Hermione, let's start a revolution from Hogwarts!

“It’s not that I don’t allow you to go out and play, but you can’t stay out all night… Hermione, I thought you would be more sensible than before,” Mrs. Granger said sternly.

Hermione's mouth dropped open, and she stiffly pointed to herself.

"Me? How could you think it was my idea?"

Shouldn't we be wary of Nietzsche immediately? Or is she more like a bad student who stays out all night than Nietzsche?

Nietzsche made absolutely no attempt to put on an act in front of the Grangers; he was a good boy in their presence... he can swear to that.

“Who knows?” Mrs. Granger said matter-of-factly. “Everyone knows you only have this one friend. But you should know how dangerous it is outside right now. Several people have had accidents in the neighboring community alone.”

"A terrorist attack?" Hermione became alert.

“Yes,” Mr. Granger said. “My friend at medical school told me that those patients all became vegetative, overnight…”

Mrs. Granger slapped her hand to stop her husband from speaking.

Fortunately, nothing serious happened, and the two of them can rest at home for a few more days.

On Sunday noon, Hermione lay sprawled on the sofa like a salted fish, reading a book while resting her bare feet on Nietzsche's thighs, enjoying the 'ritual' that had been going on for several days.

Considering Hermione's hard work, Nietzsche could only hold the book in his right hand and gently massage her ankle with his left.

“You’re right, we can’t completely ignore the Muggle world… um…” She occasionally let out a few muffled groans, the just-right pressure causing her feet to arch slightly.

"Can you just shut up for a second?" Nietzsche said impatiently.

If he looked back, he would see Mr. Granger sitting at the table lowering his newspaper and glaring at him, as if the two of them were doing something strange.

Don't ask him how he knew...

"What's wrong? What's wrong?" Hermione kicked him lightly twice, saying unhappily, "You don't even get this much treatment? Don't forget, you stole my mother's love from me!"

"If you're referring to strawberry frosting pudding, then Mrs. Granger didn't love you much to begin with."

I hate you!

Watching the two bicker and play, although Mr. Granger was unhappy, according to the law of conservation of happiness, a smile appeared on Mrs. Granger's face.

She poured herself a cup of afternoon tea, looked towards the living room, and then glanced at her husband with a reproachful look: "We're so in love... It's wonderful, I've never enjoyed this kind of treatment before."

"Tsk."

Mr. Granger's gaze toward Nietzsche grew even more dangerous, but he felt no displeasure whatsoever.

“Really?” Mr. Granger flicked his newspaper and retorted nonchalantly, “But I remember that back then, you were the one who always refused the same ‘treatment’.”

"This is different. Back then, you didn't massage my feet...and my parents lived downstairs!"

"The movements are all the same."

The weekend was always so pleasant. Several magical cars flew around in the sky and would automatically avoid each other. People were excitedly discussing the new things. But the doorbell rang, and this relaxed atmosphere was broken.

Mr. Granger opened the door and found a dark brown magical car floating in the yard, and standing in front of him was Inspector Lestrade, a short but sturdy man who looked like a horn-bellied dog.

The man gracefully removed his police hat, tiptoed, and seemed eager to go inside.

Marvolo Sisyphus jumped out of the magic car, running towards Granger's house while glancing terrifiedly through the window...

“Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard’s Special Security Service. We’re here to see Sherlock Holmes.”

“The younger one,” Marvolo added, then whispered to the detective, “Why did the older one come along? He can’t be of much help!”

"Let him come along, otherwise Baker Street might get another lunatic... You'll suffer."

Mavolo stomped his feet hard.

Just as Hermione covered her face with the book and was about to take a nap with a reluctant Crookshanks in her arms, Marvolo burst in. He was pointing angrily at Nietzsche, his finger trembling slightly, like a woman who had been cheated on by her lover.

"You seem to be doing quite well!" he said, then immediately pulled back the curtains to look at the magic car. He only breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't see Sherlock getting off.

"Why are you here?" Nietzsche silently withdrew his finger and said impatiently.

“I need you, Holmes… Thank you.” Inspector Lestrade strode over and took the tea that Mrs. Granger offered.

“You should have said that at 221b Baker Street, not here.”

Inspector Lestrade finished his warm black tea in one gulp, but it wasn't enough. He turned his head and looked around, seemingly longing for a glass of whiskey or brandy to calm his nerves.

However, after seeing the books scattered all over the floor, the neatly arranged alchemical items that he couldn't understand, and the coffee beans laid out on the table, he gave up on the idea.

“Sherlock doesn’t know magic…” The detective gave a wry smile and pulled out a few photos from his pocket. “You should take a look at this. These are the victims who are still alive recently, but it’s no different from being dead.”

The 'living person' in the photo is visibly lying on the hospital bed, with lifeless eyes, like a puppet.

Those who died fared even worse; some were so emaciated that only skin and bones clung to their bodies, while others were dismembered into eight pieces, as if they had been attacked by a pack of wolves.

“Mavolo said it’s some…something strange…” Lestrade was exasperated. “I’ve never heard of any of these things.”

“It’s a Dementor,” Hermione said.

It seems the Muggle world is not peaceful. After the British wizarding community declared war on the Death Eaters with its first victory and the victims' declaration, the Muggle world was also attacked, but this time the situation is more serious.

Chapter 287 The Describing Death of Dursley

The victims of Dementors are easy to identify; without exception, they all appear to have lost their souls, or as wizards would say, "only their bodies are still alive."

What's even more disturbing are the desiccated corpses; some had their heads half-shattered, others were still clinging to their bodies, yet managed to maintain a crawling posture...

This is a Shadow Corpse, a creation of dark magic.

“I don’t understand… I thought these things only existed in horror movies.” Inspector Lestrade’s breathing was ragged with fear; he was panicked. “Is it too late to believe in God now?”

Voldemort could use dark magic to transform some of the lives he killed into infernal corpses.

The firearms that Muggles are usually equipped with are not enough to deal with the undead in a short time unless large-caliber weapons are used. But if they do that, the British government will have to find ways to build up its image in various ways.

Nietzsche frowned, thinking about the weaknesses of the undead: sunlight, fire... everything that was the opposite of cold and dampness.

“Holy water won’t work, but we can try ‘holy fire’,” he explained. “A flamethrower is no different from a fire spell, it’s just a bit more troublesome, as it requires gathering the corpses together for unified disposal.”

Wizards can manipulate the size and shape of fires with magic, but at this point, ordinary people should be grateful if they can even find a way to deal with these magical creatures.

"And this... wolf fur... does that mean there will be vampires in the future?" Inspector Lestrade pointed to the hair on the pile of minced meat.

Hermione nearly vomited when she saw the contents of the photo.

It was a kind of disgust stemming from human instinct, an effect triggered by seeing one's fellow human being disemboweled. The string called 'rationality' snapped, and the body had already produced a rejection reaction. Only the spirit carried her to break through the encirclement.

After suppressing his physical discomfort, Nietzsche's first thought was of the effects of wolfsbane.

“Remember those legends? Unfortunately, they’re all true.” He told the detective cautiously, “You’ll probably need to search the entire country of England.”

"Legend...you mean the werewolf contagion..." The detective seemed to have done his homework, but when he saw Nietzsche silently nod in agreement, he almost collapsed. If he could, he would even resign.

Werewolves are not considered particularly terrifying by Muggle technology. They are just flesh and blood, and even a regular bullet to the head would be enough to kill them, let alone a blaster.

The key issue is that wolfsbane cannot be eliminated.

Dementors, werewolves, vampires... these races, which are not favored by wizards from the start, are extremely prone to allying with Voldemort, whether driven by temptation or instinct.

It's not very harmful, but it's disgusting. People usually avoid it, but it bites when someone lets their guard down.

"Harry...Harry Potter!" Hermione suddenly realized something was wrong and said nervously, "Voldemort is looking for him!"

"Who?"

“A child, the prophesied savior, a false one… but now he’s become the real savior,” Marvolo Sisyphus said unhappily.

However, there is a crucial point: Voldemort was unaware of the changes that had occurred to Harry Potter, and he naively believed that Dumbledore's only purpose in the Triwizard Tournament was to eliminate him completely.

Therefore, Harry Potter became their bargaining chip against Voldemort.

Upon hearing this, Inspector Lestrade quickly grabbed Nietzsche by the back of his collar and pushed him out, leaving the Grangers with only a fleeting glimpse of their backs.

In the magical car, which had been temporarily discontinued, Marvolo rushed to sit in the passenger seat, seemingly without even glancing at Sherlock in the back seat, unaware of what had happened in the past week.

"What have you been doing?" he asked curiously, squeezed between Sherlock and Hermione.

In fact, this was the first time Nietzsche had ever seen Mavolo so disgusted with a Muggle...

“It’s nothing, Watson just took him to the casino to earn some pocket money,” Sherlock said cryptically. “But as for me… you know, I’ve always wanted to do some small experiments with magic.”

Marvolo roared as if his defenses had been broken: "Your Muggle father deliberately replaced the drinking water with drinking alcohol and formaldehyde!"

"But you're alright, aren't you?"

"Because! I! Replaced those things with something else the instant they entered my mouth using a Transfiguration Charm!"

Sherlock pursed his lips, first feigning sudden realization, and said, "I see. I thought wizards were immune to these things." Then he winked smugly at Nietzsche.

It did sound pretty terrible. Nietzsche once again felt that his choice when he was a child was correct—he should have kept it a secret, otherwise he would have experienced this during his first magical upheaval.

The magic car didn't fly very high; after passing through the square and a few blocks, it could see the houses on Privet Road in Little Huigkin, Surrey.

This is where the Dursleys lived. From above, the houses look very neat and uniform, like a pile of square building blocks.

Nietzsche counted the numbers and had Lestrade's magical car stop in front of number four Privet Drive.

A car suddenly flew down from the sky, which was incredible to watch, so Nietzsche saw Vernon Dursley rushing out of his garage with a broom, glaring at the car.

“You better tell me you’re not friends with that freak Potter!” Vernon waved his hand symbolically.

The other person leaned slightly backward, indicating that they would immediately retreat into the house should anything happen, but on the other hand, they did not want to lose face in front of the wizard.

When Sherlock rolled down the car window and Vernon saw his face, the man's face immediately darkened.

"It's you!"

“I told you I would report you,” Sherlock threatened with a wicked grin. “Look who this is? A Scotland Yard officer. We’re here today to check if you’ve abused children.”

In just a few words, Vernon Dursley's face changed several times:

First came anger, then doubt, confusion, realization... and finally panic.

"Don't...don't joke around..." Vernon seemed to have his sore spot exposed, and his previous territorial stance vanished instantly. "I'm telling you, don't scare me...Huh? You really came, right!"

Inspector Lestrade jumped out of the car. As was his detective habit, he instinctively looked around for windows that were directly in front of him before pulling a wallet out of his pocket. He shook it, and a series of identification documents fell out.

They almost all ignored him, their attitude was very tough.

What made Vernon Dursley drop his broom wasn't some government document, but... a gun at Lestrade's waist.

"Who are you looking for? Potter? Officer, I swear I haven't broken any laws... Of course, Potter is just naturally thin, there's nothing we can do about it, how could we... bully someone like that?"