In this world, most magical schools were located in rugged mountainous regions.
Hogwarts was no exception.
However, its exact location was a secret.
Even in the British wizarding world, very few people knew where it was.
Not to mention that all magical schools were protected by concealment charms, so non-magical people saw only ruins or warning signs.
Finding the school was virtually impossible.
Just five minutes ago, the Holmes family did not even know that magic existed.
Yet moments ago, Sherlock, a young boy from a Muggle family, had nonchalantly said something extraordinary.
“Hogwarts is in Scotland!” *By the galloping Gorgons…* McGonagall exercised immense self-control to keep from losing her composure.
“Know what?” Compared to McGonagall, Sherlock appeared remarkably calm, as though he didn’t understand why she was so astonished.
“Are you saying…
Hogwarts is in Scotland?” McGonagall couldn’t help pressing him.
“It’s merely a simple deduction.” Seeing McGonagall’s bewildered expression, Sherlock sighed and pulled out the acceptance letter he had received three days ago.
“This paper is thick, sturdy, and remarkably crisp—very high quality.
A stack of it would cost nearly half a pound.” McGonagall looked at him in confusion, her eyes seeming to ask, *So what?* Sherlock handed the letter to her.
“Professor, if you wouldn’t mind holding it up to the light.” Puzzled, McGonagall did as Sherlock asked.
She saw an uppercase *A* interwoven with three lowercase letters—*l*, *b*, and *a*—embossed within the paper’s watermark.
McGonagall froze.
Over the years, Hogwarts had sent out countless acceptance letters, but this was the first time she had ever noticed this detail, and naturally, she had no idea what it meant.
“Do you know what that signifies?” she asked instinctively.
“Of course.
*Alba* is Gaelic for Scotland.
This paper was manufactured in Scotland,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.
“But…” Before McGonagall could counter, Sherlock launched into a rapid explanation: “Naturally, that alone wouldn’t be sufficient to draw a definitive conclusion—however, when combined with the Scottish eagle owl that delivered the letter, the tartan pattern on your blouse, and the subtle Gaelic turns of phrase in your speech…
if one couldn’t deduce the location from all that, it would be remarkably foolish.” “Merlin’s beard…” After Sherlock delivered all of that in a single breath, McGonagall was completely stunned.
What had seemed utterly impossible moments before was suddenly completely obvious once Sherlock explained it.
This young wizard was…
truly extraordinary.
When she returned to school, should she suggest to Headmaster Dumbledore that they tighten their security measures?
After all, deducing the location of Hogwarts without a speck of magic was simply incredible!
*** “Sherlock, are you really going to study there?” Minerva McGonagall, Vice Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Head of Gryffindor House, had already departed.
Professor McGonagall had been deeply impressed by how Sherlock deduced Hogwarts’ location purely from observational clues—even though Sherlock himself considered it glaringly obvious.
Because of this, the usually stern Professor McGonagall had showered him with praise and expressed high expectations for his upcoming life at Hogwarts.
After that, McGonagall had faithfully fulfilled her duties.
She informed Sherlock that items like wands, robes, and spellbooks—things that sounded like they belonged strictly in fairy tales—could actually be bought right in London, provided one knew where to look.
Normally, she would have escorted Sherlock directly to Diagon Alley.
However, as Head of Gryffindor and Vice Headmistress of Hogwarts, McGonagall was exceptionally busy, especially in the days leading up to the new term.
Upon realizing that Sherlock’s family was receptive to magic and that his parents promised to take him themselves, she decided to free up her time for families that needed her more.
Thus, she explained everything in meticulous detail, including how to catch the train to Hogwarts.
In addition, McGonagall had Mr.
and Mrs.
Holmes sign a secrecy agreement on behalf of Hogwarts, stipulating that they could not disclose the existence of magic to anyone outside their immediate family.
This was no problem for Mr.
and Mrs.
Holmes, as neither was inclined to boast or show off.
Sherlock, meanwhile, seemed to contemplate something, his gaze darkening thoughtfully.
Once McGonagall left, the naturally sentimental Mrs.
Holmes began to hesitate again.
According to McGonagall, once Sherlock went to Hogwarts, he would have to reside at the school year-round.
He would only come home for Christmas, Easter, and the summer holidays.
And over Easter, most young wizards didn’t even come home…
That alone was difficult enough for Mrs.
Holmes to accept, to say nothing of the fact that this arrangement would continue until Sherlock graduated at the end of his seventh year.
As a mother, the thought of having Sherlock home for barely two months each year for the next seven years was heartbreaking.
“My dear Violetta, since it’s Sherlock’s own decision, we ought to support him.
We always do, don’t we?” “I know, Taran, but Sherlock is only eleven…” “Trust me, and trust Sherlock.
He can take care of himself.” A wizard’s reputation might be questionable, but Sherlock’s safety was paramount.
The consequences of a magical outburst sounded terrifying.
Besides, this was Sherlock’s own choice.
He was not an ordinary young boy, after all.
Mr.
Holmes explained as he wrapped an arm around his wife and guided her toward the bedroom, glancing back to give Sherlock a reassuring look.
Sherlock was naturally unconcerned.
Although his father deferred to his mother most of the time, in critical moments, he always managed to persuade her.
Sure enough, Mr.
Holmes did not disappoint his son.
Through thorough conversation, he ultimately persuaded his wife to accept the reality that Sherlock would spend most of the next seven years away from home.
Next came the preparations for school.
Sherlock had originally intended to buy all his school supplies on his own.
This time, however, Mrs.
Holmes flatly refused to let him go alone.
Combined with the fact that shopping required financial support from the family, father and son had no choice but to compromise.
The next day, the three set off by car and soon arrived at Charing Cross.
It was a bustling district.
Located in the City of Westminster adjacent to the Chelsea district where Sherlock’s family lived, it was traditionally considered the center of London and the zero datum point for measuring road and rail distances in the UK.
The Holmes family’s destination today was on this very street.
According to McGonagall, they first needed to find the famous Leaky Cauldron—though “famous” in her mouth applied solely to the wizarding world.
Before she mentioned it, neither Sherlock nor Mr.
and Mrs.
Holmes had ever heard of such a place.
Sherlock had assumed this would be an easy task, only to hit a snag right at the start.
“Taran, could we have made a mistake?” Mrs.
Holmes looked at the bookstore to their left, then at the record shop to their right.
Being in central London, both shops were crowded with people.
Yet no matter how she looked—left, right, up, or down—she couldn’t spot a pub anywhere.
Mr.
Holmes frowned as well.
Passersby bustled in and out of the bookstore and record shop, but not a single soul looked like they were heading into a pub.
At that moment, husband and wife simultaneously turned to look at their son.
Unlike his parents, Sherlock could see it crystal clear.
There was indeed a pub right here.
It stood sandwiched between the large bookstore and the record shop—just as McGonagall had described.
However, had McGonagall not specifically pointed it out, even someone with Sherlock’s meticulous powers of observation might have missed it.
As for everyone else—including Mr.
and Mrs.
Holmes—it went without saying.
One look at the hurried pedestrians proved that they simply could not see The Leaky Cauldron.
*Is this how the wizarding world interacts with the mundane world—reducing its own presence so ordinary people turn a blind eye?* Sherlock understood instantly.
Sure enough, the moment one stepped toward the wizarding world, intriguing things followed one after another.
He answered his parents through action.
Watching their son walk straight toward the gap between the two shops, Mr.
and Mrs.
Holmes hurriedly followed.
When they reached the spot, they finally noticed the pub.
Shabby, tiny, and dingy—that was the immediate impression The Leaky Cauldron gave off.
Stepping inside, the interior was dimly lit and sparsely furnished.
A few tables were set in the shadowy corners, where a crowd of people drank and talked loudly.
On the surface, it looked no different from an ordinary pub.
Yet these patrons were dressed in outlandish attire, and their topics of conversation were utterly absurd.
After listening to just a few sentences, Mr.
Holmes couldn’t help leaning toward his wife.
“Violetta, I’d bet good money that an ordinary person who stumbled in here wouldn’t even finish their mead before getting up and leaving.” Mrs.
Holmes nodded in agreement.
After all, talk of “creating a meteor shower” sounded absurd no matter how you sliced it.
Sherlock’s gaze swept across the patrons one by one, his mind subconsciously analyzing and sorting every detail.
[Female smoker, 9 feet to the northwest: under fifty, married, poor self-control, separated from her husband.
Visiting the pub to seek out younger men.] [Man grinning foolishly, 7 feet directly ahead: early twenties, getting married soon.
Came here to bid farewell to bachelorhood; his friends do not support his choice.] [Short man at a drinking table to the rear-left: around thirty-five, quick-tempered, short on cash for his drinks, currently devising a way to skip out on the bill.] [Average burly man passing by…] It was as though every person Sherlock observed automatically broadcasted this information into his vision; to him, deduction had long since become as natural as breathing.
[Man approaching us: roughly forty, has been watching everyone entering and leaving the pub—ah, he’s the landlord.] “Two Muggles, one young wizard—a classic combination.
Another summer wind blows in a new batch, I see.” The man stopped in front of the trio and introduced himself directly: “I’m the landlord, Tom Cruise.
You can call me Old Tom.
Welcome to The Leaky Cauldron!” *Tom Cruise?* Looking at his nearly hairless head, his face wrinkled like a withered walnut, and his eyes squinted into slits, Mr.
and Mrs.
Holmes’s lips twitched, at a loss for words.
They knew it was impolite, but they simply couldn’t help themselves.
Sherlock, however, remained entirely unfazed.
He stepped forward and greeted him directly: “Mr.
Cruise, Professor McGonagall sent us.” Having already gauged Tom’s personality through observation, Sherlock immediately dropped McGonagall’s name.
“Of course, of course.
A young wizard from a Muggle family—uncommon, but by no means rare.
Follow me!” As they followed Tom, Sherlock casually made discreet inquiries about the people he had analyzed earlier.
As the landlord, Tom was naturally familiar with his patrons.
The results pleased Sherlock immensely—his deductions were entirely correct.
It seemed that even in the wizarding world, the deductive method he had synthesized from scientific principles remained fully effective.
And so…
As science and magic intertwined—the story began.