HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

Hermione’s acrophobia had indeed struck.

Although she had actively sought out Sherlock last year and practiced Quidditch with him for a while, gradually overcoming her psychological fear of heights, the car’s current flying altitude far exceeded that previous height.

Sherlock sat to her left, Harry to her right.

Caught off guard, she instinctively grabbed tightly onto Sherlock’s arm without thinking.

When she heard Sherlock about to say her name, she panicked and simply covered his mouth.

Hermione was someone with a very strong personality.

If only Mr. Granger and Sherlock were here, it would be fine.

Having her father discover her embarrassing state wouldn’t be such a big deal.

But there weren’t just Sherlock and her father here.

Under these circumstances, she instinctively didn’t want others to know she still had this weakness. Even though the remaining people were all elders and friends.

Sherlock didn’t know what Hermione was thinking. In his view, simple acrophobia was no big deal. But since she clearly didn’t want him to speak, he wouldn’t be unnecessarily helpful.

After all, he wasn’t the one suffering. If she wanted to endure it, so be it.

Naturally, the others besides Sherlock knew nothing of Hermione’s special condition.

After a while longer, the car suddenly became visible in the clouds.

”How troublesome,” Mr. Weasley said with some annoyance. ”This button has a bit of a problem.”

He poked the button hard, and the car quickly disappeared again.

But before long, the car reappeared.

He poked again, and the car vanished once more.

A few minutes later, the car appeared again.

He poked—poked again—kept poking—

After going back and forth several times, Mr. Weasley simply gave up:

”Let’s go back to the ground, Ron. We’re not far from Godric’s Hollow now.”

Ron nodded in agreement and began controlling the car’s gradual descent.

Seeing this, Hermione immediately and inconspicuously released her grip on Sherlock’s arm.

But she remained in a state of physical tension.

Only when the car descended to a certain altitude did she quietly breathe a sigh of relief.

What a complete miscalculation!

But then again, who could have predicted that going out by car would trigger her acrophobia?

This was simply too ridiculous!

Hermione stole glances around her. Good—she didn’t seem to have been noticed.

Thinking about it, everyone’s attention had been drawn to Mr. Weasley and his special button, so indeed no one would have noticed her.

She sneaked another look at Sherlock.

She found him observing everything around them with interest. As if nothing had happened at all.

This left Hermione feeling both relieved and somewhat disappointed.

As the car returned from sky to ground, everyone breathed a long sigh of relief, and this remarkable journey finally came to an end.

Unlike St. Catchpole, the scenery here appeared quiet and ancient.

On both sides of the road were vast grasslands, with the occasional sheep grazing peacefully.

The distant mountains rolled continuously like sleeping giants of the earth.

As the protagonist of this journey, Harry sat in the back seat, his lightning bolt scar faintly visible under the sunlight.

He looked at the surrounding scenery, his eyes reflecting complex emotions.

There was anticipation for reaching their destination, and nostalgia for past memories.

His palm pressed against the car window, leaving a blurred handprint, his heart both nervous and excited.

Finally—was he finally going home?

Although he had lived on Privet Drive for eleven years, Harry had never considered that place home.

Without exaggeration, both Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Sherlock’s house, where he’d stayed for a while last Christmas, felt more like home than Number 4 Privet Drive.

But only here—this was where his dream had begun.

As the car fully entered Godric’s Hollow, even Mr. Weasley, who had been talking constantly, fell silent.

Under Mr. Weasley’s guidance, Ron parked the car properly, and everyone slowly got out one by one.

This wouldn’t normally be considered a spectacle.

But when they emerged from the car one after another, one following another, one beside another, the nearby onlookers were stunned by this magical sight.

But at this moment, the group had no time to consider the onlookers’ feelings.

Their attention was completely captured by the scene in front of them.

Mr. Weasley was somewhat better off—he had been here before.

This was at most a return visit. But the others were here for the first time.

Although Harry had been born here, he’d been an infant then, so it was no different from a first visit.

The village center was a small square. The most eye-catching structure in the square’s center was a war memorial monument.

Nearby were several shops. Looking closer, there was a post office, a pub, and a small church.

”Harry—”

Mr. Weasley, leading the way, put aside his usual casual demeanor and turned to look at Harry.

”Follow me.”

Everyone followed Mr. Weasley’s lead as they slowly walked forward. When they reached the square, he suddenly stopped.

The others were puzzled at first, but soon they were stunned. Because at that moment, the memorial had disappeared.

The obelisk that had been covered with names was replaced by a group of three statues. These three people were all too familiar to Harry.

A tall man with messy hair and glasses. A beautiful woman with long hair, kind and gentle, beautiful and elegant. And a baby boy, sitting in her arms.

At this moment, Harry suddenly remembered what Sherlock had once told him.

Don’t become obsessed with the Mirror of Erised—there are other ways to see your family.

He understood.

Just as he had with the Mirror of Erised last year, Harry moved as close to the statue as possible. He gazed deeply at his parents’ faces and his own stone features.

It was a baby without a scar on his forehead. Just seeing his face, Harry could almost feel his happiness.

The air around them seemed to still carry a faint trace of magical essence.

These were traces left by past stories, witnesses to courage and sacrifice.

Harry stood there quietly.

No one urged him on; everyone stood there quietly with him.

Sherlock looked at this happy family of three and frowned slightly.

By now, he understood Harry Potter—the magical world’s savior—better than Harry understood himself.

He knew very clearly that deep in Harry’s heart, he had never considered becoming the magical world’s hero something to be particularly proud of.

If he could, Harry would rather be with his parents as an ordinary little boy.

Unfortunately, when Voldemort chose Harry as the child of prophecy, fate’s gears had already begun to turn slowly.

No one knew how long passed before Harry came to his senses. He looked at the others somewhat embarrassedly:

”Sorry, I—”

”It’s alright, Harry.”

Mr. Weasley smiled and patted his head. ”Let’s go.”

Harry nodded, took another deep look at the statue, then strode after Mr. Weasley.

Except for Mr. Weasley, everyone was full of interest in everything here, looking around and taking in all the sights.

After walking some distance, Sherlock thought of something and looked back.

Sure enough, the group of statues had once again become the war memorial.

When the group entered the church, they could see the cemetery behind it, with a narrow gate half-open at the cemetery entrance.

”Mr. Weasley, this—this is—”

Harry’s voice was choked with emotion.

Mr. Weasley nodded gravely and reached out to push the gate open.

The small path leading to the church door on both sides was overgrown with weeds—clearly no one had walked on it for a long time.

Behind the church were row upon row of tombstones, standing on shallow blue-silver carpet, carved with the names of ancient wizarding families.

The nearest grave was clearly marked with the Abbott family name.

”The Abbott family, ranked first among the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families,” Mr. Weasley explained.

”We’re one of them too.”

Sherlock glanced at Mr. Weasley.

Although Mr. Weasley hadn’t expressed any opinion about the ”Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families” designation, he could still sense Mr. Weasley’s regret and dissatisfaction at his family being included in this list.

The group gradually made their way deeper into the cemetery, leaving dark footprints behind them.

They stopped from time to time to read the inscriptions on the tombstones.

Besides the Abbott family at the front, there were also the Avery family, Bulstrode family, and Burke family.

They too belonged to the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families.

Sherlock’s gaze swept rapidly around the area and suddenly stopped before a black stone.

This was a cold, moss-covered piece of granite with the name Kendra Dumbledore carved on it.

A little below was the inscription ”her daughter Ariana.”

And a line of epitaph:

Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

Noticing Sherlock’s movement, Hermione came over.

”Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

After reading the line softly, Hermione didn’t quite understand its meaning.

”Sherlock, this is—”

”Dumbledore’s mother and sister’s grave. You can tell from the birth and death dates, and the epitaph was left by Dumbledore.”

”Sherlock is right.”

Mr. Weasley sighed and once again took on the role of narrator:

”The Dumbledore family did indeed once live here, and some family members are buried here. After his mother died, he became the head of the household.”

Everyone fell silent.

After lingering for a while at the Dumbledore family graves, the group continued deeper.

They occasionally found familiar surnames, like the Abbotts they’d seen earlier.

Sometimes the cemetery would show several generations of wizarding family members’ names at once.

The dates could tell whether the family had died out or if current members had moved from Godric’s Hollow to other places.

Finally, in the third row after Kendra and Ariana’s tombstone, a grave made of white marble appeared in everyone’s sight.

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