Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts.

Chapter 391 Sherlock's Greatest Fear

Harry buried his face as low as possible, almost touching his knees.

He secretly wiped away his tears with his robe.

He could feel Lupin's gaze fixed on him.

And Sherlock's gray eyes, which seemed to see through everything, were also watching him.

This made his cheeks burn, a mixture of shame and stubbornness.

Lupin then noticed that Harry's face was not only covered in sweat, but also with tears.

His face immediately turned even paler than usual, and he couldn't help but say:
“Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I completely understand—”

"No, I want to continue!"

Harry looked up abruptly, his green eyes still misty but surprisingly bright.

"I'll try again. It must be because I wasn't thinking about something pleasant enough!"

"But……"

Looking at Harry's stubborn gaze, Lupin hesitated.

"Let's do it again."

Sherlock suddenly spoke up: "Trust Harry."

Harry quickly added, "Yes, Professor, please believe me!"

"OK then……"

Lupin finally relented, but his tone still held hesitation. "You might need to choose another memory, I mean a pleasant one, and focus your mind on it. The one you just remembered didn't seem strong enough..."

He paused, his gaze becoming complicated.

As if suddenly remembering something, Lupin asked hesitantly, "You...you just heard James's voice?"

"Correct."

Harry nodded, his tone becoming lighter.

He knew Lupin was his father's best friend, just like Sirius Black.

So at this moment, she spoke without reservation, telling everyone she had heard while she was unconscious.

After hearing this, Lu Ping's lips pressed into a straight line, and his face became even more somber than before.

He turned around, his back to Harry, his shoulders slumping slightly.

Sherlock, on the other hand, wore a thoughtful expression.

Harry confronted the Dementors several times and heard fragmented pieces of the scene.

Two years ago, Voldemort possessed Quirrell and spoke to Harry in the room at the Philosopher's Stone.

Sherlock combined the two, separating the truth from the falsehood, and deduced what had happened that night.

Voldemort learned of James and Lily's whereabouts from the traitor Peter and single-handedly marched towards Godric's Hollow.

Because they trusted Peter so much—in retrospect, James and Lily, like Sirius and Lupin, never imagined he would betray them.

So when Voldemort broke down the door, the couple were probably still completely unprepared, perhaps just as they were comforting their child as usual.

Jaime knew very well that he was like a mantis trying to stop a chariot when facing the Dark Lord, who was almost invincible at the time.

Even so, he rushed forward immediately to shield his wife and children.

He tried to stall Voldemort to buy time for his wife and children to escape.

As a result, he was killed by the Killing Curse in the blink of an eye, and it did almost no real role in stopping him.

In light of this, Sherlock made a deeper deduction:

In the heat of the moment, James may have rushed forward without even having time to grab his wand.

His only weapon was his instinct and courage as a father and husband.

After Voldemort killed James, he turned his attention back to Harry.

At this moment, Lily stood in front of her son and pleaded desperately, hoping that Voldemort would spare her child, even if it meant giving her own life in exchange.

Voldemort, of course, would not agree.

His target from the beginning was Harry, the boy prophesied to defeat him.

Both James and Lily were merely obstacles that were incidentally eliminated in this killing spree targeting Harry.

So after a brief entanglement with Lily, he impatiently cast the Killing Curse on her again.

However, when he cast the third Killing Curse of the night on the infant Harry, it was countered by an ancient protective spell cast by Lily at the cost of her life and maternal love.

The green light only left a scar on Harry's forehead.

Voldemort, on the other hand, was struck by the Killing Curse he himself had cast, and was thus killed and forced to flee.

It wasn't until two years ago that it managed to possess Quirrell's head and reappear at Hogwarts, attempting to obtain the Philosopher's Stone.

But in Sherlock's eyes, he was now utterly brain-dead and utterly useless, completely lacking the fearsome aura he once possessed.

Quirrell, whom he chose, was no better off. Not only was he outmaneuvered by Dumbledore early on, but he was also just like his master—a self-important clown.

In the end, the master and servant naturally failed.

Then the problem is coming.

Upon meeting James, Voldemort killed him without hesitation or delay.

However, when facing Lily, he was delayed for a while before he could kill her.

It may seem like a trivial detail, but Sherlock astutely discovered a blind spot in it.

A person like Voldemort would never have any thoughts of chivalry or pity for women.

So why did Voldemort kill James in one fell swoop, but hesitate when facing Lily?
Is it like some perverts who enjoy hearing victims kneel before them and beg for mercy?

Sherlock quickly dismissed this guess.

This doesn't fit Voldemort's extremely arrogant and impatient character.

Judging from the last fragments of his mother's voice that Harry captured, it seems more like Voldemort originally intended to let Lily go, but Lily refused to give up protecting Harry and always stood in front of him.

He then lost his patience and finally committed the murder.

If so...

Sherlock's eyes deepened.

Just then, Lupin's words interrupted his train of thought: "Sherlock, why don't you go first this time?"

Sherlock thought about this matter for a long time, but in reality, it only took a short moment.

Seeing Lupin looking at him, Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and nodded:
"no problem."

Let's leave this question in our memory for now, and investigate it together when new clues are discovered in the future.

Lupin turned around again: "Harry, have you thought of any more pleasant memories?"

"I've got it... but Boggart shouldn't turn into a Dementor when facing Sherlock, right? Is it okay to let him go first?"

Harry asked worriedly as he munched on his chocolate.

Sherlock smiled slightly: "It's alright, I've always wanted to see what I'm most afraid of."

After I dealt with the Boggart, you took over like you would in a Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

Harry nodded, and was about to speak when Sherlock continued:

"Once you pass out, I'll deal with it as a Dementor."

Harry: "..."

Lupin: "..."

To be fair, Sherlock is great in every way, except for that mouth of his… it’s sharper than his own teeth when he’s a werewolf. Lupin shook his head slightly and gestured for Harry to step back.

Harry immediately retreated to the edge of the classroom, his eyes fixed on the box containing the Boggart, looking even more nervous than when he faced the Dementors.

When Sherlock reached the center of the classroom, Lupin placed his hand on top of the box and asked Sherlock, "Ready?"

His voice carried a hint of barely perceptible curiosity.

After all, no one knows what a genius like Sherlock would fear most.

Seeing Sherlock nod, Lupin abruptly lifted the lid.

Just like when the Dementors appeared last time, a blurry figure emerged from the box.

It was an old oak wheelchair with armrests worn smooth and a faded velvet seat.

A person is sitting in a wheelchair.

next moment.

Harry's glasses slid down to the tip of his nose with a snap, and Lupin gasped.

Because the person sitting in the wheelchair was none other than Sherlock Holmes himself!

However, this Sherlock was very old, frail and decayed beyond imagination.

Silver-gray hair, no, to be precise, dry, gray-white hair, messy like withered grass in winter stuck to the scalp.

His once sharp, hawk-like eyes were now clouded with a murky white film, staring blankly ahead like dusty glass beads, oblivious to everything around him.

That face, which once conveyed a thousand thoughts through subtle expressions, now only has loose skin and dull wrinkles, as if time has drained all its vitality.

What made Harry and Lupin most nervous was that old Sherlock still had a line of glistening saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth, slowly dripping onto his robe and spreading out a small wet patch.

The bathrobe was stained, and the collar was crookedly open.

As for those hands that could once play exquisite violin pieces, precisely concoct potions, and wield fists and wands, they now hung limply at their sides, their fingers slightly curled, like a few dead, withered branches.

Several crumpled pages of paper lay scattered on his knees, their edges yellowed and brittle.

Harry and Lupin couldn't make out what was written on it, but they inexplicably felt a tightness in their chests.

Sherlock, however, recognized it at a glance as his own notebook filled with countless deductions and chemical formulas.

Those intellectual treasures he once cherished have now become worthless.

Harry and Lupin were completely stunned.

The two stood there, stunned, as if petrified, unable to utter a single word.

The scene before me was eerily quiet, yet more suffocating than any screaming, grotesque monster.

The two even smelled the stale odor of disinfectant and decaying human flesh.

It's no exaggeration to say that the scene before him was no less terrifying than the Dementors had just instilled in Harry.

Is this...is this the scene Sherlock fears most?

A self whose life is as fragile as a candle flickering in the wind?

Is death what he fears most?

Sherlock, however, did not think so.

He quietly looked at his older self sitting in a wheelchair, his gray eyes showing no fear, only an almost calm scrutiny, as if he were staring at a toad specimen on a dissection table.

"Alzheimer's disease? Vascular degeneration? Or... a more complete void?"

At this moment, his brain was like an overloaded machine, flashing through countless cold medical terms as he began to deconstruct the scene before him.

"Sherlock, this..."

Harry finally couldn't help but speak, his voice trembling, but Lupin gently pressed down on his shoulder.

Lupin's palms were burning hot. He had a vague idea that the scene before him did not mean that Sherlock's greatest fear was death.

For Sherlock, this was a terror heavier than death—the collapse of his mind and the complete annihilation of his self.

Sherlock naturally understood what this scene meant long ago.

Early-stage cognitive impairment in Alzheimer's disease, limb apraxia in the later stages of vascular cognitive decline, frontal lobe dementia combined with severe aphasia and executive dysfunction...

Completely losing the ability to think independently, survival loses its meaning...

"I see."

Sherlock nodded slowly, a clear understanding flashing in his gray eyes.

This is not just aging; it is the soul of a living being emptied out, leaving only a physical shell waiting to decay in ignorance.

For him, this was indeed a far more terrifying outcome than any sword, curse, or death.

Death is the end, decay is the death by a thousand cuts.

Once his prized weapon, the invincible sword of reasoning and insight, is taken away, it would be tantamount to erasing the core value of his existence.

Just then, the elderly Sherlock in the wheelchair suddenly grinned.

Saliva slid down his chin from the corner of his mouth, making a hollow, off-key hoarse sound.

Those cloudy eyes seemed to move slightly, sweeping across Sherlock's face meaningfully.

But he was stunned.

Because Sherlock laughed.

His smile was faint, because a loud laugh would make Boggart disappear.

"To be honest, I'm a little curious."

He tilted his head, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather:
"Why didn't you become the state you were in after receiving the Dementor's kiss? In that state, I also lost my soul."

He paused, his gaze falling on the crumpled notebooks on his lap, and then it dawned on him:

"Oh...right, the body is still healthy in that state—but what I'm worried about is the dual decay of the body and mind."

Sherlock said, as if talking to himself:

"The Mirror of Erised showed me what I most desired, and the Boggart showed me what I most feared..."

The magical world is truly fascinating.

Before he finished speaking, he raised his wand and flicked his wrist lightly: "Hilarious! Hilarious!"

With a soft "snap," the dying "Old Sherlock" on the chair changed in an instant.

With a soft sound and the billowing smoke, the withered figure in the wheelchair, like a sand painting blown away by a strong wind, quickly reformed into a completely different outline.

Where the smoke dissipated, the scratched oak wheelchair had transformed into a dark sofa.

The elderly Sherlock Holmes also disappeared, replaced by a young man in his twenties.

Although the young man was lounging lazily on the sofa, his spine was straight as a drawn bow, and his posture was as upright as a pine tree.

He wore a long, fitted black trench coat and a deerstalker hat.

He held an ebony cane firmly on the ground in his right hand, while his left hand held a briar pipe with his fingers bent.

A thin layer of grayish-white ash had accumulated on the pipe, and wisps of smoke were curling around his fingertips.

Beneath the brim of his hat, a pair of sharp, hawk-like gray eyes pierced through the smoke, their all-knowing calmness and timeless wisdom slowly sweeping across the room.

When his gaze swept over Sherlock, a faint smile flickered in his eyes.

Harry and Lupin were stunned once again.

Another Sherlock Holmes!

what's the situation?
Why does the elderly Sherlock transform into a younger version of himself after casting the special spell to deal with the Boggarts?
Shouldn't this spell transform Boggart into the happiest version of himself?

Is this what Sherlock considers the happiest state of being?
Rejuvenation?
However, what shocked them even more was yet to come.

(End of this chapter)