After the Defence Against the Dark Arts monthly exams,
life at Hogwarts slipped back into its usual rhythm.
Well—almost. For fifth-years and Quidditch players, things were only getting more intense.
That weekend, Oliver Wood had to drag Harry to negotiate with Professor McGonagall, hoping to suspend Harry's orchard detention for a while. (Let's not forget: besides copying lines, both Harry and Ron were also on orchard duty.)
Only then could Harry squeeze in more Quidditch practice.
He and Ron grumbled about it constantly.
Ron even threatened, "If Gryffindor doesn't win the Quidditch Cup this year, I'll tell Professor McGonagall to make you do all the missed orchard work afterward!"
Meanwhile, Defence Against the Dark Arts classes were a mixed bag.
Lower years who'd passed their exams were busy learning new spells—then putting them to use against the various dark creatures Professor Holmes conjured up for them.
Those who'd failed could only stand in the corner, reciting textbooks by heart and sneaking longing glances at their classmates' practice.
But no one had it worse than the sixth-years.
Douglas had assigned them all to morning runs.
Brutal, yes—but effective.
One morning, as the first sunlight spilled over a Slytherin student, he faced the dawn and managed to cast Professor Holmes's special version of the Lumos Charm.
It was a breakthrough, and word spread like wildfire.
Soon, a new saying was making the rounds at Hogwarts:
"Holmes's morning runs help you master spells faster!"
Douglas's morning running club ballooned overnight, splitting into three distinct camps:
First, the couples—just there for a legitimate excuse to moon over each other in public.
Second, the sixth-year-led spell study group, who'd bought into Douglas's talk about fresh air and communing with nature to "feel the magic."
And last, the miserable detention group.
Among them were five first-year Gryffindors, pure victims of the Weasley twins' mischief.
To recruit new blood, Fred and George regaled them with tales of their own nighttime escapades and outwitting Filch.
Add to that the ever-present rumor that Douglas released monsters as a test for the whole school, and the firsties were hooked.
They secretly banded together, determined to catch the monster during a night adventure—hoping to pass Professor Holmes's "test" and prove themselves worthy Gryffindors.
As it turned out, dreams are sweet, but reality bites.
They'd barely set foot outside the Gryffindor common room before Filch caught them red-handed.
When Ron and Harry heard, they could only shake their heads in admiration.
"In our first year, we never snuck out without the Invisibility Cloak," Ron said.
"Blimey, five of them just waltzed right out."
Time flew by.
A few days before Halloween—
Saturday.
Dusk.
Wind and rain battered the castle.
Harry hurried back from Quidditch practice, soaked to the skin and covered in mud, rushing to Professor Holmes's office for his detention.
Oliver Wood's relentless passion for training—rain or shine—was starting to get on Harry's nerves.
Partly because, unlike the Weasley twins, he couldn't sweet-talk his way into delaying detention by an hour, so his practice time was always squeezed.
Worse, Fred and George's recon reports from the Slytherin and Hufflepuff teams were grim:
those new Nimbus 2001 broomsticks were so fast, the players looked like blurs on the pitch.
Lost in thought, Harry nearly collided with Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—Nearly Headless Nick—who was gazing gloomily out the window, muttering,
"…doesn't meet their requirements… just half an inch short, if only…"
"Hello, Nick!" Harry called absently.
Nearly Headless Nick jumped, glancing around as he hurriedly folded a transparent letter and tucked it into his jacket.
"Oh—hello, young Potter! You look troubled, my boy!"
Harry had only meant to say hi, but something about Nick's furtive movements made him pause.
He studied the ghost for a moment—through Nick's translucent body, he could see the stormy sky and sheets of rain outside.
"You look troubled, too," Harry said.
"Ah." Nick waved a delicate, ethereal hand.
"A trifling matter… Not that I truly wanted to join… I thought I could apply, but apparently I 'don't meet the requirements'…"
If Harry hadn't seen the real pain on Nick's face, he might have believed the casual tone.
Suddenly, Nick burst out, snatching the letter again.
"You tell me, Potter—does getting your head hacked forty-four times with a blunt axe qualify you for the Headless Hunt or not?!"
As Nick's voice echoed through the corridor, the flames in the wall torches flickered and danced.
Harry suddenly understood what Professor Holmes meant when he said weather could affect your mood, and mood could affect magic.
Seeing Harry's half-hearted nod, Nick shook open the letter and jabbed at it with a finger, voice quivering with frustration.
"I mean, no one wants things done cleanly more than I do. I wish my head had been completely severed—would've spared me endless pain and ridicule. But…"
Harry suddenly realized he'd lingered too long.
He quickly interrupted,
"Why don't you ask Professor Holmes for help?
You said his magic can affect ghosts—maybe he could help you, you know, finish the job and… separate your head completely…"
Nearly Headless Nick froze—whether at the idea or at the mention of Holmes, Harry couldn't tell.
But Harry didn't stick around.
"If you want, I can mention it to Professor Holmes for you. I'm heading to his office for detention anyway…"
He turned to leave.
Behind him, Nick's anxious voice rang out:
"No, no, no!
I mean, there's no need to trouble the Professor.
I can sort it out myself!
Mr. Potter, don't you dare say a word!"
No sooner had Harry disappeared than Mr. Filch appeared, following the muddy, dripping trail left by Harry's Quidditch robes.
His double chin quivered with rage as he bellowed,
"Filth everywhere, mess everywhere—I've had enough!
Sir Ghost, was that Potter I just saw? I heard you call his name!
I'll catch him and punish him properly this time!
Professor McGonagall and Professor Holmes are far too soft!"
Nearly Headless Nick just shrugged, saying nothing.
Thank Merlin Potter had left in time—if Filch had caught him now, it would've ruined the ghost's special party.
After all, Harry was the only living person who'd agreed to attend his deathday celebration—
Nick had nearly forgotten he'd promised on behalf of his friends, too.
What a good lad!
As for Harry's suggestion to seek out Professor Holmes for help—
Nick decided that was an idea best left to the afterlife.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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