Compared to the stunned Dumbledore and the portraits of former headmasters lining the walls, Sherlock was remarkably composed.
He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and, under the watchful gaze of the assembled painted faces, began to speak in a slow voice.
"The clues have always been right in front of us. They simply needed to be connected.
"First: Harry speaks Parseltongue.
"We all know this was once Voldemort's singular gift. After Salazar Slytherin himself, it seemed only his descendants could possess such an ability. And yet—we all know Harry is not one of them."
Sherlock paused, then continued.
"Second: Professor Trelawney once used her gift during a Divination lesson to deduce that Harry was born in winter. But everyone knows Harry was born on the last day of July. At the time, some dismissed it as an error on her part. Others concluded she was simply a fraud. But Voldemort—Voldemort was born in winter."
Sherlock's pace was quick but his enunciation precise, his logic clean, each sentence landing with the weight of a verdict.
"Third: what you just mentioned—Nagini. A living creature can be made into a Horcrux, housing a fragment of Voldemort's soul. This means that a living person could, in theory, become a Horcrux. It is the necessary condition that makes Harry's situation possible.
"And finally —"
Sherlock drew a slow breath, and when he spoke again, his eyes had hardened with certainty.
"Professor Slughorn told us that murder is the prerequisite for creating a Horcrux. But murder is merely the mechanism—not the end. That is precisely why even Voldemort himself did not know that the assassination he had so carefully plotted, the one that ultimately failed, had caused him to create an accidental Horcrux.
In the moment Voldemort moved to kill Harry—in the moment Harry's mother stepped between them—the Killing Curse rebounded upon Voldemort himself, turned back by that ancient magic. By your reckoning, Voldemort had already created five Horcruxes at that point, needing only one more to fulfil his design. His soul was already in an extraordinarily unstable state. Whether he was aware of this or not is immaterial—or rather, he may have been aware but simply unconcerned. Compared to immortality, such an inconvenience was negligible.
And so he fulfilled the conditions for creating a Horcrux—murder—entirely without knowing it. His soul fractured once more.
When a Horcrux is made deliberately, the soul naturally adheres to the intended vessel. But this was an accident. Voldemort himself had already fled by the time his soul split. The severed fragment had nowhere to go. Under the circumstances, it could only attach itself to the single living soul remaining in that collapsed house—to Harry. An infant.
After all, the living are far more attractive to a wandering soul than any dead object."
Sherlock's voice rang through the quiet office. Every portrait on the wall was riveted.
"It is precisely because that fragment of Voldemort's soul lodged itself within Harry that Harry came to possess certain of Voldemort's qualities. He has been able to communicate with reptiles since childhood. The Sorting Hat wanted to place him in Slytherin. Even Professor Trelawney, when she read his future, mistook Voldemort's state for Harry's own.
I believe this is because, over the course of Harry's life, that soul fragment has gradually fused with him—to a degree. And that is why Harry can observe Voldemort's thoughts through his scar. The soul is the essence. The scar is merely the outer mark."
Dumbledore stared at Sherlock with something approaching awe, on the verge of bringing his hand down on the desk. He found himself at a loss for words.
But since Sherlock had already arrived at the truth, there was no further reason to conceal it.
"Sherlock," Dumbledore said at last, "your conclusions are entirely consistent with my own."
"There was one more thing. When Harry was in the room just now—when he asked about the final Horcrux—I saw compassion in your expression."
"Yes… that boy has carried far too much."
Dumbledore exhaled, long and slow.
"For a great while, I believed he was living well enough in the Muggle world."
Sherlock let that pass without comment. Dumbledore's definition of living well had never quite aligned with anyone else's.
"So you haven't told him because you believe he cannot bear it?"
"Partly. But the truth is crueler than that. As long as that undiscovered soul fragment remains within Harry, Voldemort cannot truly die."
A silence fell. Then Sherlock's gaze locked onto Dumbledore like a vice.
"Then what you are saying is—to destroy Voldemort completely, Harry must die?"
Several portraits erupted in shock and outrage.
Dumbledore met Sherlock's eyes, his expression perfectly still. "Yes."
"So all these years that you have spent protecting him—it has been to ensure he can walk willingly to his death at the appointed hour?"
"We have protected him because we had to shape him, train him, allow him to hone his abilities," Dumbledore said, each word deliberate.
"As Harry has grown, the connection between him and Voldemort has grown stronger—like a parasitic life."
"And when do you intend to tell him?"
"When the time comes—when Voldemort stops sending the great snake on his errands and instead keeps it at his side, warding it with every protection he can muster… that will be the moment. That will be when I tell Harry."
"Because at that point, Voldemort will have sensed the danger. Or rather—he will believe the snake is his only remaining Horcrux. So, Harry's lifespan has always been determined by how long it takes to destroy the others. Is that correct?"
"That is correct."
"I don't accept it."
Sherlock fixed Dumbledore with a stare, and when he spoke, his voice was clear and absolute.
"If the prerequisite for killing one person is killing another, then the act of killing is itself wrong. I know you—you go to extraordinary lengths to avoid taking a life if it can be avoided at all. Which is why Grindelwald is still breathing."
Dumbledore felt something pierce him.
But Sherlock had not finished.
"The entire foundation of your plan rests upon the sacrifice of an innocent life. How is that different—in any essential way—from Voldemort's own murders, his Horcruxes, his pursuit of immortality at any cost? Dumbledore, you are fighting darkness with darkness."
"Shall I send for Professor Snape?"
Dumbledore's expression shifted. Sherlock pressed on.
"For years he has quietly protected the son of the woman he loved above all others. If he were to discover that all of this—all of it—was leading Harry toward death, what do you imagine he would say? I suspect his words would be something like: 'You've been raising him like a pig for slaughter'—"
The portraits no longer merely gasped. The office dissolved into uproar. Several former headmasters nodded vigorously, shaking their fists in agreement.
Others looked anxiously toward Dumbledore, searching for an explanation. Phineas Nigellus let out a contemptuous snort—he seemed to find Sherlock hopelessly naïve—but in the end, said nothing.
Dumbledore stood in the face of Sherlock's charges, and for just a moment, a flicker of pain crossed his eyes—barely perceptible, but there.
He rose slowly from his chair, crossed to the window, and stood looking out at the still, dark grounds of Hogwarts. Moonlight fell across his silver beard.
"Sherlock…"
His voice was heavy with exhaustion, but resolute.
"I understand your anger. And your moral objections. No one wishes more than I do to see Harry live—to watch him grow, find love, build a life. But Voldemort is something different. His evil has taken root at the very core of his soul, and the fracturing of that soul has only deepened it. As long as the fragment within Harry endures, Voldemort cannot be truly destroyed. You must understand—I have tried other methods. Ancient ones. Forbidden ones. Not one of them could safely sever a soul fragment so intimately fused with another living person's own."
"So you abandoned the search for alternatives. And went straight to choosing a sacrifice."
Sherlock did not yield an inch. He, too, rose to his feet, and in this moment his presence was not one iota less than that of the greatest wizard of the age.
"Necessary sacrifice. What a magnificent phrase. Dumbledore—do you still consider yourself noble? You have spent years teaching Harry to cherish life, to choose love over hatred. And yet your own plan is a contradiction of everything you profess."
The air in the office seemed to solidify. The only sounds were the strained breathing of the portraits and the faint wind beyond the glass.
Dumbledore turned to face him, his gaze deep and searching.
"Do you think I welcome this decision, Sherlock? It is the only path I have been able to see. And I tell you this—if I myself were in Harry's place, I would not hesitate for a moment—"
"I believe you," Sherlock cut in, a cold smile at the corner of his mouth. "But your willingness to die is your own affair. What does it have to do with anyone else?"
"Given what I know of Harry—when the moment truly arrives, I believe he will put everything in order. And when he walks forward to meet his death, it will mean Voldemort's true end. And moreover… Harry still carries the ancient magical protection left by Lily's sacrifice. That protection—at the critical moment, it may yet…"
"May.Protect. I think there's nothing further to discuss. Bring Snape."
"Sherlock, Severus is currently engaged in a mission of the utmost importance—"
"You've sent him back to Voldemort again. As a spy."
Sherlock looked at Dumbledore, his patience worn thin.
"Don't look at me like that. He was absent the entire evening—do you think I couldn't see you had other arrangements?"
He took a breath and forced himself to be still.
"There has to be another way. If Voldemort's soul fragment could attach itself to Harry by accident, then it must be possible—deliberately—to sever or destroy it. What we need is not resignation. What we need is to keep searching.
Dumbledore. Stop your plan. Until you have found a way that does not require Harry's death—stop it."
The silence that followed was long enough for the moonlight to shift a full inch across the office floor.
Dumbledore returned to his chair. He set his folded hands upon his knees, and looked, suddenly, very old.
"Sherlock."
His voice, when it came, was low and rough.
"Your intelligence and your courage never cease to surpass my expectations. Next to you, it is your moral compass that is the true treasure of Hogwarts.
I am sorry. I cannot promise to abandon this entirely. But I can promise you this—I will continue to search for a way that does not require Harry's sacrifice. I will exhaust every resource I possess—every fragment of knowledge, every connection, every means available to me—in pursuit of the answer you are asking for.
Only know this: if Voldemort shows signs of moving to protect Nagini before I find that answer, I will still tell Harry the truth. I will tell him what he is, and what his choice must be. But the final decision will be Harry's alone. Whatever he chooses—I will stand behind him completely."
Sherlock gave a cold, short laugh.
Moral coercion, he thought. That's what this is.
Given Harry's nature, when that moment came, how could he ever refuse?
At that thought, Sherlock abruptly shifted course and raised something else entirely.
"As far as I know, Horcruxes—because of the evil intrinsic to the process of their creation—have the capacity to corrupt the minds of those around them. Is that correct?"
"That is indeed the case," Dumbledore replied, unsurprised that Sherlock knew this.
"As you say, the very act of creating a Horcrux is among the darkest deeds imaginable. Compounded by Voldemort's own influence, the Horcruxes formed from his fragmented soul are more deeply corrupting than most. The most severe instance was Gilderoy Lockhart—he communed with the Horcrux, brought his own soul into contact with the soul fragment within it, and was ultimately possessed and driven to an act he will regret for the rest of his life. Then there was Marvolo Gaunt's ring—I very nearly could not resist the temptation to put it on… But why are you raising this now?"
"I mean to say: Horcruxes amplify the darkness latent in those around them—making people irritable, volatile, emotionally unstable. That is correct?"
"…Yes."
"Then doesn't it follow that the Dursleys, having lived with Harry under the same roof for eleven years, were also affected by the Horcrux?"
"What?"
"During the long terms when Harry is away at school—the Dursleys become markedly more… ordinary."
Dumbledore blinked. "Sherlock…"
"And it isn't only them. There's Hermione. And Ron."
Sherlock continued, undeterred by Dumbledore's baffled expression.
"After all—we have no way of knowing what they might have been like without Harry's influence. Perhaps without it, Hermione would have been sorted into Ravenclaw. Perhaps without it, Ron wouldn't be quite so volatile, so quick to take offense. As for why I was unaffected—that is simply because my mental attic functions as a natural analogue to Occlumency. It seals itself."
Dumbledore: (°ー°〃)
He did not understand why Sherlock had brought this up now. But…
The analysis is sound.
Perhaps Dudley had always been a gentler child at heart, and it was only Harry's presence—the proximity to a living Horcrux—that had warped him into something brutal. The Dursleys, being Muggles, would have had far less natural resistance to a Horcrux's influence than any witch or wizard.
Dumbledore was still turning this over when Sherlock gave a casual shrug.
"Of course—none of this is supported by hard evidence. But none of it changes the fact that he is my closest friend."
Dumbledore finally could not help himself. "Sherlock—what exactly are you trying to say?"
"It is very simple. I will not permit anyone to harm my friend. That includes you.
"Voldemort must be destroyed. Harry must not be sent to his death to accomplish it.
"Professor Dumbledore—I expect you never to stop searching for an answer."
Sherlock held Dumbledore's gaze, and spoke each word as though it were a stone set in place.
"As long as we do not stop walking, the road will keep extending before us."
Dumbledore: (( _ _ ))ゞ
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