Harry Potter 02 & The Chamber Of Secrets (Illustrated) (15 page)

‘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 his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up the corridor and back upstairs. To escape from Filch’s office without punishment was probably some kind of school record.

‘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 persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office,’ said Nick eagerly. ‘Thought it might distract him -‘

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

They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick, Harry noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick’s rejection letter.

‘I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,’ Harry said.

Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry walked right through him. He wished he hadn’t; it was like stepping through an icy shower.

‘But there
is
something you could do for me,’ said Nick excitedly. ‘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. Mr Weasley and Miss Granger 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 -‘

‘My dear boy! 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.

*

‘A Deathday Party?’ said Hermione keenly, when Harry had changed at last and joined her and Ron 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!’

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

Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside, all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the countless squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in the case of 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 smouldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.

Harry was on the point of telling Ron and Hermione about Filch and the Kwikspell course when the Salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round 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, drove both Filch and the Kwikspell envelope from Harry’s mind.

*

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 their 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.

‘A promise is a promise,’ Hermione reminded Harry bossily. ‘You
said
you’d go to the Deathday Party.’

So, at seven o’clock, Harry, Ron and Hermione walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead towards the dungeons.

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s party had been lined with candles too, though the effect was far from cheerful: these were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

‘Is that supposed to be
music
?’ Ron whispered. They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

‘My dear friends,’ he said mournfully, ‘welcome, welcome … so pleased you could come …’

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.

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

‘Careful not to walk through anyone,’ said Ron 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. Harry wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

‘Oh no,’ said Hermione, stopping abruptly. ‘Turn back, turn back, I don’t want to talk to Moaning Myrtle -‘

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

‘She haunts the girls’ toilet on the first floor,’ said Hermione.

‘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 go to the loo with her wailing at you -‘

‘Look, food!’ said Ron.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly, but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mould and, in pride of place, an enormous grey cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,

Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington

died 31st October, 1492

Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched low and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon.

‘Can you taste it if you walk through 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 flavour,’ said Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.

‘Can we move? I feel sick,’ said Ron.

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

Myrtle sniffed.

‘Miss Granger was just talking about you -‘ said Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s ear.

‘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 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 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!’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Hermione sadly.

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted towards them through the crowd.

‘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 …’

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, 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,’ 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 hurriedly, at a meaningful look from Nick, ‘Nick’s very - frightening and - er -‘

‘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 was very cold by now, not to mention hungry.

‘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 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.

‘Pudding might not be finished yet,’ said Ron hopefully, leading the way towards the steps to the Entrance Hall.

And then Harry heard it.

‘… rip … tear … kill …’

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in Lockhart’s office.

He stumbled to a halt, 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 Ron and Hermione froze, watching him.

‘… kill … time to kill …’

The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away - 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, Ron and Hermione clattering behind him.

‘Harry, what are we -‘

‘SHH!’

Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice: ‘…
I smell blood … I SMELL BLOOD!’

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