Famous

No wonder they found it hard to believe. A four-year-old—no, a boy who had turned five after Christmas—even if he had been born into the illustrious Mephisto Family, could not possibly be so gifted as to invent a spell on his own at such a young age.

Many five-year-old young wizards did not even know the correct pronunciation of spells yet.

So after everyone made a commotion until midnight, they had no choice but to drag the already sleeping Sherlock out of bed. Looking at all these uncles and aunts as though they had fought a war or been in a brawl, their clothes in complete disarray, Sherlock had no idea what was going on and found it rather baffling.

His father's shirt had even been torn open across the chest. Just how wild had these grown wizards gotten? Why did his father look as though they had assaulted him?

"Sherlock, cast Scarless Healing one more time—the spell you invented!" Fumengde explained to his son, then grabbed the hand of the person who had provided the Veritaserum and slashed it with a knife.

"My God, are you insane? Why not use a part of your own body for the experiment?!"

The wizard howled in pain, though he knew full well that Fumengde was simply taking revenge on him.

"Give him your wand, if you insist on seeing it with your own eyes."

The wizard handed Sherlock his hawthorn wand. Sherlock naturally cast the self-created spell, Scarless Healing, and amid the cries and shouts of the gathered wizards, they watched the wound on the man's hand slowly heal until not even the faintest scar remained.

"That's impossible! Most five-year-olds can't even pronounce spells correctly, let alone cast them."

"Shouldn't we be asking whether a five-year-old even has enough magic to cast a spell?"

"As for that, I'm sorry to say that my son experienced a magical outburst when he was four. As for whether he has magic within him, you have all seen it with your own eyes. There is no room for doubt."

Fumengde proudly raised his head, feeling that even all his friends' children put together could not compare to his son.

"My God! With any healing spell, unless it is cast by a top-tier wizard, there will more or less be scars left behind. I never imagined that little Sherlock's spell could eliminate every external injury. This is no longer a simple healing spell."

"If the wizards at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries found out, they would probably line up to seek advice from little Sherlock. So... little Sherlock, would you be interested in making this perfect healing spell public? It would greatly raise your fame and reputation. You could publish it in the Daily Prophet."

A woman wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with voluminous platinum-blonde hair and heavy makeup, suddenly leaned close to Sherlock and spoke eagerly.

"Enough! Rita Skeeter, my son is only five years old. Put away that reporter's nose of yours." Fumengde sharply cut Rita Skeeter off.

Sherlock looked at the woman before him. No wonder she had seemed familiar from the start—she was the famous Daily Prophet reporter from Harry Potter.

After all, in the Harry Potter series, the Daily Prophet was a newspaper with enormous influence in the wizarding world, yet Rita Skeeter was the only Daily Prophet staff member given significant attention throughout the books.

Her conduct was not exactly admirable, considering how much the woman enjoyed making things up.

Especially during the Triwizard Tournament. Still, Sherlock had never expected her to be his father's friend.

"Ahem! Don't be too angry with Rita. After all, she is thinking of Sherlock. What wizard these days does not want fame and prestige? Honestly, I simply cannot understand why Fumengde insists on lying low in the manor. With your accomplishments, you could hold a high position at the Ministry of Magic. You are a noble, after all!"

A woman in a pink formal dress stepped forward.

"My apologies, Umbridge. I may be a noble, but I do not like politics. Besides... my younger brother is still wanted by the Ministry of Magic."

"Oh... look at my memory. Still, I rather agree with Rita's idea. If the Daily Prophet published little Sherlock's talent, he would likely gain the Ministry of Magic's attention very quickly. And Scarless Healing is truly wonderful. It could solve the problems of many wizards, since many cannot avoid being left with unpleasant scars. This might even earn little Sherlock a medal of honor."

Watching Umbridge approach, Sherlock's heart sank a little.

As a political woman in the books who shifted with the wind, craved power, abused her authority, and had mistreated countless Hogwarts students, Sherlock truly could not understand what sort of people his father had as friends. If a Death Eater suddenly popped up now, he would not be surprised in the slightest.

"All right, enough, friends. I hope everyone can keep everything about Sherlock confidential. All I want now is for him to grow up safely and peacefully. This is our shared secret, right?"

"Of course!"

Everyone chimed in.

Yet clearly, the usual outcome of a secret kept hidden was for everyone to eventually know it.

The very next day, Fumengde saw the article Rita Skeeter had published in the Daily Prophet.

"The wizarding world's one and only genius is a member of the Mephisto Family."

"A boy destined to influence the wizarding world!"

"A magical outburst at four years old, and capable of creating his own spells—the Mephisto Family's descendant inherited the talent of his ancestors and surpassed them!"

"Scarless Healing, a powerful healing spell that leaves no scars, was originally created by a four-year-old boy."

After reading the newspaper, Fumengde furiously threw it to the floor.

That afternoon, the director of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, 'Oster Bohan,' personally brought two renowned St. Mungo's wizards to visit Mephisto Manor. Rita Skeeter, the culprit behind it all, was with them as well.

Director Oster stated his purpose bluntly. He wanted to verify it with his own eyes. If Scarless Healing truly could heal without leaving a trace, he was willing to pay a great sum to learn the spell.

The facts proved that when Sherlock cast it himself, the eyes of the three people from St. Mungo's all turned green with envy.

"I am willing to pay twenty thousand Galleons to learn this spell, Mr. Sherlock. You cannot possibly understand just how great an impact this spell will have," Oster said urgently.

Everyone sucked in a breath. Twenty thousand Galleons was an astronomical price in the wizarding world.

Moreover, as a descendant of Mungo Bohan, the founder of St. Mungo's, Oster Bohan was both a noble and a wizard of great standing. Even the Minister for Magic and Dumbledore would have to personally receive and greet him.

Yet he addressed Sherlock as "Mr.," making the implication obvious enough.

"No, thank you, Director Oster. But if this spell I invented truly has such a profound impact on the wizarding world, then I would be willing to publicly disclose its incantation and method of use in the Daily Prophet."

After Sherlock calmly finished speaking, another person beside him had green eyes as well: Rita Skeeter.

She knew that following the director of St. Mungo's to Mephisto Manor today had been the right decision. Before her, she seemed to see a broad road to promotion and higher pay, all tied to Sherlock.