"Oh, my dear Sherlock, I never would've guessed—you're just like Hermione. A filthy rich one!"
When Sherlock offered him and Harry each their own room, Ron couldn't help but exclaim dramatically.
If guests ever came to his home, they'd probably have to squeeze in with the family just to sleep.
Ignoring the remark, Sherlock told them calmly, "After dinner tonight, get some rest early. We're heading to Diagon Alley first thing in the morning."
"Diagon Alley? Are you shopping for something?"
"Yes, and I need your help."
"No problem!"
Harry and Ron agreed without hesitation.
Harry was thrilled at the thought of being helpful to Sherlock. As for Ron, he reasoned that with Sherlock's background, there was no way he'd ask to borrow money—so anything else was perfectly fine.
Mrs. Holmes's cooking was exquisite—an absolute standout in the bleak culinary landscape of England. Although it didn't look as lavish as the Hogwarts holiday feasts in the Great Hall, the flavor easily rivaled them.
Ron had initially tried to be polite.
But after the first bite, his reservations evaporated. He dove in enthusiastically, gnawing on a chicken leg in one hand while scooping sides with the other.
Harry wasn't as wild, but still ate far more than usual.
Seeing the two boys enjoying the meal so much, Mrs. Holmes's eyes turned into happy crescent moons.
For Sherlock himself, it was deeply comforting to taste home-cooked food again after so long.
That night, the three young wizards all slept soundly.
The next morning, Mr. Holmes drove them to the Leaky Cauldron.
The pub was as dim and shadowy as ever, with only a handful of patrons inside. Thankfully, that meant Harry's presence didn't stir up much attention.
"Looks like Father's been visiting often lately."
As they crossed the pub and entered the small courtyard enclosed by brick walls, Sherlock suddenly commented.
"You're right," Mr. Holmes replied with a smile, unsurprised that his son had picked up on the detail.
"How did you know?" Harry asked curiously.
"The parking spot outside was one reserved for long-term clients."
"That's it?" Ron blinked in disbelief.
Mr. Holmes chuckled. Clearly, Sherlock's friends were beginning to notice how different he was.
"As I said, with careful observation, these things are trivial," Sherlock said. "Besides the parking spot, the bartender treated my father like a regular, which also suggests he's been here quite a lot lately."
"Exactly," Mr. Holmes added. "Though I can't enter Diagon Alley myself, I've been able to learn a bit about the magical world through this pub."
"Oh, Uncle Holmes, I bet you and my dad would get along great!" Ron's eyes sparkled.
His father worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry of Magic and had a deep fascination with all things Muggle-related. Meeting someone like Mr. Holmes—who was equally curious about the magical world—would surely be a match made in heaven.
At this point, Harry, following Sherlock's instructions, tapped the correct brick with his wand, and the wall opened to reveal the entrance to Diagon Alley.
"Where are we headed, Sherlock?"
"Gringotts."
With the school term over, Diagon Alley was much quieter than it had been at the start of the year.
On their way to Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Sherlock explained his plan to his two friends.
He wanted to exchange some wizarding currency using their names.
Since both Harry and Ron were from wizarding families, their yearly Galleon exchange quota from Muggle currency was significantly higher than that of Muggle-borns like Sherlock and Hermione.
Naturally, both boys were happy to help.
After all, chances to be of help to Sherlock were rare—he almost never needed help.
There was no need to elaborate on the process; with the two assisting, Sherlock successfully exchanged a large sum of Galleons.
Harry, having seen his family's vault deep beneath Gringotts before, was unfazed by the experience.
But the sight of so much gleaming gold left Ron completely stunned.
He had never seen that much money in his life. He was still dazed by the time they arrived at Ollivanders Wand Shop.
"Sherlock, what are we doing here?"
"To buy a wand, of course."
Ron looked surprised. "Your wand broke?"
"No. Yours."
"Mine?"
Ron pointed at himself in disbelief.
Just as he was about to ask more, a gentle voice interrupted him:
"Good day. It's rare to see young wizards here at this time of year."
Ollivander emerged slowly from the back of the shop. His eyes lit up the moment he saw Harry.
"Ah, Mr. Potter, we meet again."
"Hello." Harry greeted him, slightly nervous.
Sherlock then gestured toward Ron. "My friend here needs a new wand."
Ollivander's gaze followed Sherlock's gesture and fell upon Ron.
"You must be a Weasley. May I see your wand?"
Ron didn't take out his wand. Instead, he turned to Sherlock with confusion.
"Sherlock, what's this about…?"
"If you remember what I said when we first met," Sherlock replied, eyes sharp, "I told you that a wand must suit its wizard. Otherwise, your spellwork will suffer."
"You've struggled to cast spells properly since term started. So I'd like Mr. Ollivander to take a look. If it is the wand's fault—then a new one will be my Christmas gift to you."
ε(┬┬﹏┬┬)3
Ron's eyes grew misty.
As the sixth in a line of outstanding brothers, Ron had always been the forgotten one.
He'd told Harry as much back when they first became friends—Bill was Head Boy, Charlie was Quidditch Captain, Percy was a Prefect, and even the mischievous twins Fred and George were brilliant in their own way.
Naturally, the family hoped Ron would grow to be just as capable.
But even if he did succeed, so what?
His five older brothers had already done it all first.
Among this year's new students, Ron hadn't shown any particular brilliance.
The only thing that stood out was the fact that he was "Harry Potter's friend"—and Harry himself had never treated Ron poorly. Quite the opposite. He was a real friend.
Same with Hermione, ever since the troll incident.
Still, even she, when Ron failed at spells, would simply repeat instructions about pronunciation and wand movement.
It was always implied: the problem is you.
No one ever considered that the issue might be his secondhand wand.
But Sherlock had.
And more than just noticing—he'd acted on it.
Ron's eyes welled up again.
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