Snape's impression on the Holmes household would forever be that of an uninvited guest.
On Saturday—England's day of rest—while most were only just waking for a leisurely breakfast, there he sat at the middle of the dining table as if he owned it, black robes draped about him, lank hair slicked into something resembling order.
Snape's hair, for once, was combed. He looked down his nose at Sherlock, smug as a rooster in victory.
"Fortunately," Sherlock observed dryly, "we needn't worry about excess oil in our breakfast. A lighter meal is best in the morning."
Watson sighed, retreating behind his newspaper. He wanted no part in the inevitable sparring; Sherlock had a talent for attracting trouble, and he had no desire to fan the flames.
Nietzsche, on the other hand, relished the clash between his father and the dour Professor.
"How about we take the car?" Sherlock mused aloud, ignoring Snape's glare. "A wizard's broom likely doesn't seat four."
A little jab of Muggle logic to needle the snake.
"Broom?" Snape's brow creased.
"Don't look so affronted. There are scuff marks on the seat of your robe. An arrogant wizard might not notice the splinters, but the evidence was clear enough. Add in a touch of folklore, and the deduction is easy."
Snape's eyes narrowed. With a flick of his wand, his robe was pristine, all marks erased as if they'd never existed. Only questions lingered in Sherlock and Nietzsche's eyes.
"Sherlock," Watson warned from behind his paper. "We've shopping ahead of us."
"Quite right. This isn't the time."
But Snape's voice cut in, slow and deliberate. "And yet—I insist."
Mary raised her brows, watching with amusement. The scene was uncannily familiar—Sherlock facing off against an equally impossible adversary.
"He insists," Sherlock repeated with a shrug.
If Snape was to be Nietzsche's professor, did the boy care? Not in the least.
The man's disdain for Muggles reminded Nietzsche uncomfortably of how the old British aristocracy had once regarded India—entitled, superior, sneering. It was part of why he resisted Hogwarts so instinctively.
"Aha," Nietzsche said, drawing a letter from his pocket, "then let's try handwriting. Severus Snape. Each stroke neat, but smaller than average. Lines slanting down, though elegant overall. What does it suggest?"
Feigning curiosity, he read aloud.
Sherlock gave a secret nod of approval. The boy had learnt well—outwardly, the family always presented a united front.
"If you were more like me than Watson," Sherlock mused, "you'd see it. Pragmatist. Meticulous. But so repressed as to suffocate empathy."
The air chilled at the double-edged analysis.
Watson shook his head. When those two combined forces, someone was always insulted.
"Hmph. Perhaps Muggles are not as dim as I thought," Snape muttered. "And as for you, young Mr Holmes—I trust your future studies will be as sharp as today."
Sherlock raised a brow. "A threat. Add 'petty' to the list."
Snape gave a thin smile. "If I am called petty, best I prove the deduction correct."
That sour face was victory enough.
Diagon Alley, according to Snape's curt introduction, was a wizarding marketplace for magical goods. Yet when Sherlock had asked Mycroft to track it by satellite through the Diogenes Club, no such place appeared.
Clearly, magic was even stranger than Nietzsche had suspected.
"Nietzsche! Sherlock! Someone's here for you!" Mrs Hudson called up the stairs.
Four sets of footsteps echoed in the hall. The first figure to burst into view was Hermione Granger.
She ran up two steps at a time.
"Oh—it's for you," Watson said mildly, adjusting his collar.
"What's the matter?"
"You—I—" Hermione stammered, cheeks pink. "I'm going shopping, and wondered if you wanted to come."
Her expression practically shouted conflicted.
Nietzsche leaned on his cane, lips curling into a faint smile, eyes narrowed with amusement. Familiar mischief danced there.
"Coincidence. I'm heading out as well. We might as well go together."
Hermione stomped her foot, bristling, then faltered at the sight of Snape glowering behind Nietzsche.
She rushed through an explanation—that she hadn't really come for him, that it was simply convenient, nothing more—when another voice cut through.
"Severus?!"
"Minerva."
Professor McGonagall stepped into view, her robe a far gentler shade than Snape's.
A moment earlier, she had been lamenting her role as messenger, worrying she might be tearing two children apart. But the sight of Snape's perpetually sour face changed everything.
Hermione froze.
"By the way," Nietzsche said, adopting Sherlock's effortless air of feigned curiosity, "where are you going shopping? Let me guess—Diagon Alley?"
"You—how do you know—"
"You told me yourself. Has no one ever mentioned you're a terrible liar?"
Hermione's fists clenched tight.
"So you let me babble—watched me flounder—knowing all along?"
She had been rehearsing excuses, imagining how to comfort him for not being magical, how to insist he could still be extraordinary.
But he'd known, from the start.
Her shame burned away, replaced by cold fury. If Nietzsche were struck by a lorry that instant, she would have called it justice.
"You're insufferable."
"And you thought I'd be frightened—was that why you offered to take me?"
If not for their parents' presence, Hermione would have smacked him with the nearest dictionary.
"Professor, the boy we're collecting no longer lives here. Let's go." She spun on her heel, storming down the stairs.
Down below, the Grangers were exchanging polite greetings with the Watsons.
"I'm Wendell Granger, this is my wife Monica. Our daughter mentioned Nietzsche's father was a military doctor." He turned to Sherlock uncertainly. "And you are…?"
Blast—it was the same man he'd seen before.
"John Watson," Watson said smoothly. "This is my friend Sherlock Holmes, and my fiancée, Mary. We are the boy's guardians."
Mr Granger blinked. "All of you?"
He was shocked, though tried not to show it. Two fathers and a mother—an unusual arrangement, even for England.
Everyone realised at once: this trip to Diagon Alley would not be dull.