Chapter 68: Found Money

"The Blood Curse Beastman - a curse that has endured through countless generations...."

In the barely lit room, a soft glow shed light on the area around Professor Sherlock Forester's desk.

After concluding his second-grade lecture in the early hours of the day, he initiated his groundwork for the next week's class on dark, serpentine magical beasts. Outside his lesson with the fourth-year students in the later part of the day, he dedicated most of his hours assembling materials within the solitude of his office.

Without much notice, the afternoon saw dusk fall outside the giant window of his office. Weary, Sherlock rose from his chair, sauntered slowly around his room, easing his stiffened muscles. His appetite had deserted him, dinner was far from his mind given the current circumstances.

The current state of affairs in Hogwarts was enveloped in confusion and worry; although not intended, he knew it was directly connected with his arrival.

To say Sherlock was a hero who offered willful sacrifices couldn't be further from the truth. Yet he didn't try to evade responsibilities that were naturally his to shoulder either.

Having stepped into this magical world, adopting the identity of his predecessor and becoming a professor at Hogwarts, he was bound to take the obligations previously owed by his predecessor, all while benefiting from the conveniences it offered.

The defense of the school and the safety of the children studying there became his duty and responsibility.

Admittedly, he had caused a few snags in the original storyline, even leading to the failure of Hogwarts' resolution of the Chamber of Secrets affair. Which ironically, provided Sherlock with a justified reason for departure, should the school close down.

However, running away was a coward's act, one that Sherlock found distasteful. He recognized that he had too much dignity to run from a problem he had helped create.

And so, Sherlock found himself fully immersed in the pursuit of Slytherin's heir, revealing all the clues known to him to Dumbledore, freshly extracted from his memories of the film reviews from his past life.

However, with the current developments, Sherlock could see that the clues offered little help, with the situation moving in a more uncertain direction. Lost in thought, he stood by the window silently, gazing at the dark mountains in the distance, uttering to himself,

"We've drifted significantly... it's become chaotic.."

Meanwhile, back in Gryffindor common room,

A worried Harry, Ron, and Hermione had a pressing, lengthy discussion but failed to reach any consensus.

"Let's turn in for the night. In the morning, we'll continue our pursuit for the heir of Slytherin. We must consider who, besides Malfoy, could potentially be the suspect."

Each dispersed to their respective dormitories, with Harry and Ron heading back to theirs.

"Where'd Neville and Seamus wander off to now? Bet they're lost, as usual."

Observing their sparse dormitory, Harry remarked, puzzled.

Ron, being familiar with their absence, answered,

"After dinner I was with them in the Hall just chatting, when suddenly Snape jumps in, all grumpy-faced. Apparently, they messed up that potion they were working on in class. Now, as their grand prize, they've gotta sort out a ton of potion ingredients. Might've even had a worse evening than us, I'd say."

Seeing the sympathies on Harry's face for Neville and the Seamus, he added,

"'Hope they make it out alive."

Harry slumped onto his bed. Gearing up to lie down, he spotted an old diary on his desk, seemingly out of place.

Rising, he ambled towards his desk, picked up the unexpected diary, and tossed a question at Ron,

"'This yours?"

Upon hearing Harry, Ron looked back, shaking his head in dissent.

"You think I'm the kind to keep a diary?" he shrugged, cautioning, ""You might wanna think twice before flipping it open, Harry. Books can be a bit tricky in our world, you know? Ever heard of the Thirteen Lines of the Warlock? Yeah, not something you'd wanna mess with."

Despite the warning, Harry had already flicked open the diary. The pages were aged and slightly yellowed, yet blank, as if untouched.

"You know, Ron, this diary doesn't seem all that special, definitely not as frightening as you're making it out to be, in fact it's empty, no notes, no curses, no nothing. Unless you're worried it's gonna sprout legs and start tap dancing in the middle of the night?", he teased his friend.

Ron, in the process of undoing his sweater, preparing for a bath before lights out, shrugged it off.

"Whatever, mate. You must've accidentally nabbed it after class. Doesn't matter, really since the diary's empty, whoever dropped it won't even realize. I'm heading for a quick bath myself. Fingers crossed Filch doesn't pop up when I'm back!"

Leaving Harry alone, Ron exited their dormitory hastily. Left alone, Harry continued his examination of the diary on his desk.

Ron's assumption was evidently wrong. Harry found a faint inscription of an ink print on the diary's cover, implying it dated back about fifty years. Upon closer inspection there were words in the diary, albeit they faded so far they were barely legible. The name on the first page read: 'Tom Riddle' - the succeeding pages were pristine.

Embedded on the last page was the name of a newsagent from Vauxhall Road in London.

"Riddle must've been a Muggle," Harry thought aloud, "else he wouldn't have picked up a diary from Vauxhall Road."

Despite a closer inspection, Harry found no other information of note.

After a moment, Harry yawned, falling back onto his bed, waiting for Ron, Seamus or Neville to return. However, unable to shake off boredom as he continued to wait for his friends, he settled back on his desk.

With a languid stretch, Harry found himself sprawled upon his bed, his emerald eyes tracing the ornate patterns etched into the ceiling above as waited for any of Ron, Seamus or Neville to return. His fingers absently plucked at the edge of the well-worn blanket, his thoughts meandering through the labyrinth of his mind. The castle's creaks and whispers danced around him, as if sharing secrets that were just beyond his reach. Outside, the fading sunlight cast a warm amber glow, painting the room in shades of gold, yet failing to ignite the spark of excitement he so desperately craved. Yet, as the seconds stretched into minutes, and the minutes into what felt like an eternity, he found himself succumbing to a sensation of boredom that seemed to seep into the very fabric of his being. Unable to shake off boredom he finally got back up, settling instead back in front of his desk.

He retrieved a bottle of ink, dipping a quill into it, planning to mark the diary's blank pages.

But surprisingly, as the quill grazed the page, the ink was absorbed by the diary, making the line disappear!

Taken aback, Harry's eyes widened.

He attempted to drop a blob of ink, which the diary absorbed, much like a sponge.

As he looked on, astounded, a brilliant, black line of text appeared on the previously blank page.

"Hello friend, no need to drench me in ink, you may write normally and converse with me," it read.

Excited, Harry felt like he had stumbled upon something exceptional.

Quickly, he dipped his quill again, marking the diary with his note,

"Hello, my name is Harry Potter."

The diary responded promptly,

"A pleasure to meet you, Harry Potter. I'm Tom Riddle. How did you find my diary?"

The words dissolved after a moment, only to remanifest themselves when Harry jotted his response hurriedly,

"I'm not sure how, it just appeared on my desk."

"Seems someone wanted to abandon me. Thankfully, my history is documented in more than just ink. I've always known there would be those who wouldn't want my story to be read."

Harry was invigorated at this point, sensing the Tom Riddle from the diary held secrets about the Chamber of Secrets!

"What do you mean?"

He scribbled speedily, nearly ripping the page with his fervor.