When Sherlock left Hogwarts, the sun had already reached its zenith.
From last night's Quidditch World Cup final until noon today, he hadn't had any proper rest, nor had he even managed to eat a single bite.
But Sherlock didn't feel the slightest bit fatigued now; he simply walked through the streets of Hogsmeade with a heavy heart.
To be honest, Sally's story was indeed magnificent and tumultuous, but the current Sherlock was not the truly original Sherlock, so he shouldn't have had such direct feelings.
However, having completed two soul fusions, even if the transmigrated consciousness remained dominant, Sherlock was ultimately no longer truly unattached.
Sherlock and Charles were indistinguishable from each other.
The two had long since merged into one. Sherlock had experienced another life using the identity of the Original Owner in this world, so he naturally had to take on the responsibilities and obligations he was meant to bear. Not to mention, the fact that he could reach his current level was even more dependent on the things Sally had left for him.
He stood in the middle of Hogsmeade's main road, looking up at the blazing sun in the sky and subconsciously narrowing his eyes.
"It's nice to be loved."
Then, his figure vanished from the streets of the small town.
In the next second, Sherlock abruptly appeared in a secluded alley in London.
He took off his wizard's robes, revealing the ordinary Muggle attire underneath. He soon found a telephone booth by the street, pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, and dialled the number written on it.
Before long, the call went through, and he spoke.
"This is Sherlock. I'm near Portobello Road. I'd like to meet with you, and please don't let him know."
After a long silence on the other end, the slightly trembling voice of the old butler named Brad rang out.
"I'll be right there, Young Master."
After hanging up, Sherlock didn't wander off. There were many shops on this street, so he sat beneath the awning of a café, his hand gently stroking the wand he always used.
He didn't have to wait long. Soon, an inconspicuous black saloon car pulled slowly up to the kerb, and an old man in a meticulous black suit stepped out of the car.
"Young Master."
No matter what Sherlock's father's attitude towards him was, this old butler remained respectful, always treating Sherlock as the rightful heir to the title.
Sherlock had never dealt with the servants of families whose wealth and status were considered to be among the highest in the world, and he had no intention of being arrogant simply because the old man was respectful. Instead, he invited him to sit down first.
Two cups of coffee—he couldn't tell whether they were hand-ground or instant—were brought over. Neither of the two men sitting there had any intention of tasting them, nor were they in the mood to do so.
After a long silence, Sherlock asked softly,
"How has his health been lately?"
The worry on the old butler's face was not feigned. Having served as the butler for three successive Dukes of the Cavendish family, his loyalty to the family was beyond any doubt.
"The Master's illness cannot be cured at its root. The situation isn't terrible, but it's not optimistic either. The doctors say that this is already the best possible outcome."
Hearing his words, Sherlock seemed to be pondering, or perhaps hesitating. Ultimately, he decided not to interfere with his mother's arrangements, but he wouldn't do nothing either.
He took seven transparent Potions out of his pocket and placed them on the table.
"Grandpa Brad..."
The old butler quickly said, "You can just call me Brad."
Sherlock didn't dwell on the form of address and continued.
"You should know that I am somewhat different from normal people."
As he spoke, he controlled all the items on the table right in front of the old butler, making them float gently before returning them to their places two seconds later.
Then, a button on the old butler's sleeve suddenly turned into a ladybird before changing back to its original form.
Such simple tricks were enough to profoundly shock the old butler, who believed he had seen many grand scenes while serving three Dukes and thought nothing could surprise him anymore.
He had previously heard vague mentions from Sherlock's father, the current Duke of Devonshire, that Sherlock was mixing with some strange people.
He had always thought the people the Duke called "Wizards" were just a group of tricksters and performers, and he had always wanted to find an opportunity to persuade the "Young Master", who was obsessed with them, to return to the right path.
But today, he realised that his understanding of "Wizards" and real Wizards were two completely different things.
Sherlock was only performing simple magic that didn't even count as spells in front of him.
The Ministry of Magic's enforcement of the Statute of Secrecy was stronger than any other law. Even without the Trace, there were other strange things monitoring the surroundings.
They could detect any fluctuation of magic.
Fortunately, as an old man who had seen much of the world, Brad didn't become agitated enough to shout or refuse to believe what he was seeing. He soon looked at Sherlock hesitantly.
"Does the Master know that you have this kind of ability, Young Master?"
"My mother and I are the same kind of people."
Hearing Sherlock say this, the old butler let out a long sigh. He had thought that if Sherlock showed such magic to his father, the conflict between father and son would be resolved.
But Sherlock's words made him realise that the Duke had actually known all along that magic and Wizards were real.
"There are actually other hidden details regarding the matter between him and my mother," Sherlock said, stopping there without revealing more. "I showed you this because I want you to know that the things I deal with are different from those of normal people. These Potions are the same. Take them with you and give him one every month. Although they won't completely cure his illness, they can provide significant relief."
As he spoke, Sherlock picked up a Potion made with shards of the Philosopher's Stone from the table and drank it himself.
"If you still have concerns, you can try it on others first. However, do not tell him about this; he certainly wouldn't drink it if he knew. Leave me an address. If the Potions run out, I will send new ones via Owl."
The old butler nodded solemnly. He looked at Sherlock and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Sherlock spoke first.
"I know you want to ask whether there will be a day when he and I can reconcile with each other."
The old butler sighed and nodded again.
Sherlock looked at the various passers-by on the street, his gaze somewhat dazed, and a smile appeared on his face.
"I am also waiting for that day."