Chapter 112: Chapter 112: I'm Asking Whether You're Selling Them Or Not!
Nestled amidst the ebb and flow of the ocean's breath, lay the coastal city of Norwich, a quaint little hovel to the east of England— picturesque and serenely beautiful. Nelson, a single man of thirty-six years, hummed an aimless tune as he ambled home, a can of lager swinging loosely in his grip. Though the cloak of darkness had swathed the city, he did not fret about the impending scolding from a disgruntled wife — for Nelson had yet to marry. His reason was quite simple: he lacked the wealth to attract a partner.
There was a time when fortune graced him generously; those were his golden days. In his youth, he had carved out quite a niche for himself by profiting off the sale of car parts amidst the U.K.'s most severe economic downturn. These riches fueled his dreams of dating Marissa, his hometown's most breathtaking beauty. But alas, the siren call of the gambling dens proved more potent than the charm of any woman.
His assets ebbed away like a receding tide, as a single night of reckless gambling saw him succumbing to debt. His decline was stark and swift; he was thrust into a life of poverty, but the lure of gambling lingered. Every leftover penny was promptly squandered at the casino, with the futile hope to reclaim his lost fortune. Nevertheless, after a decade of relentless trying, hope had become as elusive as his winnings.
Plunged deep into his thoughts, Nelson drained his beer, tilting his face back to gaze at the ominous night sky. It seemed to him like an inverted cauldron, devoid of any light— unreasonably foreboding. The gusty winds swirled around him, their cold insignias etched onto his skin, snapping him back to sobriety. Wrapping his threadbare coat around himself, he scanned his surroundings — a strange sensation of being followed danced along his spine.
Breaking into a hasty stride, he tried in vain to outrun his anxiety and reach the comfort of his ramshackle home. But the eeriness magnified, its icy tendrils twirling around his heart, leaving him dreadfully paralyzed amidst trepidation. Suddenly, the surroundings morphed into a surreal abyss, bathed in pitch black. In the gloomy void, he stood alone, a stark contrast against the shadowy background.
The galloping fear finally surfaced, and Nelson erupted into distress, his frantic cries echoing out, "What's going on! What's happening to me?!" But no answer came, his horrified expression froze in time, and gravity claimed his limp body. A strange voice mirrored his petrified exclamation, a macabre echo fading into the night, leaving behind a swath of yellow straw strewn across the ground.
The stolen seconds of abnormality withdrew into the ether, and the world resumed its rhythmic order; the narrow alley sat in unnoticed oblivion. Somewhere in the barren stillness, a whip crack ruptured the silence, and two Aurors adorned in Ministry of Magic robes materialized beside the now lifeless form of Nelson.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, the first of the two Aurors, crouched by Nelson, his dark brow furrowing in consternation. "Just like the last two cases: his soul is empty— drained completely, but his body clings to life still," he concluded grimly.
His companion was a burly wizard named Williamson who looked at Kingsley, his face creased with concern. "Is it the work of Dementors again? These wretched beings have flexed their authority far too much since Black's escape."
Swishing his wand over Nelson's inert body, Kingsley muttered, "It indeed looks like one. Dementor's kiss is the only magic that can achieve this horrific end."
"Another report for the department, then? This is our third case!" retorted Williamson, barely containing his ire.
"Sadly, the department has other priorities. Protecting Harry Potter, catching Sirius Black, Minister Fudge is already losing sleep over it, I doubt anyone'll care about our reports," Kingsley replied, wearing a sombre expression.
"Let's report nevertheless, and pray that the department curbs these terrorizing Dementors." Breaking his gaze from Nelson's body, signalling his readiness to leave, Williamson suddenly paused, pointing and asking, "Hold on, what's that over there?"
They followed Williamson's pointing finger, only to find it was just an ordinary pile of straw.
"Don't be on edge, Dementors wouldn't dare attack us. Let's go back and report this."
The two Aurors used Apparition to leave, leaving behind Nelson's body – not dead but not alive either – lying silently on the ground.
A light breeze swept by, carrying the straw far away.
...
When Sherlock brought Harry back to Devonshire, it was already July 29th. They flew here in their flying car, only landing a few times for refueling, spending most of the time in the air.
Harry, whose test results had turned out completely different from before, had finally regained his senses and asked Sherlock why they were rushing back.
"So, the Ministry of Magic sent me a letter informing me that some criminal has escaped from Azkaban.."
Sherlock's expression was grave, while Harry looked puzzled.
"But what does that have to do with us?"
"The escaped criminal's name is Sirius Black, formerly a loyal follower of the Voldemort. Someone overheard him repeatedly mentioning 'Hogwarts' while in prison recently. The Ministry speculates that he escaped to seek revenge and kill you for his master."
Harry finally understood the whole situation after Sherlock's explanation, but he didn't show any fear. Instead, he muttered.
"Why do we have to go back? Wouldn't it be safer to stay abroad and come back to England after he's captured again?"
Sherlock told him seriously.
"Do you know why Dumbledore insisted you stay at your aunt's house?"
"Why?" Harry had been pondering this question.
"Because only there, you are safest. The protection magic your mother left for you requires you to stay with blood relatives."
Sherlock revealed what he had learned from Dumbledore, calming Harry's emotions. After enjoying two weeks of joyful travel with Sherlock, Harry returned to the Dursleys feeling gloomy.
Sherlock sensed Harry's mood, but he had no choice, he had to send him back. Upon hearing Sherlock's words, Harry didn't resist much. He knew that staying at the Dursleys' house obediently not only prevented trouble for himself but also spared others from trouble.
Seeing Harry's subdued expression, Sherlock smiled.
"I remember your birthday is in two days?"
"No birthdays for me. I've never celebrated my birthday at Aunt Petunia's." Harry replied dejectedly.
"How about I come over with a gift on your birthday? Even if they're not welcoming, I can drop by your aunt's house just to congratulate you."
"They won't welcome you, they'll probably try to kick you out."
"Then why don't you come to my house on your birthday, it's just two streets away."
Upon hearing this, a light finally sparked in Harry's eyes.
"Can I stay at your house for a few days?"
Feeling that Sherlock's jinxed prophecies seemed to have lost their effect, Harry no longer had to worry as much. He could comfortably stay at Sherlock's place, even during his birthday. Sherlock didn't refuse but offered a reminder.
"There's nothing fun for you to do at my place, so even if you come, it'll be quite boring."
"There's no life worse than being at Aunt Penny's house," Harry affirmed.
His mood brightened once again, and for the first time ever, he began to look forward to his upcoming birthday.
They arrived at Privet Drive in the evening.
Sherlock escorted Harry back to the Dursleys' house. Petunia and Vernon didn't greet him kindly; not even a polite invitation to enter. But Sherlock didn't care whether they extended politeness or not.
After that, instead of immediately returning to his own house, Sherlock found the car rental agency and purchased the Ford car he had rented. The car had been modified for magical use, and it would cause quite a mess if he returned it. So, he decided to buy it instead, thinking it might come in handy in the future.
After resting at home for a night, he used Apparition to appear at Diagon Alley early the next morning. The shops here were mostly just opening up for the day, and Sherlock walked directly into Ollivander's. This shop was bustling during the summer holidays, as young wizards and witches prepared to purchase their first wands before starting their magical education.
Sherlock, however, was the first customer of the day, and Ollivander greeted him with a curious expression.
"Are you..." Ollivander hesitated as Sherlock walked in, "Are you looking for something other than wands in my shop?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Do you sell anything other than wands here?"
"So is your previous wand broken?" Ollivander furrowed his brow slightly, always attentive to the unusual situation of an adult wizard seeking a second wand.
Sherlock's response was vague. "More or less."
At this point, a measuring tape that resembled a snake wound its way around him, collecting various measurements.
"Name? And when did you start attending Hogwarts?" Ollivander pulled out a thick book and asked.
Sherlock extended his arm, making it easier for the measuring tape to do its job. "Sherlock Forester. Attended Hogwarts in 1982."
With the information provided, Ollivander quickly located Sherlock's records.
"At that time, you purchased a black walnut wand with a dragon heartstring core, 12 inches. Would you like a wand with similar specifications?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I'd like to try a new combination."
Ollivander nodded. "That's not unusual. People change, but wands don't. Sometimes, wizards end up being chosen by different wands in different periods of their lives."
He walked over to the shelves and pulled out a box. "Try this one – spruce wood with a dragon heartstring core, 9 inches. It should be a combination that suits you well."
Sherlock took the wand and waved it, casting a Lumos spell.
"Lumos."
The light gradually emanated from the wand, but it seemed a bit sluggish.
"Oh, no it seems this combination might not suit you." Ollivander shook his head, taking the wand back from Sherlock.
Sherlock agreed. "Using it felt a bit constricted, not very smooth."
"That being the case, how about this one? Red cedar with phoenix feather core, 11 inches. It's a popular choice; many wizards feel that wands made from red cedar bring good luck."
Sherlock tried this wand as well, casting Lumos again. But even before he finished casting, he already sensed it wasn't right.
"It's not what I'm used to. Feels like something is missing."
Ollivander continued to search through his wands, presenting another option. "Laurel wood, dragon heartstring core, 14 inches. This one is known to be the most loyal wand. If someone tries to steal it, the wand will release a bolt of lightning to deter the thief."
Sherlock held the wand in his hand, without casting a spell yet he felt the connection. He recited the Lumos spell.
"Lumos."
This time, the spell flowed smoothly from the wand, with no sense of sluggishness. Sherlock felt the perfect synchronization between himself and the wand.
Ollivander's satisfaction was evident as he nodded. "It seems you've experienced quite a lot. This wand is very different from your original wand."
Sherlock spun the laurel wood wand between his fingers, silver lights dancing around his fingertips. He was content with his new wand.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Nine galleons."
The Ollivander family was a reasonably priced business. Despite their monopoly on the wand-making market, they didn't inflate prices too much.
Sherlock promptly handed over a heavy pouch, already affected by the Trace-Freezing Charm.
"Alright, I'll take a hundred of these."
"Huh?" Ollivander stared at Sherlock in disbelief, wondering if he had misheard.
Sherlock raised a single finger, repeating his request. "One hundred. And if all goes well, I might need another hundred later. All wands should be identical to the one I have in my hand, including the length."
Ollivander looked utterly stunned, as if he was witnessing a madman.
"I remember reading about you in The Daily Prophet not long ago. Aren't you the Dark Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts now?"
Sherlock nodded. "That's correct."
"Then why on earth do you need so many wands? Are you planning to buy them wholesale from me and then resell them in some small foreign magic community?"
Sherlock waved off the suspicion. "I don't have that kind of spare time. I simply want to buy them for personal use. One hundred now, let me know if you're interested, or I can check with Baguettes Magiques de Cosme Acajor on Place Cachée in France."
Ollivander looked at Sherlock as if he had gone mad.
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