Hermione, let's start a revolution from Hogwarts!

"So...can I not go?"

Professor McGonagall, who was originally full of confidence, did not hear the little girl excitedly shouting "I want to be a wizard," but instead heard a rejection.

"Why, darling? Don't you want to learn what I've shown you?"

“Actually, I don’t want to learn any magic.” Hermione thought of Nietzsche, and she mustered her courage, pouted, and whispered, “I want to go to the medical school where my parents graduated, become an excellent medical expert, and make some contributions to humanity.”

"I'm sorry, but if you don't continue your studies, your life may be in danger, and the magic power accumulated within you will erupt."

The Grangers fell silent.

They naturally knew their daughter's 'secret': once on her birthday, Hermione, who had been feeling down all day at school, returned home so excited that the entire living room floated up.

On that day, the Grangers experienced what it felt like to "roam in space".

"My parents can take me to the hospital!"

"First, Muggles don't know magic; second, Miss Granger, if Muggles discovered your magic, what would happen to you? Would you be hailed as a miracle by God, or as a heretic?"

Professor McGonagall spoke the cruelest truth in the gentlest and kindest voice.

Hermione wasn't unaware of this truth, but she was unwilling to face it. To avoid returning to the time when she was ostracized and labeled a "bookworm," she didn't even tell Nietzsche this secret...

No, no, it's perfectly normal not to tell him!

Hermione shook her head to herself, and under Professor McGonagall's gaze, continued to ask, "Can ordinary people also study there?"

"This feels so familiar," Professor McGonagall thought, feeling like she'd heard that phrase somewhere before.

"Why do you ask that? Is it because of your parents..."

Mrs. Granger raised her eyebrows slightly, looking at her daughter's flushed face, and laughed, "No, it's a friend she made at school... her only friend."

"mom!!"

Professor McGonagall's gaze changed.

From shock to curiosity, and then glancing at the mockery in Mrs. Granger's eyes, he finally understood.

No wonder it felt so familiar. McGonagall's thoughts drifted back to a summer more than ten years ago, when she had just become a professor and visited a girl's home in a Muggle village.

The girl was doing it for her sister, while Hermione was doing it for her friend.

"That's probably...unlikely, my dear. You should think of it this way: even if your Muggle friend goes to school with you, he'll only feel more lonely by himself among the wizards."

"It's alright, I'm here."

Hermione frowned slightly and answered her words of advice as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

At school, although only he was willing to talk to her, this bookworm, and discuss various topics, Hermione Granger felt a sense of mission after witnessing Nietzsche's inner world:

This person has some serious psychological issues.

So gradually, she told herself that she, Hermione Granger, was there so that Nietzsche wouldn't be expelled for hitting someone.

Although she sometimes felt that the people Nietzsche wanted to beat up deserved it.

"Ahem...child, how could you think like that?"

“It’s okay. He helped me when I was not a social person, so I think I can accept things like loneliness.”

However, in McGonagall's eyes, Hermione was the most abnormal one.

She patiently said, "But how do you know if he's willing to accept a wizard? How about this... next time I take you to Diagon Alley to buy school supplies, I'll take him along for a stroll, okay?"

Professor McGonagall only considered herself a genius.

Isn't this mild approach more reasonable than that school principal who does nothing and leaves everything to the vice-principal?

"Oh well."

Hermione couldn't think of any other good ideas, so she could only follow Professor McGonagall's suggestion.

After the professor left, her previously serious face finally fell, and she slumped onto the sofa dejectedly, hugging a plush pillow and wriggling around like an earthworm.

He exuded an aura of unease.

“Say something!” Mrs. Granger kicked her husband.

Mr. Granger, somewhat helpless, could only put down the newspaper for the time being and clear his throat.

"Hemien, try to look on the bright side. What if your friends can accept that you're a wizard? Besides... Nietzsche, whom you ramble about every day when you come home for dinner, doesn't seem like that kind of person."

“No, I just… I just…” Hermione said in a muffled voice, her legs tucked in and her face buried between her knees, “I just don’t really want to go to places I don’t know.”

"No matter what, we'll be able to see each other when we go shopping together in a few days."

Hermione didn't say anything, but listlessly ran upstairs with her arms hanging limply and locked herself in her room.

Mr. Granger suddenly slapped his thigh, as if he had just thought of something, and quickly pulled his wife away from the restaurant.

superman.

A word flashed through her mind.

During the heyday of superhero comics, Hermione had naturally seen Nietzsche frequently perusing them. On that afternoon, right after her exams, Hermione sat beside him, clutching a letter sent by an owl.

The girl, looking at the other person's comic book, nervously said, "Nietzsche, I mean, what if... what if we were Superman, what would you do?"

But his answer left a deep impression on Hermione.

'If we were Superman, you could become a greater medical doctor, while I could research more powerful weapons... machines.'

Unfortunately, just as Hermione began to have some dreams, reality knocked them down once again.

The thought that she couldn't keep an eye on Nietzsche, and that he would become even more unruly once he entered high school, made her hope that her next return wouldn't be to a prison or detention center in England.

So, she and Nietzsche were not friends at all!

More like enemies...

For several days in a row, Nietzsche didn't call her to go to the library to read, and Hermione could only stay at home, punching her pillow repeatedly.

Meanwhile, Nietzsche at 221 Baker Street was constantly being taught by Watson how not to be paralyzed by the recoil and received a crash course in combat from Holmes.

As a military doctor, Watson was extremely strict in this regard, but to keep Nietzsche from getting bored, he still commissioned retired Captain Philip to help him customize a cane of the same style, which was just a little shorter than his own.

“There’s a sword inside…capable of firing a 9mm round.” He suddenly turned to look at his fiancée. “Am I a little… neurotic, and perhaps a little bit manic?”

Mary didn't even bother to lift her head; she was constantly touching up her makeup in front of the mirror.

"Really?" She felt the firepower was too weak.

The thought of my little one, whom I've raised for ten years, running off to be among a bunch of wizards makes me a little anxious.

That's a wizard!

What do wizards represent...? So evil that they would poison apples.

“Just last year, you even thought it was dangerous for Sherlock’s father to fire a gun in the house.” Nietzsche greedily inhaled the gunpowder smell in the room. “And today, the vest you changed him into is a military bulletproof vest.”

Watson smacked him on the head and said resentfully, "But you'd rather tell the secret to Irene Adler than to us."

Holmes, standing to the side, took a puff of his cigarette, looking quite smug.

What he had in his hands was a personality analysis of Snape, along with a summary of the case.

"Watson, come with me to the Diogenes Club later, we're going to see someone."

"Uncle Mycroft?"

“Uncle… could you please not call me that so affectionately?” Sherlock glanced at his adopted son. “He only praised you a few times for your ‘keen intuition,’ and he said the same thing to Watson.”

"Dad, you just don't want to admit that Uncle Mycroft is smarter than you."

"Excellent! Extra training tonight!"

"Do not!!!"

Nietzsche looked at the weapons hanging all over his clothes; he had already reached his limit by walking from the door to the stairwell.

Nietzsche, the Superman, was crushed by the burdens of life before he even took his first step.

Chapter Six Diagon Alley

Snape's impression on the Holmes family was that of an uninvited guest.

Saturday is a public holiday in England, a time when most workers are legally allowed to rest.

While they had just gotten up and were preparing for a leisurely meal, he, dressed in his long black robe and sporting his thick, black hair, sat in the middle of the dining table like the master of the house.

Snape's hair was finally styled, and he looked down at Sherlock like a victorious rooster.

"Fortunately, we don't have to worry about extra oil in our breakfast; it's better to keep it light in the morning."

This was the first thing Sherlock Holmes said when he saw him sitting there.

Watson shook his head and covered his face with the newspaper. He didn't want to get involved in this kind of thing, especially since Sherlock's constitution always seemed to attract all sorts of trouble.

Nietzsche, on the other hand, quite enjoyed watching the rivalry between Sherlock and Snape.

"How about we take a car later?" Sherlock ignored the cold gaze and said as if no one else was there. "After all, a wizard's broom probably can't carry four people."

Hmph, let's give this snarling viper a little Muggle shock.

"A broom?" Snape thought he had misheard.

"Don't make that face. There are obvious friction marks on the robe on your buttocks. Of course... an arrogant wizard would never notice some splinters on his buttocks. Given some Muggle legends, it's not hard to deduce that."

"That's interesting. How about this?"

Snape lowered his head slightly and squinted.

He tapped his clothes with the small wooden stick, and they were instantly transformed. All the clues vanished in an instant, leaving Sherlock and Nietzsche with only endless question marks.

“Sherlock!” Watson warned. “We still need to go shopping later.”

"Indeed, this is not a good time."

But this time it was Snape's turn to bite back, and he said in a drawn-out tone, "But I insist on doing so."

Mary watched the scene with wide eyes and great interest. This familiar plot seemed to have happened when she first met Sherlock.

“He insists on doing so.” Sherlock shrugged.