Chapter 66
When Nick knelt, the air in the Room of Requirement grew strange. Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth in shock.
After all, according to the old saying, one should never allow their elder to kneel to them—such a gesture was a weight heavier than life itself. How could Sir Nicholas, a five-hundred-year-old ghost, bow his head to him?
Not to mention, this was Britain—a land steeped in its own antiquated customs—and Nick's gesture carried a formality reminiscent of a royal court. Hermione instinctively wanted to shrink back, as if witnessing something she was not meant to see.
Hurrying to preserve some dignity for both of them, Albert said quickly,
"Sir Nick, if there is anything you need from me, please speak plainly. Don't make yourself appear like this—I cannot bear such courtesy."
Nick seemed to snap back to himself, his face flushing with embarrassment.
"My apologies—I was overcome with excitement. But… I truly do have something important I need your help with."
As he spoke, he tugged at his ears, then rotated his spectral head. Hermione gasped audibly behind Albert, and a prickling unease crept down his spine.
At last, Nick said quietly, "Look… I was struck forty-four times in the neck by a heavy axe. I wanted a clean, dignified execution—but instead, it was botched, a shameful mess. Because of this, I was left in this pitiful state, and after my death I was even denied entrance into the Headless Hunt."
Albert saw the ghost's expression flicker with both shame and resentment.
"They did not suffer as I did," Nick continued bitterly, "but because their heads were fully severed, they were welcomed while I was pushed aside. So…" He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. "Albert, you've seen that your sword can wound a ghost. I want to ask you… to help me finish what the executioner could not. Sever the last bit of skin."
Albert hesitated, a knot tightening in his chest. Cutting a man's neck—even if it was only a ghost's—was not a request to take lightly.
"You know," Albert said carefully, "in Britain, complete decapitation has long been a solemn symbol. In the old days, even executioners sometimes left a sliver of flesh out of a grim sort of courtesy. Are you… certain you want to do this?"
Nick's voice was low but firm. "I have been certain for nearly five centuries. You need not worry about such traditions. In the end, this is the United Kingdom, and customs change. Please—help a friend repay a small favor."
Albert glanced helplessly at Hermione. She twisted her hands over her chest, staring down at her shoes, clearly unsettled by the morbid request.
After a long silence, Hermione finally raised her head. "I… I think living as 'Nearly Headless' for five hundred years must be unbearable. The humiliation he carries—it's cruel. Albert… if you can help him, you should. He's our Gryffindor ghost."
Hermione's reasoning struck true. Albert exhaled slowly, then lifted his head to meet Nick's anxious eyes.
"Very well," he said at last. "I'll help you. But you must never speak of this to anyone."
"Rest assured," Nick swore solemnly, "I will tell no soul. I swear it in the name of Sir Boppington!"
Albert nodded. Nick gripped his head with both translucent hands, lifting it slightly, while Albert drew in a deep breath, reminding himself that he was dealing with the dead. Then, he raised the Calamus Sword and brought it down in a swift, clean arc at the thin sliver of spectral flesh connecting head to neck.
There was a soft snap. The last bit of ghostly tissue fell away, and Nick's head slipped from his hands, bouncing once toward the ceiling in his overexcitement.
Perhaps because he was now truly headless, Sir Nicholas's body wavered strangely for a moment. It took some time before he managed to reorient himself, placing his head back upon his shoulders with a newfound ease.
Albert could see the difference immediately. Nick's aura shone brighter, his entire form luminous with joy.
He twirled in midair in a jubilant, wobbly dance, then finally floated to Albert, beaming.
"Thank you! You've fulfilled a wish I've held for hundreds of years. I will never forget this—you are my friend forever."
After the day's unusual work, Albert and Hermione prepared to leave the Room of Requirement. Nick asked Albert to keep his transformation a secret for now—he wanted his grand debut to stun the guests at the banquet.
As they walked toward the library, Hermione asked curiously,
"Are ghosts really so different from us in the end? I can't imagine any living person making such a bizarre request."
Albert shrugged. "I've read that most ghosts are much the same as they were in life. But death leaves its mark—and some cling to obsessions. Clearly, Nick's was his neck… and that led to this rather unusual solution."
Days passed quickly, and Halloween arrived. The Great Hall was adorned with fluttering bats and jack-o'-lanterns, casting a warm orange glow.
It was said Dumbledore had invited a band to perform that evening.
"I don't get it," Ron muttered to Albert and Hermione as they prepared to descend to the dungeons. "Why would you go to some cold, damp ghost party when the Halloween feast has extra desserts?"
"Because there's more to life than eating," Hermione retorted primly, tugging Albert along toward the stone stairwell.
On the way, Albert handed Hermione a prepared rune slip. "Staying with the dead too long isn't healthy. Keep this on you—it will protect you from any lingering chill."
"Is this from your Heavenly Family grimoire?" Hermione asked, turning the slip over in her hands. "It's nothing like our old British runes."
The dungeon corridor was lit with small black candles and a faint ghostly glow. Albert had to admit, Nick had created an atmosphere far more fitting for Halloween than the warm, bustling Great Hall above.
With each step downward, the air grew colder. Fortunately, the rune slip activated, forming a subtle barrier against the chilling touch of the dead.
The eerie scrape of ghostly nails against slate echoed in the corridor—perhaps the music of the departed.
At last, they reached the door of the underground classroom. There stood Nick, now fully headless, dressed in his finest, greeting each guest with old-world courtesy.
"Welcome, my dear friends!" He doffed his hat and bowed. "Please, come in. Thanks to your help, I believe this will be the grandest ghostly banquet in Britain in three centuries!"
The temperature dropped sharply as Albert and Hermione stepped inside, their breath misting. In the cleared classroom—now a temporary ballroom—hundreds of ghosts swirled in a spectral dance. On the stage, a ghostly band played their mournful instruments, while thousands of blue-flamed candles in a chandelier cast a soft, otherworldly light.
"This…" Hermione whispered with awe, her breath visible in the cold air, "this feels more like a true wizarding Halloween than anything upstairs."
To be continued…