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Slights
Meaning of One, Part Two: Chambers and Secrets - Chapter 13: Slights by Sovran
Fri, 09/19/2008 - 18:06
The end of September and the beginning
of October brought Scotland’s autumn weather to Hogwarts in full force.
Rain fell on the castle and grounds more often than not, and frequent
storms lashed at the windows and the trees of the Forbidden Forest.
Entire weeks went by without any real sunshine, and a subdued gloom
settled about the castle and its occupants.
Oliver Wood, however, either was immune to the weather or thrived on it, and he insisted on continuing with Quidditch practice two nights each week and in the mornings on Saturdays. A popular revolt among the fourth-years convinced the Captain to start practice at a more reasonable hour on the weekends, but he was relentless about keeping the team in the air as much as possible.
“Our first match is against Slytherin,” he said one Saturday morning, “and they’ve got those incredible brooms. We’ve got to beat them on talent, or we’ll lose our momentum for the whole season.”
After all of the hours spent on the pitch before lunch on Saturdays, Ginny and Harry thought it was a bit cruel of them to ask her brothers and Hermione to help them fly, but Oliver’s unspoken pressure motivated them. Each Sunday, after meeting with McGonagall and practicing the throw-dough conjuration, the four Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione returned to the pitch. With two helpers and a regular time dedicated to practice, Ginny and Harry were getting noticeably better at flying separately.
The third weekend in October was miraculously free of rain. The Gryffindor team practiced with an almost joyful energy, glad to feel the sun on their faces. After practice, Ginny and Harry walked with Ron and Hermione back towards the castle. Almost inevitably, their conversation turned to the upcoming Quidditch season, but for the first time they managed to talk about more than the Slytherin team and their brooms.
“Hufflepuff’s still a write-off, I’d say,” Ron said. “Their Keeper’s pretty good, especially if he’s improved since last year, but their only new player is a third-year Beater. The rest are the same old rubbish.”
“They did all right against Slytherin, didn’t they?” Harry asked.
“Well, yeah,” Ron said, “but only because Bletchley is the Snakes’ Keeper. A garden gnome on a feather duster could score against him.”
“What about Ravenclaw, then?” Ginny asked. “They were fairly good last year, so maybe they’ll be able to give Slytherin a bit of competition, too.”
Ron sighed and shook his head. “I’d like to think so, honestly, just because I want someone to beat those bloody brooms. But the Birds lost their two best Chasers.”
“Their Seeker’s good,” Ginny said. “He couldn’t catch me, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. He didn’t have the broom.”
Something clicked in their memories, and Harry answered their own question. “He’s been in the library almost every time we’ve gone, though.”
Ron nodded sharply. “Exactly. Always a risk with fifth- and seventh-year Ravenclaws, Fred says. They start obsessing about their exams and stop caring about Quidditch. It just ruins their game.”
“Tragic,” Hermione muttered, quietly enough that Ginny could hear her and Harry could not.
“Let’s hope their Keeper’s improved, then,” Harry said. “Except when we’re playing them.”
They reached the common room, and Harry and Ginny separated to put away their Quidditch robes and the Nimbus. When Ginny entered her room, she saw Lavender perched on her bed, using her wand to colour her nails.
“Hi, Ginny,” Lavender said. “How was practice?”
“Dry, for once.” Ginny glanced around the room. “Where’s Parvati?”
“In the library. She forgot about Binns’ essay.”
“And you remembered?” Ginny asked, grinning. Her other two roommates were not stupid, but they had never shown any particular dedication to their studies, either.
Lavender flashed a smile at her. “No, but I just can’t stand the thought of being in the library all day today. She’s doing half, then I’ll do the other half, and we’ll mix them up when we’re done. Binns will never know.”
Chuckling, Ginny said, “Good plan.” She hung her Quidditch robes neatly in her wardrobe and pulled her hair out of its overnight braid.
“Oh, by the way,” Lavender said. “You remember that diary you gave me?”
“Sure,” Ginny said, pulling a brush through the ends of her hair.
“Well, it was really cool at first, but I got a bit tired of it. You were right about that Tom bloke — he’s dead boring. Anyway, Susan wanted to have a go with it, so I gave it to her. I hope you don’t mind.”
Harry and Ginny knew Susan Bones casually, though they had never really spoken to her.
“Nah,” Ginny said, shrugging. “As far as I’m concerned, once I gave it to you, it was yours. If you wanted to give it away, too, that’s up to you.”
“Thanks,” Lavender said, though she was looking again at her nails. “Honestly, I don’t think I’m going to bother remembering to get it back.”
Satisfied with the state of her hair, Ginny pulled it back and fastened it with her silver clip. Want to go back outside? It’s too nice to waste the day.
Harry conferred with Hermione and Ron, who jumped at the idea.
“Think I’ll go back out into the sunshine,” Ginny told Lavender. “It may be all we get until April or something.”
Lavender smiled and waved her pink-painted fingernails before turning her attention to her other hand.
Unfortunately, the next week proved that Ginny was right about the weather, and the next Saturday’s Quidditch practice was not nearly as pleasant. Rain fell constantly, and the wind buffeted them all if they tried to fly more than a few feet above the ground.
Oliver ended practice a bit early when Harry finally managed to catch the Snitch that he had been chasing for two hours. As their captain carried the crate full of Quidditch balls back to its cupboard, Ginny caught up to him.
“Oliver!” she said, shouting to be heard over the rain and wind.
“Yeah?”
“What do I do during the game while Harry’s playing?” Ginny asked. She knew the question was not truly urgent, but she had begun to feel anxious simply because she did not know.
Wood stopped and turned to face her, the rain apparently forgotten. “Oh, right. Never had a reserve when I didn’t need one.” He thought for a moment and shifted the crate on his shoulder. “Wear your robes, but sit up in the stands where you can see what’s going on. If you do have to play, I want you to already know how the other Seeker is flying and what the Snitch has been doing.”
“All right,” Ginny said, wiping the water off of her forehead. “Thanks.”
“Glad you asked,” he said. “Oh, and I want you to fly instead of Harry on Tuesdays until the match. He’s doing fine, so I want to make sure you’re ready, too.”
“Okay.” Ginny waved and scuttled off towards the tunnel, where Harry was waiting.
The two of them stomped and sloshed their way up the hill to the castle while the rest of the team was in the changing rooms. Ron and Hermione, in a rarely unified show of good sense, had begged off from accompanying them that morning.
Just inside the Entrance Hall, Ginny and Harry stopped to relish the feeling of being out of the rain. He glanced over at her and could not help laughing now that he saw her clearly. Ginny’s braided hair was so wet that it looked almost brown, and a few loose strands were plastered along her cheeks and down her neck. Her robes were completely soaked, too. Overall, she looked as though she had just been fished up from the bottom of the lake.
Think it’s funny, do you? Ginny asked, their mirth bubbling in her voice. You’re in worse shape.
I know, but it doesn’t matter. Harry could not help the feeling that it was much more amusing to see Ginny in such a state. He smiled at her, and she grinned in reply.
They charmed themselves dry with practiced ease, spelled the worst of the mud from their robes, and Ginny dried the floor at their feet as an afterthought. Holding hands for both comfort and warmth, they started up to Gryffindor tower.
Two floors up, they came across Nearly Headless Nick. He stood with his back to the corridor, staring out of the window and holding a ghostly sheet of parchment.
“Hello, Nick,” Harry said.
Normally, the Gryffindor ghost was fairly cheerful as long as no one used his nickname, but his brow was creased in frustration as he turned to face them.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Potter.” He inclined his head slightly in Ginny’s direction. “Miss Weasley.”
“Hi, Nick,” Ginny said. “Are you all right?”
“It’s nothing, nothing,” the ghost said. “A personal matter.”
Harry nodded. “Oh. Well . . . see you later, then.”
As they started down the corridor again, Nick floated in front of them and sank into the floor until he faced them at eye-level. “Just tell me this, would you? Does it sound like fun getting hit in the neck forty-five times with a blunt axe?”
“Err . . . no,” Harry said.
“Not in the least,” Ginny added, recoiling from the mental image.
“And would you not say that, having endured such a thing, one could be considered beheaded?”
Harry and Ginny were well aware that Nick was not entirely beheaded, only nearly so, but they did not hesitate to reassure him. “Of course,” Ginny said. “Perhaps even . . . err . . . especially beheaded.”
Especially beheaded?
She shrugged internally. It doesn’t hurt to say.
“Yes, that’s it. Especially beheaded.” Nick sighed, a chill breeze blowing towards their faces. “However, it is apparently not beheaded enough for the Headless Hunt.”
“What’s that?” Harry asked.
“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. A gathering of yahoos and ne’r do wells, at best. Still, there aren’t that many activities one may pursue as a ghost, so I applied again. Here, listen:
“‘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 Delaney-Podmore.’”
“Oh,” Ginny said, nonplussed.
“Err . . . well . . .” Harry said, seeing Sir Nicholas’ expectant look. “I guess I can see how . . . err . . . challenging Head-Juggling would be for someone who is . . . ahh . . . especially beheaded. But it seems like they’d make an exception.”
Ginny nodded. “And I’m sure you can do all sorts of interesting and frightening things that they can’t. How many of them can flip their heads right over like you can? That’s really scary.”
Nick brightened. “It is, isn’t it? If only Sir Properly-Beheaded Podmore could hear that.”
Harry felt something brush against his Quidditch robes, and he looked down to see Mrs. Norris staring up at him. Her tail lashed a few times, and then she stalked away down the corridor.
“I wonder . . .” Sir Nicholas said, his gaze fixing on Harry. “Do you suppose . . . no, of course not.”
“What is it?” Harry asked as Ginny kept an eye out for Mr. Filch.
“Well . . . you see . . . it’s my five hundredth deathday on Halloween.”
Harry blinked. “Is it?”
Is that a good thing?
“Yes. I’m holding a party down in the dungeons. Old friends will be coming from all over the country, you know, to celebrate. It would be such an honour if you could attend, Mr. Potter. And you, too, of course, Miss Weasley. You’re quite famous among those in the know.”
Ginny looked back to Nick. “Oh, err . . .”
“You could bring along Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, if you liked,” the ghost said hopefully. When they did not immediately respond, his silvery face fell. “Ah, but I’m sure you would all rather attend the school feast. Quite understandable. Forget I asked. Sorry to have -”
Nick looked so crushed that they could not help themselves. “Oh, no, of course we’ll come,” Harry said.
“Yeah, definitely,” Ginny said, nodding. “It sounds . . . really exciting.”
“Really?” Nick said. “Oh, my dear, dear friends. Thank you so much, this is such an honour.”
“We’ll have to ask Ron and Hermione,” Harry said. “We can’t promise anything for them.”
Nick waved his hand grandly. “Of course, of course. They’re most welcome, but I’ll not hold it against them if they don’t wish to come. However . . . do you suppose you could repeat what you said before when Sir Patrick is around? About how terribly frightening I am?”
Why not?
“Sure,” Ginny said. “It’ll be easy to remember with you down there scaring us.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Nick cried. “Just come down to the dungeons. You can’t miss the party.”
Harry nodded and pulled Ginny further down the hall, around Sir Nicholas. “Great. We’ll see you there, Nick.”
“Oh, you don’t want to go that way,” the ghost said. “Peeves is making quite the mess on the stairs, and Filch is in a foul mood. You’d best stay away completely.”
“Right,” Harry said. “Thanks.” They turned and walked back the way they had come, heading for a different staircase.
Laid it on a bit thick, didn’t you? he asked.
Ginny shrugged. It made him happy. And remember, it was pretty scary the first time we saw him flip his head off.
I suppose so. Can you imagine, though? Head Polo?
It’d either be morbidly disturbing or dead hilarious.
Ha-ha, Harry said, smiling and squeezing her hand. Very funny.
They climbed to the fourth floor and then walked down the corridor back towards the stairs to Gryffindor tower. As they passed a classroom whose door was ajar, they heard a girl’s voice from inside. “Percy!” she said, sounding half-amused, half-stern.
Harry and Ginny froze, looked at each other, and then tiptoed back to the slight opening in the door. Harry peered inside, knowing his hair was less eye-catching. At the other side of the room, Percy was standing with his back mostly to the door. Beyond him, they could see the curly hair of a girl, standing with her hands on Percy’s shoulders.
Though Harry wanted to back away, Ginny insisted that they eavesdrop. After eleven years, she found it very difficult to break the habit of spying on her brothers when the opportunity presented itself.
Percy mumbled something unintelligible, and one of his hands tugged at the back of the girl’s shirt, where it was already pulled partway out of her skirt. She giggled, but she pushed his hand away. “No,” she said, slipping out of his embrace. When her face became fully visible, Harry immediately recognised Penelope Clearwater. “Maybe someday, if you’re nice,” she said, smiling up at the tall boy.
“Well, all right,” Percy said, stepping forward and putting his arms around her again. Within moments, they were fully engaged in snogging, though Percy’s hands stayed on Penelope’s back and drifted only slightly. Neither one of them even glanced towards the door.
Oh, the nerve of him! Ginny said, fuming.
Harry stepped away from the door, making as little noise as possible, and pulled her down the corridor.
Ginny followed unthinkingly, her attention elsewhere. How dare he? she asked. Treating us like vermin all summer because we hold hands, and here he is, kissing his girlfriend in a classroom! They’re probably supposed to be doing rounds, too. I bet that’s not part of a Prefect’s duties.
Doubtful, Harry agreed. He was angry at Percy, too, but his desire to escape from the couple in the classroom without being noticed was overpowering.
I mean, he was . . . he was trying to feel her up! And we’re not supposed to hold hands? It’s rubbish!
At least we’re not breaking school rules.
Too right! Ginny stomped down the corridor for a few moments and then stopped short. I’ve half a mind to write to Mum.
Harry paused, hesitation rising to cool his anger even more. Err . . . do we have to?
What? she asked, turning to face him, outrage written plainly on her face and in her mind. Why shouldn’t we?
Well . . . Harry could not find the right words, so he simply stopped and let them feel for a moment. As Percy’s younger sister, it seemed entirely appropriate to tell their mother, especially after his behaviour over the summer. At the same time, however, they could not escape the feeling that it would not be right. Percy had left them alone since arriving at school, and Harry thought it was wrong to pry into the older boy’s personal life. Hadn’t we better just let him be? I bet Penelope could hex him halfway across Britain if she wanted to.
That’s not the point, Ginny insisted. You heard him on the platform — he was going to stop other people kissing on the train, and here he is!
On an impulse from one or the other of them, Harry stepped forward and hugged her, stroking her hair with one hand. Let it go, Ginny. It’s not our problem.
After a long moment, Ginny relaxed and leaned her head against his shoulder. Yeah, you’re right. If we don’t want him messing about with our lives, we shouldn’t mess about with his.
Which doesn’t make it fair.
No. She sighed. And nobody said it had to be fair, did they?
Nope. Harry grinned. We can still use it against him someday, though.
We can, can’t we? Ginny squeezed him tightly and then backed out of the embrace. All right, we’ll try to forget about it. It won’t be easy. I mean . . .
I know. Yuck.
In spite of herself, Ginny giggled softly. I suppose those daisies worked out for him though, eh?
Holding each other’s hands tightly, almost defiantly, they climbed the stairs to Gryffindor tower. When they reached the common room, they found Ron and Hermione playing chess at their usual table.
“How was practice?” Ron asked as Harry and Ginny dropped into adjacent seats.
“Miserable,” Harry said. “I couldn’t see past the end of my broom, and Ginny had to watch the whole time like she was interested.”
“I was standing at the end of the tunnel under the pitch, and I still got soaked,” Ginny said. “Why can’t we have covered stands or something?”
“Same reason you play matches in all kinds of weather, I expect,” Hermione said as she contemplated the chess board.
“Yeah,” Ron said with a hint of pride. “That’s just now how it’s done. Makes it more sporting.”
“We’re going to change,” Harry said. “D’you want to go to lunch after?”
Ron nodded, and Hermione looked up at him. “Don’t you want to finish this game?” she asked.
“Nah. I’d win in six or seven moves, either way.”
“What? How?”
Leaving their friends to their discussion, Harry and Ginny went up to their dormitories, showered, and dressed in clean, warm clothing. When they got back downstairs, Ron and Hermione had already packed away their chessmen.
As they walked down the stairs, Harry looked around to make sure that no one else was in earshot. “Do you two want to come with us to Nick’s Deathday Party with us?”
“What’s that?” Hermione asked.
“Well, we don’t know, really. I suppose it’s like a birthday party, only . . .”
“Only he’s celebrating his own death, instead?”
“Right,” Ginny said. “He invited all four of us. We’ve said we’ll go, but we told him we’d have to ask you. It’s down in the dungeons at the same time as the Halloween feast.”
“The feast?” Ron asked. “Why’d you say you’d go?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s really important to him. Can’t be that bad, can it?”
“Can’t be as good as the feast, either.”
“Well, I’d like to go,” Hermione said. “I think it will be fascinating. How many living people are there who’ve been to a ghost party, do you think?”
Ginny turned to her brother and nudged him with her elbow. “What about you, Ron?”
“I’ll think about it,” he grumbled.
When they reached the Great Hall, Ginny spotted Neville sitting next to an open stretch of the Gryffindor table. Feeling a bit bold, she led the other three over and sat down, leaving one empty space between her and her erstwhile friend.
Ginny, and to a lesser extent Harry, had been campaigning for Neville’s friendship all term. He no longer actively avoided her, but neither did he approach the group or participate in their discussions as he once had. Still, she said hello whenever she saw him, and he had been answering politely enough.
“Hi, Neville,” Ginny said as she helped herself to the beef stew.
“Hullo, Ginny,” he said, glancing up from a book to give them all a quick nod of recognition.
Well, that’s something, Harry said.
Ginny smiled in return. “Good weekend?”
“Busy.” He did not look up again, but his voice sounded normal. “Not bad, though. You?”
“The same, really,” Ginny said. He had surprised her by continuing the conversation, so she was trying Harry’s tactic of keeping it simple. “Quidditch this morning.”
“Nasty weather for it,” Neville said.
“Yeah.”
Ginny was contemplating whether or not to invite Neville to see Hagrid with them, but just as she decided to give it a try, he closed his book and stood up from the table.
“See you later,” he said. With a slight wave of his hand, he strode off towards the doors, Ginny and the others calling their farewells in his wake.
Hermione turned to Ginny and shrugged. “It’s progress,” she said quietly.
Yeah, but it’s not as much as I was hoping for.
Give it more time, Ginny. He doesn’t seem to resent you anymore, and that’s a big improvement.
After lunch, the four friends met up with Luna and went down to Hagrid’s cottage, where he showed them the pumpkins he was growing for the Halloween feast. They were nearly the size of Mr. Weasley’s car, and Hermione got Hagrid to admit that he had been using unauthorised Engorgement Charms on the unsuspecting gourds. Luna, who had spent much more time with Hagrid that year than any of the others, told them all about the many other, legitimate methods Hagrid used to ‘encourage’ the pumpkins to grow.
Before dinner, Harry and Ginny spent a few minutes searching the catalogues in the common room for a birthday present for Mrs. Weasley. Ginny’s mother would not be pleased if they spent too much, but they did not want to get something trivial. At the same time, Ginny wanted to find something her mother would truly like, hoping that the gift would encourage the budding progress in their strained relationship.
In the end, Ginny settled on a small silver broach in the shape of a griffin. They sent the order off to a shop in London with instructions to deliver the gift on Friday. Ron, who had forgotten to get anything at all, persuaded them to add his name to the card in exchange for a handful of Famous Wizard cards.
The week before Halloween took on a festive air at Hogwarts, and rumours flew around the castle about the upcoming feast. A fifth-year prefect said that Dumbledore had hired a troupe of dancing skeletons as entertainment, and everyone saw the huge crate of live bats that appeared next to Hagrid’s cabin. Ginny, Hermione, Harry, and Ron all agreed that, Deathday Party or no, they would be happy if Halloween merely passed without any meetings with trolls or trips to the hospital wing.
However, the story of the troll haunted the hallways of Hogwarts and dogged the four friends. Everyone remembered that they had been out of their common room that night, and no-one seemed to believe that they had nothing to do with the troll. On Wednesday, Colin Creevey cornered Harry and Ginny in the common room, where they were revising with Hermione and Ron. The first-year quivered with excitement as he begged Harry to tell him the real story.
Colin greeted Harry several times a day in the corridors, and Harry had become quite good at escaping the younger boy. In the crowded common room, however, he could not see any way out of the situation. His gaze landed on Hermione, who shrugged and then ducked behind her book.
Bet you anything the twins told him about the troll, Ginny said, clamping her lips together to hide her amusement.
No bet. We’ll find some way to get back at them.
At his wit’s end, Harry said the only thing he could think of. “Sorry, Colin. I don’t know where you heard about that, but we’re not supposed to talk about it. Dumbledore’s orders.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Top secret. You understand.”
Colin’s eyes lit up more brightly than ever. “Really?” he breathed. “Of course, yeah, I won’t say anything.”
“Thanks, Colin,” Harry said. “It’s better for everyone that way.”
For you, you mean.
Hush.
“How about that photo, then?” Colin asked, hefting his ever-present camera.
No matter how many group photos he took, Colin never gave up on getting a real, up-close picture of Harry. Harry had never quite had the heart to flatly refuse a portrait, and he was running out of excuses.
“Look,” the small boy continued, oblivious to Harry’s discomfort. He pulled a large, glossy photograph out of his robes. It was yet another picture of the common room, in which Harry and Ginny were revising amidst a crowd of other students. “I’ve got it all moving properly, now. About ten seconds’ worth. The book says that’s not bad for normal photos.”
Ginny peered down at the photo. Sure enough, the people were moving enough to determine what they were doing. Ron was having some sort of heated argument with Seamus, and the twins were attempting to juggle Angelina’s ink bottles. Harry and Ginny sat mostly still in the picture, though their heads canted to one side or the other every few seconds as they read. “Well done, Colin,” Ginny said.
“So can I take one?” he asked Harry.
“Err . . . no, thanks,” Harry said. He wracked his brain for some sort of excuse, but neither he nor Ginny could think of anything. He sighed. “I just don’t feel like it right now, all right?”
Surprisingly, Colin lowered his camera. “Oh. Well . . . sure, Harry. No problem. I’ll catch you up later.” With a wave, he scurried off to the boys’ dormitories.
Hermione put down her book and watched Colin disappear up the stairs. “It isn’t a bad photo, really,” she said. “He showed it to me in the corridor earlier.”
Harry shook his head. “Why’d he want a picture of me revising? There’s nothing interesting about that.”
“I’m surprised we didn’t notice, though,” Ginny said. “That flash is hard to miss.”
“You were talking,” Hermione said.
“What?” Harry asked. “It looked like we were reading.”
The brunette shook her head matter-of-factly. “If you know what to look for, you can tell that you weren’t really looking at the book in that photo. You were talking to each other. That’s the blank sort of expression you get.”
Ginny lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you think he’ll notice anything odd?” she asked, their concern rising.
“No. Don’t worry about it.”
She’s probably the only person who’d pay quite that much attention to us or the photo, Harry said.
Let’s hope so. It’d be pretty creepy if it was anyone else.
And yet, we like her that way.
They both smiled and returned to their revision.
The festive mood of the castle began to affect classes in the last two days before the thirty-first. Professors McGonagall and Snape kept strict order in their lessons, but Professor Sprout did not seem to mind the extra energy of her students. Professor Flitwick embraced the spirit of the season, and he taught the second-years how to charm folded sheets of parchment so that they flew around the room like real bats. He also finally allowed Ron and the rest of the class to cast orange light charms.
By the last lesson of the day on Friday, even Professor Lockhart had given up on ensuring that his class was paying rapt attention to his stories. Instead, he simply told his fantastic tale, focusing his attention on the students in the front row and ignoring the rest. Dean and Seamus struck up a game of Gobstones with Terry Boot at the back of the room, and Ron dozed through the entire class. Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw girl who sat across the aisle from Ginny and who had never been as taken with Lockhart as the others, spent the lesson scribbling on something. When the thin-faced girl flipped it closed, Ginny and Harry recognised the diary she had given to Lavender. As they watched, Mandy straightened in her chair, rolled her eyes, and stuffed the little book into her bag. She then turned to whisper to the girl on her other side.
I guess nobody likes it, Ginny said, returning her attention to the Transfiguration essay they were working on.
In front of them, Hermione was busy taking notes, and every now and then she turned around to shoot disapproving looks at someone. She did not say anything to Harry and Ginny, but they suspected that they were low on her priority list because they were at least doing schoolwork.
That evening, as the rest of the students streamed towards the Halloween Feast, the four friends passed the great double doors to the Great Hall on their way to the dungeons. Peering inside, Harry and Ginny saw hundreds of black candles floating above the tables, the cloud of bats flapping around the ceiling, Hagrid’s huge pumpkins carved into carriage-sized lanterns, and the tables set with gold plates and black serviettes.
“Last chance, Ron,” Harry said.
The tall boy shook his head sadly. “Nah. If I went, everyone would want to know where you lot were, and I’d never get time to eat.”
They went down the stairs to the main corridor of the dungeons, where they found more candles. These, however, burned in cool blue flames, and the effect was not at all welcoming. The air grew colder with every step they took down the candle-lit corridor. Ginny started to shiver first, and after a few yards Harry pulled his robes more tightly around his body.
After two turns in the passageway, they came to an open doorway. Nearly Headless Nick stood next to it with a theatrical frown on his ghostly face. “My dear friends,” he said in a sepulchral voice. “Welcome, welcome. So pleased you could come.”
Harry and Ginny led the way inside at his invitation, and they were met with the strangest sight either of them could recall. Hundreds of silvery figures filled the room, gliding around and even through each other as they danced or mingled. On one side of the room was a stage containing thirty ghosts, each with a translucent musical saw. The combined sound was enough to make Ginny long for the soothing rasp of fingernails on a blackboard.
At the near end of the room was a table full of food, and the second-years headed straight for it. In part, they wanted to get out of the doorway, but they also simply wanted to appear to be doing something, and Ron was hungry as usual. To their dismay, however, the food turned out to be nearly as old as Nick, and the four of them quickly crossed the room to escape the smell of a long-rotten haggis.
Harry walked towards a corner to be out of the way, but Ginny tugged on his hand just as he noticed that the spot was already occupied. “Someplace else,” she whispered to Ron and Hermione.
Hermione followed her gaze and nodded.
“Why?” Ron asked.
“See the ghost that Peeves is talking to in the corner?” Ginny asked. “That’s Moaning Myrtle. She haunts the girls’ toilet on the second floor.”
“She’s awful,” Harry said. “All she does is wail and moan and complain that nobody visits her toilet. Except you’re there, right, because you’re in a hurry or something, and she wails and moans and makes you not want to go back again. If she’d just shut up-”
“Harry.” Ron had stopped walking, and Harry and Ginny turned back to look at him. “Could you not say things like that?”
“What? Oh, err . . .” He avoided Ron’s eyes. “Sorry.”
Hermione started moving again, heading for an empty stretch of wall, and she pulled Harry and Ron along by their arms. “Regardless, we don’t want to get anywhere near her.”
They stopped and stood near the wall, watching the ghosts and staying out of the way. Occasionally, ghosts they did not recognise would wander by to stare at them, but none of the spectres spoke.
Just when Harry and Ginny were wondering how long they had to stay for courtesy’s sake, Nick floated over to them. “Hello again,” he said. “How are you enjoying the party?”
“It’s very nice, Sir Nicholas,” Hermione said. “It . . . err . . . seems well-attended.”
“Why, yes, thank you,” Nick replied. “The Wailing Widow is up from Kent, you know.”
Ginny glanced in the direction in which Nick pointed, but she could not make out which ghost might be the Wailing Widow among the shifting mass of non-corporeal figures.
At that moment, a loud, brassy tone sounded from the back of the dungeon. As the echoes faded and the orchestra stilled, Nick muttered, “Oh, here we go.”
Through the back wall entered six headless ghosts riding six ghostly horses. Even one of the horses was headless, which Ginny thought was very sad.
That’s got to be the Headless Hunt, she said.
The lead figure, a burly man in armour and tabard, carried his head under one arm and held a shimmering horn to his lips with the other hand. Behind him, the headless ghosts tossed their heads in the air, swung them by the hair, or balanced them between their horses’ ears.
Everyone in the dungeon applauded, and Harry and Ginny joined in until they saw Nick’s fierce scowl. “That’s . . . err . . . Sir Podmore, then?” Harry asked.
“Yes. Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, as he will insist you call him.” Sir Nicholas’ face became a mask of overly-bright welcome as the Hunt rode towards him. “Hello, Patrick!”
“Nick!” cried the stout ghost in a booming voice as he dismounted. His horse sank through the floor out of sight. “How are you? Head still hanging in there?”
“Yes, thank you,” Nick said. He drew himself up. “Patrick Delaney-Podmore, I’d like to introduce-”
When Nicholas waved his arm towards Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione, Sir Patrick gave a great start, leaping backwards and dropping his own head. “Live ‘uns!” he cried from the floor. His body picked up his head and, holding it in front of his belt, covered his eyes as though frightened. “Tell me when they’re gone!”
Nick had to wait a few moments to be heard over the crowd’s laughter. “These are Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger,” he said, pointing at each of them in turn. “This is Harry Potter, and . . .”
“Oh, really?” Patrick said, holding his head out at Harry’s eye level. “How do you do? More importantly, how did Nick get you to come here?”
Harry, irritated by the ghost’s condescending attitude, remembered their promise to Sir Nicholas. “We overheard him talking about the party, and he’s so very frightening that we thought we should come. Did you know that he can flip his head right over onto his shoulder? You can see the bones and muscles and everything. It’s terrifying. Far scarier than the Bloody Baron.”
Not too bad, Ginny said, hiding a smile.
Sir Patrick, however, threw his head back — literally — and laughed. His body shook as his head rolled to a stop on the floor behind him, and he spoke from there. “He put you up to that! I know it!” With a casual sweep of his leg, Patrick rolled his head forward to rest face-up at Harry’s feet. “Even to ghosts,” he whispered, “there are few creatures more frightening than the Bloody Baron.”
Looking across the room, Harry spotted the Slytherin ghost hovering motionless among the candles, and he had to agree. As much as they wanted to support Sir Nicholas, the Bloody Baron’s grim countenance, blood-stained clothes, and chilling silence were far more intimidating.
“Yes, well,” Nick said a bit more loudly than necessary. “As I was about to say, this,” he swept his arm towards Ginny and bowed slightly, “is Ginny Weasley.”
For the first time, Patrick’s boisterous energy seemed to falter. “Err . . . who?” he asked, eyeing Ginny with a look of confusion as he picked up his own head.
“Ginny Weasley,” Nick repeated. “Surely you’ve heard of her.”
“Ah . . .” After a beat, Patrick snorted and gave a great guffaw. “Oh, I see, Nick. Really done it up right this time, have you? Made up a whole show to impress me, complete with celebrities no one’s heard of!”
Ginny bristled, though she knew it was irrational to expect the ghosts to know who she was.
Sir Nicholas smiled, his eyes crinkling as he rose a few inches higher into the air. “Have I, Patrick? Are you quite sure of that?”
The hall had gone silent as the other ghosts listened to the two antagonists. “I think it’s a fair wager, yes,” Patrick said. He held his head up almost to the ceiling and shouted, “Who present here has heard of this ‘Ginny Weasley’?”
Harry and Ginny could not help looking around, and to their surprise, most of the ghosts in the room raised their spectral arms. Even the orchestra lifted their saws into the air.
Nick kept smiling, but Patrick lowered his head and placed it on his neck. From there, he peered down at Ginny with an expression of bewildered embarrassment. “Err . . . Miss Weasley, was it?”
Ginny seized her chance and spoke as offhandedly as she could. “How nice to meet you, Mr. Puddlemore.” She then turned to Hermione. “Have you seen the Fat Friar yet? I wanted to say hello.”
Oh, that was cruel, Harry said, turning so that Patrick could not see his grin.
He deserved it.
“I believe I saw him near the door,” Hermione said, playing along. “Shall we?”
Without another glance at the headless ghost, Ginny looped her arm through Harry’s, and the four of them began winding their way towards the entrance.
“Well, then,” Nick said behind them to the surrounding ghosts. “Has anyone sampled the haggis? It’s well over a hundred years old, and I really think you can taste the difference.”
“That’s got to be enough time spent here,” Ron said. “Can we go? I’m starving.”
Harry and Ginny considered it for a moment. I really can’t stand this much longer, she said. It’s grotesque.
And freezing, he said, feeling her shiver.
“As soon as I find the Fat Friar,” Ginny whispered.
Hermione nodded ahead of them. “He really is by the door.”
They found the Friar, who was delighted to spend several minutes talking at them non-stop about the latest group of Hufflepuff first-years. Then Ginny excused them as politely as possible, and they slipped back out into the blue-lit corridor.
“D’you suppose we can still make it to the feast?” Ron asked with a distinctly wistful note in his voice.
“Worth a try,” Harry said. “Not sure if I can eat after seeing that mess, though.”
“Well, I thought it was very interesting,” Hermione said. “Though I must admit, I’m glad we left when we did.”
They walked up the stairs towards the entrance hall, chafing their arms with their hands.
“Rip . . . tear . . . kill . . .”
Harry and Ginny froze on the stairs. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Ron asked.
“That voice . . . was it you?” Ginny asked. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Ron didn’t say anything,” Hermione said. “No one did, not since I -”
“. . . so hungry . . . for so long . . .” The voice was cold and harsh, and it echoed slightly in their ears.
“There!” Harry said in a half-shout. He and Ginny turned to stare up and to their right at a blank wall. “It came from there! What was it?”
Ron shook his head. “Didn’t hear anything. Are you all right?”
“. . . kill . . . time to kill . . .”
The voice grew fainter, but its excitement was palpable. Ginny whirled back to her brother. “You didn’t hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“A voice! Someone . . . someone saying they’re going to kill somebody!”
“Kill somebody?” Ron asked as Hermione gave a faint squeak. “Who?”
“I don’t know!” Harry said. He started up the stairs with Ginny beside him. “Come on, and be quiet.”
“Harry, what-”
“Quiet!”
They climbed to the entrance hall, but the noise from the Great Hall drowned out extraneous sounds. Ginny and Harry sprinted up to the first floor and slid to a halt. They held their breaths and listened.
From above them and still to their right, they heard the faint voice raised in a rasping shout. “I smell blood . . . I smell blood!”
“Come on!” Ginny said and led the way up the stairs again.
Hermione followed, saying something about fetching a teacher, but Harry and Ginny did not reply. If they waited even a moment, someone might die.
Harry and Ginny ran down the corridor on the second floor. Behind them, Ron’s heavy footfalls began to fade, and Hermione’s laboured breathing was lost in the slap of their own feet on the stone.
Where? Harry thought desperately.
I don’t know. It was to our right, and when we went up the stairs . . .
They tried to figure the directions in their mind based on the turns of the staircase and the corridor. They could not focus through the pounding need in their minds. Someone was going to be murdered, and they might be the only ones who could stop it.
Distantly, so softly that they might have imagined it, they heard an echo. “Kill!”
It’s got ahead again!
Harry and Ginny spun and looked up and down the corridor. It was deserted. As Harry kept an eye out behind them, Ginny Shifted halfway down the corridor. A moment later, Harry Shifted further still, until the next turn was in sight. They raced around that corner, Shifted down the next corridor in turns, and then ran around another corner into the last passage of the second floor. The corridor ended at the deserted main staircase to the third floor.
Where did it go?
Ginny shook her head. It sounded like it was somewhere around here.
They peered around the corridor, looking for any sign of something having passed by ahead of them. Ginny gasped, her hand covering her mouth, and pointed down to the very end of the corridor. There, a dark shape hung from one of the torch brackets, and it swung gently as though in a light breeze.
What is it? Harry asked.
They crept closer, their feet splashing in the water on the floor. Before they could tell what was hanging from the bracket, however, they stopped and shivered. Something was written on the stone wall in foot-high letters that glistened red in the flickering light.
The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.
Enemies of the heir, beware.
Harry and Ginny stared at the writing until a slight motion caught their attention. They spun, and Ginny gasped again. Mrs. Norris dangled from the torch bracket by her tail. The old cat’s eyes stared sightlessly at them as the stiff body swayed back and forth.
What happened to her? Ginny asked, aghast.
Harry put his arm around her shoulders and pulled them both further away.
It must have been the voice. But how? What do we do?
We should tell someone, Ginny said, choking back a sob. Call Professor McGonagall.
Harry pulled his pendant out from under his shirt and clenched it in his fist, but he let it fall again as the rumble of dozens of voices and scores of feet filled the passage. From the stairwell nearby and the corridor they had followed, students began to pour into the area. The Halloween feast was over, and Ginny and Harry were standing right next to one of the main staircases.
A Hufflepuff girl shrieked and slid to a halt a few yards away. Soon the corridor was packed with whispering students, trapping the young pair in the middle with Mrs. Norris and the dripping message. From out of the crowd, a familiar voice shouted, “Enemies of the heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods.”
The students gasped again, and Draco Malfoy pushed his way to the front. Harry and Ginny spun to face him, and the excited sneer on his face made their stomachs churn.
“What’s going on? What are all of you doing?” Mr. Filch growled as he forced his way into the open area. Then his voice rose into a hoarse screech. “My cat!”
The old caretaker shuffled over to the wall and reached out as though to touch the hanging body, but he stopped short. He spun back around, his piercing gaze sweeping across the students. “What’s happened to Mrs. Norris? Who did this?” His eyes locked on Malfoy, who was still smirking. “You! You killed my cat!”
“It wasn’t me, you stupid Squib,” Malfoy said. “I just got here, anyone can tell you that. However,” he pointed at Harry and Ginny, “they were already here.” Several of the other Slytherins nodded their agreement.
Filch turned and looked at them, and his eyes began flicking back and forth between their faces. “One of you . . .” he growled. “One of you did it. I know what sort you are!” He raised his gnarled hands and started towards Harry. “I’ll kill you!”
“Argus!”
The mass of students parted, and Dumbledore strode through the gap. Behind him were Professors McGonagall, Snape, Lockhart, and Sprout. At almost the same moment, Ron and Hermione forced their way through the crowd on the other side. Hermione’s eyes were wide, and Ron looked grim, but they moved to join Harry and Ginny in the centre of the corridor.
Everyone else in the area froze. The Headmaster took in the scene in a few seconds, and he removed Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket with a tap of his wand. Cradling her stiff body in his arms, he moved back down the hallway. “Come with me, Argus. You two, also. Pomona, please disperse the other students.”
Harry and Ginny had no doubt which two Dumbledore meant, and they reluctantly stepped forward in his wake.
“Excuse me, Professor,” Hermione said, her voice shaking. “We were with Harry and Ginny just a moment ago. We can -”
“Very well,” Dumbledore said, cutting her off with uncharacteristic abruptness. “The four of you, then.”
Hermione and Ron followed Harry, Ginny, and the Headmaster, with McGonagall and Snape walking behind. Lockhart, however, hurried around the group and offered Dumbledore the use of his office.
Ginny and Harry felt that it was only seconds later that they all walked into the study adjacent to the Defence classroom. The portraits in the room woke up at the intrusion, and even the troll watched avidly as the Headmaster laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface of the desk. While everyone else looked on, Dumbledore leaned over and inspected the cat from nose to tail, his own half-moon spectacles only a few inches away from her fur. He then waved his wand over and around her a few times before sighing and straightening. He turned to the students. “Tell me what happened.”
“They killed my cat, that’s what happened!” Filch bellowed. “One of them,” he pointed again at Harry and Ginny. “I know what they can do! I saw it last year. Trouble runs in their blood!”
“That may be, but they deserve a chance to tell us what happened. Mr. Potter?”
“We didn’t do anything, Professor,” Harry said. “We came along the corridor and found Mrs. Norris just like she was.”
Ginny nodded. “We were leaving to go and find someone.” She glanced at Professor McGonagall and rubbed her hands together as though nervous, but she made sure her fingers brushed obviously over the pendant on her wrist.
“Rubbish!” Spittle flew from Filch’s lips as he shouted. “They murdered my cat, and now they’re trying to get out of it, just like they always do!”
“Mrs. Norris is not dead,” Dumbledore said. “She has been Petrified.”
Lockhart rapped the desk with his knuckles. “Ah, yes! I was just about to say the same thing myself. So unfortunate that I couldn’t get there in time. I know just the charm that would have prevented this.”
“She’s . . . what?” Filch asked.
“Petrified, Argus, but still alive.”
“But she’s all stiff and . . . and . . .” Filch sobbed. “She’s not dead?”
“No, she is not,” the Headmaster said. “She has been affected by very Dark magic indeed. No second-year, no matter how gifted, could possibly perform it. I am not sure that anyone in this castle could, for that matter.”
The caretaker brushed his fingers across Mrs. Norris’s fur. “How do you fix it?”
“An extremely strong restorative is required. Fortunately, we are growing a crop of Mandrakes at this very moment. Once they are mature, I am quite sure we will be able to remove the Petrification. It is only a matter of time.”
“Headmaster,” Snape said, moving out of the shadow by the door, “as you say, this sort of magic is well beyond the capability of these students. However, I do wonder what they were doing in that corridor in the first place.” His cold eyes bored into Harry, and his lips curled. “Isn’t it strange that they were not at the feast with the rest of the students, and yet they were in just the place where such Dark magic had been performed?”
“What are you implying, Severus?” McGonagall asked in a sharp voice.
“Nothing at all,” he said with a slight shrug. “I am merely . . . wondering.”
“It is an interesting question,” Dumbledore said. He turned to Harry. “Please, do explain.”
Harry, with confirmation from Ron and Hermione, explained about the Deathday Party that evening, offering the ghosts as witnesses to their whereabouts. Before saying anything about the strange voice he and Ginny had heard, however, Harry paused. If Ron and Hermione could not hear the voice, then it was possible that no one else could, either. They did not want to admit to something so bizarre in front of Snape and Filch, and Harry shuddered at the thought of Lockhart hearing it. “So,” Harry concluded. “Err . . . we were heading back up to the tower.”
“Why did you not join your classmates in the Great Hall?” Snape asked.
“We . . . we thought the feast was just about to end.” Ginny said.
He sneered. “How could you know that? The feast does not end until the Headmaster declares it finished.”
Ron took a half-step forward to stand on Ginny’s other side. “Well, we just guessed. It had been a while, see.”
“And were you not hungry enough to at least find out for sure?” Snape asked. “I seriously doubt that even you found anything that was edible at a party for ghosts, Mr. Weasley.”
“We thought we might just eat a few Chocolate Frogs and then catch up at breakfast tomorrow,” Harry said.
“I see,” Professor Snape said, scowling. “Tell me, Mr. Potter. If you were going from the dungeons to your dormitories, why did you pass through that particular corridor? And how did the four of you become separated, if you were together just moments prior?”
“Enough,” Dumbledore said, raising his hands as Professor McGonagall opened her mouth to speak. “There is no rule that governs their route through the castle, Severus. They could not have harmed Mrs. Norris, and they broke no rules.”
“I don’t care about rules!” Filch shouted. “My cat has been Petrified! I want to see some punishment!”
The Headmaster straightened, and Ginny and Harry had the sudden impression that he had swelled to more than his normal size. “There will be no punishment where there has been no wrongdoing, Mr. Filch.” He stared at the stooped caretaker, who nodded almost frantically, and then he gave the other man a tiny smile. “Take Mrs. Norris to the hospital wing and tell Madam Pomfrey that she has been Petrified. I will be along shortly.”
Without another word, Mr. Filch scooped up the frozen cat and carried her out of the room.
“Severus,” Dumbledore continued, “please begin reviewing the requirements for the strongest possible Mandrake draught. We will, of course, want to administer the cure as soon as possible.”
“I’d be more than happy to take care of that, Professor Snape, since we’re pressed for time.” Lockhart said. “As it happens, I’ve brewed-”
“I am the Potions Master at this school,” Snape snarled. “I am not aware that you have any experience as a Potions Master at all.” He nodded at Dumbledore and left, his eyes still cold and hard.
“I will escort these four back to Gryffindor tower,” McGonagall said. “I daresay they have taken enough detours for one night.”
Dumbledore nodded. “Very well. Gilderoy, thank you for the use of your office. Goodnight to you all.”
Ginny and Harry slipped out of the room before Lockhart could reply, taking advantage of the momentary silence after the Headmaster’s departure. Ron and Hermione followed them, and McGonagall appeared a moment later.
“Come along,” she said.
As they waited for the stairs to align properly, Ginny looked up at McGonagall. “Excuse me, Professor, but . . . if Mrs. Norris is Petrified, why didn’t someone just cancel the spell? You know, with Finite Incantatem? That’s how you taught us to get rid of the Full-Body Bind.”
“The Full-Body Bind isn’t Dark magic,” Hermione said in a whisper.
“Quite right, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said. “Something else was done to Mrs. Norris. As you’ll recall, the Full-Body Bind leaves the eyes and eyelids free to move, among other things. We call it petrification for convenience, but Mrs. Norris seems to have been Petrified in a much more literal sense. I am not familiar with the magic involved, but I trust the Headmaster to have identified it properly.”
They climbed the first staircase, and McGonagall spoke in a lower voice. “Out of curiosity, why were you in that corridor?”
“Err . . .” Harry and Ginny debated telling the truth, and they decided that if they could not trust Professor McGonagall, then they could not trust anyone at all. “We didn’t want to say anything in front of . . . err . . . everyone else, but . . . well, we heard a voice, Professor. We were following it.”
The tall woman halted, and the four students had to scamper aside to avoid running into their professor as she turned to face them. “You followed a voice, and it led you to Mrs. Norris? Why on earth didn’t you tell us that sooner?” Her voice had become quite stern.
Ginny swallowed. “Because . . . because Ron and Hermione couldn’t hear it, Professor. Just us.”
McGonagall’s sharp gaze moved to Hermione and Ron, and they both nodded. She turned back to Harry and Ginny. “So you heard a voice, which your friends could not hear, and you followed it?”
“Yes, Professor,” Harry said. “We Shifted ahead to try to catch up . . . it was talking about blood and killing and stuff. But by the time we got to Mrs. Norris, the voice had stopped, and there she was. We were about to call you when everyone else got there.”
“I see.” McGonagall’s eyes became unfocused for a moment as though she were thinking hard. “Very well. Harry, Ginny, please come with me. I want to hear absolutely everything you can recall about this. Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, please return to the tower.” They started to object, but the professor quelled them with a raised hand. “If you can provide any useful information, I assure you that I will seek you out. But for now, if you could not hear this voice, I would prefer that you return to your dormitories. Here.” She waved her wand over her other palm, and a tray of sandwiches materialised. “There’s no reason for you to go hungry.”
Ron and Hermione looked ready to argue, but they nodded and took the tray. Casting worried glances at Harry and Ginny, they disappeared up the stairs. McGonagall turned around and led Harry and Ginny to her office.
Inside, the three of them took up their usual positions, and McGonagall provided tea and more sandwiches. Slowly and carefully, Harry and Ginny ate and told her everything they could remember about the voice and what it had said. They tried to explain their route as they Shifted through the corridors, the amount of time they thought might have passed, and exactly when the voice had spoken for the last time.
After a few moments’ thought, McGonagall said, “You went up the stairs and down the second-floor corridor because that’s where you thought the voice was coming from. Why did you think that?”
“It was a guess, mostly,” Harry said, shrugging. “When we first heard it, we were on the stairs to the dungeon, and it was sort of above us and to one side. So we tried to go that way, and we ended up on the second floor.”
The professor nodded. “I believe we should invite Professor Dumbledore to join us. Excuse me for a moment.”
She strode over to her fireplace, threw in a pinch of Floo powder, and said, “Headmaster’s Office.” For several minutes, Harry and Ginny watched as she leaned into the fire, but they could not hear what she was saying. At last, she straightened and returned to her chair.
Moments later, Dumbledore stepped out of the fire carrying a large object wrapped in cloth. He placed it on the low table in front of Harry and Ginny and then carefully unwrapped it.
The object was a wide, shallow stone basin with runes carved around its edges. In the basin itself, a strange sort of light flowed and eddied. It was too airy to be liquid, but it did not look entirely insubstantial, either. Harry and Ginny watched, fascinated, as the whitish-silver substance drifted aimlessly in the basin.
“This is a Pensieve,” Dumbledore said. They looked up to see him sitting in a low chair that had not been there a moment before. “Do you know what a Pensieve is?”
Harry and Ginny’s eyes widened as they looked back down at the basin. “Yes,” she said softly. “We’ve never seen one, but they’re in lots of stories. You know . . . to prove that the good wizard was telling the truth. They . . . they show memories.”
“Yes, indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Among other things, the Pensieve allows us to extract memories from our heads and view them again, as though we were there. I would point out, however, that memories can be tampered with, so the Pensieve’s images are not considered legal proof of events.”
At the words ‘legal proof,’ Harry and Ginny looked up worriedly.
McGonagall tutted. “We do not require ‘legal proof of events,’” she said. “If you will let us see your memories, we will of course accept them as the truth.” She glanced meaningfully at Dumbledore, who nodded.
“You want to see our memories?” Harry asked.
“Yes, please,” the Headmaster said. “If we can see where you were when you heard this mysterious voice, we will have a better chance of determining what happened. We might even be able to hear it ourselves.”
“Oh. All right,” Ginny said. “What do we do? Does it hurt?”
The old man smiled gently. “Not at all. I will ask you to think carefully about the time from when you first heard the voice until you found Mrs. Norris. As you do, I will touch my wand to your forehead and draw out the memory. You won’t feel anything at all.”
Ginny frowned in suspicion. “How do we know that you’ve got the right memory?”
“You will be able to see it for yourself,” Dumbledore said. “To be quite honest, I have no idea what one of your memories will look like, given your rather unique situation. It may not be comprehensible to us at all. So I will play the memory on the surface of the Pensieve, rather than entering it. If it works as it normally would, we will all see precisely what memory you’ve provided.”
Harry and Ginny glanced at Professor McGonagall, who nodded serenely. “All right,” Harry said. He slid off of the sofa to kneel in front of the Pensieve, closer to Dumbledore.
“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” the Headmaster said. “Now, please think of the whole sequence of events, from beginning to end. Start when I say ‘go’, and when you’ve finished, say ‘stop.’ Are you ready?” Harry took a deep breath and nodded. Dumbledore touched the tip of his wand to Harry’s temple.
“Go.”
Closing his eyes, Harry replayed the scene in his mind, starting when they, Ron, and Hermione had started up the stairs from the dungeon. As he thought, Ginny helped him to remember everyone’s exact words, the points at which they had Shifted, and the details of Mrs. Norris’ discovery. As the Headmaster had promised, Harry did not feel anything at all.
“Stop,” Harry said. He and Ginny opened their eyes and saw a thread of something silvery, like the contents of the Pensieve, hanging from the tip of Dumbledore’s wand.
With a gentle flick, the old wizard dropped the thread of memory into the Pensieve, where it began to swirl gently. “Now, let us see what can be seen,” Dumbledore said.
He tapped the rim of the basin, and a tiny, three-dimensional scene took shape above the surface of the airy substance. It showed Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione climbing the stairs, and then Harry and Ginny froze for a moment. Very softly, the four students’ voices could be heard. The tiny memories of Harry and Ginny began to run, leaving Ron and Hermione behind and out of the image. For a split second, Ginny’s figure in the memory blinked out, and then she reappeared farther down the corridor. Then, quite abruptly, the scene changed completely, flashing from image to image.
That must be when we started Shifting, Harry said.
Finally, the memory reached the end, showing Mrs. Norris hanging on the wall. Just as the other students’ voices became barely audible in the distance, the scene faded away. Throughout the whole memory, the real Harry and Ginny had been unable to hear the strange voice they had been chasing.
“Excellent,” Dumbledore said. “You got that exactly correct. And I’m quite pleased to see that the memory appears normal, though it is quite disconcerting to jump from one place to another. I suppose you’re used to it by now.”
Harry and Ginny nodded but stared at the Pensieve in confusion. “There was no voice,” she said.
“I noticed that, also,” the Headmaster said. “However, I’m sure you noticed that all sound from the memory is a bit muted when it is projected above the Pensieve. It is possible that the voice you heard simply was not loud enough to register to us here.”
“So what do we do?” Harry asked.
“Well, since the memory seems to work normally as a projection, I will enter it myself. Please excuse me.” Without waiting for a response, he reached out and touched a finger to the substance in the Pensieve. As though the basin were some sort of vacuum, the Headmaster was pulled into it. His arm disappeared, followed quickly by his head and torso. Finally, only his purple slippers were sticking up from the Pensieve, and a moment later, they also vanished.
McGonagall sighed. “I do wish he had waited for a second opinion before doing something like that,” she muttered.
“Is it dangerous?”
“I don’t know, Ginny. I simply have no idea how your memories might differ from someone else’s, and I’m not confident that watching the projection proves that it is safe to enter. I am sure the Headmaster knows more about Pensieves than I do, though.”
They sat quietly for a few moments, and Harry nibbled on another sandwich. Then, suddenly, Dumbledore’s shoes burst out of the pensive, followed by the rest of him. He flew backwards and landed in the cushioned chair he had conjured.
“Well!” he said, grinning excitedly. “That was interesting.”
“Did you hear the voice?” McGonagall asked.
“No, I didn’t. But their ‘Shifting’ is really quite marvellous, even from an observer’s standpoint. The Pensieve doesn’t give any sense of motion or change or anything of the sort. You’re standing in one place, and then you’re in another. It’s exhilarating.”
Professor McGonagall huffed. “That’s quite fascinating, Albus, but I’m not sure it helps us with the question at hand.”
Dumbledore sobered instantly. “Yes, yes, of course. I did not hear the voice, but it was quite obvious that Harry and Ginny did hear something.” He straightened and turned to McGonagall. “Minerva, I’d like you to enter the memory. With your particularly sharp hearing, I’m hopeful that you’ll be able to detect something I could not.”
Particularly sharp-?
Their question was cut off as Professor McGonagall nodded and abruptly transformed into a grey tabby cat. The cat leapt easily onto the table and then leaned forward to touch her nose to the silvery substance. A moment later, she vanished into the Pensieve.
“I can’t believe I once tried to rub her belly,” Ginny muttered, her ears heating at the thought.
Dumbledore smiled broadly, his eyes flashing with mirth. “I must admit, Miss Weasley, that I remember that as one of the most entertaining moments of my long life.”
McGonagall emerged from the Pensieve backwards, just as Dumbledore had, but she twisted easily in midair and landed on her chair. There, she shook her head sharply, leapt back onto the table, and disappeared into the Pensieve for a second time.
When she landed in her chair again, the cat’s shape rippled, and the familiar stern-faced witch sat facing them. “I heard it,” she said.
“You did?” the Headmaster asked, snapping his attention to her.
“Yes. At least, I think I did.”
“By all means, Minerva, please do explain.”
The tall woman leaned back in her chair and retrieved her cup of tea. “A cat can hear far more than a human, of course, but that is not purely an advantage. I hear various background noises from a much greater distance, which means that there are many more sounds for me to hear at any given time. For instance, while a feast is underway, I can hear it as a rumble from almost anywhere in the castle.”
“I see,” Dumbledore said, watching her avidly. Harry and Ginny stayed quiet, fascinated by the idea of a cat’s view of the castle.
“During the course of this memory, I was hearing the Halloween feast, a bit of noise from the party in the dungeons, the wind outside, and several other normal sounds of the castle. All of it forms a sort of background murmur or hum. Without knowing what the sounds are ahead of time, it is very difficult to distinguish them from a distance.”
Dumbledore nodded. “But you could hear the voice, you said?”
“What I heard,” McGonagall said slowly, “was a noticeable change in the background noise. It happened precisely as Harry and Ginny reacted each time. I did not hear any words, but I cannot imagine that the timing is a simple coincidence.”
“Very well,” the Headmaster said. “Knowing there is a sound to be heard in the memory is entirely useful.” He lapsed into silence.
Harry, Ginny, and Professor McGonagall watched Dumbledore for several quiet moments. He stared at the ceiling and stroked his beard, which was bound into its usual sort of frontwards pony tail.
“Albus?” Professor McGonagall asked.
He started and focused on Harry and Ginny. “Ah, yes. What I’d like to do now is take the two of you into the memory with us. All at the same time. I’m confident that you’ll hear the voice again, and each time you do, I’d like you to point in the direction it’s coming from and repeat what it’s saying aloud. Can you do that?”
“Err . . . sure,” Harry said.
“Excellent. We’ll have to trot a bit to keep up with you when you run, but when you Shift, the scene will simply change. Do not try to move on your own . . . just let the Pensieve move you. Minerva, I’d like you to come along with us as a cat. When you hear the noises, make some sign or sound, so I can be sure of the timing of your hearing and theirs.”
McGonagall nodded.
“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley, simply touch your finger to the surface of the Pensieve. You’ll feel a bit like you’re falling, but you’ll land in the memory with no harm done. The duration of the memory should allow you to get to your feet and be ready before the voice is heard. Shall we?”
The professor transfigured herself, and the cat and the three people gathered around the basin. Harry and Ginny kept their hands clasped tightly together. “On three,” Dumbledore said. “One . . . two . . . three!”
On cue, Harry and Ginny touched their forefingers to the swirling substance. It was slightly cool, but they barely had time to register the sensation before they were pulled into the Pensieve. As quickly as it came, the pulling sensation vanished, and they fell through something black and icy-cold. It was utterly disorienting, but they felt anchored in the darkness by their joined hands. They landed, roughly but not dangerously, on a stone floor in a torch-lit corridor.
Looking up, they saw themselves, with Ron and Hermione, walking down the aisle of blue candles towards the staircase. On either side of their current selves, the two professors waited. “Landing on your feet takes quite a bit of practice for those of us who are not cats,” Dumbledore said, quickly but softly. “Come along. If you don’t mind, please stay a few yards apart. That will help me to identify where the voice is coming from.”
They nodded and separated reluctantly. Ginny ran in front of the memory-people and stayed five or six feet ahead of them, while Harry followed behind himself with the professors. At precisely the moment they remembered, they heard the voice clearly. “Rip . . . tear . . . kill . . .”
Harry and Ginny were startled in spite of themselves, but they each spun and pointed up towards the ceiling. “Rip, tear, kill!” they said loudly.
The four of them followed Harry and Ginny’s Pensieve selves, pointing and shouting as needed and running to keep up. McGonagall had no problems with the pace as a cat, and Dumbledore hiked up his robes to run on long, spindly legs. Harry and Ginny knew when to expect the Shifting, and they kept up effortlessly by letting the memory carry them along. It felt oddly as though their memory-selves were Shifting both sets of them at the same time.
Within moments, they reached the end of the corridor and watched Ginny discover Mrs. Norris. Harry squeezed her hand again at the disturbing sight, and she felt her eyes moisten in sympathy.
Poor Mrs. Norris.
With another pull and a short fall through freezing darkness, the memory ended, and Harry and Ginny were flung backwards onto the professor’s sofa.
“Thank you, Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley,” Dumbledore said. “That was very helpful.”
“I don’t understand, Professor,” Harry said. “How will you be able to remember exactly where we pointed?”
The old man grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I intend to put my memory of your memory into the Pensieve,” he said. “Then I can study the directions at my leisure.”
“You can do that?” Ginny asked. “Watch a memory of seeing a memory?”
“Why, yes. As it happens, I can.” Eyes still alight, he stood up and Vanished his chair. “I will think about everything we have learned tonight, and I assure you that I will do whatever I can to stop anything like this from happening again. In the meantime, I ask you both to tell Professor McGonagall or myself if you hear anything at all suspicious. I do not know why, but you can clearly hear something that the rest of us cannot.”
Harry nodded seriously. “Okay, Professor.”
“Thank you. Also, though I hope it is obvious, please do not tell any of your classmates what we’ve done here tonight.” He smiled mischievously. “Excepting, of course, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. I have no desire to make a request that I know you will disregard. Now, I suggest that we all retire and let our minds and bodies recover from the day’s excitement. Minerva, would you please see them back to Gryffindor Tower? It would not do for Mr. Filch or another professor to think that they were out of bounds.”
“Of course.”
“Then I shall take my leave.” Dumbledore picked up the Pensieve, and Harry and Ginny noted in passing that its contents did not slosh or react to the movement at all.
“Excuse me, Professor,” Harry said, jumping to his feet with Ginny at his side.
The Headmaster turned to look at him with a surprised expression. “Yes, Mr. Potter?”
“Err . . . can you tell us . . . what’s the Chamber of Secrets?”
Something dimmed in the old man’s face, but he smiled and shook his head. “A legend. But it is a story for another time, I’m afraid. Professor McGonagall and I have pressing things to do this evening, and you must be off to your beds.” His eyes wrinkled merrily. “Or bed, as the case may be. However, I assure you that if the story becomes relevant, and if you have not yet heard it by that time, we will share it with you. Goodnight.”
The Headmaster activated the Floo and whooshed away in a flare of green flames.
When he had gone, McGonagall held open the door to her office, and Harry and Ginny started back towards Gryffindor Tower with her walking behind them. They held hands and stayed very close together.
Just before they came in sight of the Fat Lady, Professor McGonagall stopped them with a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Please do tell me if you hear anything at all unusual. Use your pendants if you need to. Any time of the day or night.”
Ginny and Harry nodded, knowing that the professor meant exactly what she said. “We will, Professor,” she said. “Thanks for believing us.”
“We were a bit worried you’d think we were mad,” Harry said.
The tall witch smiled. “You have never given me reason to doubt your sanity or your truthfulness, and so I have no plans to do so. Goodnight, Harry and Ginny.”
“Goodnight, Professor,” Ginny said, giving the tall woman a quick hug.
They took the last few steps to the Fat Lady, gave the password, and climbed into the common room. Inside, the room was empty except for Ron, who was drowsing over a battered issue of Martin the Mad Muggle, and Hermione, who was asleep on a sofa nearby.
“Hi, Ron,” Ginny said softly.
Her brother looked up, blinked, and then sat up straight. “What happened? Hang on, let me get Hermione. She made me swear I’d wake her up.” He walked over and shook the cushion Hermione was using as a pillow, causing the brunette to wake with a start.
“Ron? What’s — Ginny! Harry! What happened?”
Huddled close together in front of the fire, Harry and Ginny told them all about their meeting with the professors. The Pensieve fascinated Hermione, and both were interested to learn that McGonagall’s Animagus form could hear the sound.
“You didn’t think we were making it up, did you?” Ginny demanded of Ron.
“Well, no. It’s just . . . it was odd, wasn’t it, you hearing a voice we couldn’t? That’s not normal, not even for wizards.”
Ginny shrugged, knowing she could not argue with that. Being abnormal was hardly new for her and Harry.
“What do you think it all means?” Harry asked. “Dumbledore and McGonagall definitely think the voice has something to do with what happened to Mrs. Norris. We asked about the Chamber of Secrets, and Dumbledore said it’s a legend, but he wouldn’t tell us anything else.”
Hermione furrowed her brow for a moment, and then she lowered her voice even further. “The voice talked about killing,” she said. “Mrs. Norris wasn’t dead, but she was awfully close.”
Harry nodded. “Why would someone want to kill an old cat, though?”
Ron snorted. “Ask Malfoy. Bet he’d call her an enemy. You heard him — he practically admitted it. And he looked really happy about it all.”
“How could he have done anything, though?” Hermione asked. “He showed up with everyone else, from the feast.”
“C’mon, Hermione,” Ron said. “It’s Malfoy. You think he’s going to do the dirty work himself? He has minions for that sort of thing.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” she said, her brow furrowed in thought.
“I didn’t see Crabbe and Goyle with him in the corridor,” Harry said, suddenly remembering the absence of the two hulking boys.
“There you are.” Ron leaned back in his seat. “They probably went out and fed Mrs. Norris some nasty potion or something.”
Ginny could not help grinning. “Lucky they didn’t drink it themselves, then.”
“Lucky for them,” her brother said. “Bad news for us. Though it’s not entirely awful, having Mrs. Norris out of the way.”
“Ron!” Hermione‘s head snapped up.
“Come on, Hermione. All that cat ever did was prowl around spying for Filch. I don’t want her dead or anything, but it’ll be nice not having to watch for her all the time.”
“That’s horrible of you. Absolutely horrible.” Hermione stood up and shoved her unruly hair over her shoulders. “I’m going to bed.”
“Goodnight, Hermione,” Harry said. She nodded at him and Ginny, her frown relaxing slightly, and then she went up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories.
“Mental,” Ron muttered, shaking his head.
“She’s right, Ron,” Ginny said. “Mrs. Norris is just a cat. Why can’t you show some sympathy? Did you see Filch’s face?”
“That barmy old codger isn’t getting any sympathy from me,” Ron said. “I’m telling you, he hates every one of us, and so does she.”
He did say he wanted to punish us in spite of the rules, Harry said.
Ginny sighed. “Maybe you’re right about Filch. I still think it’s sad that Mrs. Norris got Petrified.”
“You’re only saying that because you love cats and Mum’s never let you have one,” Ron said.
Ginny had indeed always wanted a cat, and she had once even tried to adopt a stray, but her parents had been adamant. With an aging rat, a weak-bodied owl, and a yard full of chickens at The Burrow — never mind eighteen human feet — there was no place for a cat to be added to the mix.
We’ll have one someday if you still want to, Harry promised. Or more, if you don’t want it to be lonely.
Ginny squeezed his hand and smiled at him. “Forget it, Ron,” she said, turning back to her brother. “I just hope they’re able to cure her quickly.”
“Suit yourself.” Ron shrugged and headed upstairs.
Harry followed a few moments later, and Ginny Shifted into their bed as soon as the room stilled. Ron began snoring almost immediately, but Ginny and Harry could not sleep. Their minds were full of questions that they could not answer. The most troubling question of all, however, stopped their thoughts completely and kept them awake well into the night.
Why are we the only ones who can understand the killer?
Oliver Wood, however, either was immune to the weather or thrived on it, and he insisted on continuing with Quidditch practice two nights each week and in the mornings on Saturdays. A popular revolt among the fourth-years convinced the Captain to start practice at a more reasonable hour on the weekends, but he was relentless about keeping the team in the air as much as possible.
“Our first match is against Slytherin,” he said one Saturday morning, “and they’ve got those incredible brooms. We’ve got to beat them on talent, or we’ll lose our momentum for the whole season.”
After all of the hours spent on the pitch before lunch on Saturdays, Ginny and Harry thought it was a bit cruel of them to ask her brothers and Hermione to help them fly, but Oliver’s unspoken pressure motivated them. Each Sunday, after meeting with McGonagall and practicing the throw-dough conjuration, the four Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione returned to the pitch. With two helpers and a regular time dedicated to practice, Ginny and Harry were getting noticeably better at flying separately.
The third weekend in October was miraculously free of rain. The Gryffindor team practiced with an almost joyful energy, glad to feel the sun on their faces. After practice, Ginny and Harry walked with Ron and Hermione back towards the castle. Almost inevitably, their conversation turned to the upcoming Quidditch season, but for the first time they managed to talk about more than the Slytherin team and their brooms.
“Hufflepuff’s still a write-off, I’d say,” Ron said. “Their Keeper’s pretty good, especially if he’s improved since last year, but their only new player is a third-year Beater. The rest are the same old rubbish.”
“They did all right against Slytherin, didn’t they?” Harry asked.
“Well, yeah,” Ron said, “but only because Bletchley is the Snakes’ Keeper. A garden gnome on a feather duster could score against him.”
“What about Ravenclaw, then?” Ginny asked. “They were fairly good last year, so maybe they’ll be able to give Slytherin a bit of competition, too.”
Ron sighed and shook his head. “I’d like to think so, honestly, just because I want someone to beat those bloody brooms. But the Birds lost their two best Chasers.”
“Their Seeker’s good,” Ginny said. “He couldn’t catch me, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. He didn’t have the broom.”
Something clicked in their memories, and Harry answered their own question. “He’s been in the library almost every time we’ve gone, though.”
Ron nodded sharply. “Exactly. Always a risk with fifth- and seventh-year Ravenclaws, Fred says. They start obsessing about their exams and stop caring about Quidditch. It just ruins their game.”
“Tragic,” Hermione muttered, quietly enough that Ginny could hear her and Harry could not.
“Let’s hope their Keeper’s improved, then,” Harry said. “Except when we’re playing them.”
They reached the common room, and Harry and Ginny separated to put away their Quidditch robes and the Nimbus. When Ginny entered her room, she saw Lavender perched on her bed, using her wand to colour her nails.
“Hi, Ginny,” Lavender said. “How was practice?”
“Dry, for once.” Ginny glanced around the room. “Where’s Parvati?”
“In the library. She forgot about Binns’ essay.”
“And you remembered?” Ginny asked, grinning. Her other two roommates were not stupid, but they had never shown any particular dedication to their studies, either.
Lavender flashed a smile at her. “No, but I just can’t stand the thought of being in the library all day today. She’s doing half, then I’ll do the other half, and we’ll mix them up when we’re done. Binns will never know.”
Chuckling, Ginny said, “Good plan.” She hung her Quidditch robes neatly in her wardrobe and pulled her hair out of its overnight braid.
“Oh, by the way,” Lavender said. “You remember that diary you gave me?”
“Sure,” Ginny said, pulling a brush through the ends of her hair.
“Well, it was really cool at first, but I got a bit tired of it. You were right about that Tom bloke — he’s dead boring. Anyway, Susan wanted to have a go with it, so I gave it to her. I hope you don’t mind.”
Harry and Ginny knew Susan Bones casually, though they had never really spoken to her.
“Nah,” Ginny said, shrugging. “As far as I’m concerned, once I gave it to you, it was yours. If you wanted to give it away, too, that’s up to you.”
“Thanks,” Lavender said, though she was looking again at her nails. “Honestly, I don’t think I’m going to bother remembering to get it back.”
Satisfied with the state of her hair, Ginny pulled it back and fastened it with her silver clip. Want to go back outside? It’s too nice to waste the day.
Harry conferred with Hermione and Ron, who jumped at the idea.
“Think I’ll go back out into the sunshine,” Ginny told Lavender. “It may be all we get until April or something.”
Lavender smiled and waved her pink-painted fingernails before turning her attention to her other hand.
Unfortunately, the next week proved that Ginny was right about the weather, and the next Saturday’s Quidditch practice was not nearly as pleasant. Rain fell constantly, and the wind buffeted them all if they tried to fly more than a few feet above the ground.
Oliver ended practice a bit early when Harry finally managed to catch the Snitch that he had been chasing for two hours. As their captain carried the crate full of Quidditch balls back to its cupboard, Ginny caught up to him.
“Oliver!” she said, shouting to be heard over the rain and wind.
“Yeah?”
“What do I do during the game while Harry’s playing?” Ginny asked. She knew the question was not truly urgent, but she had begun to feel anxious simply because she did not know.
Wood stopped and turned to face her, the rain apparently forgotten. “Oh, right. Never had a reserve when I didn’t need one.” He thought for a moment and shifted the crate on his shoulder. “Wear your robes, but sit up in the stands where you can see what’s going on. If you do have to play, I want you to already know how the other Seeker is flying and what the Snitch has been doing.”
“All right,” Ginny said, wiping the water off of her forehead. “Thanks.”
“Glad you asked,” he said. “Oh, and I want you to fly instead of Harry on Tuesdays until the match. He’s doing fine, so I want to make sure you’re ready, too.”
“Okay.” Ginny waved and scuttled off towards the tunnel, where Harry was waiting.
The two of them stomped and sloshed their way up the hill to the castle while the rest of the team was in the changing rooms. Ron and Hermione, in a rarely unified show of good sense, had begged off from accompanying them that morning.
Just inside the Entrance Hall, Ginny and Harry stopped to relish the feeling of being out of the rain. He glanced over at her and could not help laughing now that he saw her clearly. Ginny’s braided hair was so wet that it looked almost brown, and a few loose strands were plastered along her cheeks and down her neck. Her robes were completely soaked, too. Overall, she looked as though she had just been fished up from the bottom of the lake.
Think it’s funny, do you? Ginny asked, their mirth bubbling in her voice. You’re in worse shape.
I know, but it doesn’t matter. Harry could not help the feeling that it was much more amusing to see Ginny in such a state. He smiled at her, and she grinned in reply.
They charmed themselves dry with practiced ease, spelled the worst of the mud from their robes, and Ginny dried the floor at their feet as an afterthought. Holding hands for both comfort and warmth, they started up to Gryffindor tower.
Two floors up, they came across Nearly Headless Nick. He stood with his back to the corridor, staring out of the window and holding a ghostly sheet of parchment.
“Hello, Nick,” Harry said.
Normally, the Gryffindor ghost was fairly cheerful as long as no one used his nickname, but his brow was creased in frustration as he turned to face them.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Potter.” He inclined his head slightly in Ginny’s direction. “Miss Weasley.”
“Hi, Nick,” Ginny said. “Are you all right?”
“It’s nothing, nothing,” the ghost said. “A personal matter.”
Harry nodded. “Oh. Well . . . see you later, then.”
As they started down the corridor again, Nick floated in front of them and sank into the floor until he faced them at eye-level. “Just tell me this, would you? Does it sound like fun getting hit in the neck forty-five times with a blunt axe?”
“Err . . . no,” Harry said.
“Not in the least,” Ginny added, recoiling from the mental image.
“And would you not say that, having endured such a thing, one could be considered beheaded?”
Harry and Ginny were well aware that Nick was not entirely beheaded, only nearly so, but they did not hesitate to reassure him. “Of course,” Ginny said. “Perhaps even . . . err . . . especially beheaded.”
Especially beheaded?
She shrugged internally. It doesn’t hurt to say.
“Yes, that’s it. Especially beheaded.” Nick sighed, a chill breeze blowing towards their faces. “However, it is apparently not beheaded enough for the Headless Hunt.”
“What’s that?” Harry asked.
“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. A gathering of yahoos and ne’r do wells, at best. Still, there aren’t that many activities one may pursue as a ghost, so I applied again. Here, listen:
“‘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 Delaney-Podmore.’”
“Oh,” Ginny said, nonplussed.
“Err . . . well . . .” Harry said, seeing Sir Nicholas’ expectant look. “I guess I can see how . . . err . . . challenging Head-Juggling would be for someone who is . . . ahh . . . especially beheaded. But it seems like they’d make an exception.”
Ginny nodded. “And I’m sure you can do all sorts of interesting and frightening things that they can’t. How many of them can flip their heads right over like you can? That’s really scary.”
Nick brightened. “It is, isn’t it? If only Sir Properly-Beheaded Podmore could hear that.”
Harry felt something brush against his Quidditch robes, and he looked down to see Mrs. Norris staring up at him. Her tail lashed a few times, and then she stalked away down the corridor.
“I wonder . . .” Sir Nicholas said, his gaze fixing on Harry. “Do you suppose . . . no, of course not.”
“What is it?” Harry asked as Ginny kept an eye out for Mr. Filch.
“Well . . . you see . . . it’s my five hundredth deathday on Halloween.”
Harry blinked. “Is it?”
Is that a good thing?
“Yes. I’m holding a party down in the dungeons. Old friends will be coming from all over the country, you know, to celebrate. It would be such an honour if you could attend, Mr. Potter. And you, too, of course, Miss Weasley. You’re quite famous among those in the know.”
Ginny looked back to Nick. “Oh, err . . .”
“You could bring along Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, if you liked,” the ghost said hopefully. When they did not immediately respond, his silvery face fell. “Ah, but I’m sure you would all rather attend the school feast. Quite understandable. Forget I asked. Sorry to have -”
Nick looked so crushed that they could not help themselves. “Oh, no, of course we’ll come,” Harry said.
“Yeah, definitely,” Ginny said, nodding. “It sounds . . . really exciting.”
“Really?” Nick said. “Oh, my dear, dear friends. Thank you so much, this is such an honour.”
“We’ll have to ask Ron and Hermione,” Harry said. “We can’t promise anything for them.”
Nick waved his hand grandly. “Of course, of course. They’re most welcome, but I’ll not hold it against them if they don’t wish to come. However . . . do you suppose you could repeat what you said before when Sir Patrick is around? About how terribly frightening I am?”
Why not?
“Sure,” Ginny said. “It’ll be easy to remember with you down there scaring us.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Nick cried. “Just come down to the dungeons. You can’t miss the party.”
Harry nodded and pulled Ginny further down the hall, around Sir Nicholas. “Great. We’ll see you there, Nick.”
“Oh, you don’t want to go that way,” the ghost said. “Peeves is making quite the mess on the stairs, and Filch is in a foul mood. You’d best stay away completely.”
“Right,” Harry said. “Thanks.” They turned and walked back the way they had come, heading for a different staircase.
Laid it on a bit thick, didn’t you? he asked.
Ginny shrugged. It made him happy. And remember, it was pretty scary the first time we saw him flip his head off.
I suppose so. Can you imagine, though? Head Polo?
It’d either be morbidly disturbing or dead hilarious.
Ha-ha, Harry said, smiling and squeezing her hand. Very funny.
They climbed to the fourth floor and then walked down the corridor back towards the stairs to Gryffindor tower. As they passed a classroom whose door was ajar, they heard a girl’s voice from inside. “Percy!” she said, sounding half-amused, half-stern.
Harry and Ginny froze, looked at each other, and then tiptoed back to the slight opening in the door. Harry peered inside, knowing his hair was less eye-catching. At the other side of the room, Percy was standing with his back mostly to the door. Beyond him, they could see the curly hair of a girl, standing with her hands on Percy’s shoulders.
Though Harry wanted to back away, Ginny insisted that they eavesdrop. After eleven years, she found it very difficult to break the habit of spying on her brothers when the opportunity presented itself.
Percy mumbled something unintelligible, and one of his hands tugged at the back of the girl’s shirt, where it was already pulled partway out of her skirt. She giggled, but she pushed his hand away. “No,” she said, slipping out of his embrace. When her face became fully visible, Harry immediately recognised Penelope Clearwater. “Maybe someday, if you’re nice,” she said, smiling up at the tall boy.
“Well, all right,” Percy said, stepping forward and putting his arms around her again. Within moments, they were fully engaged in snogging, though Percy’s hands stayed on Penelope’s back and drifted only slightly. Neither one of them even glanced towards the door.
Oh, the nerve of him! Ginny said, fuming.
Harry stepped away from the door, making as little noise as possible, and pulled her down the corridor.
Ginny followed unthinkingly, her attention elsewhere. How dare he? she asked. Treating us like vermin all summer because we hold hands, and here he is, kissing his girlfriend in a classroom! They’re probably supposed to be doing rounds, too. I bet that’s not part of a Prefect’s duties.
Doubtful, Harry agreed. He was angry at Percy, too, but his desire to escape from the couple in the classroom without being noticed was overpowering.
I mean, he was . . . he was trying to feel her up! And we’re not supposed to hold hands? It’s rubbish!
At least we’re not breaking school rules.
Too right! Ginny stomped down the corridor for a few moments and then stopped short. I’ve half a mind to write to Mum.
Harry paused, hesitation rising to cool his anger even more. Err . . . do we have to?
What? she asked, turning to face him, outrage written plainly on her face and in her mind. Why shouldn’t we?
Well . . . Harry could not find the right words, so he simply stopped and let them feel for a moment. As Percy’s younger sister, it seemed entirely appropriate to tell their mother, especially after his behaviour over the summer. At the same time, however, they could not escape the feeling that it would not be right. Percy had left them alone since arriving at school, and Harry thought it was wrong to pry into the older boy’s personal life. Hadn’t we better just let him be? I bet Penelope could hex him halfway across Britain if she wanted to.
That’s not the point, Ginny insisted. You heard him on the platform — he was going to stop other people kissing on the train, and here he is!
On an impulse from one or the other of them, Harry stepped forward and hugged her, stroking her hair with one hand. Let it go, Ginny. It’s not our problem.
After a long moment, Ginny relaxed and leaned her head against his shoulder. Yeah, you’re right. If we don’t want him messing about with our lives, we shouldn’t mess about with his.
Which doesn’t make it fair.
No. She sighed. And nobody said it had to be fair, did they?
Nope. Harry grinned. We can still use it against him someday, though.
We can, can’t we? Ginny squeezed him tightly and then backed out of the embrace. All right, we’ll try to forget about it. It won’t be easy. I mean . . .
I know. Yuck.
In spite of herself, Ginny giggled softly. I suppose those daisies worked out for him though, eh?
Holding each other’s hands tightly, almost defiantly, they climbed the stairs to Gryffindor tower. When they reached the common room, they found Ron and Hermione playing chess at their usual table.
“How was practice?” Ron asked as Harry and Ginny dropped into adjacent seats.
“Miserable,” Harry said. “I couldn’t see past the end of my broom, and Ginny had to watch the whole time like she was interested.”
“I was standing at the end of the tunnel under the pitch, and I still got soaked,” Ginny said. “Why can’t we have covered stands or something?”
“Same reason you play matches in all kinds of weather, I expect,” Hermione said as she contemplated the chess board.
“Yeah,” Ron said with a hint of pride. “That’s just now how it’s done. Makes it more sporting.”
“We’re going to change,” Harry said. “D’you want to go to lunch after?”
Ron nodded, and Hermione looked up at him. “Don’t you want to finish this game?” she asked.
“Nah. I’d win in six or seven moves, either way.”
“What? How?”
Leaving their friends to their discussion, Harry and Ginny went up to their dormitories, showered, and dressed in clean, warm clothing. When they got back downstairs, Ron and Hermione had already packed away their chessmen.
As they walked down the stairs, Harry looked around to make sure that no one else was in earshot. “Do you two want to come with us to Nick’s Deathday Party with us?”
“What’s that?” Hermione asked.
“Well, we don’t know, really. I suppose it’s like a birthday party, only . . .”
“Only he’s celebrating his own death, instead?”
“Right,” Ginny said. “He invited all four of us. We’ve said we’ll go, but we told him we’d have to ask you. It’s down in the dungeons at the same time as the Halloween feast.”
“The feast?” Ron asked. “Why’d you say you’d go?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s really important to him. Can’t be that bad, can it?”
“Can’t be as good as the feast, either.”
“Well, I’d like to go,” Hermione said. “I think it will be fascinating. How many living people are there who’ve been to a ghost party, do you think?”
Ginny turned to her brother and nudged him with her elbow. “What about you, Ron?”
“I’ll think about it,” he grumbled.
When they reached the Great Hall, Ginny spotted Neville sitting next to an open stretch of the Gryffindor table. Feeling a bit bold, she led the other three over and sat down, leaving one empty space between her and her erstwhile friend.
Ginny, and to a lesser extent Harry, had been campaigning for Neville’s friendship all term. He no longer actively avoided her, but neither did he approach the group or participate in their discussions as he once had. Still, she said hello whenever she saw him, and he had been answering politely enough.
“Hi, Neville,” Ginny said as she helped herself to the beef stew.
“Hullo, Ginny,” he said, glancing up from a book to give them all a quick nod of recognition.
Well, that’s something, Harry said.
Ginny smiled in return. “Good weekend?”
“Busy.” He did not look up again, but his voice sounded normal. “Not bad, though. You?”
“The same, really,” Ginny said. He had surprised her by continuing the conversation, so she was trying Harry’s tactic of keeping it simple. “Quidditch this morning.”
“Nasty weather for it,” Neville said.
“Yeah.”
Ginny was contemplating whether or not to invite Neville to see Hagrid with them, but just as she decided to give it a try, he closed his book and stood up from the table.
“See you later,” he said. With a slight wave of his hand, he strode off towards the doors, Ginny and the others calling their farewells in his wake.
Hermione turned to Ginny and shrugged. “It’s progress,” she said quietly.
Yeah, but it’s not as much as I was hoping for.
Give it more time, Ginny. He doesn’t seem to resent you anymore, and that’s a big improvement.
After lunch, the four friends met up with Luna and went down to Hagrid’s cottage, where he showed them the pumpkins he was growing for the Halloween feast. They were nearly the size of Mr. Weasley’s car, and Hermione got Hagrid to admit that he had been using unauthorised Engorgement Charms on the unsuspecting gourds. Luna, who had spent much more time with Hagrid that year than any of the others, told them all about the many other, legitimate methods Hagrid used to ‘encourage’ the pumpkins to grow.
Before dinner, Harry and Ginny spent a few minutes searching the catalogues in the common room for a birthday present for Mrs. Weasley. Ginny’s mother would not be pleased if they spent too much, but they did not want to get something trivial. At the same time, Ginny wanted to find something her mother would truly like, hoping that the gift would encourage the budding progress in their strained relationship.
In the end, Ginny settled on a small silver broach in the shape of a griffin. They sent the order off to a shop in London with instructions to deliver the gift on Friday. Ron, who had forgotten to get anything at all, persuaded them to add his name to the card in exchange for a handful of Famous Wizard cards.
The week before Halloween took on a festive air at Hogwarts, and rumours flew around the castle about the upcoming feast. A fifth-year prefect said that Dumbledore had hired a troupe of dancing skeletons as entertainment, and everyone saw the huge crate of live bats that appeared next to Hagrid’s cabin. Ginny, Hermione, Harry, and Ron all agreed that, Deathday Party or no, they would be happy if Halloween merely passed without any meetings with trolls or trips to the hospital wing.
However, the story of the troll haunted the hallways of Hogwarts and dogged the four friends. Everyone remembered that they had been out of their common room that night, and no-one seemed to believe that they had nothing to do with the troll. On Wednesday, Colin Creevey cornered Harry and Ginny in the common room, where they were revising with Hermione and Ron. The first-year quivered with excitement as he begged Harry to tell him the real story.
Colin greeted Harry several times a day in the corridors, and Harry had become quite good at escaping the younger boy. In the crowded common room, however, he could not see any way out of the situation. His gaze landed on Hermione, who shrugged and then ducked behind her book.
Bet you anything the twins told him about the troll, Ginny said, clamping her lips together to hide her amusement.
No bet. We’ll find some way to get back at them.
At his wit’s end, Harry said the only thing he could think of. “Sorry, Colin. I don’t know where you heard about that, but we’re not supposed to talk about it. Dumbledore’s orders.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Top secret. You understand.”
Colin’s eyes lit up more brightly than ever. “Really?” he breathed. “Of course, yeah, I won’t say anything.”
“Thanks, Colin,” Harry said. “It’s better for everyone that way.”
For you, you mean.
Hush.
“How about that photo, then?” Colin asked, hefting his ever-present camera.
No matter how many group photos he took, Colin never gave up on getting a real, up-close picture of Harry. Harry had never quite had the heart to flatly refuse a portrait, and he was running out of excuses.
“Look,” the small boy continued, oblivious to Harry’s discomfort. He pulled a large, glossy photograph out of his robes. It was yet another picture of the common room, in which Harry and Ginny were revising amidst a crowd of other students. “I’ve got it all moving properly, now. About ten seconds’ worth. The book says that’s not bad for normal photos.”
Ginny peered down at the photo. Sure enough, the people were moving enough to determine what they were doing. Ron was having some sort of heated argument with Seamus, and the twins were attempting to juggle Angelina’s ink bottles. Harry and Ginny sat mostly still in the picture, though their heads canted to one side or the other every few seconds as they read. “Well done, Colin,” Ginny said.
“So can I take one?” he asked Harry.
“Err . . . no, thanks,” Harry said. He wracked his brain for some sort of excuse, but neither he nor Ginny could think of anything. He sighed. “I just don’t feel like it right now, all right?”
Surprisingly, Colin lowered his camera. “Oh. Well . . . sure, Harry. No problem. I’ll catch you up later.” With a wave, he scurried off to the boys’ dormitories.
Hermione put down her book and watched Colin disappear up the stairs. “It isn’t a bad photo, really,” she said. “He showed it to me in the corridor earlier.”
Harry shook his head. “Why’d he want a picture of me revising? There’s nothing interesting about that.”
“I’m surprised we didn’t notice, though,” Ginny said. “That flash is hard to miss.”
“You were talking,” Hermione said.
“What?” Harry asked. “It looked like we were reading.”
The brunette shook her head matter-of-factly. “If you know what to look for, you can tell that you weren’t really looking at the book in that photo. You were talking to each other. That’s the blank sort of expression you get.”
Ginny lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you think he’ll notice anything odd?” she asked, their concern rising.
“No. Don’t worry about it.”
She’s probably the only person who’d pay quite that much attention to us or the photo, Harry said.
Let’s hope so. It’d be pretty creepy if it was anyone else.
And yet, we like her that way.
They both smiled and returned to their revision.
The festive mood of the castle began to affect classes in the last two days before the thirty-first. Professors McGonagall and Snape kept strict order in their lessons, but Professor Sprout did not seem to mind the extra energy of her students. Professor Flitwick embraced the spirit of the season, and he taught the second-years how to charm folded sheets of parchment so that they flew around the room like real bats. He also finally allowed Ron and the rest of the class to cast orange light charms.
By the last lesson of the day on Friday, even Professor Lockhart had given up on ensuring that his class was paying rapt attention to his stories. Instead, he simply told his fantastic tale, focusing his attention on the students in the front row and ignoring the rest. Dean and Seamus struck up a game of Gobstones with Terry Boot at the back of the room, and Ron dozed through the entire class. Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw girl who sat across the aisle from Ginny and who had never been as taken with Lockhart as the others, spent the lesson scribbling on something. When the thin-faced girl flipped it closed, Ginny and Harry recognised the diary she had given to Lavender. As they watched, Mandy straightened in her chair, rolled her eyes, and stuffed the little book into her bag. She then turned to whisper to the girl on her other side.
I guess nobody likes it, Ginny said, returning her attention to the Transfiguration essay they were working on.
In front of them, Hermione was busy taking notes, and every now and then she turned around to shoot disapproving looks at someone. She did not say anything to Harry and Ginny, but they suspected that they were low on her priority list because they were at least doing schoolwork.
That evening, as the rest of the students streamed towards the Halloween Feast, the four friends passed the great double doors to the Great Hall on their way to the dungeons. Peering inside, Harry and Ginny saw hundreds of black candles floating above the tables, the cloud of bats flapping around the ceiling, Hagrid’s huge pumpkins carved into carriage-sized lanterns, and the tables set with gold plates and black serviettes.
“Last chance, Ron,” Harry said.
The tall boy shook his head sadly. “Nah. If I went, everyone would want to know where you lot were, and I’d never get time to eat.”
They went down the stairs to the main corridor of the dungeons, where they found more candles. These, however, burned in cool blue flames, and the effect was not at all welcoming. The air grew colder with every step they took down the candle-lit corridor. Ginny started to shiver first, and after a few yards Harry pulled his robes more tightly around his body.
After two turns in the passageway, they came to an open doorway. Nearly Headless Nick stood next to it with a theatrical frown on his ghostly face. “My dear friends,” he said in a sepulchral voice. “Welcome, welcome. So pleased you could come.”
Harry and Ginny led the way inside at his invitation, and they were met with the strangest sight either of them could recall. Hundreds of silvery figures filled the room, gliding around and even through each other as they danced or mingled. On one side of the room was a stage containing thirty ghosts, each with a translucent musical saw. The combined sound was enough to make Ginny long for the soothing rasp of fingernails on a blackboard.
At the near end of the room was a table full of food, and the second-years headed straight for it. In part, they wanted to get out of the doorway, but they also simply wanted to appear to be doing something, and Ron was hungry as usual. To their dismay, however, the food turned out to be nearly as old as Nick, and the four of them quickly crossed the room to escape the smell of a long-rotten haggis.
Harry walked towards a corner to be out of the way, but Ginny tugged on his hand just as he noticed that the spot was already occupied. “Someplace else,” she whispered to Ron and Hermione.
Hermione followed her gaze and nodded.
“Why?” Ron asked.
“See the ghost that Peeves is talking to in the corner?” Ginny asked. “That’s Moaning Myrtle. She haunts the girls’ toilet on the second floor.”
“She’s awful,” Harry said. “All she does is wail and moan and complain that nobody visits her toilet. Except you’re there, right, because you’re in a hurry or something, and she wails and moans and makes you not want to go back again. If she’d just shut up-”
“Harry.” Ron had stopped walking, and Harry and Ginny turned back to look at him. “Could you not say things like that?”
“What? Oh, err . . .” He avoided Ron’s eyes. “Sorry.”
Hermione started moving again, heading for an empty stretch of wall, and she pulled Harry and Ron along by their arms. “Regardless, we don’t want to get anywhere near her.”
They stopped and stood near the wall, watching the ghosts and staying out of the way. Occasionally, ghosts they did not recognise would wander by to stare at them, but none of the spectres spoke.
Just when Harry and Ginny were wondering how long they had to stay for courtesy’s sake, Nick floated over to them. “Hello again,” he said. “How are you enjoying the party?”
“It’s very nice, Sir Nicholas,” Hermione said. “It . . . err . . . seems well-attended.”
“Why, yes, thank you,” Nick replied. “The Wailing Widow is up from Kent, you know.”
Ginny glanced in the direction in which Nick pointed, but she could not make out which ghost might be the Wailing Widow among the shifting mass of non-corporeal figures.
At that moment, a loud, brassy tone sounded from the back of the dungeon. As the echoes faded and the orchestra stilled, Nick muttered, “Oh, here we go.”
Through the back wall entered six headless ghosts riding six ghostly horses. Even one of the horses was headless, which Ginny thought was very sad.
That’s got to be the Headless Hunt, she said.
The lead figure, a burly man in armour and tabard, carried his head under one arm and held a shimmering horn to his lips with the other hand. Behind him, the headless ghosts tossed their heads in the air, swung them by the hair, or balanced them between their horses’ ears.
Everyone in the dungeon applauded, and Harry and Ginny joined in until they saw Nick’s fierce scowl. “That’s . . . err . . . Sir Podmore, then?” Harry asked.
“Yes. Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, as he will insist you call him.” Sir Nicholas’ face became a mask of overly-bright welcome as the Hunt rode towards him. “Hello, Patrick!”
“Nick!” cried the stout ghost in a booming voice as he dismounted. His horse sank through the floor out of sight. “How are you? Head still hanging in there?”
“Yes, thank you,” Nick said. He drew himself up. “Patrick Delaney-Podmore, I’d like to introduce-”
When Nicholas waved his arm towards Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione, Sir Patrick gave a great start, leaping backwards and dropping his own head. “Live ‘uns!” he cried from the floor. His body picked up his head and, holding it in front of his belt, covered his eyes as though frightened. “Tell me when they’re gone!”
Nick had to wait a few moments to be heard over the crowd’s laughter. “These are Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger,” he said, pointing at each of them in turn. “This is Harry Potter, and . . .”
“Oh, really?” Patrick said, holding his head out at Harry’s eye level. “How do you do? More importantly, how did Nick get you to come here?”
Harry, irritated by the ghost’s condescending attitude, remembered their promise to Sir Nicholas. “We overheard him talking about the party, and he’s so very frightening that we thought we should come. Did you know that he can flip his head right over onto his shoulder? You can see the bones and muscles and everything. It’s terrifying. Far scarier than the Bloody Baron.”
Not too bad, Ginny said, hiding a smile.
Sir Patrick, however, threw his head back — literally — and laughed. His body shook as his head rolled to a stop on the floor behind him, and he spoke from there. “He put you up to that! I know it!” With a casual sweep of his leg, Patrick rolled his head forward to rest face-up at Harry’s feet. “Even to ghosts,” he whispered, “there are few creatures more frightening than the Bloody Baron.”
Looking across the room, Harry spotted the Slytherin ghost hovering motionless among the candles, and he had to agree. As much as they wanted to support Sir Nicholas, the Bloody Baron’s grim countenance, blood-stained clothes, and chilling silence were far more intimidating.
“Yes, well,” Nick said a bit more loudly than necessary. “As I was about to say, this,” he swept his arm towards Ginny and bowed slightly, “is Ginny Weasley.”
For the first time, Patrick’s boisterous energy seemed to falter. “Err . . . who?” he asked, eyeing Ginny with a look of confusion as he picked up his own head.
“Ginny Weasley,” Nick repeated. “Surely you’ve heard of her.”
“Ah . . .” After a beat, Patrick snorted and gave a great guffaw. “Oh, I see, Nick. Really done it up right this time, have you? Made up a whole show to impress me, complete with celebrities no one’s heard of!”
Ginny bristled, though she knew it was irrational to expect the ghosts to know who she was.
Sir Nicholas smiled, his eyes crinkling as he rose a few inches higher into the air. “Have I, Patrick? Are you quite sure of that?”
The hall had gone silent as the other ghosts listened to the two antagonists. “I think it’s a fair wager, yes,” Patrick said. He held his head up almost to the ceiling and shouted, “Who present here has heard of this ‘Ginny Weasley’?”
Harry and Ginny could not help looking around, and to their surprise, most of the ghosts in the room raised their spectral arms. Even the orchestra lifted their saws into the air.
Nick kept smiling, but Patrick lowered his head and placed it on his neck. From there, he peered down at Ginny with an expression of bewildered embarrassment. “Err . . . Miss Weasley, was it?”
Ginny seized her chance and spoke as offhandedly as she could. “How nice to meet you, Mr. Puddlemore.” She then turned to Hermione. “Have you seen the Fat Friar yet? I wanted to say hello.”
Oh, that was cruel, Harry said, turning so that Patrick could not see his grin.
He deserved it.
“I believe I saw him near the door,” Hermione said, playing along. “Shall we?”
Without another glance at the headless ghost, Ginny looped her arm through Harry’s, and the four of them began winding their way towards the entrance.
“Well, then,” Nick said behind them to the surrounding ghosts. “Has anyone sampled the haggis? It’s well over a hundred years old, and I really think you can taste the difference.”
“That’s got to be enough time spent here,” Ron said. “Can we go? I’m starving.”
Harry and Ginny considered it for a moment. I really can’t stand this much longer, she said. It’s grotesque.
And freezing, he said, feeling her shiver.
“As soon as I find the Fat Friar,” Ginny whispered.
Hermione nodded ahead of them. “He really is by the door.”
They found the Friar, who was delighted to spend several minutes talking at them non-stop about the latest group of Hufflepuff first-years. Then Ginny excused them as politely as possible, and they slipped back out into the blue-lit corridor.
“D’you suppose we can still make it to the feast?” Ron asked with a distinctly wistful note in his voice.
“Worth a try,” Harry said. “Not sure if I can eat after seeing that mess, though.”
“Well, I thought it was very interesting,” Hermione said. “Though I must admit, I’m glad we left when we did.”
They walked up the stairs towards the entrance hall, chafing their arms with their hands.
“Rip . . . tear . . . kill . . .”
Harry and Ginny froze on the stairs. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Ron asked.
“That voice . . . was it you?” Ginny asked. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Ron didn’t say anything,” Hermione said. “No one did, not since I -”
“. . . so hungry . . . for so long . . .” The voice was cold and harsh, and it echoed slightly in their ears.
“There!” Harry said in a half-shout. He and Ginny turned to stare up and to their right at a blank wall. “It came from there! What was it?”
Ron shook his head. “Didn’t hear anything. Are you all right?”
“. . . kill . . . time to kill . . .”
The voice grew fainter, but its excitement was palpable. Ginny whirled back to her brother. “You didn’t hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“A voice! Someone . . . someone saying they’re going to kill somebody!”
“Kill somebody?” Ron asked as Hermione gave a faint squeak. “Who?”
“I don’t know!” Harry said. He started up the stairs with Ginny beside him. “Come on, and be quiet.”
“Harry, what-”
“Quiet!”
They climbed to the entrance hall, but the noise from the Great Hall drowned out extraneous sounds. Ginny and Harry sprinted up to the first floor and slid to a halt. They held their breaths and listened.
From above them and still to their right, they heard the faint voice raised in a rasping shout. “I smell blood . . . I smell blood!”
“Come on!” Ginny said and led the way up the stairs again.
Hermione followed, saying something about fetching a teacher, but Harry and Ginny did not reply. If they waited even a moment, someone might die.
Harry and Ginny ran down the corridor on the second floor. Behind them, Ron’s heavy footfalls began to fade, and Hermione’s laboured breathing was lost in the slap of their own feet on the stone.
Where? Harry thought desperately.
I don’t know. It was to our right, and when we went up the stairs . . .
They tried to figure the directions in their mind based on the turns of the staircase and the corridor. They could not focus through the pounding need in their minds. Someone was going to be murdered, and they might be the only ones who could stop it.
Distantly, so softly that they might have imagined it, they heard an echo. “Kill!”
It’s got ahead again!
Harry and Ginny spun and looked up and down the corridor. It was deserted. As Harry kept an eye out behind them, Ginny Shifted halfway down the corridor. A moment later, Harry Shifted further still, until the next turn was in sight. They raced around that corner, Shifted down the next corridor in turns, and then ran around another corner into the last passage of the second floor. The corridor ended at the deserted main staircase to the third floor.
Where did it go?
Ginny shook her head. It sounded like it was somewhere around here.
They peered around the corridor, looking for any sign of something having passed by ahead of them. Ginny gasped, her hand covering her mouth, and pointed down to the very end of the corridor. There, a dark shape hung from one of the torch brackets, and it swung gently as though in a light breeze.
What is it? Harry asked.
They crept closer, their feet splashing in the water on the floor. Before they could tell what was hanging from the bracket, however, they stopped and shivered. Something was written on the stone wall in foot-high letters that glistened red in the flickering light.
The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.
Enemies of the heir, beware.
Harry and Ginny stared at the writing until a slight motion caught their attention. They spun, and Ginny gasped again. Mrs. Norris dangled from the torch bracket by her tail. The old cat’s eyes stared sightlessly at them as the stiff body swayed back and forth.
What happened to her? Ginny asked, aghast.
Harry put his arm around her shoulders and pulled them both further away.
It must have been the voice. But how? What do we do?
We should tell someone, Ginny said, choking back a sob. Call Professor McGonagall.
Harry pulled his pendant out from under his shirt and clenched it in his fist, but he let it fall again as the rumble of dozens of voices and scores of feet filled the passage. From the stairwell nearby and the corridor they had followed, students began to pour into the area. The Halloween feast was over, and Ginny and Harry were standing right next to one of the main staircases.
A Hufflepuff girl shrieked and slid to a halt a few yards away. Soon the corridor was packed with whispering students, trapping the young pair in the middle with Mrs. Norris and the dripping message. From out of the crowd, a familiar voice shouted, “Enemies of the heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods.”
The students gasped again, and Draco Malfoy pushed his way to the front. Harry and Ginny spun to face him, and the excited sneer on his face made their stomachs churn.
“What’s going on? What are all of you doing?” Mr. Filch growled as he forced his way into the open area. Then his voice rose into a hoarse screech. “My cat!”
The old caretaker shuffled over to the wall and reached out as though to touch the hanging body, but he stopped short. He spun back around, his piercing gaze sweeping across the students. “What’s happened to Mrs. Norris? Who did this?” His eyes locked on Malfoy, who was still smirking. “You! You killed my cat!”
“It wasn’t me, you stupid Squib,” Malfoy said. “I just got here, anyone can tell you that. However,” he pointed at Harry and Ginny, “they were already here.” Several of the other Slytherins nodded their agreement.
Filch turned and looked at them, and his eyes began flicking back and forth between their faces. “One of you . . .” he growled. “One of you did it. I know what sort you are!” He raised his gnarled hands and started towards Harry. “I’ll kill you!”
“Argus!”
The mass of students parted, and Dumbledore strode through the gap. Behind him were Professors McGonagall, Snape, Lockhart, and Sprout. At almost the same moment, Ron and Hermione forced their way through the crowd on the other side. Hermione’s eyes were wide, and Ron looked grim, but they moved to join Harry and Ginny in the centre of the corridor.
Everyone else in the area froze. The Headmaster took in the scene in a few seconds, and he removed Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket with a tap of his wand. Cradling her stiff body in his arms, he moved back down the hallway. “Come with me, Argus. You two, also. Pomona, please disperse the other students.”
Harry and Ginny had no doubt which two Dumbledore meant, and they reluctantly stepped forward in his wake.
“Excuse me, Professor,” Hermione said, her voice shaking. “We were with Harry and Ginny just a moment ago. We can -”
“Very well,” Dumbledore said, cutting her off with uncharacteristic abruptness. “The four of you, then.”
Hermione and Ron followed Harry, Ginny, and the Headmaster, with McGonagall and Snape walking behind. Lockhart, however, hurried around the group and offered Dumbledore the use of his office.
Ginny and Harry felt that it was only seconds later that they all walked into the study adjacent to the Defence classroom. The portraits in the room woke up at the intrusion, and even the troll watched avidly as the Headmaster laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface of the desk. While everyone else looked on, Dumbledore leaned over and inspected the cat from nose to tail, his own half-moon spectacles only a few inches away from her fur. He then waved his wand over and around her a few times before sighing and straightening. He turned to the students. “Tell me what happened.”
“They killed my cat, that’s what happened!” Filch bellowed. “One of them,” he pointed again at Harry and Ginny. “I know what they can do! I saw it last year. Trouble runs in their blood!”
“That may be, but they deserve a chance to tell us what happened. Mr. Potter?”
“We didn’t do anything, Professor,” Harry said. “We came along the corridor and found Mrs. Norris just like she was.”
Ginny nodded. “We were leaving to go and find someone.” She glanced at Professor McGonagall and rubbed her hands together as though nervous, but she made sure her fingers brushed obviously over the pendant on her wrist.
“Rubbish!” Spittle flew from Filch’s lips as he shouted. “They murdered my cat, and now they’re trying to get out of it, just like they always do!”
“Mrs. Norris is not dead,” Dumbledore said. “She has been Petrified.”
Lockhart rapped the desk with his knuckles. “Ah, yes! I was just about to say the same thing myself. So unfortunate that I couldn’t get there in time. I know just the charm that would have prevented this.”
“She’s . . . what?” Filch asked.
“Petrified, Argus, but still alive.”
“But she’s all stiff and . . . and . . .” Filch sobbed. “She’s not dead?”
“No, she is not,” the Headmaster said. “She has been affected by very Dark magic indeed. No second-year, no matter how gifted, could possibly perform it. I am not sure that anyone in this castle could, for that matter.”
The caretaker brushed his fingers across Mrs. Norris’s fur. “How do you fix it?”
“An extremely strong restorative is required. Fortunately, we are growing a crop of Mandrakes at this very moment. Once they are mature, I am quite sure we will be able to remove the Petrification. It is only a matter of time.”
“Headmaster,” Snape said, moving out of the shadow by the door, “as you say, this sort of magic is well beyond the capability of these students. However, I do wonder what they were doing in that corridor in the first place.” His cold eyes bored into Harry, and his lips curled. “Isn’t it strange that they were not at the feast with the rest of the students, and yet they were in just the place where such Dark magic had been performed?”
“What are you implying, Severus?” McGonagall asked in a sharp voice.
“Nothing at all,” he said with a slight shrug. “I am merely . . . wondering.”
“It is an interesting question,” Dumbledore said. He turned to Harry. “Please, do explain.”
Harry, with confirmation from Ron and Hermione, explained about the Deathday Party that evening, offering the ghosts as witnesses to their whereabouts. Before saying anything about the strange voice he and Ginny had heard, however, Harry paused. If Ron and Hermione could not hear the voice, then it was possible that no one else could, either. They did not want to admit to something so bizarre in front of Snape and Filch, and Harry shuddered at the thought of Lockhart hearing it. “So,” Harry concluded. “Err . . . we were heading back up to the tower.”
“Why did you not join your classmates in the Great Hall?” Snape asked.
“We . . . we thought the feast was just about to end.” Ginny said.
He sneered. “How could you know that? The feast does not end until the Headmaster declares it finished.”
Ron took a half-step forward to stand on Ginny’s other side. “Well, we just guessed. It had been a while, see.”
“And were you not hungry enough to at least find out for sure?” Snape asked. “I seriously doubt that even you found anything that was edible at a party for ghosts, Mr. Weasley.”
“We thought we might just eat a few Chocolate Frogs and then catch up at breakfast tomorrow,” Harry said.
“I see,” Professor Snape said, scowling. “Tell me, Mr. Potter. If you were going from the dungeons to your dormitories, why did you pass through that particular corridor? And how did the four of you become separated, if you were together just moments prior?”
“Enough,” Dumbledore said, raising his hands as Professor McGonagall opened her mouth to speak. “There is no rule that governs their route through the castle, Severus. They could not have harmed Mrs. Norris, and they broke no rules.”
“I don’t care about rules!” Filch shouted. “My cat has been Petrified! I want to see some punishment!”
The Headmaster straightened, and Ginny and Harry had the sudden impression that he had swelled to more than his normal size. “There will be no punishment where there has been no wrongdoing, Mr. Filch.” He stared at the stooped caretaker, who nodded almost frantically, and then he gave the other man a tiny smile. “Take Mrs. Norris to the hospital wing and tell Madam Pomfrey that she has been Petrified. I will be along shortly.”
Without another word, Mr. Filch scooped up the frozen cat and carried her out of the room.
“Severus,” Dumbledore continued, “please begin reviewing the requirements for the strongest possible Mandrake draught. We will, of course, want to administer the cure as soon as possible.”
“I’d be more than happy to take care of that, Professor Snape, since we’re pressed for time.” Lockhart said. “As it happens, I’ve brewed-”
“I am the Potions Master at this school,” Snape snarled. “I am not aware that you have any experience as a Potions Master at all.” He nodded at Dumbledore and left, his eyes still cold and hard.
“I will escort these four back to Gryffindor tower,” McGonagall said. “I daresay they have taken enough detours for one night.”
Dumbledore nodded. “Very well. Gilderoy, thank you for the use of your office. Goodnight to you all.”
Ginny and Harry slipped out of the room before Lockhart could reply, taking advantage of the momentary silence after the Headmaster’s departure. Ron and Hermione followed them, and McGonagall appeared a moment later.
“Come along,” she said.
As they waited for the stairs to align properly, Ginny looked up at McGonagall. “Excuse me, Professor, but . . . if Mrs. Norris is Petrified, why didn’t someone just cancel the spell? You know, with Finite Incantatem? That’s how you taught us to get rid of the Full-Body Bind.”
“The Full-Body Bind isn’t Dark magic,” Hermione said in a whisper.
“Quite right, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said. “Something else was done to Mrs. Norris. As you’ll recall, the Full-Body Bind leaves the eyes and eyelids free to move, among other things. We call it petrification for convenience, but Mrs. Norris seems to have been Petrified in a much more literal sense. I am not familiar with the magic involved, but I trust the Headmaster to have identified it properly.”
They climbed the first staircase, and McGonagall spoke in a lower voice. “Out of curiosity, why were you in that corridor?”
“Err . . .” Harry and Ginny debated telling the truth, and they decided that if they could not trust Professor McGonagall, then they could not trust anyone at all. “We didn’t want to say anything in front of . . . err . . . everyone else, but . . . well, we heard a voice, Professor. We were following it.”
The tall woman halted, and the four students had to scamper aside to avoid running into their professor as she turned to face them. “You followed a voice, and it led you to Mrs. Norris? Why on earth didn’t you tell us that sooner?” Her voice had become quite stern.
Ginny swallowed. “Because . . . because Ron and Hermione couldn’t hear it, Professor. Just us.”
McGonagall’s sharp gaze moved to Hermione and Ron, and they both nodded. She turned back to Harry and Ginny. “So you heard a voice, which your friends could not hear, and you followed it?”
“Yes, Professor,” Harry said. “We Shifted ahead to try to catch up . . . it was talking about blood and killing and stuff. But by the time we got to Mrs. Norris, the voice had stopped, and there she was. We were about to call you when everyone else got there.”
“I see.” McGonagall’s eyes became unfocused for a moment as though she were thinking hard. “Very well. Harry, Ginny, please come with me. I want to hear absolutely everything you can recall about this. Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, please return to the tower.” They started to object, but the professor quelled them with a raised hand. “If you can provide any useful information, I assure you that I will seek you out. But for now, if you could not hear this voice, I would prefer that you return to your dormitories. Here.” She waved her wand over her other palm, and a tray of sandwiches materialised. “There’s no reason for you to go hungry.”
Ron and Hermione looked ready to argue, but they nodded and took the tray. Casting worried glances at Harry and Ginny, they disappeared up the stairs. McGonagall turned around and led Harry and Ginny to her office.
Inside, the three of them took up their usual positions, and McGonagall provided tea and more sandwiches. Slowly and carefully, Harry and Ginny ate and told her everything they could remember about the voice and what it had said. They tried to explain their route as they Shifted through the corridors, the amount of time they thought might have passed, and exactly when the voice had spoken for the last time.
After a few moments’ thought, McGonagall said, “You went up the stairs and down the second-floor corridor because that’s where you thought the voice was coming from. Why did you think that?”
“It was a guess, mostly,” Harry said, shrugging. “When we first heard it, we were on the stairs to the dungeon, and it was sort of above us and to one side. So we tried to go that way, and we ended up on the second floor.”
The professor nodded. “I believe we should invite Professor Dumbledore to join us. Excuse me for a moment.”
She strode over to her fireplace, threw in a pinch of Floo powder, and said, “Headmaster’s Office.” For several minutes, Harry and Ginny watched as she leaned into the fire, but they could not hear what she was saying. At last, she straightened and returned to her chair.
Moments later, Dumbledore stepped out of the fire carrying a large object wrapped in cloth. He placed it on the low table in front of Harry and Ginny and then carefully unwrapped it.
The object was a wide, shallow stone basin with runes carved around its edges. In the basin itself, a strange sort of light flowed and eddied. It was too airy to be liquid, but it did not look entirely insubstantial, either. Harry and Ginny watched, fascinated, as the whitish-silver substance drifted aimlessly in the basin.
“This is a Pensieve,” Dumbledore said. They looked up to see him sitting in a low chair that had not been there a moment before. “Do you know what a Pensieve is?”
Harry and Ginny’s eyes widened as they looked back down at the basin. “Yes,” she said softly. “We’ve never seen one, but they’re in lots of stories. You know . . . to prove that the good wizard was telling the truth. They . . . they show memories.”
“Yes, indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Among other things, the Pensieve allows us to extract memories from our heads and view them again, as though we were there. I would point out, however, that memories can be tampered with, so the Pensieve’s images are not considered legal proof of events.”
At the words ‘legal proof,’ Harry and Ginny looked up worriedly.
McGonagall tutted. “We do not require ‘legal proof of events,’” she said. “If you will let us see your memories, we will of course accept them as the truth.” She glanced meaningfully at Dumbledore, who nodded.
“You want to see our memories?” Harry asked.
“Yes, please,” the Headmaster said. “If we can see where you were when you heard this mysterious voice, we will have a better chance of determining what happened. We might even be able to hear it ourselves.”
“Oh. All right,” Ginny said. “What do we do? Does it hurt?”
The old man smiled gently. “Not at all. I will ask you to think carefully about the time from when you first heard the voice until you found Mrs. Norris. As you do, I will touch my wand to your forehead and draw out the memory. You won’t feel anything at all.”
Ginny frowned in suspicion. “How do we know that you’ve got the right memory?”
“You will be able to see it for yourself,” Dumbledore said. “To be quite honest, I have no idea what one of your memories will look like, given your rather unique situation. It may not be comprehensible to us at all. So I will play the memory on the surface of the Pensieve, rather than entering it. If it works as it normally would, we will all see precisely what memory you’ve provided.”
Harry and Ginny glanced at Professor McGonagall, who nodded serenely. “All right,” Harry said. He slid off of the sofa to kneel in front of the Pensieve, closer to Dumbledore.
“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” the Headmaster said. “Now, please think of the whole sequence of events, from beginning to end. Start when I say ‘go’, and when you’ve finished, say ‘stop.’ Are you ready?” Harry took a deep breath and nodded. Dumbledore touched the tip of his wand to Harry’s temple.
“Go.”
Closing his eyes, Harry replayed the scene in his mind, starting when they, Ron, and Hermione had started up the stairs from the dungeon. As he thought, Ginny helped him to remember everyone’s exact words, the points at which they had Shifted, and the details of Mrs. Norris’ discovery. As the Headmaster had promised, Harry did not feel anything at all.
“Stop,” Harry said. He and Ginny opened their eyes and saw a thread of something silvery, like the contents of the Pensieve, hanging from the tip of Dumbledore’s wand.
With a gentle flick, the old wizard dropped the thread of memory into the Pensieve, where it began to swirl gently. “Now, let us see what can be seen,” Dumbledore said.
He tapped the rim of the basin, and a tiny, three-dimensional scene took shape above the surface of the airy substance. It showed Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione climbing the stairs, and then Harry and Ginny froze for a moment. Very softly, the four students’ voices could be heard. The tiny memories of Harry and Ginny began to run, leaving Ron and Hermione behind and out of the image. For a split second, Ginny’s figure in the memory blinked out, and then she reappeared farther down the corridor. Then, quite abruptly, the scene changed completely, flashing from image to image.
That must be when we started Shifting, Harry said.
Finally, the memory reached the end, showing Mrs. Norris hanging on the wall. Just as the other students’ voices became barely audible in the distance, the scene faded away. Throughout the whole memory, the real Harry and Ginny had been unable to hear the strange voice they had been chasing.
“Excellent,” Dumbledore said. “You got that exactly correct. And I’m quite pleased to see that the memory appears normal, though it is quite disconcerting to jump from one place to another. I suppose you’re used to it by now.”
Harry and Ginny nodded but stared at the Pensieve in confusion. “There was no voice,” she said.
“I noticed that, also,” the Headmaster said. “However, I’m sure you noticed that all sound from the memory is a bit muted when it is projected above the Pensieve. It is possible that the voice you heard simply was not loud enough to register to us here.”
“So what do we do?” Harry asked.
“Well, since the memory seems to work normally as a projection, I will enter it myself. Please excuse me.” Without waiting for a response, he reached out and touched a finger to the substance in the Pensieve. As though the basin were some sort of vacuum, the Headmaster was pulled into it. His arm disappeared, followed quickly by his head and torso. Finally, only his purple slippers were sticking up from the Pensieve, and a moment later, they also vanished.
McGonagall sighed. “I do wish he had waited for a second opinion before doing something like that,” she muttered.
“Is it dangerous?”
“I don’t know, Ginny. I simply have no idea how your memories might differ from someone else’s, and I’m not confident that watching the projection proves that it is safe to enter. I am sure the Headmaster knows more about Pensieves than I do, though.”
They sat quietly for a few moments, and Harry nibbled on another sandwich. Then, suddenly, Dumbledore’s shoes burst out of the pensive, followed by the rest of him. He flew backwards and landed in the cushioned chair he had conjured.
“Well!” he said, grinning excitedly. “That was interesting.”
“Did you hear the voice?” McGonagall asked.
“No, I didn’t. But their ‘Shifting’ is really quite marvellous, even from an observer’s standpoint. The Pensieve doesn’t give any sense of motion or change or anything of the sort. You’re standing in one place, and then you’re in another. It’s exhilarating.”
Professor McGonagall huffed. “That’s quite fascinating, Albus, but I’m not sure it helps us with the question at hand.”
Dumbledore sobered instantly. “Yes, yes, of course. I did not hear the voice, but it was quite obvious that Harry and Ginny did hear something.” He straightened and turned to McGonagall. “Minerva, I’d like you to enter the memory. With your particularly sharp hearing, I’m hopeful that you’ll be able to detect something I could not.”
Particularly sharp-?
Their question was cut off as Professor McGonagall nodded and abruptly transformed into a grey tabby cat. The cat leapt easily onto the table and then leaned forward to touch her nose to the silvery substance. A moment later, she vanished into the Pensieve.
“I can’t believe I once tried to rub her belly,” Ginny muttered, her ears heating at the thought.
Dumbledore smiled broadly, his eyes flashing with mirth. “I must admit, Miss Weasley, that I remember that as one of the most entertaining moments of my long life.”
McGonagall emerged from the Pensieve backwards, just as Dumbledore had, but she twisted easily in midair and landed on her chair. There, she shook her head sharply, leapt back onto the table, and disappeared into the Pensieve for a second time.
When she landed in her chair again, the cat’s shape rippled, and the familiar stern-faced witch sat facing them. “I heard it,” she said.
“You did?” the Headmaster asked, snapping his attention to her.
“Yes. At least, I think I did.”
“By all means, Minerva, please do explain.”
The tall woman leaned back in her chair and retrieved her cup of tea. “A cat can hear far more than a human, of course, but that is not purely an advantage. I hear various background noises from a much greater distance, which means that there are many more sounds for me to hear at any given time. For instance, while a feast is underway, I can hear it as a rumble from almost anywhere in the castle.”
“I see,” Dumbledore said, watching her avidly. Harry and Ginny stayed quiet, fascinated by the idea of a cat’s view of the castle.
“During the course of this memory, I was hearing the Halloween feast, a bit of noise from the party in the dungeons, the wind outside, and several other normal sounds of the castle. All of it forms a sort of background murmur or hum. Without knowing what the sounds are ahead of time, it is very difficult to distinguish them from a distance.”
Dumbledore nodded. “But you could hear the voice, you said?”
“What I heard,” McGonagall said slowly, “was a noticeable change in the background noise. It happened precisely as Harry and Ginny reacted each time. I did not hear any words, but I cannot imagine that the timing is a simple coincidence.”
“Very well,” the Headmaster said. “Knowing there is a sound to be heard in the memory is entirely useful.” He lapsed into silence.
Harry, Ginny, and Professor McGonagall watched Dumbledore for several quiet moments. He stared at the ceiling and stroked his beard, which was bound into its usual sort of frontwards pony tail.
“Albus?” Professor McGonagall asked.
He started and focused on Harry and Ginny. “Ah, yes. What I’d like to do now is take the two of you into the memory with us. All at the same time. I’m confident that you’ll hear the voice again, and each time you do, I’d like you to point in the direction it’s coming from and repeat what it’s saying aloud. Can you do that?”
“Err . . . sure,” Harry said.
“Excellent. We’ll have to trot a bit to keep up with you when you run, but when you Shift, the scene will simply change. Do not try to move on your own . . . just let the Pensieve move you. Minerva, I’d like you to come along with us as a cat. When you hear the noises, make some sign or sound, so I can be sure of the timing of your hearing and theirs.”
McGonagall nodded.
“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley, simply touch your finger to the surface of the Pensieve. You’ll feel a bit like you’re falling, but you’ll land in the memory with no harm done. The duration of the memory should allow you to get to your feet and be ready before the voice is heard. Shall we?”
The professor transfigured herself, and the cat and the three people gathered around the basin. Harry and Ginny kept their hands clasped tightly together. “On three,” Dumbledore said. “One . . . two . . . three!”
On cue, Harry and Ginny touched their forefingers to the swirling substance. It was slightly cool, but they barely had time to register the sensation before they were pulled into the Pensieve. As quickly as it came, the pulling sensation vanished, and they fell through something black and icy-cold. It was utterly disorienting, but they felt anchored in the darkness by their joined hands. They landed, roughly but not dangerously, on a stone floor in a torch-lit corridor.
Looking up, they saw themselves, with Ron and Hermione, walking down the aisle of blue candles towards the staircase. On either side of their current selves, the two professors waited. “Landing on your feet takes quite a bit of practice for those of us who are not cats,” Dumbledore said, quickly but softly. “Come along. If you don’t mind, please stay a few yards apart. That will help me to identify where the voice is coming from.”
They nodded and separated reluctantly. Ginny ran in front of the memory-people and stayed five or six feet ahead of them, while Harry followed behind himself with the professors. At precisely the moment they remembered, they heard the voice clearly. “Rip . . . tear . . . kill . . .”
Harry and Ginny were startled in spite of themselves, but they each spun and pointed up towards the ceiling. “Rip, tear, kill!” they said loudly.
The four of them followed Harry and Ginny’s Pensieve selves, pointing and shouting as needed and running to keep up. McGonagall had no problems with the pace as a cat, and Dumbledore hiked up his robes to run on long, spindly legs. Harry and Ginny knew when to expect the Shifting, and they kept up effortlessly by letting the memory carry them along. It felt oddly as though their memory-selves were Shifting both sets of them at the same time.
Within moments, they reached the end of the corridor and watched Ginny discover Mrs. Norris. Harry squeezed her hand again at the disturbing sight, and she felt her eyes moisten in sympathy.
Poor Mrs. Norris.
With another pull and a short fall through freezing darkness, the memory ended, and Harry and Ginny were flung backwards onto the professor’s sofa.
“Thank you, Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley,” Dumbledore said. “That was very helpful.”
“I don’t understand, Professor,” Harry said. “How will you be able to remember exactly where we pointed?”
The old man grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I intend to put my memory of your memory into the Pensieve,” he said. “Then I can study the directions at my leisure.”
“You can do that?” Ginny asked. “Watch a memory of seeing a memory?”
“Why, yes. As it happens, I can.” Eyes still alight, he stood up and Vanished his chair. “I will think about everything we have learned tonight, and I assure you that I will do whatever I can to stop anything like this from happening again. In the meantime, I ask you both to tell Professor McGonagall or myself if you hear anything at all suspicious. I do not know why, but you can clearly hear something that the rest of us cannot.”
Harry nodded seriously. “Okay, Professor.”
“Thank you. Also, though I hope it is obvious, please do not tell any of your classmates what we’ve done here tonight.” He smiled mischievously. “Excepting, of course, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. I have no desire to make a request that I know you will disregard. Now, I suggest that we all retire and let our minds and bodies recover from the day’s excitement. Minerva, would you please see them back to Gryffindor Tower? It would not do for Mr. Filch or another professor to think that they were out of bounds.”
“Of course.”
“Then I shall take my leave.” Dumbledore picked up the Pensieve, and Harry and Ginny noted in passing that its contents did not slosh or react to the movement at all.
“Excuse me, Professor,” Harry said, jumping to his feet with Ginny at his side.
The Headmaster turned to look at him with a surprised expression. “Yes, Mr. Potter?”
“Err . . . can you tell us . . . what’s the Chamber of Secrets?”
Something dimmed in the old man’s face, but he smiled and shook his head. “A legend. But it is a story for another time, I’m afraid. Professor McGonagall and I have pressing things to do this evening, and you must be off to your beds.” His eyes wrinkled merrily. “Or bed, as the case may be. However, I assure you that if the story becomes relevant, and if you have not yet heard it by that time, we will share it with you. Goodnight.”
The Headmaster activated the Floo and whooshed away in a flare of green flames.
When he had gone, McGonagall held open the door to her office, and Harry and Ginny started back towards Gryffindor Tower with her walking behind them. They held hands and stayed very close together.
Just before they came in sight of the Fat Lady, Professor McGonagall stopped them with a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Please do tell me if you hear anything at all unusual. Use your pendants if you need to. Any time of the day or night.”
Ginny and Harry nodded, knowing that the professor meant exactly what she said. “We will, Professor,” she said. “Thanks for believing us.”
“We were a bit worried you’d think we were mad,” Harry said.
The tall witch smiled. “You have never given me reason to doubt your sanity or your truthfulness, and so I have no plans to do so. Goodnight, Harry and Ginny.”
“Goodnight, Professor,” Ginny said, giving the tall woman a quick hug.
They took the last few steps to the Fat Lady, gave the password, and climbed into the common room. Inside, the room was empty except for Ron, who was drowsing over a battered issue of Martin the Mad Muggle, and Hermione, who was asleep on a sofa nearby.
“Hi, Ron,” Ginny said softly.
Her brother looked up, blinked, and then sat up straight. “What happened? Hang on, let me get Hermione. She made me swear I’d wake her up.” He walked over and shook the cushion Hermione was using as a pillow, causing the brunette to wake with a start.
“Ron? What’s — Ginny! Harry! What happened?”
Huddled close together in front of the fire, Harry and Ginny told them all about their meeting with the professors. The Pensieve fascinated Hermione, and both were interested to learn that McGonagall’s Animagus form could hear the sound.
“You didn’t think we were making it up, did you?” Ginny demanded of Ron.
“Well, no. It’s just . . . it was odd, wasn’t it, you hearing a voice we couldn’t? That’s not normal, not even for wizards.”
Ginny shrugged, knowing she could not argue with that. Being abnormal was hardly new for her and Harry.
“What do you think it all means?” Harry asked. “Dumbledore and McGonagall definitely think the voice has something to do with what happened to Mrs. Norris. We asked about the Chamber of Secrets, and Dumbledore said it’s a legend, but he wouldn’t tell us anything else.”
Hermione furrowed her brow for a moment, and then she lowered her voice even further. “The voice talked about killing,” she said. “Mrs. Norris wasn’t dead, but she was awfully close.”
Harry nodded. “Why would someone want to kill an old cat, though?”
Ron snorted. “Ask Malfoy. Bet he’d call her an enemy. You heard him — he practically admitted it. And he looked really happy about it all.”
“How could he have done anything, though?” Hermione asked. “He showed up with everyone else, from the feast.”
“C’mon, Hermione,” Ron said. “It’s Malfoy. You think he’s going to do the dirty work himself? He has minions for that sort of thing.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” she said, her brow furrowed in thought.
“I didn’t see Crabbe and Goyle with him in the corridor,” Harry said, suddenly remembering the absence of the two hulking boys.
“There you are.” Ron leaned back in his seat. “They probably went out and fed Mrs. Norris some nasty potion or something.”
Ginny could not help grinning. “Lucky they didn’t drink it themselves, then.”
“Lucky for them,” her brother said. “Bad news for us. Though it’s not entirely awful, having Mrs. Norris out of the way.”
“Ron!” Hermione‘s head snapped up.
“Come on, Hermione. All that cat ever did was prowl around spying for Filch. I don’t want her dead or anything, but it’ll be nice not having to watch for her all the time.”
“That’s horrible of you. Absolutely horrible.” Hermione stood up and shoved her unruly hair over her shoulders. “I’m going to bed.”
“Goodnight, Hermione,” Harry said. She nodded at him and Ginny, her frown relaxing slightly, and then she went up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories.
“Mental,” Ron muttered, shaking his head.
“She’s right, Ron,” Ginny said. “Mrs. Norris is just a cat. Why can’t you show some sympathy? Did you see Filch’s face?”
“That barmy old codger isn’t getting any sympathy from me,” Ron said. “I’m telling you, he hates every one of us, and so does she.”
He did say he wanted to punish us in spite of the rules, Harry said.
Ginny sighed. “Maybe you’re right about Filch. I still think it’s sad that Mrs. Norris got Petrified.”
“You’re only saying that because you love cats and Mum’s never let you have one,” Ron said.
Ginny had indeed always wanted a cat, and she had once even tried to adopt a stray, but her parents had been adamant. With an aging rat, a weak-bodied owl, and a yard full of chickens at The Burrow — never mind eighteen human feet — there was no place for a cat to be added to the mix.
We’ll have one someday if you still want to, Harry promised. Or more, if you don’t want it to be lonely.
Ginny squeezed his hand and smiled at him. “Forget it, Ron,” she said, turning back to her brother. “I just hope they’re able to cure her quickly.”
“Suit yourself.” Ron shrugged and headed upstairs.
Harry followed a few moments later, and Ginny Shifted into their bed as soon as the room stilled. Ron began snoring almost immediately, but Ginny and Harry could not sleep. Their minds were full of questions that they could not answer. The most troubling question of all, however, stopped their thoughts completely and kept them awake well into the night.
Why are we the only ones who can understand the killer?
Comments
Never mind Alex…
…what is Malfoy doing in that corridor at that time?
It's clear that many students were using that corridor to return to their houses after the feast. However it's not clear why there should have been any Slytherin or Hufflepuff on the second floor when their common rooms are below ground level.
Neither, in fact, is it obvious why all of those teachers should just happen to arrive so swiftly. That's the Headmaster and three out of four Heads of House, plus the "spare" of course: how did they all turn up together like that?
Don't even get me started on how come Malfoy manages to get away with such blatant bigotry: does any teacher ever call him out for using that wretched horrible word? Come to that, how often does he get punished for victimising people as opposed to them being punished for retaliating or defending themselves? I think the Bookend Fiasco in the first year is about the only time, which corresponds to the Norbert incident in canon; even then his punishment is not so much for tormenting Harry (or Alex) as for "breaking a rule" and they still get punished, even if there is a good reason.
A well-timed question, as it
A well-timed question, as it happens. Carry on.