Dumbledore had been struck first by a thrown object, Sherlock's projectile knocking the Marvolo Gaunt ring clean from his grip. It clattered to the floor.
Then came a second blow, a hard, bar-shaped object cracking down across his hand.
That one hurt far worse.
But it was precisely those two sharp jolts of pain, one after the other, that finally wrenched him free from the ring's hazy, dreamlike spell.
His unfocused pupils slowly sharpened. The shadows cast by his lashes trembled faintly against his cheeks. Clarity seeped back into his eyes, bit by bit.
His gaze fell on the black gemstone ring lying on the floor, pulsing with a dim, eerie light. Then it swept across Sherlock's grey irises. The urge he'd felt just moments ago the overwhelming compulsion to reach out and slip the ring onto his finger snapped into sudden, horrible focus.
Shame washed over his face like a tide. "Sherlock, I—"
He tried to speak, but his voice still carried traces of that bewildered haze.
Sherlock gave him no chance to explain.
The moment he saw Dumbledore's eyes clear, Sherlock moved in one swift stride forward, snatching the Horcrux up with a gloved hand and dropping it straight into the metal box he'd prepared in advance.
Only once the lid snapped shut with a firm click did he turn around.
His brow was deeply furrowed. When he spoke, his voice was forceful.
"Sir. I require an explanation."
Dumbledore: (.﹏.*)
Anyone else present would have been stunned.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.
The man who defeated the Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald.
The only man the Dark Lord Voldemort had ever feared.
The most powerful wizard of the age.
And yet this man was lowering his head in apology before a fifteen-year-old boy.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked at him and said nothing.
But his expression said everything.
Fury.
Absolute fury.
Even a child could have reasoned it out: Voldemort had layered the ring with so much protective magic, why on earth would the ring itself be unenchanted?
With Dumbledore's abilities, there was no possible way he hadn't considered that.
And yet he had still been about to put it on.
Yes, the ring possessed certain properties that Sherlock was as yet unaware of properties that had pulled Dumbledore into that strange, stuporous state. That much could be granted.
But what about his willpower?
Regardless of the reason, was his life really worth so little to him?
Hadn't he admitted himself that Voldemort possessed power even he couldn't match?
And this was the result?
Sherlock had encountered plenty of fools in his life.
But Dumbledore was not supposed to be one of them. That was precisely what made this intolerable.
Dumbledore grew increasingly uncomfortable under his stare. His throat moved up and down. He tried again: "Sherlock, I know I made a foolish mistake, but—"
The moment the word but left his lips, Sherlock cut him off without a shred of mercy,
"Headmaster. You have single-handedly lowered the collective intelligence of Hogwarts."
The words were quiet, but they drove in like an ice pick, and whatever defense Dumbledore had prepared shriveled and died in his throat.
Sherlock could see he wasn't going to explain himself, not yet, not now. He didn't press. Instead, he crouched to retrieve the throwing weapon he'd used earlier.
Dumbledore watched, and his eyes went wide with astonishment.
"That, what is that?"
Unless he was very much mistaken, what Sherlock had just hurled at him was unmistakably a piece of candy.
"Treacle toffee."
Sherlock's answer only deepened the bewilderment.
Since when was toffee this hard? His fingers were still aching.
"Hagrid made it."
Dumbledore stared. "…And the thing you used to hit me with after that?"
"Bara brith fruit loaf," Sherlock said without looking up. "Also, Hagrid's."
Good lord.
In that moment, Dumbledore felt a profound and genuine respect for Rubeus Hagrid well up inside him.
How, exactly, had that man managed to turn food into weaponry?
"Let's go back," Sherlock said, having finished collecting himself. He fixed Dumbledore with a long look. "I think it would be worthwhile to have Professor Snape come and have a word with you. He has a particular talent for telling people off."
Dumbledore met his gaze. Behind his half-moon spectacles, a look of exasperated amusement flickered through his blue-grey eyes.
Your own talent for that isn't far behind his, you know.
But he said nothing of the kind. He made no move to reclaim the Horcrux either.
He simply nodded in silence.
They left the Gaunt shack, and Dumbledore Apparated them both away. When the world solidified again, they were standing in Hogsmeade.
The walk back to Hogwarts passed without a word between them. But the moment they stepped into the headmaster's office, a dark figure came sweeping up the stairs, Snape, black robes billowing as his long strides ate up the carpet, sending a faint, cool draft through the room.
Dumbledore looked up in surprise, absently rubbing his aching hand. "Severus, you needed to see me?"
Snape looked equally taken aback. His thin lips pressed into a flat line. "Didn't you send for me?"
Dumbledore paused. He turned and looked at Sherlock.
The look in Dumbledore's eyes said: of course.
"I did, in fact," Sherlock said, his voice was perfectly even. "I asked Professor Snape to come."
Snape had barely opened his mouth to address the question of Sherlock issuing summons in the headmaster's name when Sherlock stepped forward, reached into his coat, and produced the small metal box.
He set it on the oak desk and gave it a gentle push toward Snape.
It slid across the surface with a soft, whispering rasp, mingling with the low, melodic cry of Fawkes the phoenix from his perch nearby.
Snape looked at Dumbledore first, confusion evident on his face.
Dumbledore let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders sinking slightly but he made no move to stop what was coming.
That uncharacteristic reaction was enough. Snape's eyes sharpened, moving carefully over the box. It was nondescript: matte, silver-grey. But he could feel the Locking Charms set into it.
Then it struck him. A cold premonition constricted his chest, his dark pupils were contracting sharply.
He did not reach for the box. Instead, he drew his wand in one motion and pointed it at the lid.
The lid sprang open.
Inside lay a ring set with a black gemstone.
The instant it came into view, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and the full weight of his gaze fell on Dumbledore.
The meaning was unmistakable.
You see? Like that. That is how it's done.
Dumbledore: (.﹏.*)
Snape had seen the ring now. He drew in a sharp breath, cold air flooding his throat, and his voice came out slightly unsteady, two words only:
"A Horcrux."
He snapped his head up and stared at both of them. "When did you find it?"
"Today." Dumbledore managed a faint smile, though his voice carried unmistakable relief. "Thanks to a tip from Sherlock, he gave me the lead that allowed me to trace it…"
"Thanks to the fact that you brought me along," Sherlock said coolly, cutting him off. "If you hadn't, you would have put that ring on."
The words hit Snape like a bucket of ice water.
"What?"
His voice shot up an octave. He wheeled to face Dumbledore, robes swirling, and unleashed the full force of his contempt,
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Severus, let me explain—" Dumbledore began, though with markedly little conviction.
"Why would you try to put that ring on?" Snape pressed, his pace rapid and relentless. "It has a curse on it, his curse, do you not know that?"
"Severus—"
"Why did you touch it? Why?"
The anger in Snape's voice was barely contained. His fingers had gone white around his wand. "Did a troll club you in the head? Did someone stuff a bezoar stone between your ears? Or have you drunk so much sugar water that your brain has turned to syrup?"
Watching Snape unravel, sharp-tongued insults firing like volleys, his composure stripped away for once, Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth curve into a quiet, satisfied smile.
Snape had been avoiding him all this time, reluctant to expose his secrets.
But faced with this, Dumbledore's near-fatal stupidity, his real temperament had finally surfaced.
And it confirmed everything Sherlock had told Dumbledore earlier.
Having Snape deliver the rebuke was, indeed, far more satisfying than doing it himself.
"I'm sorry, Severus…"
Dumbledore looked at Snape's fury and gave a rueful, exhausted smile.
Snape's voice was like ice being forced through gritted teeth, each syllable carrying a sharp edge: "I don't want your apology. I want to know why."
"I… did do something foolish."
Dumbledore's eyes drifted to the ring in the box to the black stone in particular and his expression became complicated. "The temptation was simply too great."
The word temptation made Sherlock's gaze sharpen instantly.
Snape stepped forward, his voice urgent and pressing. "What temptation?"
With both of them staring him down, one cold and razor-sharp, one blazing with barely-leashed anger, Dumbledore simply shook his head slowly and pressed his lips together. He said nothing.
Sherlock and Snape were both quick-minded enough. They glanced at each other and saw the same understanding reflected in each other's eyes.
Dumbledore would not say. Not now, at least.
After meeting Sherlock's gaze, Snape seemed to register something. He looked away quickly.
Silence fell across the study.
"So," Sherlock said, cutting through it. "What would have happened if our beloved Headmaster had put on the ring?"
Snape gave Sherlock a long look. Then, in a tone that made it abundantly clear he resented having to say any of this, he answered,
"He would have been lucky to come back alive at all. There is an exceptionally powerful curse on this ring. At best, I could have contained it, confined the curse to one hand, bought some time…"
"Understood," Sherlock said immediately. "He would have died. Just not immediately."
Dumbledore: "…"
Snape: "…"
Blunt. But not wrong.
"This is a curse cast by the Dark Lord himself. Once the ring is worn, the curse takes hold, it cannot be lifted, and it cannot be contained indefinitely. It will spread. And it will grow stronger over time."
Snape exhaled, and for once something close to relief entered his voice. "Given perhaps a year, it would have claimed his life."
"So, it would be accurate to say I saved Headmaster Dumbledore's life," Sherlock said, turning to look at him directly.
Dumbledore met his gaze without flinching. "Yes, Sherlock. You performed remarkably, far beyond what I expected."
Snape looked at Sherlock too. Something complex moved through his black eyes, a trace of acknowledgment, and something else, more guarded, beneath it.
At last, in a voice pitched at a noticeably awkward angle, he said: "That is correct. Though why didn't you tell me before you left?"
Sherlock simply smiled and said nothing.
This professor was, as always, constitutionally incapable of straightforwardness.
He clearly wanted to express gratitude. And yet here they were.
"That's enough, Severus," Dumbledore interjected, attempting to smooth things over. "I was the one who asked him not to tell you."
But this time, Snape showed him no mercy. His voice was laced with contempt. "That same foolish confidence of yours, always certain you can control everything, isn't it?"
"I cannot control anything at all," Dumbledore said quietly, shaking his head. Weariness had crept into his expression. "As I said, I did something foolish."
"You do foolish things with remarkable frequency," Snape said, without softening it in the slightest.
"More than one," Sherlock added, calm, measured, and landing with devastating precision.
Dumbledore: "…"
In that moment, Dumbledore became sharply aware of what Snape and Sherlock had in common.
"Have mercy on me, both of you," he said, with a tired smile. He gestured toward the box. "We ought to destroy it as quickly as possible."
The mention of the task at hand cooled the edge in Snape's voice somewhat. "And how do you intend to go about that?"
"The same way as the last one."
As he spoke, Dumbledore reached over and lifted the Sword of Gryffindor from its place beside the desk. Since Sherlock had used it to slay the Basilisk, the blade had been impregnated with its venom and with it, the power to destroy Horcruxes.
Sherlock and Snape watched without blinking.
Dumbledore took the hilt in both hands, his fingertips whitening slightly with the grip.
Then, in one steady motion, he raised it and brought it down.
The sword's tip struck the ring with a sharp, clean sound. In the same instant, the black stone blazed with a violent flash of dark purple-black light then dimmed and went out rapidly.
One minute later.
The Marvolo Gaunt ring lay on the desk before them, cracked and broken. The Sword of Gryffindor rested beside it.
All three of them exhaled.
The tension in Sherlock's shoulders released at last.
The grip on Snape's wand slowly loosened.
Dumbledore let out a long, slow breath, and some of the exhaustion in his eyes eased.
It had been harrowing, Dumbledore had come perilously close to losing his life but in the end, the outcome was good.
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