"It seems the lady does know quite a bit about magic after all."
Sherlock's observation came with the calm assurance of someone who had already anticipated Petunia Dursley's reaction.
Under her anxious gaze, he continued coolly,
"In that case, I presume you've at least heard of the spell Legilimency."
Harry's head snapped toward Sherlock in shock.
Mate, what are you trying to do?
Sherlock's demeanor remained perfectly polite and gentlemanly, but his words struck the Dursley household like a blast of cold wind.
"As the name suggests, this spell allows the caster to forcibly read another person's thoughts and memories..."
He casually pulled out his wand and gently ran his fingers over it.
"Mrs. Dursley, surely you wouldn't want me to use such a spell to make you talk, would you?"
Harry: (⊙Д⊙)
"Sherlock..."
Harry was stunned.
He knew Sherlock was only saying this to pressure her into speaking, but still—
The posture, the tone, the calm menace...
He couldn't help but want to yell:
Why are you so good at this?!
Faced with Sherlock's courteous yet unnerving demeanor, the Dursleys finally gave in.
Both of them realized—this boy was no ordinary schoolmate of Harry's. He wasn't someone they could treat like a child.
Vernon Dursley, who fancied himself a man of the world, suddenly noticed something else—Sherlock and his mother carried themselves with the exact same poise and grace as the upper-class figures he had met in corporate society.
Petunia, knowing her husband well, understood instantly what he was thinking just by the look on his face.
"…Fine. Since you're so determined to know…"
She took a deep breath and slowly began speaking about Lily Potter—then still known as Lily Evans.
"Your mother… Lily…"
Her voice was stiff, and her lips twitched slightly, as if struggling to contain something.
"She was always… different. Strange things just seemed to happen around her. Like… a withered lily suddenly blooming again.
I remember once, she fell from a tree—but instead of crashing down, she just drifted gently to the ground, as if something had caught her.
Then, the summer she turned eleven—just like you—an owl delivered her letter…"
About half an hour later, Petunia finished her disjointed recollection.
Harry sat with his head bowed, steeped in quiet sadness.
Sherlock, meanwhile, wore a thoughtful frown.
Petunia's account had indeed added some useful pieces.
For instance, Lily had apparently known a boy from a rough neighborhood called Spinner's End before attending Hogwarts.
A pale, greasy-haired boy in shabby clothes—gloomy, but close to Lily. They'd gone to Hogwarts together as friends.
But a few years into school, something had happened, and they'd fallen out.
Even so, as Harry's maternal aunt, Petunia's information turned out to be far more limited than Sherlock had hoped.
Most of it was about Lily's early life—before she married James Potter.
According to Petunia, the two sisters had severed contact after Lily's marriage.
Until ten years ago.
One morning, while setting out a milk bottle, Petunia opened the door—only to scream in shock at the sight of an infant Harry bundled on the doorstep, with a letter.
That letter was from Dumbledore. Through it, Petunia learned that Lily and James had been murdered.
Even so, desperate to maintain a "normal" life, she never told Harry the truth. She insisted his parents had died in a car crash.
"Thank you very much for your statement, Mrs. Dursley," Sherlock said with a polite smile. "However, I can't help but feel... you could be a bit more honest."
"What did you say?"
Petunia immediately grew wary. "I've told you everything I know."
"Really?"
Sherlock shook his head—and said something that stunned everyone in the room:
"Actually... you envied your sister, didn't you?"
"I did not! That's nonsense! How dare you—!"
Petunia panicked at once, tripping over her own words.
Vernon Dursley pulled her protectively into his arms, glaring at Sherlock.
"Watch your mouth, boy!"
But Sherlock Holmes was not Harry Potter.
He wasn't the least bit intimidated.
He looked straight into Petunia's eyes and said evenly,
"You and Professor Dumbledore corresponded more than once, didn't you?
You spoke before your sister ever went to Hogwarts.
You wanted to be a witch, too."
"Y-you..."
Petunia shot up from the couch, wide-eyed and trembling.
She had lost her composure.
Sherlock's words dragged her back to her girlhood—the summer breeze, the letter she had sent, the polite but unyielding rejection she received.
That one letter from twenty years ago now felt like a dagger in her chest.
"And in truth," Sherlock added quietly, "your decision to sever ties with the magical world... it wasn't made after your sister got married.
It happened shortly after she went to Hogwarts."
Harry: w(Д)w
He'd worn this expression more times today than the day he first met Hagrid.
Aunt Petunia had written to Dumbledore? Aunt Petunia knew Snape from childhood?! Aunt Petunia envied his mum?!
It all sounded insane—but coming from Sherlock's mouth, it made an alarming amount of sense.
"You said… you wouldn't use that kind of magic on us!"
Vernon was clutching his wife tightly, shouting at Sherlock. "You swore you wouldn't!"
Sherlock sighed.
"I didn't use any magic to figure this out—just logic.
The same way I can tell you're expecting Mr. and Mrs. Mason for dinner tonight."
"Impossible. Absolutely impossible!"
Now Vernon lost control.
"Well, I suppose I'll have to explain."
Sherlock sounded almost bored now as he leaned back and began:
"When Mrs. Dursley answered the door, she was clearly in the middle of preparing dinner—not lunch, which would have been too soon.
There were extra pairs of guest slippers at the entrance—one male, one female, formal and clearly not from this household.
All the newspapers on the table had articles on the same company—owned by Mr. Mason—with key passages underlined.
The dining table was perfectly laid out—five full place settings with wine glasses and polished cutlery.
All clearly arranged for guests.
There was a new golf-themed ornament on the display shelf, and a freshly hung painting of a golf course.
These clues led me to a dual deduction:
You've invited Mr. and Mrs. Mason for dinner, and you plan to steer the conversation toward golf, hoping to close a business deal."
Silence.
The Dursley household was frozen in disbelief.
Mrs. Holmes looked at her son with visible pride.
Harry puffed up his chest beside Sherlock, glowing with secondhand pride.
---
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