Sir Nicholas's death anniversary banquet was held in a spot perfectly suited for the mood—the castle's underground chamber, not far from the Slytherin common room.
Louis timed his departure precisely, and it wasn't long before he ran into two familiar faces—Harry and Ron, both looking constipated with regret.
"Good evening, Harry. Ron," Louis greeted as he walked up. "You two heading to Nick's deathday banquet as well?"
"Louis? Evening," Harry replied with a weak smile. "Yeah, we are… though honestly, I'm starting to regret it."
"Yeah," Ron sighed. "Heard Headmaster Dumbledore invited a skeleton dance troupe for tonight. Guess we're missing that."
"A skeleton dance? Watching bones can't be half as interesting as watching ghosts," Louis said, snapping his pocket watch shut. "Come on, I don't know what ghostly etiquette looks like, but being late is never polite."
The three arrived at a long corridor. Before they even stepped in, both Harry and Ron shivered.
The pitch-black passage was lit by flickering blue candles, their ghostly light making the air even colder and more sinister. Just one glance sent goosebumps crawling down their arms.
Thankfully, Louis's calm presence steadied them. He looked so utterly unfazed, as though nothing about this place was unusual, that Harry and Ron forced themselves to be brave and followed.
At the end of the corridor stood Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—formerly Nearly Headless Nick, now properly headless. He was stationed at the door to greet his guests, wearing an expression that couldn't decide whether it was mournful or cheerful—something complex in between.
"Good evening, my friends. I'm delighted you could come," Nick said, tipping his feathered hat in a bow. "Please, go right in."
As the doors opened, a shrill screech—like ten fingernails dragging across a blackboard—pierced the air. Even the first note felt like it could rip one's soul straight out of their body.
Harry and Ron immediately clamped their hands over their ears, grimacing in pain. Louis, however, remained perfectly calm.
"Louis, don't you think that's unbearably loud?" Harry yelled, but seeing no response, he tapped Louis on the arm.
Louis turned, and Harry repeated himself.
"That's because I ruptured my eardrums," Louis said flatly.
Before entering, he had faintly heard the "music" leaking from the hall and had a bad feeling. So he had simply burst his own eardrums—and even suppressed his regeneration to keep them from healing too soon.
Simple and brutal.
"Your… your eardrums??" Harry and Ron gawked at him, glancing at Louis's ears—sure enough, there was a trace of blood.
"But… how can you hear us, then?" Ron asked in disbelief.
"Lip reading," Louis replied, already striding into the hall to look around.
The ghostly banquet hall resembled a typical feast in layout—though certainly not in atmosphere. This wasn't like a Hogwarts student dinner, which was all about eating. This was something else entirely—eerily ceremonial.
In the center, the dance floor was packed with both familiar and unfamiliar ghosts, spinning wildly to the screeching, hellish music, their movements exaggerated like a frenzy of demons.
Louis even spotted a few ghosts juggling their own detached body parts. He couldn't help but wonder just how they'd died—some clearly in pieces.
He also saw Peeves and Moaning Myrtle; even they'd been invited. It seemed this whole affair was more of an excuse for ghosts to have fun than a solemn remembrance.
It was… suitably underworld-like.
Around the hall, tables were lined with all manner of dishes—varied and extravagant, though with one fatal flaw: none were edible.
Indeed, the spread was filled with raw, decaying food emitting an overwhelming stench. Anyone foolish enough to take a bite would probably need Louis's healing magic afterward—he'd even offer it for free as a "heroic reward."
At the center of the tables stood a tombstone-shaped cake, surrounded by all the other offerings like stars around the moon. Carved across it was Sir Nicholas's date of death.
"1492… so it really has been five hundred years," Louis murmured, pinching his nose shut and holding his breath.
The stench was absolutely inhuman—enough to knock a man out.
Ghosts, having lost most of their senses, seemed to crave stronger stimuli; only the most piercing sounds and foulest odors could thrill them. That explained the awful music and the nauseating food.
The party would likely last until dawn—after all, ghosts didn't need sleep. But Harry and Ron did.
Before long, both had grown restless and decided to leave.
"That's a shame," Nick said regretfully. "Won't you stay for the cake-cutting?"
"Uh, well, Nick, we…" Harry hesitated, wanting to say he was starving for real food, but afraid of hurting Nick's feelings.
"No, Nick," Louis interjected. "We need to go eat something actually edible. If we tried eating any of this, I'd have to take them straight to Madam Pomfrey afterward."
He continued bluntly, "Next time you host one of these events and invite the living, you might want to prepare something digestible—for us, I mean."
"Oh dear, I completely forgot," Nick said apologetically. "This feast only happens once every fifty years—I didn't even think of that. My apologies."
"It's fine. Just remember for next time," Louis said, reading Nick's lips easily. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye," Nick said, waving after them as they departed.
Once they escaped the eerie hall, Harry and Ron both sighed in relief.
"Merlin, I think my nose just came back to life," Ron said, inhaling deeply. "I'm starving—if we hurry, we might still catch pudding in the Great Hall!"
Harry's stomach growled too, but he turned to Louis instead. "Louis, do you need to see Madam Pomfrey about your ears?"
"No need—they're already healed," Louis said, tapping his ear. "Just needed a simple bit of healing magic."
"Lucky you," Ron muttered bitterly. "If only I could do that with my wand."
Since breaking his wand, Ron's classwork had been disastrous, earning him several detentions.
"That's not possible," Louis replied. "If you want it fixed, ask Dumbledore—or go to Ollivander's in Diagon Alley."
The three chatted as they climbed the stairs, heading for dessert in the Great Hall.
But just then, a sharp, piercing meow echoed from the corridor above.
"What was that?" Harry and Ron exclaimed.
Louis frowned. He recognized that sound instantly.
That was Hastur's cry—his own cat's. And it was coming from the third floor.
What the hell?
Was the basilisk skipping Filch's cat this time—and going after his instead?!
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