Chapter 8: The Only Choice

After successfully scaring off his revolting cousin, Harry found himself gazing absentmindedly at the greenery of the garden's hedge. He was a second-year Hogwarts's student, but the long, drawn-out summer holidays had imprisoned him in the house of his magic-loathing aunt and uncle. The anticipation he'd felt last year upon receiving his Hogwarts acceptance letter from Hagrid seemed foolish now; for he realized that even then, this same 'home' awaited his return, its frosty atmosphere perpetually haunting him.

Today was Harry's 12th birthday and yet he hadn't received a single birthday card. His time at Hogwarts had seen him make numerous friends, but even his closest friends Ron and Hermione seemed to have forgotten his existence throughout these summer months, not even extending the courtesy of a letter. This left him overwhelmed with a sense of loneliness.

His cousin Dudley, breathing erratically from fear, had just reported Harry's mischief to Aunt Petunia. The consequent scene was Aunt Petunia in her usual hysterics, ordering Harry to trim the roses, clean the windows, wash the car, weed the flower beds, and tidy the lawn. Under the broiling heat of the sun, Harry weakly wielded his tools and commenced the laborious task in their garden. His behemoth cousin Dudley, akin to a plump pig, watched Harry's struggles, taking delight in his labors with an ice cream in hand.

Harry was void of any profound sense of sadness or anger… well, maybe, a minuscule hint. His years under these conditions had acclimated him to the unjust and downright cruel treatment that his 'family' meted out. Despite its discomfort, it wasn't a sorrowful existence. At noon, the sun bore down incessantly, the back of Harry's neck was warmed under its glare. He wiped the sweat gathering on his forehead, and out of the corner of his eye, noticed a young man jogging outside in their garden.

Their eyes met for just a moment when Harry lifted his gaze. The stranger amused Harry; he was undeniably handsome, perhaps one of the three most attractive faces Harry had ever seen. Yet, his captivating face wore a serious expression, and he seemed rather stern. Their eyes glanced off each other, their connection ephemeral, akin to random strangers momentarily crossing eyes. Harry, continuing his labors wondered who would choose to jog in such extremely hot weather.

Sherlock purposefully encountered Harry Potter on this first jog along his planned route. Cautious of outing himself in front of the celebrated wizarding protagonist, he refrained from greeting him, suspecting that figures from Hogwarts or the Ministry might be guarding Harry at all times. The only reason he wanted to take a look at Harry Potter was because after Professor McGonagall left, he discovered that the place where he lived was only two streets away from Number 4, Privet Drive where Harry Potter lived in the first book.

Harry Potter appeared as he recollected; outfitted in his large round glasses, sporting a wild shock of black hair, bright green eyes and a thin, almost malnourished physique hinting at his troubling home life.

Upon wrapping up his jog, Sherlock showered and, with his hair still dripping wet, headed to the hidden study. The moment he stepped through the study's doorway, he was greeted by the portrait hurling curses at him.

"You degenerate hybrid! Why won't you just die? Disappear from my sight!" Sherlock's method to subdue such a turbulent portrait was simple yet effective - he merely covered it with a curtain and instantly, the woman's ranting faded to a halt.

Judging from her words, Sherlock conjectured that the woman was the mother of his current body's original owner. Curiously this woman hurled such detestable words cursing her own son. The original owner's domestic situation appeared to be complicated. His father supposedly belonged to the upper class of wealthy nobles in the Muggle world, while his witch mother seemed incapable of anything except creating tumultuous ruckus.

In the wizarding world, Sherlock was considered a half-blood - his mother was a witch, and his father was a muggle. This fact was hinted at by the old steward, who had handed him his father's will, when he told him to "Promise not to associate with those people", a blatant allusion to wizards. If Sherlock had only ever encountered wizards similar to his mother, he would invariably develop an aversion to wizards too. However, given his mother's foul personality, how the original owner's parents meet? Why would his father settle for such a lunatic?

These complications intrigued Sherlock, especially amidst the scarcity of information, however he had no time to speculate at the moment. The task at hand was to navigate his new role as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts. Accepting his new difficulties, Sherlock resigned to his situation

"What's the fuss? It's just a Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship, nothing more." he scoffed, laughing derisively. And with that, he picked up his job offer letter, examining it with a smug smirk.