ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅʀᴀᴛᴛᴇᴅ ʟɪʟᴀ ʜᴏʟᴍᴇꜱ || ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏ ᴍᴀʟꜰᴏʏ x ᴏᴄ || ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ 1-3

a meeting

Before you ask, no, I am not related to Sherlock Holmes, nor does he exist. He is, however, my favorite character of all time. I discovered him because we share a surname, and have read every mystery I could get my hands on because of him.

I admire his ability to form conclusions from minute details and observations. My favorite quote from all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's works sums up just about everything I love about Holmes — "to a great mind, nothing is little." As menial as it seems, that one sentence changed my life, becoming my motto for as long as I can remember.

As a child I considered myself something of a detective. I solved puzzles and riddles with ease and was often able to figure things out without much or any help. Also like Holmes I developed a habit of speaking with a very extensive vocabulary, so much so that my peers often had difficulty understanding what I was saying. I carried a pen and journal around with me at all times, making my handwriting impeccable and my note taking skills unmatched.

I got made fun of a lot in primary school for being the way I was; many kids would avoid me because the student body had labeled me as "weird," and if they did talk to me it was just to ridicule me. It never really got to me. My father always told me that my classmates were just jealous of how brilliant I was, but I knew it was because I just didn't fit in.

I was also labeled as "weird" because of certain . . . occurrences. Sometimes, the wind would pick up a person or two that were bothering me and throw them away. Not so much so that their pain was a cause for concern, but enough for them to back off. Once, I made a water fountain explode. I'd never told my father about any of this because I didn't want him to think I was any stranger.

However, I couldn't hide anymore when I'd opened the door expecting the mailman to instead see a strangely dressed woman at my door. I gave her a polite smile from the doorway.

"Is this the Holmes residence?" She asked me. I nodded.

"Not Baker Street, but close enough," I joked. It was something my dad said when people asked. The woman looked at me oddly, as if she didn't get the joke. Hm. Maybe she hadn't heard of Sherlock Holmes?

"Are you Lila?" She asked me. I nodded again, but more slowly this time. She looked inside. "And this is your father?"

He was sitting at the kitchen table, his coffee cup in hand. "Adam Holmes, pleasure to meet you."

"Allow me to introduce myself," the woman cleared her throat. "My name is Minerva McGonagall. I have some news about your daughter. May I come in?"

"Yes, have a seat," my father gestured to the other chairs at the table. "You too, Lila."

"Thank you," Minerva McGonagall had a seat across from my father, while I had a seat next to him. He and I exchanged wary looks. What was this about? I hadn't done anything wrong recently. The next words from her mouth shocked me to my core.

"It's my pleasure to inform you that your daughter is a witch," she said. My father looked as if he was about to interject, but she continued. "Most Muggles don't take kindly to that term, so I will explain for you. Your daughter is a carrier of magic."

I blinked. "Magic?"

I was the most prosaic person I knew. I never believed in Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, or any other childhood fables parents often tell their children. Trust me, my father tried his hardest but I always ended up foiling his plans with an investigation.

Hence why now the idea that I could be any sort of magic felt like it was a big joke. Who had hired their grandmother (great aunt?) to play a prank on me? I puzzled at her features, trying to decide which of my classmates she looked most like. Pinckney? No, his nose was too round. Adams? Wrong face shape. Hubberson? Unlikely. His build was different.