The Great Hall was a riot of color and light. Hundreds of jack-o'-lanterns hung in the air, their flickering glow suggesting Hagrid had raided his entire pumpkin patch to make them. Bats swooped in flocks, darting between vibrant ribbons strung across the ceiling, while even the magical candles dangling from above seemed to burn with festive cheer.
"Hagrid!"
Hodge Blackthorn spotted the towering gamekeeper at once, his massive frame impossible to miss. Hagrid was lugging an enormous pumpkin—big enough, Hodge reckoned, to pitch a tent inside. Astonishingly, there were three more just like it. With a resounding thud, Hagrid set the pumpkin on the Gryffindor table, rattling the tableware and sending the candles inside the jack-o'-lantern tilting haphazardly.
"Lend us a hand, will ya?" Hagrid called to Hodge.
Hodge snapped his fingers, and the candles righted themselves, their soft light glowing through the pumpkin's triangular eyes and jagged mouth. Neville stared, transfixed, while the person across from him looked less thrilled, stuck staring at the pumpkin's backside.
Hagrid ambled over, still clad in his moleskin coat, his beard and hair a tangled mess. "Doin' alright?"
Hodge nodded, his mind briefly flashing to Ginny trailing after Harry.
"You?" he asked in return.
"Me?" Hagrid waved a hand the size of a dinner plate. "Same old, same old—" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a rumbling whisper. "The centaurs in the Forest've been givin' me an earful lately… Bane's proper riled up, says some student's been disturbin' their peace."
Hodge blinked.
"Look, I know you can handle the Forest's dangers," Hagrid went on, his furry cheeks twitching, "but… stop hangin' centaurs upside down from trees. Dunno if you knew, but that's a right serious insult…"
"They started it," Hodge mumbled. "Ronan was alright, though. We talked astrology, you know. He reckons my North Node was in Pluto when I was born."
Hagrid gaped at him.
"Alright, alright," Hodge said quickly, noticing nearby students glancing over with interest. "I'll steer clear of them. How's Fang doing?"
"Good," Hagrid grunted.
"And those chickens you're raising?"
"Some went to the kitchens. The rest are still cluckin' about."
"Nice. What about Fluffy?"
"Saw him last month. Found him a nice spot deep in the Forbidden Forest."
Hodge grinned, going for the jugular. "So—the centaurs haven't complained about that?"
Hagrid's jaw dropped. "You cheeky sod," he said, clapping Hodge on the shoulder so hard he nearly toppled into Neville. His beard quivered with amusement. "Got me there, didn't ya? Sharp one, you are—just not big on followin' rules." Muttering, he shuffled off.
Hodge made his way to the Ravenclaw table, where Professor Flitwick was performing a similar feat to Hagrid's. Though small in stature, Flitwick's magical prowess was unmatched, and he was deftly guiding a massive pumpkin to land smoothly at the table's center. A few students broke into applause.
"Thank you, thank you!" Flitwick chirped, beaming.
The feast kicked off in a clamor of noise. The tables groaned under heaps of food, ready for the students to dig in. But their attention wasn't entirely on the spread—they were buzzing with chatter. Third-years fresh from their Hogsmeade trip were loudly raving about the village shops: Honeydukes with its endless array of candies, Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop for starry-eyed couples, and the Three Broomsticks with its variety of drinks. Somewhere along the line, snacks started circulating. Hodge ended up with an Exploding Bonbon and an Ice Mouse, which he wasn't keen on. He traded the latter with Cho Chang and her friends for an unopened bottle of Butterbeer.
Hodge flashed a thumbs-up in thanks. Cho mimed a pair of glasses with her fingers.
He turned to find Terry staring longingly. "C'mon, Hodge, share a bit! I've never tried it, just a sip…"
"Is that Butterbeer?" Michael asked, eyes gleaming. Anthony licked his lips.
So Hodge divvied up a bit for each of his dormmates.
"We shouldn't be drinking," Anthony said hesitantly.
"Oh, come off it," Michael replied, clutching his cup. "I've had this before—hardly any alcohol in it." He took a sip and let out a satisfied smack. "Would be better chilled, though."
"What's it taste like?" Hodge asked.
"Kinda like less-sticky butterscotch," Terry said after a sip.
Hodge considered this, then tapped his goblet with a finger. A faint chill spread across the cup's surface. He took a swig, and a refreshing coolness coursed through him.
Michael eyed the cup enviously, having already downed his share.
"Any entertainment lined up?" Hodge asked.
He'd heard the school ghosts put on a show at the end of the feast, but he'd never seen it—last year's Halloween banquet had been derailed by a troll.
"Word is, Dumbledore booked a skeleton dance troupe," Anthony said.
Hodge glanced at the staff table. The professors lined the dais, caught up in the festive mood—possibly helped along by a bit of alcohol. They'd shed their usual reserve, laughing and chatting as freely as the students. Flitwick sat between Snape and McGonagall, creating a dip in the height lineup that looked slightly off. But if you factored in Hagrid—who took up two seats and towered over everyone else by a couple of heads—the whole arrangement resembled a rather healthy electrocardiogram.
Dumbledore sat at the center, and Hodge couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Gilderoy Lockhart was beside him, gesticulating wildly as he rambled on, nearly knocking off Sprout's patched hat with a flourish. Lockhart paused to sip his drink, gearing up for another spiel, when Dumbledore suddenly stood, gazing toward a corner of the hall. Lockhart broke into a coughing fit.
The chatter died down as students turned curiously toward the spot—but there was nothing to see. Just as confusion set in, a horse's whinny echoed from outside. Then, a translucent horse's head emerged through the wall, followed by its neck, its body, and then a second horse, a third… The tables erupted in gasps as each horse appeared, tethered by a long rein to a headless knight trailing behind. The ghostly steeds circled the hall, their headless riders drifting like the world's ugliest kites.
The spectral horses and knights made two laps before halting in front of the staff table. The knights clumsily mounted their steeds, then rummaged in large sacks at their waists, pulling out their heads. The lead knight produced a horn from somewhere, shoved it into the mouth of the head he was holding, and puffed out his cheeks. A long, resonant blast echoed through the hall.
The students froze, then burst into applause a few seconds later.
"Welcome," Dumbledore announced, "to the Headless Hunt, who've traveled far to deliver a spectacular performance."
"It's… pretty wild," Terry said, clapping, wide-eyed.
The headless knights launched into a sort of baseball game—naturally, using their own heads as the balls. The students watched, dumbstruck, as a dozen heads flew about. The ghosts had another act up their sleeves: somehow, they transformed to look like mere skeletons, then wove through the students in neat formation, chanting a rhythmic war cry that sounded like an ancient battle song.
When the performance ended, the troupe zoomed off, as if rushing to their next gig.
The students snapped out of their daze, erupting into excited chatter about the show. The hall buzzed with energy. Hodge glanced around, then quietly slipped out of the Great Hall.
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