The next couple of months passed quickly; Harry and I were kept plenty busy not only with schoolwork, but with Oliver's intensive training schedule. Our practices were each Saturday morning at nine o'clock, and evening practices for Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday as well.
Although Quidditch was tiring, I couldn't have been enjoying myself more. Angelina, Katie, and I were getting along splendidly, and Fred and George were keeping me updated on the pranks they had played on Elizabeth Malfoy. I was becoming incredibly invested in their little war, and was certainly listening intently whenever they had further news.
Getting to play Quidditch with Harry was a dream. Whenever we had exercises or team warm-ups, he and I would pair up together. Our friendship translated into the chemistry on the field, meaning we were able to impress all of our older teammates with how well we worked together.
Our classes were going relatively well, too. I was still partnered with Draco for Transfiguration, although I was refraining from being either hostile or friendly. I still hadn't forgiven him for what he said to Hermione, especially since he hadn't even apologized; Draco seemed to catch onto that, because there was an awkward silence between us more often than not.
On the Friday before Halloween, however, it seemed that Draco had had enough of said awkwardness. That day, he leaned towards me during one of McGonagall's lectures and whispered, "When are things going to go… back to normal? For us," he added quickly, as if his message wouldn't have been clear otherwise.
I waited for Professor McGonagall to turn back to the chalkboard before responding, "I don't know, I'm not the one who called my friend a foul name."
Draco sighed, but turned his attention back to the lesson. He was quiet for the rest of the time McGonagall talked—but the moment it was time to move onto the partnership stages in the class, he moved directly to Hermione, who stared at him with wide eyes, and said, "Look, Granger—what I said on the Quiditch pitch. I'm sorry. I won't call you that again."
"Or anyone else?" she asked, almost looking like she didn't believe him.
Draco sighed and looked at the ground, but he acquiesced. "Or anyone else."
My eyes were practically bugging out of my head, I was so shocked with this development. The last thing I had expected would be for Draco to actually take initiative—I had expected him to hold his ground…
"There," he said, having returned to my side. "Now can things go back to normal? I meant it. I won't call anyone else that again. Even if they're annoying pieces of—"
"Enough," I said, although there was a bit of laughter in my voice. Draco must have heard it too, because he offered me the tiniest of smiles. "I believe you. Come on, let's get to it, then."
The rest of the day passed by normally, although I couldn't help noticing that Hermione seemed more cheerful than usual.
The next morning, the Saturday before Halloween, Oliver had us on the pitch again. Seeing how well we were really starting to execute some of our strategies and flesh out our teamwork, he told us that he would let us out an hour early as a treat. Relieved by this announcement, we all started to dismount our broomsticks and head back to the tent—
"Belle, a word?"
I started and turned back to our Quidditch Captain, who was waving me over. I gave Harry a nod, said, "I'll catch up to you in the common room," and returned to the middle of the pitch.
"What's going on?" I asked, nervous over why he called me aside.
Oliver grinned and threw an arm around my shoulder. "I just wanted to check up on you. The team's been to your liking so far? Practices going okay?"
"Oh—oh yeah!" I exclaimed, hoping my face didn't look as hot as it felt. "Things have been great, I've been loving it on the team."
"I'm glad to hear it. Would you be all right with sticking around for another moment? There's a little trick to your standard flying posture I want to teach you, could help you with any back pain you get after practices or games…"
The prospect of a late-morning nap be damned, I was more than happy to learn something more to flying, especially directly from my Quidditch Captain. So Oliver and I spent the next twenty minutes or so talking about posture—apparently I was doing something that arched my back in a weird way. After correcting it and flying a few laps around the Quidditch pitch, we called it a morning and went to the tents to put away our broomsticks and robes.
"You've been doing great so far, Belle," Oliver said as he haphazardly threw his sweater into his rucksack. "Even last year, I knew you would be a quick learner."
"Even last year?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Realizing how it sounded, he laughed. One hand sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "That's not to say the auditions this year were hedged—they weren't. I was as objective as possible, particularly with the Chaser tryouts. Let's put it this way: if anyone had performed better than you had last year, I would've eaten my shoe."
This made me burst out into laughter; I turned away from Oliver so he wouldn't see the silly grin on my face. It was hard to ignore praise from him, a sixth year and my Quidditch Captain to boot…
"Was your cousin on the team during his time at Hogwarts too?"
I spared a look over my shoulder to see Oliver grinning. Figuring that eventually I'd have to tell someone that I was related to the Krums, and that Viktor was actually a professional Quidditch player now, I smiled a little. "He's actually still in school—not Hogwarts, though," I added at his raised eyebrows. "He's in Drumstrang… his name is Viktor Krum."
Oliver's mouth dropped open. Eyes wide, he said, "You're bloody joking."
My smile twisted as I shook my head. "Don't tell the others. Not even Harry knows this… but my last name is actually Krum. Skylar was my mother's maiden name, and my brother and I use it to disguise the fact that we're—well—related to Quidditch legends."
Oliver looked like he had just won a Nimbus 2001 in the raffle. "You're a Krum? On our Quidditch team?"
Admittedly charmed by how fascinated he was by this, I replied, "Technically, yeah. Viktor just got accepted onto the Bulgarian national team; he's the youngest professional Seeker in eighty-five years. I'm really proud of him. But again, please don't tell the others about this. I trust you, and that's why I'm telling you—but I don't think I'm ready for people to view me as a Krum yet."
"Of course, Belle, you've got nothing to worry about from me," he promised, his face sobering. He waved me onward, and so we started the uphill hike up to the castle.
We talked about our classes on the way up—apparently, his favorites were Transfiguration and Arithmancy, the latter subject being one I could potentially take during my third year. I made sure to ask for his opinion on Lockhart's Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, and was immensely pleased when the response was, "Oh, I try to think about them as little as possible."
Upon returning to the castle, a wash of heat greeted us. Based on the clamoring from the direction of the Great Hall, it seemed many of our fellow classmates were consuming a late brunch. While I was halfway tempted to do the same, something caught our attention: a trail of mud, undoubtedly from one of our teammates… and Mrs. Norris was standing guard outside the broom closet that constituted as Filch's office.
"Looks like one of our players might've gotten in trouble," Oliver muttered, biting his lip. "I really hope they don't get detention, that could mean—"
He didn't get any further than that before Harry burst out of the office, his eyes wide. It rather looked like he had seen a ghost.
Before I could even say hello, a voice down the hallway exclaimed, "Harry! Harry! Did it work?"
It was Nearly-Headless Nick—ironically, a ghost—and there was an evil grin upon his face. He spared Oliver and I a quick wave before leaning back to Harry and hissing, "I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch's office. Thought it might distract him."
"Was that you?" Harry's voice was breathless, as though he'd sprinted out of Filch's office. "Yeah, it worked, I didn't even get detention. Thanks, Nick!"
"No detention?" repeated Oliver. "Thank fuck for that. I'll leave you two here, I just remembered I have a study session to get to with some of my Potions classmates—have a good one!"
With one final wave, our Quidditch Captain shot me a wink and darted off in the direction of the library.
"Are you all right, Harry?" I asked, keeping my voice low. Even before he could reply, I seized his arm and added, "Let's get further away from Filch's, just in case he decides to come after you again."
Both Harry and Nearly Headless Nick thought this was a splendid idea, and so we traversed the hallways. There was a silence between us: it was not uneasy, but it was contemplative.
As we neared the Gryffindor common room, Harry finally spoke, his green eyes fastened in Sir Nicholas's direction. "I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt."
His response caused Nick to stop right in his spectral tracks. I had to freeze myself, or else I would've walked right through him—passing through a ghost was never a pleasant experience.
"But there is something you could do for me," said Nick, hope lining his features. "Harry, would I be asking too much… but no, you wouldn't want—"
"What is it?" asked Harry.
"Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday! 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. And you, Miss Skylar, you as well! And Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome too, of course—but I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?" This last was said with a skeptical look, of someone not expecting much at all.
Harry, however, offered Nick a large smile. "No, I'll come."
Our Gryffindor ghost looked positively overjoyed—he turned to me for my answer as well, which of course was, "If it means something to you at all, Nick, then of course I'll come."
"My dear friends! And… do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive you find me?"
My grin grew at Nick's palpable excitement. While I wasn't sure what this 'Headless Hunt' business was about, I was sure Harry would enlighten me in a few moments—and it would be nice to do something for Sir Nicholas, who was often such a bright spirit in the common room and Great Hall.
"Of course," Harry exclaimed, and I followed up with a frantic nod.
Nick beamed and started floating away, humming happily to himself.
Halloween night arrived, and with it, Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party. There was no telling what would be waiting for us, which meant I was glad to hear that Ron and Hermione would be going with Harry and I to find out.
So it was that early in the evening, we walked straight past the Great Hall in favor of the dungeons. While the dungeons looked more lively than they usually did, there was still a tangible gloom: black candles were emitting a soft glow, and the temperature was freezing due to the ghostly presences. In the back of the dungeon was some horrid screeching noise—it turned out to be a ghostly orchestra, which was playing their deadened interpretation of music.
At the entrance to the dungeon was Nick, who bowed as we approached. "My dear friends, welcome, welcome… so pleased you could come."
Inside the dungeon that was normally our Potions classroom were dozens of ghosts, many of whom were waltzing to the horrid music. Others were floating towards a large buffet table. They didn't seem to have noticed us, although my main concern quickly became how we were going to walk through the dungeon without being showered by an ice bath every step of the way.
"Shall we have a look around?" asked Harry, who was shivering, his arms crossed across his chest.
"Careful not to walk through anyone," Ron muttered.
I snorted. "Don't have to tell me twice."
So we started walking around—there were a lot of unfamiliar faces. There were nuns, some of the ghosts of Hogwarts, deceased knights…
"Oh, no," Hermione gasped suddenly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle, she haunts one of the toilets in the girl's bathroom on the first floor—"
Ron blinked. "She haunts a toilet?"
His astonishment made me grin sideways. "That she does, but the bathroom's been out of order all year because she keeps flooding the place. Besides, it's less than pleasant, trying to use the bathroom while she's sobbing in the next stall…"
"Look, food!" exclaimed Ron.
Seeing as all four of us were hungry, we turned to the large table only to see the food prepared was horribly rotted. All of it was moldy and expired, which caused our appetites to fly out the window. A ghost next to us floated down towards the food and opened his mouth wide before passing through a piece of rotted salmon.
"Can you taste it if you walk through it?" questioned Harry.
"Almost," was the melancholy response. Then the ghost floated away.
Hermione leaned forward, pinching her nose, and murmured, "I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor…"
"Can we move?" asked Ron. "I feel sick."
As soon as we turned around, however, we found ourselves face-to-face with a familiar poltergeist. "Dumbbell!" he exclaimed, pretending to pat me on the head. He then held out a bowl of fungi-covered peanuts and asked, "Nibbles?"
I shook my head and opened my mouth to excuse ourselves, but before we could, he pouted, "Heard you talking about poor Myrtle. Rude you was about poor Myrtle." He took a mighty breath… and shouted, "OI! MYRTLE!"
Over drifted Moaning Myrtle, who unsurprisingly had translucent tears in her eyes. Her voice heavy, she asked, "What?"
"How are you, Myrtle?" said Hermione, trying to smile brightly. But she knew as well as the rest of us that Peeves was going to cause trouble. "It's nice to see you out of the toilet."
Peeves didn't even let Myrtle respond. "Miss Granger was just talking about you!"
"Just saying—how nice you look tonight!" exclaimed Hermione, shooting Peeves a dirty glare.
"You're making fun of me." The ghostly tears began spilling over Myrtle's spectral face. "D'you think I don't know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!"
Rubbing his hands together, the poltergeist leaned towards Mrytle and hissed, "You've forgotten pimply."
Myrtle burst into tears and started trying to float away. She wasn't able to get far due to Peeves trailing after her, incessantly throwing peanuts and shouting, "Pimply! Pimply!"
Once they were gone, I expelled a sharp breath and ran a hand through my red hair. "Well that didn't go as desired."
Nearly Headless Nick approached us upon seeing that we were free once again and asked, "Enjoying yourselves?"
We all started to assure him that we were having a great time, even though I was a damn fact that none of us were. Our enthusiastic lies seemed to make our friend happy, at least.
"Not a bad turnout!" exclaimed Nick with a wide grin. "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."
As soon as he said this, the orchestra stopped playing—but not because of Nick's speech. A hunting horn had just sounded; everyone had fallen silent while looking eagerly around the dungeon.
"Oh, here we go," muttered Nick. The pleasantness to his voice had vanished like a puff of smoke.
Twelve ghostly horses burst through the walls; hunters were seated atop of them, and they were all headless. The application that Nick had mentioned a few days prior suddenly made a lot of sense.
The assembly started to clap, but I refrained from doing so seeing the look on Nick's face. The leader of the hunt walked over in our direction, bellowing, "Nick! How are you? Head still hanging in there?"
Nick wasn't even given a chance to respond as the ghost spotted us and exclaimed, "Live 'uns!" while jumping exaggeratedly in his seat. His head fell off of his neck; the guests burst into laughter once again.
"Very amusing," Nick sighed, obviously displeased with their presence.
"Don't mind Nick!" exclaimed the knight. A badge on his chest read Sir Patrick. "Still upset we won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say, look at the fellow—"
I didn't like this Sir Patrick fellow at all. He was being incredibly rude; and I made damn sure to express such dislike as I shouted, "How dare you? This is Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington's five hundredth deathday party, and you should be treating him with respect! He's one of the most fearsome ghosts in the whole castle, and in my personal opinion, is far more frightening than the likes of you! Strutting around as if you own the place—your behavior isn't amusing, it's ridiculous."
A loud chorus of groans and gasps echoed throughout the dungeon, not that I cared. One of the only living members of the deathday party or not, I wasn't going to sit there and let Nick's party be stolen out from under his feet.
Sir Patrick stared at me, apparently aghast, while Sir Nicholas was obviously trying not to grin. I looked back to our friend and did my best to shoot him a pleading expression. "N-now Sir Nicholas, if you'd fulfill your promise to stop rallying the other ghosts to haunt us since we showed to your party, we'd really appreciate it. We… we're just going to go and eat something upstairs… okay?"
Nick instantly caught onto my little scheme. After taking a deep inhale and shooting a dark look to me, he mused, "I suppose you've earned your pardon. Go, then. We'll see whether I change my mind or not later."
With that, I grabbed Harry and Ron by the shirt collar and started dragging them after me, knowing that Hermione would've caught on to what I was trying to do. I couldn't keep the smile off of my face upon hearing that boisterous Sir Patrick exclaim, "You've been haunting students in the castle, Nick? Perhaps I've underestimated you!" as we left.
Once we were out of range of the party, I exhaled sharply and looked across my friends, who were all grinning. "Let's see if we'll be in time for pudding," I declared.
But my grin was short-lived.
Harry froze and clutched at the wall to his right, his eyes narrowed in intense concentration. "Listen!" he exclaimed. He followed the wall for a bit, listening for something that the rest of us hadn't yet heard. After a brief moment, he said, "This way," and started rushing off.
"Harry, what are we—" Hermione started to say.
But Harry just shushed her. His eyes went wide… and then he shouted, "It's going to kill someone!" He bolted up the nearest staircase, leaving the rest of us no choice except to follow him.
Harry ran for another minute straight, leaving the rest of us to do our best to keep up with him. We tried asking him what was going on, but he wasn't listening—his entire focus was on whatever-it-was he was hearing.
At last, he stopped short. This gave Ron the opportunity to pant, "Harry… what was that all about? I couldn't hear anything."
Instead of responding, Harry just looked at the corridor ahead of us and pointed.
We followed his gaze; my breath got stuck in my throat. In the midst of the wall, written in a dark red liquid, were the words: The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware.
"What's that thing hanging underneath?" Ron asked, his voice hushed.
We drew closer—I yelped and reached out to grab Hermione's arm. The whole floor was slick with water; most likely Myrtle flooding the bathroom again. We soon got close enough to see that the thing hanging from a torch sconce was Mrs. Norris, completely stiff… as if she was dead.
"Let's get out of here," Ron declared, pulling at Harry's sleeve.
"Shouldn't we try and help—"
Too late. Hundreds of footsteps were pounding, and we were stuck in the middle of the two exits from the Great Hall. There wouldn't be a way we could go that didn't make us look suspicious at this point.
The other students of Hogwarts entered the corridor. Just like we had, they stopped short. It was clear they first saw the words on the wall… then us… then Mrs. Norris.
Everyone was silent, until a voice shouted, "Enemies of the Heir, beware? You'll be next, Mudbloods!"
It was Elizabeth Malfoy, who was standing next to Pansy Parkinson and her brother, a dark grin on her face. Upon seeing my murderous expression, Draco took a casual step away from her.
"What's going on here?" shouted another voice. "What's going on?"
Filch budged his way past the students to the front of the crowd. His eyes locked onto his cat; his face morphed into an expression of terror as he shrieked, "My cat! My cat! What happened to Mrs. Norris?"
His eyes fell upon us; and they landed on Harry. The terror morphed into rage. "You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll—"
"Argus!"
Headmaster Dumbledore had arrived and walked to the caretaker's side. He placed a hand on Filch's shoulder and swept past us to retrieve Mrs. Norris. His voice soft, he directed, "Come with me, Argus. You too, Mr. Potter and Weasley, Ms. Granger and Skylar."
"My office is nearest, Headmaster, just upstairs—please feel free," said Lockhart, as pompous as always. It was hard not to roll my eyes despite the situation.
"Thank you, Gilderoy," replied Dumbledore. He waved us all onward: Professors McGonagall and Snape followed us. As we walked past, whispers began to spread from across the crowd of students.
Seeing Hermione's lip tremble, I whispered, "It's going to be all right, Hermione. Sir Nicholas will vouch for us. We're going to be okay."
She squeezed my hand in gratitude, but I couldn't help thinking that from anyone else's perspective, it looked like we were very guilty indeed.
