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Chapter Nine: The Deathday Party

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the matron, 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 afterwards. Someone who could not get Pepperup Potion was Canini, she had written about all that she had learned and how well her Russian was getting, but that she had caught a cold from the freezing temperatures and the school’s doctor didn’t treat anything unless it got very serious. He sent a package of a couple sweets he had been holding onto and wrote saying to just hang on a couple more months.

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flowerbeds turned into muddy streams and Hagrid’s pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. An unmeasurable amount of rain and mud couldn’t stop Marcus Flint however from drilling them in Quidditch until they practically lived, breathed, and sleeped Quidditch.

It was after one of these practices on a rainy Friday afternoon a week before Hallowe’en Harry and Allison, passing through the Entrance Hall to get to Slytherin dungeon, were completely drenched to the skin and splattered with mud. Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn’t been a happy practice session. Mid practice they realized they had been spies on and Marcus had to chase the guilty parties away, but never saw who it was.

As the two young Quidditch players hurried inside they came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as they were. The Gryffindor’s ghost, Sir Nicholas, also called Nearly Headless Nick by his house, was staring morosely at the ground as he floated along, muttering under his breath, ‘...I can’t believe this...not my fault the axe was dull...’

Harry didn’t like his own house’s ghost, but he tried to be friendly with the others when he saw them.

‘Hello Sir Nicholas.’

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 com- pletely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harry could see right through him to the stone wall beside him.

The ghost looked up, ‘Sorry children, didn’t see you there. Harry Potter, right? And I don’t believe I have been introduced to you miss.’

‘Runcorn, Allison Runcorn, Sir.’

‘You look troubled, young players,’ said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

‘So do you,’ said Harry.

‘Ah,’ Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, ‘a matter of no importance ... it’s not as though I really wanted to join ... thought I’d apply, but apparently I “don’t fulfil requirements”.’

In spite of his airy 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 – yes,’ said Harry, who didn’t mean to get into the ghosts troubles but now didn’t want to appear as rude.

‘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 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.’

Harry was still processing the hit forty-five time comment when a fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.

‘Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Mr Potter! 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 far calmer tone, 'So, what's bothering you two? Anything I can do?'

'No,' said Harry. 'It has just been a really rough couple days with the rain, training, and so many people getting si-'

The rest of Harry's sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched meowing turning the corner. Harry turned 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, who was in an endless battle against the students.

'You and Ms Runcorn should probably leave,' said Nick quickly. 'Filch isn't in a good mood-he's got the flu and is grumpy from having to clean a lot of mud lately, if he sees you dripping even more mud all over the place-'

'Right,' said Harry, backing away from the dirrection Mrs. Norris was comming from, but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch quickly turned the corner, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rulebreaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

‘Filch!’ he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry and Allison, Quidditch robes. ‘Mess and muck everywhere! I have had enough of this constant filth. You kids have no respect. Potter, Runcorn, follow me!’

So with their heads low Harry and Allison followed Filch through the winding corridors. Harry did think it was ironic though, that by leading them further into the castle him and Allison were increasing the amount of mud on the floor.

Harry nor Allison had ever been inside Filch’s office before; it was a place most students avoided. 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. He often complained to those that he punished that long ago Hogwart’s used to suspend students by their ankles for several hours and Dumbledore won’t let him reinstate the punishment.

‘Filth,’ he muttered very frustratingly, ‘so much filth and grime everywhere...I’m sick of it...where are those report forms...yes...’

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dripping his long black quill into the ink pot.

‘Names...Harry Potter and Allison Runcorn...Crime...’

‘We did nothing wrong, we didn’t drag mud in on purpose.’ Allison protested, pretty fed up with their situation.

‘You may think it’s nothing, children, 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 corridors...suggested sentence...’

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry, who with bated breath for his sentence. He would reluctantly be willing to just clean up the mud trail they left, but knowing Filch he’d give a punishment far worse than their offence.

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 backwards glance at Harry, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs Norris streaking alongside him to chase away the school’s poltergeist.

Harry didn’t much like Peeves, but couldn’t help feeling 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.

‘We should leave,’ Allison said with annoyance on her round face, ‘This place reminds me too much of my dad’s office.’

‘No, we should stay,’ Harry said after thinking a moment, ‘If we aren’t here when he returns he might double our punishment for evading arrest.’

Allison begrudgingly agreed and sat on top of one of the filing cabinets and 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’s curiosity got the best of him and he carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page.

“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 centre 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, Harry quickly showed it to Allison who chuckled a bit at its contents. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn’t a proper wizard? Allison was just reading out loud ‘Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)’ when shuffling footsteps outside told them Filch was coming back. Quickly 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. ‘Their is only two in the whole castle, we’ll have Peeves out this time, my sweet.’

His eyes fell on the two of them and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope which, Harry realised too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.

Filch’s pasty face went brick red. Harry braced himself for a tidal wave of fury. Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope and threw it into a drawer.

‘Have you–did you read–?’ he spluttered.

‘No,’ Harry lied quickly. Allison shuck her head to also say no.

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. Allison looked as though she was trying her best to be a statue as to not give him a single reason to react.

‘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 ...’

Amazed at their luck, the two friends sped out of the office, up the corridor and back to the Entrance Hall where this all started. To escape from Filch’s office without punishment was probably some kind of school record.

‘Harry! Harry! 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 which appeared to have been dropped from a great height.

‘I decided to help and so I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office,’ said Sir Nicholas eagerly. ‘Thought it might distract him–’

‘Was that you?’ said Harry gratefully. ‘Yeah, it worked, we didn’t even get detention. Thanks, Sir Nick!’

As a thank you Harry and Allison decided to spend the next little while talking to Sir Nicholas, Allison hadn’t really interacted with him before so she had many questions and he had many answers. Nearly Headless Nick however, 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 genuinely concerned.

Nearly Headless Nick went still, and looked as though he were contemplating something. Finally he carefully spoke.

‘But there is something you could do for me,’ said Nick, a little bit excited. ‘Harry–would I be asking too much–but no, you wouldn’t want–’

‘What is it?’ said Harry.

‘Well, this Hallowe’en will be my five hundredth deathday,’ said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

‘Oh,’ said Harry, not sure whether he should look sorry or happy about this. ‘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 honour if you would attend. Miss Allison and any of your close friends would be most welcome too, of course–but I dare say you’d rather go to the school feast?’ He watched Harry on tenterhooks.

‘No,’ said Harry quickly, ‘I’ll come–’

‘I can’t believe it! Harry Potter, at my Deathday Party! And,’ he hesitated, looking excited, ‘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.

Harry and Allison then said their goodbyes and headed down to the Slytherin common room.

‘Sorry, Allison,’ Harry finally said, ‘I should have asked if you wanted to go before I agreed.’

‘It’s ok, it seems interesting.’

They arrived at the enchanted wall and entered their underwater stone dormitory. They found Theodore and Tracey and filled them in on what happened.

‘Well this death day party sounds intriguing,’ said a focused Theodore, ‘If I have all my homework done I think I’ll go, it will be interesting to see this ghost custom.’

Tracey however shivered, ‘I don’t know, it sounds like there’ll be lots of decapitated ghosts, a nearly decapitated one is enough for me.’

In their cold, dark common room, only lit by a dozen enchanted lanterns, Harry explained the other event that had occurred. How they had been caught by Filch and barely escaped, Harry did leave out the part about the letter though, as if a rumour spread Filch would know who started it.

By the time Hallowe’en arrived, Harry was regretting his rash promise to go to the Deathday Party. The rest of the school were happily anticipating the annual delicious 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 rumours that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

‘Harry, don’t chicken out,’ Allison said bossily. ‘If you aren’t at the Deathday Party Sir Nicholas will probably be upset, and we can’t afford another spirit being mad at us.’

So, at seven o’clock, Harry, Theodore, and Allison walked straight past the stairway that would have lead the the Great Hall, and directed their steps instead towards the dungeon Sir Nicholas had specified.

Before they got far a familiar voice called out to them.

‘Wait,’ said Tracey, ‘I am coming. My curiosity got the better of me.’

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s party had been lined with candles, though they weren’t the cheerful ones found upstairs: 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.

‘What is that horrible noice?’ Theodore asked, covering his ears.

‘I think it’s supposed to be music?’ Allison responded.

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 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.

‘This is incredible,’ Theodore whispered.

‘Shall we have a look around?’ Harry suggested, wanting to warm up his feet.

‘Yes, but probably best we don’t walk through anyone,’ said Tracey, still a bit nervous, 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, the 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, their gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver blood-stains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

‘Stop,’ said Tracey and Allison in unison, then Allison continued. ‘Turn around, turn around, we do not want to have to interact with Moaning Myrtle–’

‘Who?’ said Harry, as they backtracked quickly.

‘She is this crazy depressed ghost that haunts one of the girls’ toilets,’ said Tracey.

‘She haunts a toilet?’

‘Yes. And she’s been throwing such bad tantrums this year that no one has been using it, that and she keeps flooding the place. I do feel sorry for her sometimes though.’

‘I’m starving,’ Harry interrupted, ‘Does anyone see food?’

Tracey pointed to the other side of the dungeon were there was a long table, also covered in black velvet.

They approached it eagerly, but soon 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.

‘Can you taste it if you walk through it?’ Harry asked him curiously.

‘Almost,’ said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.

‘They must have let it rot to try and give it a stronger flavour,’ Theorized Theodore while pinching his nose in disgust.

‘Theo, stop talking. We got to move or I am going to vomit,’ said Allison queasily.

They barely had time to turn around before a little man swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in mid-air in front of them.

‘Hello, Peeves,’ said Harry very cautiously.

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.

‘We’re not really hungry right now Peeves,’ said Allison, still trying to hold her food down.

‘Heard you talking about poor Myrtle,’ said Peeves, his eyes dancing. ‘Rude you was about poor Myrtle.’ He took a deep breath and bellowed, ‘OY! MYRTLE!’

‘Peeves, you bloody monster, don’t tell her what we said, she’ll scream the rest of the semester,’ Tracey whispered in a panic. ‘Oh no, she’s floating this way–um, Happy Hallowe’en, Myrtle.’

The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.

‘What?’ she said sulkily.

‘I said Happy Hallowe’en, Myrtle?’ said Tracey, trying to sound her cheery self but failing. ‘I don’t see you out of the bathroom often.’

Myrtle simply sniffled.

‘Miss Davis and Runcorn was just talking about you–’ said Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s ear.

‘They were just saying–saying–how well the blue candlelight reflects off your glasses,’ Harry said quickly to the miserable ghost, staring at Peeves with a look begging him not to keep talking.

Myrtle eyed them all suspiciously.

‘You’re making fun of me,’ she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.

‘We weren’t–I promise–Theo, didn’t I just tell Harry how nice Myrtle’s glasses look in this light?’ said Tracey desperate.

‘Oh yes, Tracey is a kind soul,’ Theodore said very quickly.

‘She really did,’ said Harry before being cut off.

‘Don’t lie to me,’ Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding 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 missed out “spotty”,’ Peeves hissed in her ear. Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her with mouldy peanuts, yelling, ‘Spotty! Spotty!’

‘That was depressing,’ Tracey said with a lot of guilt in her voice.

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted towards them through the crowd.

‘Enjoying yourselves?’

‘We are,’ they all lied.

‘Not a bad turnout,’ said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. ‘The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent.’ He then tipped his hat to Tracey and Theodore, ‘You must be Harry’s friends, not often I meet friendly Slytherins. You two are?’

‘I am Theo Nott, and this is Tracey Davis.’

‘Good to meet you both...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; Harry started to clap too, but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face.

The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging; a large ghost at the front, whose bearded head was under his arm, blowing the horn, 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, Tracey, Allison, and Theodore 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–’

‘I think,’ said Harry with purpose, remembering why he’s there and that he might not get another opportunity afterwards, ‘Nick’s very–frightening and–er–it’s not his fault their is still a thread of flesh keeping his head on.’

‘Ha!’ yelled Sir Patrick’s head. ‘Bet he asked you to say that!’

‘If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my speech!’ said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding towards the podium and climbing into an icy-blue spotlight.

‘My late 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.

Harry felt very sorry for Sir Nicholas, this was supposed to be his special day, but Harry was very cold now, and despite the stench of the room he was quite hungry.

‘Harry, I think I need some fresh air,’ Allison muttered, her teeth chattering and her skin a sickly green, ‘The cold and the smell are really starting to get to me.’

So as the orchestra started to play again and the ghosts swept back onto the dance floor, Harry and his gang turned to the way they came.

‘Let’s go,’ Harry agreed.

They backed towards 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.

‘I’ll take Allison outside for some fresh air and perhaps to vomit,’ Harry said, getting a bit tired from the evenings activities, ‘You too go to the Hall and get a couple plates of food to bring down to our dormitories to eat.’

Tracey and Theodore nodded and they all started making the journey up the stairs. They had just made it about half way up when 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, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.

‘Harry, you faint now too–?’ Asked Theodore all concerned.

‘It’s that voice again–shut up a minute–’

‘...soo hungry...for so long...’

‘Listen!’ said Harry urgently, and his three friends froze, watching him.

‘...kill...time to kill...’

The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away, that it was moving upwards. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped him as he stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upwards? Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn’t matter?

‘This way,’ he shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs, into the Entrance Hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Hallowe’en feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Tracey and Theodore clattering behind him.

‘Harry, where are you go–’

‘SHH!’

Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice:

‘...I smell blood...I SMELL BLOOD!’

His stomach lurched. ‘It’s going to kill someone!’ he shouted, and ignoring his two friend’s bewildered faces, he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps.

Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Theodore and Tracey panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

‘Theo, what did Harry mean by voices, and can we slow down so poor Ally can catch up?’ said Tracey, catching her breath. Theodore then turned to her

‘I don’t know, he had a nightmare last month, but I didn’t hear anything then and I didn’t hear anything...’ But Theodore was interrupted by the caught up Allison giving a sudden gasp. It wasn’t a gasp of catching one’s breath however, it was a gasp of shock. Still as pale as the ghosts they had just left behind, Allison pointed down the corridor.

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.

‘Something – something is hanging below?’ said Harry with a quivering voice.

As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped over: there was a large puddle of water on the floor. Tracey and Theodore grabbed him, and they inched towards the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All four of them realised what it was at once, and leapt backwards 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 Allison finally threw up the little food that was in side her.

After a couple seconds of Allison hurling, Theodore shakingly turned to Harry, ‘We need to get out of here, right now!’

‘Theo,’ Tracey said with a start, ‘Shouldn’t we try and find a teacher–’ Harry nodded in agreement awkwardly, but Theodore quickly shook his head.

‘We can’t risk it,’ he started. ‘We are Slytherin’s, they’ll immediately think we did it, that and me and you Harry are already on incredibly thin ice. We have to move.’

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, Tracey, Theodore, and a now empty Allison 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! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!’

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd to get a better look, his cold eyes alive with realization, his usually bloodless face flushed as he grinned at the sight of the poor hanging, immobile cat.

Mrs Norris

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