Chapter 103: The Skeleton Dance Troupe 

On Halloween, the entire castle seemed to be filled with the sweet scent of pumpkin.

Harry was immensely relieved that he could join the others for the Halloween Feast instead of spending the night in a cold, gloomy dungeon with a bunch of ghosts.

At seven o'clock, he made a point of inviting Harold to the feast with him.

When Harry knocked on the door, Harold was in the middle of grabbing Tom the cat by the scruff of his neck, warning him to behave for the evening.

"It's either back to the Forbidden Forest, or you stay put in the dormitory. Either way, no prowling around the castle tonight."

Tom didn't look the least bit convinced and squirmed in Harold's grip.

Harold was about to say more when Harry showed up at the dormitory door.

"Harold, the Halloween Feast is about to start."

"Coming." Harold tossed Tom onto an empty bed and said, "Remember—any other time is fine, but tonight, don't go anywhere."

He threw on his school robes, fixed his pointed hat, and stepped out, tapping the door lock with his wand as he went.

Click.

Only then did Harold nod with satisfaction.

"Is locking the door really necessary?" Harry asked, puzzled. "Everyone's heading to the Halloween Feast. The common room's going to be empty."

"It's to keep Tom from getting out," Harold replied. "He can unlock doors from the inside."

That jogged Harry's memory—Harold did have a pet cat named Tom, though he'd rarely seen it.

Last he remembered, the cat had been perched quietly on Harold's shoulder when Hagrid ferried the first-years across the lake last year.

"But it's just a cat," Harry said. "I've seen plenty of pets in the corridors. The professors don't seem to mind."

"If Tom gets out, you probably won't be seeing any of those other pets again," Harold said casually.

Whether it was the name or the temperament, Tom had a rather fierce reputation. Though Harold had worked hard to keep him from eating his "coworkers," the cat was still ferocious and highly territorial.

Mrs. Norris had developed a deep psychological fear—whenever she saw Harold, she now instinctively avoided him.

Even owls that flew too close over Tom's head sometimes got swatted at.

Which was one of the many reasons Harold preferred to keep Tom locked up tonight.

What Harold didn't expect, however, was that moments after they left the common room, Tom would pry open a window with his front paws and leap onto the outer ledge.

The castle wall on the eighth floor had ledges only inches wide, but Tom moved along them like solid ground. He soon found his target, pushed off with his hind legs, and slipped neatly through an open window.

Meanwhile, Harold had arrived at the Great Hall and was staring in surprise as Hagrid placed a pumpkin bigger than himself next to the staff table.

"Tonight's entertainment is gonna be brilliant—hope yeh all enjoy it."

With that, Hagrid turned and left.

He rarely joined the students for meals, and even Dumbledore's repeated invitations were usually declined.

Once the feast officially began, the massive pumpkins lit up and floated gently into the air under Dumbledore's guidance.

Thousands of bats had been waiting for this moment. As the pumpkins rose, the bats surged together in a black cloud, racing toward a specially prepared stage at the front of the hall.

Students at the front screamed in surprise, only to see the dark cloud explode into a shower of multicolored smoke—and twelve pearly white skeletons appeared within.

"Look! It's the Skeleton Dance Troupe!" someone screamed with excitement.

Harold looked too.

Twelve skeletons stood in an oval formation beneath the enchanted ceiling.

Moonlight shone on one skeleton holding a bone-crafted violin. It drew the bow—made of a fibula—across the strings and played the first note.

Soon, a viola, cello, harp, flute, and other instruments joined in.

Six of the skeletons moved to the center of the oval and began to dance.

It was a waltz. Their fleshless bodies made them incredibly nimble, and every step was flawlessly precise. It was both eerie and graceful.

Harold could hardly believe he was using the word graceful to describe a bunch of skeletons. But judging by the looks on everyone else's faces, he wasn't the only one.

Hermione sat frozen, eyes locked on the stage. Harry, in the middle of pouring pumpkin juice, was so mesmerized he didn't notice his cup overflowing and spilling all over the table.

At the staff table, Dumbledore tapped along to the beat with his hand.

After one piece, the Skeleton Dance Troupe launched into a more lively tune, lifting the entire Great Hall into a festive frenzy.

"That was amazing!" Harry shouted, taking a huge bite of pumpkin pie.

Last year, the Halloween Feast had ended early because of Quirrell. Harry was glad he hadn't missed tonight's show—he'd have regretted it for the rest of the year.

Harold nodded in agreement. The Skeleton Dance Troupe lived up to its fame. No wonder they were so renowned.

It was said that they received hundreds of invitations from all across the wizarding world every Halloween. Probably only someone like Dumbledore could get them to perform at Hogwarts.

Harold clapped and cheered along with the rest of the hall.

Putting everything else aside, this year's Halloween was truly a good one—and the pumpkin pie was excellent too.

But every feast had to end.

As the troupe exited and the last bit of pumpkin pudding vanished from the plates, everything returned to its polished state.

The students, still buzzing with excitement, stood up and began filing out of the hall.

Harold joined the crowd, heading upstairs.

Then Hermione suddenly called out, surprised. "Harold, aren't you going to the ghosts' Deathday Party?"

"I need to grab something from the dormitory," Harold replied. The other three didn't question it.

Hermione and Harry discussed whether to tag along. With nothing else going on, they figured it might be worth the experience.

And maybe the Skeleton Dance Troupe had softened Ron's view—he no longer looked horrified at the idea of a ghost party.

Harold, however, wasn't concerned with what they were thinking. As the crowd reached the second floor, he grew visibly more tense.

The stairs to the third floor had shifted in the other direction, forcing them to detour. As everyone squeezed into a narrow corridor, Harold glanced up—

Then smiled.

"What is it?" Harry asked, confused.

"Nothing," Harold said cheerfully.

He was in a good mood—because both walls of the corridor were spotless. No red writing. No messages.

Nothing.

Later, on the fifth floor, he ran into Filch on patrol. Mrs. Norris still darted away at the sight of him, but Harold caught a glimpse of her tail as she vanished.

He felt even better after that.

They continued along and soon came across a sobbing ghost flying past with her face buried in her hands.

Peeves followed behind, pelting her with moldy peanuts and cackling wildly.

"That's Moaning Myrtle," Hermione explained. "She haunts the second-floor girls' bathroom. She and Peeves are the last two ghosts I ever want to meet."

Luckily, they both disappeared as quickly as they'd come.

The group reached the middle of the corridor.

"Oh, wait," Harry said, pointing at a staircase. "That one goes down—we need another—"

But Harold was already heading up.

"Harold, that's the wrong way. That staircase leads to the first floor."

"Exactly. To get to the dungeons, I have to go through the first floor," Harold replied.

"I thought you were going to grab something from the dormitory?"

"Just realized it was in my pocket all along." Harold casually pulled out a piece of parchment. "You coming or not?"

The three exchanged glances, then hurried to follow him.

"Do you think ghosts like to dance too?" Ron asked, recalling the skeletons waltzing earlier.

It had been the best performance he'd ever seen.

"Maybe," Hermione replied uncertainly. "Nick likes being called Sir Properly Decapitated-Podington—he was probably a nobleman in life. Nobles danced at parties, didn't they?"

"I think so too."

The group chatted as they walked from the first floor to the stairway that led to the dungeons.

But once there, they all fell silent.

The air reeked of rot. It was as if a thousand rusty saws were grinding against each other, the noise seeping from the depths of the dungeon straight into their ears.

Their pleasant fantasies of a ghostly ball shattered in an instant.

What was this? The Skeleton Troupe's music had been beautiful—but this?

This wasn't music at all.

It was noise.

Pure, agonizing noise.

(End of Chapter)