I do not own the snippets of Romeo and Juliet.

Also, I may add some Romione moments that aren't included in TKC. Give some more growth. I will keep the ones that are in TKC, but yeah.

Hope yall like it. But if not...whatever I'm still doing it lol

Chapter 32: The Deathday Party

October had wrapped the castle in a chill so damp that the very stones of Hogwarts seemed to shiver. The rain came down in relentless sheets, and no amount of roaring fires in the common room seemed to chase it away. Madam Pomfrey was busy with students sniffling from colds, her Pepperup Potion leaving them steaming like kettles as they walked to class. Ginny had looked so pale lately that Percy had forced some into her, and she had stalked off with a puff of steam curling from her ears, resembling a firework about to go off. Outside, Oliver Wood was merciless with the Gryffindor Quidditch team, leaving Harry and the others to all but drown during their practice.

Ron and I, however, were dry and warm in the common room, sitting by the fire and going over Charms homework. By the time we finished, we were both bored. Ron slouched in his chair, tossing a quill between his hands and staring out at the rain-streaked windows. I rummaged through my bag for something to read and pulled out Romeo and Juliet, one of my favorite plays.

It felt odd to read Shakespeare at Hogwarts—such a Muggle thing to do in a place filled with magic—but it reminded me of home. I opened to my favorite passage when I noticed Ron watching me, half-interested and half-curious.

"Want to read Romeo and Juliet with me?" I asked on impulse, holding up the book. "You can be Romeo, and I'll be Juliet."

He gave me a look that said, Absolutely not, but then, to my surprise, he shrugged. "Sure. Beats staring at the rain."

My smile widened. "Promise to be serious?"

"Promise," he said, though the mischievous glint in his eyes gave me pause.

I moved over to sit next to him, holding the book between us. "O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?" I began in my best dramatic voice. "Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet."

Ron chuckled, and I groaned, pulling the book back. "Ron! You said!"

"Fine, fine, okay," he said, clearing his throat, though the grin still tugged at his lips. "Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?"

I resumed, glancing sideways at him to make sure he wasn't laughing again. "'Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name!"

"Wait wait wait." Ron interrupted, laughing as he held up a hand. "I'm sorry, but is she talking to the bloke, or is she talking to herself? And if she is talking to herself, why is she asking herself such stupid questions?"

I rolled my eyes. "She's talking to herself. She's wishing he wasn't a member of the family her family despises so they could be happily together. May I continue?"

"By all means." He smirked, leaning back and motioning for me to proceed.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself."

"I take thee at thy word."Ron said, trying to sound like he was suave. "Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized. Henceforth I never will be Romeo...Okay, this is ridiculous."

I snatched the book from him, narrowing my eyes. "Why do you say that? I think it's lovely."

Ron leaned back against the couch, his arms crossed and a smirk playing on his face. "She's basically wanting him to be another person just because of his name. She should want to be with him despite her family. Him too. Hang what their families think, you know?"

I frowned, hugging the book closer to my chest. "I don't think it was that easy for them," I said, trying to convey just how much more complicated it was.

Ron just shrugged. "Just tell me if they ever get on."

I hesitated, biting my lip before answering. "Well, they try to form a plan to run away together, but long story short, they each end up killing themselves over one another's bodies," I said, wincing slightly at how that might sound.

His reaction was immediate, his expression a mix of disbelief and incredulity. "And you call it lovely? That's mental!"

I sighed, feeling exasperated. "It's a tragic romance, Ron. You wouldn't understand."

He snorted, shaking his head. "And I'm completely glad of that," he said, laughing.

I sighed, closing the book. I had hoped this might be something different, something meaningful we could share. But who was I kidding? Ron wasn't exactly one for romance.

"Don't do that," Ron said, taking the book back from me. "I may not be into all that mushy shit—"

"Must you always curse?" I groaned.

"—but I like this bit." He pointed to the page and read aloud, his voice softer, almost serious. "But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she."

I stared at him, caught off guard by how earnest he sounded. "That was really good," I said quietly. "Why do you like that part?"

Ron shrugged, his ears turning slightly pink. "I guess because the bloke seems to really like her. If she's the sun to him, then she must mean a hell of a lot, you know?"

I couldn't help but smile, warmth spreading through me. "That's right! See? You do get Shakespeare!"

He groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically, but there was a grin tugging at his lips. Maybe, just maybe, Ron wasn't so hopeless when it came to romance after all.

A little while later, Harry came in looking like a mud monster.

"You look alright." Ron joked.

"Better than you I'd gather." he said, flicking mud at me. "Be right back.

As Harry trudged off to the dorms to clean up, Ron realized we had Potions homework to do as well. We pulled out our work from our bags sprawling parchment and books on the table between us.

"Right," I began, laying out my notes neatly. "We need to outline the properties of the ingredients used in the Swelling Solution and explain how they interact. Let's start with pufferfish eyes."

Ron groaned loudly, letting his head fall against the back of the chair. "Why can't Snape just assign us something normal, like... oh, I don't know, stirring water for an hour?"

"Because this is Potions, Ron," I replied matter-of-factly, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. "Stirring water doesn't exactly help you brew complex elixirs, does it?"

"Complex elixirs, my arse," Ron muttered, slouching further into his chair. "Fine. Pufferfish eyes. What do they do, Hermione?"

"They're used to induce swelling when ground finely and added to liquid." I paused, turning to him with a raised eyebrow. "Why do you think that is?"

Ron blinked at me, looking genuinely puzzled. "What do you mean, why? It's because... they're pufferfish eyes?"

"Exactly! And what do puffer fish do when threatened?" I asked, nudging him with my elbow, trying to coax him into thinking it through.

He squinted, clearly reluctant. "They puff up?"

"Yes! See, you can figure these things out if you just think about it," I said brightly, scribbling down some notes.

Ron groaned again, but this time it was more playful. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. What's next? Let me guess—something disgusting like human toenails or toad spit?"

"Not quite," I said with a grin. "Next, we have bat spleens, which—"

"Ugh, why am I not surprised?" he interrupted, pretending to gag. "Why does Snape have such a fondness for slimy and revolting things?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Because Potions is a science, Ron, not a stroll through Diagon Alley. Now, do you know why spleens are used in the Swelling Solution?"

"Not a clue," he admitted, leaning forward dramatically and resting his chin on his hand. "Go on, Professor Granger, enlighten me."

"Bat spleens contain a natural coagulating agent that interacts with the pufferfish eyes to enhance the solution's potency," I explained, trying to sound patient. Then, with a teasing smile, I added, "It's really quite fascinating if you'd actually pay attention in class."

Ron snorted, shaking his head. "Fascinating isn't the word I'd use, but sure, let's go with that."

For the next few minutes, we worked through the rest of the assignment, with me tossing questions his way and Ron grumbling half-hearted answers before eventually coming up with something decent. By the time we reached the final part, even Ron seemed to be enjoying himself, cracking little jokes about the ingredients as he scribbled on his parchment.

"All right, last question," I said, trying to hide a smirk as I tapped my quill against my chin. "Why do you think powdered horned slugs are added last?"

Ron stared at me blankly for a moment, then leaned back in his chair with exaggerated flair. "Because Snape likes to make sure we save the grossest bit for the end? Builds character?"

I couldn't suppress my laughter. "Not quite, but good try."

"Well, don't leave me hanging. What's the real reason?" he asked, a grin tugging at his lips.

I leaned in conspiratorially. "The powder acts as a stabilizer, ensuring the mixture doesn't explode when heated."

Ron's eyes widened, and he looked down at his parchment. "Explode? That's reassuring. Remind me again why anyone would willingly drink this stuff?"

"Because it works," I replied simply. "That is, if it's brewed correctly. Which means you need to do your homework properly."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, though there was a small smile on his face.

When Harry returned, he dropped into the seat across from Ron and me, looking a little out of breath. He launched straight into the tale of Nearly Headless Nick inviting him to a deathday party.

"A deathday party?" I repeated, my curiosity piqued immediately. "I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've been to one of those! It'll be fascinating!"

Ron, however, looked thoroughly unimpressed, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died? Sounds dead depressing to me."

Harry gave a small shrug. "Well, I already told him I'd go."

"Well, have fun, mate," Ron said quickly, clearly hoping to bow out. "Meanwhile, Hermione and I—"

"Will come with you, of course," I cut in, not giving him the chance to weasel out of it.

Ron looked at me as if I'd just suggested we skip Christmas. "What? But—but the Halloween feast!"

I sighed, trying not to roll my eyes. "Come on, Ron. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Who else do you know—living—who has been invited to a deathday party? It's history in the making!"

Harry turned to him with a pleading look. "Please, mate? I can't exactly show up alone."

Ron groaned dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. But you two owe me candy. Loads of it."

Harry and I exchanged triumphant smiles. "Deal," I said, laughing softly as Ron crossed his arms and stuck out his tongue at us.

Later that evening, as the rest of the school streamed eagerly into the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, the warm glow of floating candles and the tantalizing scent of roasted meats wafting through the doors, Harry slowed for a moment. He glanced longingly toward the feast, and I could see Ron practically salivating as he leaned slightly toward the open doorway.

"Let's just have a peek, shall we?" Ron suggested, taking half a step closer to the Great Hall.

"Oh, no, you don't," I said firmly, grabbing the back of his robes and steering him away. I had to grab Harry by the arm too, as he was looking a bit too keen to go in "A promise is a promise, Harry. You said you'd go to the deathday party."

Harry groaned as we turned down the dimly lit passageway leading to the dungeons. The air grew colder with every step, and the flickering black candles lining the walls cast long, unsettling shadows. The sound of laughter and music from the Great Hall faded, replaced by what could only be described as the grating screech of a thousand fingernails scraping down an enormous chalkboard.

"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered, his voice laced with disbelief. We rounded a corner and found ourselves face-to-face with Nearly Headless Nick, standing at a doorway draped with heavy black velvet.

"My dear friends," he said in a slow, mournful tone, bowing low. "Welcome, welcome... so pleased you could come..."

With a sweeping gesture, he directed us inside.

The sight took my breath away. The dungeon was packed with hundreds of ghosts, their pearly-white forms gliding gracefully across a dance floor. They waltzed to the haunting, otherworldly tune that seemed to be played on saws and bones. Above us, a massive chandelier gleamed with hundreds of midnight-blue flames, their cold light casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was icy, and I had to pull my robes tighter around me as my breath misted before me.

"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggested, his voice echoing faintly in the cavernous room.

I nodded, and even Ron, despite his reluctance, seemed curious as we stepped deeper into the ghostly gathering.

The air in the dungeon was so cold it felt like it could seep straight into my bones. As we navigated through the crowd of translucent figures, I couldn't help but marvel at the scene while also feeling a bit uneasy. The ghosts floated about with an eerie grace, their faint glow casting shadows across the black velvet-draped walls. Ron shuffled closer to me, his head darting around nervously.

"Careful not to walk through anyone," Ron whispered, looking warily at a group of gloomy nuns who glided past. Nearby, the Fat Friar was chatting animatedly with a knight who had an arrow sticking out of his forehead, while the Bloody Baron loomed ominously in a dark corner.

As we continued, I froze. My stomach dropped when I spotted a familiar figure hovering nearby. Her sulky expression and floaty movements gave her away instantly.

"Oh, no," I muttered, stopping dead in my tracks. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle!"

"Who?" Harry asked, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," I whispered urgently, ducking behind Ron in a weak attempt to hide.

"She haunts a toilet?" Ron said, barely stifling a laugh.

"Yes!" I hissed. "It's been out of order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never go in there if I can avoid it—it's awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you."

Before Ron could reply, his face lit up as he pointed across the room. "Look, food!"

I followed his gaze to a long table on the other side of the dungeon, draped in black velvet. My stomach gave a hopeful rumble, but as we approached, any appetite I had vanished instantly. The table was a nightmare. Rotten fish lay on silver platters, their stench making me gag. Burnt cakes sat in crooked piles, while maggot-infested haggis oozed on cracked trays. A massive gray cake shaped like a tombstone dominated the center of the table. Its tar-like icing spelled out in shaky letters:

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON

DIED 31ST OCTOBER, 1492

I clutched my stomach, willing myself not to be sick. "I regret this so much," I whispered, staring in horror at the grotesque feast.

A chubby ghost floated toward the table, crouched low, and drifted through a decaying salmon, his mouth wide open as if tasting it.

"Can you taste it if you walk through it?" Harry asked, tilting his head curiously.

"Almost," said the ghost sadly before floating away.

"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," I said, trying to sound lighthearted, though my stomach churned at the thought.

"Can we move? I feel sick," Ron mumbled, his hand over his mouth.

Just as we turned to leave, a small, brightly dressed figure swooped out from under the table, stopping us in our tracks. It was Peeves. Unlike the other ghosts, who were somber and gray, Peeves wore an absurdly bright orange party hat and a spinning bow tie.

"Nibbles?" he asked sweetly, holding out a bowl of peanuts covered in mold.

"No, thank you," I managed, fighting the urge to gag.

"Heard you talking about poor Myrtle," Peeves said in a sing-song voice, his wide grin turning malicious. "Rude, you was, about poor Myrtle…"

"Peeves, don't!" I whispered frantically, but it was too late.

"OY! MYRTLE!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, causing heads to turn.

"Oh, no, Peeves, don't tell her what I said, she'll be really upset," I whispered frantically. "I didn't mean it, I don't mind her - er, hello, Myrtle"

A ghostly figure glided toward us, her face twisted into a permanent pout. Her long, dull hair hung like curtains over thick glasses, and she had an aura of misery about her.

"What?" she said sulkily, crossing her arms.

"How are you, Myrtle," I said, forcing a smile. "It's nice to see you out of the toilet."

Myrtle sniffed loudly, eyeing me suspiciously.

"Miss Granger was just saying-," Peeves said slyly, leaning into Myrtle's ear,

"Just saying how nice you looked tonight." I said, trying to keep him from opening his big mouth.

"You're making fun of me!" Myrtle wailed, her voice echoing through the dungeon as silvery tears began to flow.

"No! Honestly! Didn't I just say how nice Myrtle's looking?" I turned to Harry and Ron, nudging them both hard.

"Oh, yeah!" Ron yelped, rubbing his ribs. "She did."

"She really did," Harry added quickly, though his face was slightly pink.

"Don't lie to me!" Myrtle shrieked, tears streaming faster now. "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 added helpfully, snickering.

With an ear splitting wail, Myrtle shot out of the dungeon, her tears sparkling as they flew through the air. Peeves cackled gleefully and chased after her, tossing moldy peanuts in her direction and chanting, "Pimply! Pimply!"

I let out a heavy sigh, shaking my head. "Oh, dear," I said softly. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

The cold dungeon air had sunk deep into my bones, making me shiver despite my robes. Nearly Headless Nick floated toward us with a proud smile.

"Enjoying yourselves?" he asked, his tone full of expectation.

"Oh, yes," we all lied in unison, nodding vigorously.

"Not a bad turnout," Nick said proudly, his transparent chest puffing out. "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 he drifted away, the eerie music was interrupted by a thunderous crash. A dozen ghostly horses galloped into the dungeon through the far wall, ridden by headless horsemen. The crowd erupted into applause. My hands automatically rose to clap as well, though I froze when I saw Nick's expression—he looked anything but thrilled.

The horses charged into the center of the dance floor, rearing dramatically. At the front, a large ghost dismounted, holding his bearded head high above him to see over the crowd. Everyone laughed uproariously as he strode over to Nick, squashing his head back onto his neck.

"Nick!" the headless ghost bellowed, his voice booming. "How are you? Head still hanging in there?"

He laughed heartily, clapping Nick on the shoulder as Nick stiffly replied, "Welcome, Patrick."

Sir Patrick finally noticed us, his gaze falling on Harry, Ron, and me. His fake gasp of astonishment was so exaggerated that his head fell off again, sending the crowd into fits of laughter.

"Live ones!" he roared, his head rolling on the floor.

"Very amusing," Nick muttered, his tone sour.

"Don't mind Nick!" Patrick's head called cheerfully. "Still upset we won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say—look at him—"

"I think," Harry interjected quickly, catching Nick's pleading look, "Nick's very—frightening and—er—"

"Ha! Bet he asked you to say that!" Patrick's head shouted before bursting into laughter again.

Nick seized the moment to stride toward the podium. "If I could have everyone's attention—it's time for my speech!" he announced, his voice ringing out over the crowd.

He stepped into the blue spotlight, looking determined. "My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow…"

But his speech faded into the background as the Headless Hunt began a raucous game of Head Hockey. The crowd turned to watch Sir Patrick's head soar through the air like a ghostly football, their cheers drowning out Nick's words.

"I can't stand much more of this," Ron whispered, his teeth chattering. I couldn't disagree; my hands were frozen, and my stomach was twisting with hunger.

"Let's go," Harry said, nodding toward the door.

We backed away, smiling politely at anyone who looked our way. Once we were clear, we hurried up the passageway lined with dripping black candles.

"Pudding might not be finished yet!" Ron called as he bolted ahead toward the steps leading to the entrance hall. Harry and I chased after him, our feet echoing on the stone floor.

Harry suddenly stumbled to a halt, pressing a hand to the wall. "Shh!" he hissed, his face tense.

"Harry, what is it?" I asked, my heart thudding in the silence.

"Listen," he whispered, his eyes darting around.

Ron and I froze, straining to hear whatever it was that had caught Harry's attention. But there was nothing—only the faint hum of the castle.

"Are you sure—" Ron began, but Harry cut him off sharply. "This way!"

He took off running, his urgency making my stomach twist with nerves. "It's going to kill someone!" he shouted, and we sprinted after him, up a flight of stairs and into the entrance hall. Harry stopped suddenly on the second-floor corridor, leaving us to skid to a halt behind him.

"What are we—" I began, but my words died in my throat as I saw it.

There, shimmering on the wall in large, dripping letters, was a chilling message:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

I felt cold dread flood through me, making my knees weak. The words seemed to glisten in the torchlight, and the air felt heavier, darker, as if the corridor itself was holding its breath.

"What's that?" Ron said, his voice shaky as he pointed to something hanging below the message.

I gasped, clutching at Harry's arm. Mrs. Norris was hanging by her tail from a torch bracket, stiff as a board. Her wide, staring eyes seemed to pierce straight through me. My heart hammered in my chest.

"We should go," Ron whispered urgently, his face pale.

"But shouldn't we try to help—" Harry began, his voice quivering.

"Trust me, we don't want to be found here," Ron said, grabbing my arm to pull me away. But before we could move, the sound of approaching footsteps filled the air. A crowd of students and teachers swarmed toward us, their chatter fading into stunned silence as they saw the scene before them.

"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!" Malfoy shouted gleefully, his voice cutting through the silence. He stepped forward, his face twisted into a smug grin, as if he'd been waiting for this moment his whole life.