HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

In fact, the Lockhart that students encountered at Hogwarts—much like the Mad-Eye Moody of the previous year was never quite himself.

Alastor Moody had been a complete impostor: a Death Eater named Barty Crouch Jr., masked under the effects of Polyjuice Potion.

Gilderoy Lockhart while not impersonated by another, had spent the entire school year with his every word and action controlled by Tom Riddle’s diary.

One could only marvel at what a Horcrux truly was—even a mere fragment of memory was enough to make Lockhart perform far beyond his actual abilities, successfully playing the part of a quirky Defense Against the Dark Arts master for an entire school year.

But what the Horcrux had given, the Horcrux had also taken away.

The darkness seduced and eroded; there was no resisting it in the end.

As the months wore on, Lockhart’s will was consumed piece by piece. Once he opened his soul to Voldemort, Voldemort seized full control of his body, opened the Chamber of Secrets, and unleashed the Basilisk.

Had Sherlock not been fast enough, Lockhart’s life might have ended in that chamber forever.

Shaking off the memory, Harry couldn’t help but ask, ”How is he now? Is he still the same as before—you know—all flash and bluster?”

Harry spoke the words while casting about in his mind for the right ones. He couldn’t really be blamed; the moment that name surfaced, a face appeared in his mind’s eye—a grinning face showing all eight teeth, handsome enough, but thoroughly insufferable.

Sirius, draped over an old armchair by the window, gave a cold laugh. The contempt on his face was entirely unconcealed. ”According to Moony, he was completely disoriented when he first came round—couldn’t work out who he was or where he was. But—”

He paused, fingers tapping idly on the armrest, his tone turning cryptic. ”His memory does seem to be coming back. Slowly, but coming back. He’s already sorted out who he is—Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and so on and so forth. All those titles, apparently, he hasn’t forgotten a single one.”

At that, Sirius put on a brief, rather accurate impression of Lockhart’s faintly arrogant drawl—then dropped it just as quickly, the sneer was returning to his face. ”What he doesn’t know is why he ended up this way. And on top of that, he’s physically wrecked. Spent most of his time flat on his back in a hospital bed, right up until now.”

Harry’s brow furrowed at once. His hand moved instinctively to the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.

Before Voldemort’s return, he might not have given a thought to whether Lockhart ever recovered, or to what degree. But things were different now.

Voldemort had reclaimed his body.

And the fact remained: Tom Riddle had briefly inhabited Lockhart’s. Who could say what might have been left behind? With Voldemort’s methods, it was more than plausible that he’d tampered with this vessel that had once carried his soul.

So, in Harry’s view, this was not a small matter. He only hoped Dumbledore already knew. Since the news had come through Sirius, surely, he must.

As if reading Harry’s unease, Sirius let the careless mask drop from his face and said with quiet gravity, ”Don’t worry, Harry. Dumbledore was informed straight away. The old man didn’t say much on the surface, but it’s obvious he’s watching this closely. He visited Lockhart personally at St Mungo’s, and then had a—” Sirius paused, ”—friendly exchange with the Ministry. Not long after, Kingsley was assigned to St Mungo’s as a permanent guard.”

”Kingsley?” Harry’s expression shifted with a flicker of uncertainty. The name rang a distant bell.

”Kingsley Shacklebolt.” Sirius nodded. ”He’s an Auror with the Ministry—and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Fudge, the fool, has no idea about the latter.”

With that key detail established, he continued.

”Things look stable for now. Lockhart hasn’t been left with any life-threatening aftereffects. And don’t forget—St Mungo’s is one of the sites that both the Ministry and the Order have designated for heightened protection.

Those Death Eaters lurking in the shadows would have a hard time slipping in to cause trouble. Besides, they don’t have the strength or the nerve to make an open assault on St Mungo’s in broad daylight—not at this stage, anyway. That night’s battle cost them dearly. Voldemort has no attention to spare for something like this right now.”

With those words, the great weight Harry had been carrying eased at last, and he let out a long, slow breath.

Perhaps not wanting the mood to stay so heavy, Sirius changed course, a note of curiosity creeping into his voice. ”By the way—last time you were here, you said you gave all the Triwizard prize money to those two troublemakers, Fred and George?”

”Not just my share.” Harry sat up straighter, and something close to pride touched his expression. ”When Sherlock heard what I was planning, he gave them his portion too.”

Sirius blinked in surprise. The surprise was genuine. ”What? You both just... handed it over?”

”Neither of us could think of much use for that many Galleons. What we needed—what we needed more than anything right now—was something to laugh about. More laughter than usual—”

As he said it, a warm smile spread across his face. In his mind’s eye he saw the moment again: catching Fred and George mid-packing, pressing the heavy coin-pouch into their hands, watching their jaws drop in sheer disbelief.

Even now, it made him grin.

”You mean those chaotic magical pranks they’re always inventing?” Sirius raised an eyebrow, a note of teasing appeared in his voice.

He actually knew more about this than the Weasley twins’ own parents did—Fred and George had used Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place as a testing ground more than once. Even so, in his estimation, most of their inventions were little more than silly toys meant to annoy people.

”No—this time they’re serious, I could tell.” Harry’s voice was firm. ”I saw their business plan with my own eyes. Their samples, too. And those joke products—no, novelty products. They’re genuinely inventive. I’m certain Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes is going to be a success. All they need right now is start-up capital—and as it happened, Sherlock and I had exactly that kind of money to spare.”

”You two are really something—” Sirius looked at Harry’s face—so like James’s it was almost uncanny and at those green eyes, so unmistakably Lily’s, burning now with conviction. For a moment, words failed him.

Then, slowly, a smile crept onto his face: the kind that held exasperation, understanding, and fond indulgence.

It was Harry’s prize money. He could do as he pleased with it. And a thousand Galleons between the two of them wasn’t exactly a fortune, when it came down to it.

Harry found his thoughts drifting to something else. His brow creased slightly, and there was an edge of cautious hope in his voice. ”Oh—now that Crabbe and Goyle’s fathers have been sent to Azkaban, does that mean they won’t be coming back to Hogwarts this year?”

Malfoy hadn’t bothered him in a long while, but those two thugs who trailed behind him—all brawn and no brain, bullying anyone they thought they could get away with—still set Harry’s teeth on edge.

If he was honest, he found them even more grating than Malfoy himself. So, the prospect of a year without them in his field of vision was, without question, a pleasant one.

”They will.” Sirius shook his head with blunt finality, and Harry’s hopes dissolved on the spot. ”Unless they’ve gone completely round the twist and decide to drop out on their own, Hogwarts will take them back. The school has no grounds to refuse.”

Harry stared. It didn’t quite add up.

Draco Malfoy had continued at Hogwarts because Lucius Malfoy had slipped free of any reckoning after Voldemort’s first fall—widely suspected, but never proven. In the Ministry’s own words, he was a member of a very old family who had made generous donations to important causes.

But this time, Crabbe and Goyle’s fathers were behind bars in Azkaban. And their sons were supposed to just waltz back to school as if nothing had happened?

Was that... really how things worked?

”Because the Ministry has no rule barring the children of Death Eaters from attending school,” said Sirius, settling back against his chair, a dry edge to his tone. ”And Dumbledore and McGonagall have always insisted on strict prohibitions against discrimination based on blood status or family background. That principle cuts both ways—it protects students of Muggle parentage, yes, but it also protects the children of criminals.”

”But—”

Harry started to say something more, when a voice floated up from downstairs.

”Harry! Telephone—it’s for you!”

”Coming, Aunt Petunia!”

He was on his feet in an instant, voice light and quick. ”It must be Cho—we’re almost at the time we agreed on!”

Sirius watched Harry disappear down the stairs at a near-sprint and shook his head slowly, murmuring under his breath, ”That boy—”

Well. Like father, like son.

Except the son had already come a good deal further along than the father had at the same age. At fifteen, James had still been firmly in the phase where Lily couldn’t stand the sight of him.

Harry had already made a date with Cho Chang—and on top of that, had a perfectly devoted admirer in young Ginny Weasley. Not bad at all.

About five minutes later, Harry came bounding back into the bedroom, his eyes bright.

Sirius took one look at him and smirked. ”So? When’s the rendezvous with the girlfriend?”

”She’s—she’s not my girlfriend!” Harry went red and waved his hand in protest, then scratched the back of his head, sheepish. ”We arranged to meet on the thirty-first of July.”

”The thirty-first?” Sirius’s eyebrow climbed. ”Isn’t that your birthday?”

”Yes—Cho said her father and her Auntie are planning to have a little celebration for me at their place.”

At that, the smile on Harry’s face became too wide for his face to contain.

He was still deep in happy anticipation of that last day in July when something unexpected cut across his waiting.

”Go where? St Mungo’s? St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries?”

The day before his birthday, when Sherlock rang, Harry had been in high spirits—Sherlock so rarely called first. But the moment those words came down the line, the warmth drained out of him.

His heart dropped. Cold dread swept through him in a wave.

”Is it—is someone we know? Has something happened?”

He heard the shake in his own voice and couldn’t stop it. And in his mind, unbidden, came the images he dreaded most: Ron, Hermione, Cho—or any of his other friends lying in a hospital bed, a white sheet pulled over them.

”More precisely—something that already happened has resolved itself. Mm—and it is someone we know.”

Sherlock’s voice carried through the receiver, calm and measured, and Harry felt the knot in his chest loosen, just slightly.

Good. Alive was what mattered. That was something to be grateful for, even in the worst of it.

”So who’s recovered?”

”Lockhart. Gilderoy Lockhart.”

”…What?”

Harry’s mind went entirely blank.

This was nothing like what he’d imagined. He’d braced himself for news of a friend pulled back from the edge—instead, Sherlock had said that name.

He was still struggling to make sense of it when he found himself sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Sherlock and Hermione in the Underground carriage, the wheels drumming their steady rhythm against the rails—clatter-clatter, clatter-clatter—as the train rolled toward the city center.

So why, exactly, were they going to visit Lockhart?

There were few other passengers. Harry seized the moment, turning to Sherlock beside him, and asked carefully, ”Why are we going to see Lockhart?”

”I rather expected you to ask the moment we met,” said Sherlock, glancing over from the window with a faint, knowing smile. ”Dear Harry.”

”I—well, I rather expected you to just tell me—”

Harry felt slightly embarrassed.

Sherlock let out a quiet laugh. ”Fair enough. That one’s on me.” He looked at Harry steadily. ”The truth is, we’re going for Remus’s sake.”

”Professor Lupin?”

Harry’s eyes went wide. He looked instinctively at Hermione—and found her face entirely unsurprised. She’d known, clearly.

Still, he couldn’t piece it together. What possible connection did Professor Lupin have to Lockhart?

The only link he could think of was that Lockhart had been Professor Lupin’s predecessor.

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