Chapter Thirteen- "TASTE THE FREAKING RAINBOW!"
By the time Halloween arrives, I've punched Harry several more times for agreeing to the Deathday party. The rest of the school are happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall has been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins have been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in and there are rumours that Dumbledore has booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.
It's true, I asked him....
"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminds me bossily. "You said you'd go to the Deathday party."
"I didn't say I'd go, Harry signed me up for this bullshit," I mutter, pressing down on my quill, making a whole in my parchment.
So, at seven o'clock, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Maya, Elinor and I walk straight past the doorway (we have to drag Maya) to the packed Great Hall, which is glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and direct our steps instead towards the dungeons.
The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party has been lined with candles too, though the effect is far from cheerful: these are long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over our own living faces. The temperature drops with every step we take. As I shiver and do the zip up on my coat, I hear what sounds like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.
"Ah, music! A magic beyond all we do here," I quote, pretending to wipe my eyes.
"Isn't that what Dumbledore said on our first day here?" Hermione asks.
"Yep," I grin, sticking my tongue out. We turn a corner and see Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.
"My dear friends," he says mournfully, "welcome, welcome ... so pleased you could come ..."
He sweeps off his plumed hat and bows us inside.
It's an incredible sight. The dungeon is full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowed dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, being played by an orchestra on a black-draped platform.
"Wow, that's worse than Justin Beiber's early music," Hermione mutter, ringing her ears.
"Who?" Ron asks, confused.
"You don't want to know."
A chandelier overhead blazes midnight blue with a thousand more black candles. Our breath rises in a most before us; it's like we've stepped into a freezer.
"Why are we celebrating someone's death again?" El asks, looking around confused.
"Not got a clue," Ron mutters.
"I don't get it, but I love it," I say in an overly peppy voice.
"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggests.
"Careful not to walk through anyone," says Maya, and we set off around the edge of the dance floor. We pass a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar who's talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out his forehead.
"Oh no," says Hermione, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle -"
"Who?" says Harry, as we backtrack quickly.
"She haunts the girls' toilet on the first floor," I say.
"She haunts a toilet?"
"Yes. It's been out of order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it, it's awful trying to go to the lop with her wailing at you -"
"Look, food!" says Ron.
On the other side of the dungeon is a long table, also covered in black velvet. We approach it eagerly, but next moment we stop in our tracks, horrified. The smell is quite disgusting.
Large, rotten fish are laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal black, are heaped on salvers; there's a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mould and, in pride of place, an enormous grey cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington
died 31st October, 1492
I watch, amazed, as a portly ghost approaches the table, crouches low and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that is passes through one of the stinking salmon.
"Can you taste it, if you walk through it?" Elinor asks him.
"Almost," says the ghost sadly, and he drifts away.
"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavour," says Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.
"Can we move? I feel sick," says Maya.
We've barely turned around, however, when a little man swoops suddenly from under the table and comes to a halt in mid-air before us.
"Hello, Peeves," says Harry cautiously.
Unlike the ghosts around us, Peeves the poltergeist is the very reverse of pale and transparent. He's wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow-tie and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.
"Nibbles?" he says sweetly, offering us a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.
"No thanks," I say.
"Heard you talking about poor Myrtle," says Peeves, his eyes dancing. "Rude you was about poor Myrtle." He takes a deep breath and bellows, "OY! MYRTLE!"
"Oh no, Peeves, don't tell her what I said, she'll be really upset," Hermione whispers frantically. "I didn't mean it, I don't mind her - er, hello, Myrtle."
The squat ghost of a girl glides over. She has the glummest face I've ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.
"What?" she says sulkily.
"How are you, Myrtle?" says Elinor, smiling weakly. "It's nice to see you out of the toilet."
Myrtle sniffs.
"Miss Granger was just talking about you -" says Peeves slyly in Myrtle's ear.
"Just saying - saying - how nice you look tonight," says Hermione, glaring at Peeves.
Myrtle eyes Hermione suspiciously.
"You're making fun of me," she says, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.
"No - honestly - didn't I just say how nice Myrtle's looking?" says Hermione, nudging Ron and I, the two nearest, painfully in the ribs
"Oh, yeah ...."
"She did ..."
"Don't lie to me," Myrtle gasps, tears now flossing down her face, while Peeves chuckles happily over her shoulder. "D'you think I don't know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!"
"You missed out 'spotty'," Peeves hisses in her ear.
Moaning Myrtle bursts into anguished sobs and flees from the dungeon. Peeves shoots after he, pelting her with mouldy peanuts, yelling, "Spotty! Spotty!"
"Oh dear," Maya mutters.
Nick now drifts towards us through the crowd.
"Enjoying yourselves?"
"Oh, yes," we lie.
"Not a bad turnout," says Nick proudly. "The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent ... It's nearly time for my speech, I'd better go and warn the orchestra ..."
The orchestra, however, stops playing at that very moment. We, and everyone else in the dungeon, fall silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting horn sounds.
"Oh, here we go," says Nick bitterly.
What's he mean?
He sounds jealous. But why?
Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly claps wildly; Harry starts to clap too, but I stop him glancing up at Nick, who's glaring at the crowd.
The horses gallop into the middle of the dance floor and halt, rearing and plunging; a large ghost at the front, whose bearded head is under his arm, blowing the horn, leaps down, lifts his head high in the air so he can see over the crowd and strides over to Nick, squashing his head back onto his neck.
"Nick!" he roars. "How are you? Head still hanging in there?"
He gives a hearty guffaw and claps Nick on the shoulder.
He seems like a dick. Can I punch him?
Your hand would go right through him....
Oh yeah..... I knew that.
"Welcome, Patrick," says Nick stiffly.
"Live 'uns!" says Sir Patrick, spotting the six of us and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head falls off again.
"Very amusing," says Nick darkly.
"How is that funny?" I ask Maya, who shrugs.
"I don't know, ghost humour mate!"
"Don't mind Nick!" shouts Sir Patrick's head from the flor. "Still upset we won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say - look at the fellow -"
"I think," says Harry hurriedly, after a meaningful look from Nick. "Nick's very - frightening and - er -"
"Ha!" yells Sir Patrick's head. "Bet he asked you to say that!"
"No he didn't," I glare at the head. "Plus, he's much scarier than you any day of the week. Your a giant joke compared to him. Having his neck hacked at and his head still not coming off is so much worse than having it off in one swipe. Also your an shithead, who's so full of himself, it makes me want to puke."
There's an awkward pause and El begins to whistle quietly, pretending to stare at the decorations.
"If I could have everyone's attention, it's time for my speech!" says Nick loudly, striding towards the podium and climbing into an icy-blue spotlight.
"My late lamented lords, ladies and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow ..."
But nobody hears much more. Sir Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt start a game of Head Hockey and the crowd turn to watch. Nick tries vainly to recapture his audience, but gives up as Sir Patrick's head goes soaking pay him to loud cheers.
Poor Nick, but I think we screwed this up for him to much to fix.
"I can't stand much more of this," Ron mutters, his teeth chattering, as the orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts sweep back onto the dance floor.
"Let's go," Harry agrees.
We back towards the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looks at us, and a minute later are hurrying back up the passageway full of black candles.
"Pudding might not be finished yet," says Elinor hopefully, leading the way towards the steps to the Entrance Hall.
I put my hands in my pockets and gasp, pulling out a pack of skittles.
"YES!" I dance around and pull open the pocket before pouring half of it in my mouth.
"GIVE ME SOME!" Maya yells, running towards me.
"NUH UH," I answer through a mouthful of skittles.
"Emily, don't mess with me when I'm hungry," May practically growls.
"You want some?" I motion towards the skittles and watches as she nods. "Ok ... TASTE THE FREAKING RAINBOW!" And I throw a handful of skittles in her direction.
I watch Maya pick up as many skittles as possible, fighting with Elinor to get to them first.
"Do you want one?" I offer to Hermione, who laughs and takes one.
What? I like making fools of my friends. It's fun!
May and El are just getting to their feet when I hear it.
"... rip ... tear ... kill ..."
It's the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice I heard in Lockhart's office.
I stumble forward, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all my might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.
"Harry, Emily, what're you -?"
"It's that voice again - shut up a minute -"
"... soo hungry ... for so long ..."
"Listen," I say urgently, and I stare at Harry who's looking around wide eyed.
"... kill ... time to kill ..."
The voice is growing fainter. I'm sure it's moving away - moving upwards. A mixture of fear and excitement grip me as I stare at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upwards?
"This way," Harry shouts, and he begins to run, up the stairs, into the Entrance Hall, with myself on his heels, the others close behind. Harry sprints up the marble staircase to the first floor, the rest of us clattering after him.
"What are we -"
"SHH!"
I strain my ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, I hear the voice: "... I smell blood ... I SMELL BLOOD!"
My stomach lurches. "It's going to kill someone," I shout and ignoring my friends bewildered faces, I run up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over my own pounding footsteps.
"Oh god, she's finally cracked," El mutters, sprinting to keep up.
I hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Elinor and Maya panting behind me, not stopping until we turn the corner into the last, deserted passage.
"Harry, Emily, what was that all about?" says Ron, wiping sweat off his face. "I couldn't hear anything ..."
But Hermione gives a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.
"Look!"
Something is shining on the wall ahead, we approach, slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words have been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAD BEEN OPENED.
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
What's the Chamber of Secrets?
"What's that thing - hanging underneath?" says Maya, a slight quiver in her voice.
As we edge nearer, I almost slip over in a large puddle of water on the floor. Elinor grabs my arm and we all inch towards the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All six of us realise what it is at once, and leap backwards with a splash.
Mrs Norris is hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She's stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.
For a few seconds, we don't move. Then Elinor says, "Let's get out of here."
"Shouldn't we try and help -" Harry begins awkwardly.
"Trust her," I say. "We don't want to be found here."
But it's too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, tells us that the feast has just ended. From either end of the corridor where we stand come the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students are crashing into the passage from both ends.
The chatter, the bustle, the noise dies suddenly as the people in front spot the hanging cat. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Maya, Elinor and I stand alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence falls among the mass of students, pressing forward to see the grisly sight.
Then someone shouts through the quiet.
Any guess for who?
"Enemies of the heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"
Malfoy. He's pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grins at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.