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October had arrived. After weeks of Wednesday training sessions in September, Loki, Lilian, and Malfoy had each finally formed their own magic strings and learned three or four beginner-level spells in their own magical elements.
The temperature at Hogwarts dropped sharply, a damp chill seeping into every corner of the grounds and sneaking into the castle.
A wave of colds swept through the staff and students, leaving Madam Pomfrey run off her feet in the hospital wing. Her energizing potion worked like a charm—but anyone who drank it would have steam puffing out of their ears for hours afterward.
Rain pelted the castle windows like bullets, day after day without stopping. The lake rose, flowerbeds turned to mudslides, and Hagrid's pumpkins were growing so big they could've been used as greenhouses.
In the Hogwarts library, Augustus was lounging in a soft armchair, nose deep in The Complete Guide to Dragon Tongue Spells. Dragon-language magic in this world was fascinating—it used a tonal rhythm that, when studied, could reveal some of the underlying patterns in magical phonetics.
Outside, the rain kept pouring. The sky was dark as ink, but inside, the castle was bright and cheerful. Firelight flickered across dozens of cozy armchairs where students were reading, chatting, or working on homework.
Fred and George Weasley were off to the side, experimenting to see what would happen if you fed a fire salamander some Exploding Bonbons. Fred had "rescued" the bright orange lizard from Care of Magical Creatures class, and now it sat smoldering moodily on a table, surrounded by a curious crowd.
Suddenly, the salamander shot into the air and started spinning around the room, spewing sparks with loud pop-pop explosions. Percy stormed over, shouting hoarsely at Fred and George. The salamander spat out orange-red stars as it darted around, the bursts getting louder and louder—until finally, it launched itself into the fireplace with a bang.
Augustus chuckled and shook his head, then went back to reading his book.
"Mr. Augustus, you're in the library too?" a voice said from behind. Augustus looked up to see Harry standing there, soaked and muddy, looking a bit embarrassed.
"What happened to you? Why haven't you changed into clean clothes?" Augustus asked, raising an eyebrow. Was this some weird Halloween costume?
"I just got back from Quidditch practice and didn't have time to change. Filch caught me, and after I finally got away from him, Nearly Headless Nick stopped me and invited me to his Deathday Party. So I've kinda been running around nonstop," Harry explained, pushing up his glasses.
"A Deathday Party? A party for ghosts?" Augustus suddenly looked intrigued. "Actually, that sounds pretty interesting. Mind if I tag along? A ghost party's gotta be something to see."
"Sure, we're meeting in the Great Hall at seven. I'll go find Ron and Hermione—pretty sure they'll be up for it too," Harry said with a nod before hurrying out of the library.
At seven sharp, Augustus, Harry, Ron, and Hermione met in the Great Hall and headed straight for the passage that led to the crowded banquet hall. The Great Hall itself was lit up with candles and decorated for Halloween, golden plates glinting on the tables—but the group passed right by, heading toward the dungeons.
The corridor to Nearly Headless Nick's party was already lit with candles, but they were thin, grimy black ones that glowed a cold blue. Even that eerie light made their living faces look ghostly and pale. With every step, the air grew colder.
Harry shivered and pulled his robes tight around him. Then came the sound—like a thousand fingernails scraping down a giant chalkboard.
"That's supposed to be music?" Ron muttered under his breath.
"Well, you can't expect ghosts to have the same taste in sound," Augustus said with a small smile.
They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a door, wrapped in black velvet drapery.
"My dearest friends," he said mournfully, "Welcome, welcome... I'm simply thrilled you could come…"
He doffed his feathered hat and bowed deeply as he welcomed them in.
The scene inside was unbelievable. The dungeon classroom was packed with hundreds of milky-white, translucent figures drifting and floating about.
Most of them were gliding awkwardly across the dance floor to the ghastly screeching of thirty musical saws.
The saw players were stationed on a stage draped in black cloth. Above, a chandelier held a thousand candles, casting an eerie bluish glow like midnight.
The air was so cold that their breath came out in puffs—it felt like they had walked straight into a freezer.
"Let's have a look around," Harry suggested, mostly to get his feet moving again.
"Careful not to walk through anyone," Ron said nervously. They skirted around the edge of the dance floor, passing a sulky group of nuns, a ragged man in chains, and a fat friar. The Hufflepuff ghost, known for being cheerful, was chatting with a knight who had an arrow sticking out of his forehead.
Harry also spotted the Bloody Baron—no surprise there. The Slytherin ghost was gaunt, staring blankly ahead, his robes stained with ghostly silver blood. Other ghosts were giving him a wide berth.
"Oh no," Hermione suddenly stopped, whispering urgently, "Quick—turn around. I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle—"
"Who?" Augustus asked as they backtracked quickly.
"She haunts one of the girls' bathrooms," Hermione explained. "That bathroom is always flooded because she throws tantrums and sprays water everywhere. If you go in there, she screams at you and cries—it's awful."
"A ghost like that? Sounds kind of entertaining, actually," Augustus said lightly, brushing his hair back.
"Look, food!" Ron suddenly said. At the far end of the room stood a long table draped in black velvet. The three of them hurried over—then stopped in horror. The smell was overwhelming. Huge slabs of rotting meat lay on fancy silver platters. Blackened, rock-hard cakes were stacked on trays.
There were mounds of maggot-filled haggis and moldy cheese covered in green fuzz. In the middle of the table sat a massive gray tombstone-shaped cake with tar-black frosting that read:
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-PorpingtonDied October 31, 1492
Harry just stared.
At that moment, a fat ghost floated over to the table. He bent down and drifted straight through it, his mouth open wide as he passed through a stinking salmon.
"Do you actually taste it when you pass through?" Harry asked.
"Sort of," the ghost said sadly, and drifted away.
"I'm guessing they let the food rot on purpose—so the smell's stronger for the ghosts," Hermione said thoughtfully, pinching her nose and leaning in to examine the maggoty haggis.
All around them, ghosts floated through the air, their see-through bodies glowing in every shade. It was like stepping into a bizarre stage play.
Augustus's tall figure caught in the pale light stretched a long, elegant shadow behind him as he quietly took in the ghostly celebration.
"....."