October arrived much quicker than Arabella would have liked, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, was kept very busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepper-Up potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Astoria Greengrass, who had been looking pale in recent days, was bullied into taking some by Daphne. The steam pouring from under her dark chocolate locks gave the impression that she was a volcano about to erupt. All the first years we're looking a bit peaky, as even Ginny Weasley smoked by the ears as she walked from class to class, head hidden underneath her arms. 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 Arabella 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 Arabella squelched along the deserted corridor she 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 Arabella cheerfully.

"Hello, hello," said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking around. 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, my young Potter," said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

"So do you," replied Arabella with raised brows.

"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—"

Despite 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 ax would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"

"Oh— yes," said Arabella, 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, Arabella! 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?"

"Nope," said Arabella with a sigh. "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," advised 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 Arabella, 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 her right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

"Filth!" he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Arabella's Quidditch robes. "Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!"

Waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless Nick, Arabella followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor. She had never been inside Filch's office before; it was a place most students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about

the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch's desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment.

"Dung," he muttered furiously, "great sizzling dragon bogies... frog brains... rat intestines... I've had enough of it... make an example... where's the form... yes..."

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the inkpot.

"Name… Arabella Potter. Crime..."

"It was only a bit of mud!" exclaimed Harry exasperatedly.

"It's only a bit of mud to you, girl! But to me it's an extra hour of scrubbing!" shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. "Crime... befouling the castle... suggested sentence..."

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Arabella who waited with bated breath for his sentence to fall.

But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which made the oil lamp rattle.

"PEEVES!" Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a transport of rage. "I'll have you this time, I'll have you!"

And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him.

Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to cause havoc and distress. Harry didn't much like Peeves, but couldn't help feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it sounded as though he'd wrecked something very big this time) would distract Filch from Arabella.

Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to come back, Arabella sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn't on his way back, she picked up the envelope and read:

Kwikspell

A Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic.

Intrigued, Arabella flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said:

Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork?

There is an answer!

Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell method!

Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes:

"I had no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!"

Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says:

"My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you, Kwikspell!"

Fascinated, Arabella thumbed through the rest of the envelope's contents. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn't a proper wizard? She was just reading Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips) when shuffling footsteps outside told him Filch was coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened.

Filch was looking triumphant.

"That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!" he was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris. "We'll have Peeves out this time, my sweet —"

His eyes fell on Arabella and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which, Lahr realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.

Filch's pasty face went brick red. Harry braced himself for a tidal wave of fury. Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer.

"Have you — did you read —?" he sputtered.

"Nope," Arabella lied quickly.

Filch's knobbly hands were twisting together.

"If I thought you'd read my private —not that it's mine — for a friend — be that as it may — however —"

Arabella was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan scarf didn't help.

"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 her luck, Arabella 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.

"Arabella! Arabella, over here! Did it work?"

Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him, Arabella could see the wreckage of a large black-and-gold cabinet that 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?" giggled Arabella. "Yeah, it worked, I didn't even get detention. Thanks, Nick!"

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

"I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt," she sighed, "I'm sorry they're being so difficult about the whole matter."

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

"But there is something you could do for me," said Nick excitedly. "Arabella — would I be asking too much — but no, you wouldn't want —"

"What is it?" asked Arabella.

"Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday," said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

"Oh," she said awkwardly, not sure whether she should look sorry or happy about this. "Of course."

"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 honor if you would attend. Even though she is in Slytherin, your sister Lyla is most welcome, too, of course— she's quite kind I've recently discovered— and your friends, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley too— but I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?"

"No," said Arabella quickly, "I'll come —"

"My dear girl! Arabella and Lyla 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 Arabella.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at her as Christmas has come early.

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