Autumn pressed on, developing with it cooler weather and a damp chill in the air. A familiar rash of cold and flu symptoms spread through the castle, and many students attended classes still smoking at the ears from the effects of Madam Pomfrey's Pepper Up.
Harry himself rather enjoyed the effects of Pepper Up while he was stuck in early morning Quidditch practices, and thanked the twins heartily for their somewhat suspicious supply. Surely Madam Pomfrey was not a willing supplier for the entire Gryffindor quidditch team.
On the one hand, Harry didn't want to look too hard at the very convenient gift. In addition to curing sort throats and scaring off fevers, the handy little potion warmed the body up from the inside out and gave its taker energy – it was just right for a six o'clock morning practice in a Scottish autumn. Only Oliver Wood, to Harry's sceptical surprise, resisted the smoking little phials. Something about 'toughening up', or some such nonsense.
On the other, it did remind Harry somewhat of days being stuck in the Hospital Wing due to injury or incapacitation. Harry wasn't sure he liked the connotations, but the contraband potion did help him get out of bed in the mornings.
When not in Quidditch practise or continuing his own in-depth study, Harry joined his little band of friends in the library, where they were making good headway into fact-checking Lockhart's claim to fame. Hermione hadn't quite worked out what Harry's task was leading to, but had organised the little group with great finesse – writing up the cross-referencing parchments and heading up the note-taking template with apparent ease. Harry rather thought his own note-taking was actually a little more effective, as developed as it had now become, but who was he to get in Hermione's way? Harry rather enjoyed the feeling of leaving Hermione in charge of the research and just doing what he was told: it felt nostalgic.
Neville, meanwhile, had clicked quite quickly into what the actual purpose of the task was, to Harry's relief, and had thrown himself into the research with surprising fervour. It was a usual thing to find him between Hermione and Harry on quiet autumn evenings, a pile of books in front of him, chewing thoughtfully on the tip of a quill.
Either Ron had had a similar realisation, or Neville had taken him aside for a quiet word, because he, too, was taking the task very seriously. Ron still struggled, of course, with finding purpose and pleasure in so many hours in the library. Harry felt unreasonably proud of his best mate as he saw Ron struggle through the research and following Hermione's instructions – reluctantly, it was true, but he was contributing to the team effort.
Frankly, thought Harry as he sat up and stretched, it felt like old times.
Speaking of which, Harry had also kept a careful eye on the youngest Weasley, now that she was at Hogwarts, just to make sure that things didn't follow the original timeline too closely.
His friends were once more forming the kind of shared goal that would bring them closer together, and Harry looked forward to a few years down the track when they all considered each other best friends. He did wish, fervently at times, that Hermione and Ron would sort out the tension between them, because their repeated little confrontations were beginning to grow old.
As far as Harry could tell, Luna also seemed happy despite her exit from the Kettleburn Club. Harry had worked rather hard to find Professor Kettleburn at a good moment, and make his excuses for the both of them. Whatever Thorn and Tsubaka must have told him must have been rather wimpy, because when Harry caught the professor after dinner and tried his own exit speech, things had gone quite well.
When Kettleburn swung around to stare piercingly into Harry's eyes, Harry had merely run a hand through his hair and said that Luna wasn't happy in the club so Harry was leaving with her. Despite Harry's anticipations, Kettleburn didn't moan or complain at all. There were not pointed comments about "students these days," or "unwillingness to risk anything." Instead, Kettleburn had frowned, nodded sharply, and told Harry he was welcome back if he ever changed his mind.
Harry left with the strangest impression that Kettleburn respected his choice. Which seemed odd to Harry, frankly.
But important though his friends were, they weren't part of Harry's long-term plan, after all.
It was the time of year when school pressures, homesickness and teacher expectations all hit the students at once. Not to mention the seasonal colds and sicknesses that fell on Hogwarts like a blanket. Despite all that, Ginny Weasley seemed to look as perky and energetic as she always did.
She had joined Harry and his friends at the library once or twice, doing her own homework while they researched, but generally seemed to be finding her own place with classmates in her year.
Ginny continued to turn red and trip into things when Harry was around, but from what Harry could see from a distance, she seemed to get on well with Colin Creevey and a very small, very quiet girl with short, dark hair called Marcella Müller. Harry wasn't sure of his memories, still being without his Pensieve, but he thought that was new.
He'd see the three of them sitting together at the breakfast table, or studying in a corner of the common room, Ginny's red hair and Colin's blond catching the candlelight, Marcella's inky blackness like the shadow to their light.
Harry could only remember when she hung out with his own year-mates at Hogwarts, and had always assumed that her possession in first-year had ruined her chances to connect with her own classmates.
Judging by her current circumstances, Harry assumed she was safe and well.
Nevertheless, to make sure she stayed safe Harry caught Neville in a corridor on the way to Greenhouse One, and asked that Neville might make a special effort to make sure Ginny was happy and fitting into Hogwarts well.
After Harry's request about the Quidditch game and Quirrell last year, none of his other requests seemed to catch Neville by surprise and he simply raised his eyebrows curiously and agreed.
Neville reported a few days later than she seemed fine, but he was willing to continue to watch over her.
Harry thanked his friend with a grateful smile.
The Slytherin team was causing consternation in the Gryffindor common room, as beaters Fred and George returned from spying on the enemy team to report on their findings. They seemed particularly troubled by the news. It appeared that the new brooms Malfoy had provided were far faster than the ones currently in use by the Gryffindor team, had better manoeuvrability and fantastic handling. That fit with Harry's memories.
Seeing the duo's freckled faces in uncommon melancholy, Harry had to stop himself from promptly mail-ordering the whole team new Nimbus Two Thousands. It occurred to him at the last second that if he went and bought the whole team better brooms, he would be sinking to the depths of a Malfoy.
His self-respect saved him from making a disastrous decision to spend money like water, and very possibly saved him the respect of all of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Quidditch fans.
He resigned himself to long, hard practices with Wood in all weather.
Harry was squelching back from Quidditch practise one Saturday, only to run into a very familiar scene.
Nearly Headless Nick was haunting the gloomy corridor, muttering under his breath about the Headless Hunt, and pedantic rule-keeping.
"Hello, Nick," said Harry charitably.
"Hello, young Harry," the glum ghost replied. "You look troubled."
"As do you," Harry answered. "Did I hear you say something about 'uncharitable huntsmen'?"
"My apologies," the ruffled ghost pulled himself together, and then made a courtly bow. "It was not my intention to trouble the students, thoughtful and kind though they may be."
Harry realised with some surprise that the ghost had been most likely haunting the corridor on purpose, in order to catch the attention and sympathy of impressionable students. Idly, he wondered how he missed that realisation the first timeline.
Then, he thought back to his last experience at the Hallowe'en Death Day party. He pondered the absence of Ginny's bad mood. He considered Hermione, Ron and Neville's current lack of adventures at Hogwarts. He weighed up the potential danger of the night.
"Perhaps I could help out?" he offered hesitantly. With an enthusiastic cry of delight, the Gryffindor ghost immediately accepted his generous offer with extravagant words of praise.
"Oh, what a generous offer! An upstanding young gentleman! But don't put yourself out...I wouldn't want to inconvenience...perhaps you are merely being polite?"
Before he knew it, Harry was accepting an invitation to attend the Deathday celebrations of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington on behalf of himself and his friends. He could even, Harry realised belatedly, turn this into a bonding exercise and bring some of the Ministry Six together again!
Then, with a jolt, Harry heard the sound of a feline meow from somewhere around his ankles.
He remembered with a shudder the current mood of the ever-dour Filch, and his previous experience of dripping Quidditch gear and seething caretaker. Knowing that wherever Mrs Norris went, Filch was close behind, Harry frantically charmed himself dry with his wand, and as soon as he stopped dripping, vanished the trail of muddy puddles he had been leaving in his wake.
Not a moment too soon.
Filch stalked into the corridor in a bad mood. The stooped man stared suspiciously at Harry and his ghostly companion, prowled around them with a long, rattling sniff, but the two Gryffindors kept their heads held high and acted innocent.
Having nothing specific to complain about, the caretaker stalked onwards with a darker scowl, and Harry and Nick took the opportunity to quickly escape away.
Back in the library, once again seated around a table and a whole lot of Gilderoy Lockhart books, his friends were generally receptive to the invitation.
"A Deathday Party?" Hermione enquired after Harry squeezed into the seat next to her and beckoned them all closer. "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?" mumbled Ron, who was most of the way through Break with a Banshee and accordingly frustrated with the world. "Sounds dead depressing to me...dead...haha." Ron snickered, darkly.
Hermione met Harry's amused gaze and rolled her eyes.
"It will be a wonderful learning experience," she nodded determinedly. "Please tell Nearly Headl – Sir Nicholas that we would be honoured to attend."
Harry pulled out his own study materials and arranged himself around the table where his friends sat cosily.
Soon he was lulled into a quiet focus and the quiet sounds of the library rustled around him. Easily avoiding Madam Pince's foreboding glare, Harry pulled open his latest Lockhart book and glanced down Hermione's most up-to-date list of spells cross-referenced.
The drumming sound of the rain on the windows, gentle scratching of quills on parchment, and low murmurings of other students in the library settled Harry down, and he slowly sank into the companionable bubble of industrious silence.
As the day came closer, Harry's satisfaction at organising a safe adventure for his friends to bond over rapidly developed into a form of regret.
Each day that brought Harry closer to Hallowe'en also brought back memories of last time he visited Nearly Headless Nick's party. Despite still not having his Pensieve, Harry soon found himself remembering all too clearly the cold and gloom, and the foul reek of decomposing fish that would permeate the dungeons.
His reluctance was only highlighted by the general good cheer that was surrounding the rest of the school. The Great Hall had been hung with fantastic decorations – live bats, huge jack'o'lanterns that could hold three grown men inside, and Harry remembered with a pang the delicious food that was always provided by the house-elves.
Ron, who had been the least interested out of the four Gryffindors, was loudly bemoaning Harry's choice of entertainment for the evening. Harry himself did understand Ron's frustration, and sat thoughtfully in the Gryffindor common room trying to solve Ron's biggest problem while his friends dealt with the immediate issue. Hermione, the fabulous side-kick that she was, spent most of the Saturday repressing Ron's most vocal complaints, and was finally supported by a few soft words from Neville.
"It's a House pride thing," the quiet boy murmured to Ron as he sulked in one of the squishy common room chairs. "C'mon, it will be interesting to see once, and Nearly Headless Nick will only celebrate his five hundredth deathday once. Think of what you could tell the twins. Not even Percy's been to a Deathday Party, right?"
Ron subsided to think about the possibilities, and Hermione patted Neville on the shoulder in thanks.
An hour before the Hallowe'en feast – and thus the Deathday Party – began, Harry and his friends snuck quietly out of the common room and wandered over to the Ravenclaw Tower entrance.
Soon the four were milling around at the top of the staircase, huffing a little after the long climb.
Harry felt his thighs burn a little as he stood, stooped over on the landing, trying to catch his breath.
The familiar, dark wood door stood before them, with no lock or doorknob to let them pass. The bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle seemed to mock their intentions.
Harry glanced around the landing quickly, hoping to see a Ravenclaw student coming up the stairs, but it was not to be.
With a shrug in Hermione's direction, he quickly reached out and rapped the bronze knocker once.
To his friends' amazement, the eagle's beak opened and its soft, musical voice rang out.
"Feed me and I live, give me water and I die. What am I?"
"Er..." Harry managed intelligently, and paused, stuck. He looked at his friends. After a startled pause, Neville sank deep into thought, his forehead furrowed deeply. Ron, after a look of surprise, began mumbling to himself quickly.
It was Hermione who solved their dilemma.
"Oh, honestly," she sighed, and stepped forward to speak to the door. "The answer is fire."
"Precisely," the eagle sang, and with a quiet click the door swung open. Harry and his friends shared an awkward glance before they all gathered together and shuffled towards the threshold.
Inching closer, curiously, Harry and his friends peered into the Ravenclaw common room nosily as they all crowded around the door. Harry himself found himself comparing the room with his rather dim memories: last time he had been in Ravenclaw tower, of course, he'd had other things – like Voldemort – on his mind.
A number of students were dotted around the spacious circular room. Tall, peaked windows let in the dusky colours of sunset, and, illuminated by a golden glow in a niche directly opposite the entrance, stood the graceful stone figure of Rowena Ravenclaw. In contrast to the cozy, homey feeling of the Gryffindor common room, the Ravenclaw mood seemed quiet and industrious, and somehow more spacious. There were less large groups gathering together, Harry compared thoughtfully. Ravenclaws in twos and threes were grouped together and chatting quietly, but nowhere was there a group of over ten, as the Gryffindors would have had.
A Ravenclaw student, a sixth year, Harry thought fuzzily, noticed their intrusion when Hermione gasped and gabbled in surprise, and rapidly approached to prevent their entrance.
A short while later, Harry had successfully reassured the Ravenclaw that this was not a Gryffindor invasion, they were happy not to come in, but could someone please find and fetch first-year Luna Lovegood please? His dreamy friend was called out of the dormitories immediately and followed the friends down the stone staircase in pleasure.
"Luna," Harry began, once they'd reached the bottom of the tower and cleared the staircase. "Meet Hermione, Neville, Ron. Guys, Luna Lovegood."
His Gryffindor friends murmured quiet greetings as they stared in curiosity at Luna's strange appearance. She stood serenely in a costume of all white, her feet bare and a strange little lace fabric thing draped across her hair and over her eyes. Combined with her pale skin and hair, she looked almost unearthly, even in the sensible lighting on the castle corridor.
"All Hallows greetings," Luna offered in a dreamy, whimsical voice. "Souls wander as the veil thins this night."
"Er, yes," Harry said, being supremely unsurprised by her appearance. "Luna's father is the editor of the Quibbler," he sent a sharp look Hermione's way, "and she's a brave as a Gryffindor and loyal as a Hufflepuff." He completed his introductions and subsided in curiosity to watch as his friends weighed the strange girl up.
Hermione, having caught Harry's hint, managed to hold her tongue and said nothing critical, which unfortunately for the moment meant that she said nothing at all. Ron knew her already, of course, but was still momentarily caught up in taking in her strange appearance, which Harry thought was really rather tame for the girl. She didn't even have her wand tucked behind her ear, for Merlin's sake! It was up to Neville to offer his hand. He held it out in front of him, waiting for her handshake.
To Harry's amusement, Luna eyed Neville's hand curiously from beneath her lacy cap, and after meeting the eyes of each Gryffindor, also bowed a little towards Neville's outstretched arm.
After an awkward pause where nobody spoke, Neville let his arm drop back to his side.
Harry, having completed his introductions and enjoyed befuddling the group of them, then turned to lead his little band through the castle. He hadn't precisely told his friends the schedule for the evening, only asked them not to eat before they left the common room.
As such, he merrily led the way towards the Hufflepuff dungeons, stopping by a particularly vibrant painting of a silver fruit bowl. With a sly grin at all of them, Ron in particular, he reached up and tickled the pear, and the resulting doorknob saw the portrait swing open to allow them entrance into the warm and welcoming glow of Hogwarts kitchen.
The kitchen was as large as Harry remembered it. Five huge tables were dwarfed by the soaring height of the ceiling and the hustle of at least a hundred house-elves filled the space with clatters and patters and noise. Various platters and pots and plates were zipping around the room – manoeuvred by house-elves half their size: some trays balanced on heads, others somehow defying gravity and dwarfing the arms that carried them.
The heat from a dozen fires had warmed the room to a humid temperature, and the scent of roast meat and wood-fed fires made a number of stomachs gurgle in sudden hunger.
Harry felt a momentary burst of fierce protective instincts, and determined all over again to protect the lives of the loyal Hogwarts inhabitants.
While he and his friends had paused in amazement at the door, they rapidly drew the attention of the closest of elves. A nearby worker in a tidy tea towel toga, Hogwarts emblem proudly displayed, immediately approached and assured them of his pleasure at the visit.
"Harry Potter! Such an honour!" the little thing squeaked, and Harry made another round of introductions. This wasn't his little friend Pookey, Harry knew, but he had become something of a familiar figure in the kitchens and assumed she had spoken about him. He turned to his friends.
"These are the Hogwarts kitchens," Harry gestured grandly at the huge, industrious space, "and the true Hogwarts army." He heard a surprised squeak coming from the friendly house-elf, and smiled at him reassuringly. "They run this place with military precision." Having completed his introductions, Harry paused to assess his friends' reactions.
With a look of gleeful awe on his face, Ron was the first to regain his senses and moved to sit at the nearest table. To Harry's surprise, he reached out and grabbed at Hermione's elbow as he did so, pulling her overwhelmed form with him as he went. Unsurprisingly, of course, Hermione was staring, enraptured, at the space around them. She followed Ron without resistance, still gaping at the cauldrons and fireplaces with open-mouthed awe as she did. Neville then startled alert and followed.
Harry was relatively unsurprised to find that Luna did not look surprised at all, and merely followed the group as they started moving, looking all the while as if she had merely paused with them out of politeness.
The friends were hustled over to a nearby table and generously bestowed with plates piled high with food.
Ron and Neville dug in with thanks. Luna did the same, with a little more decorum. Harry took a moment to watch Hermione's reaction. She was still gazing around the room in amazement, her mouth working, and he leaned closer to catch her whispered voice.
"...the magical transference...Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration...no wonder I never...Harry," she interrupted her own train of thought. "What – who are these...crea–, thi–, workers?"
"Hermione, meet the Hogwarts house-elves," Harry indicated the room with a wide sweep of his hand. "Home to over one hundred magical beings, these are the housekeepers, cleaners and cooks of the castle. Helga Hufflepuff herself introduced them to the job." He sat back and watched her reaction keenly.
Hermione drew her lips together and peered around more critically. "Why aren't they wearing clothes, Harry?" she began disapprovingly.
Incredibly, Harry had forgotten about that crusade.
He hurried to reassure her. "It's a sign of their belonging," he rushed out. "They believe that to be given clothes is a symbol of dishonour and failure. You see how clean they all are? The fabric unwrinkled, unspotted? The Hogwarts crest on their chests so proudly? Please be careful not to accidentally insult them," he begged. "They deserve to be respected for their work."
Seeing her unconvinced, he quickly suggested that she assuage her concerns on another day, when they were less rushed, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when Hermione hummed a little in tentative agreement, and consented to come back with her questions at a later date.
They managed to finish their meals in the warmth and bustle quickly, and rushed back out of the kitchen with generous compliments to the house-elf who had been watching over them.
The small grey creature swelled up with pride and saw them out wreathed in smiles. Harry was sure he saw Hermione take note of the house elf's pleasure in their compliments.
Then, following Harry, the friends wandered down into the dungeons, beyond the warmth and light of the kitchen towards the ghostly chill of the Deathday Party. Down near the dungeons, as the light dropped out of sight behind them into a gloomy dimness, the cold drew more bitter with every step. Watching for it, Harry saw puffs of white steam beginning to issue out of his mouth. The everyday noises of life in the castle seemed to fade behind them with every step that they took down the stairs and soon even Ron and Hermione stopped chattering in what soon became oppressive silence.
Small gusts of cold air tickled the exposed skin on Harry's face and hands and he stepped slowly down the stairs. He'd forgotten this atmosphere, the uncanny cold, the solemn silence.
Just as Harry felt his ears were going to pop with the lack of noise, a doorway at the bottom of the stairs cracked open and the ghostly-pale figure of Nearly Headless Nick welcomed them through.
Hermione and Neville paused in wonder as they passed through the dungeon entrance. Harry continued further onwards, but saw the sight with new eyes and once more he marvelled at the incredible scene. Black candles in the wall sconces and the grand chandelier cast a dim light on the party. The small blue flames flickered but failed to cheer the room, leaving the space barely illuminated, gloomy and otherworldly. Harry noticed the little puffs of air he and his friends exhaled glow blue in the dim, eerie light: a tangible sign of their living state in the deathly chill.
They drew their robes closer.
Hundreds of pearly ghosts waltzed around the room in metered rhythm, the stately lords and ladies stepping in elaborate patterns to the tempo of the eerie orchestra. Despite the music, the dancers themselves paced with chilling silence, no weight to step with, no shoes to make sound. The centre of the room undulated with translucent dancing bodies.
Time passed at a strange speed, neither slow nor fast, as though Harry and his friends had somehow stepped out of the world of the living. He wondered, suddenly, shockingly, if spending time with the dead on All Hallows Eve had drawn them somehow out of time.
Harry banished the thought with a shiver and returned his attention to the party.
The friends wandered around the room curiously, attempting polite conversation and avoiding the food. Harry, after the first awful whiff of decomposed fish, felt compelled to cast a silent bubble-headed charm on himself and his companions. The subsequent experience was considerably more comfortable because of it.
It seemed to be the most natural thing in the world when Harry realised that he had lost track of time. He did not know how long they had spent there in the dungeon, halfway between the living world and the dead. He mouthed the question at Hermione, his most logical of friends.
"The time?" His lips made the shapes, but no sound came out of his mouth as though time was a concept he could not address here.
She shrugged. It seemed Hermione had the same problem.
They continued mingling in the chilly darkness, friendly ghosts and otherworldly chatter nevertheless feeling one step removed from living conversations. Nearly Headless Nick was a very attentive host; Harry felt that their presence at his party must be some kind of point of pride for the friendly ghost. But even that social warmth seemed somehow distant to Harry's everyday life.
"Hogwart's clubs?" Nearly Headless Nick echoed as Harry tried to fight against the oppressive noiselessness and hold a conversation. "I haven't thought about those for a good few decades now, I shouldn't think. Have you considered the Fencing Club? Jousting?"
Harry had not, considering that he was pretty sure neither club existed anymore.
"Ballroom dancing?" Nick tried again, and Harry demurred for the same reason. Somehow he felt he understood ghosts a little bit more: they existed out of time from the moment of their death. Old knowledge remained, recent knowledge escaped them quickly.
They were not living, Harry finally realised what wizard-raised students knew from the cradle. With an almost physical surge of gratefulness, Harry finally felt relieved that his parents had peacefully passed on.
The weight of years seemed to press down on Harry suddenly as he looked at the dancing figures, refugees lost from their own time. Harry felt once again that the dungeon was removed somehow from the real world.
He wondered if the veil really did thin on All Hallows Eve. Was the gap between the living and dead truly breached on such a night?
He felt a shiver run down his spine.
All of a sudden, the party was interrupted by the baying of wraithlike hounds and the ghostly exuberance of the Headless Hunt that coursed into the dungeon. Suddenly seeming like his old, familiar self, Nearly Headless Nick apologised to Harry for leaving him and went to scold the unwelcome visitors. It felt nostalgic to see Nick stride off in indignation, stalking towards the Hunt with poised displeasure.
Catching the eyes of his friends, Harry hurried them all out of the party and up the stairs, leaving the chaos behind them.
Luna followed along in the older students' wake, still somehow ethereal herself, different to the very human-like huffing and puffing of the Gryffindors who had forced themselves to rush up the stairs to warm their muscles.
As they returned back into the warmer corridors, where cheery yellow light was merrily flickering, Harry happened to glance back at Luna and saw her lips were blue. Her feet too, he noticed, looked red and sore. He swiftly conjured her a woollen blanket for her shoulders and cast a warming charm in her direction.
She pulled out of her introspective mood and nodded her thanks in his direction.
The group was approaching the Entrance Hall, on the way to return Luna to the Ravenclaw tower, when Harry heard the whisper in the walls.
"...rip...tear...kill...hunger..."
He promptly stubbed his toe on the perfectly level floor and stumbled into Neville.
Ron and Hermione began to make a fuss.
"Oh, honestly Harry, how could you let yourself get so cold?" Hermione began. Ron started to crack a joke, but Harry waved them off in a panic and skittered down the hallway in the direction of the whisper.
"..ssoo hungry...ssso long...tear and devour...blood and flesssh..."
"Shhh...not now...I can't..." he hissed at his friends. There was a pause: Harry, tense and listening halfway down the corridor; his friends watching him in confusion. After a long moment of silence, his voice sounded loud in his own ears.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to...did you hear that?"
Confused headshakes were directed at him.
"Luna, did you hear that?" Harry asked hopefully. Who knew what strange senses the incomprehensible blonde had at her command.
"Sorry, Harry. Was it your mother?"
Harry almost fell over again at the sound of hope in her voice. He had to pause to flash her an apologetic smile, and scratched his head.
"Oh, Luna. Sorry, not this time...I think...it went up...we need to hurry."
He turned and dashed off towards the Entrance Hall, his friends exchanging confused looks before hurrying along in his wake.
Harry ran straight to up the stairs, passing the hubbub of student voices, doors pooling with light, and directly up onto the second floor.
He hoped madly as he ran that the whispers would stay away from the Great Hall. Hundreds of students, unaware of the danger...
He screeched to a halt with a curse.
Hermione and Ron, closest behind him, gasped with surprise as they saw huge words in red scrawled high on a corridor wall.
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
Water was spread all over the floor and pooling down the hallway. An empty collar dangled, alone, from a torch bracket. Harry crept closer, his fingers crossed, and then cursed heartily. His friends approached in confusion as Harry's voice, strangled, sounded from down the corridor, and Luna and Neville finally caught up to the group and skidded unevenly to a stop. While his friends were frozen in shock, horror, confusion, Harry dashed off immediately towards the Gryffindor Tower. Noticing his direction, the friends followed closely on behind.
Towards the Fat Lady Harry dashed, ignoring his tired thigh muscles from the evening's exertions, ignoring the tightness of his lungs as he pushed himself further than he had in months. Harry's heavy footsteps thundered down the deserted stone corridors, his harsh breathing sounding loud in his own ears.
Behind him panted the confused and worried voices of his friends.
"Harry?" someone asked. "What's," they ran out of breath, "wrong?"
"Mate?"
Their confused mutterings began to fall behind as Harry pelted along corridors and skidded around corners.
"Do you know what he's…?"
"Did you hear…?" His friends seemed to ask each other, but Harry was determined to run back to his luggage. There was a horrible sinking in his chest, and a heavy lump in his stomach.
He could feel the blood pump through the veins in his temples and sweat begin to matt his forehead and then roll down his face with his jolting footsteps.
Falling behind him, his friends obviously lacked Harry's sudden urgency and did not understand what was going on.
But he knew they would follow, so he arrived, panting and alone, at the portrait of the Fat Lady and gasped out the password.
She raised one eyebrow quizzically after he huffed out the words. "I beg your pardon?"
Harry doubled over, still catching his breath but not willing to waste any time. "Eshnilil'it," he managed.
The statuesque portrait sniffed. "Repeat that, if you would?"
"Esh-nilo-ilit."
Shifting her position with great dignity and no haste, the Fat Lady irritated Harry hugely by rolling her eyes. She seemed to have no idea of the urgency of the situation. "Students," she bemoaned. "You younger generations are all rush and no rules. Why, in my day – "
"Ex nihilo nihil fit!"
The portrait swung open and Harry clambered inside with no time for dignity.
Her indignant, "Well! I never!" sounded distantly behind him as Harry raced straight up the stairs to his dormitory even before her portrait swung closed once more.
Something, Harry felt deep in his gut, had gone terribly, horribly wrong in his plans.