Chapter 95: Aftermath

Albus Dumbledore interlaced his fingers, resting them lightly on the polished oak desk in front of him. Unfazed by Sherlock Forester's unnerving words, the venerable wizard seemed to slip into a state of introspection, wrestling with some internal dilemma. Sherlock elected to bide his time, giving Dumbledore the space to mull over his secrets. The hush that lingered in the headmaster's office was only ever broken with Dumbledore delved into revelations.

After a contemplative silence, the elderly wizard met Sherlock's gaze once more. "It is indeed remarkable, Sherlock," he said, his voice touched with uncharacteristic gravity, "the depth of your insight, especially given your recent trials. But be warned - if I were to impart upon you the secret that Tom Riddle has devoted his life to uncovering … well, there would be little point in evading the truth. He will stop at nothing to silence any who dare to share his knowledge."

Sherlock, of course, already knew that Tom Riddle, also known as Voldemort, was alive and well. He was familiar with the true nature of Riddle's diary too - it was more than just a receptacle of parchment and ink. It harbored a piece of Voldemort's soul, a shard that Sherlock desperately needed to restore his own damaged spirit.

He had received his epiphany in the dim tranquillity of the Hogwarts infirmary. Following his harrowing encounter with the diary's fragment, Sherlock had come to realize just how marked the fissure in his soul was. The sliver that he had managed to absorb, barely a fifth of the original ghostly fragment, had strengthened his magic in ways he had never thought possible. It was akin to imbibing an invigorating elixir of exceptional potency.

Furthermore, in the wake of this new strength, he found that the overwhelming power he had experienced in the lounge - the ethereal sensation of dueling a Basilisk with nothing but his thoughts - was still within his grasp. It was as though he had stumbled upon a new form of magic, a means to interfere with reality itself without the need for intricate wand movements or incantations. Although his newfound power had tapered slightly since its initial surge, it remained a formidable force.

A curious revelation had struck Sherlock during this mending process. His soul was undamaged, not torn or scarred in any perceivable way. The source of this puzzling fusion came from the merging of two complete souls - his own, which had dominated his consciousness after navigating across realities, and the dormant soul of the original host.

The original host's soul had already been critically injured when Sherlock first transmigrated between realities, gradually beginning to fade. The souls stitching he had performed had essentially forced a melding of these two disparate spirits.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. The prophecy didn't seem so significant now.

At last, Dumbledore broke his silence. "Riddle's lifelong pursuit, Sherlock, is immortality," the headmaster confessed.

"What a mundane ambition," Sherlock murmured, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow.

Dumbledore chuckled lightly at this response. "Believe as you may, Tom's aim - however simplistic it may seem to you - still provides him with a sense of direction. During his time here at Hogwarts, he uncovered a path leading to this eventual goal - through the creation of Horcruxes."

"Horcruxes," Sherlock echoed, the term resonating with familiarity. During his covert ventures into the restricted section of the library, he had stumbled upon a book that made a brief mention of this notably dark aspect of magic.

"Indeed, Horcruxes," Dumbledore confirmed, "a dark form of magic that allows the caster to divide their soul and bind it to physical objects. As long as the Horcrux is secure, the creator cannot truly die."

Voldemort, or Riddle as he had been known, had evidently mastered this sinister magic. Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, processing this untold aspect of the Dark Lord's history.

"Would it be possible, then," he asked, "to create multiple Horcruxes?"

"In theory," Dumbledore admitted, "one could indeed subdivide their soul into as many pieces as desired."

"Do we know how many Voldemort has made?"

Here, Dumbledore shook his head, the spark of knowledge in his eyes dulled slightly. "That, I fear, is one answer I have been unable to uncover. To kill Voldemort, merely defeating him will not suffice; every single one of his Horcruxes must be destroyed first. This daunting task has been my focal point ever since I first thought of the possibility. Alas, I have yet to uncover any credible leads. The diary that you vanquished is the only known Horcrux thus far."

Dumbledore turned to face the myriad portraits of past headmasters adorning the walls of his office. His glasses caught the candlelight, rendering their crescent lenses to twinkle in the dim room. "We still possess the luxury of time, Sherlock," he concluded softly. "We may still be able to unearth the answers we seek - the objects bound as Horcruxes, their numerical count, the man Tom Riddle was - by studying his past."

Emerging from the headmaster's office, Sherlock was met with a queue of visitors: Neville's grandmother, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and, to his surprise, Lucius Malfoy.

Dumbledore had absolved Neville Longbottom of any blame. As the elderly wizard explained it, if many full-grown wizards had succumbed to Voldemort's charm, then Neville's spirited resistance and ultimate escape were commendable. Dumbledore maintained this compassionate stance even in light of the meager results of their investigation.

Within Dumbledore's office, Harry discovered that the diary had been planted within Hogwarts with deliberate intent by Lucius. The Malfoy family's house-elf, Dobby, had known all along, and this was the reason behind his relentless efforts to prevent Harry's return to Hogwarts. As Lucius prepared to leave, Harry cleverly afforded Dobby a sock - indirectly through his master - liberating the house-elf from the bounds of servitude.

The school later cheered their victory over the Basilisk with a celebratory banquet. The student population was alight with a mix of relief and joy. The professors shared in their enthusiasm. Both Filius Flitwick and Minerva McGonagall warmly proposed repetitive toasts in Sherlock's honor. Even Severus Snape, whose countenance rarely deviated from a frosty glare, sought Sherlock out to inquire about the transfiguration that had bested the Basilisk.

Dumbledore chose not to broadcast the identity of the Heir of Slytherin or reveal Neville's inadvertent role in opening the Chamber of Secrets and setting the monstrous Basilisk free. He did, however, announce that the Chamber had indeed been opened and that the creature that dwelled within its depths was a Basilisk. He also shared that both Harry and Sherlock, supported by Ron and Neville, had bravely confronted the monster and triumphed.

A journalist from the Daily Prophet seized the opportunity to capture a group photograph of Sherlock, Harry, Ron, and Neville - a perfect image for an upcoming headline celebrating their victory. Over time, it was widely recognized that the trio's role in unraveling the mystery of the Chamber and their subsequent aid to Sherlock had been instrumental.

Severus Snape seized the opportunity to purchase the remains of the Basilisk and the discarded skin the professors had found in the chamber for a handsome price of five thousand Galleons. The payment of five thousand Galleons was the result of an intense negotiation between Sherlock and Snape. Understandably, the value of such an ancient and monstrous Basilisk was inestimable.

Ron chose to donate most of his share of the money to his family, sparing a fraction to treat himself to a new wand and clothing. Harry generously split his share with Hermione, who had significantly contributed to identifying the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.

Neville, despite his initial blunder, was spared punishment and gained an unanticipated windfall of fame, which wore a permanent smile on his face. The revelation that the Sword of Gryffindor had deemed him worthy of its power was a source of immense pride for his grandmother.

However, even with this newfound fortune, Sherlock couldn't shake off his instinctual dissatisfaction over the transaction with Snape. A seasoned potions master like Snape would, of course, shoot an initial lowball offer - he had attempted to acquire the Basilisk for a mere thousand Galleons. Had Harry, Ron, or Hermione been the ones to bargain, they doubtlessly would have succumbed to Snape's intimidating presence. Sherlock, however, was unyielding, arguing his case fervently until he managed to squeeze out five times Snape's original offer.

But even the agreed sum of five thousand Galleons felt like a ripoff to Sherlock. The market value of an ancient Basilisk was undoubtedly higher. But this unexpected windfall had lifted their spirits, and more importantly, dotted the path ahead with hope.

Engrossed in these thoughts, news of an unfortunate incident came to their ears - a fire had consumed a part of the Forbidden Forest during the night of Hagrid's arrest, obliterating every resident, including Aragog and his entire colony of Acromantulas. (E/N.: Author's wording is very weird here, I'm sure he meant that the entire colony of spiders died, not that every single being in the forest died..)