"A deathday party?" asked Lyla keenly when Arabella had changed at last and joined her, Ron, and Hermione in the Library.

"I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've been to one of those—" said Hermione thoughtfully, "It'll be fascinating!"

"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" asked 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. Lamps illuminated the library in a soft, gentle glow.

Fred and George Weasley were trying to find out what would happen if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander two tables away, sniggering madly. Fred had "rescued" the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.

Arabella was at the point where she ran into an extremely irritable Filch and his Kwikspell course when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly around the room. Madam Pince, the librarian, chased the Weasley twins hissing like a snake, the spectacular display of tangerine stars from the salamander's mouth still sparking hours later.

By the time Halloween arrived, Arabella gloomily voiced her regret at rashly promising to go to the deathday party. The rest of the school was 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 rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

"A promise is a promise," Lyla chided, "you said you'd go to the deathday party."

So at seven o'clock, Arabella, Lyla, 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 toward 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 Lyla shivered and drew her robes tightly around herself, she heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

"Is that supposed to be music?" Arabella 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 raised, 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?" Lyla suggested timidly, wanting to warm up her feet.

"Careful not to walk through anyone," warned 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. Lyla wasn't surprised at all to see the Bloody Baron, who many of the other ghosts were giving a wide berth.

"Oh, no," gasped Hermione, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle—"

"Who?" asked Ron as they backtracked quickly.

"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," said Arabella with a small groan.

"She haunts the toilets?"

"Yes," said Lyla with a wrinkle of her nose. "It's been out-of-order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I've never been inside, but I've always heard rumors."

"It's awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you —"

"Look, food!" said Ron excitedly.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but the 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 mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words:

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON

DIED 31ST OCTOBER, 1492

Amazed, Lyla watched a portly ghost approach 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?" asked Arabella curiously.

"Almost," said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.

"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," said Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.

"Can we move? I feel sick," whined Ron.

They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.

"Hello, Peeves," said Lyla 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.

"Uh, no thank you," said Hermione polity.

"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 we've said, she'll be really upset," Hermione whispered frantically. "I didn't mean it, I don't mind her— er, hello, Myrtle."

The ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the glummest face Lyla 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. "In facts, all the girls were, saying —"

"Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight," said Arabella, glaring at Peeves.

Myrtle eyed them 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 Ron painfully in the ribs.

"Oh, yeah — They did say that."

"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 forgotten pimply," Peeves hissed in her ear.

Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her with moldy peanuts, yelling, "Pimply! Pimply!"

"Oh, dear," said Hermione sadly.

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd. "Enjoying yourselves?"

"Yes, very much so," Arabella lied, cheeks flushing.

"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; Lyla 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. At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head under his arm, from which

position he was blowing the horn. The ghost leaped 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 the small grouping of students 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 Arabella 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 toward 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 was 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.

The group was very cold by now, and not to mention very 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," Lyla agreed.

They backed toward 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 toward the steps to the entrance hall.

And then she heard it.

"... rip... tear... kill..."

Lyla and Arabella both froze, their blood running cold.

"What are you all stopping for?" asked Ron with a frown, "come on now, I'm starving."

"Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you. . . ."

Both sisters gazed at each other in horror.

"Guys, what're you —?"

"It's that voice again—" breathed Lyla, feeling a shudder make its way down her spine. "shut up a minute, Ron —"

"... soo hungry... for so long..."

"Listen!" pleaded Lyla urgently, and Ron and Hermione froze, watching.

"... kill... time to kill..."

The voice was growing fainter. Lyla was sure it was moving away— moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped her stomach as she stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn't matter?

"This way," Arabella said, and she began to run up the stairs and into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Arabella and Lyla sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind them.

"Hey, what're we —"

"SHH!"

Lyla frowned, straining his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice:

"... I smell blood... I SMELL BLOOD!"

Her stomach gave a horrible lurch.

"It's going to kill someone!" shouted Arabella.

Ignoring Ron's and Hermione's bewildered faces, Lyla up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over the pounding of her and her sister's footsteps– they hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ron and Hermione panting behind them, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

"You two, what was that all about?" heaved Ron, wiping sweat off his face. "I couldn't hear anything–"

But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor. "Look! Up there!"

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They 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?" asked Ron, a slight quiver in his voice.

As they edged nearer, Lyla almost slipped— there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Ron and Hermione grabbed her just in time, and the small group inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All three of them realized what it was at once, and leaped backward 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, they didn't move. Then Ron said, "Let's get out of here."

"Shouldn't we try and help —" began Arabella.

"Trust me," said Ron. "We don't want to be found here."

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; the 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. Arabella, Lyla, Ron, and Hermione 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!" shouted a voice over the silence. "You'll be next, filthy Mudbloods!"

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