Seeing through superficial appearances to perceive the core essence, uncovering truth from the faintest details—such a skill was undeniably a gift.
Yet it was also something forged through relentless practice.
At first, Sherlock had started with simpler exercises.
When meeting a stranger, for example, he would observe them to deduce their history and profession.
It seemed childish and mundane, but it honed a person’s powers of observation into something razor-sharp.
With time and constant practice, Sherlock grew increasingly adept.
By now, he already knew precisely where to look and what to look for.
He had developed his own method of deduction.
Though still far from perfect, observation and analysis had long since become second nature to him.
In a single train compartment, he could observe the other passengers and state each person’s occupation one by one.
It was a pity no one ever bet against him, or he would have made a fortune.
While Sherlock was talking to Tom, the landlord, the bartender led Sherlock and his parents past the bar counter into a small walled courtyard.
Sherlock’s eyes quickly swept over the area.
There was nothing here except a trash bin and a few weeds.
So…
the secret lay with the trash bin?
Sherlock took two steps forward, closing the distance.
At the same time, Tom took action.
He drew his wand slowly, preparing to do something, when he suddenly turned back, smiled at Sherlock, and offered a reminder: “Once you get your own wand, you’ll need to open it yourself.
Remember where this brick is—it’s above the trash bin…” “Three bricks up, two across,” Sherlock said calmly.
Tom turned back to look at Sherlock, a look of complete surprise on his face.
“H-How did you know that?” Because it was the only brick on the wall that differed from the rest, both in color and in the wear around its edges.
For someone skilled in observation, noticing it wasn’t particularly difficult.
“What astonishing powers of observation!” Hearing Sherlock’s explanation, Tom couldn’t help uttering a heartfelt exclamation.
He then tapped the brick three times with his wand.
The Holmes family stared at the brick without blinking.
What happened next was astounding.
The brick he had tapped began to quiver.
First, a small hole appeared in the middle.
Then the bricks on both sides moved rapidly apart, expanding the hole wider and wider.
At last, a broad archway opened before them.
The arch led to a winding, cobblestone street that stretched out of sight.
Compared to the dim, cramped Leaky Cauldron behind them, this thoroughfare was exceptionally bright.
The view before them opened up in an instant.
“Welcome to Diagon Alley.” Tom’s voice rang out at just the right moment.
This was their destination, Diagon Alley.
Sherlock glanced back and saw the archway narrowing as the brick wall restored itself to its original state, while Tom waved them goodbye.
“That short guy…
he doesn’t have any money on him.
He’s probably getting ready to dash without paying.” Sherlock thought for a second and decided to drop a quick warning.
Upon hearing his words, Tom’s expression shifted drastically as if remembering something.
Without even stopping to thank him, Tom turned and bolted back inside.
Moments later, faint shouts drifted out from the pub: “Stop!” “Hold it right there!” “Catch him!” Sherlock shrugged, turned back, and stepped out onto the street with his parents.
Diagon Alley stood in stark contrast to The Leaky Cauldron.
A bright, wide street, bustling, crowded shops, and throngs of people.
Even the widely traveled Mr.
Holmes couldn’t help remarking, “To think a place like this exists in London…
it really boggles the mind.” Mrs.
Holmes nodded in agreement with her husband.
Sherlock, meanwhile, fell into thought.
Ever since confirming that magic wasn’t fake news, his fascination with the wizarding world had grown immensely.
Now, it seemed the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley were somewhat akin to the mirrored worlds found in science fiction.
However, the magical world couldn’t exist entirely detached from the mundane world.
Even if the city council didn’t know about it, the Prime Minister and the Royal Family surely did.
Though having a place like this exist meant the city council was undoubtedly missing out on a mountain of tax revenue, Sherlock remarked silently to himself.
Following McGonagall’s instructions, the three of them headed first toward Gringotts Wizarding Bank on the north side of Diagon Alley.
They needed to exchange some magical currency.
Yes, surprising as it was, the wizarding world genuinely possessed its own monetary system.
Gold coins were Galleons; seventeen silver Sickles made a Galleon, and twenty-nine Bronze Knuts made a Sickle.
This exchange rate made Sherlock somewhat look down on wizards’ mathematical abilities.
Even if they couldn’t adopt a decimal system, shouldn’t they at least keep the exchange ratio consistent between the three denominations?
Although Britain had previously used an old system where 1 pound was 20 shillings and 1 shilling was 12 pence, ever since the 1971 currency reform abolished shillings, 1 pound had equaled 100 new pence.
The muggle world was constantly progressing, so why couldn’t the magical world catch up?
Disappointing as it was, money still needed to be exchanged.
Compared to the other buildings in Diagon Alley, Gringotts Wizarding Bank was distinct.
The towering, snow-white building towered above the surrounding low-rise structures, its bronze doors gleaming in the sunlight.
However, the most eye-catching detail was the figure standing at the entrance, wearing a scarlet and gold-trimmed uniform.
Diminutive in height, with long hands and feet, a swarthy face, and a long, pointed beard—that was…
“A goblin.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the sight.
Another creature straight out of legend.
“Are you here to exchange money?
Don’t wander off.
Follow me.” Recognizing that Mr.
and Mrs.
Holmes were non-wizards, the goblin guessed their purpose immediately, bowed, and spoke.
Sherlock noticed the distant attitude and cold tone.
Tsk.
Treating customers like that in the service industry?
The wizarding world really needed to train them properly.
Sherlock’s parents had no time for such thoughts.
Mrs.
Holmes still looked somewhat anxious.
“Taran, I wonder if we brought enough money.
Sherlock seems to have quite a few things to buy, and I’d hate for him to suffer out there…” “My dear Violetta, don’t worry.
Trust me, it’ll be fine,” Mr.
Holmes comforted her in a low voice.
The Holmes family was financially comfortable.
Sherlock’s grandfather had belonged to landed gentry for generations, which in the Victorian era would have made him proper nobility.
Even in modern London, they were at the upper end of the middle class.
So as long as the wizarding world’s currency wasn’t absurdly expensive, Mr.
Holmes was confident in their purchasing power.
As they followed the goblin through the second set of silver doors, the engraving on the double doors caught Sherlock’s attention.