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seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through

a tapestry to Harry's right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breaker.

There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose

was unusually purple.

"Filth!" he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he

pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry's Quidditch robes.

"Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me,

Potter!"

So Harry waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed

Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the

floor.

Harry had never been inside Filch's office before; it was a place most

students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil

lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about

the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels,

Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever

punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. A

highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind

Filch's desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging

Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around

looking for parchment.

"Dung," he muttered furiously, "great sizzling dragon bogies . . . frog brains

. . . rat intestines . . . I've had enough of it . . . make an example . . . where's

the form . . . yes . . ."

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He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it

out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.

"Name . . . Harry Potter. Crime . . ."

"It was only a bit of mud!" said Harry.

"It's only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it's an extra hour scrubbing!"

shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose.

"Crime . . . befouling the castle . . . suggested sentence . . ."

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry who

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waited with bated breath for his sentence to fall.

But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of

the office, which made the oil lamp rattle.

"PEEVES!" Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a transport of rage. "I'll

have you this time, I'll have you!"

And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran flat-footed from the

office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him.

Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to

cause havoc and distress. Harry didn't much like Peeves, but couldn't help

feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it

sounded as though he'd wrecked something very big this time) would

distract Filch from Harry.

Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to come back, Harry sank

into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart

from his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver

lettering on the front. With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch

wasn't on his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read: kwikspell A

Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic.

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Intrigued, Harry flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of

parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said: Feel out

of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to

perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork? There

is an answer! Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn

course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell

method! Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes: "I had no memory for

incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell

course, I am the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the recipe of

my Scintillation Solution!" Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says: "My wife

used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous

Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you,

Kwikspell!"

Fascinated, Harry thumbed through the rest of the envelope's contents. Why

on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn't a

proper wizard? Harry was just reading "Lesson One: Holding Your Wand

(Some Useful Tips)" when shuffling footsteps outside told him Filch was

coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry threw it

back onto the desk just as the door opened.

Filch was looking triumphant.

"That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!" he was saying gleefully to

Mrs. Norris. "We'll have Peeves out this time, my sweet -"

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His eyes fell on Harry and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which,

Harry realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.

Filch's pasty face went brick red. Harry braced himself for a tidal wave of

fury. Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it

into a drawer.

"Have you - did you read -?" he sputtered.

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"No," Harry lied quickly.

Filch's knobbly hands were twisting together.

"If I thought you'd read my private - not that it's mine - for a friend - be that

as it may - however -"

Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His eyes

were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan

scarf didn't help.

"Very well - go - and don't breathe a word - not that - however, if you didn't

read - go now, I have to write up Peeves' report - go -"

Amazed at his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back

upstairs. To escape from Filch's office without punishment was probably

some kind of school record.

"Harry! Harry! Did it work?"

Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him, Harry

could see the wreckage of a large black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to

have been dropped from a great height.

"I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch's office," said Nick eagerly.

"Thought it might distract him -"

"Was that you?" said Harry gratefully. "Yeah, it worked, I didn't even get

detention. Thanks, Nick!"

They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick, Harry noticed,

was still holding Sir Patrick's rejection letter..

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"I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,"

Harry said.

Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry walked right through

him. He wished he hadn't; it was like stepping through an icy shower.

"But there is something you could do for me," said Nick excitedly. "Harry

would I be asking too much - but no, you wouldn't want -"

"What is it?" said Harry.

"Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday," said Nearly

Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

"Oh," said Harry, not sure whether he should look sorry or happy about this.

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"Right."

"I'm holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons. Friends will be

coming from all over the country. It would be such an honor if you would

attend. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome, too, of

course - but I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?" He watched Harry

on tenterhooks.

"No," said Harry quickly, "I'll come -"

"My dear boy! Harry Potter, at my deathday party! And" - he hesitated,

looking excited - "do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick

how very frightening and impressive you find me?"

"Of - of course," said Harry.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at him. "A deathday party?" said Hermione

keenly when Harry had changed at last and joined her and Ron in the

common room. "I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've

been to one of those - it'll be fascinating!".

130

"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" said Ron, who

was halfway through his Potions homework and grumpy. "Sounds dead

depressing to me. . . ."

Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside

all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the countless

squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in

the case of Fred and George Weasley, trying to find out what would happen

if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had "rescued" the

brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class

and it was now smouldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of

curious people.

Harry was at the point of telling Ron and Hermione about Filch and the

Kwikspell course when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air,

emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the room. The

sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at Fred and George, the spectacular

display of tangerine stars showering from the salamander's mouth, and its

escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions, drove both Filch and the

Kwikspell envelope from Harry's mind. By the time Halloween arrived,

Harry was regretting his rash promise to go to the deathday party. The rest of

the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had

been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins had been

carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were

rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the

entertainment.

"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminded Harry bossily. "You said

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you'd go to the deathday party."

So at seven o'clock, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked straight past the

doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold

plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons.

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The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party had been lined

with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long,

thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light

even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step

they took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he

heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous

blackboard.

"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered. They turned a corner and

saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet

drapes.

"My dear friends," he said mournfully. "Welcome, welcome . . . so pleased

you could come. . . ."

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white,

translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor,

waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by

an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead

blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose

in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.

"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggested, wanting to warm up his

feet.

"Careful not to walk through anyone," said Ron nervously, and they set off

around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a

ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost,

who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry

wasn't surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin

ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the

other ghosts.

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"Oh, no," said Hermione, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't

want to talk to Moaning Myrtle -"

"Who?" said Harry as they backtracked quickly.

"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," said

Hermione.

"She haunts a toilet?"

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"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 have a pee with her wailing at you -"

"Look, food!" said Ron.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black

velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their

tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid

on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on

salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry

green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a

tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-

Porpington

died 31st October, 1492

Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched

low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through

one of the stinking salmon.

"Can you taste it if you walk though it?" Harry asked him.

"Almost," said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.

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"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," said Hermione

knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid

haggis.

"Can we move? I feel sick," said Ron.

They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped

suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.