Hermione, let's start a revolution from Hogwarts!

Although he was very tired, he felt happy when he saw the envy in the eyes of the witches and the admiration in the eyes of the wizards around him.

The main entrance to the Wizard's Hotel, located independently in the hidden area, is actually, strictly speaking, the back entrance to the Muggle Athena Hotel. Perhaps one day in the future, these two doors will be connected.

Muggles can come to the wizards' hideouts, while wizards can go directly to the Eiffel Tower.

That's how the Leaky Cauldron is in Diagon Alley now...

"Welcome to the Joan of Arc Hotel~" The witch at the reception desk glanced enviously at Nietzsche, probably looking at the 'Christmas presents' hanging above.

“Stay one night, and then have the hotel send my things home.” Hermione had already started picking out a new trench coat to wear tomorrow from the 'clothes rack' before tossing over the card with the minister’s name on it.

The wizarding world in France is much freer than in other countries, with fewer messy rules.

The receptionist first swiped the card on the magic device, then entered a few numbers, and Nietzsche heard the machine confirm after a few seconds.

"Louis XVI's room?" The witch lowered her head, rolled her eyes upward, and stole a glance at the two young wizards in front of her.

Yes, she is too young. Even Hermione is only just an adult among wizards.

Nietzsche inwardly grumbled about the room, thinking to himself how perverse Minister Victor's sense of humor was; just hearing the name made it seem haunted... no, haunted by ghosts.

Despite this assumption, he still obediently took the key.

The second floor of the hall is an open-air tavern where you can see several people dressed in casual clothes, but whose right hands don't swing randomly when they walk. These are all disguised wizards, mixed in with the other Muggles who came in through the main entrance.

Their room was a suite with a private balcony facing the king-size bed, offering a panoramic view of the outside scenery.

“You won’t do that again, will you?” Nietzsche reminded her after seeing several maids before entering. “I don’t want to wake up the next day and be seen by the cleaning staff.”

He noticed the gold railings by the bed and instinctively thought of the Room of Requirement, so he gave a heads-up.

See, having a great memory isn't all good.

"What? It's clearly what you like..." Hermione lay down on the pillow, admiring the gray-red sky outside the window with a few rays of the setting sun.

"What I mean is remember to take it off before going to sleep, otherwise I'll wake up to a maid's scream," Nietzsche thought of a more subtle way of putting it.

If someone were to secretly take a picture of this now and casually publish it in some obscure newspaper in London, the newspaper's reputation would increase dozens of times in just one night.

A dead man has come back to life and is embracing the Minister of Magic in Paris during the Christmas holidays.

"Oh my, I didn't expect there to be a gift." Hermione beckoned with her finger, causing the red wine on the table to fly over. She smiled with feigned surprise, like a fox deceiving its prey. "Maybe you can relax a bit beforehand."

That's relatively mild. After the Room of Requirement, she knew very well how to touch Nietzsche's heartstrings with every word.

"Let's talk about it later," Nietzsche said, his throat tightening, but ultimately he didn't cross the line.

Before the main course, appetizers were served. So, after Hermione tried on each of the newly prepared outfits and Nietzsche judged and scored them, they went out into the street to begin the first night of their honeymoon.

They could see news articles about wizards and even hear passersby talking about Lockhart.

This was a crazy time... at least for the conservative Muggles and wizards, while Nietzsche, who started this change, simply held Hermione's hand, hiding among the ordinary people and becoming one of them.

Nietzsche, dressed in a dark brown trench coat and wearing a baseball cap, had his right arm around Hermione's waist and his fingers stroking his burgundy coat. At that moment, he was no different from the Muggles around him who were looking up at the Eiffel Tower.

The world is like a mirror, drawing him in while simultaneously keeping him detached.

"Excuse me... excuse me!" A hoarse voice in French suddenly interrupted his thoughts.

He was a middle-aged man with a wisp of white beard on his lip. His eyes were shining as he rushed over, his mouth trembling as he switched between Spanish and German to greet her.

"Hello." This was one of the few French phrases Hermione had learned from watching movies.

"May I paint a portrait of the two of you? I'm a painter..." The man seemed worried that the others wouldn't understand, so he took out a paintbrush and gestured a few times, then patted the wooden frame tucked under his arm.

Nietzsche immediately noticed the clue: the brushstrokes were too clean.

It's not just clean like a new pen, but also very neat, not rough. You know, Parisian painters who were popular with the classics usually painted with oil, and their tools were even more difficult to clean.

“Of course,” Nietzsche said, maintaining that smile.

"That's wonderful! Thank you so much..." The man excitedly set up the wooden frame and took out some papers from his bag. "Could you please put your arm around this lady, yes, in that position just now! Turn her face towards you!"

Piccolo – the painter’s name is written on the back of the canvas.

This name looks familiar. I feel like I've seen Nietzsche somewhere before, maybe during the French Revolution?

"He seems to be a wizard." He tilted his head slightly, grinned, and made a sound that only the two of them could hear.

"We've been exposed?" Hermione asked, puzzled.

"I don't know...it doesn't seem like it. He was probably a down-on-his-luck French nobleman."

Nietzsche stared intently at the dancing 'paintbrush,' and the three of them stood in the light snow for over an hour, until the originally orange-yellow snow gradually turned into the golden yellow of the Eiffel Tower, before they saw Piccolo exhale a breath of cold air.

The two figures in the portrait lean intimately together, and the classical embellishments soften Hermione's gaze.

"How much?" Nietzsche asked first after a few minutes.

“No need to pay.” Piccolo blinked several times, hurriedly packing up his equipment, and quickly shook his head, saying, “Of course, it would be even better if you would like to give me an extra tip, you two kind-hearted people.”

Nietzsche grabbed the other man's right hand, which was holding the paintbrush, and instantly became alert.

"Did Victor send you?"

Besides, he couldn't think of anyone else who could make a wizard pretend to be a Muggle and follow behind him, staging such a dramatic scene.

"Who?" Piccolo looked up blankly.

“Has no one ever said your brushstrokes are too clean, wizard?” Nietzsche said softly.

However, Piccolo did not show any panic at being exposed for his lie. Instead, he showed delight, as if to say, 'So you are a wizard too.'

“Of course someone paid for it, that fellow… I thought you two knew each other.” He turned his head and said, “Of course, I didn’t just paint randomly; my ancestors were court painters to Louis XVI! You two really do make a good pair…”

Following the wizard painter's gaze, Nietzsche scanned the passersby and finally settled on a couple standing in the corner, sheltering under an umbrella.

It wasn't that he was particularly conspicuous, but rather that Nietzsche knew the Watsons.

The two men had been watching Nietzsche and Hermione ever since Piccolo began painting—no, perhaps even earlier… In their eyes, Nietzsche read surprise, panic, and confusion.

Finally, Watson rolled his eyes and collapsed straight into Mary's arms.

Chapter 396 Hua Sheng: I'm having such a hard time

Even before December, Watson, who was already married, had many expectations for the future. But with the passing of his adopted son, he gradually began to think more about his unborn biological son—hoping he would be like Nietzsche…

So great? So intelligent? Extraordinary?

Thinking of this, he would lie in bed and complain to his wife Mary, "Maybe it would be better if our son were just ordinary, at least he wouldn't suddenly leave us."

“Perhaps you should pull yourself together and face the ever-changing future,” Mary said patiently, kissing her husband’s forehead and leaning against the pillow. “We can go to Brighton for a wonderful weekend.”

"Hmm~" Watson grunted through his nose.

Seeing him staring blankly at the ceiling and forcing a smile, his wife pursed her lips and sighed, feeling neglected.

“I miss him too…in my own way.”

Yes, she was Nietzsche's foster mother, so of course she would be saddened by this. Watson thought he was being too petty, always dwelling on the sad past and forgetting the present and the future, so he calmed himself down from his melancholy.

Nietzsche left them precisely because each of them had their own new life to live.

“Paris,” he said softly, taking his wife’s hand. “I heard from Wendell Granger that France is a great place for a honeymoon, and he would definitely want us to go.”

Since Mary brought it up herself, Watson decided to make up for what he had missed.

“Then I’ll buy the plane tickets tomorrow. Remember to pack your things.” Mary lay down and added as she turned off the nightlight, “Don’t tell Sherlock, or he’ll definitely want to come with us.”

"Ok."

A silence fell over the cozy bedroom, filled with the sounds of cars, but after five minutes, the two of them burst into laughter.

That's what started.

Watson followed Mary to France, trying to bury his sorrow with the beauty of his new life, but it was not an easy task, especially when he could hear the French people's speculations about wizards, and Nietzsche's shadow filled the streets and alleys.

Using what he had learned from the three Sherlock Holmes, he clumsily guessed at the passing pedestrians.

“I can guarantee there are some wizards hiding here right now,” Watson said, leaning on his cane as he strolled with his wife along Boulevard Ottoman after Christmas.

“But can you find it?” Mary asked.

Then, the two walked along the avenue to the Venus Hotel. While Mary was checking in at the hotel reception, Watson, who was bored, glanced at the rooftop lounge on the second floor, greeted it, and went upstairs alone.

Just as he was looking at the dazzling bar counter, wondering what he and his wife would drink later, he heard the receptionist downstairs announce the room name:

Louis XVI.

'How can there be such a silly name?' Watson thought to himself.

Curious, he wanted to see which special guy had such 'good luck,' but as soon as he turned his head, he saw a familiar figure walk into the elevator. A second before the elevator doors closed completely, he caught a glimpse of a profile.

A ridiculous thought popped into Watson's mind: that man really looked like Nietzsche.

But this idea was immediately rejected. After all, the man was covered in shopping bags and wasn't wearing a wizard's robe, so how could he be his long-dead adopted son? Not to mention, he wasn't even an adult yet.

He didn't tell his wife about this unrealistic speculation until... until he saw the young couple's backs again under the Eiffel Tower.

“Don’t you think…” Mary stood on the street, frowning, and said haltingly.

“Very similar!” Watson said decisively. “I know what you’re going to say, because I’ve seen it before.”

He wanted to get closer, but the crowd was too large. At this time, many people wanted to visit and rest on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower, so they were blocked on the other side of the road. He wanted to squeeze through to see, but he was worried about mistaking someone else for someone else.

Watson urged himself silently, 'Think of something...just one look, just one look.'

Just as the young couple was about to leave, Mary grabbed the oil painter who was passing by with his easel and shoved a handful of euros into his arms without saying a word.

“Go and draw those two people…” she said, pointing to the couple under the Eiffel Tower.

"What?" The painter numbly took the banknote and said in a panic, "How did you see that... okay."

So the painter who was walking along the roadside with his head down for no apparent reason took the job. They watched as the other person moved through the crowded people at an eerie speed and set up his easel next to the couple.

Hua Sheng stared intently, not taking advantage of any gaps or reflections in the glass, and whenever he had a chance, he would immediately move forward a few steps with his wife.

Blue eyes, dark brown hair, and an upright posture... Is that Nietzsche?

He couldn't believe the dead could come back to life, yet he hoped his wish would come true. Then, the painter, who had finished his painting, seemed to point in his direction, and he saw the couple turn around and look at him.

Are they Nietzsche and Granger?!

Watson was certain he couldn't mistake the two men; they looked alive. However, when his eyes met Nietzsche's, his heart suddenly skipped a beat, his vision went black, and he lost his balance and fell backward.