Sherlock looked at Professor Slughorn and slowly said.
"Among a pile of photographs of you with other people, there's one pressed at the very bottom—a beautiful red-haired girl. She is your favorite, Lily Potter, though of course when you knew her, she was still Lily Evans.
In that photo, you're smiling with particular sincerity, and you took a picture with her alone. To you, she was the potions genius you were proud of, the brightest and purest pearl among those most excellent students. I think you must have liked her, didn't you?"
"Liked her? Yes—I can't imagine anyone who met her not liking her—very brave, very vivacious."
"Yes, no one wouldn't like her. But I have a question. Besides Lily, there's another name that stands out particularly garishly in your glittering roster. Or rather, it's been carefully avoided by you."
Slughorn looked at Sherlock in confusion, the alcohol making his reactions slow.
"Hmm? Mr. Holmes? Who do you mean?"
"Tom Marvolo Riddle. Or perhaps you're more familiar with his other name—Voldemort."
Sherlock clearly spoke this name.
Harry couldn't help but straighten up.
Had they finally reached the main plot?
He saw Slughorn's pupils instantly contract, his face stiffening.
"No!"
Slughorn gave a violent shudder, nearly knocking over his glass.
"You—how would you know—"
That Tom Riddle was Voldemort was something very few people knew.
Yet now it had been stated outright by a fourteen or fifteen-year-old boy—how could he not be shocked?
At this moment, his voice was hoarse, still trying to defend himself. "Don't—don't mention that name—I—I taught many students..."
Sherlock mercilessly interrupted him.
"Of course, you did teach him. A student more dazzling than your other students, and more dangerous."
Sherlock's sharp gray eyes pierced straight into the hidden corners of Slughorn's heart.
"When you mentioned Lily Evans, that pure appreciation and affection formed a glaring contrast with your deliberate avoidance of Tom Riddle. The way you look at Harry is full of guilt, not only because Lily died at Voldemort's hands. More importantly, it's that lingering fear deep in your heart."
"This is Albus who told you to ask, isn't it?"
Slughorn suddenly seemed to understand something, his tone completely changed, no longer kind, but full of shock and fear.
"I wondered why he would be so kind as to bring two youngsters to see me, so it's because of this—"
Seeing Slughorn's sudden realization, Harry panicked.
Oh no, Sherlock's been exposed!
He looked anxiously at Sherlock, only to see the latter wasn't panicked at all.
He clasped his hands under his chin and said in a light tone.
"Professor, it seems you don't understand me well enough."
"I indeed don't understand enough."
"Actually, when Dumbledore was making introductions, he already said that I was the one who truly caught Peter Pettigrew a year ago and returned innocence to Sirius Black."
"So what?"
"So what?"
Sherlock sneered.
"Professor, let's set aside the heavy past for now. Why don't we talk about how your day has been?"
Slughorn couldn't help but be stunned, obviously not expecting the topic to suddenly veer in such a mundane direction.
"To-today?"
"Yes."
Sherlock's gaze quickly swept over the still-gorgeous but now slightly wrinkled collar of Slughorn's pale purple velvet pajamas.
"You are someone who pays great attention to appearance. Unless necessary, you would never let this dressing gown show creases. Look at this slight fold here on the left side of your collar, and the neat pillow marks on the back of your head that haven't completely faded yet—these are very standard traces left by prolonged side-lying.
Combined with the fatigue under your eyes that you've tried hard to hide but still exists, which even the alcohol couldn't completely cover, all of this is enough to show that until this afternoon, you were immersed in a very comfortable afternoon nap."
Slughorn unconsciously touched the back of his head, as if there really were marks remaining there.
Next, Sherlock's gaze fell on several nearly invisible pale-yellow crumbs at the edge of Slughorn's dark carpet.
"If I'm not mistaken, these should be golden sugar crumbs from Honeydukes? This location is near the entrance hall and doesn't belong to the dining area. Obviously, before your nap, you took something from this cabinet containing premium candy. You rushed here, seemingly well-prepared, but actually haven't had time to deal with these details."
"I—I just have a habit of eating some sweets before sleeping."
Slughorn's voice began to waver.
The details Sherlock described were so real, as if he had personally witnessed him grabbing a handful of snacks before his nap. Napping peacefully but suddenly discovering visitors had arrived, then hurriedly coming to answer the door.
His vanity and taste for the finer things in life being exposed in broad daylight like this made him uncomfortable.
"I believe you've already noticed—I have a special ability to observe what a person has done."
Sherlock's tone remained calm. "You carefully prepared candy and wine, welcoming distinguished guests in the most comfortable way. Just like now, you're sinking deep into the softest throne of your own kingdom, enjoying our listening, reliving past glories. You enjoy displaying your collections, your connections, immersed in a kind of satisfaction from being valued and followed. This satisfaction is the spiritual home you carefully maintain."
Sherlock's words hit the bullseye.
Slughorn's tense emotions loosened for a moment because of being understood, and the alcohol also made his brain relax its guard a little.
However, at this moment, Sherlock's gaze suddenly became sharp, and his voice turned cold.
"But this past glory was shattered by one name—Tom Marvolo Riddle. This name, or rather his later name, Voldemort, is like a sharp thorn deeply embedded in this carefully protected kingdom of yours."
This was the second time Sherlock had mentioned Voldemort's name.
Slughorn's briefly eased emotions instantly tensed up again, he shivered and loudly protested.
However, Sherlock ignored him and gave him no chance to catch his breath.
"Why is it that among all the proud students you speak of with relish, all framed in pictures, only that brilliant figure is missing?
When everyone else shines brightly in your glittering roster, why has Tom Riddle's name been carefully stripped away?
It's precisely because in him, that keen eye for talent you're so proud of brought unbearable consequences. I just said, your guilt isn't only because Lily died at Voldemort's hands. The deeper layer is the lingering fear in your heart.
It was those private discussions you had with Tom Riddle about immortality—it was you who gave him some kind of fatal clue. This sense of guilt makes you still unable to face all this, and you can only choose to escape."
Slughorn's body curled up in the velvet chair, trying to avoid Sherlock's stare.
"You—how could you know? Young people are always curious. I just shared some ancient legends with him during private discussions—"
Slughorn's defense sounded so pale and weak that even Harry couldn't bear to watch.
"I'm afraid it wasn't just legends, was it, Professor? Did those discussions touch upon the darkest, most forbidden territory in magical history? About how to split the soul? About creating an object that could seal away a soul and thus achieve immortality—a Horcrux?"
When the word "Horcrux" was spoken by Sherlock in a calm but extremely clear tone, Slughorn seemed to be struck by an invisible hammer.
He made a suppressed, nearly suffocating gasp, his face instantly pale as paper, fine cold sweat beading on his forehead.
His hands trembled violently, and the glass finally slipped, the amber liquid soaking into the expensive carpet.
He stared at Sherlock like he was looking at a terrible prophet, his eyes full of indescribable fear and shock.
"You—how could you—"
Slughorn's voice trembled, filled with disbelief and bone-deep fear.
Sherlock had revealed the deepest, most unbearable source of fear in his heart.
It was because he had leaked critical information to Voldemort back then that he had personally forged a Dark Lord who made the entire wizarding world tremble.
Sherlock's gaze didn't waver in the slightest because of Slughorn's reaction. Instead, he pressed on.
"Your avoidance, your guilt, every glance at Harry confirms this. Tom Riddle, that handsome, clever young student who was good at beguiling you—it was from you that he first truly understood the possibility of Horcruxes, and ultimately embarked on that path of madness."
He deliberately slowed his speech, each syllable branding itself on Slughorn's heart like a hot iron.
"And Lily, that student you favored most, ultimately became one of the victims on the Dark Lord's path to rise. One of the roots of her sacrifice lies in that fatal conversation between you and him."
Slughorn's defenses completely collapsed.
Tears flowed uncontrollably, mixing with sweat, sliding down his fat cheeks and flowing into his silver-white mustache.
Enormous shame and deep sorrow overwhelmed him, as if he'd been stripped of all his decent outer garments, nakedly facing the invisible tragedy he had personally brewed.
"I—I didn't know he would—"
He choked out, his voice feeble. "I thought he was just—curious about that dark knowledge—he—he was so talented—"
He tried to explain but couldn't find any reasonable excuse.
"Unfortunately, that's precisely the key."
Sherlock's voice, though still calm, carried a touch of weight. "You saw his talent, and may even have been quite appreciative of it, so much so that you overlooked the dangerous abyss that talent led toward. His intelligence and ambition weren't the pranks of an ordinary student, but the key to forbidden Dark magic. And you, intentionally or unintentionally, handed him the key of Horcruxes."
The living room was deathly silent, only Slughorn's suppressed sobbing.
The sweet candy scent, the rich wine aroma—at this moment they all became ironic background.
The firelight from the hearth flickered, casting dancing shadows on his face, adding several shades of desolation.
The world of vanity he had carefully embellished for so long completely collapsed under Sherlock's precise analysis and the enormous impact brought by the word "Horcrux."
Sherlock quietly waited for a moment, letting Slughorn's emotions sink deeper into the abyss of shame and pain.
After a moment, he spoke again, his voice carrying an unquestionable power.
"Sir, you just said you liked Lily so much, yet now you won't help her son. She gave her life to Harry, yet you won't even give Harry a memory."
"Don't say that," Slughorn said in a small voice. Though he was speaking to Sherlock, his gaze was fixed tightly on Harry. "If it could help you—of course no problem—but that thing is useless—"
"It is useful! Not only regarding your regret for Lily, but more importantly about that decisive conversation—especially all the details about Horcruxes! This concerns completely destroying Voldemort, avenging Lily, James, and all who died because of him, and also concerns truly freeing you from this guilt that gnaws at you day and night! Only by handing it over is this your only chance to make amends!"
"But my dear boy—you're asking too much—actually, you're asking me to help you destroy—"
"Don't you want to eliminate the wizard who killed Lily Evans?"
"I do want to, but—"
"Are you afraid Voldemort will discover you helped us?"
Slughorn didn't speak, but his face grew even paler, his forehead shiny with sweat.
"If that's the case, you can rest assured. He's already extremely weak now. If you tell us the truth, he won't even have a chance to make a comeback."
As Sherlock spoke, he gave Harry a look.
Harry knew it was finally time for him to act.
He took a deep breath and looked at Slughorn. "Professor, I hope you can be as brave as my mother was. Until the very last moment of her life, she was trying to stop Voldemort."
Slughorn raised his fat hand and pressed his trembling fingers to his mouth, making him look like a huge baby.
"I feel disgraced—"
He murmured quietly through his fingers. "I feel ashamed of—of what that memory shows—I think I may have caused great harm that day—"
"If you give me that memory, everything will be canceled out," Harry said. "It would be a very brave and noble thing to do."
Slughorn and Harry stared at each other across the flickering candles, the silence lasting a long time.
Harry forced himself not to seek Sherlock's help with his eyes. Wait a little longer.
The enormous impact, the precise analysis, the painful mention of Lily, and the catalyst of alcohol mixed together, completely shattering Slughorn's last trace of luck and hesitation.
He was like someone who finally saw the direction of confession in the darkness.
Tears surged heavily down his fat cheeks, flowing into his silver-white mustache.
Enormous shame and deep sorrow drowned him, but in the desperate abyss in his eyes, a faint glimmer of light also rose—the desire for redemption. As if exhausting all his strength, he heavily nodded his head.
Finally, very slowly, Slughorn reached into his pocket, drew out his wand, and with his other hand felt inside his robes and pulled out a small empty bottle.
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