As everyone knows, Sherlock Holmes is restless to his very core.
For him, being forced to sit still and let his mind stagnate is more terrifying than facing the most dangerous of criminals.
It means that precision instrument of a brain is rusting, a complete waste of his gift.
That's precisely why the boggart took that particular form when it encountered him.
And that's why, in the summer of 1991 in London, when the humid wind carried moisture from the Thames over the windowsill of Baker Street, he was nearly driven into a corner by that all-pervasive boredom.
At that time, the Queen's government was working tirelessly to clear obstacles for Britain's entry into the European Union. The shadows on London's streets were being driven out one by one.
Those criminals accustomed to operating under cover of darkness, like wild rats catching the scent of a hunting rifle, all retreated into their holes, refusing to leave even the slightest trace of chaos for him to deduce.
Just as Sherlock's fingers were about to snap the violin strings and he was lamenting that London's criminals weren't industrious enough, an owl with morning dew still clinging to its feathers burst through the summer heat and fluttered down to land at his window.
The Hogwarts acceptance letter, sealed with wax, was like a key that suddenly unlocked the door to a new world.
From that moment on, his life was filled with the chanting of spells and the whoosh of flying broomsticks, no longer containing even a hint of emptiness.
Time flashed forward to 1994, when the European Union was officially established and the Queen's government's early efforts had finally borne fruit.
This wave from the Muggle world quietly rippled into the magical world, facilitating the revival of the Triwizard Tournament.
But for Sherlock, this was the first time he had broken free from Harry Potter's orbit to step into the center of events with an independent presence.
This had already become apparent a year ago in that conversation with Mycroft, and now it was proving exactly right.
Four years had passed, and Sherlock's inherent sharpness and restlessness hadn't diminished in the slightest.
So when Sherlock was discussing Peeves with Filch and noticed a wave of barely suppressed laughter and commotion coming from the direction of the Entrance Hall, his eyebrow immediately arched and a glimmer of interest flashed in his grey eyes.
Without waiting for Filch to finish speaking, he turned and quickly walked toward the sound.
Leaving Filch utterly bewildered, standing there alone.
Crossing through the corridor to reach his destination, the scene before him made him pause slightly.
Both parties causing the disturbance had some connection to him.
Ronald Weasley, one of his few close friends at school.
Fleur Delacour, the French witch from Beauxbatons who clearly recognized him.
By now, Sherlock had thoroughly figured out Fleur's background, even forming preliminary deductions about why she looked at him with that sense of familiarity.
But witnessing this scene before him, he still silently shook his head.
His gaze swept over the gathered crowd. Several Ravenclaw students were covering their mouths, snickering, the Hufflepuff boys were jeering in low voices, and several Gryffindor girls were even making encouraging gestures at Ron.
Almost instantly, he had pieced together the entire sequence of events.
It was simply that Ron hadn't been able to control himself and had run over to invite Fleur to be his dance partner.
The result was naturally a clean rejection.
No, it was more humiliating than a mere rejection.
Because at this moment, Fleur was looking at Ron with the gaze one reserves for insignificant nobodies, not even deigning to answer his question.
As for the commotion Sherlock had just sensed, it was the spectators egging things on.
"Weasley, chin up!"
"That's right, good show!"
"Worthy of coming from Gryffindor, you're not letting us down at all!"
It seemed like mockery, but it was actually support.
After all, Ron was a Hogwarts student, and daring to speak up in front of the universally admired Fleur took courage enough for everyone to join the commotion and back him up.
Unfortunately, Fleur Delacour was never one to be swayed by others' opinions.
That coldness that kept people at a thousand miles' distance was like a shell of ice, deflecting all the jeering back.
Just that look alone, as if regarding insignificant nobodies, made her seem inviolable.
In the end, Ron's newly mustered courage evaporated completely, and he fled in embarrassment, covering his face.
When he brushed past Sherlock, he didn't even notice the latter's presence.
Sherlock didn't intervene, merely shifting his gaze to Fleur and Cedric beside her, who was trying to smooth things over.
Cedric seemed to sense something and turned his head to see Sherlock, a somewhat awkward expression appearing on his face.
He was well aware that Ron and Sherlock were good friends.
But Ron's timing just now had been truly unfortunate.
Fleur had been in the middle of inviting him to be her dance partner when Ron had blundered in, rashly asking Fleur to be his partner.
As far as he knew, Ron had previously had no interaction whatsoever with Fleur.
While he admired Ron's courage, he simultaneously didn't quite know what to say about it.
Taking in both their micro-expressions completely, Sherlock murmured two words to the air. "Interesting."
After parting ways with Cedric, Fleur Delacour rejected invitations from her fellow Beauxbatons students and left Hogwarts castle alone.
Although she usually complained that Hogwarts couldn't compare to Beauxbatons, she now found herself unconsciously arriving at the shore of the Black Lake.
This was a place where she could think alone and sort through her thoughts.
Although she had just extended a dance invitation to Cedric Diggory, her mind felt like it had countless strings pulling at it, struggling back and forth for a long time.
Actually, in her heart, Cedric wasn't her ideal partner.
Sherlock Holmes—he was her first choice.
If Sherlock agreed, it would undoubtedly increase her opportunities to interact with him, making it much more convenient for her to complete her upcoming task.
But after weighing it repeatedly, she had still extinguished that notion.
For one thing, she wasn't fully confident she could persuade Sherlock to agree.
She knew very well that her charms had absolutely no effect on that young boy.
For another, she was afraid he would see through her intentions.
Although given his abilities, it was only a matter of time anyway, but still...
"That's quite obvious, Miss Delacour."
Just as she was pondering, a cool voice tinged with mockery suddenly sounded by her ear, startling Fleur so badly she shuddered all over.
She snapped back to her senses and realized she had unconsciously walked quite far.
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the clouds onto the lake surface, casting fragmented golden light.
The edge of the Forbidden Forest in the distance was utterly quiet, with only the rustling sound of wind blowing through the trees.
Just a few steps away from her, Sherlock was leaning against an old oak tree, looking at her with a half-smiling expression.
She was all too familiar with that kind of gaze.
Because that person wore exactly the same expression when seeing through everything.
"Holmes?"
Fleur's heart first tightened, her pupils contracting slightly, then she immediately forced herself to calm down.
She quickly adopted a cold expression that kept people at arm's length, deliberately making her voice sound colder. "What are you doing here?"
"Using preemptive tactics to cover your guilty conscience—a very common method, but I don't think it's a good idea."
As Sherlock spoke, he slowly straightened from the tree and walked step by step toward her.
His height was tall for boys his age, but Fleur herself was statuesque, nearly as tall as Gemma.
At this moment, with her eyes slightly downcast, she was still half a head taller than Sherlock.
Sherlock slightly raised his chin, his grey eyes looking directly into her blue ones.
"I don't understand what you're talking about." Fleur said stiffly, but her fingertips quietly clenched her skirt.
"Ah, yes, of course, I haven't told you yet."
"What exactly are you talking about?" Fleur appeared calm on the surface but was panicking internally.
"I'm talking about—" the mockery in Sherlock's eyes grew stronger, "is that fellow still not giving up?"
Fleur's breathing suddenly caught, her face instantly paling a shade.
"Mr. Holmes, if there's nothing else, I'll be going."
Just as she turned around, Sherlock said lightly. "Heh, to monitor me, has Mycroft actually set his sights on international visitors?"
Boom!
That sentence was like thunder on flat ground, exploding thunderously in Fleur's mind.
She abruptly stopped in her tracks, her body freezing uncontrollably.
Those beautiful blue eyes instantly widened, filled with disbelief.
The cold mask she had been desperately maintaining cracked with an audible snap, and unconcealed shock spilled through the fissure.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, almost ready to burst through the cage of her ribs.
Impossible! Absolutely impossible! Mycroft!
How could he know that name? No, of course Sherlock knew—that was his own brother!
But she had never mentioned that name in front of Sherlock, not even the slightest hint! How could he so precisely identify the person hiding behind the scenes?
He was only fourteen years old—how could he be just as formidable as his brother, seven years his senior?
From the moment Sherlock began speaking with Fleur, his grey eyes hadn't missed a single flicker of her expression.
So at this moment, her fleeting shock was captured with perfect clarity.
The knowing smile at the corner of his mouth deepened further, and the mocking expression on his face grew even more pronounced.
"No need to be so surprised, Miss Delacour."
Sherlock's voice was calm and clear as he began stating facts that to him seemed perfectly obvious. "Forgive me for being blunt, but your surprise itself is the best answer."
Once he began speaking, an invisible sense of oppression spread out like ripples. "Why don't we walk through this from the beginning?"
His gaze suddenly became sharp, making even the usually proud and confident Fleur afraid to meet his eyes. "Starting from when you first met me. You vastly overestimate yourself and underestimate me.
You appeared to be speaking to my friend Ron, but from the very beginning, you were actually after me.
The way you looked at me wasn't the gaze one reserves for strangers.
Scrutiny, curiosity, and a barely perceptible sense of familiarity.
This is very unusual.
For a lady from Beauxbatons in France who theoretically has no connection whatsoever with Hogwarts students, this unusualness itself is a clue."
Fleur bit her lower lip hard, forcing herself not to look at his all-seeing eyes, forcibly suppressing the question that was about to burst forth.
Sherlock's gaze swept over her sleeves and accessories.
"Look at this—your clothing and accessories are saturated with French flavor, but something else seems mixed in.
Like a sharper edge, blended in rather awkwardly.
But just now, your silent rejection of my friend Ron suddenly awakened me.
That refusal represented by silence, that indifference too miserly to spare even a single word, was far too much like the instinctive reaction of someone long accustomed to universal attention toward an inappropriate invitation.
Like a renowned actress accustomed to stage lights responding to some untimely call from a corner of the audience below with merely an upward tilt of the chin to express refusal.
This perfectly fits your current identity—a champion representing Beauxbatons, naturally and deservedly the focus of universal attention.
Your elegance naturally carries with it a qualification to be looked up to."
Fleur's face paled considerably. She wanted to deny it, but found that under the watch of those eyes, she couldn't utter any effective rebuttal.
"This brings us to my family.
My family visited France when I was young.
That memory is distant, but it exists.
You may not believe this, but I never forget anyone I've met and if I do forget, it's intentional."
Sherlock didn't explain his memory palace, but continued calmly. "Yet oddly enough, I have absolutely no impression of you in my memory.
So, given that I've already deduced you recognize me, only one possibility remains.
You, or rather your family, became acquainted with my parents or brother during that experience and had some interaction."
At this point, Sherlock's gaze grew even sharper, and that mockery became increasingly obvious. "So, when you came to Hogwarts as Beauxbatons' representative, a place where I happen to be, how could Mycroft Holmes possibly let such an opportunity slip by?"
Fleur's breathing became somewhat rapid, her fingers at her sides curling slightly.
This was Holmes! That man's brother!
As expected, just like his brother, once face to face, he could mercilessly peel away her secrets layer by layer.
The wind by the lake seemed to have stopped, even the rustling sound disappearing.
Fleur stood frozen in place, face pale, lips trembling slightly.
Each of Sherlock's words was like a small hammer, precisely striking at the truth she was trying to hide, shattering the defensive line she had carefully constructed to pieces.
Her lips moved, but she found all her rebuttals seemed so pale and powerless.
Because he had guessed everything, especially when the name Mycroft was called out—the moment of loss of composure she couldn't control was the best self-evidence.
She had anticipated being exposed, but still hadn't expected it would happen this quickly.
Not even making it through this year.
Thinking of the confident promise she had made to Mycroft before coming to school, she now felt she was laughably ridiculous.
Watching her completely shattered reaction, Sherlock's mouth curved into a mocking and slightly impatient arc.
"So, Miss Delacour."
His voice was light, yet it drove into Fleur's ears like nails. "Next time you contact that fellow hiding in his warm office, please pass along a message from me. If he's really so interested in my fascinating school life, he might as well come to Hogwarts himself.
Buy a ticket for the Hogwarts Express and experience the Sorting Ceremony.
I'm tired of this game of always manipulating others."
Having said this, Sherlock no longer looked at Fleur's devastated appearance. He turned and strode on his long legs toward the castle.
His black robes swept over the fallen leaves on the ground in the wind, leaving behind a string of crisp footsteps.
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