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The ability to see the essence beyond the phenomenon, to discover truth from minute details, is certainly a talent.
But it must also be forged through continuous practice.
Initially, Sherlock started with relatively simple problems.
For instance, upon meeting a stranger, identifying their history and profession through observation.
Such exercises might seem childish and dull, but they sharpen one's observational skills.
Over time and with constant practice, Sherlock became increasingly proficient in this skill.
He now knew precisely where to look and what to observe.
He had developed his own method of deduction.
Though not yet perfect, observation and analysis had long become instinctual for him.
If he were in a train carriage, he could even identify the profession of each fellow passenger through observation.
—Unfortunately, no one ever bet against him; otherwise, he would surely have made a fortune.
While Sherlock questioned the pub owner, Tom, the latter led Sherlock and his parents through the bar area to a small, walled courtyard.
Sherlock's gaze quickly swept the surroundings, finding nothing but a dustbin and some weeds.
So... the issue lay with the dustbin?
Sherlock took two steps forward, approaching it.
Simultaneously, Tom made his move.
He slowly drew his wand, preparing to do something, then suddenly turned back to Sherlock with a smile, reminding him:
"Once you have your own wand, you'll need to enter by yourselves—remember the location of this brick, it's the one above the dustbin..."
"Third brick up, second brick across."
Sherlock stated calmly.
Tom turned back to look at Sherlock, asking with surprise, "You—how did you know?"
Because it was the only one different from the other bricks on the wall, both in color and the degree of wear around its edges.
For someone skilled in observation, noticing this wasn't particularly difficult.
"Truly astonishing powers of observation!"
Tom, hearing Sherlock's explanation, couldn't help but exclaim with genuine admiration, then tapped the brick gently three times with his wand.
The Holmes family stared intently at the brick wall.
Next, something astonishing happened.
The tapped brick began to tremble.
First, a small hole appeared in the center.
Then, the bricks on either side rapidly shifted, the opening growing larger and larger.
Finally, a wide archway appeared before them.
The archway opened onto a winding, cobbled street whose end was out of sight.
Contrasted with the dim, cramped Leaky Cauldron, this thoroughfare seemed exceptionally bright.
It could be said that the view suddenly opened up dramatically.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley."
Tom's voice chimed in perfectly at that moment.
This was their destination: Diagon Alley.
Sherlock looked back to see the archway narrowing, the wall returning to its original state, and Tom waving goodbye to them.
"That short man... he has no money, he should be preparing to make a run for it now."
Sherlock thought for a moment and decided to offer a reminder.
Hearing his words, Tom's expression instantly changed as if remembering something. Without even a moment for thanks, he turned and ran back.
Faint shouts of "Stop!" "You, stop right there!" "Get him!" could be heard from inside the pub.
Sherlock shrugged, averted his gaze, and walked onto the street with his parents.
Diagon Alley presented a stark contrast to the Leaky Cauldron.
Bright, wide streets, bustling, crowded shops, and throngs of people.
Even the well-traveled Mr. Holmes couldn't help but remark, "It's truly unimaginable that such a place exists in London."
Mrs. Holmes nodded, agreeing with her husband.
Sherlock, however, was lost in thought.
Ever since confirming that magic wasn't Fake News, the magical world held an increasing allure for him.
Now, it seemed the existence of places like the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley was somewhat akin to the concept of mirror worlds found in science fiction.
However, the magical world shouldn't exist entirely detached from the mundane world. Surely, even if the city council wasn't aware, the Prime Minister and the Royal Family must know.
Just the existence of such a place certainly meant a significant loss of tax revenue for the city government.
Sherlock mused silently.
Following McGonagall's advice, the trio first headed towards Gringotts Wizarding Bank on the north side of Diagon Alley.
They needed to exchange some magical currency.
Yes, somewhat unexpectedly, the magical world truly possessed its own monetary system.
The gold coin was the Galleon, seventeen silver Sickles made a Galleon, and twenty-nine bronze Knuts made a Sickle.
This exchange rate inevitably made Sherlock somewhat disdainful of the wizards' mathematical abilities.
Even if a decimal system wasn't feasible, couldn't they at least maintain a consistent exchange ratio between the three currencies?
Although Britain itself once had the old system of 1 pound to 20 shillings and 1 shilling to 12 pence, since the currency reform of 1971 abolished the shilling, it had long become 1 pound to 100 new pence.
The mundane world was constantly progressing; why couldn't the magical world keep up?
Regrets aside, the money still needed to be exchanged.
Compared to other buildings in Diagon Alley, Gringotts Wizarding Bank was distinctive.
Its towering, snow-white structure made it stand out among the surrounding low buildings, and its burnished bronze doors gleamed in the sunlight.
However, the most captivating sight was the figure standing guard at the entrance, clad in a scarlet and gold uniform.
Short stature, long hands and feet, a swarthy face, a long, pointed beard—it was...
"A goblin."
Sherlock's eyes lit up at the sight—another creature from legend.
"Here to exchange money? Don't wander off, follow me."
Perhaps discerning Mr. and Mrs. Holmes' non-wizarding status, the goblin immediately guessed their purpose. After giving them a bow, it spoke.
Sherlock noted the creature's distant attitude and rather cold tone.
Tsk, such an attitude in the service industry. The magical world really ought to provide them with proper training.
Sherlock's parents, however, had no mind for such considerations. Mrs. Holmes appeared somewhat worried:
"Tarnan, I wonder if we brought enough money? Sherlock seems to need quite a few things, and I wouldn't want him to suffer hardship so far away..."
"My dear Varita, don't worry. Trust me, it will be fine."
Mr. Holmes reassured her quietly.
The Holmes family was quite well-off.
Sherlock's grandfather was from a line of country squires; back in the Victorian era, they would have been considered proper gentry.
Even in contemporary London, they belonged to the upper echelons of the middle class.
Therefore, as long as the value of magical currency wasn't too outrageous, Mr. Holmes was confident in their purchasing power.
As they followed the goblin through a second set of silver doors, the words engraved upon them caught Sherlock's attention.
(End of Chapter)