Under Harry and Hermione's utterly astonished gazes, Sherlock produced the legendary Diadem of Ravenclaw.
An indescribable, icy chill immediately spread out, bone-deep cold wrapped in a thick, dark aura, drifting off the crown in wisps.
Whether it was imagination or not, both of them felt as though a pair of invisible eyes were lurking in that boundless darkness, watching them silently through the diadem's engravings.
The feeling made one's scalp crawl, chilled to the very core.
Having once destroyed the locket with his own hands, Harry knew exactly what this was—the aura of a Horcrux, the evil power radiating from that shattered fragment of Voldemort's soul.
"This is Ravenclaw's diadem?" Harry's voice trembled faintly.
Hermione had also gone still, holding her breath, her fingertips were curling slightly, her eyes were heavy with severity and horror.
She turned abruptly to Sherlock. "Sherlock, where on earth did you find it?"
Sherlock pressed his fingertips together beneath his chin and leaned back slightly.
"I think you both remember the memory Dumbledore once showed me.
Years after graduating, Tom Riddle returned to Hogwarts to apply for the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."
"I remember," Harry nodded, though he still couldn't work out what connection this had to the diadem's whereabouts.
Hermione, on the other hand, wore a thoughtful expression, as if she'd already caught the thread of it.
Sherlock's voice continued, unhurried, in the quiet of the Room of Requirement:
"Dumbledore once said that Voldemort's aim in applying for that post back then was to use the position of professor to expand his influence within Hogwarts, and to continue secretly cultivating Death Eaters loyal to himself.
But it seems now his goal went further than that.
He also wanted to use the opportunity of teaching to remain at Hogwarts, watching for a chance to add another relic of the Hogwarts founders—the Sword of Gryffindor—to his collection.
Even though Dumbledore, at the time, knew nothing of Horcruxes, he still refused the application and put an end to that ambition.
Even so, Voldemort still managed to accomplish something else during that visit back to Hogwarts."
At this point, Sherlock's gaze sharpened.
He extended a finger and tapped it lightly against the desk, producing a crisp knock.
"In Voldemort's eyes, once Ravenclaw's diadem had become his precious Horcrux, it could no longer stay hidden in that unremarkable hollow tree in Albania.
It deserved to be hidden somewhere truly worthy of it.
Somewhere secret enough, safe enough—just like the places he'd hidden his other Horcruxes—a place that would never easily be found."
His gaze landed on Harry and Hermione's shocked faces, and he gave the answer directly: "That place is right here—the Room of Requirement."
After a moment of silence, Harry spoke. His accent had even shifted from sheer astonishment: "Bloody 'ell."
"It's actually quite simple to understand, my friend."
Sherlock's gaze grew deeper.
"For someone capable of finding the Chamber of Secrets entirely through his own ability, finding the Room of Requirement wouldn't be difficult at all.
Or rather—if that fellow couldn't even manage that much, it would be far stranger.
So hiding Ravenclaw's diadem in the Room of Requirement really was a rather good idea."
"But even if Voldemort hid the diadem in the Room of Requirement, how could you be sure that once we opened the door, it would be the exact room we needed?" At Harry's words, Hermione sighed.
"Harry, don't you see?
"As long as Sherlock walked past the door three times, thinking of the need for 'a safe place to hide something,' then it would most likely be the very place Voldemort hid the diadem."
Hermione looked at Sherlock and the diadem on the desk with an admiring gaze. "It seems Sherlock's gotten it right again."
Strange—why did I say "again"?
Harry finally understood.
He'd simply fallen into a fixed pattern of thinking.
"So... shall we go find Dumbledore now?"
"Yes. Destroying it with the Sword of Gryffindor is the most suitable choice."
Sherlock nodded, then added in a somewhat teasing tone: "Or we could go find Professor Snape—a basilisk fang would work just as well to destroy this thing."
"Let's just go find Dumbledore."
Harry said hurriedly.
Though the mask tactics had proven quite effective over this period, between Dumbledore and Snape, he clearly preferred facing Dumbledore.
Five minutes later.
When Dumbledore saw the three of them—Sherlock, Harry, and Hermione—he couldn't help but look somewhat surprised.
Sherlock coming to find him wasn't strange.
Harry coming to find him wasn't strange either.
Sherlock and Harry coming together wasn't strange at all.
But Sherlock, Harry, and Hermione coming together—that was a bit strange.
Thinking this, his gaze couldn't help but shift back and forth between Sherlock and Hermione.
The moment Sherlock saw Dumbledore's expression, he immediately knew what he was thinking, and said flatly: "It has nothing to do with that article."
At Sherlock's words, a flash of embarrassment crossed Dumbledore's face, and he laughed: "Very well, I admit that my imagination runs a little too wild at times."
"Does it?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Then I do hope what happens next falls within your imagination as well."
Dumbledore glanced at Sherlock, then at Harry and Hermione's excited faces, and couldn't help guessing: "Could it be that Harry has fully mastered Occlumency?"
Sherlock shook his head.
This was the first time Dumbledore had guessed wrong, and he had no patience to let him keep guessing—he simply pulled out the diadem and set it down on the desk in front of Dumbledore.
Even Albus Dumbledore, upon suddenly seeing the thing, wore the same shocked expression as Harry and Hermione.
"Sherlock, you—where did you—"
"I'll let Hermione tell it," Sherlock said, looking toward Hermione. "This whole thing started with her."
Hearing this, Dumbledore turned to look at Hermione.
Hermione, naturally, wasn't one to shy from the moment. She nodded and began from where she'd started her research.
When he heard that Helena had stolen Ravenclaw's diadem out of jealousy, that the Baron had found Helena and killed her before taking his own life, and that Voldemort had sweet-talked the information about the diadem's whereabouts out of the Grey Lady after she'd become a ghost, Dumbledore's expression grew complicated for a time. But he never once interrupted Hermione.
Not until Hermione had finished the entire account did he finally let out a long sigh: "Harry and Hermione are right—this truly isn't entirely the Grey Lady's fault.
Even as a student, Tom Riddle managed to deceive a great many people.
To put it precisely, those who weren't taken in by him back then were the minority.
If he hadn't happened to be the boy I brought out of that orphanage myself, I daresay I might have been fooled by him too."
Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps you're right—at least she still knew to tell me the truth."
As to exactly what method Sherlock had used to pry open the Grey Lady's mouth, Harry, Hermione, and Dumbledore all tacitly agreed not to ask. Just as Sherlock had once said—if Sherlock Holmes couldn't manage even that much, that would be the truly strange thing.
"Truly hard to believe."
Dumbledore looked at the diadem Sherlock had set on the desk, a swirl of emotions rising within him.
"If someone had told me, on the very day I first learned of the Horcruxes, that we'd find three of them in so short a time, I would never have believed it, no matter what.
"I daresay you might not believe this either, but I'd already braced myself for the prospect of this taking years."
Sherlock said nothing in reply, only gave a soft laugh and looked toward Harry: "My dear Harry, I trust you remember that thing I once said to you?"
Piecing together what Sherlock and Dumbledore had said, Harry thought it over briefly and nodded, repeating the words Sherlock had once said: "Perhaps the pace at which we find the Horcruxes will surprise even us."
He remembered it clearly—back when he'd first questioned the whole business of hunting Horcruxes, that was exactly the line Sherlock had answered him with. Who could have guessed Sherlock would once again be proven right!
It had barely been any time at all!
And yet they'd already found three Horcruxes!
Thinking this, he couldn't help turning to look at Dumbledore:
"Sir, so now all that's left is Hufflepuff's cup and that serpent, isn't it?"
Watching Harry's excited expression, Dumbledore's gaze drifted across the scar on his forehead, and a pang of sorrow stirred in him.
What a hard-fated child...
"That's right. Once we've destroyed these two remaining Horcruxes, we'll be able to truly defeat Voldemort."
He pushed down the stray thoughts and addressed the three young people solemnly: "You've all done extremely well this time—far, far beyond what I imagined."
"My dear Headmaster, that doesn't seem to be the first time you've said that."
"You're quite right, Sherlock."
Dumbledore laughed.
"This isn't even the second or third time I've said it to you.
I rather hope you'll continue giving me the chance to say it again in the future."
Sherlock and Dumbledore looked at one another, and for a long moment neither spoke.
After a while, it was Sherlock who spoke first. "I imagine there won't be a shortage of such chances going forward."
"Then I shall look forward to it."
With that, Dumbledore turned his gaze back to Ravenclaw's diadem sitting on the desk, and with a reverse flick of his hand—
The Sword of Gryffindor came to his grasp.
But he did not destroy the Horcrux right away.
He paused for a moment in thought, then began to seek their opinion: "Would you like to come?"
Harry and Hermione both looked toward Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled faintly and looked at Hermione. "Let Hermione do it."
Hermione was startled for a moment, then understood Sherlock's meaning at once. She nodded firmly and took the Sword of Gryffindor from the smiling Dumbledore's hands.
She lowered her eyes to the heavy weight of the sword in her grip, the cold touch of the hilt made her shiver faintly.
This was the first time she'd held the great sword.
The blade gleamed with a silver-white sheen, as though it carried within it the courage and resolve of generations of Gryffindor warriors.
She drew a deep breath, trying to steady the wild pounding in her chest.
This wasn't only about destroying an evil Horcrux—it was about taking part, with her own hands, in a crucial step toward ending Voldemort.
Most important of all, this responsibility was one Sherlock had specifically entrusted to her.
She stepped forward, standing before Dumbledore's desk.
Her gaze fixed firmly on the diadem of Ravenclaw radiating its chilling aura upon the table.
That cold, dark magic seemed to grow more agitated, silently resisting the sword's approach.
Dumbledore, Sherlock, and Harry all watched her, holding their breath.
For a moment, the only sound in the office was the crackle of flames in the fireplace.
Hermione gripped the hilt with both hands, her knuckles went white from the force of her grip.
She hesitated not at all. With resolute eyes, she raised high the Sword of Gryffindor, symbol of courage.
The blade cut through the air with a clear, ringing hum, and with unwavering resolve, plunged straight down into the decaying diadem that carried Voldemort's soul fragment!
"Crack!"
A piercing shattering sound rang out through the office at once!
The instant blade met diadem, everything changed!
Just as when Sherlock had once destroyed Tom Riddle's diary, and as when Harry had destroyed Slytherin's locket.
Thick black smoke, dark as ink, surged violently from the crack in the diadem, swiftly gathering and twisting in the air!
The smoke roiled and writhed, finally merging into a blurred yet unbearably hideous human face—it was Tom Riddle's face!
That distorted, noseless face opened its mouth soundlessly wide, as if letting out a heart-rending shriek, its hollow eye sockets were filled with utter malice and unrelenting fury.
Thick, dark energy swept out alongside the bone-chilling cold, dropping the room's temperature almost instantly.
At that very moment, a golden-red light, as if carrying a scorching heat, burst forth from within the Sword of Gryffindor!
This light struck the roiling black smoke with the force of something solid.
Light and darkness collided violently, tearing at one another, producing a teeth-clenching hiss, as though two utterly opposing forces were locked in a final battle to the death.
Hermione felt a tremendous force kick back through the hilt, numbing her arm.
Because she had once watched with her own eyes as Sherlock destroyed Tom Riddle's diary with the Sword of Gryffindor, Hermione knew this was all a process that had to be endured.
She gritted her teeth, pressed down hard on the hilt, and used every ounce of her strength to drive the sword further down!
In that moment, an almost obsessive flame burned in Hermione's brown eyes.
There was no fear in them—only an unbending will to utterly destroy it.
"AAAAH—!"
A shriek, ghastly beyond anything human, as if rising from the depths of hell itself, finally burst from the smoky apparition.
It was the final howl of Voldemort's soul fragment as it was utterly torn apart and annihilated.
With that shriek, the twisted black smoke, as though ice cast into boiling water, rapidly dissolved and evaporated under the fierce burning of the golden-red light. The last faint trace of that ominous glow on the diadem also dimmed completely, turning into lifeless, truly worthless scrap metal.
A few seconds later, the light withdrew, and the black smoke completely dispersed.
The office finally returned to stillness.
Only the fire in the hearth still crackled softly with the air holding the faint lingering scent of scorching and a trace of lingering cold.
Ravenclaw's diadem, once a symbol of supreme wisdom, now turned into a vessel for evil, had vanished.
All that remained was a cracked, lusterless metal wreck, split in two, lying quietly there.
That lingering, oppressive aura of cold darkness had disappeared without a trace.
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