A month after Nietzsche's near-expulsion, London's weather finally returned to normal.
Even 221B Baker Street had grown unusually lively.
First, Duke Blackwood—captured by Sherlock, executed, then somehow crawling out of his grave—had returned, followed by a series of baffling murders.
The Prime Minister was frantic, placating the public while ordering Blackwood's capture at any cost.
"How is this possible? No chemicals, no struggle…" Sherlock muttered on the sofa, reviewing the facts in his mind palace. "This breaks the rules!"
A miracle of crime… a miracle?
His thoughts flashed to Irene Adler—that Scandal in Bohemia. How she had slipped the police net, even seizing Nietzsche as hostage at the time.
Knocking out every guard and officer, she had strolled away with the photographs.
Impossible for one woman to achieve unaided.
Just then, Nietzsche emerged from his room, yawning.
Good heavens—was it still night?
No, of course not. Holmes had drawn all the curtains, turning the sitting room into an interrogation cell. Nietzsche walked past the "guest" lying on the dining table and headed for the bay window.
"Don't—don't open it ye—Ahhh!"
The sunlight spilled in, Sherlock recoiling as though struck, rolling on the carpet with a groan.
"It's summer holiday. You ought to go out more. And—I'm not sharing a table with the new 'guest' tonight."
"How long has it been, Nietzsche? Let your father rest a bit—Ahh!"
"A month." Nietzsche checked his watch. "I've got to catch some amphibians for your experiment, so… see you tonight."
Originally he had planned to go with Hermione, but yesterday she rang to say there were guests at her house.
Poor Nietzsche—stood up again.
As they spoke, the front door opened. A middle-aged man in a billowing black robe stepped inside silently, clutching a small wooden stick.
His greasy black hair caught the sunlight with an unpleasant sheen.
"If you're after Holmes, he's not taking other cases at the moment," Nietzsche warned, warily watching the intruder. The door had been locked—only the Watsons and Mrs Hudson had keys.
Yet the man simply stood there, blocking the way.
"I'm here for you, Nietzsche John Holmes." His voice was a long, lazy drawl, his eyes dark and dull. "You may call me Professor Snape. And stop pretending you never received my letter."
He withdrew an envelope from his sleeve.
Nietzsche recognised it instantly—the letter he'd dismissed as a prank. His pupils dilated; he ducked aside, shouting:
"Stalker!!"
Before Snape could react, Sherlock was on his feet, drawing a metal revolver and levelling it at him. A sense of danger prickled through the air.
A shot cracked. Wood splintered from the doorframe beside Snape.
"Hands above your head!"
"What on earth is wrong with you two?!"
Snape's hand twitched, raising the wooden stick towards Sherlock. Nietzsche dived behind a wooden dummy, right hand clawed, aiming at Snape's wand arm.
He had his own little secrets. Tricks that let him beat opponents taller and stronger.
Nietzsche called it the Force.
But before he could act, an invisible strength seized Snape's wrist, dragging his wand-hand upwards.
Snape's eyes narrowed.
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded.
Snape's lip curled. "I am Professor of Potions at Hogwarts. And you—are Muggles."
His gaze swept the room, resting a moment on the body on the dining table. This household was clearly no ordinary one.
Sherlock, however, met his eyes without flinching.
"Very well then, Professor. Who do you work for?"
"I work for myself! That—will—do!"
Snape muttered under his breath. A sudden gust blasted the room, throwing Sherlock and Nietzsche backwards. A red flash burst from his wand, sending Sherlock's revolver skittering away.
At that moment, John Watson crept upstairs, drew his pistol, and pressed the barrel firmly against the back of Snape's head.
"Put your tricks away—or I'll risk Mrs Hudson's wrath and end you here."
Watson rarely showed such violence in front of children, but danger at Baker Street permitted no restraint.
Yet Snape remained unmoved, even with cold steel at his skull.
"If Dumbledore hadn't ordered me, I would not lower myself to this."
In the blink of an eye, he vanished, reappearing in the corner. Watson swung the gun, tracking him.
"Reparo."
Snape traced a circle with his wand. Instantly, the wrecked room tidied itself, broken objects lifting and reassembling mid-air.
Sherlock, sprawled on the floor, waved his hands through the floating pieces, hunting for wires or magnets.
Nothing.
"How did you do that?"
"I am a Professor of Hogwarts, and Head of Slytherin House. Your son is a wizard. You are the strangest…" He cut himself off before saying freaks.
But the thought lingered.
He had never seen a Muggle household with a corpse on the table, or blueprints and weapons littering the room.
Nietzsche frowned. "Muggle?"
"A wizard's word for non-magical people," Snape explained coolly, watching Watson return the pistol to Sherlock. "It's the kindest term we have."
"Tell me, then," Sherlock pressed, "what trick was that? Blackwood also spoke of 'magic.' So—is this sleight of hand? Electromagnetism?"
Nietzsche's gaze flicked between his father and Snape. Sherlock's hunger for discovery reminded him of Stark from his dreams.
"What's that in your hand?" Snape sneered at the pistol.
"A gun," Sherlock replied.
"Shoot me again, as before. Protego."
Watson pulled Nietzsche behind him, exchanging a troubled glance with Sherlock.
Suddenly, Mary Watson snatched the revolver, levelled it, and fired at Snape's leg.
The bullet struck an invisible shield—white, translucent—deflecting harmlessly. Snape flinched, but remained untouched.
Mystery burned in Sherlock's eyes.
"Nietzsche cannot be a wizard."
Snape's lip curled. "Hmph. It seems he hides more than you realise. Show me again, boy."
He turned his hooked nose towards Nietzsche, memorising the boy's face.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Nietzsche retorted. "I'm no wizard, and I'm certainly not going to some 'magic school'."
His future lay at the Royal Academy, with top marks and his peculiar insights, eventually working in research.
Not in fairy tales.
But he had grown up not with bedtime stories, but with Sherlock and Watson dissecting murders and human nature.
"You—too?" Even Watson sensed how calm his son was about this strangeness.
"He certainly is one," Snape said sharply. "And he's already stronger than many wizard students. But beware—indiscriminate use of magic breeds an Obscurus."
"It's not magic," Nietzsche corrected flatly. "It's the Force."
"We call it magic."
Unable to bear Snape's stare, Nietzsche raised his hand.
The chair beneath Snape shot upwards, smashed into the ceiling, and shattered. Snape hit the floor hard, fists clenched beneath his robes.
"Why did you never tell us?!" Watson demanded.
"Oh, I thought Aunt Irene would tell Father. Apparently, she keeps her promises."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, resentment cutting through his composure. "So one of my few failures was down to you?"
Nietzsche stuck out his tongue.
That Bohemian Scandal had only been Adler stealing a governor's private photographs.
At the time, she had believed herself doomed in politics. The sincerity she showed then was what Nietzsche remembered most.
"I needed those photos simply to survive."
Those were her last words to Sherlock Holmes before she vanished.