Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts.

Chapter 544 The Secret of Hibiscus Delacour

As is well known, Sherlock Holmes is a restless person at heart.

For him, being forced to sit still and have his thoughts stagnate was more terrifying than facing the most dangerous criminals.

That means the brain, this sophisticated instrument, is rusting, a complete waste of talent.

That's why Bogut reacted that way when he saw him.

And so, in the summer of 1991 in London, when the humid wind, carrying the moisture from the Thames, swept over the windowsills of Baker Street, he was almost driven to a corner by the pervasive boredom.

At that time, the Queen's government was making every effort to clear obstacles in order to open the door to the European Union, and the shadows on the streets of London were being dispelled one by one.

Those criminals who were used to causing trouble in the dark retreated into their burrows like wild rats that had smelled a shotgun, leaving not a trace of chaos for him to deduce.

Just as Sherlock was about to snap the violin string with his fingertips, lamenting the lack of initiative from London's criminals.

An owl, its feathers glistening with morning dew, broke through the summer heat and fluttered down to land in front of his window.

The Hogwarts acceptance letter, sealed with a wax seal, was like a key that suddenly unlocked the door to a new world.

From then on, his life was filled with the chanting of spells and the whooshing of flying brooms, and there was no longer a trace of emptiness.

Time flew by and it was 1994 when the European Union was officially established, finally bringing a reward to the Queen's government's early efforts.

This wave from the Muggle world also quietly seeped into the magical world, leading to the restart of the Triwizard Tournament.

But for Sherlock, this was the first time he broke free from Harry Potter and stepped into the center of the storm as an independent individual.

This was already hinted at a year ago in a conversation with Mycroft, and now it has come true.

Four years have passed, but Sherlock's keenness and restlessness remain undiminished.

So when Sherlock, who was discussing Peeves with Filch, noticed a burst of suppressed laughter and commotion coming from the direction of the hallway, he immediately raised an eyebrow and a hint of interest flashed in his gray eyes.

Before Filch could finish speaking, he turned and quickly walked towards the sound.

Filch was left standing there, completely bewildered.

As he walked through the corridor to his destination, the sight before him made him pause slightly.

Both sides that sparked the riot had some connection to him.

Ronald Weasley, one of his few close friends at school.

Fleur Delacour, the French witch from Beauxbatons who has confirmed that she knows herself.

By now, Sherlock had figured out most of Fleur's background, and even had a preliminary idea of ​​why she looked at him with that familiar gaze.

But seeing this scene before him, he still shook his head silently.

His gaze swept over the crowd of onlookers. He saw several Ravenclaw students covering their mouths and snickering, Hufflepuff boys whispering and jeering, and several Gryffindor girls giving Ron a thumbs-up.

Almost instantly, he had pieced together the cause and effect.

It's nothing more than Ron losing control of himself and running over to invite Fleur to be his dance partner.

The result was, naturally, a clean and decisive rejection.

No, it's even more embarrassing than being rejected.

Because at this moment, Fleur was looking at Ron with the eyes of someone looking at a nobody, and she didn't bother to answer his question at all.

As for the commotion that Sherlock just experienced, it was the onlookers jeering.

"Weasley, wake up!"

"That's right, you're really great!"

"As expected of someone from our Gryffindor, they really haven't let us down!"

It may seem like they're fanning the flames, but it's actually a form of support.

After all, Ron is a Hogwarts student, and his courage to speak up in front of Fleur, who is the center of attention, is enough to make everyone want to join in the fun and create a spectacle.

Unfortunately, Fleur Delacour was never one to be swayed by the opinions of others.

That aloofness, like an ice shell, shut out all the jeers.

The way they looked at you like you were nothing was enough to make you feel unapproachable.

In the end, Ron's courage vanished, and he covered his face and fled in panic.

He didn't even notice Sherlock when they passed each other.

Sherlock did not stop them, but turned his gaze to Fleur and Cedric, who was trying to smooth things over beside her.

Cedric seemed to notice something, turned around and saw Sherlock, and couldn't help but show a bit of embarrassment on his face.

He knew very well that Ron and Sherlock were good friends.

But Ron's arrival was really untimely.

Furong was inviting him to be her dance partner, and he impulsively rushed forward, rashly asking Furong to be his dance partner.

As far as he knew, Ron had absolutely no connection with Fleur before.

While he admired Ron's bravery, he also found himself at a loss for words.

Taking in the subtle expressions of the two men, Sherlock spoke softly to the air:

"interesting."

After parting ways with Cedric, Fleur Delacour declined invitations from fellow students and left Hogwarts Castle alone.

Despite always saying that Hogwarts is not as good as Beauxbatons, she found herself unknowingly at the Black Lake.

This is a place where she can think independently and clarify her thoughts.

Although she had just extended an invitation to Cedric Diggory to join her group at the ball, her mind was in turmoil, as if countless strings were being pulled back and forth.

In truth, her ideal partner was not Cedric.

Sherlock Holmes is the first choice.

If Sherlock agrees, it will undoubtedly increase her chances of contacting him, making it much easier for her to complete her next task.

But after careful consideration, she dismissed the idea.

Firstly, she wasn't entirely confident she could persuade Sherlock to agree.

She knew very well that her charm had no effect on the little boy.

Secondly, she was afraid that the other party would see through her intentions.

Although given his abilities, it was only a matter of time before things continued like this, but...

“That’s obvious, Miss Delacour.”

Just as she was pondering, a cool and slightly mocking voice suddenly rang in her ears, startling Furong.

She suddenly came to her senses and realized that she had unknowingly walked quite a distance.

The afternoon sun shone through the clouds onto the lake, casting shimmering golden light.

The edge of the forbidden forest in the distance was quiet, with only the rustling of the wind through the trees.

Just a few steps in front of her, Sherlock was leaning against an old oak tree, looking at her with a half-smile.

She was all too familiar with that look in her eyes.

Because that person often looks like this when they see through everything.

"Holmes?"

Furong's heart tightened at first, her pupils contracted slightly, but she immediately forced herself to calm down.

She immediately adopted a cold, aloof expression, deliberately making her voice sound indifferent, "What are you doing here?"

“Using a preemptive strike to cover up one’s guilty conscience is a common tactic, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Sherlock said, slowly straightening up from beside the tree and walking step by step to her.

His height is considered tall for a boy his age, but Furong is already tall, almost as tall as Gemma.

Even with his eyes slightly lowered, he was still a head taller than Sherlock.

Sherlock slightly raised his chin, his gray eyes meeting her blue eyes directly.

"I don't understand what you're talking about," Furong said stiffly, but her fingertips secretly tightened their grip on the hem of her skirt.

"Ah, yes, of course, I haven't told you yet."

"What are you talking about?" Furong appeared calm as a rock, but in reality, she was panicking.

“I’m saying—” Sherlock’s sarcasm deepened, “that guy still won’t give up?”

Furong's breath hitched, and her face paled instantly.

"Mr. Holmes, if there's nothing else, I'll be going now."

Just as she turned around, Sherlock said calmly:
"Ha, so in order to spy on me, that guy Mycroft has actually set his sights on international friends?"

Boom!

These words struck Furong like a thunderclap from a clear sky, exploding in her mind.

She suddenly stopped in her tracks, her body freezing involuntarily.

Those beautiful blue eyes widened instantly, filled with disbelief.

The cold mask she had been trying so hard to maintain cracked open with a snap, and undisguised astonishment spilled out from the gap.

My heart was pounding wildly in my chest, almost bursting out of my ribcage.

impossible!
Absolutely impossible!
Mycroft!

How did he know that name?
No, Sherlock certainly knew—that was his own brother!

But she never mentioned that name to Sherlock, not even the slightest hint!
How could he so accurately pinpoint the person hiding behind the scenes?

But he's only fourteen years old. How can he be as good as his older brother who is seven years older than him?
From the moment he spoke to Fleur, Sherlock's grey eyes did not miss a single expression on her face.

So her fleeting shock was captured perfectly at that moment.

The knowing smile on his lips deepened, and the mocking expression on his face intensified.

“No need to be so surprised, Miss Delacour.”

Sherlock's voice was calm and clear as he began to state a fact that seemed obvious to him:
"Excuse me for being frank, but your surprise itself is the best answer."

The moment he spoke, an invisible pressure spread out like ripples:
"How about we start from the beginning and start from there?"

His gaze suddenly sharpened, making even the usually proud and confident Furong不敢对视 him:
“From the first time you met me.”

You overestimate yourself and underestimate me.

You seem to be talking to my friend Ron, but you've been targeting me from the start.

The way you look at me isn't the way you look at a stranger.

A sense of scrutiny, curiosity, and a subtle, almost imperceptible feeling of familiarity.

This is very unusual.

For a young lady from Beauxbatons, France, who theoretically had no connection with Hogwarts students, this unusualness itself was a clue.

Furong bit her lower lip, forcing herself not to look into his all-knowing eyes, and forcefully suppressed the question that was about to slip out.

Sherlock's gaze swept over her sleeves and accessories.

"Look at you, your clothes and appearance are full of French flavor, but it seems that there is also something else mixed in."

For example, a sharper edge, mixed in a somewhat abrupt way.

But your silent rejection of my friend Ron just now suddenly woke me up.

That silent rejection, that indifference that spared not a single word, was so much like the instinctive reaction of someone accustomed to being the center of attention to an inappropriate invitation.

Like a famous diva accustomed to the stage lights, when faced with an inappropriate shout from a corner of the audience, she can only express her rejection with a slight tilt of her chin.

This perfectly suits your current identity—a warrior representing Beauxbatons, a rightful and universally admired figure.

Your elegance naturally carries a sense of entitlement, a quality that commands respect.

Hibiscus's face turned pale. She wanted to deny it, but she found herself unable to utter any effective rebuttal under the gaze of those eyes.

"This brings me to my family."

My family visited France when we were children.

That memory, though distant, truly exists.

You might not believe it, but I never forget anyone I've ever met—and even if I do forget, it's intentional.

Sherlock didn't explain his memory attic, but continued calmly:
But I have absolutely no memory of you.

So, assuming I've already deduced that you know me, there's only one possibility left.

You, or rather your family, met and interacted with my parents and brothers during that period.

At this point, Sherlock's eyes became increasingly sharp, and his sarcasm became more and more obvious:

"So, when you came to Hogwarts as Beauxbatons' representative, a place I happened to be in."

Mycroft Holmes, how could that fellow possibly let this opportunity slip by?

Furong's breathing became somewhat rapid, and her fingers, placed at her sides, curled slightly.

This is Sherlock Holmes!
That person's younger brother!

Just like his brother, once they met, he could ruthlessly peel back his secrets layer by layer.

The wind by the lake seemed to have stopped, and even the rustling sound disappeared.

Furong stood frozen in place, her face pale and her lips trembling slightly.

Sherlock's every word was like a small hammer, precisely striking the truth she was trying to hide, shattering her carefully constructed defenses.

Her lips moved, but she found that all her rebuttals seemed so pale and powerless.

Because he guessed everything correctly, especially the moment when Mycroft's name was called out, her uncontrollable momentary loss of composure was the best proof of her innocence.

She had expected to be found out, but she still hadn't anticipated that time would pass so quickly.

They didn't even make it through this year.

Thinking back to the confident promises she made to Mycroft before coming to the school, she now felt utterly ridiculous.

Sherlock watched her utterly defeated reaction, a mocking and slightly impatient smile curving his lips.

"So, Miss Delacour."

His voice was soft, yet it struck Furong's ears like a nail:

"Next time you contact that guy hiding in that cozy office, please pass on a message for me:"
If he's really that interested in my interesting school life, he might as well come to Hogwarts for himself.

Buy a ticket for the Hogwarts Express and experience the Sorting Ceremony.

I'm tired of this charade of always ordering others around.

Having said that, Sherlock stopped looking at Fleur's distraught appearance, turned around, and strode off toward the castle.

His black robe swept across the fallen leaves in the wind, leaving a crisp sound of footsteps.

(End of this chapter)