Chapter 97: Duke of Devonshire

The holiday break at Hogwarts was fast approaching, and following the end-of-term feast, Dumbledore pulled Professor Sherlock Forester aside and escorted him to his office. Rummaging through his desk drawer, he pulled out a letter and handed it to Sherlock.

"If you find yourself without plans this summer, perhaps you might consider visiting an old friend of mine in France. He has something he wishes to share with you," Dumbledore suggested.

With curiosity piqued, Sherlock accepted the letter, scanning the envelope for the name of Dumbledore's friend.

"Nicolas Flamel... the renowned alchemist who concocted the Philosopher's Stone?" Sherlock couldn't help but express his surprise at the name he read.

Dumbledore was anything but surprised by Sherlock's knowledge of Nicolas Flamel. In the magical universe, Flamel's soaring reputation was a match for Dumbledore's own.

"That's correct, Nicolas Flamel. He's the one who created and destroyed his Philosopher's Stone, and he currently has plans to distribute the remaining fragments, all of which still whisper with traces of magic. He plans to bequeath a parcel to some promising youngsters. This letter will serve as your introduction. If you find this intriguing, feel free to pay him a visit at the given address prior to August."

Fragments of the Philosopher's Stone?

Surprise danced across Sherlock's features as he perused the contents of the letter. The prospect was nothing short of fascinating.

While he hadn't yet settled on visiting, he tucked the letter away for safekeeping, in case he chose to consider it later on.

Observing Sherlock, Dumbledore took a moment to gather his thoughts before broaching the next topic.

"As I recall, your home is merely a stone's throw away from Harry Potter's relatives' residence, correct?"

Sherlock nodded affirmatively.

"Indeed, it's no more than a couple of blocks away."

Pulling out a second parchment, Dumbledore etched down a few lines, folded it inside an envelope and handed it over to Sherlock.

"In case you decide to visit Nicolas during the holiday, perhaps you could see fit to take Harry along with you. This letter is intended for his Aunt Petunia. If you relay this message, she is sure to allow Harry to join you."

Sherlock was slightly taken aback, but accepted the letter nonetheless.

"Are you not concerned about possible mishaps involving Harry during the journey?"

"A teacher's paramount responsibility is ensuring our student's safety," Dumbledore replied, accompanying his words with a playful wink and a smile that was equally warm. "I'm sure you agree?"

"You're right of course. If we do undertake this journey, I assure you I'll take great care to guarantee Harry's safety," Sherlock confidently affirmed.

"There's one more issue. I must keep you updated," Dumbledore declared, his expression turning sombre. "When Hogwarts reopens in the next term, you'll retain your position as Professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts, but I'll also be appointing an assistant to work alongside you."

Sherlock's brows shot up in surprise.

"I have no qualms about having an assistant, but may I ask why they would specifically be assisting me?"

Resignedly, Dumbledore shook his head.

"Basically, someone needs employment. Hogwarts has no suited openings this year, leaving me with no choice but to recruit him as your assistant."

Sherlock nodded, the information sinking in.

Thinking back over minor details from the original plotline, his mind deduced that the assistant Dumbledore was referring to would likely serve as the professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts in Harry's third year.

The day after Sherlock's enlightening conversation with Dumbledore, the Hogwarts holiday break officially commenced. This time, Sherlock eschewed taking the Hogwarts Express home, opting instead to apparate directly from Hogsmeade to his home in Devonshire, thereby saving countless hours.

Despite his house showing signs of a year's long vacancy, everything was in mint condition. Sherlock didn't employ house-elves to take care of his home. Most of the furniture had been preserved by magical means, negating the need for his intervention.

On his return, he utilized simple cleaning spells on items not imbued with self-cleaning magic and soon found himself comfortably ensconced in his study.

"For a whole year! An entire year! You couldn't even manage a single visit! Do you even consider me your mother, you reprobate?"

From behind the study door echoed a familiar shrill feminine voice, throwing accusations at Sherlock. Paying little heed to the ongoing harangue, Sherlock stared calmly at the magical portrait of his mother hanging on the wall, willing an attempt at dialogue.

"I was busy teaching at Hogwarts this year, which is why I couldn't visit home," he tried to reason.

The relentless torrent of invective flowed undeterred.

"You, procuring a position as a teacher at Hogwarts? Who was the misguided headmaster who hired a good-for-nothing like you? An absolute disgrace!"

Realizing that his attempt to communicate was going to prove futile, Sherlock audibly sighed. A lavish red cloth obediently floated to the portrait's frame, muffling his mother's indignant yowls.

Casting a non-verbal spell, Sherlock summoned every book from the shelves, creating an orbit of knowledge around him. This unique magic, a gift of his successful soul fusion, had endowing capabilities that could interfere with the fundamental reality.

Apart from just moving objects or giving them simple tasks or shape-shifting, it offered a broad spectrum of possibilities. It was, however, a toned-down version of the power he wielded when he had slain the basilisk. Limited in combat utility, it nonetheless offered fantastic convenience in day-to-day chores.

Handpicking a book from the ones swirling around him, the rest obediently flew back to their designated spots. Life at home was often humdrum and mundane for Sherlock. He spent the majority of his time cloistered away in his study, poring over various arcane magics but spending a significant portion of his time delving into the Patronus charm.

Dementors potentially causing chaos upon the reopening of Hogwarts was an unsettling memory lurking at the edges of his recollection. The Patronus charm, known to be effective in countering these dark creatures, was an imperative skill to master. However, eliciting such a complex spell that relies so heavily on emotional capacity required something beyond mere regular practice. As such, he held modest expectations of himself perfecting it; being able to summon it when most needed would be sufficient.

After two weeks of seclusion within his home, Sherlock emerged from his study. He remembered an agreement regarding his father's old butler's will, presented to him during the same period in the previous year. It had been a full circle around the sun since receiving his father's last testament.

Previously, amid his Hogwarts duties, Sherlock stayed largely disinterested in his father's will. However, after getting a deeper insight into his parents during his stint at Hogwarts, Sherlock felt prompted to meet his estranged father during the summer holiday.

From his exchange with Slughorn, Sherlock discerned that his parents weren't always so antagonistic towards wizards. They had even agreed to nominate him as Sherlock's godfather. Now, with his mother's portrait showing extreme aversion towards him and his father vehemently repelling any magical association with his son, the sudden radical change perplexed Sherlock.

Intrigue piqued by this paradox, Sherlock also spent time researching his father's status in the non-magical world. The Cavendish family, hereditary of Devonshire's Duke in Britain, had a lineage of accomplished alchemists and politicians who left a significant imprint on British politics.

The family's fortunes, however, experienced a stark difference compared to the mainstream world of Sherlock's past life. With looming declination since the 19th century, the title of Devonshire's Duke was under dire threat due to the shortage of direct male heirs. It was a line of single-handed succession right from his great-grandfather's lineage. The title held the risk of being passed onto indirect descendants if no boys were born. Sherlock's biological father had no known successors, making the situation dire.

Despite lying on his deathbed, Sherlock's father intended to relinquish his title and affluence to his distant relatives unless Sherlock vowed to cut all ties with the magical world. The lengths Sherlock's father was willing to go to shun his son's magical associations laid bare the man's ruthlessness.

Sherlock didn't care much for the lofty titles or the vast fortune, all too large for any man to spend in one lifetime. For a wizard found more value in a magic-filled notebook than such physical riches.

Although not detached, Sherlock, as a wizard with a mission orbiting in his life, viewed worldly possessions as a trifle. Curiosity drove him to uncover the reason behind his parents' contrasting demeanor.

Armed with this newfound resolution, he decided to call the old butler to arrange an appointment with his estranged father.

Just as the connection clicked into place, before the other party on the line could get a word in Sherlock softly declared,

"I am Sherlock Forester, and I seek an audience with him."

The voice at the other end paused, probably overcome with shock, and after a few moments, a shaky voice replied,

"My apologies, Master. I'll arrange a pick-up for you immediately."

With the call ended, Sherlock contemplated whether it would be appropriate to bring a small token to their first meeting in this life, but reconsidering based on the strained father-son relationship, he decided to arrive empty-handed, aligning more with his character's background.

Soon an opulent car pulled up outside his quaint residence. The elder gentleman Sherlock had seen last year stepped out, about to press the doorbell when Sherlock made his appearance.

"Greetings, Master," the man intoned with a respectful nod, and Sherlock returned the gesture.

The old man hastily retreating to one side, he ceremoniously opened the car door for Sherlock. Once Sherlock was seated, the man closed the door, and the vehicle smoothly glided away towards the hospital in London.