Sir Nicholas listened to the barrage of questions, feeling as if his nearly severed head might finally burst. If he weren't Gryffindor's resident ghost, he'd have vanished through the wall in a heartbeat. Instead, he floated up to the ceiling, straightened his head, and bellowed for silence.
"All right! One at a time!
First of all, that's a private matter between the Professor and Peeves. I'm not about to gossip behind the Professor's back...
Yes, it's true, and thankfully, Professor Holmes has promised us all that such things won't appear at Hogwarts again...
As for the binding rope spell—well, I imagine it's an exceptionally powerful magic. Sadly, it's not Dark Magic, or we might have...
Ahem, what I mean is, you lot wouldn't be able to learn it, and I wouldn't recommend trying..."
With these almost perfunctory answers, Sir Nicholas finally fended off the students' curiosity. But before he could drift away, he cleared his throat and added:
"I'm glad to have answered so many of your questions.
But I have something to ask of you as well...
Well, not so much ask as invite you to participate...
This Halloween, the ghosts are throwing a banquet of our own.
Spectres from all over Britain will be gathering here that night.
Of course, the main reason is to celebrate my—Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington's—five-hundredth Deathday!
A truly special occasion!
Would you all be willing to attend?"
He looked around, hope shining in his ghostly eyes.
The students did not disappoint—hands shot up all around the room.
Then someone piped up, "Will the ghost banquet have loads of delicious food like the Great Hall?"
Sir Nicholas looked mortally offended. "No! Not a single dish!
It's just a cold, dark, ordinary dungeon classroom.
Surely you can't expect ghosts to enjoy fine cuisine!"
Instantly, the enthusiasm evaporated.
One after another, students mumbled excuses—maybe they'd see how they felt on the day...
Someone noticed the Weasley twins heading for the dormitory.
"Oh no, George and Fred are off for a bath! I've got to beat them there or the whole place will reek!"
The realization spread like wildfire. Books were abandoned as students bolted for the stairs.
In a flash, only a handful remained in the common room, mostly Prefects—after all, they had their own bathrooms.
Hermione began gathering up the stray textbooks, grumbling,
"George and Fred can't even get into the girls' bathroom—so why are the girls so worked up?
Why didn't you two go?" she asked.
Ron shrugged. "The boys' bathroom isn't that big. We always take turns anyway. Trust me, there'll be a stampede back out soon enough."
Harry, half to himself, wondered if anyone was really going for a bath at all.
Everyone had heard Nearly Headless Nick's story, but no one wanted to promise to visit a place no living person would willingly go.
They were all looking for any excuse to dodge it... Dodge?
Suddenly, Harry realized—why was he still here?
He glanced at Hermione tidying up, and at Ron sneakily trying to peek at unfinished homework.
Then he turned—and found Sir Nicholas looming over him, eyes positively pleading.
Startled, Harry nearly dropped his book.
"Harry!
I must apologize for my earlier tone.
You know, this ghost banquet isn't easy to organize. Dumbledore was kind enough to let us use a dungeon classroom...
But nowadays, because of a certain Professor, it's even harder to book a room...
We really can't very well ask for living food to be served, just for you...
But I do think it would be a rare spectacle for you—imagine it, every ghost in Britain..."
Looking into Sir Nicholas's hopeful, pitiful face, Harry's heart melted.
"All right, Nick. I suppose I'll come. I'm sure Ron and Hermione will join too.
A banquet like that—well, we'll never forget it!
Don't be upset!"
The effect was immediate. Sir Nicholas's pearly features seemed to glow, and—was that a blush?
Nearby, Ron and Hermione were locked in a race—who could consult more homework before she packed it all away?
Neither noticed that, thanks to Harry's moment of weakness and curiosity, their Halloween was now promised to the ghosts.
Sir Nicholas gushed, "Thank you, thank you!
You know, we were about to cancel the whole thing, but now—
Anyway, I must share this wonderful news with the others!
And see if the Fat Friar's found anyone!"
With that, he plunged through the floor and vanished.
Harry was left blinking in confusion.
What did I just agree to?
Why does it sound like the whole banquet depends on me?
Is it my five-hundredth deathday or something?
And why are ghosts still out looking for people? I thought I was supposed to be special!
...
Saturday morning.
Douglas dressed himself immaculately, donning a set of vintage yet elegant robes.
He set off toward Hogsmeade.
For this interview, he had even rescheduled the fifth-year practical exam to tomorrow.
On the road to Hogsmeade, a crowd of students clustered around him.
Most had no idea what Professor Holmes was up to, but seeing him so formally dressed, they were convinced something exciting was afoot.
What if, like last time, the Professor got in a good mood and treated everyone?
They weren't about to miss out on another windfall.
As they passed Honeydukes, the owner, Ambrosius Flume, called out loudly,
"To celebrate Honeydukes' partner, Professor Holmes, becoming a renowned author—today, every purchase in our shop—"
Not only did Douglas glance at the shopkeeper in surprise, but every student in and out of the shop lit up with excitement. Here it comes! They'd finally caught a legendary moment!
The owner grinned and continued,
"All purchases today are 1% off!
Come, let me show you some of the candies Professor Holmes invented as a student..."
Even if it wasn't a full treat on the Professor, a discount like this was a rare event—usually reserved for holidays.
Even Dumbledore didn't get discounts at Honeydukes.
The students surged forward.
The owner winked at Douglas before turning to serve the crowd.
Douglas smiled wryly. This was his idea, after all.
Once upon a time, magical shops almost never offered sales or promotions—after all, there was hardly any competition in wizarding Britain.
Still, the Honeydukes owner had tried out Douglas's discount strategy.
It hadn't caused quite the stampede you'd see in the Muggle world, but business was definitely up.
Before Douglas could continue his leisurely stroll, Mr. Slane darted out of the Three Broomsticks,
grabbed him by the arm, and hustled him inside.
"Merlin's beard, what are you doing—parading around like you own the place? Inspecting your territory?
I've invited a very special journalist just for this.
Don't keep them waiting!"
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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