HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

When Sherlock’s feet touched solid ground once more, he found himself back in the familiar surroundings of Dumbledore’s office.

Nothing had changed since they left: dark wooden bookshelves, the phoenix Fawkes perched on his roost, silver instruments spinning lazily, and Professor Sprout seated in her chair.

The restrained Barty Crouch Jr. was nowhere to be seen—he had no doubt been transferred somewhere more secure.

But there was one addition to the room: a familiar figure Sherlock hadn’t left behind.

Gemma Farley.

She wore neat, pale-grey robes, and her soft chestnut hair, which usually fell loose around her shoulders, had been pulled back into a clean, efficient ponytail.

She and Professor Sprout sat side by side, heads bent together, murmuring in low, urgent voices.

”You’re finally back!”

The moment Sherlock and Harry appeared out of thin air, both women rose at once and crossed the room in quick strides.

Professor Sprout maintained her composure—only a flicker of relief passed through her eyes as she reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Gemma, however, made no effort to conceal her anxiety. She stepped forward and seized Sherlock’s hands in both of hers.

”Sherlock—are you all right? Are either of you hurt?”

Her worry was entirely understandable.

The day before the Triwizard Tournament’s final task, she had been with Sherlock when they stumbled upon the truth: that Mad-Eye Moody was an impostor.

It was only then that Gemma had truly grasped the danger Sherlock was walking into.

At first, she had assumed the impersonator was Bartemius Crouch Sr., the former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

But sitting in the headmaster’s office, listening to the conversation between Sherlock, Dumbledore, and Lupin, she came to understand: the Crouch in question was the son, not the father.

Both bore the same name—Bartemius Crouch—and Sherlock’s Marauder’s Map had no way of telling them apart. Had both appeared at Hogwarts simultaneously, two identical names would have simply overlapped.

Later, through her own persistence and Sherlock’s quiet advocacy, Gemma had been allowed to play a role. On the day of the final task, it was she who coordinated with the other professors, her years as Head Girl, top of her year, and model graduate having cultivated warm relationships across the faculty. The work had come naturally.

She had still been moving between offices and liaising between parties when Sherlock and Harry gripped the Triwizard Cup and vanished.

She knew exactly where they were going—and exactly who waited for them there. The Dark Lord, whose name most dared not speak aloud. The mere thought of Sherlock standing before that monstrous figure had clamped around her heart like a fist, making every breath feel heavy.

Now, seeing both of them standing before her, unharmed, the tension drained from her shoulders all at once. Her eyes grew faintly red. She let out a long, slow breath.

”Gemma.” Professor Sprout rested a hand on her shoulder. Her gaze moved over Sherlock and Harry with practiced efficiency, confirming both were intact. ”Settle yourself.”

She said calmly, ”Potter and Holmes are both fine. Now—what’s the situation at the graveyard? I’ve just had word that the Aurors have arrived. Albus managed to get the coordinates to the Ministry…”

”The fighting is still ongoing.”

Sherlock glanced at Gemma—she still hadn’t released his hands.

Realizing it, she pulled them back quickly.

In his even, leisurely manner, Sherlock gave a brief account of what had happened at the graveyard: Voldemort’s resurrection, the severed finger rebuilt by dark light, Dumbledore’s timely arrival, the Death Eaters’ assault, the professors’ counterattack…

Harry, having listened, looked immediately to Professor Sprout: ”Professor, you could go and help them! They could use another wand!”

He knew perfectly well that this mild-mannered woman who spent her days tending magical plants in the greenhouses was a formidable duelist by any measure.

Against an enemy like Voldemort, every wand counted. If there was any chance of ending this tonight, while Dumbledore and the others held the upper hand, Harry wanted to take it.

Professor Sprout’s gaze drifted toward the Triwizard Cup resting nearby, and something briefly flickered behind her eyes—a readiness, almost eager. Her fingers curled instinctively around the wand at her hip.

But she hesitated, and after a moment, shook her head. ”Dumbledore asked me to stay and stand guard here. And the Aurors have already mobilized—they’ll have numbers on their side. In a battle at that level…” She paused. ”Whether I’m there or not won’t make much difference.”

Her voice softened as her gaze settled on their weary faces. ”You’re both safe—that’s what matters. Go and rest. What comes next is for the adults to handle.”

Sherlock nodded and made no move to argue.

He had done what he could. He had uncovered Voldemort’s scheme in advance, identified Barty Crouch Jr., and brought Harry to the graveyard and back again. Everything within his reach had been done.

What remained—the aftermath, the reckoning—belonged to Dumbledore, to the professors, to the Ministry, which had spent years looking the other way and now had no choice but to act.

Tonight, he suspected, would leave Minister Fudge—ever-reluctant to face hard truths with memories he would carry to his grave.

Sherlock and Harry said their goodnights to Professor Sprout and Gemma, then turned and left the headmaster’s office.

By now it was past midnight; they were already into the small hours of a new day.

The corridors were still. Only the soft echo of their footsteps followed them down the stone passageway.

”Sherlock—do you think Voldemort will die tonight?”

Somewhere between the office and Gryffindor Tower, Harry couldn’t keep the question in any longer.

Sherlock glanced sideways at him, at the furrow between Harry’s brows, and smiled faintly. ”My dear Harry—when you ask me that, you already know the answer, don’t you?”

Harry let out a heavy sigh. The light went out of his eyes. ”He won’t, will he. Because of the Horcruxes.”

”We’ve destroyed two so far—Tom Riddle’s diary and Marvolo’s ring.” Sherlock slowed his pace, his voice slow and analytical. ”That means even if Voldemort were killed tonight in battle, the fragments of his soul bound to the remaining four Horcruxes would preserve him. He cannot die completely.

”More to the point—now that he has his body back, if he realises the Horcruxes are being hunted, he’ll move immediately to reinforce their protection. Finding and destroying the remaining ones will become far, far harder.

”Dumbledore understands this. He won’t take a risk that leaves the job half-finished.”

He paused, then added: ”And in any case—if Voldemort decides to flee, even Dumbledore may not be able to stop him.”

Harry fell silent.

He didn’t want it to be true. But it was.

There were perhaps no more than a handful of wizards in the world who could match Dumbledore, and Voldemort was one of them.

”Don’t dwell on it.” Sherlock clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. ”From the moment we got through the Portkey—from the moment we brought Dumbledore and the professors to Voldemort—we succeeded.”

”Succeeded?” Harry looked up, uncertain.

”Exactly.” Sherlock’s tone was steady. ”Voldemort won’t be finished tonight, but his Death Eaters are another matter. He’d barely reassembled that ragtag following of his, and now it’s shattered again. For the foreseeable future, he’ll be preoccupied with healing and rebuilding. That buys us time—time to keep searching for the remaining Horcruxes.”

Harry turned it over in his mind, then nodded slowly.

He thought of what tonight might have looked like without Sherlock—without the warning, without Barty Crouch Jr. being exposed. He would have faced it alone: not the weakened spirit that had clung to the back of Quirrell’s skull, not the memory-shade that had haunted the Chamber of Secrets, but Voldemort restored, Voldemort at full strength, surrounded by his Death Eaters.

A shudder moved through him.

It hadn’t happened. That was what mattered.

When they reached Gryffindor Tower, the common room was empty, the fire burned down to a faint amber glow.

Up in the dormitory, Neville’s snoring rose and fell in long, thunderous waves—he had clearly been asleep for hours.

Harry lay on his back and stared at the ceiling as the graveyard played out again and again behind his eyes: the battle, Voldemort’s twisted face, Dumbledore’s calm, unhurried responses. He turned over. He turned back.

Dawn had already begun to pale the windows before exhaustion finally pulled him under.

When he woke, the dormitory was loud with voices.

”Hey—Harry! Get up! Someone’s here for you!”

Ron’s voice. Close. Somewhere between teasing and gleeful.

”Five more minutes… just five more…”

Harry rubbed at his eyes and rolled over, trying to burrow back into sleep.

”Hey, Chang—you’ve witnessed it yourself. It’s not that we didn’t try, it’s that Harry simply refuses to get up—”

Chang.

The name hit him like a spark.

Harry’s eyes flew open.

Cho Chang was standing just behind Ron.

Her dark hair fell smooth over her shoulders, a faint blush on her cheeks, a look in her eyes that hovered somewhere between amusement and shyness.

Harry sat up so fast the mattress bounced. His hair was a disaster. His collar was askew.

”Cho—you—what are you doing here?”

”Mate.” Ron crossed his arms and jerked his head toward the window. ”Look at the time. The sun’s practically overhead.”

Harry looked. Bright afternoon light slanted through the glass and pooled in long rectangles on the floor.

His face went crimson. He grabbed his robes off the bedpost and dressed as fast as his fumbling fingers would allow.

”It’s all right. I can wait.”

Cho smiled—a quiet, gentle smile with a dimple just at the corner—and her eyes were warm and clear.

Across the dormitory, Ron, Dean, and Neville had gone quite still, staring.

By the time Harry had washed, straightened his clothes, and done what he could with his hair, the whole story had come out.

He’d only fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning and had missed breakfast entirely. His dorm-mates had asked Sherlock, who confirmed the two of them had been kept at the headmaster’s office until very late, and since Harry was sleeping so deeply, they’d decided to leave him.

By midday, Cho had come looking for him—and run into Ron on the way. Ron, who had long since clocked the situation between Harry and Cho, did what any true friend would do: he invited her straight up to the dormitory.

Cho had hesitated for a moment, then agreed.

She had not, however, anticipated finding Harry still deeply asleep—which had produced the flustered scene that followed, now a source of considerable hilarity for everyone present.

Amid the wolf-whistles and catcalls from the dorm, Harry and Cho made their way to the Gryffindor common room.

Cho sat with her hands resting neatly on her knees, and asked carefully: ”Last night… did everything go all right?”

She had heard that Harry and Sherlock had been called to the headmaster’s office, and that they hadn’t come back until very late. She didn’t ask what had happened, exactly—just enough to show she had been thinking of him.

Harry’s smile faded a little. He exhaled.

He still didn’t know how the battle at the graveyard had ended. Sherlock had been up early—he’d taken Neville out to the grounds for their morning training session, then gone off somewhere after breakfast and hadn’t come back.

”Oh—the Daily Prophet ran a piece on Hogwarts winning the Triwizard Tournament!”

Cho seemed to remember something. She reached into her pocket and produced a folded newspaper, holding it out to him, her eyes bright. ”Congratulations, Harry—you and Sherlock and Diggory were all incredible.”

At the headline—HOGWARTS CLAIMS THE TRIWIZARD CUP—Harry’s face flushed again.

And then, unconsicously, his mind threw up the vision from inside the maze—that strange, shimmering hallucination near the Cup, in which he and Cho had almost—

He shook his head sharply and shoved the thought away, feeling immediately ridiculous.

”Harry? Are you all right?”

Cho was watching him, head tilted slightly, concern in her voice.

”Fine—no, I’m fine!” He waved a hand, not quite meeting her eyes. ”Just tired.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then smiled, soft and knowing. A faint warmth crept into her cheeks.

She hesitated, as though gathering herself for something, and then spoke quietly, with a deliberateness that suggested the words had been rehearsed.

”The reason I came today—I wanted to ask if you had any plans over the summer.”

Her eyes held his steadily.

”My parents… they’d like to invite you to visit.”

Harry stared at her.

For a moment, he could not speak at all.

Sunlight came through the common room windows and fell across his face, and his cheeks, already warm, burned brighter still.

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