"Damn it, why hasn't she gone home yet?"
That was Nietzsche's first thought upon spotting Hermione.
"Hm… middle-class upbringing, and clearly at odds with Nietzsche."
That was Sherlock's first observation.
As a long-term consulting detective for Scotland Yard and a friend of Inspector Lestrade, he had already read the truth in the bruises and grazes on Nietzsche's knuckles.
He was used to such things, too lazy to expose them in front of Watson.
Children raised in the Holmes household—well, it was hardly surprising if they turned out a little… peculiar.
"Is this your classmate? A friend?" Sherlock cast an appraising glance. "Let me guess—this must be the 'only friend you have at school' that John mentioned?"
Hermione flushed under his scrutiny.
This was Nietzsche's father?
Yes! Absolutely! That blunt, unflinching appraisal—father and son were clearly cut from the same cloth.
"No!"
"Friend? Hardly!"
Eleven-year-old Nietzsche and almost twelve-year-old Hermione denied it almost in unison.
"I'm his father. May I ask who he hit at school today?" Sherlock's expression broke into a genial smile as he ruffled the boy's hair. "My apologies. His last transfer was due to something rather similar."
Nietzsche looked as though he had seen a ghost.
His adoptive father's smile was worthy of an Oscar.
Karma had arrived—and Sherlock Holmes never came out the loser.
Hermione's eyes widened further. She stared at Nietzsche in disbelief. "Didn't you say you were standing up bravely, and the police arranged your transfer because they were worried about revenge?"
"That's right…"
"Liar!"
"Inspector Lestrade arranged it, so it's practically the same," Nietzsche muttered, regaining an unnatural calm. "I just gave a fat bully what he deserved."
Sherlock, hands in pockets, interjected, "Not one. Several."
The boy stamped on his father's foot and marched off.
Hermione, however, didn't leave. She hurried after him, clutching her books, lecturing on "school rules" and "moral standards."
Nietzsche stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Headmaster's office.
"Why are you following me?"
Hermione faltered, her cheeks colouring.
Her freckles were more noticeable now against the flush of red. Looking at her plain, make-up free face, Nietzsche felt a flicker of… something.
She stammered, unable to string a sentence together.
"Go on in, Miss Rule-Follower… I hope this time you manage not to get expelled before finishing primary school."
"Think it over carefully!"
Holmes, pipe in mouth, glanced at the long shadows along the corridor and raised an eyebrow. Without wiping the soot from his face, he pushed open the office door.
The private school's headmaster's office was lined with medals and trophies. Behind the desk hung photographs with distinguished figures, and in a corner, framed pictures with benefactors.
Nietzsche and Sherlock thought the same thing: a man who prized authority and reputation.
"Nietzsche John Holmes… then you must be his father. Please, do sit." The Headmaster's face tightened as he took in Sherlock's dishevelled clothes beside his own suit.
He didn't realise that Sherlock was quietly analysing his every gesture.
"Your son's academic performance is excellent. But his temperament is… individualistic. A few days ago, he injured three boys—one with a broken nose, the other two with cracked ribs and a dislocated knee."
"This morning I received three complaints from parents. By school policy, I should expel him."
Hermione's breathing quickened.
Nietzsche noticed the edge of the book in her hand crumpling beneath her grip.
"Headmaster! You said…" Hermione managed in a tiny voice.
"You said 'should be expelled.'"
Nietzsche addressed the Headmaster, but his words were meant for her.
Was it because the school year was nearly finished? Or because expelling him now would risk offending Lestrade? He weighed each possibility.
Sherlock remained silent, chewing on his unlit pipe, eyes distant as if replaying a murder case.
The Headmaster sighed inwardly.
Problematic father and son.
"You say you witnessed the three engaging in bullying, and intervened. But they deny it. When staff found them unconscious afterwards, none admitted to targeting you." He adjusted his glasses and turned pages.
This clever but troublesome pupil had apparently lured three classmates into a corner without surveillance and beaten them. They woke in hospital, baffled, claiming trauma without cause.
"Yes, strictly, you should be expelled. But—this girl has come forward as your witness."
Nietzsche reeled. He had planned for everything, except this: Hermione, who constantly opposed him, standing in his defence.
At school, Nietzsche had his own unspoken code. But Hermione, fellow bookworm, always challenged him: you can't do this, you mustn't do that.
Nietzsche had nicknamed her "Miss Rule-Follower." She, in turn, had secretly dubbed him "Mr Always Right."
"Hermione?" Nietzsche asked, incredulous. "Her?"
"Miss Granger says she too was mocked and bullied by those three. Therefore, Mr Holmes, your son will not be expelled. But he must undergo a psychological evaluation."
Unexpected. After they left, Nietzsche saw Hermione dash off towards the end of the corridor. Her parents emerged, embracing her. Mr Granger nodded politely to Nietzsche, doffing his hat.
Sherlock clapped his hands.
"To celebrate your reprieve, let's have dinner out. Isn't it curious, your 'arch-nemesis' helping you?"
"Not really. Given Aunt Irene's precedent with you."
As they reached the school gate, Nietzsche heard a muffled laugh.
"Aunt Irene may fancy you, but what's between me and her is another matter. Call it a miracle of life! Living isn't just rational calculation!"
"I didn't say anything… Royal Restaurant tonight?"
"Fine. Just don't tell Watson."
"If he doesn't work it out."
…
In the car, Hermione gazed out at the scenery, oddly content.
"That boy—was he the one who helped you when those three cornered you last term?" asked Mr Granger.
"I don't agree with his methods. Violence is wrong!" Hermione retorted, pouting. "And I wasn't helping him. It's just… it's just…"
Mr and Mrs Granger exchanged amused glances.
Their daughter hadn't been this spirited in a long while. Even if she constantly ridiculed Nietzsche at home, at least she wasn't retreating entirely into books anymore.
Hermione too had her escapes—hiding in the pages of novels.
Mr Granger finished her sentence gently: "It's just that you felt his actions, however wrong, were still unappreciated?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes. His methods were wrong, but he still stood up for others, and they repaid him with spite. If I hadn't spoken for him, how would I be different from them?!"
"Nietzsche is always reckless, like he's drunk, never caring about school rules."
Well, whatever.
She'd found his weakness at last.
Next time he tried to out-argue her with philosophy, she would simply say: I'm your saviour!
Shameless, but effective.
As she swung her legs, lost in the thought, Mrs Granger produced an ornate envelope from her bag—also addressed to Hogwarts.
Its contents, apart from the name, matched Nietzsche's exactly.
"Hogwarts… School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?!"
Something stirred deep within her, leaving Hermione suddenly anxious and uneasy.