Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts.

Chapter 444 Horace Slughorn
Sherlock looked at Professor Slughorn and slowly began to speak:
"Among a bunch of photos of you with other people, there's one hidden at the very bottom—a beautiful red-haired girl."

She is your favorite Lily Porter, though of course, she was Lily Evans when you first met her.

You look exceptionally genuine in the photo, and you only took a picture with her alone.

To you, she is a potion-making genius you are proud of, the brightest and purest pearl among your best students.

I think you must like her, right?

"You like her?"

Yes... I can't imagine anyone who has met her not liking her...

Very brave...very lively.

"Yes, no one would dislike her, but I have a question."

Besides Lily, there is another name that stands out conspicuously in your dazzling roster.

Or rather, you carefully avoided it.

Slughorn looked at Sherlock in confusion, the alcohol slowing his reaction slightly:
"Hmm? Holmes? Who are you referring to?"

Tom Marvolo Riddell.

Or perhaps you're more familiar with his other name—Voldemort.

Sherlock pronounced the name clearly.

Upon hearing this, Harry straightened his back.

Have we finally entered the main storyline?

He saw Slughorn's pupils contract instantly, and his face stiffen.

"No!"

Slughorn jerked violently, nearly knocking over his cup.

"How...how did you know..."

Very few people know that Tom Riddle is Voldemort.

How could he not be surprised that a fourteen or fifteen-year-old boy had said it outright?

His voice was hoarse, and he was still trying to explain: "Don't, don't mention that name... I... I've taught many students..."

Sherlock interrupted him without hesitation:

"Of course, you did teach him."

This is a student who is more dazzling, and more dangerous, than any of your other students.

Sherlock's sharp gray eyes pierced straight into the hidden corners of Slughorn's heart:

"The pure admiration and affection you show when you mention Lily Evans stands in stark contrast to your deliberate avoidance of Tom Riddle."

The look in your eyes as you look at Harry is filled with guilt, and not just because Lily died at Voldemort's hands.

More importantly, it's that lingering fear deep within your heart.

"This is what Albus sent you to ask, isn't it?"

Slughorn seemed to suddenly understand something, and his tone completely changed, no longer friendly, but filled with shock and fear:

"So that's why he was so kind as to bring two little ones to see me..."

Seeing Slughorn's sudden realization, Harry panicked.

Oh no, Sherlock has been exposed!
He looked anxiously at Sherlock, but saw that the latter was not flustered at all.

He clasped his hands together, resting his chin on them, and said in a light tone:
"Professor, it seems you don't know me well enough."

"I really don't know enough."

"Actually, as Mr. Dumbledore just mentioned, I was the one who truly exposed Peter Pettigrew a year ago and cleared Sirius Black's name."

"so what?"

"so what?"

Sherlock sneered:
"Professor, let's put aside the heavy past for a moment. How about you tell us how your day went?"

Slughorn was taken aback by what he heard, clearly not expecting the topic to suddenly veer towards such a mundane direction.

"Today?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's gaze swept quickly over the collar of Slughorn's still-gorgeous but slightly wrinkled pale purple velvet nightgown:

"You are a very particular person when it comes to your appearance. You would never allow this robe to have creases unless absolutely necessary."

Look at the slight crease on the left side of your collar, and the neat imprint left by the pillow on the back of your head that hasn't completely faded yet. These are very standard marks left from sleeping on your side for a long time.

Coupled with the fatigue you're currently trying so hard to conceal but which is still there and that alcohol hasn't completely masked, it's clear that you were thoroughly enjoying a comfortable afternoon nap until then.

Slughorn subconsciously touched the back of his head, as if there really was some mark left there.

Then, Sherlock's gaze fell upon a few almost invisible pale yellow flakes at the edge of Slughorn's dark carpet:

"If I'm not mistaken, this should be Honeydukes' golden sugar crumbs?"
This location is near the porch, but not in the dining area.

Clearly, you took some from this confectionery display case, which houses top-quality candies, before your lunch break.

You rushed here, seemingly well-prepared, but in reality, you haven't had time to deal with these details.

"I... I just have a habit of eating dessert before bed."

Slughorn's voice began to weaken.

Sherlock's description is so vivid, it's as if you witnessed him grabbing a handful of snacks before his afternoon nap.

The scene of someone taking a deep nap when suddenly a guest arrives and they rush to open the door.

His vanity and refined taste were exposed to the light of day, making him uncomfortable.

"I believe you have already noticed that I have some special abilities, namely, I can tell what a person has done by observation."

Sherlock's tone remained calm, "You have prepared sweets and wine, welcoming your distinguished guest in the most comfortable way."

Just like now, you are nestled on the softest throne of your own kingdom, enjoying our listening and reliving past glories.

You enjoy showcasing your collection and your network, basking in the satisfaction of being valued and followed.

This sense of fulfillment comes from the spiritual home you carefully nurture.

Sherlock's words hit the bullseye.

Slughorn's tense emotions eased for a moment as he felt understood, and the effects of alcohol also made his mind relax a little.

But at that moment, Sherlock's gaze suddenly sharpened, and his voice turned cold:

"But this old glory was shattered by a name—Tom Marvolo Riddell."

This name, or rather, his later name, Voldemort, is like a sharp thorn, deeply embedded in your carefully guarded kingdom.

This is the second time Sherlock has mentioned Voldemort's name.

Slughorn's emotions, which had just calmed down a little, tensed up again instantly. He shivered and protested loudly.

However, Sherlock ignored him and gave him no chance to catch his breath: "Why is it that among all your prized students, whom you praise and frame, the one with the most talent is missing?"
While everyone else shines on your illustrious list, Tom Riddle's name is carefully peeled away.

That's because it was through him that the discerning eye you were so proud of brought about unbearable consequences.

As I just said, your guilt stems not only from Lily's death at Voldemort's hands, but more profoundly from the lingering fear deep within your heart.

Those were your private discussions with Tom Riddle about immortality; it was you who gave him some fatal clue.

This sense of guilt prevents you from facing it all, leaving you with no choice but to run away.

Slughorn curled up in the velvet chair, trying to escape Sherlock's piercing gaze:

"How...how did you know?"
Young people are always curious, so I just shared some ancient legends with him in private conversations..."

Slughorn's explanation sounded so weak and unconvincing that even Harry couldn't stand it anymore.

"I'm afraid it's not just a legend, Professor?"

Do those discussions touch upon the darkest and most forbidden areas in the history of magic?
How does one split their soul?

Regarding the creation of Horcruxes—devices capable of sealing away souls and thus achieving immortality?

When Sherlock uttered the word "Horde" in a calm and incredibly clear tone, Slughorn felt as if he had been struck by an invisible hammer.

He let out a suppressed, almost suffocating gasp, his face instantly turning ashen, and fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

His hand trembled violently, and the wine glass finally slipped from his hand, the amber liquid soaking the expensive carpet.

He stared at Sherlock as if he were a terrifying prophet, his eyes filled with unspeakable fear and shock.

"You...how could you..."

Slughorn's voice trembled, filled with disbelief and a deep-seated fear.

Sherlock reveals the source of his deepest and most unbearable fears.

It was because he leaked crucial information to Voldemort that he personally created the Dark Lord, who made the entire wizarding world tremble.

Sherlock's gaze remained unwavering despite Slughorn's performance; instead, he pressed on, continuing:

"Your avoidance, your guilt, and every glance you give Harry confirm this."

Tom Riddle, that handsome, intelligent, and persuasive young student of yours, was the first to truly grasp the possibility of Horcruxes from you, and ultimately embarked on that mad path.

He deliberately slowed his speech, each syllable like a branding iron imprinted on Slughorn's heart:

"And Lily, your most favored student, ultimately became a martyr on the road to the rise of the Dark Lord."

One of the reasons for her sacrifice was that fatal conversation you had with him.

Slughorn's defenses have completely collapsed.

Tears welled up uncontrollably, mingling with sweat, sliding down his fat cheeks and flowing into his silvery beard.

A profound sense of shame and deep grief gripped him, as if he had been stripped of all his dignity and was now nakedly confronting the invisible tragedy he had created with his own hands.

"I...I didn't know he would..."

He choked up, his voice weak, "I thought he was just... curious about those dark things... He... he was so talented..."

He tried to explain, but could not find any reasonable excuse.

"Unfortunately, this is precisely the key."

Sherlock's voice remained calm, but carried a hint of heaviness: "You saw his talent, and may even have admired it, to the point that you overlooked the dangerous abyss that talent led to."

His intelligence and ambition were not the playful antics of an ordinary student, but rather the key to forbidden dark magic.

And you, whether intentionally or unintentionally, handed the key to the Horcrux to him.

The living room was deathly silent, save for Slughorn's suppressed sobs.

The cloying aroma of candy and the rich scent of wine have become an ironic backdrop.

The flickering firelight from the fireplace cast leaping shadows on his face, adding to his desolate appearance.

His carefully constructed world of vanity, which he had long cultivated, collapsed completely under Sherlock's precise analysis and the immense impact of the term Horcrux.

Sherlock waited quietly for a moment, allowing Slughorn's emotions to sink even deeper into the abyss of shame and pain.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice carrying an undeniable power:

"Sir, you just said that you like Lily so much, but now you refuse to help her son."

She gave her life to Harry, and you won't even give him a single memory.

“Don’t say that,” Slughorn whispered, his eyes fixed on Harry even though he was speaking to Sherlock. “If it could help you… of course, no problem… but that thing is useless…”

“It’s useful, not only for your regret over Lily, but also for that pivotal conversation—especially the full details of the Horcruxes!”
This is about completely destroying Voldemort, avenging Lily, James, and all those who died because of him, and also about truly freeing you from the guilt that gnaws at you day and night!

Only by handing it over can you have your only chance to make amends!

“But…my dear child…you’re asking for too much…in fact, you’re asking me to help you destroy—”

"Don't you want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily Evans?"

"Of course I want to, but—"

"Are you afraid Voldemort will find out you helped us?"

Slughorn didn't speak, but his face grew even paler, and his forehead was glistening with sweat.

"If that's the case, you can rest assured."

He is now extremely weak.

If you tell us the truth, he won't even have a chance to make a comeback.

Sherlock gave Harry a wink as he spoke.

Harry knew that it was finally his turn to make a move.

He took a deep breath and looked at Slughorn.
“Professor, I hope you can be as brave as my mother, who tried to stop Voldemort until her last breath.”

Slughorn raised his fat hand and pressed his trembling fingers to his lips, making him look like a giant baby.

"I feel ashamed..."

He murmured softly through his fingers, "I'm ashamed of what that memory shows... I think I may have caused a lot of harm that day..."

“If you give me that memory, everything will be canceled out,” Harry said. “That’s a very brave and noble thing to do.”

Slughorn and Harry stared at each other through the weeping candlelight, and the silence lasted for a long time.

Harry forced himself to stop looking for Sherlock's help and waited.

The immense shock, the precise analysis, the mention of Lily's pain, and the catalytic effect of alcohol combined to completely shatter Slughorn's last shred of hope and hesitation.

He was like someone who had finally seen the way to confession in the darkness.

Tears streamed down his plump cheeks and into his silvery beard.

He was overwhelmed by immense shame and profound grief, but in the abyss of despair in his eyes, a faint glimmer of light rose—the desire for atonement.

He nodded heavily, as if he had exhausted all his strength.

Finally, Slughorn very slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out his wand, and with his other hand took out a small empty bottle from his cloak.

(End of this chapter)