THE DEATHDAY PARTY
Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn’t been a happy prac-
tice session. Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slyth-
erin team, had seen for themselves the speed of those new Nimbus
Two Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin team
was no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air
like missiles.
As Harry squelched along the deserted corridor he came across
somebody who looked just as preoccupied as he was. Nearly Head-
less Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out
of a window, muttering under his breath, “. . . don’t fulfill their re-
quirements . . . half an inch, if that . . .”
“Hello, Nick,” said Harry.
“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 al-
most completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harry could
see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.
“You look troubled, young Potter,” said Nick, folding a trans-
parent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.
“So do you,” said Harry.
“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 fulfill requirements’ —”
In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on
his face.
“But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted 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?”
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