HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

This public-opinion storm orchestrated single-handedly by Mycroft, with Rita Skeeter delivering a heartfelt performance did, just as the Holmes brothers had anticipated, successfully draw Mrs. Holmes’s ire.

Not long after, three letters arrived—elaborately worded, full of concern, packed with gossipy questions addressed respectively to Sherlock, Hermione, and Luna. Following that, a letter with a playful, breezy tone arrived for Sherlock.

Gemma stated quite bluntly that Rita Skeeter’s article hadn’t written nearly enough about her and Sherlock.

The two of them were, after all, far more intimate than that.

Sherlock didn’t deny this. But he had no intention of volunteering an explanation either.

Though people like Umbridge raised some discordant voices, it didn’t amount to much.

In the end, this whole affair became a rare bit of comic relief for the fifth-years, caught as they were under the pressure of their O.W.L.s.

It was noisy, showy, attention-grabbing. But at its core, it really was just a gust of wind passing through—impressive in appearance, yet unable to shake the foundations of Hogwarts.

Especially where Sherlock and Luna were concerned.

This particular gust had no effect on them at all.

As for Hermione, though, the unsettled feeling this whole episode stirred up had, in a way, transformed into a deeper anxiety and a source of motivation. Mostly anxiety about the current situation, and motivation to keep searching for clues.

She’d suddenly developed a sense that time was running out.

That she and her companions’ time was being wasted for nothing.

While everyone else was busy discussing pointless gossip, real darkness was quietly growing.

This anxiety drove her to bury herself even more madly in the library’s stacks of old records.

She gave up nearly all her rest time, weaving through the dusty shelves like a tireless Niffler.

Beyond having to keep up with her O.W.L.s, she made full use of every spare moment to plow through obscure tomes chronicling Hogwarts’s secret history, ancient magical artifacts, and even legends of dark magic.

Several days passed this way, and faint shadows appeared beneath her eyes — but her brown eyes burned with something close to obsession. As the saying goes, effort is never wasted on the diligent.

In this state, the clue, like a treasure buried by fate, finally flickered into view for the know-it-all.

It was a lonely sort of sky, and the rain falling had a touch of sorrow to it.

Hermione was curled up at an out-of-the-way table near the edge of the Restricted Section, a tome thick enough to double as a shield spread open before her: Hogwarts: A History (Rare Historical Supplement Edition).

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had a feeling that the clue she wanted was very likely somewhere in this book.

So, once it had been borrowed by someone else and returned, she’d simply claimed it and refused to give it up since.

Hermione’s slender fingers carefully turned another page—brittle, yellowed parchment, its edges somewhat worn.

Suddenly, her hand stopped moving.

Even her breath seemed to freeze in that instant.

Her fingertip had landed on a passage written in elegant script:

”As for Lady Rowena Ravenclaw, this founder renowned for her wisdom and learning, her most treasured possession was said to be none other than a diadem, legendary for granting its wearer surpassing intelligence.

It is said the diadem was forged by her own hand, set with the purest sapphires, its light said to illuminate the fog obscuring one’s thoughts.

Yet the gifted are ever plagued by fate, or perhaps fortune simply plays its cruel games.

In her later years, Lady Ravenclaw fell gravely ill, and the diadem mysteriously vanished after her death.

This object became foremost among Hogwarts’s lost treasures, and remains Ravenclaw House’s eternal regret and unsolved mystery…”

After reading this passage through three times in full, Hermione’s heart began pounding wildly, nearly bursting through her chest.

It was as if a current of electricity had shot through her entire body, and she very nearly leapt out of her chair.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

That was it!

This was it!

The diadem!

Ravenclaw’s diadem!

Almost in an instant, Hermione felt as though Sherlock’s soul had possessed her, her mind suddenly racing at high speed.

According to Sherlock and Dumbledore’s analysis, Voldemort had made six Horcruxes in total. They were:

Tom Riddle’s diary, already destroyed by Sherlock.

The ring of Marvolo Gaunt, destroyed by Dumbledore.

Slytherin’s relic—the locket—destroyed by Harry.

Hufflepuff’s relic—the cup—still unaccounted for.

The blood-cursed monster that had always stayed at Voldemort’s side—the snake, Nagini.

And the unknown Ravenclaw relic.

Now Hermione could say with near certainty that this unknown Ravenclaw relic was clearly the diadem said to bestow wisdom.

Clearly, Voldemort must have found some way, unknown to others, to locate this long-vanished diadem and turn it into one of his Horcruxes. But the question was by what means had Voldemort managed to track down a relic that had been missing for centuries?

Once she’d confirmed there was nothing more to be found in the book, she ran off to ask Professor Flitwick about it.

Professor Flitwick did indeed know of Ravenclaw’s diadem as a treasure.

The trouble was, it had gone missing after Rowena Ravenclaw’s death.

Over the centuries, no small number of people had searched for it, but not a single clue had ever turned up.

So, in theory, it should still be considered ”missing.”

That was only to be expected, given that this had all happened centuries ago.

Thinking it over carefully, of the four Hogwarts founders’ relics, only Gryffindor’s sword had ever remained at Hogwarts.

Hufflepuff’s cup and Slytherin’s locket had both been out in the world all along.

Had it not been for their hunt for the Horcruxes, they might never have even known what relics these two founders of Hogwarts had left behind.

But the problem now was—if even the well-read Professor Flitwick had no idea where the diadem was, how could Voldemort possibly have found it? Or, put another way, had she gotten her reasoning wrong somewhere?

Was the final Horcrux perhaps not the diadem after all?

No, it had to be!

A powerful magical object, rich in historical significance, belonging to one of Hogwarts’s founders.

To Voldemort, Ravenclaw’s diadem was every bit as ideal a Horcrux vessel as Slytherin’s locket or Hufflepuff’s cup—there simply couldn’t be anything more perfect!

If she herself had been able to dig up this information, there was no reason he wouldn’t have known of it.

And once he knew of it, there was no way he’d have passed it up!

Just imagine—if she were Voldemort, where would she even begin to look?

As she pondered this, a thought suddenly struck Hermione.

An idea she’d never considered before came bursting into her mind.

The ghost!

Ravenclaw’s ghost!

As everyone knew, every House had its own resident ghost.

Because they’d existed for so long, they had a deep understanding and knowledge of their respective Houses.

The instant this occurred to her, Hermione couldn’t sit still any longer!

So, she hurriedly bid Professor Flitwick goodbye and dashed off.

If this had been Harry, he might have gone to ask Nearly Headless Nick first about who Ravenclaw’s ghost was.

But Hermione didn’t need to.

She knew perfectly well that Ravenclaw’s ghost was the Grey Lady.

She was a slender, long-haired young woman in ghostly form, whom Hermione had encountered several times in the corridors, though she’d never once exchanged a greeting with her.

Hermione’s impression was that this was a ghost who didn’t much care for talking, and carried herself with something of a haughty air.

Thinking about this now, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a quiet regret.

If only she’d known—she should have made a point of talking with her from time to time.

But there was no use crying over spilled milk now.

Finding the Grey Lady, however, was no easy task.

Hermione ran through every corridor and empty classroom near Ravenclaw Tower, even the secluded passages close to the Astronomy Tower.

It took nearly an hour before she finally caught sight of that familiar, pearl-white, half-transparent figure—outside a storage room, one nobody ever passed by, piled with discarded desks and chairs.

The Grey Lady was gazing mournfully out at the grey, drizzling sky, her form looking even more ethereal in the dim light.

”Grey Lady!”

Hermione ran over, out of breath, doing her best to keep her voice calm and respectful: ”Please wait! Grey Lady!”

The ghost turned slowly, her face carrying a faint trace of displeasure at being disturbed, along with a deep sense of distance.

She truly was extraordinarily beautiful. Hair reaching her waist, robes trailing to the floor.

And yet, at the same time, she came across as quite proud, looking down on everyone around her.

At this moment, she regarded Hermione with much the same condescending gaze.

”You’re not a Ravenclaw student.”

Her voice came like a sigh, cold and distant: ”I’m not accustomed to being disturbed.”

Hermione took a deep breath, forcing down the excitement in her chest, and got straight to the point:

”Grey Lady, I need your help. I need you to tell me what you know about Ravenclaw’s diadem.”

The moment the word ”diadem” left Hermione’s mouth, the Grey Lady’s body stiffened.

Her already-pale face seemed to grow even more transparent, and something wildly complicated flashed through her hollow eyes for an instant:

Shock, pain, and—a deep, guarded wariness.

”Ravenclaw’s diadem… heh.” She began to turn to leave. ”I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

”Wait! Please wait a moment!”

Hermione stepped forward urgently, trying to stop her:

”This matters a great deal! It concerns Hogwarts’s very safety!”

”You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you? Let me tell you honestly—you’re not the first student to covet the diadem—”

She said this with disdain, a smile spreading across her face that was three parts mockery, part cold indifference, and part sheer indifference:

”Generation after generation of students have pestered me, wanting to obtain it, hoping to become wiser, more renowned—”

”No, that’s not why I want it at all!”

Hermione hadn’t actually meant to raise her voice at the Grey Lady.

But the matter of the Horcrux was far too important, and having finally glimpsed a shred of hope, she couldn’t help losing her composure a little.

The moment the words left her mouth, though, she caught herself, glanced quickly around, and lowered her voice: ”I’m doing this to defeat Voldemort. Don’t tell me you don’t care about that either?”

The Grey Lady froze. ”You—you actually—”

Clearly, she was startled that Hermione had dared to speak that name aloud.

”Of course I dare. If nothing else, I think this alone proves I’m not afraid of him!”

Hermione seized the opening firmly and pressed on: ”Grey Lady, I need your help!”

This time, the Grey Lady was finally no longer as composed as before.

Being a ghost, she couldn’t blush, of course.

Still, Hermione noticed that her translucent cheeks seemed to grow a little less transparent, and there was a trace of agitation in her voice as she spoke:

”Though the diadem does grant wisdom,” she said, choosing each word deliberately, ”I doubt it would help you defeat that man who calls himself the Dark Lord.”

”I think you’ve misunderstood me, Grey Lady,” Hermione said, keeping her voice as sincere as she could manage. ”I’m not looking for it to wear it myself!”

The information about the Horcrux was far too important to reveal carelessly.

The Grey Lady remained impassive, still drifting gently in the air, looking down at Hermione.

Hermione met her gaze, full of hope.

But after several seconds, the Grey Lady still shook her head: ”I’m sorry. As I said, I don’t know anything about it.”

With that, she gave Hermione no further chance—her body slipped straight through the wall beside her and vanished without a trace.

Leaving only a chill in the air behind.

Hermione stood there in a daze, the excitement and hope from moments ago snuffed out as if doused with a basin of ice water.

A deep sense of helplessness and defeat came over her.

She buried her head in her hands and slowly sank down.

The joy of learning the Horcrux’s likely location had been utterly shattered in that instant by the Grey Lady’s refusal.

In that moment, the pressure of the O.W.L.s, the aggravation from Rita Skeeter, the anxiety of the Horcrux hunt stalling out—all these emotions tangled together, nearly crushing her.

She needed help.

”Here I was thinking of helping him, and it turns out I still can’t manage this on my own after all.”

Hermione shook her head, somewhat helplessly, and slowly got to her feet.

She knew perfectly well that she alone had no way of getting an answer out of the Grey Lady.

What she needed now was someone who could see through a ghost’s defences, or find the answer by some other means.

She stood up abruptly, her eyes hardening with resolve once more.

Without bothering to straighten her dishevelled hair and robes, she took off running again.

A name surfaced almost instinctively in her exhausted, jumbled mind.

Sherlock Holmes.

Finding Sherlock turned out to be far easier than finding the Grey Lady had been.

Hermione pulled Sherlock aside and, in one breath, recounted everything she’d done that day, start to finish:

”Sherlock, maybe the Grey Lady really doesn’t know anything about the diadem.”

”Oh?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ”What makes you think that?”

”I was thinking about it on my way to find you—if she really knew something, surely she would have told Professor Dumbledore or Professor Flitwick long ago, wouldn’t she?”

”Thank you very much for your help, Hermione.”

Sherlock paused thoughtfully for a moment, then said:

”Leave the rest to me.”

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