October came in damp and chilly. It was depressing to watch the autumn shrink into winter; tempers ran short as people realized that they were in for many dreary months. The entire Quidditch team caught cold. Madame Pomfrey revived them quickly with a few doses of Pepperup potion, which in the meantime made thick smoke billow out of their ears so that you could trace their flight patterns during practice. Life at Hogwarts went on as usual. There wasn't even anything for the S.S.A. to talk about.
"Meeting's cancelled," Richard muttered at dinner one Thursday. The enchanted ceiling above him was filled with low gray clouds. "Pass it on."
"How come?" Beth whispered back.
He shrugged. "No new business. No old business, either. We might as well just go to bed early, for once."
On the other hand, classes were as interesting as they had ever been. Defense Against Dark Arts was a special high point in the day. Aaron and Bruce, the unofficial peanut gallery, had initiated a game called Flummox the Lummox. Students got points for asking stupid questions, making Professor Lockhart stammer around for an answer, or discreetly insulting Lockhart to his face (it only counted if he didn't catch on, because if he did you were bound to lose five or ten house points).
Care of Magical Creatures was almost as exciting. After they had fully discussed beast/being status among centaurs and similar creatures, Professor Kettleburn started bringing in animals for hands-on work. That day he had a fire full of salamanders for the class to "handle" -- or more accurately, play with.
"Aren't you the cutest!" crooned Beth, as one scarlet lizard zipped around her desk. "Yes, you are!"
Melissa was regarding the salamander with less enthusiasm. "No, he's not."
"Don't listen to her," Beth cooed, picking it up and letting it crawl around on her hand. "She's just jealous."
"Careful with these," Kettleburn warned from the front of the class. "They'll set stuff on fire if yer not cautious."
"Yow!" Across the room, Mervin proved Kettleburn's point as the sleeve of his robe caught fire. He put it out with a spray of water from his wand. The Gryffindors sniggered.
The bell to change classes rang. Professor Kettleburn collected the salamanders in a big bucket of ashes, and the students poured into the halls. Professor Snape was waiting outside.
"May I have a moment, Miss Parson?"
"Eh -- all right." She gave Bruce and Melissa a little shrug and joined Professor Snape on the other side of the hall.
"I have a favor to ask," said Professor Snape. His gaze suddenly flickered away. "One moment please."
One of the Weasley twins had just walked out of Kettleburn's classroom; there was a thin stream of smoke coming from one of his robe pockets. He had stolen one of the salamanders. Beth put a hand over her mouth to hide her grin.
Professor Snape narrowed his eyes. His voice took on the soft, dangerous tone that he so often used on the Gryffindors. "What's in your pocket, Weasley?"
"Nothing." The Weasley tried to look innocent as smoke continued to pour from his pocket.
"Are you certain?"
"Yeah -- ow!" He jerked his hip to one side and a badly-concealed look of pain flashed across his face.
A smile crossed Professor Snape's lips, and Beth was sure that he was getting the same sadistic pleasure out of the scene as she was. "Are you all right, Weasley?"
The smoke was thicker now, and flames were starting to lick the top of his pocket. "Uh -- fine, thanks -- really --" The Weasley hopped back and forth in an absurd attempt to keep his legs away from his flaming pocket. "Just some -- Pepperup potion -- uh, tablets --"
His brother suddenly appeared at his side. "Professor McGonagall wants to see us immediately. We'd better get moving. Hi, Professor," he added to Snape, and they took off down the hall. Beth could hear one of them muttering "... think it burned a hole in my pocket ..."
With a sigh, Snape turned back to Beth.
"A few of my third-year students have asked to work on one of their potions over the weekend. I'd prefer to have an older student present, to help out or simply ... prevent any mishaps. I was wondering if you would mind."
"Uh -- no," said Beth, surprised. "Sure, I can watch them."
Professor Snape gave her a smile. "I'll have dungeon five unlocked by ten o'clock tomorrow then. Let me know if they need any additional time on Sunday."
"All right."
"Thank you. I'm sure you'll find it ... educational."
Before she could ask what he meant, Professor Snape had swept away.
The next day, Beth went down to dungeon five at ten o'clock. She took her Potions book for reference, and her Charms book, figuring that she could get some homework done if things went well. When she got there, the doors were open and the third-years were already there, hunched over a spellbook. They had their cauldron set up and a cool yellow fire blazing beneath it. She went in, then grinned.
"Oh good, it's you two!"
Evan Wilkes and Herne Rudisille looked up at her. Herne beamed. "Good, I'm glad it's someone we know," he said cheerfully, his curly head bobbing. "The way Snape was talking, it sounded like he'd be sending down a jailer and some ravenous guard dogs."
"He is. They'll be here in a minute," Beth teased. "What are you two working on?"
"Bottling fame, brewing glory, and putting a stopper in death," said Evan gloomily. He still hunched over the recipe; his straight black bangs fell in his eyes.
"It's a cure for the mumps," said Herne. "Ours blew up in class. Snape gave us another chance at it. Good of him, really."
"He's all right if you respect him," said Beth thoughtfully. "Need any help?"
"Nope." Herne grinned sheepishly. "We know what we did wrong last time."
"Yeah," said Evan, "we blew it up."
Beth giggled. "Let me know if you need anything, then. I'll be working on Charms."
Herne and Evan got to work preparing ingredients, and Beth opened her Charms book.
She sat and stared at her homework. She didn't feel like doing Charms, when there was so much Alchemy to be done. The problem was, she didn't feel like doing Alchemy either. And on top of that, she hadn't even spoken to Blaise Zabini more that two or three times since the S.S.A. assignment. At least that's not a grade, she thought halfheartedly. Well, that was something she could work on here, and be interested in.
"Either of you know anything about Blaise Zabini?"
"Ow!" Herne burned his finger on the fire and hastily stuck it into his mouth. "What, there?" he mumbled.
"Blaise Zabini."
Evan tossed a handful of parsley into the potion. "Second-year Slytherin. Brown hair, light eyes. Lives in Stratford with her mother." He looked up through his dark bangs. "And you're saying it wrong. It's not 'Blaze' like a blaze of fire, the 's' is more soft. Like 'base' with an 'l' in it."
"Oh." Beth was impressed. "You know her, then."
"No." Evan went back to chopping asphodel root.
"She's really nice," said Herne. He was measuring out frog brains into a large graduated cylinder. "And she did well at the chess tournament last year, remember? Semi-finalist."
Beth covered a grin. "Right, the one that Jerome Marx set up so that he could sneak out to Hogsmeade."
"Yeah, that one," said Herne. "That's all I know about her, anyway. She hangs around with Draco a lot, maybe you should ask him."
He tipped the flask full of frog brains into the cauldron.
Evan leapt out of his chair, shouting, "Not yet, I didn't put in the rat bile yet --!" He threw himself to the ground as the cauldron started to shake madly in its stand. Horrified, Beth ducked under her desk just as the entire contents of the potion exploded upwards in a single deafening boom. There was a splattering sound as uncooked frog brains rained on the ceiling and floor.
They crawled out from under their cover, groaning at the mess before them. There wasn't a square foot of clean space on the walls. Beth gritted her teeth.
"Well," she sighed, "guess we'll practice some Scouring Spells instead. Come on, we've only got so much time before Filch shows up."
Herne's eyes were wide, and being the closest to the cauldron, his face was plastered with singed frog brains. "Filch! How should he know about this?"
"You made a ruddy loud explosion," said Beth, busy Scouring the blackboard.
"Not to mention," added Evan, "that Mrs. Norris is going to tell him."
They all turned around in dismay. The skeletal gray cat that belonged to the caretaker hovered in the doorway like a ragged specter before slipping away, no doubt to bring Filch back to the scene of the crime.
Beth let out a loud groan. "That's it then, detentions for everybody. Let's see how much we can get done before he gets here, at least."
They set to work. Evan and Herne hadn't had much practice with Scouring Spells, and even with the three of them together, they barely had the floor and walls cleaned before they heard an unmistakable meow and an angry clomping sound coming up the halls.
"It's been nice knowing you," Herne said dismally.
Argus Filch burst into the room, tartan swinging around his neck, big boots stomping into the ground. "Aha! Makin' a mess in the dungeons," he snarled triumphantly. His yellow eyes were huge and gleeful in anticipation of the punishment he was about to inflict. "Sneakin' about to work on love potions or summat, no doubt."
"Professor Snape knows we're here --" Beth started, but she broke off. Filch was very slowly raising his eyes to the ceiling. He fixed on the enormous splatter. A glop of unfinished potion dripped from the ceiling onto Herne's head.
"What is that?" he hissed quietly.
"F-frog brains," said Herne, cringing a little.
Filch let his gaze drift downward; his ugly yellow eyes fell on Herne. His voice was very soft and very evil. "Frog brains, did you say?"
Herne nodded mutely.
"Frog brains. Frog brains!" Filch cried suddenly, as a high flush rose in his jaundiced cheeks. "Thought it'd be fun, did you? Make a little more work for me, did you? We'll see how that goes for you -- detentions for the lot of you!" Beth's mouth fell open in anger. "Sprayin' potions about like fireworks -- settin' things afire -- if it was up t' me you'd all be swingin' from chains cleanin' that ceiling with yer teeth!" He grimaced wickedly and treated them to the sight of his uneven, yellow teeth. "Who's yer head of house, now? Snape is it? Come on then, we'll see what he has to say about yer li'l adventure! Guard this room, Mrs. Norris," he ordered, and the cat gave a compliant meow and leapt onto the work table.
"Off yer duffs, you three! Move along!"
They followed Filch through the dungeons to Professor Snape's office.
"We were cleaning it up," Herne grumbled mutinously.
"Quiet back there!"
"Well, we were," he repeated, more quietly.
Filch stormed up to the office and pounded on the door. It creaked open and Professor Snape stood there, gazing at Filch with cool, unflinching distaste. "Yes, what do you want?"
"Your students, perfessor -- makin' a mess in the dungeons --"
"Ah," said Professor Snape, looking them over, "it failed again, did it?" Herne and Evan nodded. He turned back to Filch. "I assume you will take care of this ... catastrophe?"
Filch's ugly face grew more bitter; Beth would have doubted that it was possible. "Of course, sir, but first may I recommend an appropriate punishment --" He bit off each word, making his sentence staccato.
"I assure you, Mr. Filch, that these students will be punished quite enough if they cannot get a basic mump-reducing elixir to work before their next test. Thank you, that will be enough."
"But sir -- the grime -- the crime --"
"There was no crime save ignorance," said Professor Snape coldly, "and unfortunately that is not a punishable offense. Good day, Mr. Filch."
"But --" Filch stammered. The door closed in his face. He stood gaping at it for a few moments, breathing heavily; then he turned on the students.
"You heard 'im, get yer things out o' that dungeon an' get out o' me sight. NOW!" he roared, and the three of them scurried back to Dungeon Five.
"Good job, Snape!" cheered Herne, as they hastily grabbed up their ingredients.
"I told you he was all right," said Beth, stuffing her books into her backpack. "Come on, let's go!" Mrs. Norris hissed at them on the way out, and they almost ran into Filch, carrying a mop and an extremely angry expression, as they bolted back to the common room.
Beth avoided Argus Filch as much as she could in the following week, but something else was in the forefront of her mind: the annual Halloween Feast. Rumor had it that entertainment was going to be a bunch of dancing skeletons, which promised to be fun, although the same rumor mill suggested that the ghosts would be attending a party of their own and wouldn't be available for the Hogwarts feast.
"Where are they going, then?" Herne asked curiously.
"Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington's five hundredth deathday party," Riggs informed him stuffily.
"Too bad," said Herne. "They added a gloomy kind of air, don't you think?"
At last, it was Saturday. Beth and Melissa spent the afternoon prancing around excitedly until it was time to head to the Great Hall for the holiday. The halls swarmed with chattering students, eager to start the feast and forget about classes for the night -- hopefully, for the whole weekend.
"Good luck you got out of detention, or you'd have missed the feast," Melissa grinned at Beth.
She grinned back. "No kidding. Poor Herne, though -- he gets out of punishment on Saturday and gets caught after curfew the next Thursday. I guess he's still allowed to come, but he's got a detention next week."
"Ooh." Melissa tugged on Beth's arm. "Look at this."
The Great Hall was decorated in eerie splendor. Live bats swooped around the high, enchanted ceiling; enormous pumpkins had been hollowed out into bathtub-sized jack o lanterns; cobwebs crisscrossed the windows, and their makers cast elongated shadows on the walls.
Beth whistled appreciatively. She hadn't been to a Halloween feast since her first year. At the last one, she had skipped the feast to sneak into the forbidden third-floor corridor; the year before that, the entertainment had been a musical group, and she had refused to go for fear of not having anyone to dance with. It had been pretty childish, she knew, but she still got the feeling that she would do the same if there was another threat of dancing.
"Talk about atmosphere," she said, as she and Melissa sat at the Slytherin table. "But you know what I really miss?"
"What's that?"
"Costumes."
Melissa snorted a laugh. "Costumes?"
"Sure. Muggles -- well, American Muggles at least -- get dressed up and go around in costume for Halloween. You always have to have a costume."
"Weird." Melissa shook her head. "What kind of costume, then?"
"Oh -- imaginary stuff -- ghosts ..." The Bloody Baron floated by. "Werewolves ... vampires ... witches ..."
Melissa raised her eyebrows.
"Well ..." Beth blushed. "Never mind. Guess you don't need to."
"Hey," said Melissa, leaning back in her chair, "there's a pair of empty seats by the second-years. Let's go sit by Pansy and Blaise. We can do a little eavesdropping. It'll make Rich happy at least."
Beth agreed, and they moved down the table to where the second-years were clumped.
"Excited about the Quidditch game, Draco?" Pansy Parkinson crooned, batting her eyes at the pale-haired Seeker.
Draco smirked at her. "I'm excited about watching Potter break his winning streak. We've got five returning players."
"And an excellent Seeker," added Pansy.
Blaise Zabini spoke up for the first time. She was a small girl with short brown hair, and looked remarkably composed when contrasted with Pansy's posing and simpering. "Gryffindor has seven returning players," she observed. "And their Keeper's top."
"So is ours," said Draco confidently. "And don't forget the secret weapon --"
"Nimbus Two Thousand and One!" they said together. Draco was grinning broadly, obviously still proud that his father had obtained the fantastic broomsticks.
At the front of the Hall, Dumbledore clapped his hands and declared, "Let the feast begin!" although no one was really paying attention. The feast sprung up, as it always did, from thin air onto glimmering golden dishes. It was a harvest medley: roast nuts and apples, corn, mixed fruits, jam and biscuits, ginger cake, pumpkin pudding, and plenty of candy.
Beth took a sip from her goblet and made a face. "Pumpkin juice again!"
Melissa grinned and drank a long draught of her own. "Sure, what else?"
"Apple cider, anything. I don't know what you people see in the stuff. It's disgusting."
Eventually the feast faded out, and Dumbledore rose to introduce the evening's entertainment. It was a troupe of dancing skeletons, eight long, bony figures capering and japing around the Great Hall with their bony fingers waggling and their jaws clacking against their mandibles.
It was difficult to tell whether the dancing skeletons were intended to be creepy or funny. Certainly it was eerie to watch their empty skulls grin around at the Great Hall, hollow eye sockets wide and unblinking. On the other hand, the dance routines were amusing if not downright comical. Their arms and legs became props; they juggled each others' skulls with lackadaisical ease. "If Nearly Headless Nick was here," whispered Melissa, indicating the flying skulls, "he'd be gray with jealousy." Beth stifled a snigger.
Finally the skeletons retired with much bowing and applause. Beth wondered where they would go now that their job was done. Did they live somewhere, in fleshless comfort, to perform throughout the year? Or did they return to some dry crypt (the S.S.A sepulcher came to mind) to sleep until the next Halloween?
At the head table, Dumbledore had risen and started to speak. "First, let's thank our entertainment for the evening," he beamed at the skeletons. One of them gave a casual salute in response to the applause that roared up again from the audience. "I hope you all enjoyed yourselves. Special thanks to the kitchen elves, who provide our food year after year; Rubeus Hagrid, for the superb pumpkin lanterns, and who also helped hang some of the higher decorations; Argus Filch, who also lent a hand in decorating; Professor Kettleburn, who provided the bats; and all members of the staff and faculty who helped to make this a special night. Thank you for coming, and happy Halloween!"
At that, the students groaned, stretched, and stood up to leave the Hall in droves.
"I didn't know it was elves who ran the kitchens," said Beth, as she and the other Slytherins were shoved along in the tide of bodies. "I thought it was, I don't know, cooks or something."
"House elves, sure," said Melissa. Her voice was a little muffled; being short, she had a tendency to get lost in mobs like this. "They come with old families. Mine's got a few, but we're lending most of them out to relatives. Binky does enough to cover for all the rest of them."
"Binky, eh?" came a familiar, drawling voice behind them. Draco Malfoy, with Crabbe and Goyle on either side, was having less trouble getting through the crowd thanks to his monstrous cronies. "Mine's called Dobby. He's not a bad sort, very loyal. Been with the Malfoys for generations."
They wound through the hallways, any more conversation precluded by the tightly packed mob of chattering students. Suddenly the person in front of Beth lurched to a halt; Beth went crashing into him and felt more students smashing into her from the sudden stop.
Loud complaints started to arise. "What is this?" demanded Draco Malfoy, pushing to the front. Beth followed in his wake, taking advantage of her height.
She stopped when the crowd was only two or three deep in front of her. Her mouth dropped open.
Angry red words smeared across the wall, glimmering in the candlelight: THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE. To one side stood Harry Potter, flanked by the Granger girl and the youngest Weasley boy, looking both guilty and astonished at the writing.
"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!" The cry rang out over the heads of the students. Beth looked around for its source. Draco Malfoy had made it the whole way to the front of the crowd and stood reading the words with a look of frantic excitement on his face. The firelight glinted off of his pale hair and etched unusual shadows in his thin, white face.
The people around Beth were nudging each other and pointing at the wall, as if there was more to be seen than the shimmering, foot-high threat. She followed their gaze.
Hanging from a torch bracket was a still gray shape. It was Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat.