October arrived.
The weather was gradually turning cold.
It had been raining heavily for the past two days, soaking the entire castle, and the changing temperatures were causing many young wizards to fall ill.
A warm fire was burning in Sherlock's office, and he wasn't the only one there today.
Harry was also there, having been assigned to detention by Professor McGonagall for the flying car incident at the start of the term.
Harry's days of detention with Sherlock were actually quite pleasant.
He only had to copy out past O.W.L. exam questions for Defence Against the Dark Arts onto parchment—enough to fill three years' worth—and then he could leave.
Compared to Ron, who was being punished in the freezing trophy room, helping Filch polish trophies, Harry didn't even feel like this was a punishment.
Sherlock's office even had snacks for him to enjoy, making it more comfortable than the Gryffindor common room.
After writing the last letter, Harry put down his quill, stretched his sore wrist, and handed his morning's work to Sherlock for inspection.
"Your handwriting is good. If you weren't in detention, I might even award a few points to Gryffindor for it."
Sherlock glanced at the questions Harry had copied and offered a faint compliment.
While he was speaking, Harry surreptitiously grabbed a milk toffee from the snack tray on the desk and mumbled through it.
"So… can I go now? Professor, Wood and the others are waiting for me for Quidditch practice."
Sherlock turned to look at the heavy rain still pouring outside the window and asked,
"You're training in this weather?"
"Malfoy's father got the Slytherin team the newest brooms. Wood's really stressed. Our equipment isn't as good as theirs, so we have to work harder on tactics and skills."
Harry chewed and swallowed the toffee, his voice becoming clearer.
Sherlock waved his hand, indicating he was free to go.
"Go on, then. I'll tell Professor McGonagall you've completed your punishment. Be careful on the pitch, and good luck today."
Harry jumped down from the chair excitedly and bowed to Sherlock.
"Thank you, Professor Cavendish."
Then he hurried out of the office, remembering to close the door carefully behind him.
Sherlock could only shake his head slightly at the cloudy sky outside the window, sighing, "Youth is wonderful," before returning to compiling study materials for the older students.
Harry arrived at the Quidditch pitch in the rain, where Wood and the other team members were already waiting for him.
"Hey, Professor Cavendish didn't give you too hard a time, did he, Harry?"
Seeing him arrive, the Weasley twins swooped down from the sky on their broomsticks and stopped in front of Harry.
Harry mounted his broom, rising into the air as he said casually,
"No, Professor Cavendish just had me copy out questions. Ron's having a much worse time, he—"
Before he could finish, a black iron ball came hurtling towards Harry with small wings flapping, striking him directly in the stomach!
The force of the Bludger's impact sent Harry flying off his broom!
He fell to the ground in the rain like a kite with a broken string.
"Harry!"
The other Gryffindor players on the pitch cried out in alarm.
Wood, Katie, Angelina, and Alicia all flew to Harry's side on their brooms.
Harry was staggering to his feet on the grass.
He was covered in mud and clutching his stomach, gagging.
"George! Fred! Watch your Bludger! Luckily, Harry wasn't flying high enough, or that would have put him in the hospital wing for at least two weeks!"
Wood angrily reprimanded the Weasley twins.
They were the team's Beaters, responsible for keeping the Bludgers away from their teammates, but they had been so busy greeting Harry that they had neglected their duty.
George and Fred apologized to Harry sheepishly. Harry, who had recovered somewhat, waved his hand, indicating he didn't mind, and remounted his broom.
"Should we go see Madam Pomfrey, Harry?" George asked, trying to make amends for his mistake.
Harry, his face pale, shook his head as he rose back into the air.
"It's okay, I'm fine now. I can keep practicing."
However, his performance in practice afterward did not bear out his words.
The Gryffindor players practiced on the pitch from noon until dusk, nearly dark. Alicia and the other Chasers had scored over thirty goals, but Harry still hadn't seen a glimpse of the Golden Snitch.
Normally, within an hour of practice, Harry would have at least spotted the Snitch, if not caught it. But now he was still flying around, not seeing even a glint of gold.
Wood also noticed that Harry was clearly not himself, and he disappointedly announced the end of practice before it got dark, telling everyone to go back and rest.
Harry put his broom back in the broom shed and trudged towards the castle, his face gloomy as he clutched his stomach.
He didn't know what was wrong with him that afternoon, but ever since he had left Sherlock's office, he had been completely out of sorts.
Dragging his wet, muddy robes into the castle, Harry hadn't even had a chance to wipe the rain from his face when a clumsy figure bumped into him, knocking him to the ground.
"Ouch!"
Harry cried out in pain, then watched the retreating figure run up the stairs, as if fleeing, and grumbled,
"Be careful, Neville! Snape's not chasing you."
Before he could even stand up, the Gryffindor ghost who haunted the castle—Nearly Headless Nick—floated by.
"Hello, Harry."
"Hello, Nick."
Nick seemed troubled by something, but he still warned Harry.
"You'd better leave quickly. Filch is in the corridor not far from here. He has a cold and is in a bad mood. He'll definitely punish you if he sees you've dirtied the floor."
Harry had already seen Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, appear at the corner of the corridor, her two yellow eyes glowing like small lanterns.
"You're right, I have to go now," Harry said.
He backed away from Mrs. Norris's condemning gaze, but it was too late.
Filch and his annoying cat seemed to have some mysterious connection.
He suddenly sprang out from behind a tapestry to Harry's right, wearing a long scarf around his neck, his nose unnaturally red, his eyes bulging alarmingly, and the flesh on his double chin trembling.
"Filth! I've had enough of you, Potter! Filth everywhere! Everything's a mess! You'll come with me!"
Harry looked dejected as he trailed behind Filch, muttering under his breath,
"Today is really unlucky."
Suddenly, a rustling sound reached Harry's ears.
"...so hungry... so long... kill them... eat..."