A Case of Horcruxes
Disclaimer: Copyright J.K. Rowling & Arthur Conan Doyle
Prologue: The Will of Albus Dumbledore
Scrimgeour sat opposite them on the sagging armchair, staring judgingly at the three school students opposite him, sitting side by side. Once they had settled, he spoke.
"I have some questions for the three of you, and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you two," he pointed at Harry and Hermione, "can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald."
"We're not going anywhere," said Harry, while Hermione nodded vigorously. "You can speak to us together, or not at all."
Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold, appraising look. Harry had the impression that the Minister was not impressed with his insolence and wondered whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this early.
"Very well, then, together," he said, shrugging. He cleared his throat. "I am here, as I'm sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."
Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at one another.
"A surprise, apparently! You were not aware, then, that Dumbledore had left you anything?"
"A - all of us?" said Ron. "Me and Hermione too?"
"Yes, all of -"
But Harry interrupted.
"Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left?"
"Isn't it obvious?" said Hermione, before Scrimgeour could answer. "They wanted to examine whatever he's left us. You had no right to do that!" she said, and her voice trembled slightly.
"I had every right," said Scrimgeour dismissively. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power to confiscate contents of a will-"
"That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark Artefacts," said Hermione, "and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased's possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?"
"Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?" asked Scrimgeour.
"No, I'm not," retorted Hermione. "I'm hoping to do some good in the world."
Ron laughed. Scrimegeour's eyes flickered towards him and away again as Harry spoke.
"So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can't think of a pretext to keep them?"
"No, it'll be because the thirty-one days are up," said Hermione at once. "They can't keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove that they're dangerous. Right?"
"Would you say that you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?" asked Scrimgeour, ignoring Hermione. Ron looked startled.
"Me? Not - not really ... it was always Harry who ..."
Ron looked around at Harry and Hermione, to see Hermione giving him the stop-talking-now! sort of look but the damage was done: Sricmgeour looked as though he had heard exactly what he had expected, and wanted, to hear. He swooped like a bird of prey upon Ron's answer.
"If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few bequests. The vast majority of his possessions - his private library, his magical instruments and other personal effects - were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?"
"I ... dunno," said Ron, "I ... when I say we weren't close ... I mean, I think he liked me ..."
"You're being modest, Ron," said Hermione, "Dumbledore was very fond of you."
This was stretching the truth to the breaking point; as far as Harry knew, Ron and Dumbledore had never been alone together, and direct contact between them was negligible. However, Scrimgeour did not seem to be listening. He put his hand inside his cloak and drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the one Hagrid had given Harry. From it he removed a scroll of parchment, which he unrolled and read aloud.
"'The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore' ... yes, here we are ... 'to Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in hope that he will remember me when he uses it.'"
Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that Harry had seen before: it looked like a silver cigarette lighter, but it had, he knew, the power to suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a simple click. Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and turned it over in his fingers, looking stunned.
"That is a valuable object," said Scrimgeour, watching Ron. "It may even me unique. Certainly, it is of Dumbledore's own design. Why would he have left you an item so rare?"
Ron shook his head, looking bewildered.
"Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students," persevered Scrimgeour, "Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you three. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put his Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?"
"Put out lights, I s'pose," mumbled Ron. "What else could I do with it?"
Evidently, Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After squinting at Ron for a moment or two, he turned back to Dumbledore's will.
"'To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.'"
Scrimgeour now pulled out the bag a small book that looked as ancient as the copy of Secrets of the Darkest Arts upstairs. Its binding was stained and peeling places. Hermione took it from Scrimgeour without a word. She held the book in her lap and gazed at it. Harry saw that the title was in runes, he had never learned to read them. As he looked, a tear splashed on the embossed symbols.
"Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?" asked Scrimgeour.
"He ... he knew I liked books," said Hermione in a thick voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve.
"But why that particular book?"
"I don't know. He must have thought I'd enjoy it."
"Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with Dumbledore?"
"No, I didn't," said Hermione, still wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "And if the Ministry hasn't found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt that I will."
She suppressed a sob. They were wedged together so tightly that Ron had difficulty extracting his arm to put it around Hermione's shoulders. Scrimgeour turned back to the will.
"'To Harry James Potter,'" he read, and Harry's insides contracted with a sudden excitement, "'I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.'"
As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly and Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of anticlimax.
"Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?" asked Scrimgeour.
"No idea," said Harry. "For the reasons you just read out, I suppose ... to remind me what you can get if you ... persevere and whatever it was."
"You think this is a mere symbolic keepsake, then?"
"I suppose so," said Harry. "What else could it be?"
"I'm asking the questions," said Scrimgeour, shifting his chair a little closer to the sofa. Dusk was really falling outside, now; the marquee beyond the windows towered ghostly white over the hedge.
"I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch," Scrimgeour said to Harry. "Why is that?"
Hermione laughed derisively.
"Oh, it can't be a reference to the fact Harry's a great Seeker, that's way too obvious," she said. "There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing!"
"I don't think there's anything hidden in the icing," said Scrimgeour, "but a Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I'm sure?"
Harry shrugged. Hermione, however, answered: Harry thought that answering questions correctly was so deeply ingrained in her that she could not suppress the urge.
"Because Snitches have flesh memories," she said.
"What?" Said Harry and Ron together; both considered Hermione's Quidditch knowledge negligible.
"Correct," said Scrimgeour. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, incase of disputed capture. This Snitch," he held up the tiny ball, "will remember your touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you."
Harry's heart was beating rather fast. He was sure that Scrimgeour was right. How could he avoid taking the Snitch with his bare hands in front of the Minister?
"You don't say anything," said Scrimgeour. "Perhaps you already know what the Snitch contains?"
"No," said Harry, still wondering how he could appear to touch the Snitch without really doing so. If only he knew Legilimency, really knew it, and could read Hermione's mind; he could practically hear her brain whirring beside him.
"Take it," said Scrimgeour quietly.
Harry met the Minister's and knew he had no option but to obey. He held his hand out and Scrimgeour leaned forwards again and placed the Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into Harry's palm.
Nothing happened.
In the aftermath of the disappointed and angry departure of the Minister, Harry's birthday celebrations continued. However, the Trio were far too excited to enjoy the delicious meal that Molly had made properly. They all ate rather hurriedly and then, after a hasty chorus of 'Happy Birthday' and much gulping of cake, the party broke up.
"Meet me upstairs," Harry whispered to Hermione while they helped Mrs. Weasley restore the garden to its normal state. "After everyone's gone to bed."
Up in the attic room, Ron examined his Deluminator and Harry filled Hagrid's Moleskin purse, not with gold, but with those items he most prized, apparently worthless though some of them were: the Marauder's Map, the shard of Sirius' enchanted mirror and R.A.B.'s locket. He pulled the strings tight and slipped the purse around his neck, then sat holding the old Snitch and watching its wings flutter feebly. At last, Hermione tapped on the door and tiptoed inside.
"Muffiliato," she whispered, waving her wand in the direction of the stairs.
"Thought you didn't approve of that spell?" said Ron.
"Times change," said Hermione. "Now, show us that Deluminator."
Ron obliged at once. Holding it up in front of him, he clicked it. The solitary lamp they had lit went out at once.
"The thing is," whispered Hermione through the dark, "we could have achieved that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."
There was a small click, and the ball of light from the lamp flew back to the ceiling and illuminated them all once more.
"Still, it's cool," said Ron, a little defensively. "And from what they said, Dumbledore invented it himself!"
"I know, but surely he wouldn't have singled you out in his will just to help us turn out lights!"
"D'you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine everything he'd left us?" asked Harry.
"Definitely," said Hermione. "He couldn't tell us in the will why he was leaving us these things, but that still doesn't explain ..."
"... why he couldn't have given us a hint when he was alive?" asked Ron.
"Well, exactly," said Hermione, now flicking through The Tales of Beedle the Bard. "If these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the Ministry, you'd think he'd have let us know why ... unless he thought it was obvious?"
"Thought wrong, then, didn't he?" said Ron. "I always he was mental. Brilliant, and everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch - what the hell was that about?"
"I've no idea," said Hermione. "When Scrimgeour made you take it, Harry, I was so sure that something was going to happen!"
"Yeah, well," said Harry, his pulse quickening as he raised the Snitch in his fingers. "I wasn't going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour, was I?"
"What do you mean?" asked Hermione.
"The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?" said Harry. "Don't you remember?"
Hermione looked simply bemused. Ron, however, gasped, pointing frantically from Harry to the Snitch and back again until he found his voice.
"That was the one you nearly swallowed!"
"Exactly," said Harry, and with his heart beating fast, he pressed his mouth to the Snitch.
It did not open.
Frustration and bitter disappointment welled up inside him: he lowered the golden sphere, but then Hermione cried out.
"Writing! There's writing on it, quick, look!"
He nearly dropped the Snitch is surprise and excitement. Hermione was quite right. Engraved upon the smooth golden surface, where seconds before there had been nothing, were five words written in the thin slanting handwriting that Harry recognized as Dumbledore's:
221B Baker Street
"There's more on the other side," pressed Ron.
Harry turned it over.
I open at the close.
He had barely read them when the words vanished again.
"'I open at the close ...' What's that supposed to mean?"
Hermione and Ron shook their heads, looking blank.
"I open at the close ... at the close ... I open at the close ..."
But no matter how often they repeated the words, with many different inflections, they were unable to wring any more meaning from them.
"And the sword," said Ron finally, when they had at last abandoned their attempts to derive meaning in the Snitch's inscription. "Why did he want Harry to have the sword?"
Hermione and Harry shrugged, their guesses as good as Ron's.
"There's one thing we know for sure, though," spoke Hermione.
"What's that?" asked Ron.
"The address: '221B Baker Street'," she replied.
"D'you suppose it's a safe house?" Ron asked anxiously.
"Why does that name sound familiar?" asked Harry, looking specifically at Hermione. She smiled, knowing that Harry had caught on.
"Because that's the address of a private muggle investigator: Sherlock Holmes. And I think Dumbledore wants us to enlist his help."
Harry remembered reading an article about the infamous investigator in the newspaper recently. Mr. Holmes was causing quite a stir in London.
"How's a muggle investigator going to help us hunt Horcruxes?" asked Ron, not looking sold by the idea.
"Perhaps he knows Dumbledore," Hermione said simply.
"But a muggle?" Ron repeated with dubiety.
Harry couldn't blame him, a muggle would stand no chance opposite a wand-holder, but it was a starting point.
"Dumbledore wouldn't have told us to go without a reason ... and I don't know about you, but I have no idea where to start with this search so ... I think we should start our trail with Sherlock Holmes."
"221B Baker Street, you say?" Ron repeated, slowly warming up to the idea when he realized that Harry was right. They really did have no idea where to begin and if Dumbledore had left them a clue, they should take it.
"221B Baker Street." Hermione and Harry confirmed.
A.N/ Ah! So I was totally inspired by a Tumblr (God bless Tumblr!, link to said post is in my bio) post I saw of Hermione, Harry and Ron reaching out to Sherlock Holmes for help with the Horcrux hunt! So copyright to the wonderful 'fancypantswatson' who came up with this amazing idea and copyright to J.K. Rowling for this prologue, 'Section 1' was taken straight out of Deathly Hallows to get this story started ... so to speak. This will be a short story, no more than fifteen chapters at most, I do hope that you enjoyed this chapter - the end especially and click ahead to the first real chapter!
Reviews are welcome as always.
