THE DEATHDAY PARTY
“Yes. It’s been out-of-order all year because she keeps having
tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I
could avoid it; it’s awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at
you —”
“Look, food!” said Ron.
On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered
in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had
stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting.
Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes,
burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great
maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and,
in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tomb-
stone, with tar-like icing forming the words,
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington
died 31st October, 1492
Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table,
crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that
it passed through one of the stinking salmon.
“Can you taste it if you walk through it?” Harry asked him.
“Almost,” said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.
“I expect they’ve let it rot to give it a stronger flavor,” said Her-
mione 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
midair before them.
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