HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

The late-August sunlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Holmes family sitting room, casting patches of light across the rug, while the air inside carried the cool, minty fragrance of herbal tea.

Mrs. Holmes stood bent over a teacup she was polishing, the smile at the corners of her mouth very nearly spilling over.

With the start of the Hogwarts term just around the corner, her good mood these past several days had spread all the way to her fingertips.

Only a week ago, she’d been feeling rather low—so low, in fact, that she’d forgotten to water her meticulously tended potted plants.

The reason, when she thought about it, was infuriating:

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, had taken her son Sherlock and Harry Potter on an outing—and had somehow managed to come back with Sherlock injured?

Sherlock’s pale face and worn expression had furrowed her brows tight enough to crack walnuts. The look she had thrown on Dumbledore was filled with scepticism.

In Mrs. Holmes’s eyes, the wise gaze that usually peered from behind those half-moon spectacles had seemed, in that moment, completely untrustworthy.

The greatest wizard of the century?

She had serious doubts about the general standard of judgment in the wizarding world.

At that level—unable to keep two half-grown boys safe—how could anyone in good conscience carry such a title?

Still, Dumbledore had offered her and her husband a sincere apology, and the sharp words rising to her lips had been swallowed back down.

And of course, the most important thing was that Sherlock was unharmed.

Had it been otherwise, she would have sat Dumbledore down for a very thorough conversation.

She might ordinarily give the impression of someone gentle and soft-tempered, but when it came to her husband and children, the courage she could summon would have astonished anyone who knew her.

All the same, once they were back in the bedroom, alone, she had unloaded on Mr. Holmes for a solid half-hour.

Mr. Holmes had at first attempted to explain that accidents were inevitable—that even a wizard as great as Dumbledore couldn’t control every outcome—and that so long as all three of them had come home safely, that was what mattered.

But no matter how he reasoned, he found that his wife simply wasn’t listening.

In the end, Mr. Holmes gave up on words and turned to more effective methods of persuasion.

Actions, as it happened, were far more soothing than anything he might have said.

What truly changed Mrs. Holmes’s mind, however, was someone else entirely.

First: Hermione.

When Dumbledore had brought Sherlock home, Hermione had immediately volunteered to go to Diagon Alley in his place, so that he could rest while she handled things with their friends.

That alone said quite a bit about how much she cared.

But Mrs. Holmes, seizing the moment, went one step further: she announced that Hermione needn’t go to Diagon Alley either. She and her husband would take care of it themselves.

In plain terms: she was manufacturing an opportunity for Sherlock and Hermione.

As she saw it, even though Hermione had been staying with them for some time now, the combination of Hermione’s proud reserve and Sherlock’s complete obliviousness in such matters meant the two of them had been making very slow progress. Not no progress, to be fair—just far slower than Mrs. Holmes had hoped.

After considerable thought, she’d concluded that she and her husband were simply getting in the way.

So, she decided to give Hermione a window.

What she hadn’t anticipated was that Hermione would exceed all expectations.

When she and Mr. Holmes returned home overloaded with bags, she pushed open Sherlock’s bedroom door—and immediately burst out laughing at the sight that greeted her.

Not only was Hermione there, but Gemma Farley was also seated in the chair beside the bed, reading aloud passages from the Sunday’s Prophet.

”I told Gemma what happened to Sherlock,” Hermione explained when asked. ”She was worried, so she came to see him as well.”

Mrs. Holmes smiled until her eyes crinkled, hurrying over to take Gemma’s hands in both of hers. ”Oh, Gemma, I’m so glad you came! Sherlock’s been cooped up and restless—having you both here is just what he needed. Why don’t you stay? The guest room is all made up.”

Mr. Holmes stared at his wife in astonishment.

He had to admit: in pursuit of their son’s matrimonial prospects, she had thrown all caution to the wind. She was now recruiting houseguests with quite remarkable self-possession.

Gemma, less at ease than Hermione, declined with a flustered wave of both hands.

But the very next morning, as Mrs. Holmes was just setting a tray of freshly baked scones on the table, the doorbell rang. There was Gemma on the doorstep, a small basket of homemade blueberry pie in hand, smiling sheepishly, a faint blush rising in her cheeks.

From that day on, Gemma’s arrival became a fixture.

The third day. The fourth. The fifth.

Right up to the day before term started, Gemma appeared on schedule, taking her place beside Hermione—one girl on each side of Sherlock.

What delighted Mrs. Holmes even further was that from the third day on, Gemma had also begun bringing Luna Lovegood—that slightly peculiar girl who always wore Butterbeer-cork earrings. Three young women gathered together, their laughter drifting out in bright.

Watching her son surrounded by three clever, charming girls, the atmosphere between them easy and warm, Mrs. Holmes let the last of her grievances against Dumbledore drift clean away.

Clearly, Sherlock’s accident had prompted a decision in these girls who had previously been hesitating. And now her son was not only perfectly safe, but the romantic situation had suddenly become wonderfully lively—this had turned out to be an extraordinary windfall.

It was only at this point that her irritation with Dumbledore fully dissolved.

Not only was her son unscathed; his relationships with three young women had all taken significant steps forward. That was much more like it.

Harry had also visited several times during this period, of course. Grimmauld Place was not far away, and as Sherlock’s closest friend, his coming to check in was entirely natural. Only—each time he pushed open the door to find Sherlock ringed by the three girls, he would scratch his hair awkwardly, exchange a few pleasantries, and quietly make his escape.

The scene really did feel uncomfortably like stumbling into a couples’ gathering as a third wheel, and even Harry himself felt superfluous.

Then, the day before term, Harry came by and didn’t leave straight away.

He settled into the armchair in the corner of the room and, looking at the group of four, said with some tension, ”I have something important to tell you all—I destroyed the locket yesterday.”

”What took so long?” Hermione asked, visibly surprised. ”Shouldn’t a Horcrux be destroyed as soon as it’s obtained?”

”It’s not that simple!” Harry let out a long sigh. ”After Dumbledore brought it back to the school, he found he’d have to open it first in order to destroy it.”

”Then just open it!” said Luna, swinging her legs cheerfully, her carrot earrings bobbing, her voice as guileless and direct as ever.

”There must have been special protections on it,” Gemma pondered, leaning forward and tapping her chin with one finger. ”Perhaps there was a specific unlocking spell on the locket—even Professor Dumbledore needed time to work it out, and only managed it yesterday?”

”Sort of, but not exactly,” Harry said.

His gaze drifted toward Sherlock, who appeared to be miles away in thought—though Harry knew perfectly well that every word was sinking in.

”What do you mean, ’sort of’?” Hermione pressed.

”It’s rather obvious, isn’t it,” Sherlock said quietly. ”Opening it didn’t require any particularly advanced magic. What it required was the correct method of opening—and Harry happens to possess exactly that.”

”I knew nothing could get past you, Sherlock,” Harry said with a grin.

”The correct method?” Hermione echoed.

”Don’t tell me it’s—” Gemma began.

”Parseltongue!” Luna finished.

”Exactly!” Harry wasn’t in the least surprised that the three girls had followed Sherlock’s reasoning. They were all clever—cleverer than him, if he was honest.

He found himself thinking back to that unforgettable moment. When he had hissed open in Parseltongue, both Dumbledore and Snape—standing guard nearby had heard nothing but something resembling a snake’s hiss. Then, with a soft click, the little golden catch on the locket that had refused all other approaches sprang open.

Behind two small panes of glass, a pair of living eyes blinked steadily—dark, bright, and oddly hypnotic.

In that instant, the Horcrux’s powerful influence surged forth, straining to prevent the three of them from destroying it.

But they had come prepared, and none of them faltered.

Dumbledore placed the sword of Gryffindor in Harry’s hands.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Harry drove it down through the locket’s resistance.

Both panes of glass shattered. The bright dark eyes went out.

From inside the locket just like the shredded remains of Riddle’s diary began to curl up in wisps of smoke.

And so another of Voldemort’s Horcruxes was destroyed.

”Including the locket, we’ve now destroyed three Horcruxes!” Harry’s voice jumped higher; his eyes were bright with excitement. ”All that’s left are Hufflepuff’s cup, the Ravenclaw relic, and the snake Nagini! Destroy those, and Voldemort will have nowhere left to run!”

Sherlock didn’t reply. The look he gave Harry grew more complicated.

Because there is still one Horcrux made by accident.

Harry—you are the last one.

The matter of the soul fragment lodged within Harry had already been taken to the Japanese Healer Takesi by Dumbledore. But it was clearly nothing like the specialized resolution of the Lockhart business.

Takesi was a healer and he said such a thing was very rare and not his speciality but he will return to Japan to consult old ancient books and discuss with his colleagues—and would contact Dumbledore again once there was news.

Still, setting that aside, another Horcrux destroyed was undeniably worth celebrating.

”One more thing,” Harry said, after a pause, looking a little sheepish. ”Professor Dumbledore had originally promised me that he’d bring me along to look for Horcruxes once I’d made sufficient progress in Occlumency. But I’d only had one lesson when I went with them.”

”Well, yes—but that’s already done,” Hermione said, puzzled. ”It’s not as though it can be taken back now.”

”That’s just it,” Harry sighed. ”Snape persuaded Dumbledore.”

”Professor Snape persuaded Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione looked even more baffled. ”What is he trying to do?”

”He said—” Harry’s tone was stranger than Hermione’s— ”’Potter, unless your progress meets with my approval, I will not allow you to accompany Albus again.’”

Silence fell over the room.

Hermione and Gemma exchanged a glance.

Luna, meanwhile, was examining the beautiful large glass orb on Sherlock’s bedside table—the galaxy orrery that Sherlock and Hermione had bought together before the start of third year. Since Sherlock had mentioned feeling bored during his recovery, Hermione had brought it over.

After a moment, Gemma spoke. ”Given Professor Snape’s temperament, I think it’s unlikely he’d ever agree to you going out with Professor Dumbledore again—unless you completely mastered Occlumency.”

”Who’s to say otherwise,” Hermione said, glancing at Sherlock. A flash of something glad crossed her expression, gone in an instant. ”Professor Snape saying so is as good as telling you he doesn’t intend to let you go again.”

”He’s protecting Harry,” Sherlock said. ”He doesn’t want Harry taking any more risks.”

”Perhaps. Oh—and,” Harry sighed, ”there’s one more thing.”

”One more thing?” Hermione stared at him. He’d said that several times today.

Harry looked between Sherlock and Hermione, then said slowly, ”Dumbledore told me that along with the book lists this term, prefect badges were also sent out…”

”Obviously, none of us received one,” Sherlock said, with a small shrug—not a trace of regret in his voice. He’d never had any particular interest in being a prefect.

Hermione, by contrast, went still for a moment. Unlike Sherlock, she had rather hoped for it.

”Dear Harry—I suspect you haven’t come all this way simply to remind us that we weren’t made prefects,” Sherlock said.

”Well—no. Actually, Dumbledore said he had considered appointing us.” Us meaning Sherlock, Harry, and Hermione. ”But he also said that since we already carry so much responsibility, he ultimately decided against it.”

”Understandable,” Gemma said, nodding.

Luna tilted her head curiously. ”Harry, who did Dumbledore choose? Was it Ron?”

”No—it’s Neville.”

”Neville?” Hermione repeated.

”Longbottom?” said Gemma.

”Neville Longbottom?” said Luna.

”Yes—honestly, I was surprised as well,” Harry admitted, his expression was still complicated. ”But Dumbledore believes that giving Neville the role will help draw out the courage and potential he’s been keeping hidden.”

”He’s quite right,” Luna said, simply.

”Well—all right then,” Hermione said, and shrugged. ”I suppose that does make sense, in a way. Still—who’s the girl prefect?” She very much wanted to know which girl Dumbledore had put in her place, citing all these weighty responsibilities.

”I asked for you. It’s Parvati—Parvati Patil.”

”Well. At least there’s nothing in the prefect’s authority that lets her force anyone into Divination.”

That drew a laugh from everyone.

The bedroom filled with warmth and bright noise.

When the laughter settled, Harry hesitated—then said, ”There’s, um—one more thing.”

”Harry!” Hermione looked at him, astonished. ”What is going on with you today?”

Harry suddenly looked awkward. ”Well—I wanted to say—I, um—”

”Hesitating and retreating,” Sherlock observed, looking at his younger friend with precision. ”My dear Harry, I believe there is something you’re finding rather difficult to bring yourself to say.”

Gemma studied Harry carefully, then smiled. ”I think our Chosen One may have fallen in love.”

”Really?” Hermione perked up at once.

”I—Cho and I have started… going out,” Harry said, very quietly.

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