Chapter 320: The War Caused by the Death Anniversary Banquet
"Nick—hey, um, where's Ms. Grey?" Harry asked, leaning slightly toward Nearly Headless Nick, who was desperately trying to shovel food into his mouth without making a mess.
Even with all the care in the world, the ghostly feast wasn't cooperating. The juice from the spectral roast seeped straight through the floor and vanished, as if the ground itself refused to acknowledge it.
Nick, normally the most animated and cheerful of the ghosts—second only to the Bloody Baron in creepiness—looked utterly defeated.
"She doesn't like noisy environments," he replied in a long-suffering tone. "But honestly, I suspect she's embarrassed to be seen eating."
He lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially.
"She is a lady, after all. And she hasn't eaten in a thousand years. The moment she starts, her table manners might… slip."
Nick swallowed a piece of what looked like a very dry pie. Ron was already piling food onto his plate like a man preparing for winter.
"Why don't you drink something instead?" Ron asked between scoops.
"So!"
Nick straightened indignantly. "Just look at how I eat!"
Before Harry or Ron could react, Nick's elegant hand shot up to grab his left ear. With a practiced tug—
Pop.
His head slid off the neck and tilted backward on ghostly hinges.
The sudden opening sent half-chewed ghostly food flying out of his exposed esophagus like a cursed fountain. A cold wave splattered the nearby tables, prompting screams of surprise and disgust.
"Gah!" Lisa DuPin, who had been distractedly staring at Riddle at the staff table, inhaled sharply—and swallowed the ghostly residue by accident. It passed right through her body and disappeared into the marble floor beneath.
"Hey—Nick! Watch it!" Ron shielded his food with both hands. It didn't help. The ghostly mush passed directly through his fingers and soaked the potatoes underneath.
Harry let out a relieved sigh as a chunk shot straight toward his head—but he dodged expertly, instincts from Quidditch kicking in. Dean didn't notice anything; residue went through his hair without resistance.
"Sorry!" Nick yelped, scrambling to snap his head back into place. It bounced once and settled… which only made the food splatter wider.
Even Draco Malfoy—sitting at the extreme end of the Slytherin table—was struck by a tragic, cold, slimy ghost-glob.
Every student turned toward Nick with a mix of irritation and disbelief.
Nick wilted visibly. His expression folded into the saddest, most aristocratic misery Harry had ever seen.
He had always been a ghost with standards—long curled hair, feathered hat, ruffled collar, knee-length tunic. The image of an English noble… whose head happened to hang by a flap of ghostly skin and tendons.
"You okay?" Harry asked kindly.
Nick waved a delicate hand with theatrical grace. "Ah—just a trifle… I simply must be more careful. I thought avoiding juicy dishes would help, but—" He tapped his half-severed neck bitterly. "One forgets one's… unfortunate vulnerabilities."
His voice sounded calm, but the heartbreak was written across his transparent face.
"Tell me this," he suddenly burst out. "Why am I so unlucky? First I'm hacked forty-four times with a blunt axe and still fail to get my head off—so I'm rejected from the Headless Hunt. And now? I can't even enjoy food or wine without creating a spectacle!"
"The Hunt rejected you because your head isn't completely off, right?" Harry said without thinking.
Ron nudged him sharply. "Mate—not the time."
But Nick didn't take offense.
"Yes!" he cried. "Anyone with eyes can see that my condition is functionally identical to decapitation! But Mr. de Pompadour—being fully headless—insists it's not enough."
He sighed dramatically.
Harry brightened. "But your way should be better than his, right? He can't even pretend to eat. You—well—you can show him up at your party!"
Nick froze.
Then—
"My Deathday party!" he gasped. "Of course! This Halloween marks my 500th! My friends will be coming from all over Britain. If you attend—oh, Harry—it would be the greatest honor!"
He leaned forward earnestly.
"And imagine the expression on those Headless Hunters when you witness them dribbling food everywhere."
Harry grinned. "Sure, I'll come. Ron?"
"Why not?" Ron shrugged. "Not many living people get to brag about going to a ghost's Deathday party."
"We want to go too!" Ginny and Neville chimed in excitedly—they'd been eavesdropping for a while.
"Splendid! Absolutely splendid!" Nick spun in delighted circles.
Not far away, Alexander Smith glanced at Hermione, whose ears had been tilted in their direction the whole time.
"Aren't you the least bit curious?" Alexander teased. "Why not join them?"
"They're all ridiculous," Hermione sniffed. "I've read about Deathday parties. Ghosts gather in the basement, hovering over rotting, smelly food because they can't taste it properly."
"But," she added primly, "this year will be different."
"Oh?" Alexander raised a brow.
"When Nick asks Professor Dumbledore for a venue, he'll let them use the Great Hall. Halloween wouldn't be Halloween without ghosts."
"I think you're forgetting something," Alexander replied lightly.
"And that is?"
"There will be lots of ghosts. Too many ghosts. And when ghosts gather… it gets freezing. I bet Dumbledore puts them somewhere underground."
"That's not true at all!" Hermione snapped. "Your predictions are as absurd as the nymph-hooks you mentioned before!"
Luna, who had been quietly standing beside them, lifted her gaze.
Her expression was calm—but Alexander noticed the flicker of anger when Hermione insulted the nymph-hooks.
"Nymph-hooks are real," Luna said quietly but firmly. "They live in mistletoe. They resemble maggots, but longer and black. Adults have five thousand teeth and juveniles have three thousand. Their tails have sickle-shaped hooks, and they have three eyes. Their lifespan is about twenty years."
Hermione opened her mouth, but Alexander gently tugged her sleeve before she could start another argument.
He had a feeling this Halloween was going to be… eventful.
(End of Chapter)
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