We marched briskly across the Hogwarts grounds to the Greenhouse. It was decidedly warmer today, the sun's bright rays glowing warmly on my cheeks. The snowfall had ceased for the moment, but to the west dark clouds were massing, threatening new storms.

I wondered idly if wizards had their own meteorologists. Were their methods more advanced than ours? Perhaps not, if they used owls for long distance communication. And why do wizards live in castles?

"Why do wizards live in castles?" I asked Sherlock.

"What?"

"It's just — well, they have magic. You would think they'd live in futuristic cities with highly sophisticated magical architecture… or something."

"Hogwarts is only their school. At any rate, in my limited yet nonetheless illuminating experience, wizards and witches are profoundly unimaginative and hopelessly stubborn."

We reached the Greenhouse and found the entrance locked. No one was inside.

"Where has Dawlish squirreled off to, I wonder…" Sherlock muttered.

"Oh, 'ello! Yeh mus' be Sherlock!"

We turned and found a towering giant of a man looming over us — the same man we had seen pulling the enormous fir tree into the Great Hall. In his arms, which were as thick as timber logs, he was bearing a crate full of exotic plants. Among them were bouncing mushrooms and a potted herb with a bright neon glow. Two-headed worms slithered amongst them.

"We haven't had the benefit of your acquaintance," Sherlock said. "Are you faculty?"

"Groundskeeper," the giant said, beaming. "Name's Hagrid. Rubeus Hagrid. I've heard tell an awful lot abou' you, Sherlock. Greates' detective in all of Britain, I hear. They say you can deduce anythin'."

"Not anything. Right now I'm struggling to deduce the whereabouts of Professor Dawlish. Have you seen him?"

"He isn't here?" Hagrid peered through Greenhouse's glass panes and saw there was no one inside. "That's a bit triflin' odd. He always comes take his morning tea righ' after breakfast."

"Always?" Sherlock asked.

Hagrid shrugged. "Creature o' habit, that one. I come 'round every now 'n then to drop off herbs 'n such, 'n he's always here. I pick 'em from the Forbidden Fores', yeh see."

Sherlock gestured to the dark and foreboding forest which ringed Hogwarts' grounds. We noticed there was a hut right near the edge of the forest. It was round and squat, its chimney belching a column of thick black smoke.

"That's your residence, I presume?"

Hagrid smiled. "How did yeh know?"

"I can deduce almost anything, Rubeus Hagrid. If you don't mind, perhaps we could ask you some questions while we await Dawlish's return."

A flicker of concern flashed over Hagrid's face. Then it passed and his smile broadened. "Sure. Come 'round to my hut. I'll set a kettle o' tea…"

We got situated in Hagrid's hut, which was small but cozy, and exchanged pleasantries while sipping tea.

"Why do they make you live in a hut?" asked Sherlock.

"'Scuze me?"

"Are you not allowed in the castle with the other faculty?"

"Well, I'm the groundskeeper, yer know. Only seems fittin' to live on the grounds. Lived here most my adult life, as it happens."

"You were formerly a professor," Sherlock said. It was a statement, not a question. Once again, Hagrid looked at him with mingled shock and awe.

"How'd yeh know?"

"You have a cabinet marked Graded Homework. Rather elementary. What subject?"

"Care for Magical Creatures," he said, beaming. "Yer know, unicorns 'n hippogriffs 'n threstrals 'n such." He looked around conspiratorially, as though checking to make sure there was no one eavesdropping on us, but of course we were utterly alone. Then he leaned forward with a smile and said, "I used ter keep a dragon."

"A dragon?" I said, incredulous. "A real, actual, full-grown dragon?"

"Not full grown, sadly. Had ter give 'em up when he was a babe. Was fer his own safety 'n all. Norbert was his name. Guess who helped me send him off?"

I shook my head. "No idea."

"Harry Potter!" Hagrid beamed as though he had just told us his uncle was the Vatican Pope.

I looked to Sherlock, who registered no expression.

"Erm… who?" I asked.

"Blimey! Yeh don' know Harry Potter? He saved the world! Wizards and Muggle-folk alike. He defeated Lord V-vol… erm, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Lord He Who Must Not Be Named?" Sherlock said.

"I don' like saying his name. Superstition, yeh know," he said, smiling awkwardly. "He was best friends with Hermione — err, I mean, Headmistress Granger. Him 'n her 'n Ron Weasley used ter come 'round my hut every week. They got married, yer know."

"Harry and Hermione?"

"Ron and Herm — err, Professor Granger. I was a groomsmen at the wedding. Right shame what happen' to 'em."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to the kitchen window. He sipped his tea, keeping an eye on the grounds.

"What happened?" I asked Hagrid. "To Ron and Professor Granger?"

"Oh… yer know. Some folks just aren't made out fer one other. They change. Now Headmistress Granger, she's still sweet as roses, but she's not the same either."

"How so?" I asked. I don't know why I was entertaining this line of questioning, it wasn't relevant to the case, but as a total outsider it was fascinating to hear his perspective on the Wizarding World.

Hagrid only shook his large bearded head. "Can't rightly say. Jus' different. Nowadays I hardly see her at all. Suppose she's busy. Still, she's the best Hogwarts has had since Dumbledore. Might be even cleverer than him, y'know, and that's sayin' somethin'."

Sherlock set his cup on the counter and gestured to the window.

"Your hut has a unique vantage of the Herbology Greenhouse and its environs. What did you see the night of Dexter's murder?"

"Oh, so he was murdered then? Terribly sad, that is—"

"What did you see, Hagrid?" Sherlock interjected.

"Oh, jus' what I told the Headmistress. That evenin' I saw a girl wanderin' over to the Greenhouse. Medium height. Purple hair."

"Purple hair," I said. "That's pretty distinctive. Did you recognize her?"

"Don't know many of the students anymore. Hung up my hat years ago. Now I'm jus' a groundskeeper. And anyway, I didn't have my glasses with me. By the time I got 'em on she was gone."

"Hermione didn't tell us about her. Did she recognize who you were talking about?"

Hagrid shook his head. "Didn't seem to, no. Only one I know with purple hair is Professor Bletchley."

"The Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor? He has purple hair?" When we'd met him the previous evening in the Great Hall he was wearing a cap.

"More like the Professor who teaches Dark Arts. He's an odd bird, that fella. Dunno what Hermio — err, I mean I dunno what the Headmistress sees in 'em. They say he's teaching kids curses 'n jinxes 'n hexes and such. Can ya believe it!?"

"I reckon that's abnormal," Sherlock said.

"Might even be illegal. But what would I know? I'm jus' a groundskeeper."

"Hmm… Well what else did you see that night?" I pressed.

"Honestly, that was all. Just him or her with the purple hair. Me and my bloodhound Tooth were out in the fores' that night, searching for a loose thestral, 'n I got back late. Ruddy shame 'n all, what happened."

"Thank you Hagrid," Sherlock said. "That will be all. It appears Professor Dawlish has returned."