Chapter 3: Science and Magic

Most magical schools in this world are nestled in rugged mountainous regions. Hogwarts is no exception.

However, its exact location remains a closely guarded secret. Even within the British wizarding community, few know where it truly lies. All magical schools are protected by powerful concealment spells—non-magical folk see only ruins or warning signs. Finding the school is nearly impossible.

Just five minutes earlier, the Sherlock family had no idea magic even existed. Yet, moments ago, Sherlock, a boy from a Muggle family, casually uttered something astonishing: Hogwarts is in Scotland!

“Good heavens...” Professor McGonagall struggled to maintain her composure.

“What do you mean?” she asked, trying to mask her surprise.

Sherlock appeared calm, as if puzzled by her reaction. “You mean Hogwarts is in Scotland?” McGonagall pressed.

“It’s a simple deduction,” Sherlock replied.

Seeing McGonagall’s continued confusion, he sighed and produced the acceptance letter he had received three days prior. “This paper is thick, sturdy, and of exceptional quality—a ream costs nearly half a pound.”

McGonagall looked at him, puzzled, silently asking, “So?”

Sherlock handed her the letter. “Professor, please hold it up to the light.”

Though uncertain, McGonagall complied. Illuminated by the light, she noticed an intricate watermark: a capital ‘A’ intertwined with three lowercase letters—l, b, and a.

She was stunned.

Over the years, Hogwarts had sent countless letters, but she'd never noticed such a detail. She had no idea what it meant.

“Do you know what this signifies?” she asked.

“Of course. ‘Alba’ means Scotland in Gaelic. This paper was made in Scotland,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

“But—” McGonagall began, but Sherlock quickly continued, “That alone isn’t conclusive. But add the Scottish tawny owl that delivered the letter, the tartan pattern on my shirt, and the occasional Gaelic phrases I slip into conversation... If you can’t deduce it from that, it borders on foolishness.”

“Merlin’s beard...” McGonagall was completely taken aback. What had seemed impossible moments ago suddenly felt entirely logical.

This young wizard was truly extraordinary.

Perhaps, upon returning to Hogwarts, she ought to suggest that Headmaster Dumbledore tighten security measures. It was simply astounding that someone could pinpoint Hogwarts’ location without magic.

“Sherlock, are you really going to study there?” she asked.

Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts and Head of Gryffindor House, had just left. She held deep admiration for Sherlock’s ability to deduce Hogwarts’ whereabouts from mere clues—though Sherlock himself found it obvious.

In light of this, the usually stern McGonagall praised him generously and expressed high hopes for his life at Hogwarts.

She also diligently fulfilled her duties.

She informed Sherlock that items like wands, robes, and spellbooks—seemingly exclusive to the magical world—could actually be purchased in London, provided one knew where to look.

She could have taken Sherlock to Diagon Alley herself, but as both Deputy Headmistress and Gryffindor Head, McGonagall was overwhelmed, especially with the school year about to begin.

Upon learning Sherlock’s family was accepting of magic and that his parents promised to accompany him, she decided to save her time for families in greater need.

She spoke carefully, even explaining how to board the Hogwarts Express.

Furthermore, McGonagall had the Holmes family sign a confidentiality agreement—only immediate family members could know about the existence of magic.

For the Holmeses, secrecy was no problem; they were never ones to seek attention.

Sherlock, deep in thought, grew more contemplative.

After McGonagall left, Mrs. Holmes grew pensive and hesitant.

According to the professor, once Sherlock went to Hogwarts, he would live at school, returning home only for Christmas and summer holidays.

That alone was difficult for Mrs. Holmes to accept.

To imagine that for the next seven years, her son would spend just over two months each year with her was heartbreaking.

“Darling Valrita, since it’s Sherlock’s own choice, we should support him—we always have, haven’t we?” Mr. Holmes said.

“I understand, Tanan, but Sherlock is only eleven...” she replied.

“Trust me, and trust Sherlock. He will take care of himself.”

Though wizards had a mixed reputation, Sherlock’s safety was paramount.

Magic outbursts could be terrifying.

Besides, this was Sherlock’s choice. He was no ordinary boy.

Mr. Holmes comforted his wife as they headed to the bedroom, casting a reassuring glance at their son.

Sherlock felt at ease. Though his father often yielded to his mother, in crucial moments, he could persuade her.

Sure enough, Mr. Holmes did not disappoint.

After heartfelt discussion, he convinced his wife to accept the reality of their son spending much of the next seven years away.

Next came preparations for enrollment.

Originally, Sherlock planned to procure his school supplies alone.

But Mrs. Holmes refused to let him go unaccompanied.

With the need for financial support as well, father and son compromised.

The following day, the family set off by car, soon arriving at Charing Cross.

It was a bustling area, adjoining their Chelsea neighborhood and falling within the City of Westminster—London’s traditional center and the zero point for British road and rail mileage.

Their destination lay on this very street.

According to McGonagall, they first needed to find the famous Leaky Cauldron—though its fame was limited to the magical world.

Before this, neither Sherlock nor his parents had ever heard of such a place.

Sherlock initially thought this would be simple, yet they soon encountered difficulty.

“Tanan, are we mistaken?” Mrs. Holmes queried, glancing between a bookstore on the left and a record shop on the right.

Both storefronts were popular due to their central location.

Yet, despite looking high and low, she could see no sign of a pub.

Mr. Holmes frowned likewise.

Observing the passersby, some entered the bookstore, others the record shop, but none seemed to be heading toward a pub.

At that moment, the couple looked simultaneously at their son.

Unlike them, Sherlock saw clearly.

There was indeed a pub here.

It stood between the large bookstore and the record shop—just as McGonagall had said.

But without her pointing it out, even Sherlock’s keen eyes had initially overlooked it.

As for the Holmeses, it was impossible.

The hurried pace of passersby revealed they were oblivious to the Leaky Cauldron’s presence.

“This is the magic world’s influence on the mundane—concealing itself, making ordinary people blind to its existence,” Sherlock realized.

Indeed, once you engage with the magical world, fascinating things follow.

He responded with action.

Walking directly toward the spot between the two shops, his parents hurried to keep up.

Upon arrival, they finally noticed the pub.

Old, cramped, and grimy—that was their first impression of the Leaky Cauldron.

Inside, the lighting was dim, the furnishings sparse.

In a shadowed corner, a few tables hosted groups drinking and debating animatedly.

Everything seemed no different from an ordinary pub.

Yet the patrons wore eccentric clothes, and their conversations bordered on the absurd.

Mr. Holmes listened for a moment, then turned to his wife: “Valrita, I bet any ordinary person would leave before finishing their mead.”

Mrs. Holmes nodded; the idea of “creating a meteor shower” sounded utterly ridiculous.

Sherlock’s gaze swept over the crowd, instinctively analyzing each scene.

[A woman smoking five meters northwest, under fifty, married but separated, with poor self-control, seeking younger men.]

[A man seven meters ahead, early twenties, soon to be married, here to bid farewell to his single days, though his friends disapprove.]

[A short, irritable man near the corner table, about thirty-five, short on cash, currently scheming to avoid paying.]

[A passing burly man of average appearance...]

Each subject seemed to involuntarily feed information into Sherlock’s vision. For him, this had become as natural as eating or drinking.

[A man approaching us, around forty, watching everyone entering and leaving—oh, he’s the owner.]

“Two Muggles and a young wizard—a classic trio. Another summer swept by the wind.”

The man stopped before them and introduced himself: “I’m Tom Cruise, the pub owner. Call me Old Tom. Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron!”

Tom Cruise?

Looking at his thinning hair, wrinkled face like a shriveled walnut, and eyes almost squinting to slits, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes exchanged awkward smiles, unsure what to say.

They knew it was impolite but couldn’t help themselves.

Sherlock remained unfazed and stepped forward to greet him.

“Mr. Cruise, Professor McGonagall sent us.”

Having assessed Tom’s character through observation, Sherlock mentioned McGonagall’s name directly.

“Of course, of course. A young wizard from a Muggle family—rare, but not unheard of. Follow me!”

As they followed Tom, Sherlock discreetly asked about the people he had observed.

Naturally, as the pub owner, Tom knew them well.

Sherlock was pleased—his deductions were all correct.

It seemed that even in the magical world, the scientific method of deduction he had honed remained effective.

And so...

When science and magic intertwine—the story begins.