Chapter 6: Diagon Alley

Snape always left a lasting impression on the Holmes family, one of uninvited intrusion.

It was Saturday, a holiday in England, the time when most workers could legally rest.

As they were just getting out of bed, preparing to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, Snape, dressed in his long black robe, sat in the middle of the dining table as if he were the owner of the house, his dark, thick hair neatly combed.

Snape's hair was finally tamed, and he looked at Sherlock with a superior air, like a rooster who had won a fight.

"Fortunately, we don't have to worry about too much grease in breakfast. A lighter morning meal is better," Sherlock Holmes commented upon seeing him seated there.

Watson shook his head, using the newspaper to cover his face. He had no interest in getting involved, especially since Sherlock's nature seemed to constantly attract trouble of all kinds.

Nietzsche, on the other hand, rather enjoyed watching the rivalry between Sherlock and Snape.

"Shall we take a car later?" Sherlock ignored the cold stare and spoke as if nothing were wrong. "After all, a wizard's broom might not fit four people."

Ah, a little Muggle shock for the grinning snake.

"Broomstick?" Snape thought he had misheard.

"Don't look at me like that. There are obvious signs of friction on the back of your robe. Of course, an arrogant wizard wouldn't notice the small splinters on their rear end. Based on Muggle folklore, it's not hard to deduce."

"Interesting, how about this?"

Snape lowered his head slightly, squinting his eyes.

With a tap of his small wooden stick, his clothes instantly transformed, all the clues vanishing in an instant, leaving Sherlock and Nietzsche with nothing but endless question marks.

"Sherlock!" Watson warned. "We still have shopping to do later."

"Indeed, this isn't the best time."

But now it was Snape's turn to dig in, dragging out his words. "But I insist."

Mary watched the scene unfold with wide eyes, amused. This seemed familiar, like something that had happened the first time she met Sherlock.

"He insists," Sherlock shrugged.

Although Snape might be Nietzsche's future professor, did Nietzsche care about that?

No, he didn't care at all.

Snape's arrogance and unjustified prejudice against ordinary people reminded Nietzsche of the old British aristocrats and their attitude towards colonies like India. In a strict sense, Nietzsche detested that attitude.

This was one of the reasons Nietzsche instinctively rejected Hogwarts.

"Ah-ha, I wonder if wizards have ever heard of graphology," Nietzsche said as he pulled out a letter with the signature of the headmaster, reading: *Severus Snape*.

"Each stroke is neat and precise, but the writing is slightly smaller than the average. The lines slant downward, yet they appear elegant. What does this signify?" Nietzsche feigned curiosity, reading aloud.

Sitting beside him, Sherlock gave an inward round of applause. He knew Nietzsche wasn't raised in vain: at least, in front of outsiders, he would stand united with his father.

"If you were more like me than Watson, you'd understand... that Professor Snape here is a pragmatist, highly meticulous, yet constantly repressing himself, almost to the point of lacking empathy."

Perhaps their analysis was so bold that it plunged the room into an awkward silence.

Watson shook his head repeatedly—whenever these two behaved like this, it was bound to offend others.

"Hmph... maybe Muggles aren't as stupid as I thought..." Snape turned his gaze away and continued, "As for you, young Mr. Holmes, I hope you study as diligently as you are today."

"This blatant threat... I guess we should add another characteristic: petty."

Snape smiled thinly. "Usually, when someone calls me petty, I had better be exactly that—otherwise, how can I prove your deductions correct?"

Well, well, well. To make this mysterious wizard so rattled—they had already won.

Nietzsche and Sherlock looked at Snape's now sullen face and felt their appetites improve.

Diagon Alley, according to Snape's brief introduction, was a gathering place for wizards, a place specifically for purchasing magical items.

Strangely enough, a few days ago, when they visited the Diogenes Club and asked Mycroft Holmes, a minor British official, to temporarily access the satellite, they didn't detect any such gathering place.

Clearly, the magic Snape spoke of was even more mysterious than Nietzsche had imagined.

"Nietzsche! Sherlock! Someone's looking for you!"

Just as they were about to head out, Mrs. Hudson's voice called from downstairs.

There were hurried footsteps in the hallway, about four people. First to appear at the door was Nietzsche's schoolmate and nemesis—Hermione Granger.

She bounded up the stairs two steps at a time, reaching them first.

"Oh—it seems they're here for you," Watson remarked from behind, adjusting Nietzsche's collar.

"What's up?" Nietzsche asked.

"You... I...," Hermione stammered, "I was planning to go somewhere to buy some things. Do you want to come along?"

She wasn't good at hiding her feelings; her face practically screamed "conflicted."

Nietzsche, leaning heavily on his cane, cleared his throat. His thoughts were pulled back to a year ago, and finally, with a serene smile and narrowed eyes, he spoke.

Those who knew Nietzsche could tell—he had found new entertainment...

"How coincidental. I'm planning to head out myself. Perhaps we could go together."

Hermione stomped her foot in frustration and, seeing the grim-faced Snape standing behind Nietzsche, felt a little scared.

Nietzsche didn't rush, though, and watched Hermione struggle to explain that she hadn't come specifically for him, but was just looking to hang out during the summer, and it was merely on her way...

But Professor McGonagall's surprised exclamation swallowed Hermione's words.

"Severus?!"

"Minerva?"

Following Hermione up the stairs was another wizard dressed in a robe, though hers was much more pleasant than Snape's.

Professor McGonagall had been inwardly lamenting the twists of fate, feeling guilty for having become the villain who separated old childhood friends.

But then, she saw that familiar face—the eternally stern Snape, as if the world owed him a million galleons.

Hermione was dumbstruck.

"So, where are you going to buy things?" Nietzsche asked, playing up the act like Sherlock had taught him, "Oh... let me guess, is it a place called Diagon Alley?"

"You know... wait, how do you know?"

"You told me before. Has anyone ever mentioned that you're really bad at lying?"

Hermione froze.

Her fists clenched.

"So... you just let me explain everything, watching me make a fool of myself?!"

She had been racking her brain for excuses, thinking about how to comfort Nietzsche if he couldn't use magic, how to tell him that even without being a wizard, he could still become the smartest Muggle.

Yet the cold reality was this: Nietzsche had secrets too. He had already figured it all out on that afternoon after exams, just from her questions.

And he had pretended not to know the whole time.

After calming down, Hermione felt a sudden cold anger. If Nietzsche got hit by a truck when they went outside, she might actually think he deserved it.

"You really are insufferable."

"By the way, were you planning to bring me along to Diagon Alley because you thought I'd be scared?"

Hermione's gaze turned icy.

She swore, if their parents weren't present, and if they were back at school, she would've grabbed a dictionary and smacked it across his head.

"Professor McGonagall, the person I was looking for has already moved from Baker Street. Let's just go." Hermione dashed downstairs without a backward glance.

That left the Grangers and the Watsons shaking hands warmly.

"I'm Wendell Granger, and this is my wife Monica Granger. I believe our daughter mentioned that Nietzsche's father is a military doctor," Mr. Granger said, looking at Sherlock with a hint of uncertainty. "And this gentleman is..."

Good heavens, the man they'd seen that day wasn't Nietzsche's father or mother, was it?

"John Watson, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes, and this is my fiancée," Watson quickly clarified. "We're all guardians of this boy."

"Such... frankness," Mr. Granger said, though he was clearly a little stunned.

Two foster fathers and one foster mother—a bit ahead of the times for England.

Aside from Nietzsche and Hermione, everyone else seemed taken aback. It appeared this trip to Diagon Alley would be far from boring.