"Sherlock, Auntie is calling you down for dinner."
Hermione's voice rang out from the doorway.
Sherlock, who had been absorbed in his book, looked up to see Hermione standing at the threshold between light and shadow in the hallway, gazing at him with a complex expression.
"So, it seems you're planning to stay here tonight?"
"How did you know?"
The words tumbled out of Hermione's mouth before she could stop them. Her cheeks instantly flushed a delicate pink—whether from embarrassment or the reflection of the evening glow outside the window was impossible to tell.
"Your behavior told me, of course."
Seeing this, Sherlock couldn't help but let out a soft laugh. He adjusted his sitting position, the book closing gently against his knee.
But he had barely begun to speak when Hermione hastily cut him off: "I—I didn't stay because of you!"
This time it had nothing to do with the sunset outside. Hermione's cheeks turned as red as ripe apples, the flush spreading even to her earlobes.
She rushed to explain, though her eyes darted everywhere except toward Sherlock: "It's because Auntie insisted, I stay! It has nothing—nothing at all to do with you!"
Before the words had fully left her mouth, she spun around and hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time with rapid tapping footsteps.
The bedroom fell silent at once, with only the faint birdsong from the garden outside drifting through the window.
Sherlock remained in his previous position, sitting in the armchair with a bewildered expression on his face, one hand still resting on the book's spine.
His brow furrowed slightly in confusion. He had only meant to tell her that he'd deduced she would be staying the night from the freshly made bed and prepared toiletries in the adjacent bedroom.
So why had she run away?
And with such an extreme reaction?
As his father had said, he wasn't wrong at all.
Never try to understand a woman's mind.
Because they simply don't operate on logic.
By dinnertime, Mrs. Holmes had prepared a sumptuous meal to welcome Hermione's visit.
However, when she looked at the two children sitting side by side, each focused intently on their own plate without exchanging a single word, she suddenly set down her silver cutlery.
Sherlock remained unmoved, but the crisp clinking sound caused Hermione to look up.
Mrs. Holmes smiled warmly at her: "Hermione."
"Yes, Auntie?"
"I've already discussed it with your mother."
"What?"
"This summer holiday, you'll be staying at our house for a while."
"What?"
"And in a few days when the weather's nice, your uncle and I will take you and Sherlock to the seaside."
"But—but—"
"No buts! We're just going to a beach near London! Sunshine, sand, waves, cacti, and an old sea captain! It's decided!"
Faced with Mrs. Holmes's forcefulness, Hermione's face grew even redder.
She hastily lowered her head, absentmindedly poking at the peas on her plate with her fork.
Her long curls fell forward, nearly concealing her burning cheeks.
During this exchange, she quickly glanced up at Sherlock beside her.
He was elegantly cutting his roast beef, as if they had merely been discussing tomorrow's weather.
But when Sherlock looked her way, she jerked her gaze away as if scalded, returning her attention to wrestling with the food on her plate.
As for Sherlock, he maintained his calm composure throughout, chewing slowly and deliberately, his movements unhurried.
The golden lamplight outlined his profile as he focused on his meal, as if Hermione's extended stay and the vacation plans had absolutely nothing to do with him.
Watching this scene unfold, Mrs. Holmes raised her teacup and took a sip, appearing to smile while inwardly sighing.
These two children of hers were truly exhausting!
With Mycroft, her eldest, she'd had no experience and let the opportunity slip by.
Now with Sherlock, when three young ladies happened to be interested in her son, she was determined to give things a proper push!
Time slipped quietly by, and before long it was the morning of July's last day.
Sunlight filtered through the thin mist, gilding the tranquil garden of the Holmes residence in soft, pale gold.
After raining all night, the morning brought fine weather.
The air was saturated with the fresh scent of grass, lifting everyone's spirits.
After breakfast, Hermione hesitated in the living room for a moment before finally gathering her courage at Mrs. Holmes's prompting.
She took a deep breath, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and came to stand outside Sherlock's bedroom door, where she knocked softly on the dark wood.
"Sherlock."
When the door opened, Hermione tried to make her voice sound natural: "Auntie has the birthday presents we're giving Harry all ready."
Sherlock's gaze swept over Hermione's slightly tense face, then took in the two gift boxes of different sizes that she held in her arms, carefully wrapped in deep blue and silver-gray ribbons. He immediately called out briefly: "Watson!"
With a soft flutter, the owl in the cage in the corner of the room immediately flew out, landing on the back of a chair in front of Hermione.
It tilted its round head, regarding her with large amber eyes full of curiosity, then affectionately nuzzled her ear with its fluffy head, emitting soft cooing sounds.
This helped Hermione's taut nerves relax slightly, and an involuntary smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
She carefully tied the two gifts to Watson's extended strong talons, then attached the letter she'd written to its leg, gently patting its feathers: "Thank you for this, Watson."
Bearing Harry's gifts, Watson shot through the open window like a gray shadow, vanishing into the azure sky.
Hermione gazed at the drifting clouds outside, and naturally ended up remaining in Sherlock's bedroom.
But when Harry received the gifts from his two friends, he was already at the Chang residence on the other side of London.
In a courtyard of considerable size, a bluestone path meandered through the space. Several clumps of green bamboo rustled softly in the breeze. An oddly-shaped stone served as a focal point, and beside it, a small pond held several red fish swimming leisurely.
Harry and Cho Chang sat in bamboo wicker chairs with a stone table carved with cloud patterns between them. On the table sat a teapot and cups decorated with blue-and-white patterns.
They sat quite close to each other. Harry could even clearly smell the faint, fragrance drifting from Cho Chang's hair.
This visit to the Chang household was going far more smoothly than he'd imagined.
Sirius had brought him here via Apparition early that morning.
The Changs had warmly welcomed and received Harry. The living room had been filled with the subtle fragrance of tea and an atmosphere of hospitality.
What made Harry feel even happier and more relaxed was that although Cho had invited him because of his outstanding performance in the Triwizard Tournament, Mr. and Mrs. Chang hadn't excessively questioned him about or dwelt on those dangerous details during their tea conversation.
Instead, after some light and pleasant small talk—asking about Harry's summer holiday and his impressions of London—the Changs had thoughtfully suggested that Harry accompany Cho for a tour of their house.
For Harry, who always felt somewhat uncomfortable interacting with adult elders, this was an enormous relief.
He gladly accepted the offer.
After being led on several circuits by Cho, Harry discovered with amazement that the Chang family's patio and interior furnishings were filled with an architectural style and aesthetic completely different from anything he'd seen growing up on Privet Drive or at Hogwarts.
After carefully touring the entire house, from the wind-chime adorned corridor to the small but exquisite study, Harry felt as if he had stepped into an entirely different world.
Finally, Cho pulled Harry down to sit in the wicker chairs in the courtyard, chatting with him cheerfully.
"Let me tell you something really interesting."
Cho leaned forward slightly, with the excitement of sharing a secret.
"What is it?"
Harry gazed at Cho's delicate features, feeling he could never look at her enough.
Whatever Cho said, he found it endlessly fascinating.
"My father only recently discovered," Cho's voice carried a note of wonder and amusement, "that several of his relatives are actually wizards! They've been hiding it from the Muggles in the family all this time."
The last time he'd met the Changs, Harry had already learned that Cho was a half-blood witch.
Her father, Chang Wei, was a Muggle who worked as a lawyer.
Her mother, Chang Dali, was a witch.
Chang Wei hadn't learned until after their marriage that he'd actually married a witch, which had frightened him considerably.
But his love for his wife had helped him quickly accept this fact, and he'd integrated into the magical world with remarkable speed.
"What's even more interesting is that he found out through my mother's connections."
Cho's pale cheeks flushed with a healthy glow from excitement as she said eagerly: "It turns out my father has several cousins from the main family who are from same Mountain Village, except they've been hiding it from the Muggles in the family.
Later, when Mum and Dad came to Britain, they never actually met.
It wasn't until this year, when Dad happened to go with Mum to attend the get together ceremony, that he ran into his family relatives there—the scene was quite lively! Dad was nearly knocked senseless by all those enthusiastic uncles slapping him on the back."
"You mean Uncle Chang's brothers live in a big mountain?" Harry frowned in confusion.
"Pfft~"
Cho couldn't help but laugh.
Even the sunlight seemed to favor her, dancing across her eyes and brows.
This moment left Harry utterly captivated.
The way she looked when she laughed—it was truly beautiful!
He completely forgot his earlier confusion, unable to tear his gaze away from her radiant, smiling face.
Being stared at so directly by Harry, the mirth on Cho's face gradually took on a tinge of bashful pink.
Her long lashes trembled, and she turned her head slightly to the side, saying in a gently chiding tone: "What—what are you staring at?"
"Sorry—"
Harry snapped back to his senses, realizing his impropriety. His own cheeks immediately burned.
He hastily averted his gaze, staring at the tea leaf stems floating in the teacup on the stone table.
He could feel his heart pounding fiercely, hammering against his chest.
This wasn't entirely his fault, he thought silently. After all, compared to a year ago, sixteen-year-old Cho had become even more beautiful.
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