CHAPTER EIGHT
“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 or-
ange 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 cov-
ered 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 Her-
mione, 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.
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