HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

The Ministry-issued car, as always, concealed more than it revealed.

On the surface it looked like an ordinary black five-seater saloon, its lines simple and unremarkable.

But once everyone had climbed inside, they discovered a different world entirely.

The back seat was absurdly spacious—Sherlock, Harry, Hermione, and Gemma sat in a row with room to spare between every pair of knees.

Even the front passenger seat beside the driver had quietly widened, stretching into a small, elegant two-person sofa.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sat side by side without the slightest hint of crowding.

Even though the two of them were Muggles with no understanding of magic, they’d long since stopped being surprised by such things.

The drive didn’t take long. The car pulled up smoothly outside the Leaky Cauldron.

Rubeus Hagrid’s tall giant figure was already waiting on the street corner—clearly he’d been there for some time.

”Harry!”

The moment the car doors opened and everyone climbed out, Hagrid strode forward to meet them.

His face broke into a warm, naïve grin, and he swept Harry into a crushing hug.

If Harry hadn’t spent all these years keeping fit alongside Sherlock, he might have suspected his bones would be crushed by the sheer enthusiasm of the embrace. Hagrid paid no mind at all to the astonished stares from the Muggles on the street.

Then again, a nearly three-metre-tall giant standing on an ordinary road was bound to draw attention regardless.

Once he’d let Harry go, he turned and offered his enormous, fan-like hand to Mr. Holmes, shaking it with tremendous force.

The grip was so strong that Mr. Holmes could only manage a pained smile in response.

”Y’know, the Ministry wanted to send a whole squad of Aurors to guard you lot. But Dumbledore told ’em I’d be more than enough on my own!”

As he said this, Hagrid looked thoroughly pleased with himself, lifting his chin and sharpening his shoulders.

”And I’ll tell you, that Scrimgeour fellow’s a lot more agreeable than Fudge ever was. Dumbledore only had to say the word once and he agreed straightaway.

Right, let’s get inside. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, after you.”

The moment they stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, Mr. Holmes couldn’t help but frown.

He glanced around, looking somewhat taken aback, and murmured, ”Why is it so empty in here?”

Ever since Sherlock had started at Hogwarts, Mr. Holmes had become something of a regular here himself.

While Sherlock was away at school, he’d occasionally come alone for a drink or two.

With his relaxed manner and his gift for conversation, he’d struck up a friendship with the landlord, Tom, despite being a Muggle, and had become a familiar face at the pub.

But once Sherlock came home for the holidays, he rarely visited anymore.

He hadn’t expected that after only a few months away, the pub—usually lively and packed with witches and wizards would be standing this empty.

Looking around, the only person in sight was Tom, the wrinkled, toothless landlord, sitting alone behind the bar, polishing a glass that was already gleaming.

At that moment Tom heard the sound of the door and slowly lifted his head.

The instant he saw the group, a flicker of light passed through his clouded eyes.

Assuming customers had finally arrived, he broke into a hopeful smile and struggled up from his chair, ready to greet them. But before he could get a word out, Hagrid’s grin vanished and his expression turned serious.

”Just passin’ through today, Tom. You understand.

Can’t tell you what it’s about—it’s Hogwarts business.

Secret. You know how it is.”

The smile on Tom’s face froze, then crumpled. He gave a glum little nod.

He sank back down behind the bar and went on wiping the glass without any real purpose, his eyes were full of disappointment.

Sherlock and his friends exchanged quietly amused looks at the sight.

If Tom had pressed him just a little further, Hagrid would surely have told him everything.

The word ”secret” simply didn’t exist in his vocabulary.

Mr. Holmes, though, felt a pang of sympathy watching Tom’s lonely figure, and spoke up.

”Why don’t I stay here and have a couple of drinks with Tom? It’s been a while since we’ve had a proper chat, in any case.”

”Really?”

Tom’s eyes lit up at once, as though he’d glimpsed a light in the darkness.

Hagrid frowned at this, clearly hesitant.

His job was to protect Harry but if something happened to Mr. Holmes while he stayed behind, what then?

But after a moment’s thought, it came together for him: it was Harry who required the highest level of protection, not Sherlock or his family.

Besides, both the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley were already key protected zones under the Ministry’s watch, so there shouldn’t be any danger in Mr. Holmes staying at the pub. He gave a nod.

”How long will you need?” Mr. Holmes asked.

Harry and Hermione both turned to look at Sherlock.

”About two hours,” Sherlock said, almost without hesitation.

”See you then!”

They crossed the familiar little courtyard, its walls thick with moss, and Hagrid tapped the usual brick in the usual pattern.

With a series of soft clicks, the stone wall slowly parted, revealing the entrance to Diagon Alley.

The group stepped through and found themselves once more in the alley they hadn’t seen in a year.

For a moment, everyone couldn’t help but be taken aback.

It wasn’t only the Leaky Cauldron—this place, too, had changed almost beyond recognition, its old bustle and prosperity nowhere to be found.

The shop windows that had once displayed colourful spellbooks, oddly shaped potion ingredients, gleaming cauldrons, and animated magical toys now showed nothing of the sort. In their place hung large Ministry notices and wanted posters.

Sheet after sheet of black-and-white print papered the shopfronts and walls, giving the whole street a stifling, oppressive air.

Most of the notices concerned heightened security measures, bans on unauthorised gatherings, and reminders for witches and wizards to stay alert.

The wanted posters bore black-and-white photographs of the escaped Death Eaters—Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, and others stared out from the paper. Beneath each photo, in bold red lettering, was printed the reward and the danger rating: EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.

On top of that, the street had sprouted any number of shabby little stalls, a stark contrast to the once tidy, orderly shopfronts. The nearest one to the group was set up against the outer wall of Flourish and Blotts.

A grimy, striped awning stood over it, its frayed edges swaying faintly in the wind.

A yellowed cardboard sign was nailed up in front of the stall, scrawled in crooked handwriting:

”CHARMS: proven protection against werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi—ancestral secret formula, money back if not satisfied!”

The sign itself was crude enough, but the stall owner was hardly better.

His hair was a tangled bird’s nest, his face smeared with grimy grey-black stains, and he wore a shabby grey robe with fraying cuffs and collar, his eyes were darting furtively over the passers-by.

The moment Sherlock’s group passed, his gaze locked immediately onto the three women among them, a glint of ill intent was flashing in his eyes, and he called out loudly to Mrs. Holmes:

”Charm, madam! Get one for your daughter—it’ll do the trick, guaranteed!”

Hearing the little wizard mistake Gemma for her own daughter, Mrs. Holmes was rather pleased at first, a warm smile was spreading across her face.

But as the stall owner spoke, his eyes slid greasily over Gemma’s neck and cheeks, and he added, in an oily tone: ”It’ll protect that pretty neck of hers!”

At that, Mrs. Holmes’s expression darkened at once.

Her eyes flashed and she snapped, ”You vile little—”

”Don’t waste your breath on him, Mother.”

Hermione looked at Gemma in surprise to see her reach out and take hold of Mrs. Holmes’s arm, her tone calm as she said,

”We’ve got plenty to do today. Not worth wasting time on someone like that.”

”Lucky for you!”

Hearing herself addressed that way by Gemma, Mrs. Holmes couldn’t help but feel a rush of delight.

She shot the stall owner one last withering glare before letting Gemma steer her briskly away.

The little wizard, for his part, seemed entirely unbothered—he even gave a cheeky grin and let out a whistle at their retreating backs.

After all, this wasn’t the first time he’d tried such crude flirtation; he’d long since grown used to it.

Gemma, to all appearances, was simply helping Mrs. Holmes along—her steps were level, her expression remained unchanged.

But the hand hanging at her side, the one out of sight, had quietly closed around the wand hidden in her robe pocket.

As she passed behind the stall owner, she gave it a barely perceptible flick, her lips were moving silently as she murmured a short incantation. Sherlock, with his sharp powers of observation, naturally caught every bit of it.

He only raised an eyebrow slightly and said nothing.

What Gemma had done was, once again, a perfect display of her Slytherin nature.

Toward those who were weak or insignificant, she never went out of her way to cause trouble.

But the moment someone provoked her, she was more than happy to return the favour and teach them an unforgettable lesson.

As for Hagrid, ever oblivious to such details, he hadn’t even noticed what had just happened, still chatting away happily with Harry about all the changes at Hogwarts, entirely unaware of either the stall owner’s rudeness or Gemma’s retaliation.

By the time Sherlock’s group had walked some distance away, the crude little wizard suddenly sensed something was wrong.

His whole body convulsed, and he crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud, clutching his stomach and howling in pain.

The sound was shrill enough to draw a crowd of onlookers.

A little while later, two Ministry officials on patrol duty in the area came hurrying over and crouched down to examine him. One of them frowned, saying uncertainly,

”Looks like he’s been hit with a curse. And a fairly targeted punishment curse, at that.”

”Serves him right! That mouth of his has been a problem for ages—he’s forever pestering witches who walk past. Only getting punished now, he’s lucky it took this long.”

The other official gave a dismissive snort, his tone was filled with contempt, clearly no stranger to the stall owner’s reputation.

”No idea who the good soul was who taught him a lesson.”

”Nicely done, whoever it was! About time someone gave him something to remember!”

Among the gathered crowd, someone murmured under their breath, a note of satisfaction in their voice.

Meanwhile, the group the onlookers had dubbed ”the good soul” had already arrived at Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

There, they finally caught up with the Weasley family.

The Weasley twins, Fred and George, had graduated the previous term and opened their own joke shop.

Which meant that this term, the only Weasleys still at Hogwarts were Ron and Ginny.

This had eased the family’s financial burden considerably, and Molly Weasley’s smile had grown noticeably warmer these days.

The moment Mrs. Holmes spotted Molly, she seized her hand and launched straight into an account of what had just happened on the street corner, her tone was still tinged with indignation:

”Molly, dear, you wouldn’t believe how furious I was just now! There was this absolutely revolting man who, right there in the street—”

”Oh, I know him. He tried exactly the same thing on Ginny not long ago — honestly, if I’d been on duty at the time—”

”But you weren’t on duty, dear, so there’s no need to go around arresting people.”

Arthur Weasley cut in quickly to stop his wife, soothing her with a few more words before turning to greet Hagrid and gesturing toward Gringotts’ grand marble building.

”Given the current situation—Death Eaters on the loose causing chaos everywhere—even the goblins have tightened security at the bank.

”It’s extremely strict in there now. An ordinary person wanting to withdraw money has to queue for about five hours, and go through several rounds of thorough checks. You probably wouldn’t believe it, but Archie Philpott actually had an Probity Probe stuck right into his—

”Well, never mind. Suffice to say it’s a real hassle.”

”What?”

Mrs. Holmes started at this, glancing instinctively toward the counters.

”Tarquin’s still waiting for us back at the Leaky Cauldron—Sherlock told him we’d only be two hours. Whatever shall we do?”

”Don’t worry, Bill works here—he can sort it out for you without any queuing at all,” Molly said with a smile.

”Oh, thank goodness!” Mrs. Holmes let out a sigh of relief, her face brightening with gratitude.

”Just wait a moment—he’s gone down to our family vault to fetch some money. He’ll be back shortly.”

Before Arthur could finish, a clear, bright voice cut him off.

”No need to wait for him!”

At that moment, a lovely figure emerged from deeper within Gringotts.

Her arrival seemed to light up the entire hall.

”Fleur!”

At the sight of the young woman, Mrs. Holmes’s face lit up with delight.

She hurried forward and pulled her into a hug.

Fleur was every bit as warm in return, kissing Mrs. Holmes on both cheeks.

Then, producing two heavy money pouches from behind her, she handed one each to Sherlock and Harry, and said with a smile to Sherlock,

”I’ve already withdrawn the money from your vaults for you.”

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