THE DEATHDAY PARTY
recapture his audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick’s head went sail-
ing past him to loud cheers.
Harry was very cold by now, not to mention hungry.
“I can’t stand much more of this,” Ron muttered, his teeth chat-
tering, as the orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts
swept back onto the dance floor.
“Let’s go,” Harry agreed.
They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone
who looked at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the
passageway full of black candles.
“Pudding might not be finished yet,” said Ron hopefully, lead-
ing the way toward the steps to the entrance hall.
And then Harry heard it.
“. . . rip . . . tear . . . kill . . .”
It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had
heard in Lockhart’s office.
He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with
all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit
passageway.
“Harry, what’re you — ?”
“It’s that voice again — shut up a minute —”
“. . . soo hungry . . . for so long . . .”
“Listen!” said Harry urgently, and Ron and Hermione froze,
watching him.
“. . . kill . . . time to kill . . .”
The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving
away — moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped
him as he stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving up-
ward? Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn’t matter?
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