Gryffindor openly celebrated, unbothered by subtlety.
Slytherin retaliated wildly, targeting both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw students alike.
Snape was seething, deducting points from every house under the thinnest pretext. Gryffindor, of course, bore the brunt of his wrath.
Even Ron fell victim to Snape's sharpest insults to date.
Ron had been trying harder lately, consulting both Harry and Hermione for tips on potion-making techniques.
In class, he eagerly applied several methods he had learned, hoping to avoid Snape's scorn for once.
Instead, he got:
"Ah, Mr. Weasley, finally embracing your inner troll?"
"A poor imitation. You lucked out this time, but next time? I expect St. Mungo's will be seeing you. If you're short of proper materials, visit the supply cupboard!"
"Instead of wasting your time with tools you're clearly not ready for."
"Five points from Gryffindor!"
Ron was so furious he almost pulled out his wand then and there to duel Snape to the death.
"It's not fair!" he fumed after class, venting to Harry and Hermione. "Why does Hermione get points for using those techniques, and I lose them?"
"Are you seriously expecting fairness from Snape?" Harry countered, raising an eyebrow.
Ron paused mid-step.
The simple statement lifted his mood considerably. Thinking about it, Harry was far more skilled than he was and still got docked even more points. That alone made Ron feel a little better.
Passing by the house point hourglasses, they saw that Gryffindor's once-dominant lead had dwindled. Now, their points were on par with the other three houses.
Snape had been relentless.
The other house heads were uneasy. They couldn't stoop to Snape's level—blatantly favoring their own house while nitpicking others—but they weren't happy about it either.
Their solution? Encourage their students to follow Fred and George's example:
Use Lockhart as much as possible.
After all, nobody wanted all four houses to be sitting below a hundred points by the end of term.
Harry's schedule was packed lately.
Between detentions with professors, Quidditch practice, coaxing Lockhart into signing passes for the Restricted Section, and experimenting with ways to brew Witcher potions in this magical world, there was barely a moment to spare.
It wasn't until the night before Halloween that he found a brief reprieve.
Nearly Headless Nick floated into the Gryffindor common room.
"Mr. Potter."
His translucent head emerged from beneath a table, earnest eyes fixed on Harry.
"Apologies for interrupting," Nick said hesitantly.
Both Ron and Hermione flinched in surprise at the ghost's sudden appearance.
"What is it?" Harry asked, looking up from his homework.
"Well… it's my five-hundredth Deathday tomorrow," Nick began awkwardly, "and I'd like to extend an invitation for you to attend the celebration."
"We're hosting it in one of the castle's larger underground classrooms. My dearest friends will all be there."
Nick's ghostly features wavered, hopeful.
"And of course," he added quickly, "Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley are welcome to join as well."
"Like a birthday party?" Harry asked flatly.
Hermione and Ron gaped at him.
The thought had crossed their minds, but Harry's bluntness felt a little… inappropriate.
After all, a deathday was hardly cause for celebration, and comparing it to a birthday seemed tactless.
Nick, however, seemed unbothered. If anything, he looked pleased.
"Yes, exactly like a birthday party!" he said, nodding so vigorously that his almost-detached head swung precariously. "It will be a grand affair. I've even booked a renowned ghostly band to perform."
"I understand, of course, that you might prefer the feast upstairs with the living," Nick continued delicately. "But I'd be so honored if…"
Harry cut him off.
"I'd much rather attend the living feast, yes."
Nick blinked, taken aback. "Well… if you're sure."
Turning to Hermione and Ron, he asked hopefully, "And you two? Miss Granger? Mr. Weasley?"
Hermione hesitated, tempted but ultimately shook her head. "Sorry, I don't think I'll have time."
Ron, however, was more reluctant.
Dancing with ghosts at a deathday party? That sounded amazing.
But with both Harry and Hermione declining, he couldn't very well go alone. Reluctantly, he shook his head too.
Nick sighed dramatically and floated off to extend invitations elsewhere.
"Why didn't you agree to go?" Ron demanded as soon as Nick was out of earshot.
"A deathday party! That's incredible!"
"Have you ever been to one?" Harry countered.
Ron hesitated. "No… but…"
"And it sounds fascinating," Hermione added thoughtfully.
"Ghosts and the living should maintain their boundaries," Harry replied coolly. "Ghost parties won't even have food we can eat."
Nick's persistent invitations did win over a few students, though.
Neville, too timid to refuse, reluctantly agreed. Ginny, Ron's little sister, also found herself cornered into attending.
Beyond those two, however, Nick had no luck.
Halloween Night.
Hogwarts never did things halfway for holidays.
Pumpkin lanterns and floating ghost candles adorned the Great Hall, and a feast of pumpkin-themed dishes stretched across the tables.
While Ron wrestled with a pumpkin pie, Ginny returned, looking pale and shaken.
"How was the deathday party?" Ron asked, his mouth full.
Ginny sat down heavily, staring blankly ahead.
"Ginny?" Ron prodded, poking her shoulder. "I'm asking about the party. How was it?"
Ginny shuddered, shaking her head.
"It was awful," she whispered, voice trembling.
Her face was pale as she recounted the event:
"All ghosts. No food—at least, nothing edible. Just rotting scraps. I couldn't stand it. I made an excuse and left."
Harry had been right.
Declining had been the wisest choice.
Ron looked down at the chicken leg in his hand with newfound appreciation.
Ginny, however, barely touched her food, sipping a small cup of pumpkin juice before setting it aside.
As the feast wound down, a sudden shriek shattered the air—Neville's voice.
Professor McGonagall sprang to her feet, followed by a wave of students and teachers rushing toward the commotion.
The source was just outside the Great Hall, at the base of the grand staircase near Filch's office.
There, written in large, red letters on the wall between two windows:
"The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware."
Beneath the ominous message, a puddle of water glistened on the floor.
Mrs. Norris, Filch's beloved cat, hung limply by her tail from a torch bracket. She was petrified, her body stiff and lifeless, yet faint traces of vitality lingered.
Harry's expression darkened as he surveyed the scene.
The Chamber of Secrets?
Slytherin's Chamber?
But… the painting was in his possession.
Could someone else have discovered its secrets first?
More troubling, however, was the absence of any signs—no magical traces, no auras.
The attack had been completely silent, leaving behind no footprints or lingering energy.
Even the air smelled clean, except for…
Harry inhaled sharply.
The faint scent of paint clung to the wall, but none of the surrounding students or teachers bore the same trace. Not the panicked Neville, nor the young couple who had stumbled onto the scene.
Not even Ginny.
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Powerstones?
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