Through quiet corridors a young boy walked. Harry slipped through the empty hallways and hastened down Hogwart's east wing. As he drew near the infirmary, though six o'clock had yet to strike, he saw the impatiently waiting professor Quirrell.

"I spoke with Madam Pomfrey at dinner," said Quirrell, voice laced with curiosity, "Her only patient is a muggle."

"Does that change anything?"

"It makes things easier. Muggles have little defense against mind magic. Even less than most."

Harry frowned. "It won't-"

"Harm him? Not that I'm aware of."

Harry nodded in relief and reached for the infirmary door. As they entered, Madam Pomfrey's head poked out from behind her office door. "Professor Quirrell? Is there a problem?"

Quirrell smiled winningly. "Evening, Pomfrey. And no, no problems. Mr. Potter just wants to speak with his father. If it gets past curfew, I'll escort him back to the dormitory."

Pomfrey nodded in approval and withdrew, softly shutting her office door.

The detective was sleeping peacefully, and Quirrell quietly drew the privacy curtain around the bed. Then he leaned over Sherlock's sleeping form and gently shook the man's shoulder.

Sherlock's eyes opened and met the professor's calm gaze.

"Legilimens." said Quirrell.

-oOo-

His arrival was marked by applause.

Quirrell crouched, wand drawn, and scanned his surroundings. The mindscape was a large white room. It was too stark and sterile- manufactured, that was the word. It reminded him of St. Mungo's mental ward.

Iron bars divided the room in half. On one side was, presumably, Sherlock Holmes. On Quirrell's side was a wizard. He was clapping, and wore a smile locked in mocking amusement.

Quirrell noted the wizard's snake-like eyes. Eyes like that took some very deep delving into dark magic.

"Congratulations," said the wizard, "I thought the deception was going smoothly."

"And you are?" asked Quirrell.

The wizard waved a finger in admonishment. "So formal. It doesn't cost anything to be nice, you know."

The professor bent his knees, minutely lowering his center of gravity. "Answer."

"His name is Voldemort," said Holmes.

Quirrell's eyes never left the wizard in front of him. They didn't even blink. "Is it, now?"

The wizard drew himself to full height. "It is, Legilimencer. You stand before the greatest wizard of our-"

"Legilimens."

Voldemort's eyes widened and flicked away, too late. "Fool!" he screamed. "You-" A look of pain crossed the Dark Lord's face, contorting his features into an agonized mask. He sank to one knee, eyes shut and breathing harsh.

Then he screamed.

Torrents of blood poured from Voldemort's ears, staining the pure white floor.

As the screams climbed in pitch and volume, Quirrell watched with unblinking eyes.

-oOo-

"MADAM POMFREY!"

Pomfrey's office door crashed open at the panicked shout. The healer rushed to Sherlock's bedside and threw back the privacy screen.

Professor Quirrell was leaning over Sherlock, and both men were frozen in place, eyes open and gazes locked. Harry held a bed sheet to the professor's ears, and with a lurch, Pomfrey saw the white cloth was rapidly turning red, soaking through to the young boy's fingers.

"Move!" said Pomfrey. She shoved Harry to one side and laid her wand tip to Quirrell's head. "Finite Incantatem!"

Quirrell continued to bleed from the ears, and Harry tried to pry the two men apart. "He used legilimens!"

"Diviso Mentatem!"

Like a faucet tuned off, the blood stopped. Quirrell listed unsteadily to one side and toppled from the bed. Before he hit the floor, Harry lunged, catching the professor in awkward hug.

Pomfrey helped Harry lower Quirrell to the ground, and hope blossomed when one of the man's eyes lazily opened. It was horribly bloodshot, and Quirrell gave a lopsided smile- one side of his mouth twitched, but refused to rise.

"You know...I think I killed him."

Harry glanced to Sherlock's motionless body, and hope wilted in a wave of sick fear.

Quirrell chuckled, a wet, painful sound. "Your smarter than that...he'll be fine."

"So will you," said Harry, words tense and carefully formed.

Quirrell's eyelids fluttered. "Make sure...make the others...ready."

A cough, a shudder, and Quirrell lay still.

Pomfrey knelt down, waved her wand over the man's blood-soaked head, and paled. She shook her head, unable to meet the eyes of the boy with red hands and broken heart.

-oOo-

For the second time in so many hours, Albus Dumbledore found himself in the infirmary. Pomfrey explained what had happened, and the more she spoke, the more he felt his many years.

"...He didn't make it," she concluded, shaking her head.

Dumbledore sighed. "And Sherlock Holmes?"

"Still unconscious. He seems unharmed, but..."

Dumbledore nodded in understanding and his eyes dulled even further. "But the mind is a delicate thing."

Pomfrey nodded, and the pair went to Holmes' bedside. Harry Potter sat to the side, gently stroking Hedwig as he stared into space.

Dumbledore laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Harry?"

Harry looked up at the headmaster with empty eyes.

"We're going to try and wake up Mr. Holmes now. Do you want to wait outside?"

Harry stood without a word, and moved to tightly grasp Holmes' hand.

Dumbledore sighed and raised his wand. "Very well. Enervate."

Madam Pomfrey held her breath. Please, she thought, that boy has suffered enough tonight.

Harry was the first to know. The hand he held so tightened in a crushing grip, then went lax.

Sherlock's eyes opened, sedately swept the room, and closed.

"Pipe first. Then talk."

It was a valiant effort on Harry's part, but he couldn't stop the tears from falling. Dumbledore's eyes regained some small twinkle, and reaching into his robes, he brought forth a lit meerschaum pipe.

Madam Pomfrey didn't even blink as Sherlock took the first long draw. Tomorrow she would berate men over tobacco in the infirmary; tonight it was all she could do not to join.

"How are you feeling?" asked Dumbledore.

Sherlock watched the smoke curl lazily upward. "Quit well, all things considered."

"Well enough for a few questions, perhaps?"

"Of course."

Poppy looked ready to protest, but Albus fixed her with a stern look. "Please, Poppy. Just a few."

The healer looked critically at Holmes, taking in his pale complexion and even breathing, and reluctantly nodded.

Dumbledore bowed his head in thanks, and turned to Holmes. "I'm a little concerned, Mr. Holmes. How did you get through the wards?"

"Wards?"

"Muggles cannot simply walk to Hogwarts. Save for today, the wards concealing this area have never been breached."

"I'm sure your wards are fine. It was not me who crossed them."

"Pardon?"

Smoke wreathed around the detective and drifted towards vaulted ceiling. "You may want to sit for this, Headmaster."

With a look of vague trepidation, the headmaster conjured three plush chairs, and the audience of three sat.

"Before I begin," said Sherlock, "I assume these wards act on a person's mind, correct?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Compulsion charms, among others. It compels muggles to remember things that need doing."

"Elegant," admitted Sherlock. "But my mind was not affected, simply because I was not in my mind."

The headmaster's vague trepidation grew into distinct unease, and wound downwards to his stomach. "What do you mean?"

"I mean possession, though the wizard insisted on calling it something else."

"And who was that wizard?"

Sherlock drew another lungful of smoke, and languidly released it. "Voldemort."

Madam Pomfrey gasped, and Dumbledore closed his eyes. A tense quiet settled, thick and loth to leave. It only broke from the Headmaster's next question

"What happened?" he asked.

"Quirrell happened," said Harry.

Three adults shifted to regard the boy, and Harry quietly continued. "You weren't acting right. You weren't acting like you, so I asked my Defense Professor to look at you. He used a spell called Legilimens. And then-"

"Legilimens?" asked Holmes.

"An advanced mind art," explained Dumbledore, "A sufficiently powerful wizard can actually project their consciousness into the mind of another, among other things."

"This Quirrell," asked Sherlock, "Middle-aged? Purple robes and turban?"

"That is the man. But how-"

"He was in here," Sherlock tapped his temple, "fighting Voldemort inside my head."

"And he won?"

"With a single spell."

Dumbledore leaned forward. "Which spell?"

"Legilimens."

Dumbledore paled and sank back into his chair.

Pomfrey looked confused. "I thought legilimency was nonlethal?"

"It is," said Dumbledore, "Normally. But recasting legilimens when you're already in the mind of another...that is suicide, nothing more."

"I don't understand. How?"

Dumbledore sank deeper into his chair and droned on in an empty monotone. "In its highest form, legilimency completely separates the mind from the body, and inserts the caster's consciousness into the target. But to recast the spell, when the mind has no body to be separated from?"

The headmaster shook his head. "The Unspeakables did some research on the subject, but stopped early into experimentation. The caster and target minds never survived."

-oOo-

In the end, Harry refused to leave Sherlock's side. Near midnight Madam Pomfrey was forced to concede, and set a small cot next to the detective's bed.

Throughout the night, father and son quietly conversed. There was no weeping, no hailing of selfless sacrifice. They spoke of the mundane and commonplace, ignored the pall of death, and let lay the loss of life.

In the early morning hours, Sherlock gave voice to a final question. "Professor Quirrell, what was he like?"

He waited, and was sure Harry had fallen asleep, until a weary voice answered.

"Like you."