No Turning Back Now.

“A Deathday Party?” said Hermione keenly, when we had changed at last and had 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 the twins, 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 Care of Magical Creatures class and it was now smouldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.

I 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 neither Filch or the Kwikspell envelope from my mind.

Once everything had calmed down; Percy had gone upstairs to his dormitory, the group of curious people that had been around the Salamander had thinned and there was a steady hum of voices again, I made my way over to the twins.

“That was brilliant,” I said, beaming at them.

“Thank you, Blondie,” said George.

A group of third and fourth year girls; that were around the twins, gave me a death glare that I ignored, as I sat on the table that the Salamander had been on. I started to kick my legs as they hung over the side of the table, unable to reach the ground.

“You’ll be ever so pleased when I tell you what I just did,” I said, flicking the hair out of my face over-the-top dramatically.

“What is she doing here?” said a fourth year, in disgust. “She’s just a little second year; why are you even talking to her?”

By the way she was standing so close to him, I had a feeling she really liked Fred. She had grabbed his arm before she had started talking, and, when she wasn’t talking, she pouted her lips; trying to looking attractive, I suppose.

“Oh, shut up, Erica,” Fred said, turning away from her, and, in the most childish way, I stuck my tongue out at her.

“What did you just do?” George asked.

“Well, me and Harry got taken to Filch’s office for ‘befouling the castle’, right?” I began, leaning forward, “He was writing up our reports, then there was a crash upstairs and he went to see what it was. Then, when he came back, Harry and I got off scot-free.”

There was a small silence in the group.

“Bet you haven’t managed that one, have you, boys?” I said, smiling at their expressions.
“Brilliant...” Fred muttered.

“But, how?” said George.

“I would tell you... but, I don’t think it’d be wise to say it in front of them,” I said, nodding at the group of girls still standing around us, “Filch told us not to tell anyone.”

Fred and George both turned at the same time.

“Sorry, ladies, but if you don’t mind?” they both said.

The girls all walked off and joined other groups, they all looked happy enough, apart from Erica.

“Now,” George said, once both of them had turn back to me. “How on earth did you manage to do that?”

I told them in a low whisper about the Kwikspell envelope, how I’d read it and how Filch didn’t want anyone knowing. Once I finished, I sat in triumph; I had been able to do something the twins had never been able to do, and they were dumbstruck how easy it was.

“Brilliant,” Fred said again.

“I know I am,” I said vainly, still kicking my legs.

---

By the time Halloween arrived, I was regretting our rash promise to go to the Deathday Party. The rest of the school were 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 rumours that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

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

So at seven o’clock, Harry, Ron, Hermione and I walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed out 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 our own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step we took. As I shivered and drew my robes tightly around me, I heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

“Is that suppose to be music?” I whispered. We 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 us 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. Our breath rose in a mist before us; it was like stepping into a freezer.

“Shall we have a look around?” Harry suggested.

“Careful not to walk through anyone,” I said nervously, and we set off around the edge of the dance floor. We 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. I wasn’t surprised to see 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 we backtracked quickly.

“She haunts the girls’ toilet on the first floor,” I said.

“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. We approached it eagerly, but next moment stopped in our 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

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

“Can you taste it if you walk through it?” I 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 knowledgably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.

“Can we move, I feel sick,” said Ron.

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

“Hello, Peeves,” said Harry cautiously.

Unlike the ghosts around us, 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 us a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

“No thanks,” I said.

“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 I 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.

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 us 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 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 us through the crowd.

“Enjoying yourselves?”

“Oh, yes,” we lied.

“Not a bad turnout,” said 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; I started to clap too, but stopped quickly t 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 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 Nick on the shoulder.

“Welcome, Patrick,” said Nick stiffly.

“Live ‘uns!” said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry, Ron, Hermione and I, and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment so that his head fell off again, making the crowed howl with laughter.
“Very amusing,” said 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, “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. Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to watch. Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave up as Patrick’s head went sailing past him to loud cheers.

I 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,” I agreed.

We backed towards the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked at us, and a minute later we 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.

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

“Harry, what’re you –“

“It’s that voice again – shut up a minute – Listen!” said Harry urgently, Ron, Hermione and I froze, watching him.

“This way,” he shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs, into the Entrance Hall. I sprinted after him, up the marble staircase to the first floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind me.

“Harry, what are we –“

“SHH!” he paused, and there was nothing but silence. “It’s going to kill someone!” he shouted, and started running up the next flight of steps three at a time.

We hurtled around the whole of the second floor, all of us panting, not stopping until we turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

“Harry, what was that all about?” I said, wiping sweat off my face. “I couldn’t hear anything...”
Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.

“Look!”

Something was shining on the wall ahead. We 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?” said Ron, a slight quiver in his voice.

As we edged nearer, I almost slipped over; there was a large puddle of water on the floor. Ron and Harry grabbed me, and we inched towards the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All four of us 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, we didn’t move.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, backing away slowly.

“Shouldn’t we try and help –“ Harry began awkwardly.

“Trust me,” I said. “We don’t want to be found here.”

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told us that the Feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where we 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, Ron, Hermione and I 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.