Rory Potter, the Girl Who Lived

The Deathday Party

          October has arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomphrey is kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and student. Her Pepperup potion works instantly, but it leaves the drinker smoking from the ears for several hours afterwards. Ginny, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy, and her ears are still smoking. That and her vivid red hair gives the impression that her entire head is on fire.
         Raindrops the size of bullets thunder on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rises, the flower beds turn into muddy streams, and Hagrid's pumpkins swell to the size of garden sheds. Oliver Wood's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, has not been dampened by the storms.
          Even aside from the rain and wind it hasn't been a happy practice session today. Fred, George, and I, who have been spying on the Slytherin team, have seen for ourselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. We report that the Slytherin team is no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like missiles.
          "Rory, what time is it?" Harry asks me. I jump at his sudden question. Currently, we're walking back to the common room after practice, soaked and muddy.
         "I haven't a clue. But I'll meet you in the common room later; I've got to use the restroom," I tell him, then wander off in the opposite direction. After I do my thing, I head back to the common room, where I change into something warm, dry, and clean. Then I grab a book and head back to the common room, where I curl up in an armchair next to Ron and Hermione to wait for my brother.
          "How was practice?" Ron asks.
          I groan. "Cold, wet, and muddy. All in all a complete waste of time. I have no idea why Wood is keeping to this ridiculous schedule."

~~~~~~~~~~

​​​​​Some time later, Harry joins us, looking absolutely filthy. He opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him quickly.
         "Go shower, then we can talk, you smell horrible," I tell him.
         He laughs, nods, then bounds up the stairs to the boys showers.

~~~~~~~~~~

"A deathday party?" says Hermione keenly when Harry explains what had happened. "I bet there aren't many living people who have been to one - it'll be fascinating!"
          "Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" says Ron, who's halfway through his Potions homework and grumpy. "Sounds dead depressing to me . . . "
          "I personally agree with Ron," I say, "but I'll go anyways so you won't have yo go alone, Harry."
          Rain still lashes at the windows, which are now inky black, but inside is bright and cheerful. The firelight glows over countless squashy armchairs where people sit reading, talking, doing homework, or in the case of Fred and George, trying to figure 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 if Magical Creatures class. Its now sitting on table surrounded by students and smoldering gently. 
         Harry is talking about some Kwickspell course, but I'm not really listening, nodding off in my chair. Suddenly, the salamander whizzes into the air, emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirls wildly around the room. I press a hand to my mouth and try to ignore the terrible thoughts that shove their way into my brain about what pain that poor salamander must be in.
          After the poor thing escapes into the fire, Percy bellows himself hoarse at the twins, and then I take a turn, lecturing them about cruelty to animals. Harry never finishes his story about Filch, but I honestly couldn't care less.

~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Halloween arrives, I'm regretting promising Harry I would go to the deathday party. The rest of the school is happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall has been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins hace been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there are rumours that Dumbledore has a troupe of dancing skeletons for entertainment.
          "A promise is a promise," Hermione reminds us bossily. "You all said you'd go to the deathday party."