The portraits of former headmasters lining the walls of Dumbledore's office glowed with a soft, warm light—each one snoring away as usual.
Fawkes tilted his head and regarded Sherlock and Harry with an expression of curiosity.
Behind his oak desk, Dumbledore sat with his fingers tracing slow, absent circles across the silk of his robe. His gaze was calm as it settled on the two boys before him.
He knew what was at stake. This conversation concerned Harry's safety and the entire campaign against Voldemort. Every word had to be chosen with care.
He began to lay out his reasoning.
"The truth is, Voldemort experiences intense emotions far more often than one might think. To say nothing of the moment he reclaimed his body—that surge of violent, almost feral euphoria. A man like that does not simply remain unmoved in such a moment. His behavior that night made it abundantly clear."
He paused, his gaze shifting to Harry, his tone growing more thoughtful.
Looking at this child who had carried the burden of being the Chosen One since infancy, Dumbledore felt a deep, quiet ache—and a sharper anxiety about the danger the scar's secret might bring.
"And yet, at that precise moment, Harry's scar gave no reaction. Taking that alongside the two occasions when it did cause him severe pain, I now lean toward this interpretation: for Harry's scar to hurt, two conditions must be met simultaneously. The first—that he is in close physical proximity to Voldemort—has been confirmed more than once."
Dumbledore leaned slightly forward, his half-moon spectacles catching the light as his gaze fixed on Harry with intensity.
"The second condition, however—beyond Voldemort experiencing a powerful surge of emotion—is this: Harry's mind must be in a state of complete and total relaxation."
Harry frowned, his fingers drifting without thinking to the scar at his forehead, still working to follow the logic of what Dumbledore had said.
Sherlock, by contrast, was already there.
"Like during a dream," he said, "or nodding off in class?"
Harry: ━━∑(￣□￣*|||━━ Mate. Did you have to say it quite like that?
Dumbledore, to Harry's considerable embarrassment, did not seem troubled in the slightest. He gave an approving nod, his long white beard swaying gently with the motion.
Sherlock's mind was always like that—quick, precise, cutting straight to the heart of a problem. It brought Dumbledore no small measure of relief to know this particular young man stood at Harry's side.
"Precisely," he said. "Which is why we require Occlumency."
Sherlock immediately identified the gap in Dumbledore's statement.
He raised an eyebrow and looked at the headmaster. "What you're really saying is—rather than worrying about the pain Harry's scar causes him, you're more concerned that Voldemort may use this mental connection to manipulate Harry?"
"What? You—what are you saying?"
Harry's head snapped up. His eyes went wide, his expression one of pure disbelief.
"How could Voldemort possibly manipulate me? I'm not Quirrell. I haven't been possessed by him—"
Sherlock's words had conjured an image Harry hadn't asked for—Lockhart, under Voldemort's control, his eyes vacant and wrong. Harry's voice faltered slightly, and his hands balled into fists at his sides.
"'Manipulate' isn't quite the right word."
Sherlock held Harry's gaze for a moment, then looked back at him steadily, his voice flat.
"By now, you have twice seen Voldemort's whereabouts through dreams, and felt his emotions through your scar. He doesn't yet know that this connection runs both ways—but for a man who has mastered Legilimency to the degree that he has, realizing it is only a matter of time. The moment he gives it any real thought; he will understand that the connection can be reversed."
"Reversed?" Harry's frown deepened. "What do you mean, reversed?"
"I mean that he could use this same connection to perceive you—to sense what you're doing when your emotions run high, or even to glimpse your thoughts."
The words hit Harry like a thunderclap.
He went completely still. His mouth fell open. The blood drained from his face.
Voldemort could see me.Could know what I was thinking.
His heart hammered in his chest, and a sweat broke across his back. If that were true—if that were actually true—their search for the Horcruxes could be exposed at any moment.
"Yes, my dear Harry. What you're thinking now is precisely what I mean."
Sherlock continued, his tone slow, almost clinical.
"Under those circumstances, Voldemort could easily become aware that we already know about the Horcruxes—and that we're hunting them. If I were in his position, I could fabricate a false location within my own mind. The moment you sensed it through your connection and we set off to investigate, we'd walk straight into whatever trap he had prepared and waiting."
He let Harry sit with that for a moment before adding:
"I believe this is also part of the reason Professor Dumbledore suggested we share the knowledge of the Horcruxes with more people—so that when we go searching, we have more reliable people at our side. In that sense, the Horcruxes and Occlumency are, in fact, the same problem."
Dumbledore looked at Sherlock with admiration, his expression warm with something close to pride.
The boy had laid out, with perfect clarity, almost exactly what Dumbledore had been thinking—and said it more plainly than Dumbledore himself might have managed.
In that moment, Dumbledore felt a wave of quiet, profound relief.
Sherlock was only fifteen. And yet the steadiness of his mind, the sharpness of his perception—it had already exceeded every expectation. Dumbledore allowed himself to imagine, just briefly, a world without him. The thought was uncomfortable. Without this boy, it was entirely possible that someone on their side would already have come to grief.
And this was only the beginning. The road ahead was dark, and there would be more losses to bear.
He pushed the thought aside and came directly to the point.
"Harry, I have found you an excellent teacher. Starting this holiday, you will begin learning Occlumency under his instruction."
"What?"
Harry's head came up so fast he nearly startled himself. His mouth fell open.
"Sir—won't you be teaching me?"
He had simply assumed—a skill this important, surely Dumbledore would teach it himself.
"I'm afraid I cannot, Harry. For reasons I cannot fully explain."
Dumbledore gave a small, tired sigh and tugged absently at the end of his beard, a trace of genuine apology in his voice.
"But I give you my word: the teacher I have chosen is more accomplished in Occlumency than I am. Study under him seriously, and you will master it quickly. You performed a Patronus Charm in your third year—a feat of extraordinary magic. Occlumency will be no obstacle to you. Not if you apply yourself."
Sherlock had already caught the faint undercurrent in Dumbledore's tone. He assembled the available information in an instant.
"The teacher is Severus Snape?"
"Correct." Dumbledore inclined his head.
Harry's eyes went wider still, as though the word had physically struck him.
Snape.He wanted me to learn from Snape.
From the professor who picked apart his every effort in Potions with contempt? The Head of Slytherin who never missed an opportunity to cut him down with sarcasm?
Dumbledore watched Harry's expression with something between patience and resignation.
"Professor Snape is a formidable Occlumens—skilled enough to deceive Voldemort himself, a man who has honed Legilimency to its very limits. There is no one more qualified to teach you. I know you have your reservations about him, Harry. I ask you to set them aside, and give Professor Snape your full attention."
It's not a reservation, exactly…
Harry kept that thought to himself.
He was quiet for a moment, his thumbnail pressing into his palm. Snape's cold stare flashed through his mind—and then, against his will, the image of Snape stepping forward when it mattered, putting himself between Harry and danger without ever being asked.
He knew the history now. He understood why Snape looked at him the way he did, and why he protected him anyway. But understanding it didn't make facing the man any easier.
If it were Dumbledore teaching him, or Professor Lupin, he wouldn't be struggling like this.
At last, he gave a slow, careful nod. "I understand."
Dumbledore smiled—a warm, relieved thing—the lines around his eyes deepening as he moved on.
"Now—let us speak of the Horcruxes. On the night in question, Voldemort spoke of how generously fate had treated him. And yet…"
"All the gifts of fate," Sherlock said quietly, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth, "have already been priced in the dark."
Dumbledore: "…"
The observation was perfectly apt—and yet it left his carefully prepared segue dangling in mid-air rather awkwardly.
He cleared his throat with a measured dignity and pressed on.
"As I was saying—fate has not been entirely unkind to us, either…"
Harry, catching the slightly strained pivot, nearly choked trying to keep the laughter off his face. He dropped his gaze and made a show of smoothing his robes.
"…I believe—that is to say, I am fairly confident—that I may be close to locating another Horcrux. I have found what appear to be traces of it."
There was a note of uncertainty in Dumbledore's voice, but beneath it, something steadier—conviction.
Harry's amusement vanished at once. He sat up sharply, leaning forward.
"Which one, sir? Hufflepuff's cup? Slytherin's locket? Or—have you found a lead on an entirely new one?"
"The locket," Dumbledore said. His gaze moved to Sherlock, quiet and sincere. "When the time comes, I may well need your help again."
He remembered all too clearly how close he had come to disaster—how nearly he had reached for Marvolo Gaunt's ring, helpless against the pull of it. He would not make the same mistake twice. When they went after the locket, he wanted Sherlock beside him.
"Of course." Sherlock answered without hesitation.
The readiness of it made Harry suddenly anxious. He shifted forward in his seat, hope plain on his face.
"Sir—could I come with you this time?"
Dumbledore studied Harry for a long, unhurried moment. Those deep blue eyes, steady behind their half-moon frames, seemed to take in far more than the surface of the question.
At last, he said: "I think so."
"I—I can?"
Harry's expression broke into something startled and bright. He had asked on a whim, half-expecting to be refused, and the unexpected answer sent a rush of warmth through his chest.
"Oh yes," Dumbledore said pleasantly—then let a small beat pass. "Though there is one condition."
The brightness dimmed slightly. Harry steadied himself and ventured: "You mean—I have to learn Occlumency before I can come?"
"No, no—'learn' would be setting the bar rather high." Dumbledore shook his head, his tone gentle. "You simply need to show real progress. That will be enough for me."
"…All right." Harry nodded, though not without some effort.
It wasn't a question of confidence, exactly. It was more the prospect of Severus Snape as his instructor that sat uneasily in his stomach.
He understood the history now—understood why Snape looked at him the way he did, and why he still showed up when it counted. Knowing the reasons didn't make the man any easier to face.
Lupin would have been different. Dumbledore would have been different.
"Believe in yourself, Harry." Dumbledore's voice was patient and warm. "Occlumency is difficult, yes—but its difficulty is largely a matter of neglect. So, few wizards have ever sought to study it seriously. That sets it apart from the Patronus Charm, which is simply—and straightforwardly—one of the hardest spells there is. You mastered that. Occlumency will not defeat you, not if you put your mind to it and keep going."
"I know, sir."
Harry pulled in a long breath. The steadiness came back into his eyes.
Dumbledore had said it. That was enough. He owed it to all of them—and to himself—not to falter. The Horcruxes were his fight as much as anyone's. He wasn't about to leave that weight entirely on Sherlock and Dumbledore's shoulders. If there was something he could do, he would do it properly.
"Very good. Now—the next topic. And the last."
Dumbledore's expression shifted. A small smile touched the corners of his mouth, and his tone took on a particular gravity.
"Beyond the locket, I believe I also know what Voldemort's final Horcrux may be."
Sherlock's brow creased—just slightly. He held his tongue.
Harry could barely contain himself. He leaned half out of his chair, his voice pulled tight with urgency:
"Sir—what is it? Is it Hufflepuff's cup? Slytherin's locket? Or have you found the trail of a new one altogether?"
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