HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

”You may not believe me when I say this.”

Dumbledore’s gaze swept across the two boys seated before him. It lingered on Harry for a moment, a flicker of pity passing through his eyes, before he spoke slowly:

”But if I were to tell you plainly that I had been watching the behavior of the serpent at Voldemort’s side—Nagini—on that night, I wonder what you would say.”

At those words, both Sherlock and Harry looked up with expressions of surprise.

For Sherlock, that was unusual. He had always given the impression of a boy for whom nothing was ever quite unexpected.

”A snake?”

Harry’s face was one of sheer disbelief. ”What? You can use an animal as a Horcrux?”

No sooner had he said it than he noticed a familiar scene playing out around him—the portraits of former headmasters lining the walls had all woken up and were leaning in to eavesdrop. One portly wizard with a red nose had even produced an ear trumpet.

But Dumbledore did not ask them to leave, as Professor McGonagall might have done.

Sherlock thought for three seconds, then shook his head and looked at Dumbledore.

”Using an animal as a Horcrux is not, in itself, a particularly astonishing idea. But to entrust a fragment of one’s soul—however small—to a living creature with its own consciousness and mind, one that can run and move of its own accord, that is not a wise course of action. It doesn’t seem like something Voldemort, who has always treated his Horcruxes with such meticulous care, would do. Unless…”

He paused, then added with cool precision: ”Unless you’re suggesting that after so many soul-splittings, Voldemort has simply lost his mind?”

”That may be part of it, but not the whole of it.”

Dumbledore raised a hand and slowly pushed his half-moon spectacles up the bridge of his nose. The lenses caught the light in scattered fragments. He chose his words carefully.

”If my estimation is correct, on the night Voldemort came to Godric’s Hollow, he was still one Horcrux short of his intended six.”

”Evidence?”

Sherlock leaned forward slightly; his grey eyes gleaming with investigative light as he pressed for an answer at once.

”No evidence. This is conjecture—but my conjectures tend not to be too far from the mark.”

Dumbledore said this with considerable confidence, though he shook his head a moment later, his white beard trembling with the movement.

”I believe he had always reserved particularly significant murders for the creation of his Horcruxes. And Harry…” He paused. ”Harry was naturally such a target.”

Harry said nothing.

Of course he was such a target. The prophecy had named him the obstacle to Voldemort’s conquest of the world. His death would have been of the utmost importance.

Dumbledore continued,

”…He believed that killing Harry would eliminate the danger foretold by the prophecy. He believed that, with Harry gone, he would be invincible. And so, I believe he intended to use Harry’s death to create his final Horcrux.”

”Invincible…”

Sherlock gave a cold laugh. The corner of his mouth curled into a scornful arc.

”A reign built on force and domination will always be toppled by a greater force. Only the way of virtue and benevolence endures.”

”I am glad we share the same view, Sherlock.”

A gleam of approval passed through Dumbledore’s eyes, replaced almost immediately by a resignation. He looked long and steadily at both Sherlock and Harry, then shook his head with a touch of melancholy.

”Regrettably, Voldemort does not agree.”

”And so he failed,” Sherlock said, his gaze fixed on Dumbledore.

”Yes. He failed.”

Dumbledore said it plainly.

”He was defeated by the greatest force in this world—love. That defeat held for over a decade, and by the time he sought to kill Harry again, the opportunity had passed. In those circumstances, he needed another murder for his final Horcrux.

And so he thought of the great snake. In his mind, she bore a resemblance to the basilisk of the Chamber of Secrets—she could emphasize his Slytherin lineage, add to the mystique of the ’Dark Lord.’ I believe… she may be one of his most prized possessions. He undoubtedly enjoys keeping her close, and seems to exercise an extraordinary dominance over her. Even among Parselmouths, that is exceedingly rare.”

Dumbledore’s voice settled into the quiet of the study. Beyond the window, the breeze stirred the curtains and brought with it a faint chill.

Both Sherlock and Harry fell into thought, brows furrowed, eyes tracing the patterns of light on the floor. Dumbledore did not press them. He sat with his hands folded on the desk, watching them with patient, gentle expectation.

After a moment, Sherlock was the first to surface.

”Based on the available facts, that possibility should certainly not be excluded.”

Encouraged by Sherlock’s agreement, Harry gathered himself and tried to piece his thoughts together:

”So, the current situation is this: the diary is destroyed, the ring is destroyed. The cup, the locket, and the snake remain. That leaves one more Horcrux—something of Ravenclaw’s—because you said the only known relic of Gryffindor is already here.”

He spoke haltingly, glancing toward Gryffindor’s sword where it rested beside the Sorting Hat, his tone uncertain yet earnest.

”Very good, Harry,” Dumbledore said with a warm nod, a smile touching his eyes. ”A concise and accurate summary. Yes, precisely.”

The office fell quiet again. Only the soft sound of Fawkes preening his feathers broke the silence. The portraits of former headmasters on the walls had all turned their gazes, in unison, upon the three figures below.

After a moment, Dumbledore spoke.

”Let us leave it here for today. I called you both here for these two matters. Harry, I hope you will apply yourself seriously to Occlumency—it will be of the utmost importance for what lies ahead. And there is one more thing.”

He paused, his tone growing grave.

”I am now formally extending an invitation, on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix, for you both to join our ranks.”

”I thought the Order only admitted adult wizards?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. A faint, amused curve settled at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back slightly, arms folded.

”By the standards of the wizarding world, Harry and I are still two years from being of age.”

”Mrs. Weasley raised the very same objection—and was still firmly opposed to the idea the last time we parted ways.”

Dumbledore shook his head with a small smile, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes softening with it.

Then his expression changed. It grew serious, and something heavy gathered in his gaze.

”I must say, Sherlock—it is you and Harry who changed my mind, through these past four years. Your second year in particular: had you not pointed out my tendency toward overprotecting Harry, I might still be swayed by Mrs. Weasley’s arguments. But now…”

His eyes became suddenly vivid, as if two flames had been kindled behind the half-moon lenses—a sharpness that the glass could not quite contain.

”Whether you, Sherlock Holmes, the Lion of Gryffindor—or Harry Potter, the Savior of the wizarding world—you are each extraordinary in your own right. The day we destroy all of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, he will die—truly die. But do not forget: however, shattered his soul, his mind and his power remain intact. Even without Horcruxes, bringing down a wizard of Voldemort’s caliber demands abilities beyond the ordinary. And you both…”

He paused, his gaze moving between the two faces before him.

”…happen to possess precisely those abilities.”

Sherlock smiled and said nothing. His eyes held the quiet certainty of a man who already knows—one word short of saying so aloud.

Harry, however, felt something lurch in his chest. The words were out before he could stop them: ”No. I don’t.”

”Yes, you do.”

Dumbledore leaned forward, his gaze burning and steady, his voice firm with conviction.

”You possess a power Voldemort has never had—you have love. Think of everything you have endured. That is truly extraordinary. You are simply too young yet to understand how remarkable you are. Do you remember Professor Trelawney’s prophecy? The power the Dark Lord knows not—it is love.”

Harry was silent.

His eyes dropped. His lashes cast small shadows against his cheeks.

He knew, of course, that love was something immense. It was his mother’s love that had made him the only person in history to survive Voldemort’s Killing Curse. And that love had sheltered him from that night until this very day.

Love, without limit.

Yet that love weighed on him, too—so heavily that there were moments when he could barely look at it head-on. As if he carried an invisible mountain on his shoulders.

”Love is what protected you, put simply.”

Dumbledore’s voice was gentle but full of force.

”It is the one protection that can resist the temptation of power such as Voldemort’s. You have passed through so many temptations, so much suffering, and you remain as pure of heart as the day you arrived here at eleven years old—when you looked into the mirror that shows the deepest desire of one’s heart, and saw only reunion with your family.

No immortality. No wealth. No power. Harry, do you understand how few people would see what you saw in that mirror? Even then, Voldemort should have understood what he was dealing with. But he didn’t.”

”He does now,” Sherlock said quietly.

”Yes, he does—but even so, I don’t believe he truly understands why, Sherlock.”

Dumbledore let out a soft sigh.

”He has been so consumed with the destruction of his own soul that he has never had occasion to learn what incomparable power a pure and whole soul possesses.”

He straightened slightly in his chair and looked between them.

”So—to my invitation, your answer is—”

”Accepted.”

”Accepted.”

Two voices, in perfect unison. Clear and unwavering.

Dumbledore’s face broke into a smile of quiet satisfaction, the lines around his eyes finally, fully eased.

”Then go and enjoy the feast tonight. Even in difficult times, we must not lose our capacity for joy.”

Sherlock and Harry rose, said their farewells to Dumbledore, and turned to leave the headmaster’s office. The torches in the corridor cast warm light around them, stretching their shadows long across the stone floor.

On the walk back to the Great Hall, Harry did not speak.

He walked with his head bowed, nudging a pebble along the flagstones, his brow slightly furrowed—as though working through something just out of reach.

After some time spent in silence, he finally made up his mind and lifted his head.

”Sherlock, do you think I should talk to Snape about—Sherlock?”

He turned, and found he was alone.

Sherlock was gone—vanished, without a sound, without a word.

The corridor stretched on empty around Harry, the torchlight dancing over the walls.

Again.

Harry startled first, then let the surprise dissolve into something more familiar—a resigned shake of the head, a wry smile.

He’d long since stopped expecting anything else. Sherlock disappeared like this far too often for it to be remarkable.

Ah well. Better head to the Great Hall.

Harry set off down the corridor. As he walked, he had to admit that, each time Sherlock vanished without explanation, there had always—always—been a good reason. And he always came back, eventually, and explained himself.

Something else nagged at the back of Harry’s mind, though. Something he’d almost decided, just before they stepped into the headmaster’s office…

Whatever it was, it could wait.

In the headmaster’s office, behind him.

”You again?”

Dumbledore had been standing with his hands clasped behind his back, in conversation with one of the portraits on the wall. He turned at the sound of footsteps, and found Sherlock standing in the doorway.

One white eyebrow rose in unmistakable surprise.

”The final Horcrux.”

Sherlock stepped into the office and drew the door shut behind him. He came straight to the point.

”That is why I’ve come back.”

”Nagini? Is there something troubling about the snake?”

Dumbledore settled back into his chair, gestured for Sherlock to sit, and regarded the boy with puzzlement.

”Not Nagini.”

Sherlock did not sit. He walked to the desk and stopped there; his sharp grey eyes fixed on Dumbledore without flinching.

He spoke each word with thoughtful weight.

”The true final Horcrux—is Harry Potter.”

Dumbledore’s expression froze.

Astonishment broke across his face like a wave. He sat upright with a jolt, both hands pressing instinctively flat against the desk. His half-moon spectacles slipped to the end of his nose, exposing his eyes—those deep, blue eyes—wide and stripped of their usual composure. Utterly disbelieving.

Sherlock had surprised him before. Many times, across many years. But never like this.

He stared at the boy before him as if truly seeing him for the first time.

The office was perfectly still.

The portraits, which had resumed their whispering after Sherlock and Harry’s departure, now stared down at the two figures in curious silence. Only Fawkes moved, ruffling his feathers on his perch, the faint rustle of quills the only sound in the suffocating quiet.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly and sank back into his chair, his fingers lacing beneath his chin. Behind the lenses, his eyes grew deep and intent, studying Sherlock with the focus of a man trying to see all the way through him.

Sherlock held his gaze without retreating—grey eyes meeting blue, both as searching as the other.

At last, Dumbledore reached up and pushed his spectacles back into place.

”You are not wrong, Sherlock,” he said, in a tone laced with disbelief he could not quite suppress. ”Harry is indeed the seventh Horcrux. But… how do you know? I myself only recently—”

”It was, in truth, quite simple.”

Sherlock sat down at last.

”The clues,” he said, ”were in front of us all along.”

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