Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts.

Chapter 562 Walking on a Country Road
When Sherlock and Dumbledore set off on the country road, the morning mist had just lifted.

The shrubs and hedges on both sides of the road are taller than a person, and their bare branches stretch out like withered fingers. Even without leaves, one can imagine how lush and leafy they must be in the height of summer.

The soil underfoot was mixed with dry grass and debris, making a slight rustling sound when stepped on, and occasionally startling a few sparrows hiding under the hedge.

The winter sky overhead was unusually clear, a deep blue like the petals of forget-me-nots washed clean, so clear that there wasn't a single cloud.

Sherlock gazed at the sky and suddenly remembered that Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color was somewhat similar to the sky.

"Has Professor Lockhart not woken up yet?"

He turned his gaze away and looked at Dumbledore beside him.

At this moment, Dumbledore was bending over and staring at the wooden road sign on the left side of the path.

His white beard hung down to his chest, and his fingertips gently brushed over the worn lettering on the road sign.

The road sign had two metal arrows nailed to it, one pointing east and inscribed with "Big Hangleton, 5 miles".

Another one points west and reads "Little Hangleton, 1 mile".

The edges of the lettering are already somewhat rusty.

Upon hearing Sherlock's words, Dumbledore straightened up, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes behind his half-moon spectacles:
"Sherlock, why did you suddenly think of asking Gilderoy?"

He paused, and before Sherlock could answer, continued:

"Staff at St. Mungo's Hospital say he's recovering well recently and is expected to wake up in the next two years."

Sherlock nodded and pointed to the road sign: "So our destination this time is Little Hangleton?"

“That’s right, that’s the village where Tom Riddle—Voldemort’s father was born.”

Dumbledore nodded in agreement, then a hint of curiosity flashed in his eyes, like an audience member eagerly awaiting a performance. "What are your plans?"

Dumbledore had already given Sherlock all the newspapers related to the case.

In addition, he had heard about Flitwick and Hagrid's investigative experiences, and was now particularly looking forward to the young detective's actions.

"Let's go to the crime scene to investigate first,"

Sherlock replied without hesitation, "If needed later, we can retrieve the missing persons files from the nearby police station to confirm the details."

This trip was originally Sherlock's suggestion, so Dumbledore naturally had no objections.

The two continued walking along the path, and apart from the hedges and the sky, they could see nothing else.

The only sounds were the whistling of the wind through the branches, occasionally punctuated by the cawing of crows in the distant fields.

The two continued along the country road, with nothing else in sight but tall hedges and the vast, azure winter sky overhead.

After walking for about ten minutes, the path suddenly turned left and stretched straight down the hillside.

Sherlock and Dumbledore also slowed their pace.

This is because the soil on the hillside is somewhat loose, and it can be slippery if you are not careful.

When you reach the bottom of the slope, a valley suddenly appears before you.

Nestled between two steep hillsides, Little Hangerton is as quiet as an oil painting:
Houses with gray tiles and white walls are scattered about, the church spire gleams coldly in the sunlight, and the cemetery is surrounded by numerous pine and cypress trees.

On the hillside opposite the valley, a magnificent mansion stands out prominently.

Surrounded by a large expanse of grassland, even from some distance, it was clear that the house was far larger than any other house in the village.

"It's closer than the road sign indicates; the actual distance is less than one mile."

Sherlock's gaze swept quickly across the entire village, finally settling on the large mansion.

That was Riddle House, the place where Voldemort's grandfather and father used to live.

Most of the villagers in Little Hangton know each other, so they can't help but stare at unfamiliar faces with curiosity.

But Sherlock and Dumbledore obviously don't need to worry about that.

Dumbledore is the greatest white wizard of our time. With a simple spell, he can make passersby subconsciously ignore his presence.

Not to mention that Sherlock has been investigating cases for many years and has long since developed the skill of blending into his environment. Even without Dumbledore, he would not be discovered if he wanted to.

And so, the two walked one after the other on the village path, without attracting anyone's attention.

Upon arriving at the gates of Riddle House, Sherlock stopped and looked around.

The house is situated on a high point on the hillside, from where you can clearly see every path in the village and the rooftops of every house.

"The location is excellent, with a wide view and the ability to monitor the entire village."

The windows of the house were boarded up with rusted nails.

Several roof tiles were missing, revealing the blackened wooden beams underneath.

Dumbledore had assumed that Sherlock would immediately burst in and eagerly investigate the crime scene.

After all, he had shown great interest in the case during their last conversation.

To his surprise, when he actually arrived, Sherlock seemed in no hurry.

Dumbledore followed behind, watching Sherlock stroll leisurely through the garden with an air of nonchalance, as if taking a leisurely walk.

He stared blankly at the ground for a moment, his fingers gently brushing the soil beneath the withered grass.

He would look up at the sky for a while, then look down to observe the orientation of the house's windows and the wooden fence on the back gate wall.

The wooden planks on the fence were rotten, and some had even broken off and fallen to the ground.

A moment later, he bent down to check the cracks in the corner of the wall and reached out to touch the ivy that covered the wall.

The vines had long since withered, and the dark green leaves were curled up.

Sherlock circled back to the main entrance, frowning as he examined the carvings on the door panels.

The brass rings on the main gate had long lost their luster and were covered with a thick layer of dust, indicating that no one had lived there for a long time.

Although it's covered in dust, you can still see how exquisite it was back then.

"Before it fell into disrepair, this was definitely the most spacious and magnificent building in the area for miles around."

Finally, his gaze fell on the two-story wooden house, and he walked straight over to it.

"I need to conduct the investigation alone, Professor. You can wait for me at the door."

Sherlock turned and said something to Dumbledore, then pushed open the door to the cabin.

The wooden door was unlocked; it creaked as it was pushed open, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Dumbledore stood at the door as instructed and did not go in.

He saw Sherlock pacing back and forth in the cabin, his fingers occasionally touching the furnishings.

A dilapidated wooden table, two chairs with missing legs, and gardening tools piled in the corner.

Sherlock stopped twice during the event: once he squatted in a corner and watched for a long time, and the other time he smiled with satisfaction at the hook on the wall.

Dumbledore didn't understand how Sherlock could possibly discern anything from something that looked so ordinary.

However, in those four years, Sherlock had proven his keen observation skills on more than one occasion.

So he didn't ask any questions, and patiently stood at the door, waiting quietly.

He believed that Sherlock must be able to see many things that he couldn't see.

About ten minutes later, Sherlock came out of the cabin, dusted himself off, and said, "Alright, let's go take a look at the main house."

To Dumbledore's surprise, Sherlock did not choose to enter through the front door, but instead went around to the back of the house and stopped by a door that was almost completely covered by ivy.

He reached out and pushed, and the door opened with a click.

This situation surprised Dumbledore even more.

Even though it was Sherlock's first time here, he gave the impression that he was very familiar with every plant and tree in the area.

Even the back door of this house was found so easily.

The two walked through the back door and immediately entered the large kitchen.

Despite it being daytime, the room was as dark as a cave because the windows were boarded up.

Only a few rays of sunlight pierced through the cracks in the wooden planks, casting long, thin patches of light on the ground.

The air was filled with a damp, musty smell, mixed with the odor of dust and rotting wood, making people wrinkle their noses involuntarily.

"Do you need lighting, Sherlock?" Dumbledore asked, raising his hand to cast a spell.

“That would be best, thank you.” Sherlock nodded.

A soft white light shone from Dumbledore's fingertips.

His illumination spell was naturally extraordinary; a bright white light appeared in an instant, like a high-wattage light bulb, illuminating the entire kitchen in a flash.

The kitchen stove was rusty, the sink was covered with thick grime, and several broken earthenware jars were piled in the corner.

The two quickly found the door leading to the corridor, and when they pushed it open, the hinges made a screeching sound.

The hallway was slightly brighter than the kitchen because the large straight-lattice windows on either side of the front door were not sealed off.

Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting diamond-shaped patches of light on the floor.

However, the musty and dusty smells were stronger, and you could even see dust particles floating in the sunlight.

"Wait a mininute."

Sherlock suddenly stopped and took out a magic magnifying glass from his pocket—a gift from his friend.

He crouched down and carefully examined the thick layer of dust on the stone steps.

The magnifying glass's lens refracts a faint light, illuminating the tiny traces in the dust.

This time, Dumbledore clearly saw a satisfied smile on Sherlock's face.

"let's go."

Sherlock put away his magnifying glass, stood up, and quickly walked up the stone steps to the landing.

The platform was covered in dust, and every step left a clear footprint.

Sherlock glanced around, his eyes sweeping over the doors on either side of the corridor, before walking without hesitation to the far right end of the corridor and pushing open the innermost door.

The moment the door was pushed open, an even stronger musty smell wafted out.

This is a large, square room that appears exceptionally spacious because it has almost no furniture.

The walls were covered with cheap floral paper; the red patterns had faded, and in some places, dark green mold had grown.

Large pieces of decorative paper peeled off the wall, revealing the yellow powder wall underneath.

To the right of the entrance is a beautiful fireplace. Although the white faux marble fireplace mantel is covered in dust, its original exquisiteness is still evident.

A tattered rug was laid in front of the fireplace; the rug's pile was matted, and its color had changed from its original deep red to dark brown.

At one end of the stove sat a red candle stub, the wick long since extinguished, leaving only solidified wax.

The only piece of furniture in the room was an old armchair, placed directly in front of the fireplace.

The chair's armrests were worn, and there were several holes in the fabric, revealing the cotton wadding inside.

The room had only one window, and the glass was so dirty it looked like it was covered with a layer of fog.

The sunlight streamed through the glass, becoming dim and blurry, casting a somber hue over the entire room.

The thick layer of dust made the whole room appear even more gloomy and desolate.

"Exactly what I thought."

As Sherlock spoke, his nimble fingers touched and pressed here and there.

The same blank look reappeared in his eyes.

However, Dumbledore also noticed that Sherlock's examination was more thorough this time.

In addition to using the magic magnifying glass to examine the armrests of the armchair, he also took out a silver measuring tape from his pocket and carefully measured the distance from the fireplace to the armchair, as well as the distance from the window to the door.

He even crouched down and repeatedly measured some scratches on the floor, but Dumbledore couldn't see any of them.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock put away his measuring tape and magnifying glass, dusted off his hands, stood up straight, and wore a relaxed smile.
"It's hard to believe that I would one day thank the police for not being smart enough."

Even though he didn't understand what Sherlock had just been doing, Dumbledore understood from Sherlock's performance over the past four years that every little action he took had a practical and clear purpose.

"So... what's your opinion on this disappearance case, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's opening remarks surprised Dumbledore:
"First of all, Professor, I need to correct one point. This is not a missing person case, but a murder case."

"A murder case?"

"Yes, a murder case."

Sherlock spoke with certainty, his gaze sweeping across the entire room as if reconstructing the scene of the crime:

"That old Muggle, if I remember correctly, should be called Frank Bryce, the gardener of Riddle House."

He was murdered at the end of July last year, and this is the primary crime scene.

Dumbledore watched Sherlock quietly, awaiting his next move.

Sherlock did not disappoint him, stating all his deductions in one go:

"The victim was over seventy years old and had difficulty walking in his right leg. Even when he used a cane for assistance, he still walked with a limp."

He was also severely deaf, and the boys in the village would always bully him.

On the night he was murdered, he was standing by the pool filling a hot water bottle—I deduce that he was probably planning to fill the bottle to warm his stiff knees.

Later, he noticed light coming from the house we were in and mistakenly believed that the little boys who usually bullied him had broken into Riddle House.

At this point, Sherlock couldn't help but sigh:

He picked up the key and followed the path we had just taken to this room.

Unexpectedly, they ran right into Voldemort and his minions—or rather, allies.

At this point, Sherlock looked at Dumbledore and emphasized again:
"So this was an accidental murder, not premeditated."

They didn't originally intend to kill him; they only did so to silence him after they were caught in the act.

However, based on my understanding of Voldemort's character, he's currently unpredictable, and it's quite possible that the killing was just an act on impulse, without even the motive of 'silencing witnesses.'

Dumbledore looked intently at Sherlock, his eyes filled with surprise and admiration.

(End of this chapter)