Chapter 774 0774 The Final Problem

"Harry, don't be like this. We all have to look forward."

"That's right—you know exactly what dangers you're facing now, and what a unique position you hold at the heart of the resistance against the Dark Lord."

"The hopes of the entire wizarding world rest on you."

"Yeah—pinning the world's hopes on someone who only just turned seventeen. Isn't that ironic."

A voice cold as ice, its tone utterly flat, spoke a truth that cut straight to the bone:

"But—my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."

An awkward, unbearable silence followed.

Even three months on, the owner of that voice still hadn't found his way out of it.

Harry Potter.

The Boy Who Lived. The Savior of the wizarding world. The Dark Lord's one true nemesis... though these days, people across the wizarding world preferred another name for him: the Savior Star.

This was especially true now, after that night—the night the Lion King, Sherlock Holmes, once hailed together with Harry as one of the "Twin Stars," a man who had foiled the Dark Lord's schemes more than once, had lost his life.

"Harry, we know this is hard for you, but—"

Ginny Weasley crouched at Harry's side, and the sight of him so hollow, so lifeless, nearly brought her to tears herself. Ron paced anxiously back and forth beside them, his face twisting now and then into something fierce and pained.

Of the three of them, Hermione was the calmest.

She looked at Harry's despondent face, then at Ron, then at Ginny, and felt a silent grief of her own.

She'd known Sherlock's death had hit Harry hard. She just hadn't known it would hit him this hard.

These past few months, after all, the wizarding world had been turned upside down.

Any single thing that had happened would have been enough to leave people reeling for a long time.

But it could all be summed up in one sentence: Voldemort and the Death Eaters under his command had seized the Ministry of Magic, the press, and most of the wizarding world besides. Even Hogwarts—which had never once fallen, through the whole of the war—had finally fallen too.

And behind every bit of it lay one name.

James Moriarty.

At the thought, Hermione's eyes drifted to Harry again.

In the same moment, Harry looked back at her.

For an instant, both their minds slipped back three months.

To the night lightning struck the tower.

That was the night Hermione had gathered up every scrap of courage she had and kissed Sherlock, then stood watching until he'd passed out of sight. By the time she made it back to the common room, she was startled to find Harry wasn't there.

"Ginny, where's Harry?"

She turned pointedly from Ron and Lavender, curled up together being sickeningly sweet, to ask Ginny instead.

At the question, Ginny's mood visibly soured.

"Cho pulled him off right after dinner."

Hermione felt a flicker of awkwardness at that. She understood well enough what it meant.

Still, something nagged at her. Hadn't Cho Chang already arranged to meet Harry that very morning? Why would she come back for him again in the evening?

She glanced once more at Ron, still tangled up with Lavender, and thought to herself: Harry isn't the type to do this.

And indeed, he wasn't.

At that very moment, he was creeping along under the Invisibility Cloak, trailing quietly behind Sherlock.

Perhaps it was simply because this world contained a Sherlock Holmes that Harry's gifts—and Hermione's, and Ron's too, for that matter—had always been eclipsed by his blinding brilliance.

It's true that after dinner, Harry really had gone off with Cho Chang to pour their hearts out to one another.

But it hadn't taken nearly as long as one might think. The moment they'd shared a parting kiss; he'd hurried back to the dormitory and dug out the Marauder's Map.

Sure enough—there on the map, the little dot labelled Sherlock Holmes was moving, and moving fast.

Without a second thought, he threw on the Cloak and set off after it, following where the map led.

Along the way he put to full use every trick of stealth he'd picked up over six years of tagging after Sherlock, and with the map and the Cloak—his two trusted tools—he managed, in the end, to catch up.

It left him quietly, privately pleased with himself.

If he was honest, even he couldn't quite say why he was doing this.

All he had to do was trust Sherlock. That was all.

And yet...

Sherlock had been acting so strangely lately that it left Harry with a nagging, uneasy feeling he couldn't shake.

So, in the end, he gave in to his instincts.

Follow him.

He trailed Sherlock all the way to the door that opened onto the spiral stair leading up the tower.

He watched Sherlock grip the iron ring, push the door open, and climb.

What shocked Harry was that someone was already waiting up there.

In an instant, he understood: Sherlock had come here to meet someone.

"I gave you my number—I rather thought you'd call."

At the stranger's voice, Harry's face went slack with shock.

Who—who on earth was this man?

"That'll be the twelve-inch wand in your robe pocket, then—beechwood, dragon heartstring core?"

The man turned his head. "Or is it just that you're too pleased to see me?"

At that, Sherlock simply drew his wand from his pocket and levelled it at him.

"Both, actually."

In that same instant, Harry's whole body went rigid.

He'd already been pressed against the tower's parapet, keeping out of sight.

But now he found he'd turned into a statue—frozen head to foot, unable even to speak. What was happening?

Harry was stunned.

He couldn't make sense of it. He hadn't even seen the man cast a spell.

"I'm James Moriarty, Sherlock—or perhaps you know me better by another name. Jim?"

Sherlock kept his wand trained on him.

Surprisingly, Moriarty had begun turning Sherlock's own trick back on him.

He spoke Sherlock's thoughts aloud, before Sherlock could: "Jim—the Jim you met at the bank?"

By the light of the lightning splitting the sky, Harry finally got a clear look at the man's face.

He was tall, a match for Sherlock in height.

Thin-framed. A high, domed forehead. Deep eyes.

His face was shaved smooth and pale, giving him the look of some ascetic monk—yet there was still something of the professor about him.

His shoulders stooped slightly, his head craned forward, swaying gently side to side. Strange. Unsettling to look at.

Harry had never laid eyes on him before, yet somehow, the moment he saw him, a strange certainty settled over him: this was exactly what Moriarty ought to look like.

At the mention of the phone number, and the name Jim, it clicked into place at once—this man had already met Sherlock once before, at Gringotts, under the name Jim Brook.

But at the time, Sherlock plainly hadn't realized this was the very criminal mastermind he'd spent so long hunting.

But how had he gotten into Hogwarts?

And why had Sherlock agreed to meet him up here?

Right now, Harry felt like his mind simply couldn't keep up.

Moriarty went on: "Or is it that I really am so unremarkable—so easy to forget the second I'm out of sight?"

"Then again, isn't that exactly what I'd want?"

"Don't do anything foolish. Pointing that wand at me right now is a very bad habit to get into."

Under Harry's astonished gaze, Sherlock hesitated a moment—and then, unbelievably, lowered his wand and put it away.

Understanding hit Harry all at once.

Sherlock had known he was there the whole time.

He was the one who'd frozen Harry in place with a Silencing Charm, no doubt afraid Harry might give something away in front of the man who could only be called his archenemy.

"I did give you a hint, actually, Sherlock. A few stray words, at least."

"When it comes to the game I play in this greedy little world of ours, I'm something of an expert."

Moriarty went on, slipping into words Harry couldn't follow,

"Just like you. Understand?"

Harry didn't. But Sherlock did. He said, slowly: "A consulting criminal."

"Sounds almost unbelievable, doesn't it?" Moriarty gave his head a small shake. "You clearly don't know me at all. No one has ever caught me. Not before. Not ever."

"Quite the opposite." Sherlock shook his head, just as slightly. "I'd say I understand you very well indeed."

What followed was a rapid, clipped exchange between the two of them:

"Yes, you really are the closest anyone's come. But you're starting to get in the way now."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"Of course it was."

"Fine, have it your way—but I'm done playing."

"You've already seen what I'm capable of. So, take my well-meant advice, my dear, and give up."

"That endearment makes my skin crawl."

"And here I thought you never tired of our little game—playing the wealthy client at Gringotts, pretending to be gay, or... did you enjoy the bit where I left you my number?"

"You find the wizarding world entertaining, don't you?"

"Whatever I'm about to say, you already know it."

"Then you already know my answer, too."

"Still not willing to budge?"

"Not an inch."

"What a disappointing answer. And here I was, thinking you'd invited me up here today because you wanted to make peace."

"I only wanted to see if you'd actually come."

"And here I am, aren't I?"

"If I finished you off right here, it would all be over—that world, and this one both."

"No, no, no, dear Sherlock. You didn't really think it'd be that simple, did you? I've only just discovered a world this entertaining. Why would I ever leave it before you do?"

He turned his head away as he spoke.

Frozen as he was, Harry could still see it clearly from where he stood: a bolt of green light shot up into the sky. And then—

"Surprised?" Moriarty gave a small shrug. "I imagine you understand exactly what that means."

Harry had no idea what was going through Sherlock's mind.

But the moment he saw the Dark Mark hanging above them, dread flooded through him.

That blazing green skull, a serpent's tongue lolling from its jaws.

Whenever Death Eaters broke into a building... wherever they killed someone... they always left that mark behind...

"It doesn't necessarily mean someone's died," Sherlock said flatly. "That same mark went up in the sky three years ago. That night, too."

"True. Pity this time it's different." Moriarty's eyes stayed fixed on Sherlock. "I can give you one last chance. Let it go, right now, or—"

"I'm afraid the word 'give up' has never once appeared in my dictionary."

"Then there's nothing left to say."

Just then, a volley of footsteps came pounding up the stairs.

Almost before Harry could blink, four figures in black robes burst through the door and crowded up against the parapet.

Harry, still unable to move, stared at the four strangers without blinking, fear clenched around his heart.

A thickset man with a crooked mouth and a strange, twisted grin let out a wheezing laugh.

"Professor Moriarty—is this the great detective the Dark Lord's so concerned about?"

He turned to a sturdy, short woman beside him who looked like his sister, her face lit with the same hungry grin.

"Ha, ha, ha—he was actually stupid enough to come alone!"

"A man with no brain to speak of, calling me stupid?"

Sherlock turned toward the pair.

"Amycus. Alecto. And that one over there would be Fenrir Greyback, I take it?"

"Quite right."

said the stranger standing closest to Harry.

He was long-limbed, his grey hair and beard matted together in knots, the black Death Eater's robes stretched uncomfortably tight across his frame. His voice was strange, unlike anything Harry had ever heard—a hissing, rasping sort of growl.

Harry could smell a sharp, foul odour coming off him too, earth and sweat and something like blood.

Long yellow nails grew from his filthy fingers. But all of it made sense the moment Sherlock spoke his name.

Fenrir Greyback. The very man who, when Lupin was a child, had bitten him and made him a werewolf.

"He's yours."

The instant the four Death Eaters appeared, Moriarty turned on his back and walked off the tower without a backward glance.

Harry couldn't be sure it wasn't just his imagination, but for a moment he thought he'd caught something flicker across the man's face—disgust?

The four Death Eaters clearly held Moriarty in high regard, though; they waited until he'd gone before speaking again.

"Let's get on with it, then."

Greyback lifted one yellowed nail to pick at his front teeth, grinning viciously at Sherlock all the while.

"No."

the fourth Death Eater snapped.

His face was heavy with coarse, brutal flesh, vicious through and through.

"We have our orders. It has to be him."

"But he isn't even here—just let me do it!"

Greyback protested, and even as he spoke, he was already closing in on Sherlock, hands spread wide, sharp teeth bared.

"I said no!"

the brutal-looking man barked.

A flash of blinding light, and the werewolf was flung sideways into the wall, nearly losing his footing, his face twisted with humiliated fury.

Just then, the door to the parapet was flung open again.

Severus Snape stood in the doorway, wand in hand, his black eyes sweeping quickly over the scene—from Sherlock at the centre, standing as though he feared nothing at all, to the four Death Eaters ringed around him.

"So you've finally come, Snape. Carry out the Dark Lord's order—finish him!"

"Hmph."

Sherlock didn't seem at all surprised to see Snape.

He gave a soft laugh.

"So, you've made your decision, after all—Half-Blood Prince—"

The instant Sherlock spoke that name, green light burst from the tip of Snape's wand.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green light-struck Sherlock full in the chest.

Harry's terrified scream lodged in his throat.

He couldn't make a sound. He couldn't move at all.

All he could do was watch as Sherlock—like some great, broken doll—toppled backward over the battlements and was gone.

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