34 Chapter 34: Unlucky Harry

October had swept in on the wings of the autumn winds, draping the landscape in a chill that heralded winter's fast approaching arrival. The persistent rain of recent days had dampened the castle stones, causing moisture to seep into their very marrow, and the ensuant drop in temperature was proving too much for many of the younger students.

Illness whispered through the drafty halls of Hogwarts, laying low witches and wizards still unused to the harshness of the Scottish climate. And nestled amidst this stark weather, Professor Sherlock Forester's office stood as a warm haven, its ornate fireplace casting flickering shadows as the flames danced in their stony prison.

Today, however, the offices solitude was shared. Harry Potter, chafing against a punishment dealt by an unimpressed Professor McGonagall over his ill-judged foray with a flying car at the school's opening, found himself under Forester's tutelage.

Through the strain, the punishment was not as dour as it may seem at surface glance. His task mainly involved transcribing former O.W.L. examination questions from Defence Against the Dark Arts, a mere three years' worth of material standing between him and his freedom.

Compared to him Ron's current predicament seemed far worse off, scrubbing and polishing cold metal trophies under the stern, ever-watchful gaze of caretaker Argus Filch. Meanwhile Harry's homely confinement, accompanied by the occasional indulgence in scattered treats, felt much like a stint in the Gryffindor Common room, instead of a punishment.

Completing his work, Harry carefully inclined his quill, nursing his wrist, which after hours of transcribing was complaining of a mild ache. Stretching his fingers, he then presented the gathered parchment to Forester for approval.

"Your handwriting is quite good," Sherlock began, raising an eye to observe the neat lettering arranged on the parchment. "Had your current predicament not been borne out of punishment, I would not hesitate to reward some house points to Gryffindor for your neat penmanship."

Disenchanted to the transcriptions, the professor ran his eyes through, a vague praiseful comment lingering between them. Seeing a brief paucity in Sherlock's attention, Harry absently reached for a piece of honey-coloured toffee resting on a plate upon the table. Munching on his spoils, he optimistically queried, "Can I... I mean, am I free to leave? Wood and the others are waiting for me to start Quidditch practice."

Sherlock shot a skeptical glance towards the slew of rugged rain dancing over the glass windows on the office walls. He turned to Harry, doubt etched in his aristocratic features, "Practicing Quidditch in such weather?"

Nodding, Harry took the time to swallow his sweet treat before answering. "Malfoy's father gifted the Slytherin team some top-of-the-line brooms. Wood's getting antsy. We don't have their resources, so we're putting in some extra effort to improve our strategies."

Shrugging, Sherlock gestured towards the door, freeing Harry from his parchment chains. "Very well, off with you then. I'll inform Professor McGonagall about your completed sentence. Best of luck at practice, and be careful."

With a spring in his steps, Harry hopped off the chair, thanking Professor Forester before dashing off from the office, the door closing softly behind him.

With a small shake of his head, Sherlock looked out towards the darkened sky again, sighing as he muttered under his breath, "Ah, the joy of being young." He then resumed his own work — crafting examination material for the upper grades.

At the Quidditch field, a soaking Harry found Wood leading the rest of the team in preformative discussions. Greeting their late addition, Fred and George Weasley, the team's beaters, descended from the sky, concern apparent on their identical faces, "Hey, Harry. Did Forester give you a hard time?"

However, before he could reply, a rogue bludger appeared out of nowhere, aiming straight for Harry's midriff. The metallic ball struck him with full force, sending the bespectacled boy flying off his broom. The remainder of the team watched horrified as their seeker plummeted to the sodden ground like a kite with a severed string.

Cries of alarm echoed through the air as Wood, along with chasers Katie Bell, Angelica Johnson, and Alicia Spinnet, darted towards Harry, who was slowly attempting to get up. His robes were covered in mud and rainwater and his face was scrunched up in pain as he held his belly.

"George! Fred! What were you thinking?" Wood chastised the twins, his tone filled with repentance. "Thank God he wasn't too high up, or the Hospital Wing would be his home for the next two weeks!"

The twins apologized profusely to Harry, who waved it off slowly after having regained his breath.

George, guilt written over his face, asked, "Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey, Harry?"

Harry, now back on his broom but looking rather pale, shook his head softly. "No, I'm fine, let's just keep practicing."

But as the day unfolded, his performance during practice narrated a different tale. The training 'til sunset found the Gryffindor chasers scoring more than thirty goals, but Harry hardly managed to get a glimpse of the snitch. Wood, defeated at least for the day, announced the end of training and the team trudged back to the castle.

An unhappy Harry, clutching his stomach, stooped towards the locker to return his broom before making his way back towards the castle. He still couldn't pinpoint what exactly went wrong with his day since stepping out of Forester's office.

As Harry stepped into the castle's grand entrance, a fellow student, in his hurrying, bumped into Harry sending them both sprawling onto the cold, stone floor.

"Look where you're going, Neville!" Harry reproached his fellow Gryffindor. "I'm sure Snape isn't trailing behind you!"

As he was getting back on his feet, the nearly headless ghost of Gryffindor house, Sir Nicholas, floated past. Spotting Harry, he advised, "I'd go another way if I were you, Harry. Filch's under the weather and he's in a frightful mood. If he catches you tracking mud all over, he'll have your head."

Squinting down the dimly-lit corridor, Harry saw the devilish glint in the beady eyes of Mrs. Norris, Filch's feline familiar. As Mrs. Norris continued to glare at him, Harry, having no desire to further spoil his already abysmal day, quietly muttered agreement, "You're right, I should go."

His efforts notwithstanding, Harry soon found a flustered Filch rounding a corner, holding a hand to his forehead and coughing profusely. Spotting Harry, Filch rasped, "What is all this filth?! I've had with you, Potter! You're coming with me."

Wide-eyed, Harry glanced down at his mud-streaked robes before following behind Filch towards his doom, whispering, "Great, just the cherry atop a bad luck sundae."

Suddenly, he paused, a peculiar, ominous rustling noise echoing in his ears, "So hungry... it's been so long... I need to eat...kill them... eat them..."