𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝; 𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡.𝐩

𝓨𝓮𝓪𝓻 2, 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 8: 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽𝔂

~ chapter eight: the deathday party ~

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 stuff 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 Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair have the impression that her whole head was on fire.

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. Oliver Wood's enthusiasm for regular training session, however, was not dampened, which was why Harry and Y/N were to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before Halloween, returning to Gryffindor Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud.

To make matters worse, Y/N felt the feeling of paranoia get worse now. Every time she'd turn around unexpectedly, trying to catch the person who had been following her around, but she'd see no one around. Still, even though she knew it was the smart thing to do, she didn't go to Dumbledore. Not yet, anyway. Maybe if something actually happened or if she found proof that she was actually being stalked, she would, but since nothing occurred, she didn't have anything to go off of, so she didn't go to the headmaster. (In her opinion, she didn't want to embarrass herself in front of Dumbledore by stating something they could be untrue, but she digressed.)

Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn't been a happy practice session. Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like missiles.

As they squelched along the deserted corridor they came across somebody who looked just 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," said Harry.

"Hello, hello," said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking 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 Harry and Y/N could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.

"You look troubled, young Potter and Black," said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

"So do you," said Y/N.

"Ah," Nearly Headless 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," said Harry, who was obviously supposed to agree.

"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: