In Norwich, a coastal city in eastern Britain, Nelson was humming a little tune, holding a can of beer, and walking unsteadily towards his home.
The sky had turned completely dark, but he had no need to worry about being scolded by a wife for coming home late.
Because Nelson was a bachelor; at thirty-six, he was still unmarried.
The reason he couldn't find a wife was actually quite simple: he just didn't have any money.
Nelson had once experienced a period of glory. When he was young, he had seized an opportunity during the worst of Britain's economic downturn and made a small fortune by reselling auto parts.
At that time, he even fantasised that perhaps after he became rich, he could marry Marisa, the prettiest girl in his hometown.
Then, he became addicted to gambling.
Overnight, he gambled away his entire fortune and ended up with a mountain of debt.
Naturally, he began living a destitute life, but he never kicked his gambling addiction. Whenever he had even a little money, his first thought was still to rush into the casino and win back everything he had lost.
But he had been trying for over a decade, and he had never seen any hope of winning it back.
Not even once.
Nelson downed the rest of his beer in one go, then looked up at the pitch-black night sky. He felt as if the sky today was like a black cauldron inverted over him, dark enough to be chilling.
A cold wind blew over him, sobering him up slightly, and he wrapped his thin jacket tighter around himself.
He peered around with unfocused eyes, feeling as if some strange thing was quietly following him. His pace began to quicken as he hurried towards his dilapidated house.
But that feeling of unease not only failed to disappear, it grew stronger and stronger until it completely consumed his heart.
Everything around him seemed to vanish!
The entire world turned completely black; it was pitch dark everywhere, leaving only him, all alone.
Fear had completely engulfed him, and Nelson cried out in panic.
"What's going on! What's happening!"
No one responded, because something had appeared silently before him.
Nelson's face froze in that expression of terror, and he fell to the ground, slowly and heavily.
"What's going on!" a raspy voice suddenly rang out. "What's happening!"
It mimicked the dead man's final words as it gradually faded away, leaving only a withered yellow straw on the ground.
Everything returned to normal; in the narrow alleyway, no one had witnessed this scene.
After a long while, a sonic boom like a whip cracking through the air suddenly rang out. Two Aurors wearing the standard-issue robes of the British Ministry of Magic appeared beside Nelson's body.
Kingsley knelt down, frowning as he checked Nelson's condition.
"Just like the previous two cases, his soul has been consumed, but his body is still alive."
His companion was a burly Wizard named Williamson.
"Did the Dementors do this again? Ever since Black escaped from that island, they've been granted the authority to leave and hunt."
Kingsley tapped Nelson's body lightly with his wand.
"It certainly seems so. In the Wizarding World, nothing else can achieve this level of destruction besides the Dementor's Kiss."
"Shouldn't we report this matter more urgently? This is already the third incident!" Williamson said irritably.
"The Ministry of Magic won't pay attention. The pressing matter right now is that Black has escaped. Harry Potter's safety is the top priority; even Minister Fudge has been having a headache over this."
Kingsley stood up, shaking his head and sighing.
"Forget it, let's report it again. I hope the Ministry of Magic can keep those Dementors in check."
"Wait, what's that?"
They looked in the direction Williamson was pointing, only to find it was just an ordinary piece of straw.
"Stop being so jumpy. The Dementors wouldn't dare attack us. Let's hurry back and report this."
The two Aurors used Apparition to leave, leaving behind Nelson's living-dead body lying quietly on the ground. A gentle breeze blew by, carrying the straw far away.
When Sherlock brought Harry back to Devonshire, it was already July 29th.
They had flown all the way in the flying car, and except for a few times they landed to refuel, they had been in flight the entire time.
Harry, having snapped out of his daze after obtaining results completely different from previous tests, asked Sherlock why they were suddenly in such a rush to return.
"The Ministry of Magic sent me a letter stating that a criminal has escaped from Azkaban."
Sherlock's expression was grave, while Harry looked bewildered.
"What does that have to do with us going back?"
"The escaped criminal's name is Sirius Black, a former loyal follower of You-Know-Who. Some time ago, people heard him constantly muttering 'Hogwarts' in that prison. The Ministry of Magic speculates that he escaped to kill you and avenge his master."
Harry finally understood the whole situation. He didn't show any signs of fear but muttered,
"Then why must we go back? Wouldn't it be safer to wait abroad until he's caught again before returning to Britain?"
Sherlock told him sternly,
"Do you know why Dumbledore insists on you staying at your aunt's house?"
"Why?" Harry had been pondering this question as well.
"Because only there are you safest. The protective magic your mother gave you requires you to stay with your blood relatives."
Sherlock told him what he had learned from Dumbledore, soothing Harry's mood.
Having spent two happy weeks travelling with Sherlock, Harry felt an instinctive loathing towards returning to the Dursley residence.
Sherlock noticed this emotion, but he had to send Harry back.
Hearing what Sherlock said, although Harry was still very reluctant, he didn't show any resistance afterwards.
He knew that staying obediently and safely at the Dursley residence was not only avoiding trouble for himself but also avoiding causing trouble for others.
Sherlock looked at the silent Harry and couldn't help but smile.
"I remember that in two days, it will be your birthday?"
Harry said dully,
"There is no birthday. I have never celebrated a birthday at Aunt Petunia's house."
"Then how about I bring a gift and visit your aunt's house to congratulate you this year?"
"They won't welcome you; they might even kick you out."
"Then come to my house on your birthday. It's only two streets away, anyway. You can go back after your birthday is over."
Hearing him say this, light finally lit up in Harry's eyes.
"Can I stay at your house for a few days?"
He felt that since Sherlock's jinx had already failed, he didn't need to be so fearful anymore and could fully rest assured staying at Sherlock's house.
Sherlock didn't refuse, but reminded him,
"My house doesn't have anything fun; even if you come over, it will be very boring."
"Nothing could be worse than life at Aunt Petunia's house," Harry said firmly.
His mood improved again, and for the first time in his life, he was actually looking forward to his birthday.
They arrived at Privet Drive in the evening.
Sherlock dropped Harry off at the Dursley residence; Petunia and Vernon didn't show him any pleasant faces, not even offering a polite, "Would you like to come in and sit down?"
But Sherlock didn't care whether they offered that politeness or not.
Afterwards, he didn't return home immediately but found the car rental company and bought the Ford he had rented.
The car had been modified into a magical vehicle, and returning it would likely cause a huge mess, so Sherlock simply bought it; he might even use it in the future.
After resting at home for the night, early the next morning, he used Apparition to arrive at Diagon Alley.
Most of the shops there had just opened. Sherlock walked straight into Gringotts and withdrew a large sum of money from his vault.
Then he headed directly to Ollivanders.
The summer holiday was undoubtedly the busy season for Ollivanders; the young witches and wizards preparing to start school would all come to purchase their first wand.
This was not only because the craftsmanship of the wands was extremely excellent.
More importantly, Ollivander was the only wandmaker in the entire British Wizarding World.(TN: I refuse to believe that. He may be the most prominent one.)
On summer mornings, Ollivander would deliberately open the shop half an hour earlier than usual to prepare for the new students.
But the first person to enter his shop today was a handsome young man.
"You are..." Ollivander looked at Sherlock, who had walked through the door, and asked hesitantly.
Sherlock shrugged.
"Do you sell anything other than wands in this shop?"
"Was your original wand accidentally damaged?" Ollivander frowned slightly; he was very sensitive to adult Wizards coming into his shop to buy a second wand.
Sherlock said vaguely,
"Something like that."
At that moment, a measuring tape suddenly wound around him as agilely as a snake, measuring various parts of his body.
"Name? And when did you enroll at Hogwarts?" Ollivander asked, pulling out a thick notebook.
Sherlock spread his arms to make the measurements easier.
"Sherlock Cavendish, enrolled at Hogwarts in 1982."
With the information provided by Sherlock, Ollivander quickly found his data from that year.
"The first wand you bought from me was ebony, dragon heartstring, twelve inches. Would you like one with the same specifications?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"I want to choose a new combination."
Ollivander nodded.
"That's true. People change, but wands don't, so sometimes Wizards at different stages of their lives are chosen by different wands."
As he spoke, he walked to the shelves filled with wand boxes and pulled one out.
"Come, try this. Pine with dragon heartstring, nine inches, a combination that should suit you well."
Sherlock took it from him, waved it, and cast a spell.
"Lumos."
The light shone from the tip of the wand, but it seemed to take a little longer than expected.
"Oh, it looks like this combination doesn't suit you very well." Ollivander shook his head and took the wand back.
Sherlock nodded.
"It does feel a bit blocked when using it; it's not very smooth."
"What about this one? Redwood with phoenix feather, eleven inches. This is a popular seller; Wizards often come to my shop asking whether I have any redwood wands. They always feel that wands made of this wood bring good luck."
Sherlock used the Lumos Charm again, but was still not satisfied.
"Not quite right. I always feel like something is missing when I use it."
Ollivander continued searching the shelves, then muttered to himself as he pulled out another wand.
"Laurel wood, dragon heartstring, fourteen inches. Come, try this. This is the most loyal type of wand. If someone tries to steal a wand made of laurel wood, it will release a lightning strike to repel the thief."
Sherlock held the wand in his hand. This time, even before using magic, he could already feel its compatibility.
"Lumos."
Another Lumos Charm, and the spell was cast incredibly smoothly, without any sense of sluggishness.
Seeing that the wand was a perfect match for Sherlock, Ollivander nodded in satisfaction.
"It seems you have experienced a great deal; a very different kind of wand has chosen you."
Sherlock spun the laurel wood wand between his fingers for a while, silver light dancing at his fingertips. He was also very satisfied with the new wand.
"How many Galleons for this wand?"
"Nine Galleons."
The Ollivander family could be considered a conscientious business. They monopolised the wand industry in the British Wizarding World but didn't raise wand prices excessively.(TN: No hate, but imagine if it was in the US. Prices would probably be like 100 galleons.)
Although there were undoubtedly Ministry regulations affecting pricing, less than ten Galleons for a wand was indeed quite affordable.
Sherlock readily took out a heavy money pouch that had been enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm.
"Good. Give me one hundred of them!"
Ollivander nodded and was just about to take the money when he realised what Sherlock had said.
He opened his mouth, wondering if he had heard correctly.
"How many do you want?"
Sherlock held up one finger and repeated himself.
"One hundred for now. Maybe I'll want another hundred later. The materials must be exactly the same as the one in my hand, and even the length cannot differ."(TN: Wth?)
Ollivander stared blankly at Sherlock as though looking at a lunatic.
"I remember reading a report about you in the Daily Prophet some time ago. Aren't you the current Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts?"
Sherlock nodded.
"That's right."
"Then what do you need so many wands for? Are you planning to buy them wholesale from me and then resell them second-hand somewhere in the Wizarding World?" Ollivander asked suspiciously.
Sherlock waved a hand.
"I don't have that kind of free time. I just want to buy them for my own use. One hundred wands. Just tell me whether you're selling them or not. If not, I'll go to France and ask another wandmaker if they'll take the order."