Chapter Eight: The Deathday Party

  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, who had been looking pale, was bullied into

  taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave

  the impression that her whole head was on fire.

  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. Oliver Wood's

  enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened,

  which was why Harry was to be found, late one stormy Saturday

  afternoon a few days before Halloween, returning to Gryffindor Tower,

  drenched to the skin and splattered with mud.

  Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn't been a happy practice

  session. Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slytherin team,

  had seen for themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand

  and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven

  greenish blurs, shooting through the air like missiles.

  As Harry squelched along the deserted corridor he came across

  somebody who looked just as preoccupied as he was. Nearly Headless

  Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a

  window, muttering under his breath, ". . . don't fulfill their requirements . .

  . half an inch, if that . . ."

  "Hello, Nick," said Harry.

  "Hello, hello," said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. 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 look troubled, young Potter," 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 fulfill 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 was obviously supposed to agree.

  "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, Harry! 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? Anything I can do?"

  "No," said Harry. "Not unless you know where we can get seven free

  Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly -"

  The rest of Harry's sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling

  from somewhere near his ankles. He 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'd better get out of here, Harry," said Nick 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