"My dear friend—so why don't you do as our special guest has just suggested?"
Voldemort's voice was low and rasping. His gaze drifted to the black leather glove on Blacklight's hand, and he spoke each word with weight:
"All you need to do is remove the glove, and I can make you whole again."
At those words, Blacklight's right hand—hanging at his side—gave a subtel tremor.
A flicker of hesitation passed through his eyes.
He knew full well that cooperating with Voldemort was a dangerous thing.
Judging by everything the man had done during the Wizarding Wars, he was an extraordinarily dangerous figure. Not one of the Death Eaters who followed him had ever been treated as a friend—not even as a proper subordinate. They were pieces on a chessboard, pawns Voldemort could discard at any moment.
Before Voldemort had reclaimed his body, the balance of power had favoured Blacklight. But once Voldemort restored his true strength, the positions would be reversed entirely.
And yet—he had no other choice.
He refused to keep scurrying through sunless underground passages like a rat. In circumstances like these, only Voldemort could help him. From the moment he had ventured deep into the dark forests of Albania and found Voldemort, he had already burned the bridge behind him.
Still, judging from what Voldemort had just done, the man was pettily vindictive. Blacklight had concealed his identity—who could say whether that would fester into resentment?
And yet, if he could have his missing fingers restored…
His hesitation was a tangle of wariness toward the unknown and a hunger he could not suppress. His resolve swung back and forth, unable to settle.
Voldemort watched Blacklight's indecision without a trace of impatience. He simply stood where he was, utterly still.
A few steps away, Sherlock leaned against his crossed arms and observed Blacklight with interest.
Blacklight's throat moved. At last, he slowly raised his left hand, his fingertips catching the edge of the glove on his right, and peeled the black leather back, inch by inch.
At that very moment, pale moonlight broke through the clouds and fell across his right hand.
Everyone saw it clearly: his ring finger and index finger were gone from the root, leaving nothing but a bare palm. The skin at the stumps had long since scarred over, yet the old wounds still bore the marks of something vicious.
Harry's pupils contracted sharply. In an instant, the words of Mafalda Hopkirk from the Ministry of Magic surfaced in his memory:
"Lyte Black did manage to escape, but not without a price—we kept two fingers from his right hand."
He had only half-remembered this conversation when Sherlock brought it up a few hours ago. As for the names "John Smith" and "Lyte Black"—had Sherlock not made the connection explicit, Harry would never have linked them himself.
Yet now, seeing Blacklight's eight fingers, he thought: of course.
It was strange. Without Sherlock pointing it out, the connection had been invisible. The moment Sherlock said it aloud, everything seemed so perfectly, inevitably logical.
Then again—this was Sherlock. That made it logical enough.
Voldemort's eyes swept over Blacklight's right hand, and something shifted behind his gaze.
He had spent so long in Blacklight's company and never once noticed the missing fingers. Yet Sherlock, meeting Blacklight for the very first time, had deduced this fact through what he called "the method of deduction."
That quality of perception stirred a faint pang of regret in Voldemort's chest—a mind like this, and it could not be made to serve him.
A single Sherlock would outweigh a dozen Death Eaters, perhaps more.
But then…
If he cannot be mine, he shall be destroyed.
A cruel smile curved his lips, and a flash of red glinted in his eyes.
To destroy such a brilliant mind with his own hands—now that would be something worth relishing.
Voldemort drew himself back. He raised his wand slowly, its tip trained on Blacklight's right hand:
"Voldemort never fails to reward those who have helped him."
The moment the words left his mouth, a stream of light like molten silver poured from the tip of his wand. At first it was nothing more than a churning, luminous haze. But after spiraling twice through the air, it suddenly twisted and took shape—and gradually solidified into two gleaming, silver fingers.
They drifted down on a soft silver glow, unhurried, and came to rest precisely where Blacklight's missing fingers had been, curling around the stumps like tendrils of a vine.
Blacklight's breathing turned ragged.
He wrenched his gaze downward, eyes fixed on his right hand, filled with something that bordered on disbelief.
The two silver fingers joined his palm without so much as a seam. Apart from the stark difference in color, they might have grown there from birth.
He flexed the silver fingers experimentally. The knuckles bent with effortless ease—no different from his left hand.
To make certain it was not an illusion, he bent and picked up a dead twig from the ground, and squeezed.
The twig crumbled instantly to powder, the dust sifting through his fingers.
"My deepest thanks… my Lord Voldemort."
Blacklight changed how he addressed Voldemort—abandoning the name he'd used before.
Two silver fingers said everything about Voldemort's intentions. And regrowing a severed limb—one lost years ago, no less—was nothing short of miraculous magic.
Voldemort seemed thoroughly pleased with the new title:
"I told you—Voldemort never fails to reward those who have helped him. Besides, you are my friend, Blacklight."
Blacklight gave a small nod and stepped quietly aside.
He held up his right hand and studied it, the fingertips of his left hand tracing the fine ridges of the silver fingers, as though touching something long lost and newly found.
Voldemort withdrew his gaze from Blacklight and turned it upon Sherlock and Harry. He spoke at a slow pace:
"You see that, my special guests? Four years ago, I told you to hand over the Philosopher's Stone. Potter—I promised to bring your parents back. Holmes—I promised you better treatment than any other Death Eater. But you refused me. Do you regret it now?"
Harry's heart lurched.
He stared at Voldemort's wand, and a thought rose in his mind unbidden: Perhaps Voldemort truly could bring them back.
But the thought lasted barely a second before he crushed it.
Voldemort uses Dark Magic. Even if his parents could be resurrected, they would not be the gentle, warm people he held in his memory. He didn't know why he was so certain of this. He simply was.
"I don't regret it."
Harry raised his head and met Voldemort's gaze squarely.
Sherlock didn't so much as glance up. Voldemort's words seemed to pass through him like wind—not even worth acknowledging.
"Foolish."
Yet for all that condemnation, Voldemort was in remarkably good spirits. He strolled to a headstone and let his fingertips trail over the name carved there, then continued:
"Even if we returned to Britain, stealing the Philosopher's Stone was no longer a real possibility. I knew Dumbledore would destroy it—and he did, as it turned out. But it didn't matter. I was willing to begin with more modest ambitions, and pursue immortality afterward. So I set my sights lower: I would restore my original body, my original power."
"If you don't mind," Sherlock said abruptly, cutting across him, "could you tell us about Bertha Jorkins? I believe you encountered her just before leaving Albania?"
Voldemort turned to look at him with mild surprise. Something searching passed through his eyes. "You seem rather interested in her."
"I am rather interested in her," Sherlock said candidly. "Or do you not wish to speak of it?"
"Heheheh…"
Voldemort let out the signature laugh of a man who had long ago embraced the role of villain:
"Holmes, you are quite right—even if you hadn't asked, I intended to tell you. On the night before we were to leave Albania, we encountered Bertha Jorkins at a musty little inn. You see how fate looks after Voldemort—I had taken her for nothing more than an ordinary Ministry witch, yet she gave me a most extraordinary surprise."
Fate. Sherlock gave a faint shake of his head. Every gift that fate bestows is quietly priced in advance. But Voldemort would never believe that. He went on:
"I could see at once that someone had placed a Memory Charm on her. But no Memory Charm is any use against me. She told me a great many things: the Quidditch World Cup; that Hogwarts would be hosting the Triwizard Tournament this year; and that there was a loyal Death Eater who had never betrayed me—one who, if I could only reach him, would gladly help me."
"Regrettably, the method I used to break through her Memory Charm was rather… thorough. By the time I had extracted every useful piece of information, her mind and body were too damaged to recover. She had served her purpose, and I could not inhabit her—so I disposed of her."
Though Sherlock had already deduced from the evidence that Bertha Jorkins was dead, hearing Voldemort say the words—disposed of her—with such casual indifference sent a cold flicker of fury rising in his chest.
For that alone, for that contemptuous disregard for human life, he would not let this monster go.
Voldemort took no notice of the shift in Sherlock's expression.
"Knowing I had such a loyal servant waiting," he continued, "I naturally could not leave well enough alone. But once again, Holmes, you and Potter disrupted my plans. You uncovered his identity before we could extract him. Had my friend Blacklight not acted decisively and seized him first, I might have missed that chance entirely."
He raised his wand and pressed its tip to his own chest, his voice thrumming with fervor:
"With his help, my plan became far easier to carry out. To brew the resurrection potion, I needed three powerful ingredients—an ancient and formidable piece of Dark Magic. Dumbledore would doubtless sneer at such a spell, but he little knows how useful it can be.
The first ingredient: my father's bone. That is why we came to this place.
The second: the blood of an enemy. That was easily arranged—there is no shortage of those who hate me. I chose the Auror who had hunted me so relentlessly—the one you call Mad-Eye Moody. My servant had already captured him; drawing a little blood was no difficulty at all.
The third: the flesh of a servant. Once again, Blacklight helped me. His followers are few, but for a task like this, more than sufficient.
And so—I am restored. I have a body again, whole and complete. My power is greater now than it has ever been."
Here his gaze locked onto Harry and Sherlock like a vice:
"And now—the two of you are all that remains. Do you know why I brought you here? Harry Potter—you are the one the world calls my downfall. Sherlock Holmes—you have undone my plans again and again. My faithful servant served me well: he used the Triwizard Tournament to guide you steadily toward the championship, toward the Cup. I had to wait a long time—but the wait is over at last.
Holmes—I take it you did win the tournament?"
"Isn't that rather obvious?" Sherlock nodded toward the Triwizard Cup a short distance away. "How else do you suppose we ended up here? Though I'll note that your servant rendered us no assistance whatsoever on the path to winning."
"With your abilities, I imagine you had little need of it." Voldemort waved a dismissive hand, a thread of impatience in his voice. "But none of that matters. What matters is—you have witnessed me, restored and complete. Voldemort's conquest of the world begins with settling accounts with the two of you."
He spoke the last words as he began to move, walking slowly toward Sherlock and Harry.
His black robes whispered against the ground with every step, and with every step, the air around them seemed to grow a fraction colder.
Harry's hand tightened around his wand inside his robe pocket. His heart hammered, his breath came short.
Then Sherlock let out a long, unhurried sigh—the sound of someone mildly inconvenienced.
"If that's truly what you think, then I'm afraid I owe you an apology."
Voldemort stopped. Then he laughed—a laugh dripping with contempt:
"Holmes, do you honestly believe that two underage wizards could stop me? Could stop the great and all-powerful Dark Lord?"
"All-powerful… you do love to talk yourself up." Sherlock's smile carried open, unconcealed disdain. "Do you want to know why I've spent so long listening to your story? Well—hearing criminals narrate their own crimes is, admittedly, a hobby of mine."
"What are you getting at?" Voldemort's expression darkened.
From the moment Harry and Sherlock had appeared, Voldemort had assumed everything was well within his control. But now Sherlock's composure, and Harry's steadiness alongside it, made something feel wrong.
He had assumed the two of them had abandoned all resistance because escape was hopeless. But that no longer seemed to be the case.
"Have you forgotten something? Each school entered three champions in this tournament, and Hogwarts had more than just the two of us. So why are we the only ones who appeared here?"
Sherlock stepped forward, placing himself between Voldemort and Harry, a hint of amusement in his voice:
"Do you truly believe your plan was airtight? That no one could have seen through it? You—"
"Avada Kedavra!"
No one had expected it. Voldemort, who had been the very picture of courtesy all evening, struck without warning.
A blinding flash of green erupted from the tip of his wand—like a serpent's darting tongue—and shot straight for Sherlock's chest.
"No—!"
Harry cried out in despair. He tried to raise his wand, but it was already too late.
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