𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄 ¹

24. saved by a ghost

As Harry and Harper squelched along the deserted corridor, they came across somebody who looked as preoccupied as they were.

Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath.

" . . . don't fulfill their requirements . . . half an inch, if that . . ."

"Hello, Nick," Harry greeted the ghost.

"Hello, hello," Nearly Headless Nick said startled, as he looked around. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke and Harper could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.

"You look troubled, young Potters, the both of you," Nick said, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

"So do you," Harper pointed out.

"Ah," Nick waved an elegant hand, "a matter of no importance . . . it's not as though I really wanted to join . . . thought I'd apply, but apparently I 'don't fulfill requirements'."

In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.

"But you would think, wouldn't you," he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"

"Oh—yes," Harry replied quickly, while Harper merely nodded.

"I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had 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, Nick stuffed the letter away.

"Half and inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harry, Harper! Most people would think that's good and beheaded, but oh no, it's not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore."

Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far calmer tone, "So—whats bothering the two of you? Anything I can do?"

"No," Harper replied. "Not unless you know where we can get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Slytherin . . ."

The rest of her sentence was frowned by a high pitches mewing from somewhere near her ankles.

As Harper looked down, Mrs Norris was gazing up at her with her yellow eyes.

Oh, I hated that cat.

"You'd better get out of here, Harry, Harper," Nick said quickly. "Filch isn't in a good mood. He's got the flu and some third-years accidentally plastered frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five; he's been cleaning all morning, and if he sees the two of you dripping mud all over the place . . ."

"Right," Harry said, grabbing Harper's hand and backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs Norris, but not quickly enough.

Argus Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to their right, wheezing and looking wildly around. There was a thick scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.