During the car ride, Sherlock took the initiative to ask, "How is his health?"
The old butler sitting in the front smiled and said, "The master's condition has improved. Although he still requires constant care from professional medical staff, he is no longer in life-threatening danger like before."
Sherlock nodded slightly.
Wealthy people don't die so easily, especially in a country like Britain.
The old butler looked at Sherlock hesitantly and asked cautiously, "Young Master, how has your memory recovery been?"
"I have been able to recall some things."
"Are you planning to agree to the request the master made when you meet him this time?"
Sherlock did not answer but said softly, "Let's talk after we meet."
The old butler did not pursue the question, but he could tell from Sherlock's attitude that he did not seem to have any intention of compromising with his father, and could only sigh helplessly.
The car drove from Devonshire all the way to a large private hospital in London, and then the old butler led Sherlock into a detached building in the corner of the hospital.
This three-story villa, which was three times larger than the place where Sherlock lived, was the private ward occupied by the current Duke of Devonshire, Sherlock's biological father.
They went up to the second floor. Sherlock's father lived in the master bedroom on the second floor, while the third floor was where the medical staff responsible for his 24-hour care resided.
The old butler brought Sherlock to the door of the room, stood outside, and let him go in alone.
Sherlock did not hesitate and pushed the door open.
The room was very large, comparable to the living room in Sherlock's house, but after entering, his gaze fell upon the gaunt middle-aged man lying on the hospital bed.
Victor William Spencer Cavendish, the current eleventh Duke of Devonshire.
He did not look very old, but he was terrifyingly thin.
His pale skin was tightly stretched over his bones, as if there were no muscles connecting them at all.
But even having become like this, one could still see the foundation of his handsome features; if he hadn't become ill like this, he would have been an incredibly handsome man.
The Original Owner's appearance was clearly more similar to his father's; both had blond hair and blue eyes.
Victor saw Sherlock walk in, and their eyes met, but neither spoke first.
About ten seconds later, the middle-aged man lying on the bed spoke first. "I heard a year ago that you accidentally fell from the second floor and lost your memory?"
Sherlock nodded.
"I did forget some things at the time, but there were some things I did not forget."
"I had Brad send you that will agreement. Why has a whole year passed, and only today do you come to find me?" Victor's tone was severe; he sounded as though he was interrogating him.
Brad was the name of the old butler. Sherlock did not hide anything and told the truth.
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry approved my application for a Professor position, and I went there to teach for a year."
Upon hearing what Sherlock said, Victor's expression suddenly turned very ugly.
He asked, as if squeezing every syllable through his teeth, "You! You mixed with those Wizards again?"
Sherlock frowned; he found Victor's reaction far more intense than he had imagined.
"I am a Wizard myself, and besides, my mother, she..."
"Shut up! Do not mention her in front of me!"
Victor suddenly flew into a rage, and then he began to cough violently. Soon, the old butler named Brad rushed into the ward with a doctor.
"Get out! Make him get out! He should never think about inheriting anything of mine in this life! Go and hang out with those freaks! Never appear in front of me again!"
Brad grabbed Sherlock's arm and persuaded him, pulling him out of the room.
Outside the ward, old Brad sighed. "Young Master, you haven't seen each other for several years. You shouldn't have provoked him like that the moment you met."
Sherlock looked at old Brad and asked with a frown, "Was my father also very disgusted with my mother before?"
Brad shook his head. "It wasn't like that before. At that time, your grandfather had not yet passed away. When the master was still a young master, he ran home excitedly and said he had found true love. Your grandfather asked him to bring that girl home, but he said that the person he loved would not be willing to be a canary locked in a cage."
His eyes were full of memories as he said with emotion, "I still clearly remember how happy he was at that time. He said that the girl had great ambitions, and they were going to accomplish great things in another place. After that, he left home and disappeared for several years, and when he returned, he was like a completely different person."
"He inherited your grandfather's title and estate and did not allow anyone to mention his past anymore. He became irritable, liked to stare blankly by himself, and then tortured himself in pain..."
He lamented, "Later, his health condition got worse and worse, and that was when we found out he had a son like you..."
Sherlock's frown deepened. From Brad's words, he seemed to have heard some inside story about the past.
"Give the master some time to recuperate and rest, Young Master," Brad advised him. "Don't provoke him anymore. His condition has started to improve. Wait until his health is a bit better, and then you can talk again."
Sherlock nodded. He came here this time just to find out what the Original Owner's father's attitude toward Wizards really was.
As it stood, his attitude was quite clear.
Sherlock declined Brad's kind offer to send someone to take him back, walked out of the hospital alone, and wandered aimlessly through the streets of London.
Although Sherlock was not the real son of the Original Owner's parents, he could now understand why the Original Owner had such an isolated personality.
A mother who constantly cursed and insulted him, and a father who was extremely disgusted by the magic he loved.
Neither of them had even assumed the responsibility of raising him.
Sherlock shook his head and smiled; he felt quite sorry for the Original Owner.
In such a family environment, the fact that he didn't grow up twisted and develop in a bad direction was already extremely rare.
No wonder Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Kingsley, and Professor McGonagall were so concerned about him.
Finding a random hidden alleyway, Sherlock used Apparition and returned directly to his home study.
He sat in the chair and stared blankly at the portrait covered by a red cloth for a while. After coming back to his senses, he blinked at the portrait, and the red silk cloth flew off the portrait of the Original Owner's mother, Sally Cavendish.
Before the Witch in the portrait could start her cursing, Sherlock spoke first. "I plan to go out and clear my mind."
Sally was suddenly stunned; she seemed not to have expected Sherlock to say this so suddenly.
But Sherlock did not care about her reaction and said to himself, "Your story seems a bit too sad, which makes my current mood a bit bad, so going out for a few days is a good choice."
"You still want to go out and play! Disgusting thing! Trash!..."
Just as Sally came back to her senses and her cursing began, Sherlock covered the portrait with the red silk cloth again, blocking her voice.
Then he stretched and stood up from the chair, hooked his finger gently at his desk drawer, and the drawer opened by itself. At the same time, two letters flew out from inside and automatically slipped into Sherlock's pocket.
He walked out of the study. The bedroom door opened by itself, and a few pieces of spare clothing and daily necessities folded themselves neatly and flew into a suitcase.
When Sherlock walked to the living room, the suitcase floated to the front door, waiting for its owner to take it away.
Sherlock was not wearing Wizard robes, but regular summer clothes from the Muggle world, with a light trench coat worn over them.
After everything was ready, he pushed open the door and walked toward 4 Privet Drive.
4 Privet Drive.
The place where the famous Harry Potter in the Wizarding World lived daily, his aunt and uncle's house.
Harry's uncle, the exceptionally fat Vernon Dursley, muttered as he picked up the phone. "I am Vernon Dursley."
At this moment, Harry happened to be in the room, and when he heard Ron's voice replying, he couldn't help but be stunned.
"Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? I'm looking for Harry Potter!"
Ron shouted vigorously. Uncle Vernon was startled and held the phone receiver a full foot away from his ear, eyes wide, with an expression of both fury and horror.
"Who are you?" he roared in the direction of the phone receiver. "Who are you?"
"Ron Weasley!" Ron roared back, not to be outdone, as if shouting at Uncle Vernon from opposite ends of a football field. "I am a friend from Harry's school!"
Uncle Vernon's small eyes turned to Harry, and Harry stood rooted to the spot.
"There is no Harry Potter here!" he roared, the phone receiver now an arm's length away from him, as if he were afraid it would explode. "I don't know what school you are talking about! Don't call me again! Do you hear me, you brat!"
He threw the receiver back onto the phone as though he were throwing away a poisonous spider. Then he turned his gaze, full of fury, toward Harry.
"How dare you give our phone number to people like that, people like you!" Uncle Vernon roared, spraying spit all over Harry's face.
Ron had clearly caused trouble for Harry, but Harry didn't care at all. He had long been accustomed to the Dursley family's attitude toward him.
At Hogwarts, he was one of the heroes who solved the secret of the Chamber of Secrets and defeated the Basilisk, but these things had no impact on his life at the Dursley residence; Harry was always the type of person they hated the most.
"Go wash the socks! We feed you and clothe you, not to let you freeload at home!"
Harry nodded perfunctorily and agreed, "Okay, I know, I'll go now."
Just as he turned around, preparing to wash the Dursley family's smelly socks, the doorbell suddenly rang.