The situation was not in Nietzsche's favour.
Both professors were deep in conversation. The Grangers and the Holmes household were chatting amicably. Only Hermione had turned her back, refusing to speak to him.
Was he going to back down again?
Again? Hmph. He wasn't afraid of Hermione.
The two cars pulled up outside a shabby pub. Sherlock stepped out of the Grangers' car, the sound of laughter trailing after him. Clearly he had told them some anecdote sharp enough to make them burst out laughing.
But as soon as his feet touched the pavement, Sherlock's smile vanished.
"I'm almost out of jokes, Watson. Next time, I'll drive."
McGonagall and Snape led the way inside, with Watson just ahead of Nietzsche and Hermione. His cane was in his left hand, his right resting casually at his waist. He swayed slightly as he walked, the soldier's gait still with him.
Passers-by scarcely glanced at the two robed figures before returning to their own errands. Above the door, the battered sign creaked in the wind: The Leaky Cauldron.
Inside, the smell of butter and ale was thick. The light was dim, tables scarred with the stains of countless mugs. A staircase hugged the far wall.
They looked, for a moment, like gunslingers entering a Western saloon, their shadows stretching long behind them.
Nervous, Hermione brushed against Nietzsche's sleeve—and then, as if in disgust, pulled sharply away.
"Professor!" called the bald barman, polishing a glass. His cloudy eyes brightened. "You've just come in—what can I get you?"
His head was as wrinkled as a walnut.
"New students, Tom," McGonagall said gravely. Then, turning to the others: "Before we enter Diagon Alley, you may wait here with a Butterbeer if you wish."
"Ordinary people can't enter?" Mr Granger asked uneasily.
"No," Snape said coolly. "Merely to spare Muggles unnecessary fright. A Muggle overly fond of deduction might go mad if confronted with impossibility."
Sherlock dabbed at the foam on a nearby table, lifted it to his nose. The jab had no effect; not even a flicker of emotion broke his composure.
Watson glanced at Sherlock, then at Mary—neither moved to pay. With a resigned sigh, he turned away from the counter, thwarted even of a pint and a quick game of chess.
"Aha—new students! Best of luck to you," Tom called after them.
Out back, a plain brick wall waited. Snape tapped a sequence: three bricks up from the bin, two across.
The wall quivered, bricks folding back until an archway yawned open.
Beyond lay a cobbled street, winding into the depths.
Nietzsche ran his hand over the bricks. No mechanism, no trick—he had seen the bricks overlap, not slide.
"Welcome to the magical world," McGonagall said softly.
And it was another world.
Shops with crooked signs, windows stuffed with cauldrons and tomes, robes and wands. Posters on the walls snarled with wanted faces, glaring and vanishing. Everything shimmered with life.
It was hard to believe this lay hidden beside Charing Cross Road.
Hermione's eyes shone. "Look at their clothes! And—oh! A bookshop!"
Watson watched the moving posters with a veteran's steady stare.
Snape glanced sideways, disappointed—Sherlock's expression betrayed nothing. Nietzsche's was wide-eyed curiosity, Watson's hardened calm, Mary's controlled restraint.
"Is this the family you spoke of?" McGonagall murmured.
Snape's lips thinned. "Believe me, Minerva—that boy will not be easy."
"I ask nothing but that he be less trouble than the Weasley twins," McGonagall muttered, rubbing her brow. Then, brisk again: "First stop—Gringotts."
The marble bank loomed on the north side. Wizards had their own currency system, McGonagall explained—like a second country hidden inside Britain.
Nietzsche thought privately: Deputy Headmaster reduced to meeting Muggle-borns—Hogwarts must be short-staffed. Cauldrons and robes sold openly—yet cut off from Muggle commerce. Curious.
"Is that—an orc?" Hermione whispered.
The guards at the entrance glared down with long noses and sharp eyes.
Sherlock crouched, pinching one's pointed ear before darting safely behind Snape.
"They are goblins, Miss Granger, who thinks she knows everything," Snape snapped.
Hermione pouted. Nietzsche tugged her hand to keep her moving.
Past bronze and silver doors, a warning was carved deep: Take not what is not yours, or you will suffer the severest penalty…
Hermione frowned down at her clasped hand, heat in her cheeks. "You provoked him already? Our very first meeting, and he was furious."
"Don't mind him," Nietzsche shrugged. "He's always like that. My fathers nearly shot him when he first came."
"With—a gun?!"
"There was a murder case. He arrived in a black robe identical to a cultist's. What were we meant to think?"
"You always have excuses!" Hermione puffed her cheeks. "What if he expels you on the spot?!"
Nietzsche only lounged against his cane, lazily surveying the marble hall. Goblins clinked coins, weighed with brass scales.
Then he caught sight of a giant escorting a thin boy with round glasses through a side door.
Wait—I've seen that boy somewhere before…
"Nietzsche!!" Hermione's roar snapped him back.
"What is it, Miss Rule-Follower?" He met her chocolate eyes and smoothly carried on: "Yes, yes—you'll keep watch over me. Duly noted. Keep up the good work."
Hermione faltered, robbed of her words. He had already recited them. What could she say now?
"You're impossible."
"Next time, I won't help you!"
He coughed. "How about an ice cream later? Don't forget—Hogwarts doesn't expel students. They need wizards, or they risk imploding."
She huffed, but McGonagall's earlier warning returned to her mind. Her lips pressed thin, but she nodded.
"By the way," she said suddenly, narrowing her eyes, "you're not planning to bring a gun to school, are you?"
Nietzsche hesitated, hands resting on his cane.
"Of course not."
Of course, he wouldn't—unless Sherlock or Watson slipped one into his luggage.
"And when you fight—you're not using magic, are you?" She squeezed his thin arm, sceptical. "You couldn't beat three older boys otherwise."
"Congratulations, Hermione Granger. You've found the blind spot. I call it the Force."
"How?!"
He only smiled. "I won't tell. Even at Hogwarts, you won't surpass me. You were only ever top of the year until I transferred."
"Nie—tzsche!" Hermione sputtered. "No wonder you've no friends!"
Nietzsche froze. He turned stiffly, expression blank.
The heat in Hermione's chest drained. She stammered, fumbling—she hadn't meant it, not like that.
But Nietzsche only tilted his head, smiling faintly. "If I had friends, why would you pester me with rules every day?"
Her heart twisted, but his grin was merciless.
"Just kidding. I don't know either."
"Get lost."
"Alrighty."