(no subject)
This week just keeps getting longer and longer. I've scarcely had time to continue my search for the robe culprit, and I only got half marks on my Transfiguration exam because I'd not had time to revise for the majority of the week. Then, in Potions yesterday, I was so tired from putting together that ridiculous trellis that I nearly chopped off my own finger. If I were the type of person who laughed at themselves, I'd probably enjoy the irony of it, but then, I've never had reason to laugh at myself. I'd much rather leave that sort of thing up to the Hufflepuffs. I'm sure that only those types are the type that need to have a sense of humour about themselves.
In any case, the latest stalker was finally discovered yesterday, during--what else?--detention.
Friday: The two of you will rake the Quidditch pitch. If this is not done thoroughly, Madam Hooch has agreed to bench both of you for the next Slytherin-Gryffindor match.
First, the sinister Sprout requests that Potter and I build her a trellis. Then the punishments turn into raking. Father never raised me to be the sort of wizard who rakes fields. I think Pansy is quite right in her assessment that all of the work in this castle is done by student labour.
I'm quite lucky my hands weren't purposely misshapen into the shape of the handle of the rake I had to use. Naturally, there were the most convenient gusts of winds that kept sending my piles of leaves scattering everywhere, so the whole event took hours. It is November. It was cold. Apparently, however, no consideration was made for that. Before I left the castle, I tried to put a heating charm on my socks that Professor Flitwick taught us in Charms last week, but something must have been wrong with the way he taught it, because instead of warm socks, I ended up with wet socks. If I'd had the time, I would have left them on the Charms classroom floor for Flitwick, but no. All I could do was change my socks and go out to the pitch. So of course, my feet were even colder than they should have been. Comfort has no matter when it comes to detention, though, obviously.
After all, surely a suitable punishment for dressing in costume is pneumonia.
So for the afternoon and evening of yesterday, I was left to face the harsh, cruel, winds while raking the Quidditch pitch. Now my lips are chapped from being outside for so long, but that's only the tip of the iceberg.
When Potter and I were finally done and were about to put the rakes away, I heard this rather peculiar sound from behind us. What was it, you ask?
Well, before I really knew what was happening, Potter was off in a fit, and I soon realised he was under attack by a sodding book. The very same book that chased us in the library on Monday. Actually, he wasn't really under attack. It was sort of flapping its bindings at him pathetically, now that I really think about it. Ha, ha, ha. So naturally Potter, being Potter, collapsed, and the book fell silent. Which is, of course, when we both noticed the title: The Art of Literary Self Defence. It started to flap in a rather foreshadowing way.
For a split second, both Potter and I, rakes still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though I had meant to do it all along, I seized the rake and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.
There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurred out of the book in torrents, streaming over my hands, flooding the grass. Potter was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing, and then, the book was gone.
Then I realised that Potter was actually throwing a fit on the ground because he seemed to be in some sort of pain. Or at least, I suspect that was why he was lying there like that. Anyway, he said he'd twisted his knee, which was clearly an exaggeration, because I didn't notice his leg was set in any sort of obtuse angles. But no. Probably bent on getting detention, Potter insisted his knee was twisted, and kept saying he had to go to the hospital wing. Of course, I'm quite sure this was to get out of doing more work, so I went about my business putting the rakes away myself.
And when I came back, Potter was still lying on the ground. I would have left him there, but he insisted he needed to go to the hospital wing, and he insisted he couldn't go back to the castle unaided. As though his knee hurt that much. He'd been flapped at by a book. He'd not just run the Hogsmeade Marathon.
Pomfrey, of course, being as much of a suck up as the rest of the staff, proclaimed that Potter's knee was, in fact, twisted. The whole thing was rather ludicrous. Clearly he was overexaggerating this "twisted knee" in hopes that he would get out of the weekend's detentions because of his "injury." And Pomfrey just fed right into the whole thing! She even said he'd have to spend the night, so I'll probably be serving my bloody detention alone this evening. Which is just typical, because if there were any detentions Potter would definitely be too cowardly to do, it would be today's and tomorrow's. Disgraceful, if I do say so myself.
In any case, the latest stalker was finally discovered yesterday, during--what else?--detention.
Friday: The two of you will rake the Quidditch pitch. If this is not done thoroughly, Madam Hooch has agreed to bench both of you for the next Slytherin-Gryffindor match.
First, the sinister Sprout requests that Potter and I build her a trellis. Then the punishments turn into raking. Father never raised me to be the sort of wizard who rakes fields. I think Pansy is quite right in her assessment that all of the work in this castle is done by student labour.
I'm quite lucky my hands weren't purposely misshapen into the shape of the handle of the rake I had to use. Naturally, there were the most convenient gusts of winds that kept sending my piles of leaves scattering everywhere, so the whole event took hours. It is November. It was cold. Apparently, however, no consideration was made for that. Before I left the castle, I tried to put a heating charm on my socks that Professor Flitwick taught us in Charms last week, but something must have been wrong with the way he taught it, because instead of warm socks, I ended up with wet socks. If I'd had the time, I would have left them on the Charms classroom floor for Flitwick, but no. All I could do was change my socks and go out to the pitch. So of course, my feet were even colder than they should have been. Comfort has no matter when it comes to detention, though, obviously.
After all, surely a suitable punishment for dressing in costume is pneumonia.
So for the afternoon and evening of yesterday, I was left to face the harsh, cruel, winds while raking the Quidditch pitch. Now my lips are chapped from being outside for so long, but that's only the tip of the iceberg.
When Potter and I were finally done and were about to put the rakes away, I heard this rather peculiar sound from behind us. What was it, you ask?
Well, before I really knew what was happening, Potter was off in a fit, and I soon realised he was under attack by a sodding book. The very same book that chased us in the library on Monday. Actually, he wasn't really under attack. It was sort of flapping its bindings at him pathetically, now that I really think about it. Ha, ha, ha. So naturally Potter, being Potter, collapsed, and the book fell silent. Which is, of course, when we both noticed the title: The Art of Literary Self Defence. It started to flap in a rather foreshadowing way.
For a split second, both Potter and I, rakes still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though I had meant to do it all along, I seized the rake and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.
There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurred out of the book in torrents, streaming over my hands, flooding the grass. Potter was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing, and then, the book was gone.
Then I realised that Potter was actually throwing a fit on the ground because he seemed to be in some sort of pain. Or at least, I suspect that was why he was lying there like that. Anyway, he said he'd twisted his knee, which was clearly an exaggeration, because I didn't notice his leg was set in any sort of obtuse angles. But no. Probably bent on getting detention, Potter insisted his knee was twisted, and kept saying he had to go to the hospital wing. Of course, I'm quite sure this was to get out of doing more work, so I went about my business putting the rakes away myself.
And when I came back, Potter was still lying on the ground. I would have left him there, but he insisted he needed to go to the hospital wing, and he insisted he couldn't go back to the castle unaided. As though his knee hurt that much. He'd been flapped at by a book. He'd not just run the Hogsmeade Marathon.
Pomfrey, of course, being as much of a suck up as the rest of the staff, proclaimed that Potter's knee was, in fact, twisted. The whole thing was rather ludicrous. Clearly he was overexaggerating this "twisted knee" in hopes that he would get out of the weekend's detentions because of his "injury." And Pomfrey just fed right into the whole thing! She even said he'd have to spend the night, so I'll probably be serving my bloody detention alone this evening. Which is just typical, because if there were any detentions Potter would definitely be too cowardly to do, it would be today's and tomorrow's. Disgraceful, if I do say so myself.