"Thank you, Sherlock. Severus." Dumbledore folded his hands before him, his eyes behind the half-moon spectacles full of sincerity. His voice was softer now, and the warmth reached even the creases at the corners of his eyes.
"With this, Voldemort has only four Horcruxes left. If we can destroy them as we have today, then even if Voldemort returns, the foundation of his power will be gone."
Snape's gaze lingered on Sherlock for two seconds. The emotions moving through his black eyes were difficult to read, a asure of grudging respect, and beneath it, sothing more wary.
Then, slowly, he reached up and drew back the left sleeve of his robes.
On his pale forearm, the Dark Mark stood out dark green, undeniable.
"Over the past year, the Mark has been growing clearer," he said, his voice was low with gravity. "Karkaroff's, too. I believe Sherlock is right. The Dark Lord's power is steadily returning. Karkaroff's fear stems from knowing what awaits him, he betrayed too many of his fellow Death Eaters. There is no welco waiting for him among them."
"Which ans we need to move faster," Sherlock picked up imdiately. "Once he recovers his full strength, we will no longer be able to act without interference. And there is another consideration, he may well notice that his Horcruxes are being destroyed."
"I already have leads on the remaining ones." Dumbledore looked at him steadily. "You have my word, I will co to you the mont I do."
"And to ," Snape said, his voice cold though his eyes were fixed on Dumbledore, and there was a warning in them. "A functioning brain is a fine thing. Pity you seem to lack one."
Dumbledore found himself, once again, with nothing to say.
Fairly earned, he thought to himself.
With the destruction of Marvolo Gaunt's ring, Sherlock had, in a sense, formally acknowledged Snape's position to Snape himself.
A forr Death Eater, reford now a double agent embedded beside Voldemort himself.
A fifteen-year-old boy who, through cold-headed reasoning and acute observation, had made himself one of the central forces working against the Dark Lord.
In particular, it was Sherlock's act today stopping Dumbledore, saving his life that made it impossible for Snape to go on deliberately avoiding him as he once had. He knew, deep down, that Sherlock had in all likelihood already pieced together his past. The boy's powers of observation and deduction were essentially indistinguishable from Legilincy.
No, more frightening than Legilincy. Against Voldemort himself, Snape could use Occluncy to block the intrusion. But against Sherlock, Occluncy was completely useless.
He could not fathom how the Muggle world had produced soone like this.
He was still turning the thought over when Sherlock spoke:
"Don't worry, Professor Snape. There are certain things I won't be telling Harry."
Snape stiffened.
He shot Sherlock one sharp, fierce look and then, without a word, turned and swept from the room.
"Sherlock, you didn't need to poke at him again like that…"
"Isn't that exactly what you've been doing all along?"
Sherlock glanced back at Dumbledore, a faint glint of amusent in his grey eyes. The single sentence left Dumbledore at a complete loss for words.
"…Let see you ho, then," Dumbledore said at last, abandoning the topic entirely. He looked at Sherlock, and sothing apologetic ca into his voice. "Consider it a small gesture of contrition for today."
Sherlock had no reason to refuse.
They reappeared on Keeper's Row. Dumbledore smiled warmly as he turned to Sherlock.
"Happy holidays, Sherlock. Please pass my regards to your parents and your brother."
He moved to leave.
"Wait a mont, sir," Sherlock called after him.
"Sothing else?"
"Do you truly not intend to tell what happened back there? Why you nearly lost yourself to the ring?"
Dumbledore stopped.
He'd thought that was behind them.
"I'm sorry…"
"You promised Harry and not long ago that you were done keeping things from us."
"Sherlock…" Dumbledore looked at him, and when he spoke again his voice was gentle. "This has nothing to do with the Horcruxes, or with Voldemort. It is… a personal matter."
"Do you hear yourself?" Sherlock said and for once, sothing almost like a laugh crossed his face, startled out of him by sheer disbelief. "You were nearly destroyed by a Horcrux. And you're telling it has nothing to do with Horcruxes?"
"That does sound rather absurd, I grant you. But I promise you it's the truth."
"The truth."
"The truth."
They held each other's gaze.
After a few seconds, Sherlock gave a quiet, brief laugh, and looked away.
"All right. I understand."
"Thank you, Sherlock," Dumbledore said with complete sincerity.
Sherlock raised a hand in a dismissive wave and said nothing more. He turned and walked in the direction of his house.
His steps were steady and unhurried. He moved into the deep shadows falling from the houses along the street, and gradually disappeared from sight.
Dumbledore watched until Sherlock's figure was entirely gone around the corner. Only then did the smile fade slowly from his face, replaced by a deep, bone-deep exhaustion and guilt.
He tilted his head back and looked up at the darkening sky. His lips moved, barely forming words so soft only he could hear them:
"I'm sorry, Ariana…"
Then, with a brief, sharp crack, a pale blue shimr of magic folded around him and he was gone.
The empty street held only the quiet sound of a passing breeze.
This was Sherlock's first ti returning ho for the Easter holidays since beginning at Hogwarts and the first ti after spending the winter break at school rather than with his family. The hocoming was, accordingly, enthusiastic.
Mrs. Hols took him by the hand the mont he was through the door and launched into a stream of questions about life at school.
Mr. Hols sat nearby with a newspaper, apparently absorbed in it except that his ears were conspicuously upright.
"Do you really have to compete in that Triwizard Tournant?" Mrs. Hols asked worriedly. "We've been reading the papers. It seems terribly dangerous."
"The dangers look worse from the outside than they are," Sherlock said. "With proper preparation, they're actually quite manageable."
Mrs. Hols was not fully reassured. She tightened her grip on his hand. "But the papers say the reason it was discontinued was because too many people died—"
"And yet it's been reinstated," Sherlock said mildly. "That suggests the safety concerns have been reviewed and addressed."
Mr. Hols lowered the newspaper just enough to reveal his face. "Ahem Sherlock does have a point. He's always had good judgnt about these things. But—" he added, in a tone that brooked no argunt, "if anything feels wrong, you pull out. No hesitation, no worrying about honor or reputation. Understood?"
Mrs. Hols looked at Sherlock, waiting.
"Of course," Sherlock said with an easy smile. In situations like these, he never bothered arguing. The point wasn't what you said it was what you did.
"How is Harry?" Mrs. Hols pressed, accepting this answer with so reluctance. "Poor boy, he's even younger than you. You'll look after him, won't you?"
"He has the courage and the wit to see this through," Sherlock said plainly. "I'll keep an eye on him."
Sowhat reassured about Harry, Mrs. Hols found her attention gravitating quickly to what she evidently considered the more pressing topic.
"How is Hermione? She should co visit, why don't you invite her over?"
Her eyes were bright.
Mr. Hols had finally set the paper down entirely, his expression was alert.
Sherlock: "…"
He suddenly felt they should have stayed on the subject of the Triwizard Tournant a little longer.
Ding-dong.
The bell rang.
"That must be Mycroft," said Mr. Hols, getting up to answer. "He was ant to co for dinner tonight."
Mycroft Hols stood in the doorway impeccably turned out in a three-piece suit, a bottle of wine in one hand, the black umbrella in the other.
"I hope I'm not interrupting a tender family mont," he said, stepping inside. His sharp eyes swept the room in an instant and ca to rest on Sherlock.
His smile was asured. The words were not.
"Hogwarts seems to be feeding you well, dear brother. Or is it the adventures that have filled you out?"
"Your work clearly isn't keeping you busy enough," Sherlock replied coolly, "if you still have ti to ddle in the affairs of the wizarding world." He was, of course, referring to the Fleur Delacour matter.
"Mycroft!" Mrs. Hols had already risen to embrace him before he could answer. "Must you always talk like that? Sherlock ca a long way to be here."
Mycroft accepted the embrace with grace. "Dearest Mother that is my way of showing affection. Newspaper accounts of his activities make for rather more eventful reading than his letters."
He cast a aningful glance toward the copy of The Daily Prophet that Mr. Hols had left on the table.
Since last year, the Hols household had begun subscribing to the wizarding paper. Between the owls that shuttled between Hogwarts and ho, it gave them another ans of keeping track of Sherlock especially now that he had entered the Triwizard Tournant.
"We agreed not to talk about that!" Mrs. Hols said firmly. "We were discussing Hermione, actually oh, never mind, dinner's ready. Let's talk while we eat."
The conversation at the dinner table had a slightly charged quality from the start.
Mrs. Hols got to the point quickly. "Sherlock. You're fifteen. It's perfectly appropriate to start courting soone."
Mr. Hols followed her lead. "I think Hermione would make a wonderful match you knew each other before term even started, and the Grangers are lovely people."
"Personally, I find Gemma a very impressive young woman," Mrs. Hols remarked thoughtfully. "Poised, generous, very pretty."
"Gemma is wonderful, but hasn't she graduated and gone abroad?" said Mr. Hols, who clearly had a prior allegiance to the Grangers. "I say Hermione."
"That's true, you're right Sherlock, I really do think you ought to pursue her. She'd say yes," Mrs. Hols concluded.
"In fact," Mycroft said, swirling his wine glass gently, stepping into the topic for the first ti, "Gemma has returned. She went to Romania after graduating, but she's co back for the Triwizard Tournant."
Sherlock gave Mycroft a cold look.
He was not remotely surprised Mycroft knew. A man who had recruited a Beauxbatons student as an informant would find a detail like that trivially easy to co by.
"Is that true?" Mrs. Hols spun toward Sherlock, excitent igniting her voice imdiately. "Did you know?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, with perfect calm.
"She ca back because of you, I'm certain of it!"
Sherlock shook his head. "No. The first task involved dragons, and she works as a dragon trainer in Romania, so…"
"So what?" Mrs. Hols interrupted without ceremony. "She could have stayed ho and done perfectly well without coming. I think it was absolutely because of you."
Sherlock: "…"
In the face of his mother's magnificent unreasonableness, he had absolutely nothing to offer.
"In any case, Hermione is at school being busy, and Gemma has graduated. She can't be that occupied," Mrs. Hols pressed on. "Have you invited Gemma over yet?"
"That won't be necessary, I think."
"Why ever not?"
"Because she's invited to her family's for Easter," Sherlock said, his voice as composed as ever.
A short silence.
Mrs. Hols let out a small, delighted gasp.
Mr. Hols broke into a grin he no longer even tried to contain.
Mycroft, still nursing his wine, regarded Sherlock with an expression of quiet, undisguised amusent.
"That's wonderful news! That ans her parents want to et you too! Have you set a date? Where are they?"
"We had planned it for today, actually. But it was postponed due to sothing that ca up."
"Postponed?!" Mrs. Hols's voice rose sharply. "Why?"
Mr. Hols, as usual, went straight to the practical. "Postponed to when?"
"Yes, never mind the reason, when?" Mrs. Hols echoed.
"Three days from now," Sherlock said.
"Three days." Mrs. Hols's thoughts moved swiftly; her eyes traveled between her husband and her two sons. "Sherlock, this is a first formal visit to the young lady's family. That is not a small thing. You need to prepare properly!"
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