ACT II — CHAPTER VI
A Pᴀʀᴛʏ Oꜰ Dᴇᴀᴛʜ

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October arrived in the blink of an eye. Most of the time, Quinn was focusing on her classes, which felt significantly harder than they had last year. All of them except for Potions, which was never hard for her, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, because that class was a joke.

She enjoyed being back with her friends. Her favorite times were spent wandering the school with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, sitting in the common room with the Train Gang, or spending long nights talking with her dorm mates. She especially liked when they would stay in Ravenclaw Tower, because her cat, Phoebe, would always mingle in between her friends.

Kevin would always come back from his Quidditch practices bursting with excitement. He would go through every strategy he had learned, and Roger Davies would come over and warn him to keep his voice down, claiming that anyone could be listening.

Quinn did her best not to think about Maddox Dearborn. She tried not to think about his words or their implications. Although, sometimes, she couldn't help but catch a glimpse of him when she passed him in the hallway. And sometimes, she would catch him looking back. She tried not to think about whether or not that could mean something.

On a stormy Saturday afternoon, Quinn found herself in the Gryffindor common room with Ron and Hermione, waiting for Harry to return from his Quidditch practice. When he did, he quickly ran past them, saying, "Let me change, then I've got something to tell you."

Harry told them that he had run into Nearly Headless Nick, Gryffindor House's ghost, who had invited him to his deathday party on Halloween night. He said that he had extended the invitation to Ron and Hermione, and that Quinn could tag along, too.

"A deathday party?" Hermione questioned keenly, "I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've been to one of those — it'll be fascinating!"

"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" Ron said, who was halfway through his Potions homework and grumpy, "Sounds dead depressing to me ..."

"I'm sure you all will have a fun time," Quinn said, looking down at Ron's paper, "You got Number 4 wrong. It's salamander blood, not chameleon blood."

Ron sighed, running his hands through his hair and hastily scratching out his answer.

"What do you mean, 'I'm sure you all will have a good time'? Are you not going?" Hermione asked.

"No, why would I? I'm not a Gryffindor and I don't know Nearly Headless Nick. It wouldn't make sense."

"But he invited you!" Harry argued.

"No, you just told us he said Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome, of course, and that Ravenclaw girl. He doesn't even know my name! I don't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't be intruding, you have to go!" Hermione said.

Quinn sighed, "Fine, I'll go. I guess I'll just ask Morag to bring me some pumpkin pie."

Rain was lashing against the windows, which were an 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 Fred and George Weasley, 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 it was now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.

Ron had just finished his Potions homework, with much help from Quinn, when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly around the room.

The sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at Fred and George, the spectacular display of tangerine stars showering from the salamander's mouth, and its escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions, caused almost the entire common room to burst into laughter.

⊰ ⋅ ⊱

When Halloween arrived, Quinn was regretting agreeing to go to the deathday party. Going to the deathday party meant missing the Halloween feast, which meant missing out on pumpkin pies and pumpkin pasties and pumpkin bread and pumpkin juice and pumpkin cookies and — she could keep going.

She hated listening to her friends talk about the feast, and the morning of her stomach dropped when she saw the Great Hall decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in. Lisa Turpin had told her that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for entertainment, which made Quinn lay her head on the table in defeat.

"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminded her, "You said you'd go to the deathday party."

"Nearly Headless Nick doesn't know that! Just tell him I'm sick, he'd never know!" Quinn tried to argue. Hermione wouldn't hear it.

So at seven o'clock, Quinn, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles and the scent of pumpkin in the air, 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. Quinn wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to warm up. Suddenly, the sound of what seemed like thousands of nails scraping a blackboard made her cover her ears.

"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. Quinn took her hands off her ears.

"My dear friends," he said mournfully, "Welcome, welcome ... so pleased you could come ..."

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

Even though Quinn saw ghosts nearly every day, she couldn't believe her eyes. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white ghosts, most of which were drifting around a crowded dance floor. They were 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.

"Careful not to walk through anyone," Ron mumbled 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, Hufflepuff's ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Quinn couldn't help but notice the Grey Lady, Ravenclaw House's ghost, alone in a corner. She remembered back on the night of her Sorting Ceremony when Sue told her that she didn't like crowded places. Quinn felt bad for her.

"Oh no," Hermione said, stopping abruptly, "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle —"

"Who?" Harry asked as they backtracked quickly.

"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," Quinn explained, grabbing Ron's arm and spinning him away from her.

"She haunts a toilet?" Harry questioned.

"Yes. It's been out of order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place," Hermione said.

"Luckily Lisa warned me and my dorm mates and I about her before I accidentally went in," Quinn added.

"It's awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you —"

"Look, food!" Ron cried.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but stopped in their tracks the next moment, 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 pride of place, 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

All of a sudden, a portly ghost that had been near 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.

"Almost," the ghost sighed sadly, and he drifted away.

"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," Hermione said knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.

"I can't believe I missed out on pumpkin bread for this," Quinn grumbled, keeping her voice low so that none of the ghosts heard her.

"Can we move? I feel sick," Ron said.

They had barely turned around, however, when a little man suddenly swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in mid-air before them.

"Hello, Peeves," Harry greeted cautiously.

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the complete opposite 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 offered sweetly, holding out a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

"No, thanks," Hermione said.

"Heard you talking about poor Myrtle," Peeves said to Hermione, his eyes dancing, "Rude you was about poor Myrtle —" he took a deep breath and bellowed, "OI! MYRTLE!"

"Peeves, you really shouldn't tell her anything," Quinn quickly said, "You wouldn't want to ruin Nearly Headless Nick's party."

"I didn't mean it!" Hermione whispered frantically, "I don't mind her — er, hello, Myrtle."

Myrtle glided over. Quinn had never actually seen her before, but she looked worse than her friends had described. She had a glum face which was half-hidden behind straggly hair and thick, pearly spectacles.

"What?" she asked sulkily.

"It's nice to meet you Myrtle, I'm Quinn. How are you?" Quinn asked carefully.

"It's nice to see you out of the toilet," Hermione remarked in a falsely bright voice.

Myrtle sniffed.

"Miss Granger was just talking about you —" Peeves said slyly in Myrtle's ear.

"Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight," Hermione stammered, glaring at Peeves.

"And you do look very, very nice — very lovely," Quinn added.

Myrtle eyes Hermione suspiciously.

"You're making fun of me," she said as silver tears welled rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.

"No — honestly — didn't I just say how nice Myrtle's looking?" Hermione questioned, and Quinn nudged Harry and Ron 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," Hermione sighed sadly.

Quinn put a hand on her arm, "Don't worry, she'll find something else to be upset about soon and forget all of this."

Nearly Headless Nick drifted toward them through the crowd, "Enjoying yourselves?"

"Oh, yes," they lied.

"Not a bad turnout," Nearly Headless Nick said 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 ..."

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," Nearly Headless Nick said bitterly.

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; Quinn would've started to clap, too, but quickly decided not to upon seeing 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," Nick said stiffly.

"Live 'uns!" Sir Patrick cried, spotting Quinn, Harry, Ron, and Hermione and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment so that his head fell off again — the crowd howled with laughter.

"Very amusing," Nearly Headless Nick said 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 hurriedly, at a meaningful look from Nick, "Nick's very — frightening and — er —"

"Ha!" Sir Patrick's head yelled, "Bet he asked you to say that!"

"If I could have everyone's attention, it's time for my speech!" Nearly Headless Nick announced loudly, striding toward the podium and climbing into an icy blue spotlight.

"My lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow ..."

But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the rest of the headless horsemen he rode in with started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd was 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. Quinn felt awful for him.

"I can't stand much more of this," Ron muttered, 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.

"What's the Hunt Sir Patrick was talking about?" Quinn asked.

"It's a group of headless ghosts," Harry explained, "Those are the other ghosts he came in with. They won't let Nick join because he's not headless, he's only nearly —"

Harry suddenly stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall. He was looking all around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.

Quinn turned back and stared at him, "Harry, what's —"

"It's that voice again — shut up a minute —"

"What voice?" Quinn asked.

"Listen!" Harry said urgently. Quinn, Ron, and Hermione froze, watching him.

Quinn listened, but she didn't hear anything, save the sound of Harry's ragged breaths. Then, Harry pushed himself off the wall, his eyes alert.

"This way!" he shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs and into the entrance hall.

Quinn, Ron, and Hermione quickly took off after him. They passed the Great Hall where the Halloween feast was being held and sprinted after Harry up the marble staircase to the first floor.

Quinn tried to catch her breath, "Harry, what are you —"

"SHH!"

In the silence, Quinn tried to listen again, but still heard nothing. She looked at Ron and Hermione, and they looked just as confused as she felt.

"It's going to kill someone!" Harry suddenly shouted, and then he was running again, up the next flight of stairs. Quinn, Ron, and Hermione once again took off after him.

"What is wrong with him?" Hermione panted as they reached the second floor.

Harry hurtled down the whole of the second floor, Quinn, Ron, and Hermione barely keeping up. Finally, they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

"Harry, what was that all about?" Ron asked, wiping sweat off his face, "I couldn't hear anything ..."

Quinn looked around them, and her breath hitched when she looked down the corridor.

"Look!" she cried.

There was writing on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been smeared 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.

"It's written in blood," Quinn whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at the writing.

"What's that thing — hanging underneath?" Ron questioned, a slight quiver in his voice.

As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped — there was a large puddle on the floor. Quinn had to grab his arm to steady his fall, and the four of them continued to inch toward the message, their eyes fixed on a dark shadow underneath it. All four 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 —" Harry began awkwardly.

"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. The next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends.

The chatter, the bustle, and the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Quinn, Harry, Ron, and Hermione 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, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat. Quinn glared at him, her jaw tensing as he shifted his gaze to focus his evil grin on her.

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WRITTEN: march 2024
EDITED: july 2024
WORDS: 3,092

AUTHOR'S NOTE! short chapter :) i don't have much to say but please feel free to like and comment if you liked the chapter!! have a wonderful day!