Chapter 67
Albert said to Hermione, "I think we should see whether there's any real knowledge to be found here. Standing at the doorway like this feels rather silly."
Before long, they spotted a familiar ghost: the Fat Friar of Hufflepuff, who was speaking with a knight whose spectral sword was embedded in his own head.
Upon noticing them, the Fat Friar floated over cheerfully.
"I heard from Nick that you helped a great deal with this banquet," he said warmly. "So, I want to thank you as a fellow of Hogwarts."
Grateful, the Friar was about to drift away, when he saw Albert and Hermione staring, a bit dazed, at the ghosts drifting along the floor. They were patting their own heads and floating backward.
"I suppose you may not know—not every guest here is ordinary," he said with a twinkle. "Let me introduce you to someone interesting."
He led them to the knight he had been speaking with.
"This is Earl the Brave," the Friar said proudly. "He held his castle for three days during the First Goblin Rebellion until reinforcements arrived. But during a hunt—on the very day of his triumph—he was struck down by a goblin crossbowman."
"Wait—I know you!" Hermione exclaimed. "You were even mentioned in The Magical Herald as the perfect embodiment of wizardly courage and perseverance!"
"Truly?" The knight's ghostly hand rose unconsciously to the sword lodged in his head. "So my story is known? That's splendid! I spent most of my afterlife haunting an abandoned castle in Wales—I had no idea."
The Friar then introduced them to several other ghosts, each with their own remarkable history. Some had taken part in great magical events; one or two were even central figures in their era.
They were quite intrigued by Hermione, a living witch genuinely interested in their past glories. Before long, a cluster of ghosts hovered around her, eagerly recounting stories of duels, rebellions, and ancient festivals. Hermione, delighted, pulled out parchment and quill, jotting down notes as if she had discovered a living archive.
Albert, meanwhile, began to grow restless. His gaze wandered around the classroom-turned-ballroom until it landed on a long table draped in black velvet at the far end of the room.
A dozen dishes were neatly arranged upon it, each covered with a gleaming silver lid. Clearly, Nick was planning a dramatic reveal.
Several ghosts hovered near the table, whispering curiously about why he had covered the food—such theatrics were unusual for ghostly feasts.
At that moment, a mischievous voice piped up from under the table:
"Well, well! Hogwarts' own little devil. What are you up to here?"
Out popped Peeves, the poltergeist—the only true troublemaker among the spectral residents.
"Nick did me a favor, so he invited me to the party," Albert explained dryly.
"I think this banquet's a bit dull," Peeves snickered. "Why don't I liven things up?"
He seized the corner of the tablecloth, clearly intending to yank it and send all the dishes crashing.
Before he could pull, a harsh, gravelly voice rumbled from behind him.
"And just what sort of fun did you have in mind, Peeves?"
Peeves froze midair, trembling. "M-Milord! I… I wasn't doing anything! Honest!"
The Bloody Baron materialized from the shadows, his spectral hand closing firmly around Peeves's neck. His voice was low and menacing.
"I've finally caught you. Nick asked me to keep an eye on things tonight. This is his big night, and you will not ruin it. I won't have you shaming Hogwarts either."
With that, the Baron dragged the whining Peeves away.
Nick soon emerged from the crowd, sighing in relief. "Looks like your… acquaintance enjoys this party as much as you do."
Albert followed Nick's gesture to see Hermione utterly surrounded by ghosts. She was happily scribbling in her notebook, asking questions, and the spectral audience around her seemed thrilled by the attention.
"It's… quite the field study," Albert murmured. And he meant it—seeing ghosts up close like this gave him insights into the threshold between life and death, knowledge that could only improve his mastery of life magic.
"Well, I think it's about time I make my appearance on stage," said Nick, smoothing his ruffled collar before floating toward the small dais.
Moments later, the sound of ghostly hunting horns echoed through the chamber. Twenty headless horsemen galloped in, their phantom steeds charging across the dance floor. The lead rider cradled his head beneath one arm, then leapt upright and lifted it high for all to see, drawing cheers from the crowd of spirits.
The rider turned toward Nick, grinning.
"Well, Nick, is your head still dangling uselessly?"
Nick, to the astonishment of the crowd, removed his head entirely, holding it aloft in one hand. He patted the lead horseman—Patrick—on the shoulder with the other and laughed.
"Not anymore, Patrick! Thanks to a friend, I am now as headless as you. You can hardly keep me out of the Hunt now!"
Patrick, his old rival, scowled in defeat. For centuries, he had mocked Nick for being "nearly" headless. Now, at last, that taunt had lost its bite.
Still sulking, Patrick tried to stir up excitement with the other Headless Hunt members, galloping through their reckless games. The ghosts cheered, delighted by the high-energy display. Life—or afterlife—for them was often dull, and even this macabre sport felt exhilarating.
Nick tried to regain the crowd's attention with a speech, but his words, though polite, were dreadfully dull compared to the spectacle.
Albert quietly floated up to the dais and whispered, "Nick, perhaps it's time for dinner."
"Ah! How could I forget?" Nick clapped his spectral hands.
At his signal, the Bloody Baron gave a subtle nod to Peeves, who grudgingly waved a hand. One by one, the silver covers flew into the air, clattering to the floor in a cascade of metal.
A strange aroma—not quite like mortal food, but compelling in its own right—spread through the underground hall. Ghosts drifted eagerly toward the table, their curiosity piqued.
Encouraged by Hermione, the ghostly Earl reached for a massive slice of spectral roast lamb. He bit into it—and froze for a moment. Then, with wide-eyed delight, he began devouring the meat in great, frantic gulps.
Other ghosts, encouraged by his reaction, flocked to the table. Soon the banquet was in full swing. Nick raised a barrel of ghostly wine, toasting the crowd with a gleaming cup.
Patrick, seeing all attention shift to the feast, eventually abandoned his antics and joined the table as well.
It seemed that in any world—living or dead—the law of delicious aromas could not be denied.
To be continued…