The velvet seats in the Quidditch World Cup top box gleamed with a soft luster, while outside the windows, the stadium lights gradually came to life.
Just as Sherlock pointed out that it wasn't Dobby, the house-elf cowering in the corner peeked out from between trembling fingers, looked toward Harry, and said in a high-pitched voice.
"Sir... did sir just call me Dobby?"
The house-elf, having overheard Sherlock and Harry's conversation, looked at Harry through the gaps in her fingers and asked curiously.
Her voice was very shrill, so Harry privately suspected this one was probably female—though it was difficult to distinguish the gender of house-elves by appearance alone.
Hearing the three-way conversation, the others in the box turned around from their seats, their curious gazes falling uniformly on Harry, Sherlock, and the little elf.
Or rather, two humans and one elf.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Harry said sincerely to the elf. "I mistook you for someone I used to know. His name was Dobby."
"But I know Dobby too, sir!" the elf squeaked.
She still covered her face with her hands, as if the light was too bright for her eyes—though the lighting in the top box wasn't particularly intense.
"My name is Winky, sir—you—"
Before she could finish, her gaze inadvertently swept across Harry's forehead.
When she saw the lightning-bolt scar, her deep brown eyes instantly widened like two small saucers, filled with shock.
"I know! You must be Harry Potter!"
"Yes," Harry nodded calmly. Today's series of encounters had already accustomed him to such reactions.
"Oh my! Dobby talks about you all day long, and about that gentleman who can see into people's hearts!"
Winky's voice grew more excited, her hands trembling slightly as the gaps between her fingers widened.
Hearing this, Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "Isn't Dobby at Hogwarts?"
"Oh, heavens! You must be that gentleman who can see into people's hearts!"
Winky gasped sharply, looking at Sherlock with instant awe, her hands instinctively covering more of her face, as if afraid Sherlock might see through her thoughts at a glance.
"See into people's hearts? No, I don't have such abilities," Sherlock maintained his smile, casually changing the subject. "But tell us, what is this Dobby you mentioned doing now?"
"He's still at Hogwarts," Winky shook her head gently, her worn linen cloth rustling with the movement.
"Being watched by the other elves, unable to return to his master's home. But Winky thinks he doesn't really want to go back, otherwise he would have found a way."
"Obviously, he's just going with the flow," Sherlock said, turning to Harry with a knowing look in his eyes.
"See, Harry? This is why I suggested you take command of Kreacher instead of Sirius. Even with magical contracts forcing them to obey orders, they can always find opportunities to exploit loopholes if they want to."
"Heavens! Dobby was right, you really can see into people's hearts!" Winky couldn't help but squeak, her body trembling slightly.
Sherlock didn't dwell on this topic, but instead shifted his focus, his gaze falling on Winky's tense shoulders.
"So, what are you doing here? I can see you seem afraid of something?"
"I—I have a fear of heights—" Winky quickly glanced toward the edge of the box, then gasped sharply, her voice full of terror.
"But when my master sent me to the top box, I came, sir."
Hearing this, Sherlock looked at Hermione beside him.
Coincidentally, Hermione was also looking his way.
With Sherlock's help, her fear of heights had improved considerably. But thinking of those exercises to overcome fear, her cheeks involuntarily flushed, and she quickly looked away.
"He knows you have a fear of heights, so why would he send you here?" Harry frowned, his tone clearly displeased.
He didn't like anyone treating house-elves this way, especially timid little creatures like Winky.
"Master—Master wanted me to save him a seat, Harry Potter. He's too busy," Winky tilted her head, looking at the row of empty velvet seats beside her, her voice carrying a hint of grievance.
"Winky really wishes she could go back to Master's tent, Harry Potter. But Winky will obey Master's instructions. Winky is a very good house-elf."
Having said this, she fearfully glanced at the edge of the box again and quickly covered her eyes completely with both hands, curling into a ball.
"This house-elf is really odd," Ron whispered to Harry, still playing with the Omnioculars.
"When it comes to odd, both Dobby and Kreacher are odder than her," Harry couldn't help frowning, his gaze falling on Winky's trembling figure. "I just don't know whose elf she is."
"Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Barty Crouch."
"What?"
"You asked whose elf she is. I gave you the answer. She's Mr. Crouch's house-elf."
Sherlock explained calmly.
"Heavens! Winky didn't say anything—this gentleman really can see into people's hearts!" Winky peered out from between her fingers again, her tone full of amazement.
By now, everyone else in the box had grown accustomed to Sherlock's prescience. Even Bill and Charlie didn't bother asking how he knew.
Only Mr. Weasley thoughtfully stroked his chin and said softly.
"So, it's Barty... That does fit his style, always so meticulous, even sending an elf to save seats."
The topic of house-elves ended there.
Ron eagerly pulled out the Omnioculars and began adjusting them with his head down. He pointed the lenses at the crowd on the other side of the stadium, fiddling with the replay knob on the side, marveling.
"This is brilliant! I can make that old bloke over there pick his nose again... and again... and again..."
"Please, Ron, you're disgusting!" Ginny wrinkled her nose, glaring at him disapprovedly, and shifted to the other side.
Hermione took out the velvet-covered program with tassels from her bag, her fingertips gently brushing the exquisite cover as she carefully leafed through it.
When she saw a particular line, her eyes suddenly lit up. She looked up and read aloud.
"Oh? Before the match starts, there's a performance by the team mascots!"
"Oh, that's always worth seeing," Mr. Weasley said, putting down his pumpkin juice with a smile, his eyes carrying a hint of nostalgia.
"When I was a boy watching the World Cup, the mascot performances were what I looked forward to most."
Sirius nodded as well, turning to Harry to explain.
"National teams bring rare magical creatures from their countries to perform here. Come to think of it, I saw one when I was young too. Such memories!"
As time passed, the best box gradually filled up.
Mr. Weasley began shaking hands continuously with people who were clearly distinguished wizards.
This time, he didn't introduce his children and Harry to them, for which Harry was very grateful—he really didn't want people staring at his forehead anymore.
At Hermione's suggestion, Sherlock would occasionally point out in a low voice the identities and recent activities of these people.
Everyone except Ron and Percy listened with great interest.
Ron was entirely focused on his Omnioculars—probably still watching that nose-picking old man.
Percy, meanwhile, hurriedly stood up with each guest's arrival, his face plastered with a stiff smile.
It was no exaggeration to say he was like sitting on the back of a porcupine full of spikes, bending his waist like a reed in the wind each time he stood.
Especially when Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge arrived, Percy bowed so low that his horn-rimmed glasses fell off with a "clatter," the lenses instantly shattering.
This embarrassed him terribly. He could only repair the lenses with his wand and then sit dumbly in his seat, having realized Fudge hadn't noticed his awkwardness at all, but had instead walked straight toward Sirius and Harry.
Sirius was one thing—an Order of Merlin, First Class recipient, an elder, who had previously given him Omnioculars, so receiving attention was normal.
But Harry?
Percy secretly cast a complicated look at Harry, his heart full of resentment.
He had worked so hard for so long, diligently during his Ministry internship, yet had never gained Fudge's favor.
Harry, simply because of his identity as "the Boy Who Lived," could easily receive the Minister's attention.
Thinking of this, Percy cast another complex look at Harry.
Fudge walked up to Sirius and warmly shook his hand.
Then, like a kindly father, he took Harry's hand and chattered on about how he was doing, before pulling him over to a wizard in magnificent robes and loudly introducing him.
"Harry Potter, you know! He's Harry Potter... oh, think about it! You must know who he is... the boy who survived You-Know-Who... Surely you know who he is now?"
The Bulgarian wizard wore black velvet robes trimmed with gold, with jeweled buttons at the collar. He frowned, clearly not understanding a word of English, but politely smiled and nodded.
However, Fudge's efforts weren't entirely wasted.
The next second, his gaze fell on the scar on Harry's forehead, and his eyes immediately lit up.
He excitedly pointed at the lightning-bolt scar, rattling off a long string of Bulgarian, his tone full of excitement.
"See, I knew I'd make him understand," Fudge said with relief, turning to Harry with a wry smile.
"I'm really not good with languages. For this sort of thing, I need Barty. Ah, I see his house-elf has saved him a seat. Must say, he's so thoughtful. These Bulgarians always trying to trick their way into the best seats."
Just then, Sherlock suddenly laughed quietly.
The sound wasn't loud, but it was particularly clear in the somewhat noisy box.
"Holmes, isn't it? What are you laughing at?" Fudge immediately turned to look at Sherlock, his tone somewhat displeased.
Even now, he refused to believe that Sherlock had discovered the truth about Sirius's wrongful accusation a year ago. He stubbornly believed it was Dumbledore's deliberate arrangement to cultivate a favored student—after all, Dumbledore had done this for years.
Hermione suddenly seemed to remember something and quickly asked.
"Sherlock, can you speak Bulgarian?"
Everyone immediately looked at Sherlock. Fudge's eyes brightened too.
If this boy could speak Bulgarian, he could make good use of him—serving the Minister of Magic should be quite an honor for him.
But then again, he thought it unlikely. After all, Bulgarian was an obscure language.
Sure enough, Sherlock shook his head.
"Dear Hermione, I didn't lie to you last time. Bulgarian is not among the languages I speak."
"I knew it!" Fudge sighed, about to say something more, when Sherlock suddenly changed tack.
"But that doesn't mean we can't communicate with this gentleman—am I right, sir?"
He looked toward the Bulgarian wizard.
"Sherlock, what are you talking about? He doesn't understand English," Mr. Weasley said. "Otherwise, Cornelius wouldn't have had such difficulty communicating with him."
"No, he speaks English," Sherlock said, his tone still calm but carrying unquestionable certainty.
"What?" Everyone looked at the Bulgarian Minister of Magic in surprise, but he wore a bewildered expression, as if he didn't understand what was happening.
"Holmes, that's not a funny joke," Fudge frowned, his displeasure growing heavier.
"I'm not joking, Minister," Sherlock met Fudge's gaze calmly.
"This gentleman not only speaks English, but also found your gesticulations just now... how shall I put it... quite amusing."
"How could..." Before Fudge could finish, the Bulgarian Minister suddenly spoke, in a perfect London accent.
"Interesting young wizard. What should I call you? Holmes?"
"It's Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock corrected, then extended his hand.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Oblansk," the Bulgarian Minister said, shaking Sherlock's hand, the bewilderment gone from his face, replaced by an amused smile.
Only after the two finished shaking hands did Fudge react. He stared wide-eyed, his tone full of indignation.
"You speak English! But you let me gesture all day!"
"Hey, as this Mr. Holmes said, it was quite entertaining!" Oblansk shrugged, his tone as casual as discussing something trivial, completely ignoring Fudge's fury.
He then turned to Sherlock, asking curiously.
"So how did you figure it out? I'll bet I didn't say a single word of English before talking to you."
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