Antony scanned the Great Hall again but saw none of Hagrid's friends. He shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe they're not hungry."
Hagrid continued to grumble under his breath, but Antony was already eyeing the roast beef and fried potatoes. If Dumbledore didn't declare the Halloween Feast open within the next ten minutes, he couldn't promise his fork wouldn't sprout wings and fly over on its own.
Lockhart arrived late, dressed in brilliant pumpkin-orange robes, and was surprised to find the only empty seat was between Filch and Professor Trelawney.
It was hard to say who was more uncomfortable: Filch, whose face was like stone; Mrs. Norris, whose dusty tail kept swiping across Lockhart's plate; or Professor Trelawney, whose air of mystique was utterly overpowered by Lockhart's dazzling robes and blinding smile.
Professor Trelawney retaliated with the constant jingle of her bangles and the swaying tassels on her shawl. She even gifted Professor Lockhart a prophecy, gazing into his cup with a faraway look, her voice ethereal and trembling as she warned him she had seen the Grim.
"Oh, dear Sybill," Lockhart said warmly. "You are a hoot. I don't mean to boast, but I am rather adept at dealing with all sorts of omens… Dangerous business, of course. The details are all in my Voyages with Vampires. Though none of that is needed today, because—" He slid his cup toward her. "No tea leaves, Sybill. Pumpkin juice."
"To the truly Seer-gifted," Professor Trelawney intoned, "all things are but tea leaves. Mark my words."
Right then, Dumbledore stood. Students watched him with bated breath. Antony spotted several who were chewing very, very slowly, trying to swallow the food in their cheeks while putting on a respectful expression.
"As you know," Dumbledore's voice rang out, "this is the Halloween Feast. In honour of the occasion, I propose: Let us eat!"
He sat down and stabbed a slice of roast onto his plate.
The Hall erupted with noise. The clatter of hundreds of knives, forks, and plates. The slosh of pumpkin juice, milk, and hot chocolate being passed around. Sausages and roast beef vanished. Spider-shaped biscuits scrambled up the sides of smooth bowls only to slide back down.
Antony overheard a Hufflepuff near the staff table ask loudly, "Justin, didn't you say Dumbledore booked a skeleton dance troupe?"
Another Hufflepuff looked around, his gaze settling on the lamb chops before them. "Maybe we have to eat our way to them…"
"Eurgh," said the student opposite them, pushing his own lamb chop away. "I don't wanna know which part of the dance troupe I'm eating."
"Is it true, Albus?" Professor Sprout leaned over. "Did you book a skeleton dance troupe?"
Dumbledore was slicing his cottage pie. He looked up. "Ah, I do wish I had."
Antony caught Professor McGonagall's discreet glance. He gave a slight shake of his head.
Reassured, Professor McGonagall lowered her head and went back to her lamb chop.
"Try the pumpkin pie, Henry?" Professor Burbage offered.
"Absolutely. Thank you, Charity."
…
The night deepened. The bats flitting around the floating Jack-o'-lanterns seemed to multiply. They darted past every grinning pumpkin mouth, casting fleeting shadows on the floor. Lanterns glowed. People, full and satisfied, began to trickle out.
Bored, unable to chase bats or pounce on spider biscuits, Mrs. Norris slunk off midway. Not long after, Filch muttered darkly about finding her, stuffed a handful of spider biscuits into his pocket, and left.
Hagrid returned to his hut. Snape had some urgent business with Sprout in the greenhouses—a rare plant nearing maturity.
Antony finished his last doughnut, stood, and began following Professor McGonagall out of the Hall, deep in discussion with Flitwick about a magical theory book Dumbledore had recommended.
Lockhart and Trelawney remained seated. Their colleagues had wished them a polite 'bon appétit' before departing without a second glance.
"But Professor Antony," Professor Flitwick squeaked, "that's a sixteenth-century text! If you want the latest developments, I'd suggest subscribing to the monthly Magical Theory Gazette. Many brilliant scholars publish their—"
Suddenly, chaos erupted from the floor below. Shouting.
Professor McGonagall instantly pivoted, her pace quickening, face tightening. Antony and Professor Flitwick hurried after her (Flitwick had to trot).
The closer they got, the clearer the shouts echoed off the ancient stone. Professor McGonagall parted the crowd of excited students clogging the staircase. Antony and Flitwick saw the six figures at the center.
Harry stood a few steps down, one hand gripping his wand, the other clamped on Ron's arm. Ron was panting, eyes blazing, glaring at Malfoy across from him. Hermione had Ron's other arm. Even while holding Ron back, she looked like an angry lioness, glowering at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle.
Malfoy's robes were as rumpled as Ron's. A sneer was plastered on his pale face as he looked down at the trio. The sneer vanished when he spotted Professor McGonagall behind him.
"I want an explanation," Professor McGonagall said icily. Her lips were a thin line, fury burning in her eyes.
"It was Malfoy, Professor!" Ron shouted.
Malfoy spoke instantly. "Potter and Weasley attacked me!"
"Because of what you said!" Hermione cried angrily.
"You deserved it!" Ron yelled.
"Silence!" Professor McGonagall commanded. "Miss Granger, you will explain."
…
Hermione took a deep breath and launched into her story. Through her account, the interjections of the others (Crabbe and Goyle stayed mostly silent), and commentary from students on the stairs, Antony pieced it together.
Nearly Headless Nick had invited Harry, Ron, and Hermione to his five-hundredth Deathday Party. Though Nick had learned from Lockhart's Lockhart's Lonely Hearts Club how to host a ghost-approved event, he'd clearly missed the memo about the lack of living attendees.
So, the trio found the Deathday Party a bit too… ghostly and decided to leave early. ("Honestly," Ron added darkly, "the rotten food, the screechy music, the freezing cold… all better than Malfoy.")
Nick, having sincerely absorbed Lockhart's theories on "authenticity and enthusiasm," mustered a ghost's greatest fervor to persuade his guests to stay, drifting through walls after them.
If not for some ghosts deciding to demonstrate a proper headless performance while the host was away, Nick might have followed them all the way to Gryffindor Tower.
But due to Nick's persistent efforts, by the time he drifted sadly back through the wall, several Slytherins returning to their dungeons had witnessed the scene.
"Malfoy said Harry was… showing off his Boy-Who-Lived fame again…" Hermione said, biting her lip and hesitating.
"Then?" Professor McGonagagll prompted.
"Then Harry told him to go away," Hermione said.
"I was merely wondering why Potter was down in the dungeons, Professor," Malfoy cut in smoothly. "But they threatened me. Said if I asked another question, they'd make me eat slugs."
"That was after you asked if Harry wasn't satisfied with just Colin and Ginny fawning over him!" Ron spat.
"Regardless, gentlemen," Professor McGonagall said sternly, looking down at them. She glanced at Hermione. "And Miss… This is no excuse for brawling on the stairs. I believe ten points will do."
Hermione made a choked sound.
"Ten points each," Professor McGonagall amended. "I am disappointed, Miss Granger. I expected more sense from you."
Hermione went pale. Harry and Ron finally stopped glaring at Malfoy and turned to her with matching looks of guilt. Malfoy wore a triumphant smirk, as if Slytherin hadn't also just lost thirty points, but gained them.
"But, Professor McGonagall!" A Hufflepuff nearby finally found his courage. "It was all Malfoy's fault! He said something awful to Harry!"
"What was it?" Professor McGonagall asked.
Harry looked away, clearly preferring the punishment to repeating Malfoy's words. Ron stepped forward slightly. Hermione pressed her lips together, worriedly watching Harry. None of them spoke. Malfoy's smirk widened.
But Professor Flitwick had been whispering with another Hufflepuff student. He asked a few questions, and the older student mumbled a reply. Flitwick's eyes widened in outrage. "Dreadful! That is simply dreadful!"
"What, Filius?" Professor McGonagall asked.
Professor Flitwick motioned for McGonagall and Antony to lean down. "Mr. Malfoy asked Mr. Potter, if he wasn't seeking attention, why he went to Nick's Deathday Party at all—" He shook his head, whispering angrily. "He asked Mr. Potter if it was to… to commemorate the occasion of James and Lily's deaths as well."
Professor McGonagall drew in a sharp, furious breath. Antony couldn't help but murmur, "Merlin."
"Professor, I need to visit the Hospital Wing!" Malfoy announced loudly.
"Mr. Malfoy—" Professor McGonagall began.
"Weasley's filthy rat bit me!" Malfoy said immediately, holding up a bloodied index finger.
Ron gasped at the same time. "Scabbers! Where's Scabbers?!"
"It got kicked down the stairs by Crabbe," a student nearby informed him, voice a mix of pity and glee. "If you hurry, you might pull its tail from a snake's mouth."
Another student offered helpfully, "Don't listen to him. Snape only feeds those snakes newborn, hairless mice."
"But Scabbers barely has any hair!" Ron wailed. "He's bald!"
"I was bitten, Professor," Malfoy insisted. "Who knows what that rat was carrying… ("Might make you go bald too," a Hufflepuff beside Antony muttered.) I definitely need Madam Pomfrey to check it—Merlin, I'm feeling quite dizzy already."
"You may go to the Hospital Wing," Professor McGonagall said sternly. "But before you do, I am taking another twenty points from Slytherin."
Now the surrounding Slytherins were looking at Malfoy with distinct displeasure. Malfoy seemed ready to argue, but Professor McGonagall had already turned to Harry. "Up to the tower, Mr. Potter. I believe there are still some chips left—I'll have the kitchens send up some pumpkin juice."
To Antony's astonishment, her eyes seemed to glisten with unshed tears.
Malfoy snorted, avoiding the gazes of his housemates, and stalked off. In the flickering candlelight, his face looked paler than ever.
"No, I have to find Scabbers," Ron said.
The words were barely out when a piercing, furious yowl echoed up from the floor below. Ron's face went utterly ashen.
"M-Mrs. Norris?" he croaked.
Antony began to worry for Ron's pet. The snakes might have been a student's invention, but Mrs. Norris was very, very real.
Filch's voice followed. "What is it, my sweet? A rat? Good girl—"
The students on the stairs burst into chatter. Some said Mrs. Norris never went after pets. Others insisted the cat probably ate them in secret ("I remember it tried to hunt the owls!").
Ron's lips were trembling. "Not Scabbers. Please not Scabbers."
"Filch!" Professor McGonagall called.
Filch's bulging eyes soon appeared at the stairhead. "You wanted me, Professor McGonagall?" He eyed the surrounding students with malicious glee, as if deciding which ungrateful wretch would earn a detention.
"Yes, we were looking for you," Professor Flitwick said loudly, bouncing on his toes to see past students' shoulders at the cat in Filch's arms. "Did Mrs. Norris just catch a rat?"
"What?" Filch asked, confused.
"A rat, Mr. Filch," Antony explained, his eyes on the large, grey thing dangling by its tail from Filch's right hand. "Mr. Weasley is looking for his pet."
Filch hesitated, torn between complaining about students keeping such filthy creatures and defending his cat's honor. His face twitched. Finally, facing three professors, he thrust the grey lump forward irritably. "Fine! If some student claims this as a pet! I suppose tomorrow someone will adopt a muddy boot-print! Defiling the castle, scurrying about—"
Hermione carefully took the rat's tail from him. It was drenched in cat saliva, streaked with blood, utterly motionless.
"Ron," Harry said softly, sympathetically. "I think that's Scabbers."
Ron let out a groan of despair. Harry wordlessly put a hand on his shoulder. The students' chatter swelled. Filch's face flushed, then paled.
"Filch, we need to discuss Mrs. Norris," Professor McGonagall said gravely. "We absolutely cannot tolerate her preying on students' pets."
Professor Flitwick nodded vigorously. Filch's eyes darted between McGonagall, Flitwick, and Antony, holding Mrs. Norris tighter.
"Wait, you two—it's alive!" Hermione suddenly cried out joyfully. "It's alive, Ron!"
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