HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

Witnessing Lockhart’s blustering cowardice, Wei Chang and Dali Chang exchanged a glance, amusement flickering between them.

Cho couldn’t help but duck her head, her shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter.

Dali Chang’s lips curved into a smile she didn’t bother to hide.

Lockhart who had never troubled himself with self-improvement could hardly be expected to understand such things.

”Oh, my apologies.”

Takesi Sung’s expression remained as calm and pleasant as ever. He nodded graciously, then restated: ”What I mean is—when the body or mind falls ill, it must be treated promptly. If one insists on denying there is any illness at all, as Mr. Lockhart is doing, the delay will only allow the condition to worsen.”

”I am not! I don’t! Stop making things up!”

This time, Lockhart understood the meaning perfectly. And precisely because he did, he bristled like a man with a sore spot, craning his neck and denying it even louder than before, his agitation visibly mounting.

Takesi Sung didn’t bother to argue. He simply turned and asked, ”Mr. Dumbledore—is everyone here?”

He had already learned during their earlier exchange that today’s treatment would require several people present. So, when he saw Sherlock and Hermione arrive, he knew the full party had assembled.

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, his silver beard swaying with the motion, his eyes bright with sharp intelligence behind their half-moon lenses. ”Yes, Mr. Sung—everyone is present. You may begin.”

With that confirmation, Takesi nodded to those gathered and, carrying the small box, walked toward the hospital bed.

His pace was slow—and that, somehow, made it worse. Lockhart’s heart hammered with rising dread.

”You—what do you think you’re doing?”

He shrank back instinctively, pressing himself against the pillows at his headboard.

”Don’t come near me!”

”Stay back!”

”Stay back!”

Takesi Sung paid the hysteria no mind. He simply extended his right hand and brought his palm level with Lockhart’s forehead.

In an instant, Lockhart went still. All the noise stopped.

The air between his forehead and Takesi Sung’s palm began to distort. A near-transparent ripple, like a wavering watermark, materialized and spread out in widening rings.

A gentle, lucid light seeped quietly from between Takesi Sung’s fingers and settled over Lockhart’s head like falling snow.

The light gathered and condensed into a translucent pale-blue dome that encased Lockhart’s upper body.

Wei Chang and Dali Chang looked at each other. For Dali Chang, this was familiar territory. Wei Chang, having married into the Chang family, had seen enough similar workings over the years. Neither of them was particularly surprised.

The others were a different matter.

This spell was something wholly new.

”I’m using the Soul-Settling Charm to stabilize the turbulence in his mind,” Takesi Sung said, sensing the attention on him. ”This way, when we search for the true memories buried beneath the altered ones, we won’t cause additional trauma to his mind—and we’ll prevent the existing memory confusion from spiralling further.”

”Soul-Settling Charm?” Sherlock repeated.

”Correct. It is said to soothe the soul. Most suitable for a situation like this.” Takesi Sung gave a slight nod, then lifted his free left hand and pointed to the edge of the dome above Lockhart’s head.

”Look there—the rim is trembling slightly. That means his true memories are being suppressed by the false ones he himself constructed. From what I can see, this fabricated memory barrier is extraordinarily dense and fortified. If you were to rely solely on your normal Legilimency—”

”Sung,” Dali Chang cut in gently, ”it’s the Legilimency.”

”Yes, Legilimency.” Takesi Sung waved a hand as though using the Unforgivable spell was no big deal: ”Legilimency alone would struggle to forcibly extract the true memories from this man’s mind. His false memory defences are simply too formidable.”

A faint note of genuine wonder entered his voice. ”Quite remarkable, honestly—the sheer tenacity of this man’s will.”

He maintained the Soul-Settling Charm with focus, keeping the dome intact, while his eyes narrowed with something approaching unenthusiastic admiration.

”He believes completely in the false memories he has built. He has lived them as though they were real. That level of self-hypnosis is not something the average person is capable of. A man like this with the right guidance and tempering of his character, he might have even become a powerful master of Mind Arts.”

”Uncle Sung,” Cho Chang Chang spoke up earnestly, ”Lockhart was once a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts.” She gave particular weight to the word professor.

”Is that so?” Takesi Sung nodded slowly, a gleam of understanding entering his gaze. ”No wonder his willpower is so fierce. No wonder he guards those false memories so well…”

”Mr. Sung—what do you intend to do now?”

Harry, watching Takesi Sung speak with such confidence, couldn’t stop himself from edging half a step forward. Whether Lupin could keep his post at Hogwarts rested on what Lockhart’s true memories held. He couldn’t help but feel anxious.

”Easy, young one. Don’t be in such a rush.”

Takesi Sung looked at Harry with a mild, reassuring expression. Harry opened his mouth to explain himself, but Takesi Sung raised a hand and turned away, slowly opening the ebony box.

The moment the lid came free, a faint fragrance drifted out.

Everyone leaned in to look. The inside of the box was lined with soft deep-blue velvet, and resting upon it was a small bronze lamp.

The lamp was roughly palm-sized, its surface bearing a warm, mellow coating—the kind, Sherlock noted at once, that comes only from years of handling by human hands.

On the lamp’s base, ancient runes were carved. Cho Chang Chang recognized some individual character, but strung together, they became muddy to her.

Wei Chang and Dali Chang understood immediately. It was a runic inscription for stabilizing emotions.

Beside the lamp lay a hair clip like for baby’s.

”This is my ritual instrument—the Baby Pin,” Takesi Sung said, touching the hairpin briefly by way of introduction.

He then reached into his robes and produced a small bottle, barely larger than a palm. It, too, had the look of something carefully made.

He unscrewed the stopper with care and let the silver liquid inside trickle slowly into the lamp’s oil reservoir.

”This is a preparation made from foe-grass extract blended with moonstone powder. Added to the lamp oil, it draws out the deepest memory fluctuations from within the soul—even faint fragments of true memory can be drawn to the surface by it. It also works in concert with a soul-calming Charm to protect his spirit during the process.”

When he had finished, Takesi Sung raised his right hand, levelled a fingertip at the lamp’s wick, and gave it a single, light tap.

A flame kindled instantly—warm yellow, perfectly still. Not so much as a tremor.

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened. The sight brought something to mind unbidden: in their third year, Professor Lupin calling fire into his hand against the Dementor.

In front of the assembled onlookers, the flame began to change.

First, it shifted from warm yellow to pale blue—blue like the early morning sky.

Then it moved from pale blue to a soft violet, tinged faintly with something otherworldly.

At last, the flame settled into a deep, resonant amber—thick as congealed honey, radiating a quiet, steady glow.

At that precise moment, Takesi Sung snatched up the Baby Pin and, with a subtle flick of his wrist, touched it to Lockhart’s temple.

A flash—

Everyone present had sharp eyes. They all caught the thread of silver light that sparked from the pin’s tip.

”Graphorn hide!” Dali Chang’s eyes lit up. She stared at the filaments of thread wound around the pin’s point, her composure brightening with excitement. ”No wonder Sung was so confident.”

”Auntie Chang—what is Graphorn hide?” Hermione drifted closer to Dali Chang and whispered. Her eyes were filled with curiosity, though she kept her voice low, careful not to disturb Takesi Sung’s concentration.

”Extraordinarily rare,” Dali Chang said, smiling. ”In terms of scarcity, Graphorn hide is roughly comparable to moonstone for Wolfsbane Potion, or sopophorous bean for Felix Felicis. All of them are materials that cannot simply be sought out and obtained—and the crafting process is immensely painstaking. The slightest error destroys everything.”

With that explanation, the picture became clear to everyone. If Graphorn hide sat in the same tier as those ingredients, it truly was something not easily come by.

Takesi Sung seemed to be a potioneer and herbologist.

”It’s about to begin.” Dali Chang lowered her voice further, a note of anticipation threading through it. ”He is about to extract Lockhart’s true memories. Graphorn hide reaches into the depths of the soul—false memories cannot interfere with it.”

Hardly had she finished speaking when the amber flame gave a soft puff, as though exhaling, and burst apart.

In an instant it dissolved into countless tiny sparks—which just as quickly converged and reunited, reforming into a single flame. Only now the color had deepened by several shades.

At the same moment, Lockhart’s whole body convulsed violently. His eyes went blank, glassy and unfocused, his lips parting and closing in slow, unconscious movements.

”Now!”

Takesi Sung drew a long breath and spoke with command: ”Come out!”

The instant the words left his mouth, a faint point of light emerged directly from within the pale-blue dome over Lockhart’s head.

It moved like a butterfly freed from a chrysalis and floated toward the amber-flamed lamp, circling the fire in slow, gentle rotations.

Once the pale blue light had settled into a stable, compact sphere, Takesi Sung turned at once and said, ”Mr. Dumbledore—ask what you need to ask, and quickly. His obsession is too strong; the false memories are already fighting back. I doubt I can hold this for even ten minutes.”

”Quite enough!”

Dumbledore smiled and turned. ”Sherlock—you ask.”

Takesi Sung couldn’t conceal a flicker of surprise. ’So this young man is more than he appears.’

No one else was surprised. In a moment like this, Sherlock was plainly the right choice.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He nodded once and began immediately: ”Lockhart—who actually defeated the werewolf of Volga?”

”Khachaturian.”

The answer came without pause, Lockhart’s voice drifting and faint, yet perfectly clear. Not a moment’s hesitation.

The room stirred.

Harry looked more electrified than Lupin himself.

”Who is Khachaturian?” Only Sherlock held his composure, pressing on without a break.

”An old Armenian wizard.”

”How did he subdue the werewolf?”

”He waited until the werewolf was distracted, then slipped around behind it and cast an Enfeeblement Hex. Its attention was elsewhere. By the time it realized what had happened, it was too late. He rushed it, pinned it down, and used a self-invented Reversion Charm to force the werewolf back into human form.”

”What is the Reversion Charm?”

With that question, every eye in the room locked onto Lockhart.

Even Lupin—gentle and composed usual Lupin—found his hands trembling.

Was it true, then? That I might finally be free of that nightmare?

”It is—it is—”

The answer that would not come hung in the air like something half-remembered and already dissolving. Lockhart stammered, the same syllable looping in on itself, and not a single further word emerged.

Worse still, the focus in his eyes was fading—bleeding away into a deeper blankness than before. Something was clearly wrong.

”Uncle Sung—what’s happening?”

Cho Chang Chang turned to Takesi Sung, her voice was urgent.

Takesi Sung’s brow furrowed. His expression grew grave.

He studied the dome above Lockhart’s head, then glanced at the flame in the bronze lamp. The amber had already begun to pale at its edges.

After a moment, he brought the Baby Pin to Lockhart’s temple once more—a swift, precise tap.

You can read more than 40 chapters on:

patreon.com/MikeyMuse