HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

The silence that fell over the hospital ward after Takesi Sung proposed taking Lockhart away lasted a full three seconds before Lupin finally surfaced from his stupor.

”Sung—Mr. Sung,” he managed, ”might I ask what you intend to do with Professor Lockhart, if you were to bring him back to your sect?”

He genuinely could not fathom why this healer would take any interest in Lockhart.

”Vivisection?”

[AN: Vivisection= Cut open and study]

The murmur came from Hermione, standing beside Sherlock, half under her breath.

One could hardly blame her for the thought. Takesi Sung had just remarked that a talent like Lockhart’s was somewhat wasted here—and now he was proposing to take the man away. The leap wasn’t entirely unreasonable. Such things appeared often enough in fiction and film.

Her voice was soft, but no one present was ordinary, and every ear caught it clearly.

”Ahem—”

Takesi Sung had just raised his cup when the blunt remark made him splutter into a cough.

He set the cup down and looked at Hermione with a helpless, half-amused expression. ”Little miss, that’s rather an extreme leap. We healers follow the natural order of things—we have no customs that run contrary to humanity.”

”You want Professor Lockhart to serve as an assistant of your clinic.”

It was Sherlock who spoke, cutting in.

In raw divergent thinking, Sherlock was if anything stronger than Hermione—only his gift lay in reading through surface to substance, in pulling fact from detail.

From the wistfulness Takesi Sung had shown when speaking of Lockhart’s gift: recruitment made far more sense than research.

Takesi turned to Mrs. Chang. ”if you are willing to agree to let me take Lockhart back to the clinic, the compensation we discussed earlier need not be paid.”

”That…”

Mrs. Chang’s expression flickered with hesitation. She glanced instinctively toward Dumbledore.

Given the situation, it was ultimately Dumbledore’s opinion that mattered where Lockhart was concerned.

Dumbledore let his gentle smile fade and fell into quiet thought. Out of long habit, he began to weigh what this might mean for Lockhart.

A chance at a new beginning—or an unknown risk?

”Are you perhaps concerned that the man’s family might object?”

Takesi Sung read the hesitation in Dumbledore’s face and smiled. ”If he has family, they are welcome to come as well. I give my word: their life within the clinic would be more peaceful and comfortable than anything they have here. We do not treat our staff and guests poorly.”

”He has no living relatives.”

Dumbledore shook his head softly.

A small, surprised silence passed over the room.

Dumbledore’s smile turned faintly rueful; his voice dropped with grief. ”Gilderoy’s parents both passed away from illness not long after he graduated. He has two older sisters, but they are Muggles—they have always feared the magical world.

For reasons of their own, neither wishes to have anything to do with it, and neither has shown any concern for Lockhart’s situation. Since he fell into his coma more than two years ago, not a single visitor has come to Hogwarts to see him. Only the medical staff come and go on their rounds, and the occasional professor stopping by to check on his condition.”

He paused, his gaze drifted to the stack of letters piled beside the bed. ”He does, however, continue to receive correspondence from admirers—including one Mrs. Gladys Gudgeon, who writes to him without fail every single week.”

”Well then.” Takesi Sung brought his palms together. ”He is as alone in the world as a man can be. It is all the more reason to let me take him where his gifts can be put to use.”

”Perhaps…” Dumbledore considered a moment longer, his eyes resting on Lockhart’s pale face. ”We should wait until he wakes, and ask the man himself.”

”Agreed.”

Takesi Sung gave a single nod, his expression settled into calm.

While they waited for Lockhart to stir, the mood in the ward gradually eased.

The sunlight shifted, shortening the shadows in the corners, and the weight on every face lightened by degrees. After all, things now looked hopeful: so long as they could locate the old Armenian wizard, a cure seemed well within reach.

”I want to thank you.”

Lupin looked at Sherlock, Harry, Hermione, and Cho Chang, his voice catching slightly, eyes reddening at the rims. He pressed his hands into fists at his sides. These students had gone to extraordinary lengths to keep him at Hogwarts—had taxed themselves to their limits, had even sought out an foreign wizard’s help.

When Dumbledore had told him that morning that foreign specialist wizards had come to visit, Lupin had been struck speechless for a lng moment.

”Professor, what are you saying!” Hermione arranged her face into a reproachful look, though her eyes were laughing. ”Any student would want to keep a teacher this good from leaving!”

Sherlock nodded. ”By every measure, your staying at Hogwarts is the best outcome.”

Cho Chang added with a smile, ”It wasn’t until last term’s duelling lessons that we understood what Defence Against the Dark Arts is truly supposed to look like.”

Harry said nothing. He simply looked at Lupin.

And Lupin understood everything.

”Thank you—thank you all—”

While that warmth passed between them, Dumbledore turned to Takesi Sung with a question that had been sitting with him. ”Mr. Sung—I’m curious to know your thoughts on Voldemort’s return.”

Takesi Sung, mid-sip, set his cup down at the sound of that name. He smiled. ”I have heard something of this matter. What I wonder is—how does this wizard called Voldemort compare in power to Headmaster Dumbledore, or to Grindelwald, who made such an impression on Europe in his time?”

At the mention of Grindelwald, Dumbledore’s body went very slightly rigid.

Something passed through his eyes—something old and complicated as though an echo from a great distance had found him. He recovered quickly, exhaled quietly, and answered with careful deliberation: ”In terms of raw power alone, neither Grindelwald nor I could match him.”

”Formidable indeed.”

He glanced around at the grave faces in the room, and his expression shifted to something faintly quizzical. ”That said—judging from the last wizarding war, Voldemort’s influence would appear to have had its limits. It does not quite seem to have been the kind of crisis that required outside assistance, does it?”

A trace of embarrassment crossed Dumbledore’s face. His fingers moved unconsciously to his beard.

In fact, the Order had never stopped fighting—but Voldemort’s power had been overwhelming. He had assembled vast alliances across races and species; through sheer violence, he had plunged the entire magical world into panic and forced the Ministry itself into a defensive retreat.

At the height of his power, Voldemort had stood a single step away from absolute control over the wizarding world.

Were it not for The Boy who Lived—Harry Potter, the child from the prophecy—the wizarding world, and perhaps the Muggle world beside it, might have fallen under his reign of terror.

And now, more than a decade later, Voldemort had returned.

The first prophecy spoke of one who ” either must die at the hand of the other.” But Dumbledore could not afford to gamble. He could not be certain it would not be Harry who died at Voldemort’s hand.

So, the task before them was to bend every effort toward the other outcome—toward the version of events in which Voldemort fell.

At that moment, a faint sound came from the bed.

Lockhart’s fingers moved. His eyelids trembled. Slowly, they opened.

”Water,” he rasped. ”I want water—”

Dumbledore was quickest to react. A flick of his wand, and the empty glass on the bedside table filled with clear water. Another flick, and it lifted of its own accord, tilting gently to Lockhart’s lips, pouring in small, careful measures.

Lockhart’s throat worked. He drank, coughed, drank again. A little colour crept back into his face.

He blinked, staring at the people gathered around him with bewildered eyes, his voice still hoarse. ”What—what just happened? Why am I here?”

”Gilderoy.” Dumbledore’s expression gave nothing away. Another motion of the wand, and the glass settled back to the table. He looked at Lockhart’s slowly clearing gaze, his tone gentle but deliberate. ”You’ve been asleep. A very long sleep. But right now, there is something that requires your decision.”

Dumbledore fixed Lockhart with a steady look, something resolute glinting in his eyes.

Having heard Takesi Sung’s assurances and his full account of things, Dumbledore had quietly made up his mind. Even if Lockhart refused, he intended to bundle the man off to Takesi Sung regardless.

For Lockhart, this was both an act of restitution—and a second chance at life.

At Dumbledore’s words, the others crowded closer around the bed, watching Lockhart intently, waiting for his answer.

You can read more than 40 chapters on:

patreon.com/MikeyMuse