[Dear Mr. Cavendish:]
[Due to some unforeseen circumstances, there have been new developments regarding your visit to Hogwarts to discuss matters with Dumbledore. The situation is somewhat complicated, and it is not convenient to explain it clearly in a letter, so I will be visiting your home promptly at 7:20 PM on July 3rd.]
[From Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.]
The letter was short, but the message it conveyed made Sherlock uneasy.
Minerva McGonagall.
Of course he knew who that name belonged to.
Sherlock had only read the first Harry Potter book in its entirety, but it devoted a decent amount of attention to the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts and Head of Gryffindor House.
She was clearly an extremely upright person with a strict teaching style.
The Dumbledore mentioned in the letter was none other than Albus Dumbledore—the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the most powerful "good" character in the entire story.
The original owner had previously gone to Hogwarts to discuss matters with Dumbledore, and now, because of that matter, Deputy Headmistress McGonagall wanted to see him.
Today's date was July 3rd, which meant that in five hours, she would arrive.
The problem was that after Sherlock transmigrated into this world, he not only failed to gain any cheat codes, but also didn't inherit the original owner's memories.
He knew nothing about the original Sherlock's life or experiences.
In an ordinary world, he might have been able to bluff his way through with a hospital diagnosis of amnesia.
But in a world of magic… could amnesia really be a believable excuse?
If Professor McGonagall arrived and Sherlock claimed he didn't remember anything from before, then what would she do?
The most likely possibilities flashed through his mind.
Would she use magic on him directly to test whether he was truly suffering from amnesia?
Would she take him to Saint Mungo's for magical treatment?
Or would she take him to Dumbledore himself and let the famous white wizard determine what was going on?
None of those options were acceptable to Sherlock.
Because any of them could lead to the discovery that he wasn't the original Sherlock at all, but a traveler from another world.
And once that happened, no one could predict what would be done to him afterward.
The woman in the photo frame on the wall had stopped screaming. She seemed to have exhausted herself, and now her head tilted to the side as she fell asleep, soft snores escaping her lips.
Sherlock, however, paced back and forth in the study with the letter clutched in his hand.
This was clearly the first real crisis he had encountered after transmigrating into this world—and it was one with an extremely high difficulty level, with the potential to be fatal.
Escape was impossible. There was no way he could run.
He had to figure out how to handle Professor McGonagall's visit tonight. At the very least, he needed to learn the original owner's personality and habits so he wouldn't make any obvious mistakes during their conversation.
It was now 2 PM.
Only five hours remained.
Sherlock didn't have the luxury of wasting time. His only hope lay in this study.
Since I received a letter from Hogwarts… and since I have a study like this, with so many magic books at home…
That could only mean one thing: the original owner had been a wizard as well. Someone who had graduated from Hogwarts.
This house, despite its odd exterior and strange furnishings, clearly showed signs of deliberate concealment. The owner had tried to hide his wizard identity during the renovation process.
This study was his secret hideout—a storage room for everything connected to the magical world.
Sherlock walked over to the desk.
The tea in the cup was still steaming.
A floating candlestick hovered above the desk, illuminating the space where the homeowner likely spent most of his time.
Besides the teapot and teacups, there was a thick stack of notebooks, a beige quill stuck in an ink bottle, and a small wooden stick lying on the desk.
Now that he knew what kind of world this was, Sherlock certainly wasn't naive enough to think that the wooden stick was just an ordinary stick.
Even people who had never read Harry Potter had heard of a "wand"—the essential tool for casting spells.
The small wooden stick on the desk was clearly Sherlock's wand.
He gently picked up the smooth, straight wand. It was about thirteen inches long, and the moment his fingers closed around it, a strange, wonderful feeling rose in his chest.
Something inside him seemed to respond to the wand, as if it had been drawn out—ready to burst forth.
Sherlock didn't try to suppress it.
The magical energy surged from his body into the wand.
In the next instant, a cluster of silver sparks erupted from the tip, flickering with joyful brilliance.
Sherlock knew exactly what that force inside him was.
Magic—the source of a wizard's power.
And that cluster of sparks, though simple, could still be called what it truly was:
Magic.
Sherlock's eyes gleamed with excitement. No normal person could remain indifferent to something like this.
But he quickly forced himself to calm down.
Now was not the time to indulge in wonder. Professor McGonagall would arrive soon.
If he failed to get through this hurdle, he might not only lose his magic—he might not even be able to guarantee his own safety.
Sherlock set the wand down, picked up the teacup, drained the lukewarm tea in one gulp, and began searching the study with renewed urgency.
His first target brought him an enormous reward.
The thick stack of notebooks on the desk—the one on top was the original owner's diary.
It was almost unbelievable. The original Sherlock, a handsome and extroverted-looking young man, had actually kept a diary.
But Sherlock had no time to care whether the original owner was secretly repressed or not.(TL: Why do they assume that just because someone keeps a diary, they are repressed?)
A diary meant answers.
A diary meant a way to understand the original owner's past.
And that meant his chances of surviving tonight had just increased dramatically.
Sherlock opened it.
The first entry was dated five years ago.
April 12, 1987.
"Mary broke up with me today. She said I'm like a monster with a head full of nothing but studying. I don't understand romance at all, and I'm wasting my good looks."
"I actually knew what she was talking about. She made it very clear that day that she wanted me to kiss her in the auditorium. But the reason I agreed to be her boyfriend in the first place was just to explore the feeling of love."
"It's a pity that I didn't develop any feelings for her, so for both her sake and my own, I didn't choose to kiss her."
"I haven't felt anything special from interactions with the opposite sex, so love might not be right for me."
"History has proven that even the most accomplished masters of magic do not need something as superfluous as love—just like Professor Dumbledore."
"So, to commemorate this big step I've taken toward becoming a master of magic, I'll start writing a diary today.
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