt it. His right hand moved slowly beneath his robes toward his wand.

He never reached it.

Flitwick and Snape moved together, almost in the same breath, both wands raised.

”Expelliarmus!”

”Petrificus Totalus!”

Two streaks of red light struck Moody in rapid series. His half-drawn wand sprang up; Lupin stepped forward and plucked it cleanly from the air.

Moody himself flew backward and landed rigid on the flagstone floor.

Flitwick and Snape exchanged a glance. Respects even—neither had been faster than the other.

Even so, Moody was not finished. Garbled sounds escaped his throat. But he was being held by two of the finest dueling minds in the country, caught entirely off guard. There was nothing left to resist with.

Lupin raised his wand. Cords of rope appeared from nowhere, living and purposeful, winding themselves around Moody until he was bound fast.

Fudge and Bagman stood frozen, staring at the trussed-up figure on the floor as if they had just watched someone levitate.

After a long moment, Fudge stammered: ”Albus—what—what are you doing? Why have you attacked Moody?”

”Because that is not Alastor Moody, Cornelius.”

Dumbledore lifted his gaze from the figure on the floor and glanced at Sherlock—a brief look of quiet acknowledgment before turning back to Fudge.

”Sherlock told me you would find this difficult to accept without seeing it for yourself, and recommended I ensure you were here to witness it in person. Once again, he has been proved entirely right.”

Fudge turned to stare at Sherlock, his expression still fixed in disbelief.

”Further explanation would be a waste of time,” said Sherlock, without particular interest in providing one. He looked at the figure on the floor with an expression of mild curiosity.

”The truth is about to become perfectly clear.”

”Precisely so,” said Dumbledore. He bent down and carefully searched the bound man’s person, withdrawing a hip flask and a ring of keys.

He straightened and handed the keys to Professor McGonagall.

”Minerva—I wonder if you would be good enough to go to our guest’s quarters. I believe you’ll find the real Alastor waiting there.”

Professor McGonagall gave a single nod and was gone.

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