Most wizarding schools in the world are built in remote, mountainous regions.
Hogwarts was no exception.
However—
its precise location was a closely guarded secret.
Even within Britain's magical community, very few knew where it truly was.
What's more, all wizarding schools are protected by powerful enchantments. To Muggles, they appear only as ruins, danger signs, or empty wilderness.
Finding one without magical knowledge? Near impossible.
Just five minutes earlier, the Holmes family hadn't even known magic was real.
And now, a Muggle-born boy named Sherlock had casually said something that made Professor McGonagall's heart skip a beat:
Hogwarts is in Scotland.
It was—metaphorically—a rampaging Gorgon.
McGonagall barely managed to maintain her composure.
"What did you say?"
In contrast to her astonishment, Sherlock remained calm, as if entirely unaware of the weight of his words.
"You said… Hogwarts is in Scotland?" McGonagall pressed.
"It was just a simple deduction."
Seeing McGonagall still baffled, Sherlock sighed and retrieved his Hogwarts acceptance letter.
"This parchment is thick, durable, and finely made. A stack of this quality would cost nearly half a pound."
McGonagall blinked, uncertain where he was going with this.
Sherlock handed her the letter. "Professor, could you hold it up to the light?"
Though puzzled, McGonagall did as asked.
As the light passed through the parchment, faint watermark patterns became visible: a capital "A" interwoven with three lowercase letters—l, b, and a.
She froze.
Thousands of Hogwarts letters had passed through her hands, yet this detail had completely escaped her notice.
"Do you know what that means?" she asked.
"Of course," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "'Alba' is Gaelic for Scotland. This paper was manufactured in a Scottish mill."
"But—"
Before she could argue, Sherlock launched into a rapid explanation:
"Granted, that alone wouldn't be conclusive. But combine it with the fact that the owl who delivered the letter was a Scottish eagle owl, your tartan-patterned shirt, and the Scottish Gaelic phrases you've used unconsciously… If someone couldn't deduce the location from that, I'd question their intelligence."
"Merlin's beard…"
McGonagall was dumbstruck.
Just moments ago, it all seemed impossible. But after Sherlock's explanation, it all sounded perfectly reasonable.
This young wizard… was full of surprises.
Perhaps she ought to suggest that Headmaster Dumbledore revisit their secrecy protocols. If a Muggle-born child could deduce the school's location without a drop of magic—well, that was alarming.
"Sherlock… do you truly wish to attend Hogwarts?"
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House, had now taken her leave.
She remained deeply impressed by how Sherlock had deduced Hogwarts' location using nothing but careful observation. Even if he himself considered it obvious.
Her praise had been genuine. Rarely did she encounter such sharp, analytical minds—especially from non-magical households.
Despite her tight schedule before term began, McGonagall had explained everything clearly: the purchase of wands, robes, and spellbooks could be done in London—if one knew where to look.
She could have taken Sherlock to Diagon Alley herself, but her duties as both Deputy Headmistress and Gryffindor Head were overwhelming. Upon confirming that Sherlock's family welcomed magic and would accompany him, she prioritized other families who might need more guidance.
She'd even explained how to board the Hogwarts Express.
Before departing, McGonagall had the Holmes family sign a confidentiality agreement on behalf of the school: they were not to speak of magic to anyone outside their immediate family.
This wasn't a problem. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes weren't the type to draw attention to themselves.
Sherlock, however, seemed unusually pensive as he signed.
After McGonagall left, Mrs. Holmes grew anxious again.
She had just learned that Sherlock would be boarding at school year-round, returning home only for Christmas and summer holidays.
Even that much separation was already difficult for her to accept—let alone for the next seven years.
To imagine having her child at home for only two months a year—it hurt.
"My dear Valetta," Mr. Holmes said gently, "we've always supported Sherlock's choices. This should be no different."
"I know, Tannen… but he's only eleven…"
"Trust him. And trust me. He'll be just fine."
True, the wizarding world didn't have the best reputation. But the dangers of untrained magical outbursts were far worse.
Besides, it was Sherlock's decision.
And he was no ordinary boy.
Mr. Holmes hugged his wife and led her to their bedroom. Before closing the door, he glanced back and gave Sherlock a reassuring look.
Sherlock nodded.
His father rarely won arguments with his mother—but in key moments, he always came through.
As expected, Mr. Holmes did not let him down.
After a long conversation, Mrs. Holmes reluctantly accepted that Sherlock would be away most of the year.
The next step: school supplies.
Originally, Sherlock had planned to shop on his own.
But Mrs. Holmes flatly refused to let him go unaccompanied.
And since they'd be paying for everything anyway, the father and son had no choice but to agree.
The next day, the family of three set off by car and soon arrived at Charing Cross Road.
A bustling district nestled in Westminster—just next to Chelsea—this area was considered the heart of London, marked as the city's official mileage zero-point for all roads and railways.
Their destination lay along the high street.
According to Professor McGonagall, they needed to find the Leaky Cauldron—though "well-known" only applied within the wizarding world.
Until she mentioned it, none of them had ever even heard of such a place.
Sherlock thought it would be easy to find.
He was wrong.
"Tannen, are we sure we're in the right place?" Mrs. Holmes looked to the left at a busy bookstore, then to the right at a crowded record shop.
Both were packed with customers.
But there was no sign of a pub anywhere.
Mr. Holmes frowned.
Dozens of pedestrians came and went—some into the bookstore, some into the record shop—but none seemed remotely interested in visiting a pub.
The couple turned toward Sherlock, silently asking for answers.
Unlike them, Sherlock could see it clearly.
There was a pub here—right between the two shops, just as McGonagall had said.
But.
Had she not pointed it out in advance, even Sherlock's finely trained eye would have missed it.
Ordinary people? Had no chance.
One look at the oblivious passersby told him: they couldn't see it.
"This must be the magic world's way of hiding itself—blending in, becoming invisible to Muggles."
Sherlock understood at once.
And sure enough, the moment you step into the wizarding world, the curious and impossible just keeps coming.
Without a word, Sherlock strode toward the invisible space between the two shops.
His parents quickly followed.
As they got closer, they finally saw it.
Small. Grimy. Ancient. The Leaky Cauldron's facade matched none of the shops around it.
Inside, it was just as dim and dusty.
Tables lined the corners, where robed patrons drank and chatted enthusiastically.
At first glance, it looked no different from a normal pub—
—but the people inside wore the oddest clothes, and their conversations were beyond bizarre.
Mr. Holmes overheard one snippet and whispered, "Valetta, I swear—any Muggle who steps in here would leave before finishing their mead."
Mrs. Holmes nodded.
A man loudly proclaiming he could "summon a meteor shower" did sound absurd.
Sherlock, however, scanned the room with razor focus, silently cataloging the scene.
Northwest corner, 5 meters: female, smoking, under 50, married, low impulse control, separated from husband, likely seeking young men.
Directly ahead, 7 meters: man, grinning foolishly, early 20s, about to be married, here to say farewell to bachelorhood. Friends disapprove.
Behind-right table: short man, around 35, bad temper, short on money, likely planning to skip out on his bill.
Passing by: average-built man, ordinary appearance...
Every person he analyzed seemed to hand him their secrets effortlessly—observation had become second nature.
Approaching now: male, around 40, tracking every entrant. Oh, the bartender.
"Two Muggles and a young wizard. Classic combo—must be another summer breeze blowing through."
The man stopped in front of them, smiling. "Name's Tom—Tom the innkeeper. Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron!"
Tom… Cruise?
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes eyed the nearly bald man with a deeply wrinkled face and squinting eyes. Their expressions twitched.
They knew it was rude, but couldn't help themselves.
Sherlock, unfazed, stepped forward and greeted him.
"Mr. Tom, we're here on Professor McGonagall's recommendation."
Having already assessed the man's personality, Sherlock knew exactly what to say.
"Of course, of course! Muggle-born wizards—rare, but not unheard of. Follow me!"
As they walked, Sherlock casually asked about several patrons he'd observed earlier.
To his satisfaction, Tom's answers confirmed his deductions—every one of them had been correct.
Even in the magical world, logic still held sway.
So when magic and science collide…
A new legend is born.