"You're quite right. The Elder Wand's previous master was Grindelwald."
Dumbledore looked faintly embarrassed, understanding once again that he ought never to try keeping secrets from Sherlock.
"Now, where was I? Ah yes—I met Grindelwald in Godric's Hollow."
His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted toward the window.
Without anyone noticing, rain had begun to fall outside.
Now it slanted across the glass in thin threads, blurring the distant outline of the Forbidden Forest.
"I must say, his ideas inspired me.
And the heart of our plan was, of all things, the Deathly Hallows.
How they obsessed us then—
A wand that could never lose, a weapon that would win us power!
The Resurrection Stone meant an army of the dead to him, but I pretended not to know that, because to me—well, I admit it—it meant bringing my parents back, lifting every burden from my shoulders.
And then the Cloak.
For some reason, we never spoke much about the Cloak, Sherlock.
Perhaps because the two of us needed no cloak to hide ourselves well enough already."
At this his voice softened slightly, his eyes were drifting to the flames dancing in the hearth, firelight casting shadows across his wrinkled face.
"The truth is, its real magic lies not only in shielding and concealing its owner, but in shielding and concealing others as well.
At the time, my thought was this— if I could truly find the Cloak, perhaps I could use it to hide Ariana.
But no. Our interest in the Cloak was only because it was one of the three.
According to the legend, whoever possessed all three would become the true master of Death—which, as we understood it, meant invincible."
Here a self-mocking smile appeared on Dumbledore's face. "Laughable, when I think of it now. Two grown wizards, each convinced of his own genius, and together we understood less than a single fifteen-year-old boy."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this.
The fifteen-year-old in question was, of course, himself.
"In those days our heads were full of nothing but the invincible conqueror of Death—Grindelwald and Dumbledore!
And because our minds were so consumed with that cruel dream, we neglected the only two people left who needed my care.
Sherlock, I imagine you can already guess what happened next."
"Deduce," Sherlock corrected him first, then said, "Your brother made his entrance."
Dumbledore's self-mocking smile turned bitter.
"Yes. My brother, Aberforth Dumbledore, stopped me.
Aberforth was crude, uneducated—and far better than I was.
But I didn't want to hear the truths he shouted at me then.
I didn't want to be told I was being held back by a fragile, unstable sister, kept from setting out to find the Hallows.
In the end... the argument became a duel."
Dumbledore's voice trembled, as though each word carried the weight of blood.
"And that was when Grindelwald lost control.
That thing in his nature—I had always sensed it, though I always pretended not to see it—burst forth then, terribly."
His body trembled faintly, his eyes went glassy, as though he had returned once more to that chaotic afternoon.
The sun over Godric's Hollow had been blinding, and his sister's fallen body so unbearably heavy.
"Ariana... my dear sister..."
His voice broke.
Tears finally overwhelmed whatever held them back, sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto the wool blanket, blooming into small dark stains. "After all my mother's tender care and devotion... she lay dead on the ground."
Dumbledore drew a soft, shuddering breath, his shoulders were heaving violently as he wept beyond restraint.
He raised a hand to cover his face, muffled sobs escaping between his fingers—half a lifetime's guilt and grief were pouring out now, unreserved.
Sherlock watched him quietly, body leaning slightly forward, hands folded in his lap. His grey eyes held not the faintest ripple, and yet no impatience either. His gaze was steady and attentive, like a patient listener.
In this moment, he could feel clearly the wound in Dumbledore's heart that had never healed.
The old man, past a hundred years of age, slowly mastered himself at last.
He lowered his hand and wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, his eyes rimmed red, tear-tracks still lingering on his face, his voice turned nasal:
"Afterward, Grindelwald fled which everyone but me could have foreseen.
He vanished, taking with him his schemes for power, his plots to torment Muggles, his dream of hunting down the Deathly Hallows—dreams I had once encouraged and helped him chase.
He ran, and I stayed behind to bury my sister, learning to pass my days in guilt and unbearable grief. That was the price of my shame.
Many years passed."
Dumbledore's gaze drifted to the window once more. The rain had stopped at some point; along the horizon a faint pale grey was beginning to show.
"I heard rumours about him now and then—that he'd gotten hold of a wand of terrible power.
By that time, the post of Minister for Magic had been offered to me—more than once, many times.
I refused, of course.
I already knew that power could never be entrusted to me. I believed I was safer at Hogwarts. I believed I was a good teacher—
And while I busied myself training young witches and wizards, Grindelwald was gathering an army.
People say he feared me. Perhaps he did. But I believe I feared him more.
Not death, of course—not the thought of him striking me down with magic.
I knew we were evenly matched, perhaps I even held a slight edge.
What I feared was the truth."
"Because knowing the truth means having to face it."
Sherlock finished the thought, his tone as calm as ever, yet striking precisely at the heart of it.
"Yes. I never knew in that terrible, chaotic fight who it was that cast the curse that killed my sister."
Dumbledore's voice carried a thread of despair, his gaze fixed emptily ahead, as though searching for an answer he would never find.
"What I feared most, deep in my heart, was learning that I had caused her death—not merely through my arrogance and folly, but that it was I myself who cast that fatal blow at her.
I believe he knew. I believe he knew exactly what I feared.
I kept putting off seeing him, and it was in that very stretch of time that I came to know the Nagini I mentioned before...
Until, at last, staying out of sight any longer became too shameful to bear.
People were dying horribly. He seemed unstoppable. I had to do everything in my power.
What happened after that, I think you already know."
Dumbledore gave a slight nod, a flicker of relief was crossing his face, though it carried an exhaustion that could never be erased.
"I won the duel—I won this, the Elder Wand."
Another awkward silence fell.
The fire crackled in the hearth, sparks occasionally leaping free, landing on the cold stone floor, extinguished in an instant.
"So, it seems the Elder Wand isn't quite unbeatable after all."
Sherlock said flatly. "Grindelwald, wand in hand, still proved no match for you or did he simply hold back?"
Dumbledore looked startled.
A moment passed before he cleared his throat. Rather than answer Sherlock's question, he returned to the thread of his story:
"Antioch was the Elder Wand's first owner. After he was murdered, the wand passed from hand to hand until at last it reached Grindelwald, who had been searching for it all along.
Once Grindelwald was defeated, it came to me.
Cadmus was the Resurrection Stone's first owner. Though he took his own life, unable to truly be reunited with the lover he had brought back, the Stone was passed down through his descendants.
Ignotus was the Cloak's first owner. The Potter family are his descendants."
"And... who are Cadmus's descendants?"
Sherlock leaned slightly forward, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes—clearly fascinated by where this answer might lead.
Dumbledore found himself once again startled by Sherlock's keenness. A flicker of admiration passed through his eyes, but this time he asked nothing further—he simply gave the answer directly:
"The Gaunts."
Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning back against his chair, sinking deep into thought within his Mind Palace.
Three seconds later, his eyes snapped open, bright and clear, and he spoke quickly:
"So, when you found Marvolo Gaunt's ring at the old Gaunt house and wanted to put it on, it wasn't only because the Horcrux's dark power was influencing you.
The real reason was that you recognized the stone set into that family heirloom, the Gaunt ring, as the Resurrection Stone itself. Isn't that so?"
Dumbledore nodded, admitting it without hesitation:
"I lost my head, Sherlock.
In that moment, I forgot it was already a Horcrux. I forgot Voldemort would certainly have laid some terrible curse upon it.
The instant I picked it up, I thought I was about to see Ariana, my mother, my father—to tell them how deeply, how bitterly I regretted everything...
If not for you, I would surely have put it on."
Dumbledore looked at Sherlock as he spoke, his eyes filled with gratitude. "So... you saved my life."
"Save your thanks for when we've won this thing outright."
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "When Harry destroyed the Horcrux with the Sword of Gryffindor, did he destroy the Resurrection Stone as well?"
"No." Dumbledore shook his head, his tone was firm.
"Heh—the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, the Cloak of Invisibility. All three, gathered at last."
Sherlock gave a low laugh, his tone edged with mockery. "According to the legend, then, you ought to be invincible now, with all three Hallows in hand."
Dumbledore shook his head. He picked up a quill from the desk and drew out a torn piece of parchment from among his stacks of books.
"The Elder Wand." He drew a vertical line on the parchment, straight and forceful.
"The Resurrection Stone." He added a circle above the line, round and smooth, fitting perfectly against it.
"The Cloak of Invisibility." He drew a triangle around both the line and the circle, its edges sharp and clean, enclosing the first two firmly within.
"Together, they form—the sign of the Deathly Hallows."
△│◯
At the sight of this symbol, Sherlock could not help a moment's twitch.
His extraordinary powers of observation and memory told him at once that he had seen this symbol somewhere before.
Another three seconds of deep thought.
Sherlock spoke slowly: "Godric's Hollow."
"What?" Dumbledore looked at him, uncomprehending.
"I said Godric's Hollow." Sherlock looked at Dumbledore, his tone earnest. "I saw this symbol there."
For Sherlock, retrieving information from his Mind Palace was never difficult, and he found the memory quickly. His gaze drifted far away, as though he had returned to that sunlit summer holiday when he had accompanied Harry to the old Potter house in Godric's Hollow.
Near the grave of Harry's parents, he had noticed a broken headstone, thick with moss.
The stone had been old, battered nearly past the point of reading whatever name was carved upon it.
The moss had been a vivid green, blanketing the stone like a thick, soft carpet.
But the name had not been what mattered.
What had truly caught Sherlock's attention was a symbol carved upon the grave itself.
△│◯
Hearing this, Dumbledore's face lit with sudden understanding, and he explained:
"The grave you saw belonged to Ignotus Peverell—the youngest of the three brothers in the tale of the Deathly Hallows, and an ancestor of the Potter family.
The symbol carved on that headstone represents the Deathly Hallows—and it is also the emblem of the Peverell family."
He paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "I confess, I never expected you had already seen it."
Sherlock let out a soft sigh, his expression turning rather complicated. "Nor did I expect that Harry would turn out to be related to Voldemort."
By Dumbledore's account just now, the Potter family descended from Ignotus Peverell, the youngest of the three Peverell brothers.
The Gaunt family, meanwhile, descended from Cadmus, the second brother.
Since Ignotus and Cadmus had been true brothers, the two families shared a common bloodline—distant kin, but kin all the same.
"Given how many generations have passed, the blood tie between them has grown vanishingly thin across countless generations."
Dumbledore explained with a note of emotion in his voice. "Such kinship carries no direct bearing on their positions or their fates—"
"I already know that."
Sherlock cut him off, somewhat impatiently, brow furrowing, a trace of irritation in his voice.
"You're about to tell me their central conflict still comes down to the destined confrontation between the Chosen One and the Dark Lord.
But I can say with certainty—Harry has no wish to accept that confrontation.
He would rather have had an ordinary whole family."
Dumbledore fell silent. He lowered his head, looking down at his own aged hands, his fingers were curling faintly.
After a moment, he let out a long sigh, his voice was full of helplessness. "You're not wrong. But so often, none of us are free to choose our own path..."
"Now I understand completely why you believed Harry 'got along well enough' all those years at the Dursleys'."
There was mockery in Sherlock's tone, though his eyes held little real malice.
"Aside from the simple fact that you were born in the Victorian era, your own personal history clearly played no small part in it as well."
He paused, then rose to his feet, straightening his coat.
"And... that's enough for today's conversation."
At Sherlock's words, Dumbledore could not help lifting his head, a flash of astonishment appeared in his eyes.
For this was the first time Sherlock had ever ended their conversation on his own.
In the past, it had always been Dumbledore who did that while Sherlock, always, wanted more.
You can read more than 40 chapters on:
patreon.com/MikeyMuse