In the stillness of the night, the sudden eruption of Fiendfyre within a confined space was shockingly abrupt.
A surge of intense heat burst outward, and the floor beneath Sherlock and Dumbledore trembled faintly before quickly settling.
Then came another sound.
Footsteps—rapid, chaotic—echoing from the floor below. By the time they reached Sherlock and Dumbledore, they were faint, yet unmistakably abnormal.
This was not the sound of something walking on two legs.
Moments later, a clearer set of hurried footsteps thundered up the stairs. The younger Dumbledore, who had just gone up, rushed back down, his expression grave and urgent.
Sherlock and Dumbledore followed close behind.
They quickly reached the corridor leading to the underground classroom.
Just as they stepped off the stairs, a massive, shadowy figure shot past them!
In that fleeting instant, Sherlock caught a clear glimpse—
A gigantic spider.
Dumbledore reacted instantly.
Sherlock didn't even see when he drew his wand. In the next moment, his arm lashed out—
A crimson bolt exploded through the air, branching like lightning and spreading into a web-like pattern across the narrow stairwell.
"Hiss—!"
A low, pained shriek echoed.
Green blood splattered across the stone steps—but the creature did not slow. It vanished into the darkness in an instant.
Dumbledore's brows knit tightly. Instead of pursuing the spider, he turned and hurried toward the source of the disturbance—the Potions classroom.
The room was in ruins, scorched and shattered by the violent Fiendfyre.(TN:What?)
Inside, Tom—the prefect they had seen earlier—was pinned to the ground by a large, broad-shouldered boy.
"Hagrid! Professor Dumbledore—it was Hagrid!" Tom said urgently. "He released the monster from the Chamber of Secrets! I nearly caught it myself, but Hagrid stopped me and let it escape!"
Despite being restrained, his expression remained composed—almost unnervingly so.
But Hagrid was the complete opposite.
Flushed red and panicked, he struggled to explain himself.
"No! Professor Dumbledore, it wasn't him—it wasn't Aragog! He's never even left the cupboard since he was born! He couldn't have hurt anyone! It wasn't him!"
Dumbledore's expression stayed calm, but it was clear he couldn't immediately determine who was telling the truth.
"Stand up, Hagrid. Let Tom go first."
At that moment, more footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Several adult witches and wizards rushed in—clearly the Hogwarts staff of that time.
Among them, Sherlock recognized a younger Professor Slughorn, as well as the former Headmaster, Armando Dippet, whom he had seen before in the portraits.
Dippet already looked elderly—frailer even than Dumbledore would be decades later.
"What happened, Albus?" he asked.
Dumbledore shook his head.
"I've just arrived. Let them explain."
What followed was predictable.
Tom, a model prefect, spoke clearly and convincingly. To most of the professors, he was beyond reproach.
Hagrid, on the other hand, was at a severe disadvantage. His magical ability was average at best, and his fascination with dangerous creatures was well known.
Combined with the monster Dumbledore had just seen—and injured—escaping with his own eyes…
The balance of belief was entirely one-sided.
Dumbledore raised his wand slightly.
The scene froze.
Tom's face held a calm, faintly sinister composure. Hagrid's was filled with desperation and near despair.
Everything dissolved into drifting strands of silver light, swirling around Sherlock and Dumbledore.
"His talent for deception was… almost innate," Dumbledore said quietly. "Even though I sensed something was wrong when I first met him, I later began to believe he had truly changed."
Sherlock glanced at him.
"You mean Tom?"
Dumbledore did not answer.
The silver light gathered again, forming a new scene.
This time, they stood in the Headmaster's Office.
It was familiar, yet different.
There was no phoenix, no delicate silver instruments humming softly. The portraits still lined the walls, but one was missing—
Because Armando Dippet was sitting in the chair himself.
"I do not believe we should conclude Hagrid's guilt so hastily," the young Dumbledore was saying. "We need further investigation. At the very least, we must capture the creature responsible."
Dippet shook his head.
"We do not have the luxury of time, Albus. The Ministry demands answers. The Board demands answers. The parents of the dead girl demand answers."
His voice was heavy with exhaustion.
"We must give them a result. Otherwise, Hogwarts may be forced to close."
"Even if that result is wrong?" Dumbledore asked.
"It will not be wrong."
Dippet sighed.
"Hagrid admitted he keeps a dangerous creature. We asked him to surrender it, but he refused. He does not trust us—he believes we would kill it. If he cannot prove his innocence, how can the conclusion be wrong?"
Silence fell.
The young Dumbledore said nothing more.
He turned and walked out of the office.
Sherlock watched his retreating figure—upright, resolute, yet burdened by powerlessness.
Beside him, Dumbledore spoke softly.
"I understood then… even if Hagrid had surrendered his creature and proven his innocence, it would not have changed the outcome."
He paused.
"As Dippet said… people needed a result."
"Even if that result was wrong."