Chapter 109: Greater Good

The Stupefy spell zoomed from behind, and all too late, Fleur felt it collide brutally with her back. She fell abruptly to the ground, unconscious on the instant.

"Marlene," the assailant sneered, stalking towards Fleur's prone form with a terrible glee. As she approached, her face contorted grotesquely, morphing like clay in the hands of a sculptor. Her features altered to such an extent they were barely recognisable, and even her hair changed, lightening from a dark brown to an icy blonde that flowed down to her shoulders.

In a matter of seconds, "Marlene's" face had transformed horrifically, finally settling into the unmistakable visage of Jonathan, the very same wizard who had acted so suspiciously around Fleur in Place Cachée just the previous day. His involvement with the mysterious theft of her wand had seemed increasingly likely, and now was all but confirmed.

"Wretched bitch, took quite some effort to catch you." Jonathan taunted, bristling with a sardonic air of self-satisfaction.

His initial innocuous act had been nothing more than a façade. Just as he was about to reach down and seize Fleur off the ground, something strange caught his attention. It appeared as though the tiny blades of grass curling around his feet had transformed into wicked tendrils, wrapping themselves in a tightening grip.

Alas, the realization came too late. The once-gentle field had sprung to life, rising with malevolent intent; before he could react, they had twisted and snaked their way up to his waist, binding him in an unexpected vegetal prison.

Sherlock Forester, hidden under the blanket of his disillusionment charm some distance away, allowed the spell to lapse. Ever since he had honed his skills in transfiguration, he had developed a certain fondness for it over direct offensive spells.

Stupefy, Petrificus Totalus, Expelliarmus; they all followed the same routine - a call, a flick of the wand, and the spell was cast. Even when performed silently—without diminishing the impact—there always resulted a perceptible gap between the initial wand movement and the target being hit. This brief pause could be disastrous in a skirmish.

Transfiguration, on the other hand, created immediate effects within the vicinity, influencing the physical substances around the wizard without needing a direct hit. This made it an incredibly effective tool when the element of surprise was to be maintained, like in Jonathan's case.

Strolling over to the tightly bound Jonathan, Sherlock, Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, coolly remarked, "You've got a lot of nerve to act all superior, you lowly wand thief," as he picked up the man's wand.

Jonathan was helpless, bound by the enchanted vegetation, and could do no more than glare threateningly at him. "When did you figure out my plan?" Jonathan spat out, obvious bitterness lacing his words.

Sherlock eased the constricting vines around him and pulled out a small bag from the thief's pocket. "Oh, I think it was when I noticed your rather distinct necklace and tattoo yesterday in Place Cachée. The symbol had a familiar ring to it, somehow. Maybe you can enlighten me?"

Sherlock opened the bag, a grin playing on his lips when he identified the enchantment on it – an 'undetectable extension charm'. The Ministries of Magic across the globe always frowned upon the misuse of such charms. This was mostly because of the unpredictability they bear; unauthorized items carrying this charm could house countless accidents waiting to happen. If mishandled, the internal spatial pressure of these charms could cause terrible harm to the wielder and those around them.

Inside the bag, to no one's surprise, Sherlock found about fifty wands – a collection of stolen magical tools, neatly classified and stored in five boxes – ten wands to each box. Among them, he guessed was Fleur's wand, the one she had been fruitlessly searching for.

Upon understanding how Sherlock had managed to suss him out, Jonathan sneered. "You didn't recognize the insignia? What a pity... Only few remember the great man who once threatened to reshape the magical world single-handedly!" He mocked, reveling in Sherlock's perceived ignorance.

"Oh, you mean..." murmured Sherlock thoughtfully, "the one whose head could catch fire?"

This response only earned him a perplexed stare from Jonathan. "...burning head? What?"

"Er. No. Forget I said that," Sherlock replied, his casual demeanor offset by the satisfaction of having so accurately guessed Jonathan's affiliations, "Go on, tell me more."

In the meantime, Sherlock started organizing the boxes of wands he had retrieved earlier. He liked order.

With a scowl, Jonathan was forced to continue. "I advise you sit tight, wizen your attitude. I, for one, am a faithful follower of Grindelwald!"

"Grindelwald's followers? I seem to remember something about them from the historical records of Wizarding history," Sherlock mused, rubbing his chin characteristically.

"An active organization from the early 20th century, right? The people who gave their allegiance to Grindelwald, the same man who's been declared the Dark Lord before Voldemort?"

Jonathan went silent at the inference, his eyes narrowing as he gave away nothing. After a while, he shrugged, "If you know who he is, you'd do well to think twice before meddling in his follower's way. Now let me go!"

Sherlock only responded nonchalantly, dismissing Jonathan's warning. "Grindelwald's ideals were indeed lofty, at least when compared to the Dark Lord who succeeded him. Despite that, he's just a part of our history now, sitting in a prison somewhere in Austria, rotting away for the rest of his life."

He paused, looking pensive. Then with a chuckle he addressed Jonathan again, "As for you, considering your rather young appearance, I don't reckon you're a remnant of Grindelwald's era. The only explanation could be that you're swept away by his exploits—made grander by the shroud of History—that you decided to join his denizens. Scratch that, attempt to join them. Little do you seem to realize that they wouldn't even accept a lowly wand-thief." (E/N.: Actually he'd be right at home..)

Evidently, Sherlock's jibe hit a nerve. Jonathan went beet-red, his voice catching hoarsely in his throat. "What do you know! Wands are a noble art form! The ones wielded by distinguished wizards represent the essence of magic itself! Halfwits like you could never understand the artistry they hold!" He screamed, his obsession bordering on insanity.

Sherlock was taken aback by his outburst. He had, for a while, been suspecting Jonathan to be a wand thief with a passion for the artifacts but had not guessed that the obsession ran so deep – enough to drive him to masquerade as Nicolas Flamel, swindling wands off numerous unsuspecting young wizards.

Stepping back from the boxes of wands, he turned towards Jonathan, his voice taking a slightly curious tone, "Speaking of which, if you found wands so fascinating, why did you decide to attack Fleur? Your luck run out yet?"

He didn't expect Jonathan to honor his question with an honest response. To his surprise, Jonathan was all too eager to elaborate. He paused for a second, then shrugged nonchalantly. "A Half-Veela sells for more on the black market than a pure Veela. And someone as pretty as her is not easy to come by. With the right contact, it wouldn't be much of a challenge to fetch a handsome price for her..."

Before Jonathan could divulge any further, a massive kick found its way to his gut, silencing him abruptly. Sherlock's face had turned stony, the usually calm eyes icy. The man responsible for this change had been thrown on to the ground with the severity of the kick. He had tumbled a few times before stopping, his contorted face bearing a look of pained surprise.

"Not just a pathetic pickpocket but also dabbles in human trafficking, huh? Charming," Sherlock remarked, his voice colder than the chilliest of winter nights.

Jonathan spat out blood and laughed defiantly. "Hah, you think I'm despicable? Lofty ideals always require drastic means to be met. Do you even know of Grindelwald's doctrine? 'For the greater good'. It's something your hypocritical kind will never understand!"

Sherlock, now standing over Jonathan, kicked him right in the face, silencing the annoying little man for a moment. "When someone like you speaks those words, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth," he said in a low voice.

Continuing, he added, "Even someone who has only skimmed through as single mundane history book would know that Grindelwald's 'greater good' didn't refer to personal benefits, but to collective benefits of all wizards. Your pitiful interpretation of his phrase is not only completely wrong, but it's also quite...comical. I should apologize, I misunderstood earlier. You're not another Grindelwald's fanatic—you are a puny troll, spreading the plague of hate in his name."

Sherlock finally lifted his foot, leaving Jonathan to groan in pain. With a swift glance at him, he saw that the young man's face was blood-streaked and bruised, most likely his nose had been broken, but he was finally unconscious.

Turning his gaze to Fleur lying unconscious on the ground some distance away, he smirked to himself. "Perhaps being unconscious is a better fate than having to deal with this wanker," he murmured, looking over at Jonathan sprawled on the ground.

Next, he moved towards Fleur, making sure she was not injured, only unconscious. His gaze fell upon the red crystal clutched tightly in her hand.

"Mmm, a hardworking one, this girl," Sherlock murmured, his lips curling into a small, wry smile.

But as Sherlock was busy levitating both Jonathan and Fleur, preparing to haul them out of the forest, a bright, fiery spell whizzed towards him from the corner of his vision.

Before he could react, his wand—and along with it the fifty stolen ones that he had put back into the pouch—was flung out of his hand and scattered a good few meters ahead of him!

From the corner of the bush, a grotesque goblin staggered out, glaring at Sherlock with angry, narrowed eyes. He raised his own wand and pointed it at Sherlock, his voice rumbling with anger.

"Don't move!"

Sherlock, unfazed, raised both his hands and saluted the hostile goblin, trying to dissipate the tension.

"I thought Harry had already taken care of you," Sherlock remarked, maintaining his nonchalant air.

The sight of the goblin was in agreement with Sherlock's words. He seemed to be in a horrible state, struggling to keep his feet steady as he walked over to check over Jonathan's condition. With one hand in his wand, he sent a binding charm at Sherlock, restraining him.

"Your student's Stupefy spell is terrible.." The goblin muttered, examining the unconscious Jonathan.

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "He's only just into his third year, you can't expect him to have mastered Stupefy yet. The fact that he managed to cast it at all shows his potential."

Watching as the goblin snapped something in the unfamiliar native language, he seemed annoyed that his comrade was unable to wake up even using magic. The goblin then gingerly picked up both Jonathan and Fleur.

"Oh, so you were intending to take us all?" Sherlock asked casually, nodding towards the fallen Jonathan and Fleur.

Instead of getting a response, he only received a growl from the obviously irritated goblin. "Shut up already! I'll not have you, a disgusting wizard, disrespect me."

"Ah, right. By the beauty standards of your particular kind, I could really be considered disgusting. To each his own, I reckon," Sherlock replied, relaxing against his constraints. Behind the goblin, dozens of wand tips had floated in the air, aiming at his back. Sherlock blinked, softly uttering an incantation under his breath.

"Petrificus Totalus"