Chapter 2: The Vice Principal Pays a Visit

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Sherlock had a keen eye and an excellent memory. At a glance, he recognized that the owl before him was the very same one that had delivered a letter three days prior. Just like the last time, it circled the room a few times before dropping the letter into Sherlock’s hand with a sharp flap.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were instantly stunned.

“Good heavens, Tannan, what on earth did I just see? An owl delivering a letter? This must be a hallucination!” Mrs. Holmes exclaimed.

“Oh, Holy Mary above, Varita, I’d bet my life it’s a messenger from God!” Mrs. Holmes crossed herself repeatedly over her chest.

Mr. Holmes shook his head with a wry smile and said, “Dear, your reaction is like that of a frantic turkey—everyone knows that divine messengers only come to earth at the end of days.”

“Good grief, how can you think like that? Such thoughts are terrible—like Aunt Susan’s apple pie next door. If you keep saying that, I swear I’ll feed you a slice,” Mrs. Holmes retorted.

Mr. Holmes shrugged and ceased arguing with his wife. He then turned to his son. “Sherlock, do you think it’s a divine messenger?”

“No,” Sherlock said coolly. “It’s just an owl trained to deliver letters.”

He opened the envelope as he spoke. The reply was brief to the extreme:

“I will visit before 9 o’clock—Minerva McGonagall.”

“Ha.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

Interesting. It seemed that fellow had great confidence in the actor he hired.

He glanced at the clock: 8:45.

In fifteen minutes, the person claiming to be Professor McGonagall would arrive.

“Sherlock, what on earth is going on?” his parents asked.

Sherlock shook his head lightly. “Let this guest explain.”

After all, he was curious to meet this “Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

At exactly nine, there was a knock on the door.

“Hello, I am Minerva McGonagall, here to reply to your letter.”

A woman with a serious expression appeared before the Holmes family.

Five minutes later, Professor McGonagall was seated neatly with the Holmes family in the living room.

Her first impression of Sherlock was favorable.

Sherlock was taller and somewhat slender compared to other boys his age.

His features were not especially cute, but his face was resolute with sharp angles.

His grey eyes were particularly long and striking.

Besides his eyes, his slender aquiline nose was also quite noticeable.

Overall, Sherlock’s appearance conveyed alertness and decisiveness, fitting McGonagall’s image of a good student.

After brief pleasantries, the no-nonsense McGonagall got straight to the point.

Every child born in Britain with magical talent was automatically placed on Hogwarts’ admission list.

When they turned eleven, they would receive a letter of acceptance delivered by owl.

If the recipient failed to receive the letter, the owl would persistently deliver it until acknowledged.

Besides the acceptance letter, there was a compulsory list of supplies—uniform, textbooks, cauldron, wand, and so forth.

For children from wizarding families, this was as ordinary as eating and drinking.

But for some, unaware of their magical abilities or the existence of the magical world, Hogwarts staff would visit their guardians personally to explain everything and ensure the message was received.

However…

“You, Mr. Holmes, are the first to actively request our visit,” McGonagall said, her eyes glinting with admiration as she looked at Sherlock.

To McGonagall, anyone with magical talent who refused formal magical education was wasting their gift, even committing a crime.

In the Middle Ages, people feared magic deeply.

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Many witches and wizards endured varying degrees of persecution, some losing their lives.

At that time, no formal magical education system existed; wizard children learned magic at home under their parents' guidance.

It was under such circumstances that Hogwarts was founded.

It now had a history spanning over a thousand years.

Therefore, for someone like Sherlock Holmes, born into a non-magical family yet showing keen interest in understanding the magical world, encouragement was well deserved.

Every year, during admissions, some non-magical families recoiled at the very mention of magic, avoiding it like the plague.

Come on, it was already 1991!

The depictions of magic in films and media were based on reality—why did some people still harbor such attitudes?

Yet, nearly sixty-year-old McGonagall understood well.

Prejudice in people’s hearts was a mountain that no effort could move.

No matter how often Hogwarts staff emphasized that magical ability grew with age, and that if young witches and wizards failed to learn to control their magic upon enrollment, their powers might rebel violently, sometimes fatally.

Still, the notion equating wizards with evil persisted in some minds.

After many setbacks, Hogwarts established a new rule.

If families, having learned the truth about the magical world, still refused to enroll, their children could remain in non-magical schools.

This was essentially fate deciding life or death.

Of course, Hogwarts did not encourage this.

It was a last resort when all else failed.

Judging by Sherlock’s positive attitude, this would likely never occur.

While McGonagall observed Sherlock, he was equally analyzing her.

In fact, before she finished explaining Hogwarts to him and his parents, Sherlock had already assessed her.

The result surprised him.

According to his judgment, this woman claiming to be Professor Minerva McGonagall was not lying.

By reading fleeting expressions, every muscle twitch, and each eye movement, one could infer a person’s innermost thoughts.

For someone trained in observation and analysis, this was not difficult.

Sherlock was precisely such a person.

Before she even sat down to begin the discussion, Sherlock had deduced from her impeccably wrinkle-free deep green robe, her neatly coiffed black curls tied in a high bun, and the glinting lenses of her square spectacles, her personality.

Serious, strict, and meticulous.

A person like this would be easier to detect lying than the average individual.

That was why Sherlock doubted his initial skepticism.

If McGonagall was truthful…

Then this was not some scheme.

Magic… really existed?

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Sherlock murmured.

“Pardon me, Mr. Holmes, what did you just say?”

McGonagall looked at him, not catching his quiet muttering.

Sherlock’s parents also glanced at him curiously.

“Nothing,” Sherlock shook his head, then fixed his gaze on McGonagall.

There was a simple way to prove whether magic truly existed.

“Professor, could you demonstrate magic for us?”

Upon hearing Sherlock’s request, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes also looked at McGonagall expectantly.

“Of course,” McGonagall said without surprise.

Had they not asked, she would have found that odd—she had far too much experience handling such situations.

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“If you agree.”

Receiving their consent, McGonagall drew a black wand and waved it gracefully.

To the astonished gaze of the family, the teacup before Sherlock transformed into an adorably clumsy squirrel.

“Oh my God! This is unbelievable! Look, what am I seeing?”

“This is incredible—the teacup… turned into a squirrel!”

Compared to his overly dramatic parents, Sherlock remained much more composed.

“Magic tricks? Hypnosis? Or an illusion…”

Even now, Sherlock tried to rationalize the phenomena scientifically.

At that moment, the squirrel shook its head and leapt into his open palm.

“…”

Sherlock reached out and stroked it.

Hmm, very pleasant.

The little creature even rubbed against his hand, the soft fur registering immediately.

The sensation was real.

So… this was genuine. This was no dream.

Sherlock raised his eyes to McGonagall and made one final attempt.

“Professor, could you turn it back?”

“Certainly.”

McGonagall waved her wand again.

The squirrel in Sherlock’s hand instantly reverted to a teacup, still warm with tea.

“…When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Sherlock repeated the phrase for the second time.

This time, he was certain.

This world… truly had magic!

What had once seemed mere human fantasy was real.

For Sherlock, this was undoubtedly a reconstruction of his worldview.

Once accepting this premise, his mind opened wide.

The exquisite envelope, the owl messenger, the strange admission process—all had reasonable explanations.

This time, he truly misunderstood that fellow.

“Mr. Holmes, would you be willing to enroll in my school?”

For McGonagall, the astonishment of young witches and wizards and their guardians upon witnessing magic was routine—the crucial point was whether Sherlock would enroll on time.

Judging by the letter he sent, Sherlock himself should have no issue.

Now it was up to his parents.

Noticing McGonagall’s gaze, Mr. Holmes thought briefly and inquired, “Professor, does enrollment require boarding?”

“Father, I don’t suppose you want me to attend school eight hundred kilometers away in Scotland and come home every day,” Sherlock said.

“Scotland? Oh, dear Sherlock, that’s too far! Your mother and I wouldn’t be able to take care of you,” Mrs. Holmes protested.

“I can take care of myself.”

“But…”

“Wait! Hold on a moment!”

The Holmes family looked at McGonagall in confusion.

She stared at Sherlock in disbelief. “Mr. Holmes, did you just… mention Scotland?”

Sherlock looked calmly at McGonagall. “Yes, Professor.”

“How… how did you know?”

McGonagall was stunned.