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Chapter 8
The following day when I went down to the Common Room, I saw Harry was already awake. That in itself had me concerned, but the pale look on his face worried me further.
"Harry?" I ask quietly, cautious that it was still early.
He jumped when he heard me, and then turned around. He pulled on a smile for me, but I knew he was faking it.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
He shakes his head.
"Nothing. I'm fine. Are you?"
I ignore his question, moving to sit next to him on the couch.
"Don't try and lie to me," I warn lightly. "I'm your sister, remember? I know everything that's going on in your head!"
He laughs at my joke but sobers almost instantly.
"Promise you won't think I'm crazy?" his eyes are wide and full of emotion.
"Of course I won't," I reassure him, shifting to lean on his shoulder slightly. "Now what's wrong?"
"I –" he starts. "I heard something last night. During my detention with Lockhart."
I stiffen.
"Something, as in a voice?" I ask in a small whisper.
He gasps, and I straighten up to look at him.
"You heard it too?" he asks me.
"Hermione didn't, but it woke me up," I tell him, trying not to shiver as I remember the coldness and the words that I heard. "It was saying -. Come to me, let me –"
"Kill you," Harry finished, and I nodded. "Ron didn't hear it either!" he exclaims. "And neither did Lockhart! I don't know how because I was with him! None of the girls in your room heard it?"
I shake my head.
"Not as far as I know. I was the only one it woke up at least."
"So that means it wasn't someone in the room," Harry mutters. "Ron said last night he didn't get in because even someone invisible would have had to open a door, and I would've seen. But if you heard it too…"
"I think we should tell someone," I say worriedly.
"But Isobel," Harry starts. "If no one else heard it, people are going to think we're mad! It's already bad enough with Lockhart and Colin on our backs."
"And everyone in general because you're the Boy Who Lived," I add quietly, slumping.
He stays quiet for a moment, a look of sorrow on his face.
"Look, maybe it was just our imaginations," he suggests after a minute. "We probably won't hear anything like it again. But if we do, we'll tell someone. I promise."
"Both of our imaginations though?" I ask sceptically.
He gives me a hopeless yet pleading look. I sigh before nodding. He's most likely right anyway. I leant back down on his shoulder, and we stayed like that until people started filing into the room. Soon enough, Hermione came down, and then Ron, and then we were off to breakfast.
The day flew by, and I had all but forgotten about the voice.
Soon enough, October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey was kept 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 afterwards. Ginny, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire. 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's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Harry and I were returning to Gryffindor Tower late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before Halloween, 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 the 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.
Suddenly, as Harry and I squelched along the deserted corridor, we came across Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower. He was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath, "…don't fulfil their requirements… half an inch, if that…"
"Hello, Nick," said Harry.
"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 I could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.
"You look troubled, young Potters," said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.
"So do you," I pointed out.
"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 fulfil requirements'-"
Despite his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.
"But you would think, wouldn't you," Nick erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"
"Oh – yes," said Harry and I, who were 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 fulfil 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! Most people would think that's good and beheaded, but oh, no, it's not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore."
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 glumly. "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. I looked down and found Mrs Norris, the skeletal grey cat who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle against students, fluttering around Harry and I's ankles.
"You'd better get out of here, you two," said 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," I said, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs Norris.
But Harry wasn't quick enough. He seemed to be stuck to the spot, despite my tugging of his robes. Suddenly, Filch burst through a tapestry to the right, panting 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 Harry and I's Quidditch robes. "Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potters!"
So we waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor. I 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, I 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're the forms… yes…"
He retrieved two large rolls of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched them out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the inkpot.
"Names… Harry and Isobel Potter. Crime…"
"It was only a bit of mud!" Harry protested.
"It's only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me, it's an extra hour 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 Harry and I as we waited with bated breath for our 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 or I, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs Norris streaking alongside him.
I didn't much like Peeves, but I couldn't help feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it sounded as though he'd wrecked something huge this time) would distract Filch from us.
"Should we wait, do you reckon?" Harry asked.
I sighed.
"Probably."
We sank into the moth-eaten chairs next to the desk. There was only one thing on the desk apart from our half-completed forms: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front.
We glanced at each other. Then Harry looked at the door before picking up the envelope.
"Harry!" I reprimanded lightly but leant over to read anyway.
Kwikspell
A Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic.
I furrowed my eyebrows as Harry 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 centre 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!"
Harry, obviously fascinated, thumbed through the rest of the envelope's contents as I glanced anxiously at the door every so often. But my attention was brought back to the parchment. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn't a proper wizard? We were just reading "Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)" when I heard shuffling footsteps outside told.
"Filch!" I hissed.
Harry's eyes widened, and he stuffed the parchment back into the envelope. He 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 the two of us and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which, I realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.
Filch's pasty face went brick red. I braced myself 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.
"No," we 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–"
I saw Harry glance at me before a moment, obviously 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 our luck, we 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.
"Harry! Isobel! Did it work?"
Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him, I 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?" said Harry gratefully. "Yeah, it worked, we didn't even get detention."
"Thanks, Nick!" we say together.
We set off up the corridor together. I noticed Nick was still holding Sir Patrick's rejection letter.
"I wish there were something we could do for you about the Headless Hunt," Harry said.
Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks, and Harry walked right through him. Smartly, I avoided the ghost.
"But there is something you could do for me," said Nick excitedly. "Harry, Isobel – would I be asking too much – but no, you wouldn't want–"
"What is it?" I ask.
"Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth death day," said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.
"Oh," said Harry, glancing at me in confusion. "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 honour if both of you would attend. Mr Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome, too, of course – but I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?" He watched Harry and me on tenterhooks.
"No," I said quickly.
"We'll come–" Harry agreed.
"My dear boy! Harry and Isobel 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 Harry.
Nearly Headless Nick beamed at us.
"A deathday party?" asked Hermione keenly once Harry and I had changed at last and joined her and Ron in the common room. "I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've been to one of those – 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…"
The rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the countless squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in the case of Fred and George, trying to find out what would happen if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had "rescued" the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was now smouldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.
Harry had just mentioned Filch when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the room. The sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at Fred and George, the spectacular display of tangerine stars showering from the salamander's mouth, and its escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions, was enough to distract us all.
By the time Halloween arrived, I could tell Harry was regretting his rash promise to go to the death day party. Admittedly, so was I. The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's huge pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumours that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment. I didn't know if the last one was true or not, because he had stubbornly not revealed anything when I asked him during our sessions leading up to the feast.
"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminded Harry and me bossily. "You said you'd go to the death day party."
So at seven o'clock, Harry, Ron, Hermione and I walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed our 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 our own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step we took. I heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.
"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered.
We 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 us 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. Our breaths rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.
"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggested, shifting around a bit.
"Careful not to walk through anyone," said Ron nervously, and we set off around the edge of the dance floor. We passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. I wasn't surprised to see that the other ghosts were giving the Bloody Baron a wide berth.
"Oh, no," said Hermione, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle–"
"Who?" said Harry as we backtracked quickly.
"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," I said, understanding Hermione's worry.
"She haunts a toilet?"
"Yes," Hermione said. "It's been out-of-order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it's awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you–"
"Look, food!" said Ron.
On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. We approached it eagerly but next moment stopped in our tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mould and, in pride of place, an enormous grey cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,
SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON
DIED 31ST OCTOBER, 1492
I 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?" Harry asked him.
"Almost," said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.
"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavour," said Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.
"Can we move? I feel sick," said Ron.
We had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before us.
"Hello, Peeves," said Harry cautiously.
Unlike the ghosts around us, Peeves 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.
"No, thanks," said Hermione.
"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 I said, she'll be really upset," Hermione whispered frantically. "I didn't mean it; I don't mind her – er, hello, Myrtle."
The short ghost of a girl had glided over. She had a glum face half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.
"What?" she said sulkily.
"How are you, Myrtle?" I asked 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. "Just saying–"
"Just saying – saying – how nice you look tonight," said Hermione, glaring at Peeves.
Myrtle eyed Hermione 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 me and Harry and Ron painfully in the ribs.
"Definitely!"
"Oh, yeah–"
"She did–"
"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 mouldy peanuts, yelling, "Pimply! Pimply!"
"Oh, dear," I winced.
Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward us through the crowd.
"Enjoying yourselves?"
"Oh, yes," we lied.
"Not a bad turnout," said 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; we 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 leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone laughed), and strode over to, 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 four of us 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 Harry hurriedly, after 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 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 were turning to watch. Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience but gave up as Sir Patrick's head went sailing past him to loud cheers.
We were all cold by now, and dreadfully 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, Hermione and I agreed.
We backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked at us, 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 I heard it.
"… rip… tear… kill…"
It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice that had woken me up that night.
I stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, staring wide-eyed at Harry.
"Do you -?" I asked, and he nodded.
We listened intently, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.
"Harry, Isobel, what're you -?"
"It's that voice again – shut up a minute–"
"… soo hungry… for so long…"
"Listen!" we said urgently, and Ron and Hermione froze, watching us.
"… kill… time to kill…"
The voice was growing fainter. It sounded like it was moving away – moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped me as I stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward?
"This way," Harry shouted, and he began to run with me on his heels, up the stairs, into the entrance hall.
I tried looking for the golden path that would normally light my way, but nothing was happening. It was no good hoping to hear anything in the entrance hall, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. We sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind us.
"Guys, what're we–"
"SHH!"
II strained my ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, I heard the voice: "… I smell blood… I SMELL BLOOD!"
I felt sick.
"It's going to kill someone!" I shouted, and ignoring Ron's and Hermione's bewildered faces, Harry and I ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over our own pounding footsteps – we hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ron and Hermione panting behind us, not stopping until we turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.
"Harry, Isobel, 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. We 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 we edged nearer, Harry almost slipped – there was a large puddle of water on the floor; the three of us grabbed him, and we inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All four of us realized what it was at once and leapt backwards 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, we didn't move. Then Ron said, "Let's get out of here."
"Shouldn't we try and help -" Harry began awkwardly.
"Trust me," I interrupted. "We don't want to be found here."
But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told us that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where we stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; 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. Harry, Ron, Hermione and I 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. Anger flashed through me, but there was nothing I could do.
Hey, sorry its ended in a weird spot, but, oh well. Also, I promise, from here on out, the story will be different and slightly AU by me. I know, it's taken me so long to get to, but, well, I'm sorry. I hope you enjoyed, and please leave likes and comments!