Chapter 4: Welcome to Diagon Alley

To see the essence through appearances and to discover the truth in the minutiae is undoubtedly a gift. Yet, it must also be forged through relentless practice.

At first, Sherlock began with simpler problems. For example, upon encountering a stranger, he would deduce that person's history and profession through observation. Exercises like these might seem childish and dull, but they sharpen one’s powers of observation immensely.

With time and continuous practice, Sherlock’s skills became increasingly refined. By now, he knew exactly where to look and what to observe. He had developed his own method of deduction. Though still imperfect, observation and analysis had become second nature to him.

If he found himself in a train car, he could even identify the occupations of all his fellow passengers by simply observing them. — It was a pity no one would bet against him; he would undoubtedly make a fortune.

As Sherlock inquired of the bar owner, Tom, the latter led Sherlock and his parents through the bar to a small courtyard enclosed on all sides by walls. Sherlock’s gaze swept swiftly around: aside from a trash bin and some weeds, there was nothing else.

So… the clue lay with the trash bin?

Sherlock stepped forward two paces, approaching it closely. At the same time, Tom made a move. He slowly drew his wand, preparing to do something, but then suddenly turned to Sherlock with a smile and said, “From now on, once you have a wand, you’ll need to enter by yourselves—remember the position of this brick; it’s on the trash bin’s…”

“Third brick up from the bottom and second brick across,” Sherlock replied calmly.

Tom looked back at Sherlock in surprise. “How… how do you know?”

Because this brick was unlike any other on the wall—its color and the wear around it differed. For someone skilled in observation, noticing this was not difficult.

“Truly remarkable observational skills!” Tom exclaimed in genuine admiration upon hearing Sherlock’s explanation, then tapped the brick lightly three times with his wand.

Sherlock and his family watched the brick intently.

What happened next was astonishing.

The tapped brick began to tremble.

A small hole first appeared in its center.

Then the bricks on either side swiftly shifted, enlarging the opening.

At last, a wide archway revealed itself before them.

The archway opened onto a winding cobblestone street, its end disappearing from sight.

Compared to the dim, cramped Leaky Cauldron, this avenue seemed exceptionally bright.

In an instant, the vista opened wide.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley,” Tom’s voice rang out at just the right moment.

This was their destination, Diagon Alley, also known as Diagon Way.

Sherlock turned back to see the archway narrowing, the wall returning to its original form, and Tom waving farewell.

“That short fellow… he has no money on him. He’s probably preparing to run,” Sherlock thought, deciding to warn Tom.

Upon hearing this, Tom’s face darkened as if recalling something. Without even thanking them, he turned and rushed back inside.

Soon, voices echoed faintly from within the bar—commands like “Stop!” “You there, stop!” “Grab him!”

Sherlock shrugged and withdrew his gaze, then walked onto the street with his parents.

Diagon Alley was a stark contrast to the Leaky Cauldron.

Bright, wide streets, bustling and crowded shops, a throng of people bustling about.

Even the well-traveled Mr. Holmes couldn’t help but say, “It’s hard to imagine London having such a place.”

Mrs. Holmes nodded in agreement.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was deep in thought.

Since confirming that magic was no fake news, his fascination with the wizarding world had only grown.

It seemed that places like the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley resembled the mirror worlds often found in science fiction—parallel yet distinct realities.

However, the magical world should not exist detached from the mundane one. Even if the city council was unaware, surely the Prime Minister and the Royal Family knew.

If such a place indeed existed, the city government must be losing a great deal in taxes.

Sherlock thought to himself.

Following Professor McGonagall’s advice, the trio first headed to Gringotts Wizarding Bank on the north side of Diagon Alley.

They needed to exchange some magical currency.

Indeed, somewhat surprisingly, the wizarding world had its own monetary system.

The gold coin was the Galleon; seventeen silver Sickles made one Galleon, and twenty-nine bronze Knuts equaled one Sickle.

This exchange rate caused Sherlock to disdain the wizards’ mathematical skills somewhat.

Even if they couldn’t adopt a decimal system, at least the exchange rates between the three currencies should be consistent.

Although old Britain once used a system where one pound was twenty shillings and one shilling was twelve pence, since the 1971 decimalization, one pound was equal to one hundred new pence.

The mundane world was progressing constantly; why couldn’t the magical world keep pace?

Regret aside, the money still needed to be exchanged.

Compared to other buildings in Diagon Alley, Gringotts Wizarding Bank was distinctive.

Its tall, gleaming white structure towered over the surrounding low buildings, standing out like a crane among chickens. The bronze doors shone brilliantly in the sunlight.

Yet the most eye-catching feature was the scarlet-uniformed figure standing at the entrance.

Short in stature, with long limbs, dark skin, and a long, pointed beard—that was…

“A goblin.”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened at the sight—another mythical creature come to life.

“You’re here to exchange money? Don’t wander off; follow me,” the goblin said, bowing slightly as he spoke.

Apparently sensing that the Holmes couple were Muggles, the goblin immediately guessed their purpose.

Sherlock noticed the goblin’s distant attitude and somewhat cold tone.

Tsk, even in the service industry, such a demeanor—magical society really ought to train them better.

Mrs. Holmes, however, was more concerned.

“Tanan, I wonder if the money we brought will be enough? Sherlock seems to want to buy quite a few things. I don’t want him to suffer out there so far away…”

“Dear Varita, don’t worry. Trust me, it’ll be fine,” Mr. Holmes whispered reassuringly.

The Holmes family was financially secure.

Sherlock’s grandfather was a landed gentleman for generations—in Victorian times, that would have made him solid aristocracy.

Even today, they were among the upper middle class in London.

So, as long as the magical currency’s value wasn’t wildly unreasonable, Mr. Holmes was confident in their purchasing power.

As they followed the goblin through the second set of silver doors, Sherlock’s attention was drawn to the inscriptions carved upon them.