Just a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor: No More, No Less

Harry stared listlessly at the hedge, boredom heavy in the air. It was his birthday, yet the only sounds were the buzzing of insects and the distant rumble of traffic. Another summer trapped in this stifling house, another year of enduring Aunt Petunia's disdain for all things magical.

He had expected his Hogwarts friends to remember. A letter from Ron or Hermione, perhaps a birthday card with a cheerful message. But the silence was deafening, a stark reminder of his isolation.
Aunt Petunia, having received a frantic phone call from her sister, was currently unleashing a torrent of demands. "Trim the roses! Clean the windows! Wash the car! Weed the flowerbeds!" she bellowed from the living room.
While Harry toiled under the scorching sun, his cousin Dudley, looking like a miniature pig, lazed around, gleefully devouring an ice cream cone.
Resentment simmered within Harry, but it was a familiar emotion. He'd long since grown accustomed to this unfair treatment. It was uncomfortable, yes, but not truly unbearable.
As he wiped the sweat from his brow, Harry noticed a young man jogging down the street. Their eyes met briefly, a fleeting connection between two strangers. The man, with his sharp features and an air of quiet intensity, was undeniably handsome, though his expression was stern.
Harry quickly dismissed him from his mind. Who had time for strangers on a sweltering summer day? He had a garden to tend to, and the prospect of another summer of isolation loomed large.
Suddenly, a glint of movement caught his eye. A pair of intense eyes watched him from behind a nearby hedge.
Sherlock Holmes, following his meticulously planned running route, had not anticipated this encounter. He had no intention of engaging with the infamous "Boy Who Lived."
He observed Harry Potter with a detached curiosity. The boy, with his messy black hair, large round glasses, and an air of quiet resignation, looked exactly as described in the books.
Sherlock quickly averted his gaze, continuing his jog. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
Back at his residence, Sherlock showered and returned to his study. The ornate portrait of an elderly woman immediately erupted in a torrent of abuse.
"Why don't you die! You wretched excuse for a son! Disappear from my sight!"
Sherlock, unfazed, draped a heavy velvet cloth over the portrait, silencing the woman's tirade.
The original owner's mother, it seemed, was a formidable force. Sherlock shuddered to imagine living under the same roof as her.
He had much to do. He needed to familiarize himself with the curriculum, research Defense Against the Dark Arts, and perhaps even practice a few basic spells.
The challenge ahead was daunting, but Sherlock Holmes, ever the investigator, was ready to face it. He would unravel the mysteries of Hogwarts, one spell at a time.
Sherlock Holmes, heir to a vast Muggle fortune and a prestigious title, found himself grappling with an unexpected twist of fate. His mother, a witch with a penchant for chaos, stood in stark contrast to his aloof, Muggle father. In the magical world, Sherlock's blood was classified as "mixed," a product of this unlikely pairing.
The terms of his inheritance, delivered by the aged family retainer, hinted at a deep-seated animosity towards magic. A cryptic clause demanded a promise to sever ties with "those people" – undoubtedly referring to wizards. This implied that Sherlock's father shared a similar disdain for the magical community.
One couldn't blame Sherlock for his apprehension. If all wizards resembled his portrait-bound mother, constantly spewing insults, a positive outlook on magic would be a challenge. But a nagging question remained: how could such an unusual union produce a magical child? The answer, shrouded in the mysteries of his family's past, would have to wait.
Professor McGonagall's offer – the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts – presented a new dilemma. Inheriting his estranged father's wealth suddenly seemed trivial. Even if he acquired the money, freedom to spend it appeared unlikely.
The most pressing issue was navigating his new role. Escape routes flooded Sherlock's mind. Feigning a broken leg, a common Muggle strategy, wouldn't work. In the magical world, even severed limbs could be reattached. Disappearing altogether was another fleeting thought, but owls, seemingly ordinary birds, could track him down with ease. Escape was futile.
With his options exhausted, Sherlock conceded. He would take the Hogwarts position. This acceptance brought a surprising sense of liberation. After all, his previous life had ended in tragedy. This rebirth, however uneventful it might seem, was a chance to forge his own path. Living a fulfilling life, even if cut short, wouldn't be a loss. Besides, being a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor wasn't a guaranteed death sentence. The odds of survival, upon closer inspection, seemed rather favorable.
A smirk touched Sherlock's lips as he picked up the appointment letter once more. "Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts," he scoffed, a glint of intrigue flickering in his eyes. Perhaps, this was the perfect opportunity to unravel the mysteries of the magical world, one spell at a time.