21. The Deathday Party
October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the matron, was kept busy treating a sudden wave of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny, who had been looking peaky, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair made it seem as though her whole head was on fire.
Raindrops the size of bullets thundered against the castle windows for days on end. The lake swelled, the flowerbeds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid's pumpkins grew to the size of garden sheds. Oliver Wood's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, remained undampened. That was why Hope and Harry, late one stormy Saturday afternoon just before Hallowe'en, found themselves returning to Gryffindor Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud.
Hope wasn't convinced that practicing in the freezing rain was a great idea, especially with the colds going around. But even aside from the miserable weather, the session hadn't been a happy one. Fred and George, having spied on the Slytherin team, had seen firsthand the speed of their brand-new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin players were little more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the sky like jump jets.
As the two squelched down the deserted corridor, they came across someone who looked just as preoccupied. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath.
"... don't fulfill their requirements ... half an inch, if that ..."
"Hello, Nick," Harry greeted.
"Hello, hello," Nearly Headless Nick started, turning to face them. He wore a dashing, plumed hat over his long, curly hair and a tunic with a ruff that concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Hope could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.
"You two look troubled," Nick observed, folding a transparent letter and tucking it inside his doublet.
"So do you," Hope noted.
"Ah." Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand. "A matter of no importance... it's not as though I truly wanted to join... thought I'd apply, but apparently, I 'don't fulfill requirements.'"
Despite his airy tone, a look of great bitterness crossed his face.
"But you would think," he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"
Hope nodded awkwardly. "You would think."
"Oh—yes," Harry added quickly, clearly unsure of what else to say.
"I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, that my head had come off properly—it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However..." Nearly Headless Nick shook the letter open and read furiously.
"'We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.'"
Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.
"Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on! Most people would think that's good and beheaded, but oh no, it's not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore."
He took several deep breaths, then said in a far calmer tone, "So—what's bothering you? Anything I can do?"
"No," Harry muttered. "Not unless you know where we can get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly—"
A high-pitched mewing from somewhere near their ankles cut him off. Hope glanced down and found herself staring into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. Mrs. Norris, the skeletal gray cat who acted as caretaker Argus Filch's deputy in his endless battle against students, watched them unblinkingly.
"You two had better get out of here," Nick urged. "Filch isn't in a good mood. He's got the flu, and some third-years accidentally plastered frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He's been cleaning all morning, and if he sees you dripping mud everywhere..."
"Right," Hope agreed, backing away with Harry from Mrs. Norris's accusing stare.
But they weren't quick enough. Drawn to the spot by some mysterious connection to his foul cat, Argus Filch suddenly burst through a tapestry to their right, wheezing and scanning the corridor wildly. A thick tartan scarf was bound around his head, and his nose was an alarming shade of purple.
"Filth!" he roared, his jowls quivering as he pointed at the muddy puddle pooling beneath their Quidditch robes. "Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me!"
Hope groaned, dragging her feet as she trailed after Filch, her head hanging low. Harry shot a gloomy farewell glance at Nearly Headless Nick before following suit. They trudged behind Filch, unwittingly doubling the number of muddy footprints streaking the floor.
Filch's office was as grim as Hope had imagined. Most students avoided it at all costs. The room was dingy and windowless, lit only by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint, unpleasant smell of fried fish lingered in the air. Wooden filing cabinets lined the walls, their labels revealing that they contained records of every student Filch had ever punished. Hope wasn't surprised to notice that Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves.
Behind Filch's desk, a polished collection of chains and manacles gleamed in the dim light. It was no secret that Filch had long begged Dumbledore to let him suspend students from the ceiling by their ankles. Hope shuddered, resisting the urge to take a step back as Filch slammed the door behind them.
Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around, searching for parchment.
"Dung," he muttered furiously. "Great sizzling dragon bogies... frog brains... rat intestines... I've had enough of it... make an example... where's the form... yes..."
He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.
"Names... Harry Potter... Hope Lupin... Crime..."
"Crime?" Hope repeated in disbelief. "What crime?!"
"It was only a bit of mud!" Harry protested.
"Only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me, it's an extra hour scrubbing!" Filch bellowed, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. "Crime... befouling the castle... suggested sentence..."
Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted at them unpleasantly. The two waited with bated breath for their sentence.
Before Filch could lower his quill, a great BANG! shook the ceiling, making the oil lamp rattle.
"PEEVES!" Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a fit of rage. "I'll have you this time, I'll have you!"
Without another glance, he ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him.
Hope had never liked Peeves—he still called her "Looney Loopy Lousy Lupin" to her dismay—but she couldn't help feeling grateful for his timing. Harry let out a relieved breath. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done—and it sounded like he'd wrecked something big—would keep Filch distracted.
They waited, figuring it was best to be there when he got back. Hope stood idly while Harry sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. Apart from his half-completed form, only one thing sat on the desk: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front.
Hope peeked at the envelope before glancing at the door to make sure Filch wasn't on his way back.
"Hope," Harry drawled warningly, looking between her and the door, expecting Filch to walk in at any moment.
"What? He'll never know," she said, picking up the envelope. "Come on, you're not curious?"
Harry gave her an unsure look but stood next to her, reading over her shoulder:
KWIKSPELL
A Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic
Intrigued, Hope flicked the envelope open and pulled out the parchment inside. The front page read in curly silver writing:
Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork?
There is an answer!
Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell method!
Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes:
I had no memory for incantations, and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am the center of attention at parties, and friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!
Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says:
My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous Kwikspell course, I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you, Kwikspell!
Fascinated, they thumbed through the rest of the envelope's contents. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn't a proper wizard? As they skimmed Lesson One: Holding Your Wand – Some Useful Tips, shuffling footsteps approached. Hope quickly stuffed the parchment back into the envelope and threw it onto the desk just as the door swung open.
Filch looked triumphant.
"That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!" he was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris. "We'll have Peeves out this time, my sweet."
His eyes landed on Harry and Hope before darting to the Kwikspell envelope—now lying two feet from where it had started.
Filch's pasty face went brick red. He hobbled to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and shoved it into a drawer.
"Have you—did you read—?" he spluttered.
"No," Harry lied quickly. Hope shook her head rapidly.
Filch's knobbly hands twisted together. "If I thought you'd read my private... not that it's mine... for a friend... be that as it may... however..."
Hope and Harry stared at him in alarm. Filch had never looked madder—his eyes popped, a tic twitched in his pouchy cheek, and the tartan scarf didn't help.
"Very well... go... and don't breathe a word... not that... however, if you didn't read... go now, I have to write up Peeves' report... go..."
Harry grabbed Hope's hand, pulling her from the office hurriedly. Amazed by their luck, they sped up the corridor and back upstairs. Escaping Filch's office without punishment was probably a school record.
"Harry! Hope! Did it work?" Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him lay the wreckage of a large black and gold cabinet, which appeared to have fallen from a great height.
"I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch's office," Nick said eagerly. "Thought it might distract him—"
"Was that you? That was brilliant!" Hope said gratefully.
Harry nodded. "Yeah, it worked. I didn't even get detention. Thanks, Nick!"
They set off down the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick was still holding Sir Patrick's rejection letter.
"I'm sorry they rejected you, Sir Nick," Hope said genuinely.
"I wish there was something I could do about the Headless Hunt," Harry added.
Nick stopped abruptly. Hope halted too, but Harry walked straight through him. It was like stepping into an icy shower.
"But there is something you could do for me," Nick said. "Harry—would I be asking too much—? No, you wouldn't want—"
"What is it?" Harry asked.
"Well, this Hallowe'en will be my five-hundredth deathday," Nick announced, drawing himself up with dignity.
"Oh," Harry said, unsure whether to look sorry or happy. "Right."
"I'm holding a party in one of the roomier dungeons. Friends will be coming from all over the country. It would be an honor if you would attend. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome too, and of course, you, Ms. Lupin—but I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?" He watched Harry anxiously.
"No," Harry said quickly. "I'll come—"
"My dear boy! Harry Potter, at my Deathday Party!" Nick hesitated, looking excited. "And... do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive you find me?"
"Of—of course," Harry promised.
Nick beamed.
"A Deathday Party?" Hermione asked keenly as Harry and Hope finally changed and joined her and Ron in the common room. "I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've been to one of those—it'll be fascinating!"
"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" Ron muttered, hunched over his Potions homework. He was only halfway through and already grumpy. "Sounds dead depressing to me..."
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By the time Hallowe'en arrived, Harry was regretting his rash promise to go to the Deathday Party, and he wasn't the only one. The rest of the school was happily anticipating the Hallowe'en feast. The Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.
"I mean, really, it's Harry he wants there. He won't even notice I'm missing," Hope reasoned.
"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminded them, though her stern gaze was fixed specifically on Hope. "You said you'd go to the Deathday Party."
"I can't believe I'm missing the Hallowe'en feast two years in a row," Hope grumbled.
At seven o'clock, Harry, Hope, Ron, and Hermione walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which glittered invitingly with gold plates and candles, and instead directed their steps toward the dungeons. Hope lingered by the sight of the massive pumpkins until Ron pulled her along with them.
The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party had been lined with candles too, though these were long, thin, jet-black tapers burning bright blue. The eerie light cast a ghostly glow over their faces, and the temperature seemed to drop with every step. Hope shivered, drawing her robes tightly around herself, grimacing as a sound like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard reached her ears.
"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered.
They turned a corner and found Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway draped in black velvet.
"My dear friends," he said mournfully, "welcome, welcome... so pleased you could come..." He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.
The sight before them was incredible. The dungeon was filled with hundreds of pearly-white, translucent ghosts, mostly drifting about a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws played by an orchestra on a black-draped platform. Overhead, a chandelier blazed midnight blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in mist before them—it was like stepping into a freezer.
"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggested, shifting on his feet to warm them up.
"Careful not to walk through anyone," Ron muttered as they skirted the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man in chains, and the Fat Friar, who was chatting cheerfully with a knight sporting an arrow in his forehead. The Bloody Baron, a gaunt Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other spirits.
"Oh no," Hermione suddenly groaned. "Turn back, turn back—I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle."
"Who?" Harry asked as they quickly backtracked.
"She haunts the girls' toilet on the first floor," Hope explained.
"She haunts a toilet?" Ron repeated, bewildered.
"Yes. It's been out of order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there if I could avoid it. It's awful trying to use the loo with her wailing at you," Hermione said.
"Look, food!" Ron said excitedly.
On the far side of the dungeon stood a long table draped in black velvet. They approached eagerly but stopped short, recoiling in horror. The smell was ghastly. Large, rotten fish were laid on silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal black, were heaped onto salvers; a great maggoty haggis sat beside a slab of mold-covered cheese. At the center, an enormous gray tombstone-shaped cake bore the words, Died 31st October, 1492 in tar-like icing. A portly ghost approached, crouched low, and walked through the table, his mouth open so that the stinking salmon passed straight through him.
"Can you taste it if you walk through it?" Harry asked.
"Almost," the ghost said sadly before drifting away.
"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," Hermione said knowledgeably, pinching her nose as she leaned closer to inspect the putrid haggis.
Hope clamped a hand over her mouth, trying not to gag.
"Can we move? I feel sick," Ron said.
They had barely turned when a small man swooped from under the table, stopping mid-air before them.
"Hello, Peeves," Harry said cautiously.
Unlike the ghosts, Peeves was neither pale nor transparent. He wore a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, and a wide, wicked grin.
"Nibbles?" he asked sweetly, offering a bowl of peanuts coated in fungus.
"No thanks," Hermione said quickly.
"Heard you talking about poor Myrtle," Peeves said, his eyes gleaming. "Rude, you was, about poor Myrtle." He took a deep breath and bellowed, "OY! MYRTLE!"
"Don't you dare, Peeves," Hope hissed.
"Oh no, Peeves, don't tell her what I said! She'll be really upset," Hermione whispered frantically. "I didn't mean it—I don't mind her—er, hello, Myrtle."
The squat ghost of a girl glided toward them, her glummest expression half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.
"What?" she said sulkily.
"How are you, Myrtle?" Hermione asked in a falsely bright voice. "It's nice to see you out of the toilet."
Myrtle sniffed.
"Miss Granger was just talking about you," Peeves whispered slyly in her ear.
"Only nice things," Hope added quickly.
Hermione nodded furiously. "Just saying how—how nice you look tonight," she said, glaring at Peeves.
Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously. "You're making fun of me," she accused, her silver tears welling.
"No—honestly—didn't I just say how nice Myrtle's looking?" Hermione nudged Harry and Ron sharply.
"Oh, yeah..." Harry said quickly.
"She did..." Ron agreed.
"Your glasses are really... translucent today," Hope offered, earning odd glances from the others.
"Don't lie to me!" Myrtle wailed, tears streaming down her face. Behind her, Peeves cackled with delight. "D'you think I don't know what people call me? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!"
"You forgot 'spotty,'" Peeves added gleefully.
Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled the dungeon, Peeves soaring after her, pelting her with moldy peanuts. "Spotty! Spotty!" he chanted.
"What a menace," Hope muttered, watching him disappear.
"Oh, dear," Hermione sighed.
Nearly Headless Nick floated toward them, beaming. "Enjoying yourselves?"
"Oh, yes," they all lied.
"Not a bad turnout," Nick said proudly. "The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent... It's nearly time for my speech. I'd better warn the orchestra..."
But at that moment, the orchestra fell silent. The crowd hushed in excitement as a hunting horn sounded.
"Oh, here we go," Nick muttered bitterly.
Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghostly horses, each carrying a headless rider. The crowd erupted into applause. At the front, a large bearded ghost held his severed head high in the air, scanning the room before plopping it back onto his neck. The horses reared and plunged in the center of the dance floor, and the ghosts cheered wildly.
"Nick!" he roared. "How are you? Head still hanging in there?"
He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder.
"Welcome, Patrick," Nick said stiffly.
"Live 'uns!" Sir Patrick exclaimed, spotting Harry, Hope, Ron, and Hermione. He gave a dramatic, fake jump of astonishment, sending his head tumbling off again. The crowd howled with laughter.
"Very amusing," Nearly Headless Nick muttered darkly.
"Don't mind Nick!" Sir Patrick's head called from the floor. "Still upset we won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say – look at the fellow –"
Harry caught Nick's pointed glance and hurriedly said, "I think Nick's very—frightening and—er—"
"Ha!" Sir Patrick's head bellowed. "Bet he asked you to say that!"
Nick raised his voice. "If I could have everyone's attention, it's time for my speech!"
Striding towards the podium, he stepped into an icy-blue spotlight. "My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow..."
But nobody was listening. Sir Patrick and the Headless Hunt had just started a game of Head Hockey, and the crowd turned to watch. Nick tried in vain to recapture his audience but gave up as Sir Patrick's head went sailing past him to loud cheers.
Hope's stomach grumbled. She shivered slightly from the cold and wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
"I can't stand much more of this," Ron muttered through chattering teeth as the orchestra struck up again, and ghosts swept back onto the dance floor.
"Let's go," Harry agreed.
They edged toward the door, nodding and smiling at anyone who looked their way, then hurried up the passageway full of black candles.
"Pudding might not be finished yet," Ron said hopefully, leading them toward the steps to the Entrance Hall.
Harry suddenly stumbled to a halt, his eyes wide. He clutched the stone wall, leaning his ear against it.
"Harry?" Hope questioned, furrowing her brows. "What're you—?"
"It's that voice again—shut up a minute," Harry whispered, pressing against the wall, his eyes squinting in concentration. "Listen!"
The others froze, watching him. Harry furrowed his brows, tilting his head toward the ceiling.
"This way!" he shouted and took off running up the stairs into the Entrance Hall. Hope, Ron, and Hermione clattered after him.
"Harry, what are we—" Hermione began.
"Shh!" Harry hissed, not sparing them a glance. "It's going to kill someone!"
Hermione blinked, taken aback. "What?"
"What's gonna kill?" Hope asked, her face paling.
Harry didn't answer. He just kept running, taking the stairs three at a time, trying to listen over the pounding of his own footsteps. The others scrambled to keep up.
They hurtled around the second floor, panting, until they turned a final corner into a deserted passageway.
Ron wiped sweat from his forehead. "Harry, what was that all about? I couldn't hear anything."
But Hermione suddenly gasped, pointing down the corridor. "Look!"
Something shimmered on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words gleamed in the torchlight between two windows:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
Ron's voice wavered. "What's that thing—hanging underneath?"
They edged closer. Harry nearly slipped on a large puddle of water, almost pulling Hope down with him. Ron and Hermione grabbed them, and they inched toward the message, eyes locked on the dark shape beneath it.
All four realized what it was at once and leapt back with a splash.
Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, dangled by her tail from the torch bracket. Her body was stiff as a board, her wide eyes unseeing.
Hope's hand flew to her mouth. "Is—Is she dead?" she stammered.
For a moment, none of them moved.
Then Ron whispered, "Let's get out of here."
Harry hesitated. "Shouldn't we try and help—?"
"Trust me," Ron said. "We don't want to be found here."
But it was too late.
A distant rumble, like thunder, signaled the end of the feast. From both ends of the corridor came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, voices loud and cheerful. Moments later, students poured into the passageway from both directions.
The chatter and laughter died abruptly as the first students caught sight of the hanging cat. Hope, Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood frozen as silence fell over the growing crowd.
Then, through the hush, a voice rang out:
"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"
It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.