"Audacious!"
The moment Sherlock opened his mouth to mock him, someone behind Voldemort could not restrain himself and cried out:
"Who do you think you are, daring to address our Lord— Ahhh—!"
The words had barely left his lips when Voldemort, without so much as turning his head, flicked his wand back in one fluid motion.
"Crucio!"
A bolt of red light shot from the tip of his wand and struck the man who had just shouted at Sherlock with unerring precision.
Without any surprise, the man hit by the Cruciatus Curse immediately crumpled, writhing on the ground.
As the Dark Lord himself casting an Unforgivable Curse, Voldemort's work was, naturally, spectacular in its cruelty.
The man thrashed, wailed, and begged for mercy—
"My Lord, my Lord..."
The commotion he caused was, by any measure, far greater than Harry's had been moments before.
Yet in the face of this genuinely heartfelt pleading, Voldemort still did not turn around.
Instead, a smile of cold, cruel satisfaction spread across his face.
"Who," he said softly, "gave you the courage to speak?"
"My Lord, my Lord... please... I beg you..."
"Who permitted you to interrupt me while I was speaking with my esteemed guests?"
"My Lord, please..."
"You still have the strength to shout? Still the strength to beg?"
"..."
"Yes. You are all hale and healthy, your magic as strong as it ever was.
And yet I find myself compelled to ask—why is it that this gaggle of wizards has made no effort to come to the aid of their master? To the aid of the one to whom they swore eternal allegiance?"
The men gathered behind Voldemort had, until this moment, been counting their blessings.
Several of them had been on the verge of doing exactly what the man now writhing on the ground had done—stepping forward to denounce Sherlock. The intention, of course, had been to flatter the Dark Lord.
After all, an underage young wizard calling Voldemort ugly? By any estimation, it seemed like a perfectly good opportunity to demonstrate one's loyalty.
What a pity that this man had beaten them to it.
And what none of them could possibly have foreseen was that his flattery had struck entirely the wrong note.
What was worse, Voldemort now seemed unwilling to let the matter end there. He was escalating.
In that instant, every single one of them fell deathly silent.
It was then that Sherlock noticed something: one person in the crowd was behaving very differently from the rest.
Something unusual always means something worth investigating.
Sherlock immediately fixed his attention on that individual.
Meanwhile, only the man who had shouted continued to twist and scream on the ground.
Voldemort still had not turned. He spoke in a low voice, almost to himself:
"I tell myself—they must have believed I was finished. That I was gone for good.
They slipped back to my enemies and claimed innocence—claimed ignorance, claimed they had been bewitched.
And then I ask myself: why did they believe I would not return?
Did they not know that I had long since taken measures against death?
Did they not witness, time and again, when I was more powerful than any wizard alive, proof after proof of my limitless potential?
I tell myself: perhaps they came to believe there exists some power capable of overcoming Voldemort.
Perhaps they now serve another—that champion of Mudbloods and Muggles, perhaps—Albus Dumbledore. Is that it?"
At the sound of Dumbledore's name, Harry's gaze sharpened.
He suppressed with great effort the urge to look around.
Behind Voldemort, the Death Eaters began to stir and murmur. Voldemort paid them no mind, pronouncing each word with deliberate weight:
"This... disappoints me. I will admit—I am disappointed."
"My Lord... please, forgive me... forgive us..."
Voldemort gave a cold laugh and withdrew his wand.
The man who had shouted lay flat on the ground, gasping.
"Get up, Avery."
Voldemort said quietly:
"Rise. You beg my forgiveness?
No. I do not forgive. Nor do I forget.
Thirteen long years. You will repay the debt of thirteen years before I consider forgiveness."
"Have you quite finished your little soliloquy?"
Sherlock regarded the figure across from him with open distaste.
"Hollow theatrics—performed solely to parade your power. Was there a point to any of that?"
Voldemort's crimson eyes moved slowly between Sherlock and Harry, then he spoke at last:
"Sherlock Holmes. Harry Potter. You surprise me—you genuinely do.
For all that you are merely two children, your conduct puts these fools to shame. Entirely to shame.
And so I grant you the honor of being my special guests this evening. Rest assured—I will not allow these crude creatures to trouble you."
"Shall we thank you for that, then?"
"No need, Holmes."
Voldemort smiled and began to pace, his gaze sweeping the grounds.
The great serpent, no longer circling him, had begun to wind its own path through the grass.
"Harry Potter—you are standing on the bones of my father. A thoroughgoing fool—much like your mother."
Harry could not contain himself. "Don't you dare insult my mother!"
Sherlock pressed a firm hand to his shoulder, cutting him off.
"Can you not manage any other vocabulary? Your range of expression is embarrassingly impoverished."
"It's all right, Holmes." Voldemort sounded almost amused. "I am not the man I was three years ago. Your little provocations will not so easily stoke my anger."
"Oh? Is that so?"
A smile crossed Sherlock's face—one that even Harry found slightly unsettling.
"Quite so—"
Yet Voldemort only laughed.
"The night is long, and we have all the time in the world.
Let us return to the subject of Harry Potter, shall we?
When you were small, your mother died to protect you. As for me—I killed my father."
As he said this, Voldemort's expression held not a trace of shame. If anything, he seemed rather pleased with himself.
Harry, whose moral compass was unwavering, fired back at once: "And you take pride in that."
"Why should I feel shame?"
Voldemort returned the question.
"Having such a father—that was my shame. But his death?
Look—do you see that house on the hill?
My father lived there.
My mother was a witch; she lived in this very village.
She fell in love with him. But my father abandoned her after she fell pregnant."
Sherlock and Harry exchanged a glance.
They had, in fact, known this already.
But judging from Voldemort's manner, he was clearly unaware of that.
Which was, of course, a good thing.
It meant Voldemort did not know that Dumbledore had been quietly investigating his past.
Perhaps emboldened by finally reclaiming a physical body, Voldemort seemed unusually talkative tonight:
"He left her, went back to his parents—before I was even born, Potter.
My mother died in childbirth. I grew up in an orphanage.
But I swore I would find him. And I repaid him in kind."
He continued his slow, unhurried pacing, his red eyes drifting between the gravestones.
"Listen as I recount my family history..."
He murmured softly, "Ah—I confess, even I feel a touch of melancholy...
Though he was not entirely without use. See how admirably serviceable he has proved in death..."
"So then..."
Sherlock spoke suddenly.
"You relied upon your father in order to be resurrected?"
Voldemort let out another of his hissing, hollow laughs.
That particular laugh, given his extraordinary face, always seemed to make him look worse than weeping would have.
"Holmes... Holmes, you are quite remarkable.
Yes—you have guessed correctly. This is an ancient and powerful Dark Magic.
I required three potent ingredients to brew the potion that has restored me to this form.
One of them was bone of the father—which is, naturally, why I came to this place. Where he was buried."
"As I expected," Sherlock said coolly. "It seems you received considerable help."
"You are not wrong, Holmes.
See how fortune has always favored Voldemort.
With the assistance of a certain... helpful friend, I was able to stand here and complete the rebirthing ritual.
And thanks to one loyal servant—through his efforts—the two of you came to be here tonight."
As the last words left his mouth, a figure stepped slowly out from among the crowd behind Voldemort and came to stand at his side.
Harry tugged at Sherlock's sleeve.
This man's face—he had seen it in his visions.
Sherlock, of course, already understood what Harry meant.
In truth, he hadn't needed the prompt. He had recognized the man moments before.
"John Smith."
Sherlock's gaze dropped to the dragon-hide glove on the man's right hand, then, as surprise registered on John Smith's face, he added:
"Or perhaps I should call you Leight Black? Mr. Blacklight?"
John Smith froze.
He had anticipated that Sherlock might recognize him.
What he had not anticipated was that Sherlock would expose the other identity as well, in the same breath.
Sherlock's voice was cool and unyielding:
"Mr. Blacklight—you stole a classified document from the Ministry of Magic and framed your colleague, Mr. Ibb, for the theft.
Shortly after being exposed, you successfully escaped Ministry custody.
You then assumed the identity of Nordic wizard John Smith and made contact with Greek interpreter Baskerville and Musgrave.
After killing Musgrave, you were placed on wanted lists by both the Greek and British Ministries of Magic. You evaded capture for years—until, it appears, solitude finally grew tiresome, and you allied yourself with Voldemort.
Surprised, are you?
In truth, so am I—that you would appear before me in your own face.
The case files for both incidents are committed to memory. The connections between the two cases are more than sufficient to confirm your identity.
One more thing—why have you not asked your ally to restore your missing limb?
As far as I am aware, he is perfectly capable of doing so."
Sherlock's words struck the gathered crowd like a thunderclap.
Most of those present knew something of the two cases he had referenced—all except Voldemort.
And yet even Voldemort, having now heard Sherlock's account, turned to study the figure beside him—Blacklight—with a newly intrigued look.
He had always known his ally was operating under a false name. "John Smith" had been an open secret from the start.
What he had not known was the story lurking behind that false name.
"Remarkable... truly remarkable, Holmes."
Voldemort looked at Sherlock, his admiration entirely unfeigned.
"I noticed it four years ago, the first time we met."
"Did you? How very slow of you."
Sherlock replied without ceremony. "Most people manage to notice it within three days."
"You seem to have a method of your own—one you trust with absolute conviction. Is that right?"
"If you mean the method of deduction—then yes, I do."
Sherlock looked again toward Blacklight. "On that subject, I believe he understands it rather better than you do."
Blacklight said nothing.
"Given all of this," Voldemort's scarlet eyes settled on Sherlock, as though trying to see through him:
"Why, then, did you come here?
Please do not tell me it was intentional."
Voldemort's words sent Harry's heart lurching violently.
For one terrible instant, he was almost certain Voldemort had already divined his plan.
But the feeling passed quickly—because Voldemort continued:
"There is no hurry, Holmes. I am in good spirits tonight, and we have all the time in the world.
You and Potter are my guests of honor, and I will answer every question you have—before I kill Harry Potter with my own hands."
"Ha."
Sherlock's response was a single, cold laugh.
"..."
Harry said nothing, but the gaze he turned on Voldemort burned with undisguised hatred and revulsion.
"Fascinating—truly fascinating. Are you not afraid of me?"
Voldemort studied Sherlock and Harry.
"Afraid? Why should we be?"
Sherlock glanced at Harry beside him, and a faint, almost amused smile played at the corner of his mouth.
"The entire wizarding world knows—my friend Harry Potter is the vanquisher of the Dark Lord.
As a mere infant, he already defeated you once.
Four years ago, he foiled you again.
So tell me—why should we fear a man who has lost to him twice?"
At Sherlock's words, the hooded, masked figures behind Voldemort stirred once more.
Someone muttered under their breath, shaking their head.
Voldemort laughed again and turned his gaze on Harry.
"This boy—my vanquisher?"
The moment those red eyes fixed on Harry, his scar ignited with a savage, searing pain.
He nearly cried out—but bit it back, barely.
He had already shown pain once this evening.
This time, he refused to lose his composure in front of the man who had murdered his parents.
Voldemort turned suddenly and faced the crowd—those figures who had still, even now, not removed their masks—and said, in a carrying, deliberate voice:
"Our young friend is quite right. You all know it—on the night I was stripped of my power and my body, I had come to kill him.
His mother died to save him—and in so doing, she unwittingly conferred upon him a kind of protection.
I confess: that I had not foreseen. I miscalculated.
My curse was deflected by that foolish woman's sacrifice and rebounded upon me.
Ah... the pain was beyond all endurance, my friends. Nothing could withstand it.
I was torn from my body—less than a ghost, less than the most wretched shade...
And yet I survived.
What I was in those years, even now I do not fully know. But this much is certain—
I have gone further along the path to immortality than any wizard who has ever lived."
At those words, a cold clarity settled over Sherlock.
It was precisely because of this—these very words—that Dumbledore had been able to confirm that Voldemort had created Horcruxes.
Hearing it again now, he almost found it grimly amusing.
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