Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts.

Chapter 622 High-level hunters often appear as prey.

This is the second time Sherlock has used the door key.

Just like when he went to the Quidditch World Cup, his hand was firmly attracted by a powerful magnetic force after touching the key that Barty Crouch Jr. had made into the Triwizard Cup, and he couldn't break free at all.

The scene before my eyes was constantly distorting and stretching.

The scene in the principal's office—dark wooden bookshelves, Phoenix Fox perched on a crossbar, spinning silver instruments, Crouch wrapped up like a dumpling on the floor, Fudge's terrified and contorted face…

Everything familiar shattered into countless points of light, blurring into a swirling vortex of color.

A chilling sensation spread from my fingertips throughout my body, a suffocating feeling gripped my throat, and a strong spinning sensation and a tearing sensation as my body was stretched to its limit struck at the same time.

Sherlock felt as if he had been thrown into a high-speed spinning washing machine drum, or as if he had been swept into a raging river whirlpool.

Fortunately, the process wasn't too long.
Just a few seconds later, with a muffled thud, Sherlock's feet slammed heavily into the ground.

He staggered a couple of steps, but quickly regained his balance.

Harry landed almost simultaneously, swayed slightly, and instinctively grabbed Sherlock's arm to avoid falling.

However, the Three Strong Cup slipped from their hands, crashed to the ground with a thud, rolled several meters away, and came to rest in a patch of weeds.

The sound was particularly jarring in the quiet night.

Sherlock immediately raised his head and scanned his surroundings.

They were standing in a cemetery overgrown with weeds.

The night was so dark that the moon was nowhere to be seen.

Only a few sparse stars hung in the sky, emitting a faint light that barely outlined the surrounding contours.

It was a dark and stormy night, perfect for murder.

On the right, a tall yew tree with lush foliage and a trunk so thick that it takes several people to encircle it.

The dark outline of a small church could be vaguely seen in the background, its spire piercing the night sky, exuding an eerie silence.

To the left is a gentle hill, on which stands an exquisite yet dilapidated old house.

The walls were mottled and peeling, revealing the bricks and stones underneath. The windows were dark and empty, giving off an indescribable eeriness.

Harry was still nervously looking around, but Sherlock recognized the house at a glance.

It was Riddle House, located in Little Hangleton, which he had visited twice before.

"interesting."

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile.

Voldemort did not set the coordinates of the Portkey at the location of his mysterious ally John Smith, but chose this location instead.

Unexpected, but reasonable.

He was originally such a stubborn, nostalgic, and extremely arrogant person.

Sherlock deduced that he must be planning to do something in his birthplace.

sense of ceremony.

This word perfectly reflects his inner world.

Harry glanced down at the Triwizard Cup that had rolled to the ground, then warily surveyed the desolate surroundings.

The shadow of that small patch of tombstone stretched long on the ground, giving him a vague sense of gloom and terror.

However, remembering that Dumbledore and the professors were nearby, he composed himself slightly and asked Sherlock in a low voice:
"What should we do now?"

"Just wait and see."

Sherlock looked into the depths of the cemetery and slowly said:

"Now that we, the prey, have arrived, it's time for the hunter to make his appearance—let's see who the prey really is."

As if to confirm Sherlock's words, shortly after their conversation ended, a series of light footsteps were heard in the darkness.

Several figures could be seen moving slowly between the tombstones, approaching them step by step.

The night was too dark for Harry to see the other person's face clearly; he could only vaguely make out a few tall silhouettes.

He wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but he always felt that the darkness there seemed more intense than elsewhere.

Just as he was concentrating, trying to make use of his dynamic vision.

A sharp pain suddenly shot through the scar on my forehead.

The pain came on suddenly and violently, like a red-hot awl piercing into the brain and instantly engulfing the whole body.

Harry couldn't bear it any longer; his legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees.

He screamed and clutched his head tightly with both hands, his knuckles turning white from the force.

My skull felt like it was going to explode, and the excruciating pain spread through my nerves to every part of my body.

Harry's scar had been hurting just like that in a Divination class not long ago.

He had a similar experience earlier, last summer, when he first dreamed of Voldemort.

But the pain in those two dreams was nothing compared to the excruciating pain from the scars when I was in first year, face to face with Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest and the Philosopher's Stone.

But this time, the pain was far more intense than before, as if it had been magnified several times over.

The Happy Charm that Dumbledore had just cast on him was instantly dispelled by the intense pain.

Of course, this doesn't mean the spell was useless—without it, Harry suspects he would have fainted from the pain long ago.

Tears welled up uncontrollably in my eyes, blurring my vision.

At that moment, he could see nothing and hear nothing.

Only the piercing pain echoed repeatedly in his mind, tormenting his nerves.

"Take a deep breath, Harry!"

Just then, a familiar and steady voice came from afar:
"Believe in yourself, brother, you can do it!" Even though he had anticipated this scene, seeing Harry curled up on the ground in agony still deeply touched the softest part of his heart.

"Empty your mind, block it out, and don't let its power affect you!"

He crouched down and gently placed his hand on Harry's shoulder:

"Focus your mind, think about happy things, think about everything we've been through together!"

It's unclear whether Sherlock's words of comfort had an effect, Dumbledore's spell still held power, or Harry himself actually succeeded.

Just as he felt nauseous and about to vomit, and his consciousness was fading, the tearing pain gradually subsided.

He slowly opened his stinging eyes, his vision clearing as he met Sherlock's concerned gray eyes.

"Have a sip."

Seeing Harry's expression, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

He took a small, flat bottle from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and handed it over, the rich aroma of brandy filling the air.

Harry knew this was Sherlock's liquor, which he carried with him to calm himself in extreme situations.

He took a small sip and immediately felt much warmer.

Alcohol also appears to have some analgesic effect.

He immediately reached out, his hand trembling, and grabbed Sherlock's arm tightly to support himself, asking in a hoarse voice:
"Is...is it him?"

"Obviously, my friend."

Sherlock helped Harry to his feet and slowly said, gazing into the darkness opposite:
"We've finally met, Voldemort."

His voice wasn't loud, but it sounded exceptionally clear in the quiet cemetery.

Sherlock knew that the other person could hear him.

"You are indeed no ordinary person, Sherlock Holmes."

A cold and shrill voice rang out, as grating as metal scraping, yet carrying a hint of approval:

"It's clear that you already know this is where you will be buried."

With that sound, a tall, thin figure slowly emerged from the darkness and stopped beside a tombstone not far away.

Neither Sherlock nor Harry could easily reconcile the image before them with the handsome Tom Riddle they remembered.

The opponent at this moment was even more ferocious and terrifying than the disfigured Voldemort they had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve.

His face was paler than a skeleton, and he looked completely bloodless.

Although his eyes were large, they were filled with a murky red color, and his pupils were long and narrow like snakes, exuding a cold killing intent.

The flat nose looked as if it had been forcibly shaved off, leaving only two thin cracks that were almost imperceptible unless you looked closely.

His eerie purplish-black lips were tightly pursed, revealing his sharp teeth only when he spoke.

The true, traditional standard villain looks like someone who is obviously not a good person.

Sherlock's gaze swept over Voldemort impassively, his expression seemingly calm, but inwardly he sighed.

Voldemort was eventually resurrected.

After Harry had that nightmare last time, he had already deduced a frustrating conclusion:

Voldemort will most likely regain his physical form around the time of the final event of the Triwizard Tournament.

His ally, John Smith, was clearly far more reliable and powerful than he had imagined.

At this moment, Voldemort was not alone.

Several shadows followed behind him.

These people were all dressed in black robes and were a step or two behind Voldemort.

Besides them, a huge python was dragging its thick body, meandering across the grass.

It crawled to Voldemort's side and affectionately circled his legs.

Noticing its forked tongue flicking out, emitting a low hissing sound, and its scales gleaming coldly in the faint starlight, Sherlock's heart stirred.

"Let's leave aside whose burial place it is."

Suppressing the slight ripples in his heart, Sherlock said in a calm tone:
"Your appearance is truly unexpected—I originally thought that after you regained your physical body, you would revert to your previous appearance."

Now it seems that, compared to the fearsome Dark Lord, you are more like a deformed monster that has just crawled out of its grave.

The professors who had cast the Disillusionment Charm were all taken aback when Voldemort made his official appearance.

No one understands how Voldemort was resurrected, let alone how he did it.

But Fudge was almost scared to death.

Fortunately, everyone was prepared and prevented him from giving himself away.

But hearing Sherlock mock the other party so blatantly, they immediately felt a chill run down their spines, ready to strike at any moment.

Surprisingly, Voldemort wasn't angry; instead, he lazily said:

"Judging by appearances is a very superficial thing to do, Holmes."

His voice was still shrill, but it lacked much emotional fluctuation.
"I thought someone like you wouldn't have such naive ideas."

"I really didn't."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and continued in a calm tone:

"But as far as I know, you have used your former appearance more than once in the past years."

Now that you have a body again, you've become inflated, right?
Or is it that you feel you no longer need that handsome appearance and can finally unabashedly display your ugly nature?

No sooner had Sherlock finished speaking than a loud shout came from behind Voldemort:
"How dare you!"

(End of this chapter)