A/N: Firstly, you would have had another filler chapter if I hadn't had ideas for more in the same style and instead made it the first chapter of its own thing. Check out "The Lost Tales of Beedle the Bard" if you want to read it. Secondly, I'm starting school again, so these will slow down even more! Sorry. Thirdly, I realized I might have accidentally made it seem like I'm writing these differently than I am, I have up to chapter thirteen written as of posting this, and posted this as soon as I finished it, and chapter ten will be posted when I finish chapter fourteen. Just felt like I should clarify that. And finally, I have loose plans farther, and would like your help choosing something. Feel free to guess what it is while you tell me which option from 1, 2, Red, Fish, or June.


October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey was kept extra busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny, who had been looking pale, was practically bullied into taking some by her brothers. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire.

"Talk about lookin' hot," Hannah teased when she saw it.

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 Harry 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 Harry squelched along the deserted corridor she came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as she was. Or, she supposed, some-no-body, as it 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 Harry.

"Hello, hello," said Sir Nicholas, 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, Ms. Potter," said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

"So do you," said Harry.

"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 the requirements' --"

In spite of 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 on the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"

"Oh -- yes," said Harry, who supposed she was 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 Delancy-Podmore.'"

Fuming, Nicholas stuffed the letter away.

"Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harry! 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?"

"No," said Harry. "Not that it's the only thing I'm worried about, but all I could imagine you could possibly help with is if 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 her ankle. She looked down and found herself 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, Harry," said Nick, as Harry bent down and scratched Mrs. Norris lightly behind her ears. "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 Harry, standing up and backing away from Mrs. Norris with a light pat on her head. It seemed Mrs. Norris didn't tell on students she liked, because Harry was quite a ways away when she heard Filch be drawn by the mysterious power that connected him to his cat.

"Who trekked all this mud through here!?" Filch shouted.

Harry started running and hoped she was able to get fast enough. She decided against going to Gryffindor Tower, which would implicate a Gryffindor. Harry went into the lavatory Hannah had told her "No one went into unless they wanted to hide."

The second-floor girl's lavatory obviously hadn't been cleaned in years. There were multiple puddles on the floor and you couldn't even see your reflection in the mirrors, they were so covered in dust. A soft sobbing could be heard from the farthest stall, but it stopped when the door closed.

"Who's there?" a voice Harry assumed was Moaning Mrytle. She'd never actually met Mrytle, but Hannah explained the story at the same time she explained the bathroom.

"Hullo," Harry called out. "I just didn't feel comfortable going into the other bathrooms. Do you mind if we share this one?"

Myrtle poked her head through the stall door and looked at Harry. She had the glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.

"So you're not here to bully me?" she asked. "Like the other girls?"

"Not at all," Harry said. "I don't like bullies. I deal with them too much to be one."

"Do they make fun of your glasses too?" Myrtle asked. "Or laugh at your different hair? Do they make fun of that weird scar? I know exactly how that feels. I'd be happy to share my bathroom with you."

With every question Myrtle asked, she floated a little closer until she was almost nose to nose with Harry.

"Er, actually it's because I'm not a normal girl," Harry told her. "They don't even think I'm a girl at all."

Myrtle looked down at Harry's muddy quidditch robes and gasped, drifting backward. She then sighed in relief.

"For a second there I was worried they did that to your robes, then realized it was just a quidditch outfit. Good to know you're a sporty girl, sporty girls are usually nice to me."

"Er, okay," Harry said. "I should probably clean off this mud best I can."

Harry went over to the nearby wall of sinks and began to turn on the faucet.

"Not that one," Myrtle called. "It's never worked. I'd help if I was able to touch your robes."

"Thanks, Myrtle," Harry said and went to the next sink down. Just as she was about to begin to wash off her clothes, Nearly Headless Nick floated through the wall.

"Harry!" he shouted. "I convinced Filch it was Peeves trying to lure him in here to get Myrtle mad at him again!"

"Nicholas!" Myrtle shouted. "You don't just burst into the girl's loo like that!"

"Sorry, Myrtle," Nick said. "I just thought I should let Harry know since Peeves is as likely to tell Filch exactly who did it as they are to send him on a wild goose chase."

"Well," Myrtle said. "You still need to apologize, what if one of us were changing in here?"

"We can't change our clothes, Myrtle" Sir Nick stated flatly.

Harry ignored their continued argument as she proceeded in getting as much mud off her robes as possible. Impressive to even herself, Harry managed to get it all off. She cast the simple drying charm Lacy had taught her and began to make her leave.

"Thanks, Myrtle, I'll definitely be back here," Harry said from the door. "And Nick, thank you for dealing with Filch. I wish I could help with the headless hunt to repay you."

With that, she left.

"Wait!" Nearly Headless Nick said as he popped through the wall just in front of her, causing her to walk right through him. She really wished she hadn't; it was like stepping through an icy shower.

"There is something you could do for me," said Nick excitedly. "Harry -- would I be asking too much -- but no, you wouldn't want --"

"What is it?" Harry inquired.

"Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday," Nicholas stated, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

"Oh," said Harry, not sure whether she should look sorry or happy about this. "Right."

"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. A few of your friends, maybe Mr. Weasly and Ms. Granger would be most welcome, too, of course -- but I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?" He watched Harry anxiously.

"N-no," Harry spat, "I'll come --"

"My dear girl! Harry Potter, at my deathday party! And --" he hesitated, looking excited "-- do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very impressive you find me?"

"Of -- of course," said Harry.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at her.


"A deathday party?" Hannah groaned when Harry told everyone about it. "I've been to too many of those. Networking is worse when you're trying to make deals with the dead -- they're always so stubborn."

"I think it sounds fascinating," Lacy said to Hannah. "If I'm allowed to go, do you think you could come with me to make sure I don't put my foot in my mouth?"

"You'll do fine, Lay," Hannah sighed. "It'd be the other way around anyway."

"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" said Ron, who was getting help on his Potions homework from Flix. "Sounds bloody depressing to me."

"The first hundred are more an 'if I don't laugh, I'll cry' thing, then the rest it varies," Hanna explained. "My great-great-grandma still seems rather forced with her laughter."

Rain was lashing on the windows, which were now inky black, but all looked bright and cheerful inside. The firelight glowed over the variety of comfortable chairs where the members of the club (as well as Ron and Hermione) were, reading, talking, doing homework, or braiding hair.

"I think it would be marvelous fun," Luna said as she -- No, Harry was using 'she' too much and was supposed to mix it up -- he braided Harry's hair.

"I'd prefer the feast," Ginny responded, not looking up from the parchment she was drawing on.

"Lacy!" Hannah shouted suddenly. "Our next thing should be an art show!"

"Please, we barely got approved for a sleepover," Lacy laughed. "You really think they'd let us encroach on another club's territory?"

"They let us invite non-club members." Hannah retorted.

"No, Harry snuck them in," Ginny said.


"By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was regretting her rash promise 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 the were rumors that Albus had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for entertain --"

"Enough, Jex," Hannah said, cutting off Jex's narration.

"Okay," Jex said.

"Anyway," Hermione said. "A promise is a promise. You said you'd go to the deathday party."

"I know," Harry said. "But just look at how fun that looks!"

"Yeah. Fun you promised away. See you later." Ginny said before she walked in to join the festivities.

"Don't worry, Harry," Jex said.

"We'll save you some dessert," Flix finished.

They then walked into the hall together, Lacy and Hannah following.

"You gonna go in too, Luna?" Harry asked sadly.

"Nope!" Luna said cheerfully. "I'm curious what a ghost party is like."

So the four made their way past the gloriously inviting Great Hall, with its comforting glittery glow from the candles.

The passageway leading to 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 dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Harry shivered and drew her winter cloak tightly around her, they heard what would be rather beautiful music, if it wasn't being played so horribly it was closer to nails on a chalkboard.

"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered. They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

"My dear friends," he said in a dramatically mournful voice. "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 -- well they couldn't be instruments anymore. Ghosts seemed to play dead instruments, as each one had pieces missing, ruining the sound. The haunting orchestra played 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?" Harry suggested, wanting to warm up her feet.

"Careful not to walk through anyone," Luna happily reminded them, 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. Harry wasn't surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghost.

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

"Who?" said Ron as they backtracked quickly.

"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," said Hermione.

"She haunts a toilet?"

"Yes, Ron," Harry said. "She's rather nice when she isn't crying or accusing you of making fun of her."

"It's been out of order ever since she died," Luna supplied. "She keeps flooding it."

"Not to mention," Hermione said. "It's rather awkward trying to pee while she's sobbing in the next --"

"Look, food!" Ron said, clearly getting uncomfortable with the situation.

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


Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached 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?" she asked him.

"Almost," the ghost said sadly. "And I know Nick always laughs when I try, so it's worth the attempt." Then he drifted away.

"The rot's to give it a stronger flavor," Luna said, as Hermione pinched her nose to take a closer look at the putrid haggis.

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

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

"Hello, Peeves," Harry said cautiously.

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse of pale and transparent. They were wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, and a broad grin on their wide, wicked face.

"Nibbles?" they said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

"No thanks," said Hermione.

"Heard you talking about poor Myrtle," Peeves purred, their eyes dancing. "Rude you was about poor Myrtle." They took a deep breath and bellowed, "OY! MYRTLE!"

"Oh, no, Peeves, don't tell her what we said --" Hermione said.

"We?" Luna interrupted.

"You're the only one who said something possibly offensive, Mione," Harry supplied.

"Oh, no," Hermione said as her face paled.

Myrtle had floated over to them, with an annoyed look on her face. Harry couldn't help but noticed how nice Myrtle's hair looked and would have to ask her later how to do that intricate-looking braid.

"What?" Myrtle asked the group sulkily.

"How are you, Myrtle?" said Hermione in an obviously falsely bright voice. "It's nice to see you out of the toilet."

Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"Are you making fun of me?" Myrtle snapped at Harry. "Oh, hello Harry. Sorry for that, I was just a little peeved at Peeves."

"No, it's fine, Myrtle," Harry said. "I was just laughing at how awkward my friend is." She looked over to Hermione. "Really? 'It's nice to see you out of the toilet?'"

Hermione blushed.

"Anyway," Myrtle said. "If me coming over here was just Peeves being -- Peeves, I'll be going."

"Actually," Peeves said, a mischievous tilt to their voice. "Miss Granger was talking about you. Just saying --"

"Just saying -- er -- how nice you look tonight," Hermione said, glaring at Peeves.

"Really?" Myrtle asked suspiciously.

"Of course," Harry said with a wave of her hand. "Did you think no one noticed what you did with your hair?"

They all looked at Harry surprised.

"Er -- yes," Hermione said. "I was thinking of asking you how to do it, but I realized it would take far too much Sleekeazy's for it."

"Harry should have the Sleekeazy's to spare," Luna chimed in.

"Actually, I'm almost out," Harry said.

Ron cleared his throat, which made the girls and Luna jump. They had forgotten he was there.

"Weren't you already in the middle of a conversation before coming over here?" Ron asked Myrtle, which made her jump again in realization and rush back the way she came.

"Was Mr. Wheezy feeling left out?" Peeves cackled as they drifted away, seemingly satisfied with the discourse they caused.

Nicholas now floated toward them through the crowd.

"Enjoying yourselves?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione and Ron lied.

"Oh, yes," Harry and Luna said half earnestly.

"Not a bad turnout," said Nearly Headless Nick. "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 Nick bitterly.

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; the living guests seemed to stand out more, as they didn't clap.

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 leapt 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 Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Luna 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 Nick is plenty," said Harry, with the best fake shudder she could muster. "Headless to join your hunt."

"Ha!" yelled Sir Patrick's head. "Bet he asked you to say that!"

"How much?" Luna asked the head.

"Ooh hoo hoo!" Sir Patrick said. "Two galleons."

"Deal," Luna said. "Harry?"

"Sorry, Sir," Harry teased. "He asked me to call him Impressive, that's it."

"Ohh, you sneaky beau --" Patrick began, waglling a finger at Luna.

"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 living few attending were very cold by now, not to mention 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," Harry 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 Harry heard it.

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

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice she had heard that late night in the Medical Wing Laboratory.

She stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all her might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.

"Harry, what're you --?"

"It's that voice again -- shut up a minute --"

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

"Listen!" said Harry urgently, and the others froze, watching her.

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

The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away -- moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped her 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," she shouted, and she began to run, up the stairs, 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. Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, the others clattering behind her.

"Harry, what're we --"

"SHH!"

Harry strained her ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, she heard the voice: ". . . I smell blood . . . I SMELL BLOOD!"

Her stomach lurched --

"It's going to kill someone!" she shouted and ignoring Ron's and Hermione's bewildered faces (Luna rushed into the Great Hall to tell their other friends), she ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over her own pounding footsteps — Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ron and Hermione panting behind her, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

"Harry, what was that all about?" said Ron, wiping sweat off his face. "I couldn't hear anything…"

But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.

"Look!"

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?" said Ron, a slight quiver in his voice.

As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped — there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Ron and Hermione grabbed her, and they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt 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 --" Harry began awkwardly.

"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, and the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Harry, 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! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.