HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

The boat cleaved through the mirror-black lake and delivered the three of them to the island at its heart. The sound of the hull scraping against smooth rock rang out with startling clarity, as though it had broken a silence that had held unbroken for years.

The water lapped gently at the island’s edge, cold and faintly luminous, throwing back three blurred reflections. The bodies lying still beneath the surface seemed to go on watching from the dark, and the air was thick with a damp, bone-deep chill.

”Mind you don’t touch the water.”

As Sherlock and Harry stepped off the boat one after the other, Dumbledore issued the warning again, his tone was grave.

Not that Harry needed telling. The mere thought of what was floating in that water was enough to make him shrink from the very edge.

Once all three stood on the island, Sherlock fell into his habitual habit at once—scanning his surroundings, cataloguing the environment.

The island was not large; roughly the size of the headmaster’s office. The ground was smooth black rock, cool underfoot, without a weed or loose stone anywhere. At the centre sat a flat black stone slab. The slab was bare except for a single object at its very middle: the source of the green glow they had followed across the lake.

Up close, the light was considerably brighter than it had appeared from the far shore.

It came from a stone basin something like a Pensieve set on a plinth carved with patterns. A thin layer of dust had settled on the plinth. No one had been here in a very long time.

The basin was filled to the brim with a vivid emerald liquid, its surface shimmering with a cold phosphorescent light—like will-o’-the-wisps over a graveyard, yet carrying a strange, unsettling pull.

Sherlock regarded the basin, and the faint trace of a smile crossed his face.

Harry drew a sharp breath, his eyes locked on the green liquid. ”Is—is this really—”

”Something more troubling than blood or corpses,” said Dumbledore, his voice arriving at exactly the right moment.

Harry’s alarm spiked when he noticed, to his horror, that Dumbledore was rolling back his sleeve as he spoke. The moment his fingertips reached toward the surface of the liquid, Harry cried out: ”Sir—no, don’t touch it—!”

”Easy.”

Sherlock’s hand came down firmly on Harry’s shoulder before he could lurch forward.

”Watch. You’ll see he can’t actually reach it.”

”What?”

Harry froze. He looked at Dumbledore’s hand.

Sure enough, it had stopped less than half an inch from the surface, as though an invisible wall had intercepted it. It could not advance a fraction further.

”Sherlock is right.” Dumbledore withdrew his hand with a mild smile. ”You see? My hand won’t go any further. Try for yourselves.”

Sherlock had already deduced as much from watching Dumbledore, but he stepped up to the basin anyway, extended his hand, and pressed toward the liquid.

He felt the barrier clearly at his fingertips—solid, with a slight spring, but utterly impenetrable.

An air wall.

”As I expected,” he said, withdrawing his hand without surprise.

Harry tried after him, with the same result, and looked up in bafflement. ”What’s going on?”

”I’ll need you both to step back for a moment,” said Dumbledore.

Sherlock moved aside immediately, without a word. Harry followed.

Dumbledore began his attempts. He raised his wand, tracing a long series of complex arcs above the green liquid, his lips moving in silence.

Watching him, Harry was oddly reminded of Professor Lockhart—though he was perfectly aware that the gap between Dumbledore’s abilities and Lockhart’s theatrical nonsense was essentially infinite. Still, the elaborate, showy gestures bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Lockhart’s classroom performances.

What surprised Harry more was that the results bore a resemblance too.

A great deal of impressive motion; very little to show for it.

To be fair, something did happen—the green glow brightened slightly. But when Dumbledore lowered his wand and reached for the liquid again, the invisible barrier was exactly where it had been. His fingertips still could not get through.

This was awkward.

Dumbledore pulled his hand back and turned to Sherlock. ”Sherlock—your thoughts?”

Sherlock nodded and moved back to the basin.

This time he looked with extraordinary care, leaning close enough that his face nearly touched the surface; Harry could see his reflection gazing back from the flat green liquid.

After a moment, Sherlock produced his usual magnifying glass from his pocket and worked it carefully across every inch—the liquid, the rim of the basin, even the carvings on the plinth.

Neither Harry nor Dumbledore spoke. They waited in silence.

Dumbledore’s gaze rested on Sherlock’s face with an expression of quiet appreciation. Harry gripped his hands together; equal parts tense and hopeful.

Sherlock did not keep them waiting long. After perhaps five minutes, he straightened and pocketed the glass.

”Sherlock—what do you make of it?”

”Green liquid, properties unknown, no direct contact possible, cannot be separated or removed, conventional magic ineffective—” Sherlock reeled off his findings at speed, each point precise and spare.

Then he looked up at Dumbledore with certainty in his voice. ”Am I correct, sir?”

”Entirely, Sherlock.”

”When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Harry’s eyes lit up the moment he heard those words.

When Sherlock said that, it meant he had found the answer.

”There is only one solution,” Sherlock continued. ”Drink all of this liquid, and you will be able to reach whatever the basin is concealing.”

”What?” Harry’s jaw dropped. ”Drink—drink it?”

He could hardly believe what he was hearing. That liquid, writhing with its ghostly phosphorescence—it looked like the deadliest poison imaginable. Drinking it would be suicide.

Dumbledore, by contrast, had gone thoughtful.

”Drink it—yes,” said Sherlock. He caught Harry’s expression and permitted himself a small smile. ”My friend, there’s no need to look quite so appalled. I trust my own deductions. And verification is simple enough—sir, could you give me something to hold water?”

”No!” Harry cut in before Dumbledore could answer. ”What if it kills you?”

Sherlock laughed outright—a genuine, surprised laugh. ”My dear Harry, you still don’t know Voldemort well enough. He would never be willing to kill someone who reached this island outright. At least not so quickly.”

”What?”

To Harry’s ears this was pure fantasy. Voldemort—the man who killed without hesitation—showing restraint?

He spun to look at Dumbledore, hoping for a contradiction.

But Dumbledore nodded. ”Sherlock is right.”

Harry felt as though his brain had momentarily stopped working.

”Forgive me, Harry—I think what Sherlock means is that Voldemort would not wish to kill immediately anyone who made it to this island,” Dumbledore explained patiently.

”He would want them to survive long enough for him to learn how they broke through his defences. More importantly—to learn why they were so desperate to empty this basin. You must remember: Voldemort believed, absolutely, that no one in the world but himself knew of the Horcruxes.”

Harry was about to speak again—something along the lines of even if it doesn’t kill you, nothing good can come of drinking it—but Dumbledore stopped him before he could get the words out.

Dumbledore looked toward Sherlock with steady eyes. ”Sherlock—if you’ve already reasoned this far, you must know what the liquid will do to whoever drinks it.”

”Obviously,” said Sherlock. ”Some variety of mental interference—nothing more. Either an inability to concentrate; or a surfacing of the drinker’s worst memories; or simply an erasure of the purpose that brought them here. In any case, the sole aim is the same: to prevent whoever drinks it from finishing the basin and reaching the Horcrux.”

”Exactly what I thought.” Dumbledore drew a long breath—the breath of a man composing himself.

He looked at the two of them, and when he spoke again his voice was solemn. ”Then I am going to need your help. You must ensure I keep drinking, no matter what. Whatever I say, whatever I do—you must not let me stop. Especially you, Sherlock.”

As if anticipating that Harry would be the one to waver, Dumbledore addressed that point directly. ”If it comes to it, you are to force the potion into my mouth yourself.”

Silence.

A long silence.

Harry stared at Dumbledore.

That’s what I’m here for?

To stand beside Sherlock and make Dumbledore swallow a potion that might subject him to unbearable suffering?

It was absurd.

Dumbledore read his shock and his hesitation and decided to lay it out plainly. ”Do you remember what I said before I brought you here?”

”You said to follow your instructions—” Harry’s voice came out dry.

He remembered perfectly. Following the instruction was completely another matter.

”Yes.” Dumbledore raised his wand, gave it a single turn in the air, and a tall crystal goblet appeared in his hand.

He was not particularly worried about Sherlock—that boy was, if anything, more clear-headed than himself, and would understand precisely what was required.

So, Dumbledore smiled, with an air of finality. ”Watch what I can do.”

”But—but why can’t I drink it, sir?”

Dumbledore’s expression softened at once.

”Harry,” he said, with genuine care, ”you are very brave. But the truth is, I am a great deal older than you, and I have borne a great deal more suffering. And besides—my value in this—”

He paused, seemingly reluctant to finish the thought.

He never did.

His elbow went suddenly numb. The crystal goblet flew from his hand.

By the time he had processed what had happened, the goblet was already in Sherlock’s hand.

You absolute—Summoning Charm.

Sherlock gave him no time to recover. In the same motion, he plunged the goblet into the basin.

The air wall had vanished. The goblet sank smoothly into the liquid and came up brimming, the phosphorescence dancing against the crystal.

”Stop—!”

Dumbledore was fast—genuinely fast.

But Sherlock was Sherlock.

In the same instant that Dumbledore’s wand began to glow, Sherlock lifted the goblet, tilted his head back, and drank it in one unbroken motion.

When he finished, he turned the goblet upside down, mouth facing the floor.

Not a drop remained.

”Sherlock—you—”

Dumbledore was dumbfounded.

He had not thought this possible. He had never underestimated Sherlock—but his appreciation for the boy had always been for his mind.

It had simply never occurred to him that Sherlock’s reflexes were this quick, or that his timing could be this precise—that all of it could be completed before Dumbledore had even registered what was happening.

He could find excuses, of course. He had been focused entirely on the Horcrux; he had not anticipated an ally acting against him. Sherlock had—evidently—put points into speed as well as intelligence. And the boy had shown no respect for his elders, attacking a man of over a hundred years without the slightest warning, and he simply hadn’t had time to dodge—

But no number of excuses changed the fact: he had failed to keep hold of a single small goblet, and a fifteen-year-old had taken the drink out of his hands.

In some respects, it was not far off losing one’s wand.

”You have exactly the same look on your face that Professor Snape had—the time I took his wand.”

Dumbledore stared.

The boy had actually done that? Taken Severus’s wand?

How had Severus never mentioned it?

Though, on reflection—Severus was not Dumbledore. Dumbledore might have recounted such a story on himself with amusement. Severus, on the other hand, would sooner have applied pressure to ensure the incident was never spoken of again.

Looking at Dumbledore’s complicated expression, Sherlock set down the goblet and let his gaze travel over the liquid remaining in the basin. His faint smile had not moved. ”As I expected—the level hasn’t refilled. That confirms our hypothesis. Only by drinking it all will we be able to reach the Horcrux.”

”Sherlock—why did you do that?” Dumbledore’s eyes were a tangle of emotions: shock, concern, and something beneath those two—a faint and barely visible regret. ”I already explained—I—”

”You are indeed a great deal older than us,” Sherlock said, cutting him off, a thread of amusement in his voice. ”A great deal wiser, however, remains to be debated.”

Dumbledore: …

You can read more than 40 chapters on:

patreon.com/MikeyMuse