Chapter 11: Halloween
October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by her twin brothers, though why she listened to them, no one in Slytherin knew. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire. She was still an outcast among the other Slytherins, primarily because it was common knowledge that she had spoken to Professors Snape and McGonagall several times about being re-sorted.
"Ginny," said Harry one day at breakfast. "You really just ought to accept that you're in Slytherin. Until you do no one will accept you, and if you don't accept it soon, you'll have lost all chances of ever being accepted."
"But my mum is ready to kill me! I can't imagine going home for Christmas and still being in Slytherin."
"You should be proud to be in Slytherin. You should be glad you're different. By being in Slytherin, you can actually gain some respect in the wizarding world!"
"Spoken like a true Slytherin, Draco," said Harry.
"But I don't know how to be Slytherin. I grew up with my family, they're all quintessential Gryffindors."
"Hmm, that could be a problem. But Draco helped me, I'm sure I can help you, if really want to be a Slytherin."
Ginny smiled. "Of course, Harry. With you helping me, how can I possibly want anything else? Now, when can I start learning proper manners?"
"That's the spirit Ginny." Harry gave her a quick one-armed hug, which brought a blinding smile to her face. Moments, later, however, Luna appeared, and Harry stood to give her a much longer, much more enthusiastic hug, causing Ginny to scowl.
As October went on, raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid's pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Marcus Flint's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Harry and Draco were to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before Halloween, returning to the dungeons, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud. Aside from the rain and mud, the practice had been great. They were no longer a brand-new team as they had been last year. The team members were mostly familiar with each other's quirks, and Draco and the new beater, Michael Harvington, were catching on quickly.
As Harry and Draco squelched along the deserted corridor they came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as they were. Sir Nicholas, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was speaking to the Bloody Baron, Slytherin's ghost.
"... don't fulfill their requirements... half an inch, if that..."
"Hello, Bloody Baron, Sir Nicholas," said Harry.
"Hello," said the Bloody Baron. Sir Nicholas merely nodded to them. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harry could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.
"You would think, wouldn't you," Sir Nicholas erupted suddenly, pulling a letter back out of his pocket, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"
"Oh — yes," said Harry, who was obviously supposed to agree
"Ah," Sir Nicholas, waving an elegant hand, "a matter of no importance... It's not as though I really wanted to join... Thought I'd apply, but apparently I 'don't fulfill requirements' —" In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face. "I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However—" Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter open and read furiously: "'We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.'" Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away. "Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on! Most people would think that's good and beheaded, but oh, no, it's not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore."
