Chapter 8: CH 8
Chapter 8: Only One Choice
After scaring away his obnoxious cousin, Harry sat bored, staring at the hedge in the yard.
Though he was entering his second year at Hogwarts, Harry still had to live with Aunt Petunia, who despised magic and wizards, during the summer.
To be honest, when he received his Hogwarts acceptance letter from Hagrid last year, Harry was overjoyed, thinking he was finally escaping the misery of the Dursleys.
But, he hadn't expected to return to this "home"—a place devoid of warmth—after the semester ended.
Today was Harry's birthday, but so far, he hadn't received a single birthday card.
He should have made friends at Hogwarts by now.
But Ron and Hermione seemed to have completely forgotten about him over the summer. Not a single letter had arrived.
This left Harry feeling incredibly frustrated.
Aunt Petunia had just received a panicked tip from Dudley, and now she was shouting in the living room for Harry to trim the roses, clean the windows, wash the car, mow the lawn, and tidy up the flowerbeds.
Under the scorching sun, Harry weakly picked up his gardening tools while his overweight cousin, Dudley, sat idly eating ice cream, smugly watching Harry work.
Harry didn't feel deeply sad... well, maybe just a little.
But honestly, he had grown used to this kind of unfair treatment long ago. Even if it felt uncomfortable, it didn't quite qualify as sadness.
The blistering heat made the back of Harry's neck feel like it was on fire.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and happened to glance up, noticing a young man running along the road outside the yard.
As their eyes met, Harry couldn't help but notice that the young man was strikingly handsome—easily among the top three most attractive people Harry had ever seen. But the man's cold expression made him seem like someone not easily approachable.
The brief exchange of glances was nothing more than two strangers accidentally meeting each other's eyes.
Harry found himself muttering under his breath, wondering how someone could have the energy to go for a run in this heat, before his attention was suddenly drawn to a large eye peering through the hedge.
This was Sherlock's first time running along his planned route when he happened to spot Harry Potter.
He didn't dare approach the protagonist of this world, unsure whether Dumbledore or the Ministry of Magic might be monitoring Harry's house.
The reason Sherlock even bothered to glance at Harry was because, after Professor McGonagall left, Sherlock realized that Harry lived just two blocks away from No. 4 Privet Drive, the address in the original book.
Harry looked just as he had imagined—wearing oversized black-rimmed glasses, with messy black hair, bright green eyes, and a thin, slightly malnourished frame.
It seemed that Harry's life was as miserable as it had always been.
But the misfortunes Harry faced were none of Sherlock's concern.
Sherlock's curiosity about Harry was brief; his own troubles were much more pressing.
Once home, Sherlock headed straight for the bathroom for a quick shower, then went to his wizarding study, towel still in hand, wiping his damp hair.
As soon as he entered the study, the portrait on the wall erupted in curses.
"Why don't you just die, you filth! Go away! Disappear from my sight!"
Sherlock had long since found an effective solution to silence the incessant portrait. He draped a curtain over it, and the woman's furious ranting soon ceased.
From the tone of the portrait, it was clear that this woman must have been the mother of Sherlock's current body. But Sherlock couldn't fathom what kind of mother would speak to her son in such vile terms.
The original owner's family situation seemed unusually strange.
His father, a wealthy Muggle with social status and a title, contrasted sharply with his mother, who appeared to be a madwoman, constantly ranting and causing a scene.
From the wizarding world's perspective, Sherlock's blood status was considered "half-blood." His mother was a witch, and his father, a Muggle.
When the old butler handed Sherlock the will, one phrase stood out: "Never contact those people again." "Those people" likely referred to wizards.
This suggested that Sherlock's father harbored a strong disdain for wizards.
To be honest, if all the wizards Sherlock had encountered were like his original mother, he wouldn't have much love for the magical community.
But then, how did the original parents end up having a child like Sherlock?
The situation was complicated, and the available information was scant. Sherlock didn't have the time or inclination to unravel these family mysteries.
After receiving the appointment letter for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position from Professor McGonagall, he was far more focused on his immediate concerns than on his late father's fortune.
Even if he inherited it, he likely wouldn't have the chance to enjoy it.
Right now, the most pressing issue was how to handle the teaching position at Hogwarts.
The night after Professor McGonagall left, Sherlock considered many excuses for turning down the offer.
For instance, he thought about intentionally injuring himself to avoid the job.
However, while breaking a bone in the Muggle world would require a long recovery, in the wizarding world, healing magic could mend even the most serious injuries in no time. Self-inflicted harm would do nothing to get him out of this.
He also entertained the idea of running away, creating a dramatic scene to disappear from sight.
But Sherlock soon realized that he couldn't even escape the pursuit of an owl, let alone a wizard. Running away would only trap him further.
After a long night of contemplating, Sherlock knew there was no escaping the reality of the situation.
There was only one choice left.
He would have to accept the position and go teach at Hogwarts.
With this realization, Sherlock found himself oddly relieved.
After all, in his past life, he should have drowned in a river, yet here he was, reborn into this world. If he could live a fulfilling life now, it would be a victory in itself.
Even if he died early due to some unforeseen accident, at least he wouldn't have wasted this second chance.
And teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts wasn't a guaranteed death sentence. When he really thought about it, the chances of surviving were much higher than he initially thought.
With a smirk, Sherlock picked up the letter of appointment again and muttered, "Hmph, it's just a professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts."