Chapter 3: An Unpleasant Encounter with the Old Bat

A month after Nietzsche's expulsion incident, London's weather finally returned to normal. Even 221B Baker Street became unusually lively.

First, after Sherlock caught the Duke of Blackwood and he was executed, the Duke somehow crawled out of his grave. Then there was a series of mysterious, unsolved murders. The Prime Minister was in a panic, trying to calm the public and issuing orders to find the perpetrator at any cost.

"Impossible, no chemicals... no struggle..." Sherlock muttered, sitting on the sofa, rifling through the archives of his mind. "This violates all the rules!"

It was a miracle of crime… miracle?

His thoughts flashed back to the *Scandal in Bohemia* case, to Irene Adler. How did she escape that siege, especially with Nietzsche as her hostage? She knocked out all the police officers and guards, then left with the photographs without a trace.

Clearly, no ordinary woman could pull that off.

At that moment, Nietzsche yawned as he emerged from his room.

Wait, is it still night?

No, of course not. It only seemed that way because Sherlock had drawn all the curtains, turning the room into something akin to an interrogation chamber. Nietzsche passed by an old clergyman lying on the table and headed toward the window.

"Don't—don't open... ah!!"

Blinding sunlight flooded the room, causing Sherlock to writhe and roll off the sofa, falling onto the carpet and rolling around in agony.

"It's already summer break. You should get outside. And... I don't want to have dinner with that 'guest' of yours tonight."

"How long has it been, Nietzsche? Give your father a break... ah!"

"A month," Nietzsche replied, checking his watch, adding, "I need to go catch some amphibians for your experiment. So… see you tonight."

Originally, Hermione was supposed to join him, but she called yesterday, saying that some guests had arrived at her house, so she couldn't go out to play. 

Poor Nietzsche, at the mercy of Hermione's whims.

As the two continued chatting, the door suddenly opened. In walked a middle-aged man dressed in a long black robe, looking like he belonged to some dark cult, silently gripping a small wooden stick. His greasy black hair glistened under the sunlight filtering through the window.

"If you're looking for Sherlock, he's not interested in any other cases right now," Nietzsche said cautiously, keeping an eye on the man. After all, the door had been locked, and only the Watsons or Mrs. Hudson had the keys to open it from the outside.

But the man remained unfazed, blocking the doorway.

"I'm here for you, Nietzsche John Holmes!" His voice was slow and lethargic, his eyes dull. "You may call me Professor Snape. And stop deliberately losing your letters."

As he spoke, he pulled out an envelope from his sleeve.

Nietzsche stared at the letter, recognizing it as the one he had thrown away, thinking it was a prank. His pupils dilated, and he quickly dodged to the side.

"Stalker!" he shouted.

Before Snape could react, Sherlock instantly pulled out a small metal baton from the sofa and aimed it at him. Staring down the dark barrel of the baton, Snape sensed danger.

After a half-second of thought, the baton went off with a "bang."

Wood chips sprayed from the doorframe near Snape.

"Hands up!" Sherlock commanded.

"What's wrong with you people?!"

Nietzsche suddenly noticed Snape raising his wand toward Sherlock. He quickly ducked behind a wooden post, extending his right hand, fingers clawed, aiming at Snape's wrist.

Well, Nietzsche did have a few little secrets.

It was thanks to these "little secrets" that he could often win fights against students who were bigger and stronger than him.

Nietzsche employed what he called "The Force!"

Snape noticed Nietzsche's movement, but then something strange happened. A powerful, invisible force gripped his wrist, lifting his hand high above his head.

This was not something Snape had expected.

"Who are you?"

But Snape just gritted his teeth, staring at the father and son with a venomous, snake-like glare, and said each word slowly: "I am the Potions Master at Hogwarts, you bunch of Muggles."

When his gaze landed on the corpse on the dining table, he immediately realized this was no ordinary household.

However, Sherlock showed no fear at all and stared right back.

"Alright, Professor… from wherever. Who are you working for?"

"I work for myself! This—has—gone—far—enough!!"

With a muttered incantation, a gust of wind burst from Snape's body, pushing Sherlock and Nietzsche backward. Then, with a flick of his right hand, a red flash darted through the room.

Sherlock felt his Colt revolver fly out of his hand, beyond his control.

Just as Snape was about to explain himself, Watson quietly crept up the staircase and pressed a gun to the back of Snape's head.

The cold metal brought only a chilling sense of dread.

"Drop your tricks, or I'll risk being thrown out by Mrs. Hudson to make sure you're killed on the spot."

Watson rarely showed his ruthless and violent side in front of children, but as Sherlock's friend and guardian, he couldn't afford to be lenient when faced with such a threat.

Despite having a Muggle's gun pointed at his head, Snape showed no emotion.

"If Dumbledore hadn't forced me out, I wouldn't even bother with this."

As soon as he finished speaking, Watson and his wife saw Snape twist his body, and in the blink of an eye, he reappeared in the corner of the room.

The barrel of the gun followed him, still aimed squarely at him.

"*Reparo!*"

With a cold expression, Snape waved his wand in a circle, and the disordered room began to float back to its original state. Sherlock, full of curiosity, dropped to the ground, running his hands through the floating objects around him.

But there was nothing tangible to be found.

"How is this done?" Sherlock asked.

"For the last time, I am a professor at Hogwarts and one of its heads of house. Your son is a wizard. I must say, you two are the most… peculiar Muggles I've ever met."

He was about to say "freaks," but swallowed his words.

Because that was the truth!

Never had he seen a Muggle household that contained a dead body, along with all kinds of bizarre blueprints and dangerous weapons.

Nietzsche frowned. "Muggles?"

"A wizard's term for ordinary people," Snape explained, his eye twitching as Watson handed the revolver back to Sherlock with his cane. "That's the least offensive term, I assure you."

"Now, explain. What kind of trick was that just now? The Duke of Blackwood, whom I once captured, also spoke of magic. So what was your sleight of hand? Some sort of electromagnetic device?"

In Nietzsche's eyes, Sherlock's fascination with new discoveries suddenly overlapped with the Stark figure from his dreams.

"What's that thing in your hand?" Snape asked.

"A handgun," Sherlock replied.

"You tried to attack me with that… like when I first entered. Protego!"

Watson moved to shield Nietzsche behind him, casting a confused glance at Sherlock, now unsure what to make of this.

Suddenly, Nietzsche's adoptive mother, Mary, snatched the gun and calmly fired at Snape's left leg. The bullet ricocheted off a transparent white barrier.

But the force of the impact made Snape jerk his leg backward.

Everyone could see it now—this cold, uninvited guest was unscathed, shielded by nothing more than a thin magical barrier.

To Sherlock, the only thing that mattered now was the mystery.

"Nietzsche can't be a wizard."

"Hmm... it seems he's been keeping a few secrets from you. Care to try that little move again?" Snape's hooked nose turned toward the boy behind Watson and Mary, committing his face to memory.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I know nothing of wizards, and there's no way I'm going to some magic school."

Nietzsche knew exactly who he was.

His path would lead him to the Royal Academy of Science, using his academic achievements and insights from his dreams to enter research and contribute to humanity in this world.

Of course, an ordinary child might dream of becoming a superhero or a wizard.

But Nietzsche had been raised on Sherlock and Watson's bedtime stories about murders and the transformations of human nature in different environments.

"You… can do that too?" Watson asked.

Even he could sense his adoptive son's calmness toward all the strange phenomena.

"He can, and he's already surpassed many wizarding students… but I warn you, using magic recklessly can lead to "Obscurials" forming," Snape replied.

Nietzsche corrected him: "It's called the Force."

"We are wizards. It's called magic."

Feeling the intense stares from Watson and Mary, Nietzsche finally raised his hand and waved at Snape.

The chair Snape was sitting on shot up at an alarming speed, crashing into the ceiling and breaking into several pieces.

Now left without support, Snape fell to the floor with a hard thud. His hands, tucked into his black sleeves, clenched into fists.

"Why didn't you ever tell us?!" Watson demanded.

"Oh... I thought Aunt Irene would've told Dad. It seems she really does value her promises," Nietzsche muttered.

Sherlock, no longer able to stay silent, withdrew his investigative gaze from Snape and said, with frustration, "So you were involved in one of my two precious failures?"

Nietzsche stuck his tongue out.

The *Scandal in Bohemia* had only involved Irene taking the governor's private photos.

At the time, she believed she would become a political scapegoat, and the sincerity she showed was what Nietzsche remembered most vividly.

"I needed the photos to protect my life."

And that, too, was the last thing Irene Adler said to Sherlock Holmes before she disappeared.