Ever since the matter of Lupin's reinstatement had been resolved, time slipped away like sand between fingers—a whole week was gone in the rustle of turning pages and the shortening shadows crossing the courtyard.
Hermione's stay at the Holmes residence stretched on and on.
By that week, Mrs. Holmes had abandoned all subtlety. She came out with it directly: Hermione should simply stay until the start of term.
"It's so convenient here—close to Diagon Alley, and it saves time getting to King's Cross."
The reasoning sounded perfectly sensible.
The motive behind it was another matter.
Mr. Holmes, of course, saw through his wife's intentions. It was nothing more than continued efforts to create opportunities for Sherlock and Hermione. He smiled and raised both hands in enthusiastic agreement.
During this time, the Grangers made a special trip to the Holmes house by car. The moment Mrs. Granger stepped through the door, she took Hermione by the hands and looked her over carefully, checking the colour in her cheeks, then disappeared into the bedroom to inspect whether the wardrobe had been kept tidy.
Mr. Granger, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the sitting room with Hermione's luggage, watching his wife and daughter chatting merrily with Mrs. Holmes. He could only shake his head.
Girls grew up so fast.
She'd only been here a short while, yet she already carried herself like the original family of the house.
Watching his wife and daughter alike, Mr. Granger felt thoroughly helpless.
The week before term, the friends had arranged early to go to Diagon Alley together to stock up on supplies for the new school year.
Watching Hermione sort out both her own things and Sherlock's with such quiet efficiency, Mrs. Holmes couldn't keep the delight from her eyes.
All of this used to fall to her, as his mother.
Now, at last, someone was taking over.
But just as they were looking forward to setting off the following morning, Watson brought Sherlock a new message.
Dumbledore had located another Horcrux.
He was ready to honour his earlier promise—he would take Sherlock and Harry with him to retrieve it.
Not long afterwards, Harry arrived at the Holmes house with Sirius. His eyes were bright with excitement.
"Sherlock, once we destroy this one, there'll only be the last founder's relic and the snake left—isn't that right?"
Harry was beside himself.
So much so that he entirely failed to notice the faint shadow of something like pity in the look Sherlock gave him.
True, the new occult spells had brought hope—a way to separate the fragment of Voldemort's soul that had lodged itself in Harry's body, without costing Harry his life.
But hope was still only hope.
To put it plainly: hope sometimes resembled a candle flame trembling in the wind.
Until it was truly realised, even the sharp-minded Sherlock could not promise with certainty that Harry would be saved.
Whatever happened, the infant in that crib had not only witnessed his parents' murder at Voldemort's hands—he had been forced to carry a sliver of that monster's soul inside himself, living alongside it day and night.
Such a fate was pitiable beyond words.
That was Sherlock's honest feeling in that moment.
As he had said more than once: he almost never lied, except when necessary.
And so, when Harry asked, he did not answer.
Harry, lost in his excitement, noticed nothing, and continued spinning out his vision of what life would look like after every Horcrux had been destroyed.
At the appointed time, the doorbell of the Holmes house rang—its clear note breaking the quiet of the sitting room right on schedule.
"Children, go and open the door—it must be Headmaster Dumbledore!"
Mrs. Holmes had barely finished speaking before Sirius impatiently flicked his wand.
With a click, the door swung open, and Dumbledore appeared on the threshold.
He wore a travelling cloak; his silver beard was neatly groomed. But behind his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes seemed to carry more severity than usual.
He glanced at the wand Sirius had not yet lowered, and spoke with gentle rebuke: "Sirius, I think next time you would do well to open the door the Muggle way. In such everyday moments, magic can sometimes be more trouble than it's worth."
"Yes. I understand," Sirius replied, his voice flat.
He had written as much to Harry himself—that today only Sherlock and Harry would be going. He had already known, before Dumbledore even arrived.
Dumbledore understood perfectly well what he was feeling, but said nothing further.
He gave Mr. and Mrs. Holmes a warm nod of greeting, then turned to Sherlock and Harry. "Are you ready?"
Sherlock said nothing. Harry answered at once: "More than ready, sir!"
"Albus—you really won't take me along?"
Despite already knowing the answer, Sirius couldn't stop himself from asking. Just in case. What if Dumbledore had changed his mind?
"I'm sorry, Sirius."
"You won't even give me a reason?"
"I'm sorry."
"Fine—" Sirius waved a hand, his voice edged with self-deprecation. "Don't bother. I understand."
"Sir—will there be danger today?"
Just as Dumbledore was about to turn and lead Sherlock and Harry away, Hermione leapt up from the sofa and hurried to the doorway, closing the distance in a few quick steps.
Her hands twisted together without her noticing. Her eyes were full of worry.
Living in the Holmes household this long had quietly shifted something in her. Even knowing that Dumbledore was a man Voldemort himself feared, she couldn't keep herself from being afraid.
"Not if they listen to me," Dumbledore said—and as he said it, he glanced meaningfully at Sherlock.
After taking leave of the others, Dumbledore brought the two of them to a deserted spot, just as before, and Disapparated with them on the spot.
The next instant, the familiar dizzy darkness swallowed all three.
By now, even Harry had grown used to the sensation.
As always, before his vision had fully returned, Sherlock's nose had already caught it—the salt-heavy, damp breath of the sea rolling through the air, laced with the faint reek of seaweed.
That smell belonged to the ocean alone.
The sound came with it: waves crashing in great rolling surges, each impact against the rocks a dull, muffled boom, like a drumbeat against the eardrums.
Even without looking, scent and sound were enough for him to compose the scene in his mind.
When his sight cleared, what he found was almost exactly what he'd imagined.
Moonlight lay over the dark water like a thin veil, silver light trembling in a thousand broken shards across the surface.
A cold wind came at them from the front, carrying the chill of the sea, lifting the loose hair at his forehead.
He looked down and found himself standing on a high black rock jutting above the water. Its surface was rough and uneven, grooved with lines of varying depth, as though worn down by years of water and time.
Below his feet, the waves heaved and rolled. White foam crept up through the crevices in the rock, then was pulled back and swallowed by the next wave, leaving the stone dark and slick.
Behind them rose a sheer cliff—a wall of black rock that faded into the night, its outline barely legible, only that sheer vertical face visible, like something cleaved apart by an axe, brutal and stark.
Boulders lay scattered around them, as though they had sheared from the cliff face at some point in the past; their surfaces were thick with moss, slippery and dark.
The landscape was entirely bare in desolation. Apart from the vast sea and the cold stone, there was not a single tree, not a scrap of grass, not a strip of sand.
Only the howling sea wind swept through the emptiness, carrying with it a note of bleak loneliness.
Noticing that Sherlock and Harry were both taking in their surroundings, Dumbledore spoke. "What do you make of it?"
"Not much," Sherlock said, his expression faintly contemptuous. "That man's taste is as dreadful as it ever was."
"Perhaps to you," Dumbledore replied, smiling. "But not to him. Can you venture a guess as to why he chose a place like this?"
Sherlock sighed. "Surely that's obvious enough not to need saying."
"I don't follow," Harry said, a little embarrassed.
"This place must hold some particular meaning for him—the same as the last Horcrux's location, Gaunt's shack."
Harry understood at once.
"Quite right, Sherlock." Dumbledore nodded approvingly and continued: "Half-way up those cliffs behind us, there is something that just barely passes for a village. The orphanage where Tom Riddle lived organised an excursion each year—and this remote stretch of coast was where they came. I expect those Muggle caretakers brought the children here to breathe the sea air and watch the waves. What they could not have anticipated was—"
"That Tom Riddle came here alone?"
Harry ventured the question, feeling his loathing for Voldemort deepen.
"To be precise: Tom Riddle brought two children he had been tormenting along with him."
Dumbledore sighed and explained:
"Look at the terrain. No Muggle could climb up onto this rock without being an exceptional climber. And no boat could approach the cliff—the waters around here are riddled with hidden reefs and too dangerous. I can almost picture how Riddle managed it—magic would have served him better than any rope, even then, when he did not yet know it was magic.
As for why he brought those two children: most likely to savour their fear, to enjoy the pleasure of having them entirely in his power. I rather think he could have managed perfectly well on his own—don't you?"
Harry glanced up at the cliff again, imagining those two children forced to climb by Riddle, and felt a cold prickling crawl across his skin.
Sherlock nodded slowly. "I think you're right. That's exactly who he is."
A faint smile crossed Dumbledore's face. "But our destination—and his—lies a little further on. Before we go, I must warn you both: what follows will be exceptionally dangerous."
"Sir, are there powerful defences here as well—like the ones at Gaunt's shack?" Harry asked.
"I don't know. I have some theories, but they may be entirely wrong. So—"
"So, we are to follow your instructions to the letter."
Sherlock exhaled. "You already said as much at my house. Shall we go? We're wasting time."
Dumbledore nodded and said no more. He gestured for Sherlock and Harry to move to the edge of the rock.
The face of the rock was studded with uneven footholds—crevices of varying depth, some barely wide enough for half a foot—that descended all the way down to the great sea-worn boulders half-submerged in the water below.
Climbing down from here was treacherous enough; Dumbledore had been prepared to slow his pace and take care of the other two.
But after a few steps, he realised his concern was unnecessary.
Sherlock moved like a cat, fingers finding the crevices with confidence, footsteps swift and sure.
Harry was not far behind. A little slower, but each step was firm and solid.
After a short time, Dumbledore found himself trailing at the rear.
The one unfortunate detail: the rocks lower down had been smoothed by the sea to a treacherous slickness, and cold spray thick with the smell of brine—burst against all three of their faces at intervals, making Harry shudder.
"I can tell you're surprised."
Sherlock glanced back at Dumbledore, a slight curve at the corner of his mouth. Then he turned to Harry: "It seems the morning training is paying off after all—wouldn't you say, my dear Harry?"
Harry couldn't quite tell whether it was his imagination, but Sherlock's voice had a faint lilt of satisfaction to it.
"It really has, Sherlock," Dumbledore agreed, quickening his own pace. "I must say it again—we are very fortunate to have you with us."
This time, Harry could see it clearly: Sherlock's mouth curved up and simply stayed there.
Dumbledore's praise had evidently pleased him considerably.
"Scintillate!"
When all three had climbed down to the great boulder closest to the cliff face, Dumbledore crouched, raised his wand, and murmured the incantation.
Sparks of golden light burst from the tip, scattering across the dark surface of the water just a few feet below, making it glitter.
The black rock wall beside them was illuminated too—moss and water-stains thrown into sharp relief.
"Do you see it?"
Dumbledore raised his wand a little higher to strengthen the light.
Following the beam, both Harry and Sherlock saw it clearly: a narrow fissure in the cliff face, the black water churning in slow spirals inside.
Knowing that one of Voldemort's Horcruxes lay hidden there, Harry felt a sudden chill—as though the crack in the rock were a mouth, open and waiting to swallow everything that drew near.
"I trust you won't mind getting a little wet?"
Dumbledore turned and looked at them both.
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