A Hogwarts Legend: Round Two [2]

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve- "A slow clap for Flich's logic!"

October arrives, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, is kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion works instantly, though it leaves the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterwards.

Elinor and I make Maya take it, fed up with her constant sneezing. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gives the impression that her whole head is on fire.

Raindrops the size of bullets thunder on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rises, the flowerbeds turn into muddy steams and Hagrid's pumpkins swell to the size of garden sheds.

Oliver's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, is not dampened, which is why Harry and I are returning to Gryffindor tower, drenched to the skin and splattered in mud, a few days from Halloween.

I COULD BE PRANKING RIGHT NOW! BUT NOOOOOOOOO!

Even aside from the rain and wind it wasn't a happy practise session. Fred and George, who have been spying on the Slytherin team, have seen the speed of the new Nimbus Two Thousands and One.

Apparently the Slytherin team are no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like jump-jets.

As Harry and I squelch along the deserted corridor, we come across somebody who looks just as preoccupied as we do.

Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, is staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath, "... don't fulfil their requirements ... half an inch, if that ..."

"Hello, Nick," I say.

"Hello, hello," says Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. He's wearing a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which conceals the fact that his neck is almost completely severed. He's as pale as smoke, and I can see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.

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

"So do you," I mutter.

Wait, he wasn't talking to me.... sad face :(

"Ah," Nearly Headless Nick waves 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's a look of bitterness on his face.

"But you would think, wouldn't you," he erupts 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 and I say, as we are 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 ..." Nick shakes his letter open and reads 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 fulfil our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore."

Fuming, Nick stuffs the letter away.

Isn't what they're doing discrimination.....