Harry Potter 02 - Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.
    ‘Can we move? I feel sick,’ said Ron.
    They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in mid-air before them.
    ‘Hello, Peeves,’ said Harry cautiously.
    Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the poltergeist was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow-tie and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.
    ‘Nibbles?’ he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.
    ‘No thanks,’ said Hermione.
    ‘Heard you talking about poor Myrtle,’ said Peeves, his eyes dancing. ‘ Rude you was about poor Myrtle.’ He took a deep breath and bellowed, ‘OY! MYRTLE!’
    ‘Oh, no, Peeves, don’t tell her what I said, she’ll be really upset,’ Hermione whispered frantically. ‘I didn’t mean it, I don’t mind her – er, hello, Myrtle.’
    The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.
    ‘What?’ she said sulkily.
    ‘How are you, Myrtle?’ said Hermione, in a falsely bright voice. ‘It’s nice to see you out of the toilet.’
    Myrtle sniffed.
    ‘Miss Granger was just talking about you –’ said Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s ear.
    ‘Just saying – saying – how nice you look tonight,’ said Hermione, glaring at Peeves.
    Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously.
    ‘You’re making fun of me,’ she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.
    ‘No – honestly – didn’t I just say how nice Myrtle’s looking?’ said Hermione, nudging Harry and Ron painfully in the ribs.
    ‘Oh, yeah …’
    ‘She did …’
    ‘Don’t lie to me,’ Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding down her face, while Peeves chuckled happily over her shoulder. ‘D’you think I don’t know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!’
    ‘You’ve missed out “spotty”,’ Peeves hissed in her ear.
    Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her with mouldy peanuts, yelling, ‘Spotty! Spotty!’
    ‘Oh, dear,’ said Hermione sadly.
    Nearly Headless Nick now drifted towards them through the crowd.
    ‘Enjoying yourselves?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ they lied.
    ‘Not a bad turnout,’ said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. ‘The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent … It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better go and warn the orchestra …’
    The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very moment. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting horn sounded.
    ‘Oh, here we go,’ said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly.
    Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; Harry started to clap too, but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face.
    The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging; a large ghost at the front, whose bearded head was under his arm, blowing the horn, leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone laughed) and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick, squashing his head back onto his neck.
    ‘Nick!’ he roared. ‘How are you? Head still hanging in there?’
    He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder.
    ‘Welcome, Patrick,’ said Nick stiffly.
    ‘Live ’uns!’ said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry, Ron and Hermione and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the crowd howled with laughter).
    ‘Very amusing,’ said Nearly Headless Nick darkly.
    ‘Don’t mind Nick!’ shouted Sir Patrick’s head from the floor. ‘still upset we won’t let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say – look at the fellow –’
    ‘I think,’ said Harry hurriedly, at a meaningful look from Nick, ‘Nick’s very – frightening and – er –’
    ‘Ha!’ yelled Sir Patrick’s head. ‘Bet he asked you to say that!’
    ‘If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my speech!’ said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding towards the podium and climbing into an icy-blue spotlight.
    ‘My late lamented lords, ladies and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow …’
    But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and