Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts.

Chapter 474 The Elf Minister Sees Through

Chapter 474 The Elf Minister Sees Through
The velvet seats in the top-floor boxes of the Quidditch World Cup had a soft sheen, and outside the windows, the stadium lights gradually came on.

Just as Sherlock pointed out that it wasn't Dobby, the house-elf huddled in the corner peeked out from between his trembling fingers, looked at Harry, and said in a high-pitched voice:
"Sir...did the sir just call me Dobby?"

Just then, the house-elf overheard Sherlock and Harry's conversation, peeked at Harry through his fingers, and asked curiously.

Its voice was very high-pitched, so Harry secretly suspected that it was probably female—although it was difficult to tell the gender of a house-elf by appearance alone.

Upon hearing the conversation between the three, everyone else in the box turned around, their curious gazes all falling on Harry, Sherlock, and the little elf.

Oh, to be precise, it's two people and one elf.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Harry said sincerely to the house-elf, "I think of you as someone I used to know, whose name is Dobby."

"But I know Dobby too, sir!"

The little elf said in a shrill voice.

She still shielded her face with her hand, as if the light was so bright she couldn't open her eyes—even though the light in the top-floor VIP box wasn't strong.

"My name is Shan Shan, sir—sir, you—"

Before she finished speaking, her gaze inadvertently swept across Harry's forehead.

When she saw the lightning bolt-shaped scar, her deep brown eyes widened instantly, like two small plates of food being stretched open, filled with shock:
"I know! Sir, you must be Harry Potter!"

“Yes.” Harry nodded calmly; the series of events that had happened today had made him accustomed to this reaction.

"Oh dear! Dobby talks about you all the time, and that gentleman who can read minds!"

Shanshan's voice was filled with excitement, her hands trembled slightly, and the gaps between her fingers widened.

Upon hearing this, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh and ask, "Isn't Dobby at Hogwarts?"

"Oh my god! You must be the gentleman who can read people's minds!"

Sparkle took a deep breath, her eyes instantly filled with awe as she looked at Sherlock. She instinctively covered her face with her hands, as if afraid that Sherlock would see right through her thoughts.

"See through people's hearts? No, I don't have that ability."

Sherlock maintained his smile and casually changed the subject, "Let's talk about what Dobby, whom you mentioned earlier, is doing now?"

"It's still at Hogwarts."

Shining shook her head slightly, the worn linen rustling with the movement.

"Being watched by other little elves, it can't go back to its owner's house."

However, Flash seemed to think it didn't want to go back either, otherwise it would have been able to figure out a way.

"It's obvious that it's just going with the flow."

Sherlock turned to Harry, a knowing look in his eyes:

"See that, Harry?"

That's why I suggested you replace Sirius as commander of Kreacher.

Even if magical contracts force them to obey, they can always find a loophole if they want to.

"My God! Dobby was right, you really can see through people's hearts!"

Flash couldn't help but scream, and her body trembled slightly.

Sherlock didn't dwell on the topic, but instead changed the subject, his gaze falling on Shining's tense shoulders:
"So what are you doing here?"
It's obvious you're afraid of something.

"I...I have acrophobia—"

Flash glanced quickly at the edge of the private room, then gasped sharply, her voice filled with fear:
“But I will come as soon as the master sends me to the top-floor suite, sir.”

Upon hearing this, Sherlock looked at Hermione beside him.

Coincidentally, Hermione was also looking at him.

With Sherlock's help, her fear of heights has improved a lot.

But as she recalled those exercises to overcome her fear, her cheeks flushed involuntarily, and she quickly looked away.

"He knew you had a fear of heights, so why did he send you here?"

Harry frowned, his tone clearly showing his displeasure.

He didn't like people treating house-elves like that, especially a timid little guy like Sparky.

“Master—Master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter, he’s too busy.”

Shanshan turned her head to look at the row of empty velvet chairs beside her, her voice tinged with a hint of grievance:

"Shining wish I could go back to my master's tent, Harry Potter."

But Sparkle obeys its owner's commands; Sparkle is a very well-behaved house-elf.

After she finished speaking, she glanced fearfully at the edge of the private room, then quickly covered her eyes completely with her hands and curled up into a ball.

"This house-elf is really strange."

Ron leaned close to Harry's ear and whispered something, still fiddling with the panoramic telescope in his hand.

“If we’re talking about weirdness, Dobby and Kreacher are weirder than her.”

Harry couldn't help but frown, his gaze falling on the shimmering, trembling figure behind him. "I just wonder whose elf she is."

"Batty Crouch, Director of the International Department of Magical Cooperation."

"what?"

"You asked whose she is, didn't you? I've given you the answer. She's Mr. Crouch's little elf."

Sherlock explained calmly.

"My God! Sparkle didn't say anything—this gentleman really can read minds!"

Shining peeked her eyes out from between her fingers, her voice full of amazement.

By this time, the others in the box were already used to Sherlock's prophetic abilities, and even Bill and Charlie didn't ask him how he knew.

Only Mr. Weasley stroked his chin thoughtfully and said softly:

"So it was Barty... That certainly fits his style, always so meticulous, even sending a fairy to reserve a seat."

Let's stop talking about house-pocket creatures here.

Ron eagerly pulled out the panoramic telescope and began adjusting it.

He pointed the camera at the crowd on the other side of the stadium, fiddling with the replay knob on the side, and clicking his tongue in amazement:
"Great! I can make that old guy over there pick his nose again... pick it again... pick it again..."

"Please, Ron, you're disgusting!"

Ginny wrinkled her nose, glared at him with displeasure, and moved her body to the other side.

Hermione took out the competition manual with a tasseled velvet cover from her bag, gently ran her fingertips over the exquisite cover, and carefully flipped through it.

When she saw a certain line of text, her eyes suddenly lit up, and she looked up and read it aloud:

"Huh? There's a performance by the team mascot before the game starts!"

"Oh, that's always worth seeing."

Mr. Weasley put down his pumpkin juice, smiled, and said with a hint of nostalgia in his eyes.

"When I was a child, the thing I looked forward to most when watching the World Cup was the mascot performance."

Sirius nodded, then turned to Harry and explained:

"Each national team will bring rare magical animals from their country to perform here."

Come to think of it, I watched it once when I was a kid. It brings back so many memories!

As time went on, the best private room gradually filled up with people.

Mr. Weasley began shaking hands with people who were clearly high-ranking wizards.

This time, he did not introduce his children and Harry to them.

Harry was very grateful for this, as he really didn't want to be stared at on the forehead anymore. At Hermione's suggestion, Sherlock would occasionally whisper the identities and recent activities of these people.

Everyone except Ron and Percy listened with great interest.

Ron was completely absorbed in his binoculars, perhaps still keeping an eye on the old man picking his nose.

Percy hurriedly stood up with each guest as they arrived, his face plastered with a stiff smile.

It's no exaggeration to say that he was like sitting on the back of a porcupine covered in quills, and every time he stood up, his back was bent like a reed bent by the wind.

Especially when Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge arrived, Percy bowed so low that his horn-shaped glasses fell to the ground with a "thud," the lenses shattering instantly.

This embarrassed him greatly. He could only fix the lens with his wand and then sat there blankly.

He realized that Fudge hadn't noticed his disheveled state at all, and instead walked straight toward Sirius and Harry.

Sirius Black is fine, though.

Sir Merlin, a recipient of the Order of the British Empire, was also his elder, and had previously gifted him a panoramic telescope, so it was normal for him to be valued.

But what about Harry?

Percy secretly cast a complicated glance at Harry, his heart filled with resentment.

Despite her hard work and dedication during her internship at the Ministry of Magic, she never managed to win Fudge's favor.

Harry was able to easily gain the minister's attention simply because he was the "boy who survived".

With that in mind, Percy cast a complicated look at Harry.

Fudge walked up to Sirius and shook his hand warmly.

Then, like a father, he took Harry's hand and asked him about his recent situation.

They then pulled him over to a wizard in a magnificent robe and loudly introduced him: "Harry Potter, you know him!"

He turned to the wizard—whom everyone later learned was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic—and said excitedly:

"Harry Potter... oh, think about it!"
You definitely know who he is...

It's that boy who narrowly escaped death from the mysterious man...

So, you should know who he is now, right?

The Bulgarian shaman was wearing a black velvet robe with gold trim and jeweled buttons at the collar. He frowned, clearly not understanding a word of English, but simply smiled and nodded politely.

However, Fudge's efforts were not in vain.

The next second, his gaze fell on the scar on Harry's forehead, and his eyes lit up.

He excitedly pointed to the lightning-shaped scar, muttering a long string of Bulgarian words, his voice brimming with excitement.

"I knew it, he would eventually understand."

Fudge breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to Harry and smiled wryly:
“I’m really not good with languages, so when I encounter this kind of situation, I need Batty Crouch.”

Ah, I saw his house-elf had saved him a seat.

I must say, he was very thoughtful.

Those Bulgarians always try to snag the best seats.

Just then, Sherlock suddenly chuckled softly.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the slightly noisy private room.

"Holmes, right? What are you laughing at?"

Fudge immediately turned to look at Sherlock, his tone tinged with displeasure.

Even now, he still refuses to believe that it was Sherlock who discovered the truth about Sirius being framed a year ago.

He stubbornly believed that this was a deliberate arrangement by Dumbledore to cultivate his favorite protégé.

After all, Dumbledore has always done so for so many years.

Hermione suddenly seemed to remember something and quickly asked:

"Sherlock, do you speak Bulgarian?"

Everyone immediately looked towards Sherlock.

Fudge's eyes lit up as well.

If this little boy knew Bulgaria, he could actually be put to some use—he should feel honored to serve the Minister of Magic.

However, he thought it was somewhat unlikely.

After all, Bulgarian is a relatively uncommon language.

Sure enough, Sherlock shook his head:

“My dear Hermione, I didn’t lie to you last time. Bulgarian is not among the languages I know.”

"I knew it!"

Fudge sighed, about to say something more, when Sherlock suddenly changed the subject:
"But that doesn't mean we can't communicate with this gentleman—am I right, sir?"

As he spoke, he looked toward the Bulgarian wizard.

"Sherlock, what are you saying? He doesn't understand English."

At this point, Mr. Weasley spoke up, "Otherwise, it wouldn't have been so difficult for Connelly to communicate with him."

No, he speaks English.

Sherlock's tone remained calm, yet carried an undeniable certainty.

"what?"

Everyone looked at the Bulgarian Minister of Magic in surprise, only to see him with a blank expression, as if he did not understand what had happened.

“Holmes, this joke isn’t funny.” Fudge frowned, his displeasure growing.

“I’m not joking, Your Excellency Minister.”

Sherlock met Fudge's gaze and calmly said:

"This gentleman not only speaks English, but he also found your gesturing here just now... well, how should I put it... very interesting."

"How could..."

Before Fudge could finish speaking, the Bulgarian Minister of Magic suddenly spoke up, his clear, impeccable London accent ringing out:

"Interesting little wizard, what should I call you? Hurdle Holmes?"

"It's Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock corrected him, then extended his hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Obalonsk."

The Bulgarian minister grasped Sherlock's hand, his bewilderment vanished, replaced by a keenly interested smile.

Fudge didn't realize what was happening until the two had finished shaking hands.