The leaving feast at Hogwarts arrived like a yearly promise made at the threshold of midsummer, falling without fail on the evening before summer holiday began.
The torches lining the castle walls had been polished to an unusual brightness; countless candles floating beneath the Great Hall's ceiling cast a warm amber glow over the four House tables below.
Silver cutlery caught the light in scattered flickers, and the air was sweet with the scent of food, mingled with the layered emotions of the graduating students—excited, yet reluctant to let go.
For this night held two ceremonies in one: the announcement of the House Cup, and the graduation rites for the seventh-years.
Before Sherlock and his cohort had ever set foot in Hogwarts, Slytherin had reigned as House Cup champion for seven consecutive years.
Nearly Headless Nick had made sure to mention this very fact when their first year began. But from the moment Sherlock's class arrived, Slytherin's winning streak came to an abrupt end—and in its place, Gryffindor had claimed three championships in a row.
The student who reliably earned the most points for their House, year after year, was Hermione Granger. She had been the top scorer from the day she arrived, and she hadn't relinquished that title since.
Yet even her individual brilliance wasn't enough to carry a House that was perpetually losing points for one infraction or another. Not nearly enough.
And so the true deciding factor in every House Cup race came down, in the end, to the Lion King and the Boy Who Lived.
In their first year, they had protected the Philosopher's Stone and destroyed Quirrell, who had been possessed by Voldemort. In their second, they had uncovered the Chamber of Secrets, rescued Hermione and Professor Lockhart, and slain the Basilisk—earning, as a bonus, the Special Award for Services to the School, just as Tom Riddle had done before them. In their third, Harry had single-handedly led Gryffindor to victory in the Quidditch Cup, while Hermione's steady brilliance did the rest. Three championships, secured.
Now, quietly, they had arrived at their fourth year—and the leaving feast was livelier than ever.
Though the House Cup winner had yet to be formally announced, every student and professor in Hogwarts already knew: Gryffindor had won again.
As the ultimate champion of the Triwizard Tournament, each champion earned a base bonus of a hundred points for their House. That meant Sherlock and Harry together had added two hundred points to Gryffindor's tally, opening up a lead that no other House could hope to close.
Even Hufflepuff—perennial fixture at the bottom of the standings—had clawed their way up to second place, lifted by their own champion's hundred-point contribution.
Not that it mattered much, in the grand scheme of things. In Hogwarts' four-House competition, only first place truly meant anything. Runner-up, third, and last all blurred together in the same shade of irrelevance.
Even so, the mood in the Hall was festive and bright. Gryffindor's triumph had been built on Hogwarts itself winning the Triwizard Tournament—a victory that belonged, in some sense, to the whole school. Even the Slytherins could not begrudge them this one.
Just before the feast officially began, Gemma found Sherlock and Harry.
"Professor Dumbledore wants to see you both in his office."
"Again?" Ron's eyes went wide with instant indignation. "Every single time—Sherlock, Harry, are you two keeping something from us?"
Harry was still trying to figure out how to respond when Sherlock spoke, his tone perfectly untroubled:
"It's only common sense, my friend."
Ron stared at him, momentarily speechless. How did Sherlock manage to sound so supremely unapologetic when he had absolutely no justification?
"Even if he hadn't summoned me," Sherlock added with a small smile, "I had been planning to go see him myself. This just saves me the trouble."
Gemma shook her head and said nothing more.
Hermione, curiosity getting the better of her, turned to ask: "Is it about Occlumency?"
"That's part of it, yes. But only part." Sherlock reached over and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Shall we?"
"Oh—right, yes!" Harry gave a quick nod and fell into step beside him.
Hermione watched the two of them go, then immediately turned to Gemma. "Gemma, do you have any idea why Dumbledore called them in?"
"I don't know the specifics, but I'd imagine it has to do with what happened that night." Gemma sighed—a quiet, weary sound. "After the battle, the Ministry has gone completely silent. But Professor Dumbledore did say he intended to make an announcement at the leaving feast tonight—about You-Know… Vol—Voldemort."
Ron flinched. He had watched it happen in real time: Gemma had started with the familiar reflex of You-Know-Who, then visibly forced herself to switch mid-sentence. Her lips had trembled on the name. Her voice had stumbled over it.
She's making herself say it, Ron thought. Why would anyone do that to themselves?
"Which tells us," Hermione continued, frowning in thought, "that the Ministry either hasn't decided how to go public with any of this yet—or something else has gone wrong, and they and the school still haven't reached an agreement."
Gemma gave a humorless laugh. "You know what, Hermione? At this point, nothing the Ministry does surprises me anymore."
"Same," Hermione said, with the particular flatness of someone who had been surprised too many times. "They keep lowering the bar, and somehow they always manage to limbo right under it."
As a provisional member of the Order of the Phoenix, Gemma had begun taking on more of the day-to-day work, and she had developed an unfortunately thorough understanding of the Ministry's operating style.
"Anyway. If Dumbledore called them in at this particular moment, he must have his reasons. Let's go to the Hall." Hermione paused, then turned to Gemma. "Will you join us?"
"May I?"
"Of course—come sit with me." Hermione smiled and held out her hand, looping her arm through Gemma's with easy warmth.
"Thank you!" Gemma broke into a genuine smile and pulled her arm close. The two of them walked side by side toward the Great Hall.
Ron stood rooted to the spot, gaping at their retreating figures.
When did those two get so close?
"Gemma—you didn't actually give them the password to the headmaster's office," Hermione said as they walked, a sudden thought crossing her mind. "Last time Harry said he almost couldn't get in without it. He'd left Divination to go see the headmaster, and—"
"I'm not sure about Harry's situation," Gemma said simply.
She glanced at Hermione with a faint, knowing smile. "But Sherlock doesn't need a password."
"Why didn't it ask you for the password?"
When Sherlock and Harry arrived at the stone gargoyle outside the headmaster's office, the gargoyle stepped aside without a word and revealed the revolving staircase behind it.
This wasn't Harry's first visit to the office. But it was the first time he'd ever paid any attention to the password. The last time he'd come alone—his scar had flared up during Divination and he'd gone running to Dumbledore—that was when he'd truly understood what a nuisance the password could be.
So, this time, he'd been watching carefully. He'd half-expected Sherlock to deduce the password through sheer intellectual force—that wouldn't have surprised him much.
What he hadn't expected was for the gargoyle—the same one that had refused him entry before, though technically it had only been doing its job—to simply stand aside without asking Sherlock anything at all.
"The headmaster gave instructions," the gargoyle said, its voice deep and gravelly. "If Sherlock Holmes comes by, no password required. Let him through."
"He actually said that?"
Harry blinked. Then, after a moment of deliberation, he made a private and rather bold resolution in the back of his mind.
"Sherlock, Harry—perfect timing."
Dumbledore's face lit up the moment they stepped in, his smile broad and unguarded, the half-moon spectacles catching the warm light as his eyes curved into crescents behind them.
Sherlock's gaze swept the room in an instant. "You've found another lead on the Horcruxes."
Dumbledore's smile deepened. "I knew you'd guess it out."
"Deduce," Sherlock corrected, without missing a beat. "Not guess."
"Very well—deduce." Dumbledore shook his head with an amused tilt, his white beard swaying with the motion. "But that isn't the only reason I asked you both here."
"And you've found a way to address Harry's scar pain," Sherlock continued, before Dumbledore could go on.
"Occlumency?" Harry added immediately.
For the first time, Dumbledore looked genuinely taken aback.
It wasn't the Horcrux deduction that surprised him—he'd expected Sherlock to arrive at that. But this level of precision? They'd anticipated not one reason but two, and Harry himself had named the specific magic involved?
Dumbledore regarded them both, one silver eyebrow lifting. "Where did you hear about Occlumency?"
Sherlock glanced sideways at Harry.
"Hermione found it, sir," Harry said plainly.
"Miss Granger." Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, fingers tapping lightly on his desk, and then something seemed to click. "Come to think of it—she has been making daily trips to the library lately, always returning with towering stacks of books…"
"To be precise," Sherlock said, "she makes daily trips to the library regardless. This is merely an additional occasion."
"Quite true. She really is a remarkable student—Filius has said more than once that she ought to have been sorted into Ravenclaw."
"House tribalism," Sherlock said, with a slight shake of his head. "There's no need to be so rigid about the four Houses' classifications."
"You are entirely right, Sherlock!" Dumbledore laughed—a fuller laugh this time. "Since we're on the subject—as regards the Horcruxes, you may share that information with Hermione and Ron Weasley as well."
Sherlock accepted this with a nod. Harry, however, frowned.
"But sir—didn't you say before that we shouldn't let anyone else know?"
"I did." Dumbledore's smile faded slightly, his voice settling into something more serious. "But circumstances have changed. Voldemort has returned. The darkness he brings is already beginning to reach across the wizarding world, and so we must accelerate our search for the Horcruxes. I have already shared this with those I trust most. You may do the same."
Sherlock said nothing. His gaze had drifted past Dumbledore to the phoenix Fawkes perched behind him, and he seemed to be turning something over in his mind.
Harry absently touched the scar on his forehead. "If we can tell Hermione and Ron… what about anyone else?"
"Anyone you trust enough to tell," Dumbledore said, with a nod. "I believe you both understand where the line is. Some people—you could trust them with your life. With a secret, however, that's a different matter entirely."
Harry nearly laughed out loud. He stopped himself in time. He knew exactly who Dumbledore meant.
"That can wait," Sherlock said, drawing his gaze back from Fawkes. He looked at Dumbledore. "Let's talk about the Horcruxes first. And Occlumency."
"In fact," Dumbledore said, sitting back, "I believe these are one and the same matter."
He paused, glancing at Harry to make sure he was following, then continued: "I expect you both already understand that Voldemort possesses extraordinary skill in Legilimency—the ability to penetrate another person's mind. His mental power is formidable enough that he was able to extract the information he needed from Bertha Jorkins, even after Barty Crouch had modified her memory with an Obliviate. We have now confirmed that the scar on Harry's forehead is no ordinary scar. It functions as a kind of bridge—a link between Harry and Voldemort that runs deeper than either of them may know. Whenever Voldemort draws near, Harry's scar burns."
"And when Voldemort feels something intensely," Harry added, "the scar burns too."
"No." Dumbledore shook his head slowly, and something in his voice took on added gravity. "On that point, I now hold a different view."
Sherlock's expression sharpened with interest. He leaned forward slightly. "Do go on."
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