Happy deathday
October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate 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 Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy, or as Ron had described it. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her head was on fire.
Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; The lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid's pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Oliver Wood's enthusiasm for regular training sessions was not dampened, and Etta's determination to get one up on him for trying to get one up on her was the only competitor for the field, which was why Harry was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before Halloween, returning to Ravenclaw Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud after an annoyingly long mock-game. If it could even be called that-- Harry was very sure no one had said a word to Madam Hooch(who was the referee for nearly every real game and hardly ever permitted mock-games) beforehand.
Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn't been a happy practice session. Lisa, who had been spying on the Slytherin team-- she was surprisingly sneaky-- had seen for herself the speed of the Nimbus Two-thousand and Ones. She reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs for most of their practice, shooting through the air like missiles.
As Harry dragged himself along the deserted corridor he came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as he was. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath, "... don't fulfil their requirements... half an inch, if that..."
"Hello, Sir Nicholas," said Harry.
"Hello, hello, young Ravenclaw," said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harry could see right though him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside-- due to him being a ghost, of course.
"You look troubled, young Ravenclaw," said Nick, folding a transparent latter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.
"So do you," Harry shrugged.
"Ah," Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, "a matter of no importance... l... it's not as though I really wanted to join.... Though I'd apply, but apparently I 'don't fulfil requirements'--"
In spite of his airy, almost cheerful tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.
"But you would think, wouldn't you," 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?"
"Oh-- er, I can't imagine why they wouldn't let you in. Forty-five times?" asked Harry, though he had no idea what the Headless Hunt was; he could make an assumption. "Why haven't they let you in already?"
"You see my point! I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However--" Nearly Headless Nick shook his 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 fulfil 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."
Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a much calmer tone, "Ah-- what may be bothering you? Anything I can do?"
"No," said Harry. "Not unless you know where we can get seven Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones and how to get Wood to stop practicing every day--"
The rest of Harry's sentence was drowned out by a high pitched mewling from somewhere near his ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs Norris, the skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle against students.
"You'd better get out of here, Ravenclaw," said Nick quickly. "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 all over the place--"
"Right," said Harry, nearly wanting to kick Mrs Norris right then and there. Suddenly, drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to Harry's right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.
"Filth!" he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry's Quidditch robes. "Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!"
So Harry waved goodbye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor.
Harry had never been inside Filch's office before; It was a place most students avoided, and he could tell why. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; From their labels, Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch's desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling. Harry would liked to see Filch hung by his ankles instead, but he wouldn't dare make the suggestion.
Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking 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 lack quill into the ink pot.
"Name... Harry Potter. Crime..."
"It's just mud," said Harry quietly. Apparently not quietly enough, however.
"It's only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me, it's an extra hour scrubbing!" shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. "Crime... befouling the castle... suggested sentence..."
"Haven't you got a wand? I could do it myself, save you the time!" Harry grumbled. Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry, who waited with only the unpleasant feeling of his ears twitching for Filch to finish. He didn't like being dirty and dripping mud either.
But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which made the oil lamp rattle.
"PEEVES!" Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a transport of rage. "I'll have you this time, I'll have you!"
And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs Norris streaking alongside him.
Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to cause havoc and distress. Harry didn't like Peeves, but couldn't help but feel grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it sounded as though he'd wrecked something very big this time) would distract Filch from Harry. Whenever he got back, Harry supposed that he wouldn't suffer half of whatever Peeves went through-- though, he then figured it couldn't be very much, if he never stopped.
Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to come back-- leaving would probably make his punishment worse, and he was sure that even in his feud with Peeves, Filch wouldn't forget who was in trouble-- Harry sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from his half-completed form: A large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn't on his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read:
__________KWIKSPELL__________
A Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic
Intrigued, Harry flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of parchment inside More curly silver writing on the front page said:
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 and I succeeded in turning her into a yak! No more of her yapping I have to listen to! Thank you, Kwikspell!"
Fascinated(though confused), Harry thumbed through the rest of the envelope's contents. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he... couldn't do magic? Harry was just reading "Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)" when shuffling footsteps outside told him Filch was coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened.
Filch was looking 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 fell on Harry and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which, Harry realized too late, was lying what must've been a grand two inches away from where it had started in the eyes of Filch.
Filch's pasty face went brick red, and Harry finally noticed that, underneath thick, grey hair, the only hint of Filch's ears were the tips of them, which weren't very long, nor as pointy as even Harry's own; They nearly looked as though they'd been cut. He braced himself for drawing his wand if he'd have to. What would Filch do if he cast a spell that he couldn't block, since he, apparently, couldn't do magic? Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer.
"Have you-- did you read--?" he sputtered.
"Read what?" Harry lied quickly. "I've been trying to find some way to get comfortable in this thing." He shifted in the chair. "It- i- it's filthy. I can... I- I didn't even notice the- what was it?"
Filch's knobbly hands were twisting together.
"If I thought you'd read my private-- not that it's mine, for a friend-- be that as it may-- however--"
Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan scarf didn't help. The tips of his ears had disappeared, not even remotely visible.
"Very... well-- go- and don't breathe a word-- not- not that, however, if you didn't read-- g- go now. I have to write up Peeves' report-- go--"
Shocked at his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back upstairs. To escape from Filch's office without punishment was probably some kind of school record.
"Ravenclaw-- here! Did it work? Did it work?" Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him, Harry could see the wreckage of a large black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to have been dropped from a great height.
"I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch's office," said Nick eagerly. "Thought it might distract him--"
"That was you?" said Harry gratefully. "Yeah, it worked, I didn't even get detention. Thank you, Nick!"
They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick, Harry noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick's rejection letter.
"I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt," Harry said. It was the least he could do-- anything Filch would come up with would be twenty times worse than anything even McGonagall would even consider giving him.
Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry walked right through him. He wished he hadn't; It was like stepping through an icy shower. Harry apologised quickly.
"But there is something you could do for me," said Nick excitedly. "Young Ravenclaw, would I be asking too much-- but no, you wouldn't want--"
"What is it?" said Harry.
"Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday," said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.
"Oh, lovely," said Harry, not sure whether he should be looking sorry or happy about this, acted happy for Nick had looked somewhat cheerful.
"I'm holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons-- friends will be coming from all over the country. It would be such an honor if you would attend. Your friends would be most welcome, too, of course-- two of them are Gryffindors, I believe? Ah, well... I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?" He watched Harry on tenterhooks.
"No," said Harry quickly, "Of course I'll come--"
"My dear boy! Harley Potter, at my deathday party! And--" he hesitated while looking excited "-- do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive you find me?"
"Of- of course, I'll tell him you're positively horrifying," said Harry. "Also, er, my name's Harry."
Nearly Headless Nick beamed at him.
"A deathday party?" said Hermione keenly when Harry had changed at last and joined his friends in the Library. He was no longer tracking mud, of course-- Madam Pince would go mad. "Well, it must be unlikely that the living go to a deathday party-- how fascinating!"
"How cool, you mean!" Lisa said excitedly.
"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" wondered Ron, who was halfway through his Potions homework and grumpy.
"Only ghosts do it," said Padma, not even bothering to pretend to have been doing her Potions homework. "They're kind of... okay, the only on I've ever been to was when my great-great-grandmother invited my father to her eightieth deathday party-- it was super awkward since we were, well, living. It was totally lame, but at the same time, I was six, so it's not really up to me to say."
"You've got the most ridiculous family tree I've ever heard of," Lisa muttered.
"Just wait until you learn about the Blacks." Padma scoffed. "It's hardly even a tree-- it's more of a wreath, see--"
She hadn't even needed to continue, because Lisa grimaced and shushed her at once.
Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the countless squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in the case of many, whispering about Fred and George's most recent feat-- trying to find out what would happen if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had "rescued" the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class and the result was now school-wide knowledge-- unless you were a teacher, of course.
Harry and his friends had fled for the Great Hall to get away from the chatter; He was just telling them about Filch and the Kwikspell course when Pansy Parkinson suddenly appeared and started telling Hermione off about her hitting Runcorn; both Filch and the Kwikspell envelope from Harry's mind as he went to snap back at Parkinson.
By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was only slightly regretting his rash promise to go to the deathday party. The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween 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 rumours that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.
"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminded Harry, as he complained about having to go.
"I said I'd go to the deathday party, I know." He said despairingly. He just didn't want Nick to feel worse-- he had already been all moody over the Headless Hunt, and Harry had promised he'd tell Sir what's-his-name that he found Nick horrifying. And Nick did help him. He owed it to him-- especially considering he was not a Gryffindor, whom Nick seemed to favour.
So at seven o'clock, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Lisa, Padma, and Luna walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons.
The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful; These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.
"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered. They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.
"My dear friends," he said mournfully. "Welcome, welcome... so pleased you could come...."
He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.
It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; It was like stepping into a freezer.
"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggested, wanting to get some body warmth going.
"Careful not to walk through anyone, trust me, it's not pleasant," said Padma, and they set off around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry wasn't surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, the Slytherin House ghost covered in sliver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.
"Oh, no," said Hermione, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back-- I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle,"
"Who?" said Harry as they backtracked quickly.
"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," said Padma. "And she's real creepy too. Don't think she knows the words personal space."
"She haunts a toilet?" Ron repeated, looking terribly apprehensive.
"Yes," said Hermione. "It's been out-of-order all year because she keeps having tantrums for no reason and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; It's awful trying to use the bathroom with her wailing and crying and screaming at you--"
"Look, food!" said Ron.
On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters-- cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers-- there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mould and, in pride of place, an enormous grey cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington
Died 31st October, 1492
Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon.
"Do you taste it if you walk through it?" Luna asked him.
"Almost," said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.
"Oh," She sighed. "Well, that's certainly fascinating."
"I suppose they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavour," said Hermione knowledgably, pinching her nose. "If you could call it flavour... I imagine the pungency makes it stronger to them, or... something..."
"Ew," said Lisa, her face turning a faint green as she saw the haggis.
"Oh, that's rancid, I think I'm going to be sick," Padma muttered; They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.
"Hello, Peeves," said Harry flatly.
Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.
"Nibbles?" he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.
"No thanks, we're just here to be here." insisted Hermione.
"Heard you talking about poor Myrtle," said Peeves, his eyes dancing. "Rude words you was about poor Myrtle." He took a deep breath and bellowed, "OY! MYRTLE!"
"Oh, no, Peeves, don't tell her what I said," Hermione whispered frantically. "I didn't mean it, I don't mind her at all-- er, hello, Myrtle."
The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the saddest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick pearly spectacles.
"What?" she said sulkily, already on the verge of tears.
"How are you, Myrtle?" said Lisa in a sqeaky voice. "It's nice to see you out of the toilet. How are you doing?"
Myrtle snivelled despairingly.
"Missies Granger and Patil was just talking about you--" said Peeves slyly in Myrtle's ear.
"Just saying-- er- how lovely you look tonight," said Padma, glaring at Peeves. "The other ghosts really make you look prettier-- a hundred times younger, and hundred times prettier, right? Er, right."
Myrtle eyed Hermione and Padma suspiciously.
"You're making fun of me," she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.
"No, honestly-- didn't we just say how pretty Myrtle's looking?" said Hermione, nudging Harry, Ron, and Lisa painfully in the ribs.
"Oh, yeah, she was saying--"
"She did, just a moment ago--"
"It's true, quite pretty--"
"Well," said Luna, "You can't really trust Peeves, Myrtle, they've been saying such nice things. But Peeves--"
"Don't lie to me," Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding down her translucent face, while Peeves chuckled happily over her shoulder. "D'you think I don't know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle! Peeves is the most honest with me- never says a thing behind my back, truly--"
Harry supposed Peeves was the worst-- person?-- to ever defend, because he was grinning widely hissed in her ear, "You've forgotten pimply, dearie Myrtle!"
Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her with mouldy peanuts, yelling, "Pimply! Pimply!"
"Oh, dear, I didn't mean for that to happen..." said Hermione quietly. Padma patted her on the back encouragingly, but it was obvious from her expression that she didn't quite mind that Myrtle had gone. Luna shook her head, though she didn't look very remorseful herself.
Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd.
"Enjoying yourselves?" He asked.
"Oh, yes, quite lovely here," Harry said.
"Not a bad turnout," said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. "The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent. Oh, it's nearly time for my speech-- I'd better go and warn the orchestra..."
The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very moment. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting horn sounded.
"Oh, here we go," said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly.
Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; Luna had clapped too, looking very amazed. Beside her, Hermione, though confused, was clapping slowly before she stopped at the sight of Nick's face.
The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head under his arm, from which position he was blowing the horn. The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone laughed), and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick, squashing his head back onto his neck.
"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," said Nick stiffly.
"Live 'uns!" said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry and his friends, and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the crowd howled with laughter).
"Very amusing," said Nearly Headless Nick darkly.
"Don't mind Nick!" shouted Sir Patrick's head from the floor. "Still upset we won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say-- look at the fellow--"
"Well I beg to differ..." said Harry hurriedly, at a meaningful look from Nick, "Nick's very horrifying if he tries. It's definitely a shock to see--"
"Ha!" yelled Sir Patrick's head. "Bet he asked you to say that!"
"He wouldn't ask me to tell you if you've already declined him-- how stupid. Maybe your beheadedness has cut off your brain's circulation too," Harry snapped, and Sir Patrick suddenly looked very surprised, now quiet. "Or, my mistake, bigheadedness. You're really egotistical, and your head falling off isn't even funny, it's just--"
"If I could have everyone's attention, it's time for my speech!" said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding toward the podium and climbing into an icy blue spotlight, and Harry fell quiet.
"My lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow..."
But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to watch. Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick's head went sailing past him to loud cheers.
"Quit it! He's trying to speak, can't you see that?!" Hermione yelled, and it suddenly went quiet; Even Nearly Headless Nick was staring at the ground awkwardly. Harry, who had been looking elsewhere, was very cold by now, and not to mention hungry.
"I can't stand much more of this," Ron mumbled, his teeth chattering, as the orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance floor.
"Let's go," Harry agreed.
They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of black candles.
"Pudding might not be finished yet," said Ron hopefully, leading the way toward the steps to the entrance hall.
And then Harry heard it.
"... rip... tear... kill..."
It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in Lockhart's office.
He stumbled to a halt, and Hermione did too, looking around. Clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway, Harry strained his ears.
"Harry, what're you--?"
"Shut up for a minute, I--"
"... so hungry... for so long..."
"Listen!" said Harry quickly, and the others froze, watching him.
"... kill... time to kill..."
The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away-- moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped him as he stared at the dark ceiling-- how could it be moving upward? Was it a ghost that had strayed away from Nick's party, wanting some sort of revenge for its death?
"This way," he shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs, into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything in here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, the five clattering behind him.
"Harry, what are we--"
"SHH!"
Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice: "... I smell blood... I smell blood!"
He went still.
"It's going to kill someone!" he shouted, and ignoring their bewildered faces, and ran up the next flight of steps two or three at a time, trying to listen over his own footsteps.
Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ron, Hermione, Lisa, and Padma panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.
"Harry-- how were you running so fast?" gasped Ron, wiping sweat off his face.
"I couldn't hear anything...." said Lisa, panting.
"Are you sure you-- er, heard something, Harry?" said Luna weakly, looking around as if mesmerised. Then she gasped. Padma did the same right after her, pointing down the corridor. "Tell me that's not what I think it is."
Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
"What's that thing-- ha- hanging underneath?" said Ron, a slight quiver in his voice.
As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped-- there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Hermione and Lisa caught him just in time. As they inched toward the message slowly, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All six of them realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash.
Mrs Norris, the caretaker's cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.
For a few seconds, they didn't move. Then Ron said, "Let's get out of here..."
"Shouldn't we try and help her, w-what if--" Lisa began muttering.
"No-- trust me," said Ron. "We don't want to be found here."
But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; Next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends.
The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Harry, Padma, Lisa, Hermione, Luna, and Ron stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight.
Then someone shouted through the quiet.
"Enemies of the Heir, beware! Haha!"
"You'd better watch your step, Mudbloods!"
It was Parkinson and Runcorn. They had pushed to the front of the crowd, grinning at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.
"Would you look at that-- Potter's at the scene!" Parkinson yelled. Harry didn't listen to her; He didn't care about her, looking around frantically-- he froze as he saw who had been standing right beside her.
Draco was looking right at him, wide eyed and shocked. Looking over the entire room once more, avoiding his eyes, Harry's face flushed and his ears burned. He suddenly wanted to be in Mrs Norris's position.