~ The Deathday Party ~
October came and a damp chill spread over the grounds and the castle.
A sudden wave of colds among the teachers and students kept Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, in suspense.
Her boost potion worked immediately, but anyone who drank it had smoke in their ears for hours afterward.
Percy Weasley urged the slightly sickly-looking Ginny to take a few sips and immediately steam hissed out from under her fiery red hair, and it looked like her head was on fire.
Raindrops the size of bullets drummed against the castle windows for days; the lake swelled, the flower beds turned to streams of mud, and Hagrid's pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds.
Oliver Wood, of course, was undeterred and enthusiastically encouraged the Team to train regularly.
So, one blustery Saturday afternoon, Harry found himself soaked to the skin and mud-spattered on his way home to Gryffindor Tower.
Quite apart from the rain and wind, it was anything but a successful training session.
Fred and George had scouted the Slytherin team and seen first-hand how fast they were on their new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones.
The Slytherins soared through the air like whiz, they reported, and could only be made out as seven greenish hazes.
As Harry trudged down the deserted corridor, he encountered someone who looked just as worried as he did.
Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, stared morosely out of a window and mumbled under his breath to himself: "… don't fulfill their requirements… half an inch, if that…"
"Hello, Nick," said Harry.
"Hello, hello," said Nearly Headless Nick, turning around in shock.
He wore an elegant, plumed hat over his long curly hair and a tabard with a ruff so that it was not possible to see that his neck was almost completely severed.
He was pale as steam and Harry looked out through him at the dark sky and the deluge pouring out of him.
"You look troubled, young Potter," Nick said, folding a clear letter and pocketing it.
"So do you," said Harry.
"Ah," said Nearly Headless Nick, waving his hand gracefully, "a matter of no importance… It’s not as though I really wanted to join… Thought I'd apply, but apparently I 'don't fulfill requirements’ -"
Despite his calm tone, his face held a streak of bitterness.
"But you would think, wouldn't you," he burst out suddenly, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"
"Oh – yes," Harry said, who obviously had to agree.
"I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However -"
Nearly Headless Nick retrieved the letter, unfolded it, 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.'"
Angry Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter back into his doublet.
"Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harry! 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 a few deep breaths and then said in a much calmer voice, "So – what's bothering you? Anything I can do?"
"No," said Harry. "Not unless you know where we can get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly–"
The rest of the sentence was drowned out by a squeaky meow coming from near his feet. He looked down and a pair of yellow lantern eyes stared at him.
It was Mrs Norris, the skeletal gray cat that belonged to caretaker Argus Filch and was sort of an ally in his never-ending battle against the students.
"You'd better get out of here, Harry," Nick said hastily, "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, backing away from Mrs Norris.
~~
Stunned at his luck, Harry ran out the door, down the hall, and up the tower. Escaping Filch's room without punishment was probably a school record of sorts.
"Harry! Harry! Did it work?"
Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom.
Behind him, Harry saw the debris of a large black and gold cupboard that had apparently fallen from a great height.
"I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office," Nick said, "thought it might distract him–"
"Was that you?" Harry replied gratefully. "Yeah, it worked, I didn't even get detention. Thanks, Nick!"
They made their way down the aisle.
Nearly Headless Nick was holding Sir Patrick's rejection letter again.
"I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt," Harry said.
Nearly Headless Nick stopped dead in his tracks and Harry walked straight through him.
He regretted that because it was like stepping through an ice-cold shower.
"But there is something you could do for me," Nick said excitedly. "Harry – 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," Nearly Headless Nick said, chest swelling and looking dignified.
"Oh," said Harry, not quite sure whether to look pitiful or happy. "Right."
"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 sister and friends would be most welcome, too, of course – but I daresay you’d rather go to the school feast?"
As if waiting for the torture, he eyed Harry.
"No," said Harry quickly, "I'll come–"
"My dear boy! Harry Potter, at my deathday party! And–" he said hesitantly and excitedly, "– do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive you find me?"
"Of – of course," said Harry.
Nearly Headless Nick beamed at him.
~~
"A deathday party?" Hermione said enthusiastically.
Harry had finally changed and met the others 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," said Louisa.
Lucy nodded in confirmation. Although 'death' wasn't really a topic for a party. However, that was part of life too, and Lucy knew it all too well.
"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" asked Ron, only halfway through his Potions homework and in a bad mood. "Sounds dead depressing to me…"
"You know what's depressing?" Ophelia inquired. "Your homework. Your homework is depressing," she added without waiting for a reply.
She had spent the last hour helping Ron and was starting to get frustrated.
Rain still lashed at the windows, now ink black; inside, however, it was light and comfortable.
The fire cast flickering light on the plush chairs around. The other students read, talked, or did homework.
Or, like Fred and George Weasley, they were trying to figure out what would happen if you fed a filibuster firecracker to a salamander.
Fred had 'rescued' the glowing orange, fire-dwelling lizard from Care of Magical Creatures class, and it was now simmering quietly on a table, surrounded by a crowd of curious onlookers.
Harry was about to tell Lucy and his friends about Filch and the Kwikspell course when the salamander suddenly shot into the air, whistling, spitting cracking sparks around the room.
~~~~
Halloween arrived, and Harry regretted his hasty promise to go to the Death's Day party. The other students were already looking forward to their Halloween party.
As usual, the Great Hall was decorated with live bats.
Hagrid's giant pumpkins had been carved into lanterns for three students to sit in at a time, and rumour had it that Dumbledore had hired a troupe of dancing skeletons for entertainment.
"A promise is a promise," Hermione admonished Harry firmly. "You said you'd go to the deathday party."
So, at seven o'clock Harry, Lucy and their best friends walked straight past the door to the packed Great Hall, golden plates and candles gleaming invitingly, and descended into the dungeons.
The aisle leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party was also lit with candles, although they didn't exactly have a cheering effect.
They were long, thin, charcoal candles with pale blue flames that made even their living faces look slightly ghostly.
It got colder with every step they took. Harry was shivering and pulled his robes tight, and then he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scratching a giant blackboard.
"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered.
"It's a deathday party. What did you expect? Queen?" Louisa replied in the same volume.
They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing in front of a door covered in black velvet.
"My dear friends," he said sadly, "welcome, welcome... so pleased that you could come..."
He tore off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.
An unbelievable sight presented itself to them.
The dungeon was filled with hundreds of pearly white, translucent figures.
Most hovered tightly packed over a dance floor and waltzed to the horrid screeching of thirty musical saws from an orchestra playing on a black-covered stage.
Above them, a thousand more candles on a chandelier gave off midnight-blue light.
Their breath rose before them in a cloud of mist; it was like stepping into a refrigerator.
"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggested; he really needed to warm up his feet.
"Careful not to walk through anyone," Ron said nervously, and they made their way around the dance floor.
They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a man in rags and bound with chains.
And the Fat Friar, a good-natured ghost of the House of Hufflepuff, deep in conversation with a knight with an arrow protruding from his forehead.
Harry also recognized the Bloody Baron, an emaciated, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, and he wasn't surprised that the other ghosts gave him a wide berth.
"Oh no," Hermione said, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle–"
"Who?" said Harry as they quickly turned around.
"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," Ophelia said.
Neither girl was particularly keen on speaking to Moaning Myrtle.
"She's haunting a toilet?"
"Yes. It’s been out-of-order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it's awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you–"
"Look, food!" said Ron.
On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered with black velvet.
They approached hungry, but after a few steps they stopped in horror.
The stench was sickening.
Huge spoiled fish lay on beautiful silver platters, raven-black burnt cakes piled up on plates.
There was a great deal of sheep offal on which maggots happily scurried, a wheel of cheese coated with downy green mold and,
The pride of the kitchen, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, decorated with a kind of tar that formed the words:
SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY PORPINGTON died October 31, 1492
Harry watched in amazement as a plump ghost approached the table, knelt, and waddled open-mouthed through a stinking salmon.
"Can you taste it if you walk though it?" Harry asked him.
"Almost," said the ghost sadly, and floated away.
"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavour," said Hermione precociously, pinching her nose and leaning forward to examine the decaying innards.
"Can we move? I feel sick," said Ron.
As soon as they turned around, a small man scurried out from under the table and levitated in their path.
"Hello, Peeves," Harry said gently.
Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the poltergeist wasn't pale and translucent at all. He wore a bright orange paper hat, a twirling bow tie, and had a broad, malicious grin on his face.
"Nibbles?" he said flatteringly, offering them a bowl of fungus-covered peanuts.
"No thanks," said Hermione.
"Heard you talking about poor Myrtle," Peeves said, eyeballs dancing. "Rude you was about poor Myrtle."
He took a deep breath and cried out in a thunderous voice, “OY! MYRTLE!"
"Oh, no, Peeves, don't tell her what I said, she'll be really upset," Hermione whispered excitedly. "I didn't mean it, I don't mind her – er, hello, Myrtle."
The ghost of a plump girl had slid over to them. She had the saddest face Harry had ever seen, half hidden behind straight hair and thick pearly glasses.
"What?" she said pouting.
"How are you, Myrtle?" Hermione asked in a fake cheerful voice, "It's nice to see you out of the toilet."
Myrtle sniffed.
"The ladies were just talking about you," Peeves said slyly in Myrtle's ear.
"Just saying – saying – how nice you look tonight," Louisa said, glaring at Peeves.
Myrtle eyed her suspiciously.
"You're making fun of me," she said, silvery tears welling up in her small, see-through eyes.
"No – honestly – didn’t she just say how nice Myrtle's looking?" said Hermione, poking Harry and Ron painfully in the ribs.
"Oh yes–"
"She did–"
"Don't lie to me," Myrtle moaned, tears now rolling down her 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!"
"You've forgotten pimply," Peeves hissed in her ear.
Moaning Myrtle broke into desperate sobs and fled the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, threw fungus peanuts at her and yelled "Pimply! Pimply!"
"Oh dear," said Hermione sadly.
Nearly Headless Nick floated toward them through the crowd of guests.
"Enjoying yourselves?"
"Oh yes," they lied.
"Not a bad turnout," said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. "The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent… It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better go and warn the orchestra…"
However, the orchestra stopped playing at that moment. And everyone else in the dungeon fell silent too and turned around in astonishment when a hunting horn sounded.
"Oh, there we go," Nearly Headless Nick said bitterly.
A dozen ghost horses burst through the dungeon walls, each ridden by a headless horseman. The congregation clapped enthusiastically, and Harry began clapping too, but stopped short at the sight of Nick's face.
The horses galloped to the centre of the dance floor, where they halted, rearing and kicking.
A large ghost at the head, carrying his bearded head under his arm, jumped down and lifted his head in the air to look out over the crowd (everyone laughed). He put his head on his neck and strode towards Nearly Headless Nick.
"Nick," he boomed. "How are you? Head still hanging in there?"
He slapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder to a roar of laughter.
"Welcome, Patrick," Nick said stiffly.
"Live ’uns!" Sir Patrick yelled when he saw the twins and their friends, and winced in mock horror, causing his head to loll back down (the crowd cheered).
Lucy had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. She didn't think it was funny when you made fun of other people. Unless that person deserved it. And Sir Nicholas didn't deserve to be teased at his deathday party.
"Very amusing," said Nearly Headless Nick, scowling.
"Don't mind Nick!" yelled Sir Patrick's head up from the floor, "Still upset we won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say – look at the fellow–"
"I think," Harry said quickly at a meaningful look from Nick, "Nick's very – frightening and – er–"
"He's scarier than the Bloody Baron," Lucy added.
Ophelia glanced at her best friend and seemed about to argue but stayed silent as Louisa elbowed her in the ribs.
"Ha!" cried Sir Patrick's head, "Bet he asked you to say that!"
"Well, I wasn't asked to do anything," Ophelia said.
"If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my speech!" Nearly Headless Nick said loudly, striding towards the dais and stepping into the icy blue light of a candle.
"My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow…"
But no one wanted to listen anymore. Sir Patrick and the rest of his Headless Hunters had started a game of head hockey and the guests turned to the game.
"Such idiots," Louisa murmured and the others agreed.
Nearly Headless Nick tried in vain to regain his audience's attention but gave up as Sir Patrick's head sailed past him with a loud hoot.
Harry was very cold now, not to mention hungry.
"I can't stand much more of this," Ron growled through chattering teeth as the orchestra sawed again and the ghosts floated back onto the dance floor.
"Let's go," Harry agreed.
Smiling at the bystanders, they made their way towards the door, and a moment later hurried back down the corridor lined with black candles.
~~
"Pudding might not be finished yet," said Ron hopefully, leading the way up the steps to the entrance hall.
"Please don't get my hopes up," Ophelia murmured. The witch hoped she could stuff herself with enough dessert to last until breakfast.
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.
Stumbling, he stopped, put his hands on the stone wall, looked up and down the aisles, and listened with all his might.
"Harry, what're you–?"
"It's that voice again – shut up a minute–"
"... so hungry... for so long..."
"Listen," Harry said urgently, and the others froze and turned their eyes to him.
Lucy looked confused at her brother. She heard no strange voice.
"... kill... time to kill..."
The voice grew weaker. It was moving away from them, Harry was sure - upwards.
He stared at the dark ceiling and a mixture of fear and excitement filled him; how could she move up? Was she a phantom who didn't mind stone ceilings?
"This way," he called, running up the steps to the entrance hall.
But there was certainly nothing more to be heard here, because the babble of voices from the Halloween festival came from the Great Hall.
With his sister and friends hot on his heels, Harry ran up the marble stairs to the first floor.
"Harry–"
"SHHH!"
Harry pricked up his ears. From the next floor, far away, he heard the fading voice: "... I smell blood… I SMELL BLOOD!"
Harry's stomach turned–
"It's going to kill someone!" he shouted and ran.
Ignoring the confused faces oh his sister and friends, Harry took the next flight of stairs three at a time and tried to step over the pounding of his own footsteps listen–
"Your brother has gone mad," Louisa addressed Lucy.
The black-haired witch rolled her eyes and ran after her brother.
Harry raced through all the hallways on the second floor and the others gasped after him.
They only stopped when they had turned into the last, deserted corridor.
"Harry, what was that all about?" Ron asked while wiping the sweat from his face.
"I couldn't hear anything..."
Hermione let out a short sigh and gestured it down the aisle.
"Look!"
Something glowed on the wall in front of them. They peered through the darkness and cautiously approached.
Words two feet high were scrawled on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the flickering light of the torches.
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE
"What's that thing – hanging underneath?" Louisa asked, her voice shaking slightly.
They went forward hesitantly. Harry almost slipped – there was a large puddle of water on the floor.
Ron and Hermione held him and together they approached the writing on the wall, eyes fixed on the dark shadow beneath.
All six realized what it was at the same instant and flinched.
Mrs Norris, the caretaker's cat, hung from the torch holder, tied by its tail.
She was stiff as a board and there was a stare in her wide eyes.
They stood frozen for a few breaths.
Then Ron said, "Let's get out of here."
"Shouldn't we try and help–" Harry began, embarrassed.
"Trust me," said Ron, "We don't want to be found here."
But it was too late. A roar like distant thunder told them that the festival had just ended.
From either end of the corridor came the clatter of hundreds of stair-climbing feet, and the loud merry hum of well-fed students: and already they were coming in from the sides.
The chatter and giggles and noise died down as the first of them saw the hanging cat.
The group of friends stood alone in the middle of the passage, and gradually the whole company fell silent and pressed forward to see the horrid site.
Then a shout broke the silence.
"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll next, Mudbloods."
It was Draco Malfoy.
He had pushed his way to the front.
With a twinkle in his cold eyes, his otherwise bloodless face flushed, he grinned at the staring cat.