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 was bullied into taking some by her twin brothers, though why she listened to them, no one in Slytherin knew. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire. She was still an outcast among the other Slytherins, primarily because it was common knowledge that she had spoken to Professors Snape and McGonagall several times about being re-sorted.
"Ginny," said Harry one day at breakfast. "You really just ought to accept that you're in Slytherin. Until you do no one will accept you, and if you don't accept it soon, you'll have lost all chances of ever being accepted."
"But my mum is ready to kill me! I can't imagine going home for Christmas and still being in Slytherin."
"You should be proud to be in Slytherin. You should be glad you're different. By being in Slytherin, you can actually gain some respect in the wizarding world! And I mean being in a different house isn't so bad! Look at Violet!"
"Spoken like a true Slytherin, Draco," said Harry.
"But I don't know how to be Slytherin. I grew up with my family, they're all quintessential Gryffindors."
"Hmm, that could be a problem. But Draco helped me, I'm sure I can help you, if really want to be a Slytherin."
Ginny smiled. "Of course, Harry. With you helping me, how can I possibly want anything else? Now, when can I start learning proper manners?"
"That's the spirit Ginny." Harry gave her a quick one-armed hug, which brought a blinding smile to her face. Moments, later, however, Luna appeared, and Harry stood to give her a much longer, much more enthusiastic hug, causing Ginny to scowl.
As October went on, 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. Marcus Flint's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Harry and Draco were to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before Halloween, returning to the dungeons, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud. Aside from the rain and mud, the practice had been great. They were no longer a brand-new team as they had been last year. The team members were mostly familiar with each other's quirks, and Draco and the new beater, Michael Harvington, were catching on quickly.
As Harry and Draco squelched along the deserted corridor they came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as they were. Sir Nicholas, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was speaking to the Bloody Baron, Slytherin's ghost.
"... don't fulfill their requirements... half an inch, if that..."
"Hello, Bloody Baron, Sir Nicholas," said Harry.
"Hello," said the Bloody Baron. Sir Nicholas merely nodded to them. 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 through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.
"You would think, wouldn't you," Sir Nicholas erupted suddenly, pulling a 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 was obviously supposed to agree
"Ah," Sir Nicholas, waving 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 fulfill requirements' —" In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face. "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 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."
"Sir Nicholas," said the Bloody Baron. "He does have a point. You would not be able to participate in the activities." Harry and Draco nodded enthusiastically. Sir Nicholas harrumphed and floated through the wall with what sounded like a few choice words about their nerve. Most of it was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling from somewhere near their ankles. Harry 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 two had better get out of here," said the Bloody Baron 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, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs. Norris, but not quickly enough. 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 and Draco's Quidditch robes. "Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter, Malfoy!" So Harry and Draco waved good-bye to the Bloody Baron and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor. Filch's office was just as they remembered it.
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. This time, Draco noticed that 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. 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 two large rolls of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched them out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.
"Names... Harry Potter...Draco Malfoy. Crimes..."
"It was only a bit of mud!" said Harry.
"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. "Crimes...befouling the castle."
"When my father hears about this..." started Draco. Filch, however, just continued as though he hadn't heard anything.
"Suggested sentence..." Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry and Draco who waited with bated breath for their sentence to fall. 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, 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 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 and Draco. Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to come back, he looked to Draco, who nodded, then sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from the half-completed forms: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a quick glance at Draco, who got up to watch the door to check that Filch wasn't on his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read out loud:
Kwikspell: A Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic.
"Open it," said Draco. 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 I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you, Kwikspell!"
Fascinated, Harry thumbed through the rest of the envelope's contents. Draco was just staring at him wide-eyed. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn't a proper wizard? Harry read out the first lesson:
Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)
"Harry, he's coming," warned Draco, dashing back to the chair. Harry could hear the shuffling footsteps outside. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, he 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 two feet away from where it had started. Filch's pasty face went brick red. Harry braced himself for a tidal wave of fury. He didn't even spare a look for Draco. Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer.
"Have you — did you read —?" he sputtered.
"No," Harry lied quickly.
"Of course not," said Draco, managing to sound affronted. 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. "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, Harry and Draco sped out of the office, up the corridor, and into the entrance hall. To escape from Filch's office without punishment twice was definitely a school record.
"Mr. Potter! Mr. Malfoy! Did it work?" The Bloody Baron 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 told Peeves to crash it right over Filch's office," said the Baron eagerly. "Thought it might distract him. I couldn't have students from my house get in trouble because of a woebegone Gryffindor ghost."
"That was you?" said Harry gratefully.
"Yes, it worked, we didn't even get detention. Thank you, Bloody Baron!" They set off toward the dungeons together. The Baron, Harry noticed, seemed preoccupied.
"Is something the matter, Baron?" asked Harry.
"No, nothing really...Well, yes, actually. Sir Whiny has invited me to his deathday party this Halloween. He's made it to a measly five hundred years and he's throwing a massive party."
"Oh," said Draco, not sure yet what the problem was. "Right." They had reached the dormitories, so Harry gave the password ("be cunning"). The Baron followed them inside. Hermione, Luna, Vince, and Greg came over to the Harry, Draco, and the Baron, intrigued by the ghost.
"Hello, Bloody Baron," said Hermione.
"The Baron was just telling us about the deathday party the Gryffindor ghost is holding on Halloween."
"Yes," said the Baron. "Ghosts have been invited from all over the country. It's sure to be a complete bore. I don't understand why he is celebrating so soon. Most of us wait until our thousandth deathday at least. I daresay the school feast will be much more fun."
"A deathday party?" said Hermione keenly. "I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've been to one of those — it'll be fascinating!"
"Perhaps for one such as you, however, I have been to hundreds of such parties. They are hardly interesting anymore. I think I shall deny my invitation. I have never exactly been close friends with Nicholas anyway. However, if you have an interest in attending, it will be located in the dungeons, so you shouldn't have too much trouble locating it."
"Thank you, Bloody Baron," said Mia. The Baron bowed to them all and floated away through the wall.
"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" asked Vince, as soon as the Baron was out of sight. "Sounds dead depressing to me..."
"I agree with Mia," said Luna. "I think it will be great."
"Well, why don't we drop in on it for a few minutes, then go up to the feast?" asked Harry.
"Harry, it would probably be better to eat first," said Hermione.
"Good point. We'll eat, then head down."
By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was 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 rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment. The boys were all lamenting their loss of such great entertainment.
"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminded them bossily. "You said we would go to the deathday party." So at seven o'clock, Harry, Draco, Hermione, Luna, Vince, and Greg walked into the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, knowing they'd be leaving almost immediately. The bats were, once again, fluttering around above the jack-o-lanterns. Hagrid's large pumpkins were spaced out around the hall. The feast was as delicious as ever. Harry wished they could stay for the entire thing. However, when Dumbledore introduced their entertainment for the evening, and the students all stood to cheer, Hermione and Luna led them all out of the Great Hall and back down to the dungeons.
The passageway leading to Sir Nicholas' 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?" Draco whispered. They turned a corner and saw Sir Nicholas standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.
"Oh, hello there," he said, obviously surprised. "Ah, welcome, welcome... so pleased you could come..." He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside, still looking surprised. 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?" Luna suggested, wanting to warm up her feet.
"Careful not to walk through anyone," said Vince nervously, 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.
"Oh, no," said Hermione, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle—"
"Who?" asked Greg as they backtracked quickly.
"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the second floor," said Luna.
"She haunts 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 Vince. On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet, that very clearly displayed cake. 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 mold and, in a place of pride, an enormous gray 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 though it?" Harry asked him.
"Almost," said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.
"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," said Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.
"Can we move? I feel sick," said Greg.
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 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.
"No thanks," said Hermione.
"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!"
"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 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.
"How are you, Myrtle?" said Hermione in a falsely bright voice.
"It's nice to see you out of the toilet," put in Luna. Myrtle sniffed.
"Miss Granger was just talking about you —" said Peeves slyly in Myrtle's ear. "Just saying —"
"Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight," said Hermione, glaring at Peeves.
Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously. "You're making fun of me," she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.
"No — honestly — didn't I just say how nice Myrtle's looking?" said Hermione, nudging Harry and Draco painfully in the ribs.
"Oh, yeah —"
"She did —"
"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 forgotten pimply," Peeves hissed in her ear. Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her with moldy peanuts, yelling, "Pimply! Pimply!"
"Oh, dear," said Hermione sadly. The orchestra suddenly stopped playing. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting horn sounded. Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly. 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 Sir Nicholas, squashing his head back onto his neck. "Nick!" he roared. "How are you? Head still hanging in there?"
"Let's go," said Harry. "This would be a great time to make our exit." They all looked to Hermione, who, after the incident with Myrtle, was definitely ready to call it a night.
"Yes, let's." 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 Greg 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 the common room. 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, what're you —?"
"It's that voice again — shut up a minute —"
"...soo hungry...for so long..."
"Listen!" said Harry urgently, and his friends 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 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 Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, is friends clattering behind him.
"Harry, what're 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!" His stomach lurched —
"It's going to kill someone!" he shouted, and ignoring everyone'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, his friends panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.
"Harry, what was that all about?" asked Draco, wiping sweat off his face. "I couldn't hear anything..."
But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor. "Look!" 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 — hanging underneath?" asked Greg, a slight quiver in his voice. As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped — there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Draco and Hermione grabbed him, and they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All 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 Greg said, "Let's get out of here."
"What for—" Harry asked.
"Trust me," said Vince. "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, Draco, Luna, Hermione, Vince, and Greg stood in their little group, 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 Ron Weasley. 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.