𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 (𝟐) || HARRY POTTER LOVE STORY

19

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the matron, 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 afterwards.

Ginny, who had been looking peaky, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The steam pouring trom under her vivid hair gave 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 flowerbeds turned into muddy streams and Hagrids pumpkins swelled to the size
of garden sheds.

Oliver's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Harry and Julie 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.

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 were no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like jump-jets.

"Great," Julie muttered as they splashed down the corridor, leaving wet footprints behind them. "Now we'll never win. Not with those new brooms."

"I'm not too worried," Harry said, his hair dripping into his eyes. "We've got skill, right?"

Julie shot him a look. "Sure, skill, but it's hard to beat a jet plane when you're riding a tricycle."

Harry smirked, his mouth curving into that mischievous grin Julie was starting to get a little too used to. "Well, maybe I'll just fly faster than them."

"You? You can barely get your broom to stop zigzagging. How do you plan to outrun Slytherins?"

Before he could answer, they saw someone else ahead of them. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath "... don't fulfil their requirements... half an inch, if that..."

"Hello, Nick!" Harry and Julie said at the same time.

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

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

"So do you" Julie observed.

"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 fulfil requirements!"

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

"But you would think" he suddenly pulled the letter back out of his pocket "that getting hit fortyfive 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. "We can only accept buntsmen whose beads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in bunt 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 fulfil 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!" Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far calmer tone "So - what's bothering you? Anything I can do?"

"No" Julie answered. "Not unless you know where we can get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly-"

The rest of my sentence was drowned by a high-pitched meowing from somewhere near her ankles. She looked down and found herself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs Norris, the skeletal grey cat who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle against students.

"Great and here comes trouble..." Julie murmured still looking at the cat.

"You'd better get out of here" said Nick 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 you two dripping mud all over the place..."

"Right" said Harry, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs Norris, but not quickly enough.

Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to their right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breakers. 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, Clarke!"

So Harry and Julie waved a gloomy goodbye to Nearly Headless Nick, and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor.

Julie 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 theirlabels. Fred and George Weasly 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..."

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. Julie Clarke. Crime..."

"Crime!?" Julie echoed, being in shock.

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

"It's only a bit of mud to you, but to me its 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 them, who 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 backwards glance at Harry and Julie, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs Norris streaking alongside him.