"The wind was gathering the clouds, between the clouds and the sea..."
"Shut up, Nietzsche! You're muddling my thoughts! Watson, have Mrs Hudson take him away!"
"Oi! I'm the landlady, not your servant. Clever boy, would you like a biscuit?"
At 221B Baker Street, London, a boy pulled open the blinds in the sitting room, looked at the grey sky, and stood by the arched window, loudly reciting prose.
Not long after, several gunshots and a middle-aged man's incessant muttering echoed from the other end of the room.
Nietzsche turned his head, and what met his eyes was a "surprise" on the dining table—not food, but a corpse.
Mrs Hudson, the landlady who had just come in, was startled, but not particularly surprised. She seemed almost accustomed to it, though she did cast a look of disapproval at the bullet holes marring her wall.
Well… Nietzsche had to admit, he had done it on purpose.
And the man at the table, holding a whip and striking the corpse repeatedly, was none other than the famous Sherlock Holmes. Nietzsche often thought his adoptive father resembled the playboy called Iron Man from his dreams.
Sherlock Holmes and Tony Stark, however, could not be more different in temperament.
"Why don't you summon your all-purpose assistant, Jarvis?" Nietzsche muttered, picking up a biscuit from the tray.
"If I really had that omnipotent robot butler from your dreams, Watson could retire peacefully." Sherlock muttered disdainfully.
John Watson, who was taking notes nearby, found himself dragged into the crossfire without reason.
"Ahem… Nietzsche just has a rather vivid imagination. Alright, lad, why don't you go play with that girl at school instead…? Did you find anything?"
"Time of death: about two days ago. No gunshot wounds, no struggle, no prior illness, no traces whatsoever. It's as if—"
Nietzsche leaned on the table, sniffed the sharp scent of gunpowder, and interjected: "—as if killed by magic."
"Interesting. Our little Superman, the terror of the schoolyard, has started believing in magic."
Sherlock rubbed his stubble, clamped a pipe between his teeth, sank back into the sofa, lifted his left hand, and fired another shot into the wall. The sudden crack made Mrs Hudson scream.
"Sherlock!!"
But Nietzsche calmly drew a newspaper from his satchel and tossed it onto the table.
Its headline screamed: "Bizarre Death Cases: Another Failure of Scotland Yard!"
"Dad, this is today's paper. Another murder this morning. The victim was a church member. The public is calling it a disaster sent by God. Even the police are saying it's impossible."
"I'm not you… oh, never mind. Nothing is impossible in this world." Sherlock tilted his head, snatched the paper, and asked while skimming it, "What do you think?"
"God is dead."
That was Nietzsche's calm reply.
"Oh my God…"
That was Mrs Hudson's sigh as she looked skyward.
Watson, however, closed his notebook and stared at Nietzsche in disbelief.
"How did you know about what was discussed at the Yard?"
"Dad, I met Inspector Lestrade after school today, and he told me." Nietzsche looked helpless. "Don't make that face. After all, you two once hid a human head in the fridge."
"What? You two put a… a head in the refrigerator?!" Mrs Hudson was horrified.
Sherlock and Nietzsche exchanged glances.
Both coughed, straightened their coats in unison, and without a word, strode out together—movements perfectly synchronised, as though they shared the same nerves.
They left poor John Watson behind to face Mrs Hudson's furious questioning.
Yes, Nietzsche had two adoptive fathers—Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
And also an adoptive mother, Mary Morstan—though soon, she would become Mary Watson.
Although adopted by the Watsons, Nietzsche spent nearly every day in the company of Sherlock Holmes—since Mary and John were perpetually busy.
At least for Nietzsche, dealing with severed heads and dissected corpses counted as fun.
"Alright, brat, you've had your fun. Out with it—what trouble have you caused at school this time that requires me to clean up?"
"You'll find out when you get there."
Nietzsche shot him a look of disdain.
"I still don't know how Aunt Irene ever fancied you. If you fell into a crowd of beggars right now, someone would toss a coin into your hat."
"You anti-social little maniac. Last time you were transferred because you went too far… what was that fat boy's name you beat senseless?"
"Dudley Dursley. A walking lump of lard."
It wasn't the first time Nietzsche had thrashed a classmate.
"You're hardly any better!"
Sherlock scratched at his unshaven chin and squinted as he stepped outside. Just as his eyes adjusted to the light, a postman pedalled up and slipped an envelope into Nietzsche's hand.
"Mr Holmes, your post."
The man's voice was gravelly with age, and his hand showed deep lines.
Nietzsche shifted his gaze, his fingers habitually feeling the paper.
It wasn't the smooth machine-made kind. It was coarse, with tiny raised fibres, and bore an impression like a wax seal:
A shield divided into four, with a lion, snake, eagle, and badger.
The boy frowned slightly at the lettering beneath: Hogwarts? I don't recall applying to that school.
But he said nothing, only tore it open as they turned onto Baker Street.
It read:
"Dear Nietzsche John Holmes,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of required books and equipment.
Term begins 1 September. Please reply by owl at once.
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
Deputy Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall."
Sherlock peered over. "Well? What does it say?"
"A school of magic… Don't you think the timing odd? Days after these so-called religious murders, this letter appears. Is it a warning?"
Nietzsche frowned and passed the envelope to his scruffy adoptive father.
When it came to clues, Sherlock was the professional.
Holmes ran his fingers over the parchment, sniffed it, then—once Nietzsche had finished reading—actually licked it.
Smacking his lips with relish, he muttered, "Handmade parchment… with a faint trace of chocolate. Curious. Was this delivered by a human?"
"Of course. It's not as though mobiles exist yet."
"But the letter insists the reply come by owl. Animals can't deliver post without training. Even as a threat, this is shoddy work."
Sherlock's face soured. He tossed the letter aside.
"So it's a prank?"
"And the booklist just for show? To fool gullible children like you?" He flicked it into the bin.
Whether prank, threat, or genuine, without mention of a specific owl, it all felt unreal.
At least one thing was clear: their address had been compromised.
"Who would attend such a magic school?" Nietzsche scoffed. "I'll dedicate myself to humanity!"
"All because of those dreams in your head?"
"I feel they're real, Father. Admit it—some things cannot be described by language. Language itself is a system of violence."
Just like his name.
Nietzsche John Holmes—he longed to break free of the ordinary.
"So that's why you beat your classmates?!"
As this eccentric father and son reached the school gates, a voice cut through their musings.
Looking up, they saw a girl with curly brown hair, freckles scattered across her face, and chocolate-coloured eyes. She stood clutching an armful of books, frowning.
Nietzsche knew at once.
He had met the person who would vex him all his life.
Hermione Granger.