Chapter 58: Broken Spell Casting

As Dumbledore was getting up from the ground, Sherlock Forester was quick to rush to the elderly wizard's aid.

"My goodness, what happened, Headmaster? How did you manage to fall?" he questioned, concern lacing his every word.

In front of this personification of wisdom and knowledge, Sherlock took great strides to be nothing but considerate; his apparent unconcern would be uncalled for in the wake of the people's regard for Dumbledore.

Despite witnessing his headmaster's moment of embarrassment, Sherlock's worry persisted. Dumbledore, with a chuckle, lightly brushed off Sherlock's concerned remarks, steadying himself on Sherlock's offered arm.

"A minor inconvenience of old age, Sherlock," he laughed, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Sometimes, my legs and feet have a mind of their own."

Sherlock allowed his gaze to wander to the staircase that had led to Dumbledore's stumble. It seemed ordinary, harmless. The staircases in Hogwarts did have a knack for leading students on wild goose chases as part of their cunning enchantment, but he doubted they would dare to try their mischief on the revered headmaster. The only reasonable explanation, then, was a simple trip.

A quiet chuckle danced its way out of Sherlock's lips. He hadn't anticipated Dumbledore, a man of venerable age and status, to display such youthful clumsiness.

Once they arrived in the corridor leading to the first floor, Dumbledore waved off Sherlock's offer of assistance with a wry smile, the humor in his eyes saying more than words ever could.

"My old age hasn't progressed to the point where I need you as a crutch, Sherlock," chuckled Dumbledore. "Speaking of which, I've been meaning to thank you for the Christmas gift. No one else seems to remember my affinity for Cockroach Clusters. It's thoughtful of you to send me a box every year."

Sherlock couldn't help but think that candy resembling and even behaving like cockroaches was a fascinating choice. It was an acquired taste, one he was certain not many would care to understand.

Expressing this thought wasn't wise, however, so Sherlock chose a more appropriate path, voicing his concern for the headmaster's health instead.

"Although, given your age, Professor, perhaps you might consider moderating your intake of sweets. Too many could be detrimental to your health."

Dumbledore responded with a whimsical wink, "Given my old age, I have sparse indulgences left, Sherlock. If I can still relish them, why deny myself this simple pleasure? Who can say how much longer I can enjoy them for."

Taken back, Sherlock was quick to hypothesize, "You're jesting, Professor, you're healthy enough to live another hundred years or more."

A hearty round of laughter from Dumbledore echoed down the hallway, "You've changed, Sherlock. Flattery was never your forte."

"I haven't changed, Professor."

"Change isn't always bad," Dumbledore countered, his gaze deep and inviting, betraying just a hint of the challenge he was posing. "I hope what you just said is flattery, and not your true philosophical inclination."

Their conversation continued as they ventured past the hall's entrance. A few students, those few who had chosen to stay at Hogwarts for the winter break, hadn't yet descended to the Great Hall for breakfast. The Hogwarts staff was entirely a different matter.

Every corner was abuzz with activity. Hagrid, the friendly half-giant, was hauling a fir tree into the hall, his eyes darting around, seeking the perfect place to set it down. At his side, like a commander directing his troops, was Professor Flitwick discussing embellishments. As if on cue, Professor McGonagall busily conjured Christmas garlands out of holly and mistletoe along the stone walls.

Many a professor, including Sherlock himself, found their home at Hogwarts and naturally spent each holiday there. Even the ghosts, who were more akin to Halloween revelers, couldn't resist the joy that Christmas brought.

In addition to the professors, the supporting staff like Hagrid, the caretaker of the Forbidden Forest; Filch, the ever-present Castle caretaker; and Madam Pince, the no-nonsense Hogwarts Librarian, all shared in the merriment.

Sherlock decided to volunteer his time to decking the hall instead of succumbing to the temptation of practicing magic on the snowy Christmas morning.

"Perhaps we could add some stars," suggested Professor Flitwick, stroking his chin thoughtfully before waving his miniaturized wand at the noble fir. A myriad of radiant silver stars appeared on the tree.

Upon inspection, Sherlock suggested, "Golden stars might add a dash of warmth." A flick of his wand was all it took for the silver stars to transform into dazzling golden ones.

The decorating consumed their morning, but the result was well worth the toil. Contentedly, he decided on a stroll by the Black Lake to take in the serenity of the day. Butterbeer-infused laughter and gleeful shrieks were carried by the wind from the direction of the Quidditch pitch, where Harry and Ron had partaken in a friendly snowball fight.

As the two were on their way back to the castle they chatted, "I'm certain they secretly cheated with magic. That snowball must have had eyes the way it kept aiming for my forehead," Harry complained.

"Never mind them, we cheated too," Ron nudged, "I saw you sneak the dungbomb Fred gave you, into the snowball you threw at the Slytherins."

Their banter about cheating was interrupted when they coincidentally ran into Sherlock, the pairs eyes widened in surprise and quickly veered away under his scrutinizing gaze. They wished they could simply run off, but having made eye contact already, they had no choice but to address their professor.

"Good morning, Professor Forester," they greeted, avoiding wishing him a Merry Christmas, due to the risk of being wished a Merry Christmas by the harbinger of misfortune in turn.

Suspicion sparked in Sherlock's eyes, "Have you two been up to your usual mischievous exploits?"

Scratching his head, Harry replied, "Nothing, Professor, it's Christmas Day after all, what could we have possibly do wrong."

"Indeed, we've always been very well behaved.", Ron corroborated.

Sherlock knew better than to trust their words entirely. He was aware of the mischief they, along with Fred and George Weasley, were capable of causing. However, today was Christmas, and he didn't wish to dampen their spirits.

"Just remember to remain within the bounds of propriety, alright? Off you go. And may your Christmas be..." Sherlock began, but before he could finish, both boys cut him off.

"I have a stomachache, Professor, I need to quickly return to the castle."

"I'll accompany Harry, to get him some medicine."

Sharing their hastily concocted excuse of a stomach ache before scampering off into the castle, they left a bemused Sherlock behind, still unsure of what on earth they were up to.