Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts.

Chapter 599 Voldemort is very similar to you

"Armando, I didn't mean to blame you."

Seeing the portrait of the old headmaster, Dippet, on the wall, he spoke up, his tone tinged with grievance and complaint. Dumbledore smiled and turned around to speak.

His tone was gentle, and even Sherlock and Harry, who were watching from the sidelines, felt as if they were basking in a spring breeze.

"At that time, almost all the teachers except me thought so."

After all, he not only obtained twelve certificates in the OWL exam, but also achieved top marks in every single one.

This is a situation we have never encountered before.

So at that time, no one could believe that the academically excellent and gentle boy could harbor such dark thoughts.

Even I don't have conclusive evidence to prove my guess.

Upon hearing Dumbledore's explanation, Dippet's portrait, though no longer speaking, still let out a dissatisfied snort, clearly still somewhat resentful.

"Uh... but he was still rejected in the end, right?"

Harry couldn't help but ask again.

"Yes."

Dumbledore nodded:

Professor Dippet gave a very tactful reason—he said Voldemort was only eighteen years old, too young.

Even if he were exceptionally talented, he still lacked the experience to be a qualified teacher at Hogwarts.

“So you should still thank me,” Dippet’s portrait immediately interjected, his tone carrying a hint of self-satisfaction.

"Yes, I am very grateful to you, Armando."

As Dumbledore recalled the past, a faint smile curved his lips.

"But Professor Dippet also gave Voldemort a glimmer of hope, welcoming him to apply again in two years—if he still wanted to teach by then."

Dippet's portrait gave another dissatisfied snort, turned its head away, and stopped talking.

"...Fortunately, he did not come back after two years."

Dumbledore's tone gradually became serious:
"Of course, I never wanted Voldemort to return to this school in the first place."

In particular, he wanted a powerful position—that's not what I wanted.

"A position of power..."

Harry muttered those words over and over, his brow furrowed and his mind racing.

Soon, without needing to ask Sherlock or Dumbledore, he instantly understood the answer.

Voldemort only wanted one position!
"Defense Against Dark Magic!"

“That’s right, just as you guessed, what he wants to teach is Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, a hint of approval flashing in his eyes, confirming Harry's idea:

"At that time, Defense Against the Dark Arts was taught by an old professor named Galatea Melos, who had been teaching at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years and was very experienced."

Even he himself was willing to let Voldemort teach the course in his place…

At this point, he changed the subject:
"After Voldemort was refused admission to the school, he went to Borgin & Burke in Diagon Alley."

At the time, all the teachers who admired him felt it was a pity.

Such a talented young wizard ended up working as an ordinary shop assistant?
However, they didn't know that Voldemort wasn't an ordinary shop assistant, or rather, he was more than just a shop assistant.

Dumbledore's fingertips gently traced the crystal bottle's surface, the warmth of his fingertips seemingly causing subtle ripples to spread across the silvery-white memories within.

He paused for a moment, then continued:

Tom Riddle, a recent graduate, was handsome, intelligent, and always polite.

His lips always held a perfectly timed smile, neither obsequious nor aloof.

With these unique advantages, he quickly secured a special job with Borgin-Bock.

As you all know, this shop specializes in selling magical items with unique abilities.

Seeing that Sherlock and Harry both nodded in agreement, Dumbledore sighed softly:
"So Voldemort was sent to persuade those who possessed treasures to hand over their collections to the shop for sale—which was exactly what he wanted."

It is said that he was particularly skilled at this, always able to move the other party with the most tactful words, making them willingly hand over the treasure.

At this point, Dumbledore turned to look at Sherlock, a gentle smile in his eyes:

“Sherlock, you’re quite similar to him in that respect.”

"What do you mean?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and asked calmly.

“You are all very good at persuading others and getting them to listen to your ideas,” Dumbledore explained.

"That's right!"

Harry immediately chimed in, his tone quite certain, "That's exactly the kind of person Sherlock is."

Sherlock smiled faintly upon hearing this, offering no further explanation.

He knew perfectly well that there was a fundamental difference between different kinds of persuasion.

Voldemort relied on feigned gentleness and meticulous calculation, manipulating people's hearts by exploiting their weaknesses.

He disdained doing that; what he relied on was rigorous logic, irrefutable facts, and a persistent pursuit of the truth.

Seeing that Sherlock didn't respond, Dumbledore didn't seem to care and continued:
"The memory I want to share with you comes from a very old house-elf named Haoqi."

He picked up a small bottle containing silver-white memories, tapped it gently with his wand, and the cork popped off with a "pop".

He slowly poured the swirling memories from the bottle into the meditation basin. The silvery memories immediately rippled like liquid in the basin, shimmering with a soft glow.

"Her master was a very old and very wealthy witch named Hepzbasmith."

"Which of you two will enter this memory first?"

Seeing Sherlock nod at him, Harry immediately stood up.

He walked quickly to the Pensieve, bent down and approached the rippled silver substance in the basin until the warm touch touched his cheek.

The next second, he felt his body lose its support and tumbled as he fell into the dark void.

Shortly after landing, Sherlock and Dumbledore landed beside him, and the three of them stood steadily in a realistic scene.

As soon as Sherlock landed, he immediately raised his head and scanned his surroundings with sharp eyes, taking in every detail of the environment.

This is an extremely cramped living room.

The cabinet against the wall was filled with small boxes painted with gold lacquer, their surfaces inlaid with tiny gemstones that shimmered faintly in the dim light.

The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with books with gold-embossed covers, some of the text on the spines of which was already blurred and illegible, clearly indicating that they were antiques of some age.

On a shelf in the corner were star models of varying sizes and a bronze astrolabe, the pointer of which was still turning slightly, as if still calculating star orbits. Several lush green plants were planted in exquisitely carved bronze vessels, their large leaves drooping down and almost obscuring half of the window.

The whole room felt like a magical antique shop and a greenhouse forcibly pieced together.

It was crowded, yet the owner's wealth was evident everywhere.

It is simple and unpretentious, yet it exudes an undeniable sense of luxury.

Even if you are only in the realm of memories, you can still sense the complex scent in the air, a mixture of old book ink, plant moisture, and precious incense.

After surveying his surroundings, Sherlock turned his gaze to the center of the room.

An elderly woman was sitting in an armchair with velvet cushions; she was none other than Hepzba Smith.

This person was enormous, dressed in a rather luxurious, bright pink silk robe. The hem of the robe spread out around the chair like a giant blooming flower.

She wore an exquisite ginger-yellow wig, with meticulously styled curls and adorned with several round pearl hair accessories.

Her size was a stark contrast to the cramped room; it was a stroke of luck for her to walk through without knocking over the surrounding furniture.

At this moment, she was facing a small mirror with a ruby ​​frame, using a large powder puff embroidered with gold thread to continue layering rouge onto her already bright red cheeks.

With each swipe of the powder puff, tiny pink powders could be seen scattering in the air, landing on her clothes like a layer of crushed rose petals.

A thin, old house-elf was kneeling at her feet, carefully fastening the buckles on her tight satin shoes.

The little elf was only as tall as Hepziba's chair cushion, its paper-pale skin hanging loosely on its skeleton like old linen that would tear at the slightest touch.

She was wearing a faded gray linen robe, which hung loosely over her thin body, making her look particularly pitiful.

"Hurry up, Hao Qi!"

Hepzba's voice was shrill and domineering, making it very unpleasant to listen to. "He said he'd be here at four, and there are only two minutes left. He's never been late!"

Urged on by her, the house-elf Hao Qi hurriedly straightened up.

Her tiny fingers trembled slightly with nervousness, her fingertips barely able to grip the shoe buckle, and she managed to fasten the last buckle with great difficulty.

Hepziba put away the powder puff, looked herself over in the mirror, then smoothed the curls of her wig, making sure nothing was messy, before asking with satisfaction:

"How do I look? Don't I look ten years younger?"

“Very beautiful, madam, as beautiful as a blooming rose.”

Hao Qi answered in a high-pitched voice, her tone carrying a hint of deliberate flattery, yet unable to conceal her exhaustion, clearly exhausted both physically and mentally from being bossed around by her master.

Sherlock withdrew his gaze from the heavy rouge on Hepzibah's face, a faint hint of mockery flashing in his eyes.

At the same time, he gave a precise evaluation in his mind.

[Wealthy, arrogant, cold-hearted by nature, and completely lacking in self-awareness—blinded by false sophistication, and attempting to use wealth to retain the illusion of youth.]

Harry secretly speculated that Haoqi's contract must require her to lie when answering this question.

He felt that his aesthetic sense was not problematic.

In his view, Hepzigba's bloated figure and exaggerated makeup had absolutely nothing to do with the word "beautiful".

Just then, the doorbell rang.

The crisp sound broke the silence in the room, and the master and servant jumped up instantly.

Hepzba's pink robe nearly knocked over a stand with an astrolabe because of the large movements.

Startled, she quickly grabbed the handrail and cried out urgently:
"Quick, quick, he's here, Hao Qi! Go open the door!"

Her hands kept smoothing out the folds of her robe, afraid of making the slightest mistake, her eyes filled with undisguised joy.

The little elf didn't dare to delay and quickly ran out of the house with small, quick steps, its slender figure flashing past in the corridor.

A moment later, Hao Qi returned, followed by a tall young man.

Sherlock recognized the other person at a glance—it was Voldemort in his youth.

His black hair was slightly longer than when I last saw him in the Pensieve, falling softly over his forehead and making his features appear even more striking.

The slight hollowing of her cheeks perfectly accentuated her more defined features, adding a touch of mature charm.

His well-tailored dark gray suit accentuated his tall and straight figure, making him appear more mature and handsome than his actual age.

He moved carefully through the crowded room, his steps so light they were almost silent, precisely avoiding the piles of antiques and plants.

Upon seeing this, Sherlock immediately deduced that he had been here many times and knew the layout of the room like the back of his hand.

Voldemort walked up to Hepzibah, bent down slightly, and gracefully touched the back of her plump hand with his lips, his tone as gentle as a spring breeze across a lake:
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Smith—I brought you flowers."

As he spoke, he raised his hand and gently waved it, and a bunch of vibrant red roses appeared out of thin air in his hand.

The petals were still covered with glistening water droplets and emitted a faint fragrance, clearly indicating that they had been carefully selected.

Sherlock watched this scene and couldn't help but chuckle softly, his eyes full of disdain.

In his view, this deliberate attempt to please was truly clumsy, hypocritical, and full of flaws.

But some people just happen to fall for it.

"You naughty child, you shouldn't have done that!"

Hepziba's cheeks flushed even more with excitement, her eyes were full of joy, but she pretended to be reproachful, her sweetness barely concealed in her tone.

However, on a small table covered with a lace tablecloth next to it, an exquisite crystal vase had already been placed, clearly indicating that it had been prepared in advance.

Both Sherlock and Voldemort saw through this easily.

Hepzba, however, was unaware of this.

As she spoke, she gestured for Hao Qi to take the roses and put them in the vase, while affectionately calling to Voldemort:
"You're spoiling this old lady rotten, Tom..."

Sit down, sit down!

Hao Qi, hurry and bring me the pastries I prepared—oh, look at my memory!

The house-elf immediately rushed into the house carrying a silver tray.

Several delicate little cakes were placed on the tray, covered with thick cream and fresh fruit, and smelled delicious.

She carefully placed the tray on the small table next to the hostess's elbow.

"Tom, come and eat something!"

From the moment Voldemort entered the room, Hepzba's eyes were glued to his face.

Even if they were to kiss each other the next moment, it wouldn't seem surprising.

Harry thought with a hint of malice.

(End of this chapter)