"You must go to school and study."
"You don't understand," Snape's voice was low and insistent, "how many would give anything to enter Hogwarts, to experience magic. But as Muggles, they must give it up."
He had argued until hoarse, but Nietzsche remained unmoved.
If not for the law and Hogwarts' rules, Snape might well have tied the boy up and dragged him there.
Nietzsche's answer never changed:
"Well said. But… I refuse."
"You could expand your talents infinitely, do things no Muggle ever could!" Snape's voice quivered with frustration. "The world could become whatever you choose to make of it."
He flicked his wand. The candlestick twisted, transforming into a snake. Another flick—the dead flowers bloomed once more.
"But Muggles who can't do such things," Sherlock interjected with an arrogant smirk, "at least keep their hair clean."
Snape's fists clenched inside his sleeves. He forced composure, but Sherlock caught the faint tremor of his robe.
"So…" Sherlock drawled, "you're here only for the boy."
"Precisely because Muggles cannot do these things," Nietzsche retorted, "I must help them achieve them. Primitive man never dreamt people today would hear voices from the far side of the earth."
Snape was struck silent.
The words themselves were less shocking than the age of the speaker. In that determined gaze, Snape saw an immovable will. Every argument he had prepared was useless.
As he rose, his eyes fell on a blueprint beneath him. Strange diagrams, toxic extracts from living creatures. He picked it up, scanning lines quickly.
"How do you know how to brew potions?"
"What?" John Watson blinked. "Potions?"
"Potions!" Snape muttered darkly. "Damn it… the Ministry's Obliviators are failing again. Muggles should never know such things!"
Sherlock and Nietzsche exchanged a look.
The Holmes family's uncanny synchrony.
"Murder case," Sherlock said flatly. "Several dead, no clues. And I couldn't reply to your letter because I don't keep an owl. Also, your attire is—"
Nietzsche sighed. "The owl comes with the letter. How could there be none? Honestly."
The problem was clearly the postman.
Snape, ignoring him, bent over the victim on the table. With clinical precision, he forced open the corpse's mouth, prodding with his wand.
Mary Watson handed the revolver back to John and whispered, "Why is everyone who comes here a bit unhinged?"
"That," John murmured back, "is why I want to marry you and move out. At least then Sherlock might quiet down."
Meanwhile, Sherlock and Snape worked side by side, Nietzsche at Snape's shoulder.
"There are traces of Dark Arts here. Muggles can't detect them."
"So this is bound to your kind… Wizards?" Sherlock almost choked on the word. "No matter. I've one living under my roof already."
Nietzsche wisely kept silent.
"Likely so," Snape conceded. "But what is hydrocyanic acid?"
"A toxin from apple pips," Sherlock explained. "But Watson confirmed—no signs of poisoning."
Snape examined the victim's eyes, muttering only: "Interesting."
"So," Sherlock sneered, "things Muggles can do, Wizards cannot? Nietzsche, next time don't say 'God is dead'—say 'Wizards are dead.'"
The examination was swift under Snape's guidance. Terms scrawled down included 'undetectable poison,' 'Imperius Curse,' 'Unforgivable Curses.'
Snape grew grim. The victims were figures from Muggle religions—politically dangerous. He straightened.
"I must report to Headmaster Dumbledore."
Sherlock sensed something vast behind the mist of this case—another world, hidden, waiting.
Nietzsche felt the same tug of curiosity.
"Dad," he said quietly, "I think I need to attend this magic school."
"Nietzsche?" Watson's face hardened. "Not because of a murder case. I'd rather you learnt a few spells to help with the housework."
Snape, ever opportunist, seized the opening.
"This involves Dark Wizards. By our laws, Muggles cannot be told. Even if they learn, their memories must be erased… unless they are family of a wizard."
Nietzsche thought of the owl that never came. His adoptive family was already caught in this whirlpool. This case was different—Snape had shown enough to confirm it.
"With great power comes great responsibility," Nietzsche said. "That's what you always tell me."
He scrawled a reply on scrap paper and shoved it into Snape's hand.
"That's my responsibility and Holmes's, not yours," Watson snapped.
"But I will eventually surpass you," Nietzsche answered calmly.
Watson studied his son. Stubborn as Sherlock, with the same hunger for adventure. Some birds are not meant for cages.
"In one week," Snape said coldly, "I shall take you to Diagon Alley for supplies—if your guardians permit it."
And with that, he vanished, twisting into nothing with a sound like rushing air.
"Now," Watson said heavily, "we need to discuss how you helped Irene Adler escape Bohemia."
"Oh, bother! I just remembered—I promised Hermione I'd catch frogs today. See you all at the Royal Restaurant tonight!" Nietzsche cried, bolting for the door.
"Wait." Watson's cane struck the floor, halting them. His tone was deadly serious. "Nietzsche, you are not to get involved. Sherlock—say something!"
Holmes reluctantly stretched his arms, joints cracking.
Nietzsche's eyes gleamed. "You or me?"
"The younger first."
Nietzsche cleared his throat, retracing Snape's entrance.
"Snape is a man of repressed desires. From the moment he entered, his target was me—unlike any ordinary pursuer. On arriving somewhere new, a man normally surveys his surroundings. He did not."
"His urge for control is strong. His robe's hem was spotless—he hadn't rushed here."
"Yes, I saw it," Watson said. "He vanished with a 'pop' sound, but that hardly makes him normal. Perhaps tied to the murders."
Nietzsche nodded approval. Watson's intuition was blunt but sharp.
"The letter—he seemed surprised about the missing owl. Likely he wasn't involved, merely a professor informing a student. Most telling—when confronted at gunpoint, his response was not confidence, but confusion."
He fell silent.
"We're exposed now," Nietzsche said at last. "We know nothing of the enemy. I must bring you intelligence."
"I cannot accept that," Watson said, shaking his head.
"Dad, I'm only going to school. Writing letters, gathering information. Not marching to my death."
"Did you hear him? Dark Wizards!" Watson's eyes bulged. "And you'd walk straight into their den!"
Mary's hand on his arm steadied him.
"Perhaps Nietzsche can protect himself," she said. Then glared at the boy. "But tonight, you explain—clearly—this business of 'magic' and 'the Force.'"
Nietzsche nodded reluctantly.
He knew. This case would be Sherlock Holmes's most brilliant.
And the doorway to a new world.