Even after leaving Number 4 Privet Drive and settling back into the car seat, Harry still felt like he was in a dream.
Clutched tightly in his hands was a photo album—his greatest gain from this visit.
Through his conversation with Aunt Petunia, Sherlock had easily deduced that despite her harsh words, she still secretly cherished mementos of her sister's life.
So he offered her some "special slimming potions" and "anti-hair loss shampoo" he had picked up from Diagon Alley.
Petunia Dursley wasn't stupid. In exchange, she offered her nephew a Christmas gift ahead of time—a collection of photos from Lily's youth.
Amusingly enough, she had initially brushed her husband off by claiming Sherlock was just a shampoo salesman—only to actually accept the shampoo in the end.
Even more ironic, the primary ingredient in the anti-hair loss shampoo was derived from the same hair-regrowth potion developed by the Potter family. Could this be considered selling local goods back to locals?
Due to the unusually friendly attitude from the Dursleys, Sherlock even handed Dudley two bags of Chocolate Frogs before leaving.
Naturally, Dudley was overjoyed, taking the sweets despite the stern looks from his parents.
"Sherlock, thank you... really, thank you so much!"
Before Sherlock could respond, Mrs. Holmes, who was driving, laughed.
"Don't mention it, dear Harry," she said cheerfully. "You and Sherlock are friends, aren't you? Helping each other is only natural."
Sherlock nodded in agreement with his mother's sentiment, then pointed at the photo album in Harry's hands.
"I suggest sending that one to Professor Snape. It might be the best Christmas gift he'll receive."
The photo in question featured two people.
The girl radiated youthful energy, with fiery red hair gently curled at the ends, resting playfully on her shoulder. Her fair skin carried a faint blush, her nose was small and well-shaped, and her lips curved upward into a smile that revealed twin dimples—warm, healing, and radiant enough to drive away any darkness.
Just as many had said, her deep emerald eyes were identical to Harry's—clear and bright.
And the boy with his arm hooked in hers?
Even if his face wasn't instantly familiar, that greasy, seaweed-like hair gave him away instantly.
Harry finally realized why Sherlock had earlier asked him what kind of gift to give the professors—this had been the plan all along.
Still, he hesitated.
"My mum... she and Professor Snape really were close?"
"Clearly," Sherlock said with absolute certainty. "Though we don't yet know why they eventually parted ways, it's obvious that to this day, he still carries deep guilt over not being able to protect your mother."
"But... Professor Snape really had nothing to do with Voldemort?" Harry asked, puzzled. "I meant to tell you earlier—at the start of term, he looked at me once and my scar suddenly started hurting…"
Sherlock, who had been lounging comfortably, immediately straightened up at this.
"You're saying your scar hurt when you made eye contact with Professor Snape?"
"Yes," Harry nodded, recalling the moment. "It only lasted a second, but it hurt—really hurt. It had never happened before."
Sherlock thought for a moment, then asked cautiously,
"You're certain it was eye contact with Professor Snape that triggered it? Not something like what happened during the Quidditch match?"
"Yes—wait, Sherlock, are you saying...?"
Mentioning the Quidditch match jogged Harry's memory.
Everyone had believed Snape was trying to jinx him off his broom—everyone except Sherlock, who had deduced that Snape had actually been protecting him.
"You might have forgotten," Sherlock said quietly. "But sitting beside Snape that day... was Quirrell."
Harry: (o〃)
As Christmas approached, the festive atmosphere around them grew stronger.
At first, Ron had grumbled about not being invited to visit Privet Drive with Sherlock and Harry. But he was quickly distracted by new fascinations.
First came wizard's chess against Mr. Holmes.
Ron found him a worthy opponent—the matches were intense and engaging, far more entertaining than playing with Harry.
Soon after, Ron became enamored with the television.
The idea of a box that could display moving pictures and sounds without magic was beyond fascinating to him.
A few days later, Hermione and her parents arrived at the Holmes residence.
It had been nearly a week since returning home from Hogwarts, and Sherlock hadn't called her even once.
Eventually, Hermione couldn't take it anymore and rang the house herself.
Mrs. Holmes seized the opportunity and immediately invited the Grangers over.
Mr. Granger wasn't too thrilled about it—
"Weren't they supposed to visit us this time?"
But Mrs. Granger shrugged it off.
"Darling, don't worry about the details. As long as the children are happy."
Hermione, however, wasn't so forgiving.
"Sherlock, didn't you say you'd call?"
Hands on her hips, she glared at him.
Sherlock: ┑(￣Д￣)┍
Watching the scene unfold, Harry and Ron couldn't help but snicker.
Seeing Sherlock flustered was a rare delight.
"And you two!" Hermione rounded on them.
"Harry, why didn't you remind him to call?
Ron, even if you can't use a telephone, you could've sent an owl, couldn't you?"
Harry and Ron: ╮（╯＿╰）╭
Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Granger chuckled at the scene.
"Youth is a beautiful thing…"
"Yes, it really is…"
Meanwhile, Mr. Granger and Mr. Holmes sat in front of the television, quietly discussing the news.
"It's a turbulent time…"
Mr. Holmes frowned slightly at the fiery speech being delivered on-screen by a bald man.
"Bloody hell, what's happening to this country?"
Mr. Granger, usually so well-mannered, swore in frustration.
"At this rate, we'll be a laughingstock on the world stage!"
Mr. Holmes looked at him, surprised. He hadn't expected this side of Hermione's father.
"You might consider exchanging some rubles for pounds," he advised cautiously. "Not too much, just in case."
Mr. Granger blinked. "You think…?"
"It's hard to say. Just a possibility."
After a moment of thought, Mr. Granger turned to consult with his wife. Ultimately, they decided to follow Mr. Holmes's advice and visit the bank the next day.
By now, the Grangers and Holmeses were well-acquainted, and Mr. Granger had come to trust Sherlock's father's judgment.
Sherlock, of course, noticed all of this.
But politics felt like a distant matter to an eleven-year-old boy—something beyond his current concern.
And yet, now that he knew this world contained magic…
He couldn't help but wonder:
If this titan truly fell, would it affect the magical world too?
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