Hermione, let's start a revolution from Hogwarts!

Never mind, things will work themselves out. I'll just sleep it off and see what happens!

(How could Quirrell die? How could a good person like the fox just casually throw a dagger at someone like that?)

Chapter Seventy-Six: Harry, the Fox Borrowing the Tiger's Power

“If I remember correctly, you’re not the kind of person who likes pressed flowers,” Hermione said, holding her book without looking up.

The girl's body swayed slightly with the rumble of the train, and the summer sun made her brown hair turn orange, like the orange-flavored Ramune soda sold on the street.

After a series of events, Hermione was much more composed than when she first entered the school.

"I secretly took this 'Flower Care Manual' from Quirrell's office. It has strict instructions for potted plants and plant specimens... However, the owner of this book is not Quirrell."

Nietzsche tilted the book slightly, revealing his grey-blue eyes.

“Let me see… Moriarty…” He turned the book over to Hermione, as if showing off his new discovery, “Maybe this is Quirrell’s Muggle friend.”

Hermione nodded noncommittally, offering no further response.

The train stopped at King's Cross Station before dinner. Hermione and Nietzsche changed out of their wizard robes in the carriage and corridor, respectively, and put on cool short-sleeved shirts and blouses again. To Hermione's surprise, she saw her parents this time.

Mrs. Granger and Watson were discussing medical matters, while Mr. Granger and Sherlock were observing the wizards around them.

"They're coming down!" Mrs. Granger was the first to notice the two little ones carrying luggage.

Hermione forced a smile, took her usual running start, and leaped into Mrs. Granger's arms, wrapping her arms around her mother's waist... This made Mrs. Granger grin from ear to ear, and she ruffled the fluffy ball of fur.

She certainly missed her mother, especially when she was at St. Mungo's Hospital.

"How's it going at school?" Mr. Granger sensed something was amiss instinctively, but he couldn't be sure.

Hermione carried her own luggage, took his hand, and said, "Everything is fine."

She shook her head almost imperceptibly at Nietzsche, signaling him not to tell her what they had experienced.

This time, there was an extra guard on the partition wall between the entrance and exit, but he didn't seem to realize that the two families were Muggles. He just kept giving orders to a maximum of three people at a time.

“Relax, even if he knows we're not wizards, there's nothing he can do.” Sherlock gentlemanly stepped aside. “Shall we go ahead, you two?”

This tactic worked well on Mrs. Granger, because she stepped on her husband's foot.

Mr. Granger felt a little aggrieved, so he stepped forward and quickly took off his wife's sweater, also putting on a gentlemanly act.

“Look, Watson, I’ve said it before… marriage is a tomb.” Sherlock watched the Grangers walk past the load-bearing wall before reverting to his usual smug expression. “I can already see your boring, pathetic future.”

They're back, they're all back. Nietzsche was so moved.

The Sherlock he knew spoke the most outrageous words in the calmest tone.

“I think Mr. Granger is enjoying himself quite a bit.” Watson grabbed Nietzsche’s shoulder and pulled him close. “As for dying alone… well, you can enjoy that by yourself.”

They passed through the wall without any disturbance, and Watson only blinked habitually a second before crashing into it.

Nietzsche felt a little relieved when he saw the station crowded with ordinary people. He hadn't taken two steps when he saw Harry, carrying an owl cage, standing at the station entrance, dejectedly following a couple and a chubby boy.

The man's gaze was angry, and as he spoke to Harry, he kept glancing at passersby.

Soon, the chubby boy he and his wife were holding suddenly froze in place, too afraid to take another step forward.

"What's wrong, Dali baby?" the woman asked.

“It’s…it’s him!” Dali pointed at Nietzsche as he passed by and stammered, “That madman, I saw him come out of that wall…he was one of those people too.”

Nietzsche grinned, deliberately adopting a sinister expression.

Harry, however, rolled his eyes and deliberately waved to Nietzsche as well.

"Hurry up!" Vernon yelled angrily, tugging at Harry's clothes. "We don't have time to waste here, and besides, we don't welcome your friends...especially him!"

He watched as Nietzsche approached and pulled Dali behind him.

Dali was terrified. He never expected that the person who had taken him to the hospital was actually a freak.

"The Dursleys?" Watson looked at their demeanor with some disdain.

"Your son got expelled, so you sent him to that...that place full of freaks?!" Vernon's face flushed red, and he spoke savagely. "Get away from us."

Sherlock didn't get involved; he simply observed the Dursleys.

Vernon Dursley was as fat as his son, with no visible neck, a thick beard, and a very chauvinistic personality, which was probably related to his work; he was likely a middle-class man who often did business.

Penny Dursley has large joints and a long face. Judging from her attitude towards her son, she is a career woman who is heavily dependent on her family, almost to the point of... losing herself.

"Is this the kind of person you transferred schools for?" Watson stared at Dudley for a few seconds and then complained.

Penny stared incredulously at the gentleman in the top hat, who spoke neither humbly nor arrogantly. She never expected that he, as a parent, would have such an attitude.

"Your son was..."

"Hmm, I know, you just beat him up, and your son's weight didn't decrease as a result." Watson nodded perfunctorily, interrupting Penny.

He knew the Dursleys and, like Nietzsche, had absolutely no good impression of them.

"What is your relationship with him?" Sherlock suddenly changed the subject. He noticed that the boy who was talking to Nietzsche was standing behind Dali, and he keenly noticed a small scar on the boy's forehead.

“Harry Potter?” Vernon frowned, speaking warily. “We are his guardians!”

“Well, not parents.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together. “Don’t you think there’s a huge difference in size between Potter and Dudley Dursley? It seems that this guardian must be some kind of foster care or entrustment, and it’s coercive.”

Vernon quickly turned his head, glanced at Harry, and then took a few steps back.

"What exactly are you trying to say?" He was somewhat intimidated.

“You are abusing a child, and most likely a child of a close relative, and this kind of abuse is usually done to fill a psychological void... In other words, you feel inferior because of this child, Potter.”

Sherlock was certain because Vernon was Harry Potter's uncle, but also his guardian.

If the care was voluntary, the nutritional gap between the two children could not possibly be that large. In addition, considering Nietzsche's concept of 'bullying,' it is easy to see that the guardian's status was either coerced or deliberately applied for.

Penny looked flustered and urged her husband in a low voice to leave quickly.

Unable to bear Sherlock's every word any longer, she grabbed the birdcage Harry was carrying and started to walk out, forcing Harry to say goodbye to Nietzsche and hurry after his aunt.

"But if they don't like the child, why do they act as guardians? Are they just psychologically disturbed?" Watson asked, puzzled.

Shylock put his arm around Nietzsche's shoulder, seemingly to give him a lecture.

"You've spotted a blind spot—why? The Dursleys didn't want anyone to know they were abusing a child of an immediate family member, so they resorted to emotional abuse. Think about what they called Nietzsche...'freak'?"

Nietzsche understood that his father was analyzing them psychologically.

"So they hate Harry because he's a wizard, and that's why they sneer at every passerby just to avoid being noticed by other ordinary people?" he said, suddenly realizing.

“Not entirely correct,” Sherlock said. “I’ve said before that sadism stems from an inferiority complex; people only get excited when they see others in a worse state than themselves.”

In fact, the Dursleys hated that they weren't wizards.

Harry didn't think too much about it. When he saw the look on Dudley's face when he saw Nietzsche, he suddenly felt that this summer vacation would be more comfortable than before.

"What do his parents do?" Penny asked immediately as soon as she closed the car door.

“I don’t know.” Harry sat comfortably in the back seat, resting his hands behind his head. “I don’t care how much money someone has when we’re friends. Who knows…maybe it has something to do with the police.”

He heard it from Ron.

Vernon gripped the car door handle uneasily and said again, "Listen... Penny and I have never abused anyone..."

“I don’t know!” Harry yawned, annoyed. “Is throwing my wand and suitcase into the trash considered abuse?”

“Who said we were going to throw it away? We’re just keeping it temporarily in the storage room… That’s right, we’re just afraid you’ll lose it.” Penny forced a disgusting smirk.

Harry, however, turned his head away dismissively and looked at the scenery outside the car window.

He only learned about his background last year. He had a group of friends at school, but after returning here, his so-called 'relatives' treated him like a dog that had rolled around in a dirty place.

By the way... Nietzsche's father said they were driven by inferiority.

Summer vacation should be joyful and sunny, not a day when you're dragged out of Baker Street before you even have a chance to enjoy Mrs. Hudson's morning tea.

Unfortunately, Nietzsche enjoyed this very thing.

He was still wrapped in a blanket, and hadn't even had time to change out of his pajamas. Nietzsche, with his last bit of stubbornness, arrived at the white building in West London, a famous British humanities college.

The sign at the entrance reads – Diogenes Club.

Speaking was forbidden inside, so Nietzsche could only watch as Shylock communicated with the receptionist using sign language he couldn't understand, and then followed him to one of the rooms.

“This is the reception room,” Mycroft’s voice came from inside.

He walked around naked on the wooden floor with a newspaper in his hand, his belly slightly bulging, a lingering effect of social engagements. Behind him followed an old man pushing a food cart.

"Would you like to borrow my blanket?" Nietzsche felt a bit embarrassed and looked up at the ceiling.

"Why?" Mycroft asked, puzzled. "This is the Diogenes Club, where all the reclusive and unsociable can stay true to themselves... This is Diogenes's barrel."

It originates from the initial cynicism, not the later 'cynicalism'.

“Taking off your clothes doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned worldly desires,” Nietzsche retorted, then turned his resentment to his father, “You dragged me out of bed just to… disgust me?”

He kicked off his fluffy slippers, wrapped himself in a blanket, and collapsed onto the sofa.

Unfortunately, his uncle simply nodded in agreement, then urged Stanley to push the cart faster.

“I’d like to know how things are going,” Mycroft said casually.

“Moriarty…” Nietzsche dropped a bombshell right from the start, then raised his chin at Sherlock and said proudly, “A man who dares to befriend a professor of magic and even takes advantage of a wizard.”

"What a coincidence, there's a famous astrophysicist at Oxford University named James Moriarty recently," Sherlock added, adding a torpedo-like comment.

Instead of being idle, he pulled out a book on asteroid mechanics from his pocket and threw it on the table.

It seems Sherlock has already tried to get close to her once using his own methods.

“Evidence,” Mycroft said calmly, folding the newspaper. “The person you two Sherlock Holmes are accusing is an Oxford professor, a philosopher, and a friend of the current Prime Minister.”

But that's the problem; none of it went through his hands.

Moriarty could detect any movement. Take the recent murder of the American ambassador, for example; he did almost nothing, just watched—Voldemort had Quirrell make poison and then sent someone to kill him.

Even if Sherlock knew someone was tipping off the dark wizard, there was nothing he could do.

“He’s the ‘Napoleon’ of the criminal world; now, a large portion of the cases in London are related to him!” Sherlock said.

"But the evidence only shows that one of the Home Secretary colluded with the enemy; we don't even know where they planned to drop the undetectable poison gas," Mycroft said. "By the way, why isn't Watson here today?"