Detective at Hogwarts

"The gale twisted the clouds into spirals, between the dark clouds and the sea..."

"Shut up, Nietzsche! You're messing up my thoughts! Watson, have Mrs. Hudson take him away!"

"Hey, I'm your landlady, not your servant... Smart Nietzsche, would you like a cookie?"

In Room 221B, 221B Baker Street, a boy pulled back the curtains in the living room and recited prose aloud while looking at the grey sky from the arched window.

It wasn't long before gunshots rang out from the other end of the living room, followed by the muttering of a middle-aged man.

Nietzsche turned his head, and the "surprise" on the dining table caught his eye—a corpse, not some delightful food.

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady who had just entered, was startled but didn't show much surprise. She seemed accustomed to it, merely expressing some dissatisfaction with the innocent bullet holes left in the wall.

Well... Nietzsche had to admit, he did it on purpose.

The man by the dining table, wielding a whip and incessantly whipping the corpse, was none other than the famous Sherlock Holmes. Nietzsche always felt that his adoptive father resembled the playboy called Tony Stark in his dreams.

Sherlock Holmes and Tony Stark had completely opposite personalities.

"Why don't you call your almighty assistant Jarvis..." Nietzsche muttered to himself, grabbing a raccoon-shaped cookie from the tray.

"If I really had that all-powerful robot butler from your dreams, then Watson could happily retire." Sherlock cast a disdainful glance backward, muttering as he spoke.

John Watson, who was taking notes nearby, felt inexplicably hurt.

"Ahem... Nietzsche just has a vivid imagination. Alright, kid, I think you should go play with that little girl from school... Have you found anything?"

"Time of death is about two days ago, no gunshot wounds, no signs of struggle, no history of illness, no traces whatsoever, just like..."

Nietzsche leaned over the table, sniffed the pleasant smell of gunpowder, and picked up the conversation: "Just like being killed by magic."

"Interesting. Our little bully at school also starts believing in magic."

Sherlock wiped his stubble, holding a pipe in his mouth, sank deep into the sofa, and raised his left hand to fire another shot at the wall. The sudden noise made Mrs. Hudson scream.

"Sherlock!!"

But Nietzsche calmly took a newspaper out of his backpack and tossed it onto the table.

The headline read: "Mysterious Death Case, Another Incompetence of the England Police!"

"Dad, this is the latest newspaper. Another murder happened this morning. The victim was a church member, and people are beginning to believe this is a disaster sent by God. Even within the police department, some think it's impossible."

"I'm not you... never mind, nothing is impossible in this world!" Sherlock tilted his head, grabbed the newspaper, and lazily asked while reading, "What do you think?"

"God is dead."

This was Nietzsche's calm response.

"Oh my God..."

And this was Mrs. Hudson's sigh, raising her head and closing her eyes in lament.

But Watson closed his notebook and looked at Nietzsche in disbelief.

"How do you know about the police department's affairs?"

"Dad, I ran into Inspector Lestrade after school today. He told me." Nietzsche said somewhat helplessly, "Please don't make that face. After all, you guys can hide a head in the refrigerator."

"What? You even have a... head in the fridge?!" Mrs. Hudson was even more shocked.

Sherlock and Nietzsche exchanged a glance.

The father and son coughed a few times, got up in unison, put on their coats as if their nerves were connected, moving in perfect sync, and silently walked out of the room.

This left the old father, John Watson, at home to face the questioning landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

Yes, Nietzsche had two adoptive fathers—Sherlock and Watson.

And also a busy adoptive mother—Mary Morstan.

Though soon, she would be known as Mary Watson.

Despite being adopted by the Watsons, due to their busy schedules, Nietzsche spent almost every day with Sherlock Holmes, having interesting times...

At least for Nietzsche, dealing with severed heads and dismembered bodies every day was quite interesting.

"Alright, kid, you got what you wanted," Sherlock patted off the ash from his pipe and twisted the tobacco in the pipe. "Tell me, what trouble did you get into at school that you need me to clean up?"

"You'll know when you get to school."

Nietzsche gave him a disdainful look.

"I really don't know how Aunt Irene saw anything in you... If you dived into a pile of beggars now, someone would surely drop a coin in your hat."

"You little sociopath, last time you were transferred because you went too far... What was the name of that chubby kid you beat up?"

"Dudley Dursley, a lard-filled cake."

This wasn't the first time Nietzsche had beaten up a classmate.

"You're not much better yourself!"

Sherlock scratched the stubble on his chin that hadn't been groomed for a long time. Suddenly stepping from indoors to outdoors made his eyes squint.

As he adjusted to the light, a postman rode by on a newly paved cobblestone road, swiftly slipping an envelope into Nietzsche's hand.

The voice was deep and old, and judging by the wrinkles on his hands, he was around fifty years old.

"Mr. Holmes, your envelope."

Nietzsche shifted his gaze from the postman, his fingers instinctively feeling the paper.

It wasn't commercially produced paper, very rough, with a noticeable texture of fine bumps. There was also an emblem on the cover, similar to a wax seal:

A shield containing a lion, snake, eagle, and badger.

The boy looked at the letters beneath the emblem, somewhat puzzled: "Hogwarts? I don't remember applying to this school."

However, Nietzsche didn't say much more. He walked while thinking for a moment, and only after turning the corner of Baker Street did he leisurely tear open the letter.

It read:

Dear Nietzsche John Holmes,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster.

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress.

Sherlock Holmes curiously leaned over and asked, "What does it say?"

"A magic school... Don't you think it's quite a coincidence that we receive this kind of letter just a few days after the religiously motivated murder case? Is this a warning?"

Nietzsche frowned, handing the envelope to his scruffy adoptive father.

When it came to investigating clues, he was the professional.

As soon as Sherlock got the letter, he first felt the texture of the paper, then sniffed it hard under his nose, and finally, after confirming Nietzsche had read the letter, he even licked it.

He smacked his lips, savoring the taste.

"Old handmade parchment... with a hint of chocolate sweetness, interesting... Was the letter delivered by a human?"

"What else? We don't have a mini-computer or printers in our mobile phones."

"But the letter emphasizes that you must reply with an owl. Animals aren't capable of delivering letters without specialized training. Even if it were a threatening letter, it would be too unprofessional."

Sherlock looked disappointed.

"So it's a prank?"

"And the included book list is just to make it seem like a real thing?" Sherlock then threw the letter into the trash can beside him. "Maybe it's just to lure gullible kids like you."

Whether it's a prank, a threat, or a real school, with the last clue, no matter how real it seemed, everything turned out to be an illusion.

No specified owl!

But one thing was certain: their address was exposed.

"Who would go to such a magic school," Nietzsche said contemptuously. "I will dedicate myself to all of humanity in the future!"

"Just because of those dreams in your head?"

"I always feel that those things really happened. Father, you have to admit that some things can't be described by language. Words themselves are a kind of symbolic order, a form of violence."

Just like his name.

Nietzsche John Holmes wanted to break out of this worldly frame.

"So that's your reason for hitting your classmates?!"

As this odd father and son pair reached the school gate, a voice broke their respective reveries.

Following the voice, they saw a girl with brown curly hair, a few freckles on her face, and chocolate-colored eyes. She was standing at the gate, holding several books and frowning.

He, Nietzsche, had met the most troublesome person of his life.

Hermione Granger!!

"Damn it, why hasn't she left school yet?"

_______

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