บท 85: Chapter 85: Burning the Forbidden Forest

Sherlock guided Harry and Ron towards the rustic comfort of Hagrid's wooden hut. After reigniting the slumbering coals in the stove, he filled an old kettle with fresh water, placing it just over the flickering flames and patiently awaited its rhythmic whistle.

Both Ron and Harry obliged his silent command by perching obediently on a worn wooden bench that reminded them so much of their classrooms back at Hogwarts. While the boys sat, Sherlock made himself at home on Hagrid's lone oversized but comfortable sofa. He conjured a plate of reasonably appetizing biscuits, using a subtle wave of his wand, all the while maintaining his steady, unwavering gaze on the two young wizards.

"So," he finally broke the silence, his voice hard and stern, "why did you venture into the Forbidden Forest?"

Pulled from his thoughts, Harry started, squirming uncomfortably under his professor's intense gaze. He grappled with the daunting decision to confess, or carefully weave a half-truth. Sherlock, however, gave him the time he needed, opting to start gnawing on a biscuit instead. The professor had earlier discovered, with mild amusement, that unless one possessed the formidable bite force of a giant, these rock-hard treats served better as teeth grinders than snacks.

Seizing the pensive silence, Ron softly muttered, "We should probably tell Professor Forester about it… He knows Hagrid is innocent."

Finally deciding to trust Sherlock, Harry elucidated the entire incident involving the diary, and its original owner, Tom Riddle. From the moment he had found the mysterious diary on his cluttered desk, to the intimate conversations he had with Riddle's echo trapped within the enchanted pages, and the glimpses into Riddle's manipulated memories- he bore it all to the professor. And as Sherlock drank in the information, his countenance took on a progressively darker hue, until at last, he tossed aside the half-gnawed biscuit, locking Harry under his intense scrutiny.

Unsettled by Sherlock's unwavering stare, Harry asked hesitantly, "P-professor, did we do something wrong?"

"Do you say that Tom Riddle was the possessor of that diary?" Sherlock's voice was a hollow echo, a stark contrast to the fire burning in his eyes.

Harry, his brain working overtime to follow the professor's train of thoughts, bobbed his head in affirmation, reminiscent of a chick pecking corn.

"And he interacted with you... painted a memory of Hagrid's arrest five decades ago?" As the details sunk in, his tone dipped lower.

Harry fought the urge to gulp, kept nodding.

"And then the diary, it stayed with you for a few months, and then... you just lost it?"

Harry felt the prickling weight of the brewing storm in Sherlock's gaze, and cautiously voiced his growing concern, "Professor, is there something- ... was Riddle's diary important?"

"It's not just that the diary is important! The pair of you have a made a series of grave mistakes, that have cost us all dearly!" Sherlock's voice echoed around the hut, reflecting the first bubbles of a deep-seated anger that wished to coat the boys with a decent reprimand.

"Why didn't you report the information you learned from the diary regarding Hagrid's past to the school?"

Feeling a pang of guilt, Harry futilely attempted an explanation, "We were scared that Hagrid might end up being punished even though we all know he could never do something like attacking innocent students.."

Sherlock coiled back in exasperation, the laughter almost spilling out. "Even you two intellectual lightweights realize that Hagrid couldn't possibly have been the real Heir of Slytherin. Dumbledore and McGonagall have known him for over fifty years! Andy yet you thought they would be oblivious to the kind man Hagrid is? Do you take your professors as fools with no ability to discern character?"

Ron and Harry exchanged a glance, shame and confusion knitting their brows. They knew failing to report the matter was wrong, but it was Sherlock's fury that left them befuddled. Riddled with guilt, they watched as the professor mulled over how this whole situation might have been avoided had Harry just handed over the diary when he found it. But then, the realization dawned on him: if Harry and his friends were too perfect, they would not be the interesting protagonists driving the tale.

Brushing past the negative thoughts with a deep sigh, Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, "The one who really opened the Chamber of Secrets is not a student at Hogwarts but the diary. Tom Riddle, the seemingly heroic student you discovered within the diary, was Slytherin's true heir who tarnished Hagrid's name half a century ago to save himself and his diary is responsible for orchestrating this years attacks."

Both Harry and Ron stared at their professor, their eyes wide as saucers. Both were far from anticipating the pivotal role the diary played, especially when it had been in their possession for a good two months! As they retraced the events in their minds, they began to connect the dots. The diary disappeared and the attacks ceased. But soon after they lost it, the attacks sprung back to life. Now, the guilt bored into their hearts: they could have prevented the ensuing disaster if they'd only listened to Hermione when she proposed they hand over the diary to their teachers. Unwillingly, they realized, they had indirectly caused Hermione's petrification.

Seeing his two students plunged in paralyzing guilt and regret, Sherlock shook his head, "It's far too late to reflect on your choices. For now, Hogwarts will soon close; perhaps, it could be a silver lining. Let's go; I'll accompany you back to the castle."

With their heads hanging low, Harry and Ron followed Sherlock back under the looming mass of Hogwarts Castle.

Deep within the heart of the Forbidden Forest, where Sherlock had previously ignited the flames, the centaurs had sensed the uproar and assembled around the fiery spectacle.

"We must set up a brigade! If we don't act quickly, the fire will creep into our community by the fall of night!" One of the centaurs, Firenze, a distinctive figure with piercing blue eyes and pale blond hair, passionately rallied his comrades.

Another burly centaur, Bane , sporting a tousled beard and features as wild as the fire itself, roared his resentment, "Who is behind this? Winter has barely receded, the forest is littered with dead timber! Someone must be trying to burn the forest down!"

It wasn't far from the truth: the fire threatened to devour the entire forest. Since Sherlock had left, the fire had spread to cover hundreds of meters, igniting every flammable tree in its path. The raging wind only serve to fuel its thirst for destruction. Even if the centaurs attempted to extinguish it, they were grossly unequipped to combat such a wildfire.

Firenze, observing the veritable sea of flames, shook his head in desolation, "It's no use trying to extinguish the fire; we should urgently organize an evacuation. We can't—"

His unraveling plans were abruptly cut short as the savage winds mysteriously ceased. Both Firenze and Bane exchanged incredulous looks. Without the winds to aid its onslaught, the fire couldn't spread further, sparking a glimmer of hope for the centaurs. But before they could align their forces to combat the fire, a robust wind rose to replace the calm. The only difference: it whisked the raging fire back in the opposite direction with uncanny force, sparing nothing in its wake.

Vexed and bewildered, Bane stammered to Firenze, "Does this... doesn't this mean we don't need to evacuate anymore?"

Firenze, his face etched with astonishment, quickly scanned the celestial signs emblazoned in the evening sky, and then glanced back at the retreating line of fire. "The celestial signs have changed... We should be safe here but the spiders- the spiders stand no chance according to the current direction of the fire!" His voice wavered off, an unsettling apprehension looming over the forest. He couldn't help but feel a shiver of sympathy for the arachnids now in the perilous path of the fire's wrath.