"It's not exactly like that," Hermione shook her head. "I think Nick actually cares quite a bit about his death... Getting hacked at forty-four times with a blunt axe can't possibly feel good."
"What are you lot talking about?" Ron, freshly cleaned up, descended the stairs alongside Sirius.
"We're talking about the Deathday Party," Neville replied casually. "Honestly, I'm a bit skeptical about the ghosts' taste—they can't eat living people's food, can they? So, is Nick's celebration really suitable for us?"
"Oh, Neville," Ron plopped down carelessly. "Don't worry. Harry's a professor now. He can have the house-elves in the kitchen whip up food and deliver it straight to him whenever he wants. As long as we're at Hogwarts, we'll never go hungry."
Ron had enjoyed this professor privilege plenty of times.
In Harry's name, of course.
"Deathday Party?" Sirius's expression turned odd. "You're going to a ghost's banquet?"
"Yeah, Nick invited us," Harry said, catching the shift in Sirius's tone. "Why? Have you been to one?"
"Not quite," Sirius shook his head, his face barely hiding a smirk. "But I know what ghosts like. Oh, you're in for a lovely evening."
"Your face is practically screaming that there's a catch," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Sirius, are you planning another prank?"
"Me? Never," Sirius said with mock seriousness. "I just think it's a valuable experience for you young folks to try different things. Not every place is like Hogwarts, crawling with ghosts."
He had a point, but Sirius might as well have had "I'm up to no good" written across his forehead.
Still, judging by his expression, it didn't seem dangerous.
They didn't linger in the office long. As night fully settled, and after Ron dried his hair, the group hurriedly made their way to the castle, carefully avoiding other students heading to the Great Hall for dinner. They followed Nick's instructions to a secluded underground classroom.
Sirius solemnly declined Harry's invitation to join them, saying he'd wait in the Great Hall.
"Honestly, I'm starting to regret this," Ron said, his face growing paler the closer they got to Nick's party. "Is it really okay for living people like us to attend a dead person's bash?"
"You already agreed, Ron," Hermione said sharply. "You can't back out of a promise."
"But wasn't it Harry who promised Nick?" Ron muttered under his breath but kept walking.
Like the rest of the castle, the corridor was lit with candles, but not the warm, orange glow that felt cozy. These were thin, black candles that flickered with an eerie blue light, casting a ghastly pallor on their faces.
Even with their trained bodies, they could feel a distinct chill, growing colder the closer they got to the classroom. A faint, unsettling sound—like countless fingernails scraping a blackboard—echoed in the distance.
Ghosts didn't bother with conventional paths. Harry and the others occasionally saw specters drifting through walls, heading in the same direction, some casting curious glances at the living but keeping their distance.
Nearly Headless Nick stood waiting at the corner of the classroom's entrance. Upon seeing Harry and the others, he greeted them in a mournful tone, "Welcome, Harry, and all of you—thank you for coming. I'm truly delighted…"
"What's wrong, Nick?" Harry asked. "You don't seem yourself. Something upsetting you?"
"Yeah, yeah," Ron nodded eagerly. "It's your Deathday! You should be cheering up."
Hermione shot Ron a glare.
"It's just—come on, be fair!" Nick's voice suddenly flared with anger. "Does someone who's been hacked at forty-four times with a blunt axe qualify for the Headless Hunt or not?!"
He yanked at his head as if to throw it, but the thin strip of flesh connecting it to his neck held firm, no matter how hard he tried.
"Clearly, you do," Ron said quickly, sensing what Nick wanted to hear.
"Exactly!" Nick took a deep breath, glancing at the ghosts already gathered in the classroom. His mood steadied slightly. "But apparently, to Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, it's not enough."
"So that's what's been bothering you?" Harry asked.
"What else would it be?" Nick shot back. "Can you help me, Harry? Everyone knows you're a dab hand with soul-related matters—no other wizard could bring souls back from that place."
"Happy to help," Harry said with a light chuckle. "Can you pull your head a bit more? Let me see that last bit of connection."
"Of course!" Nick, momentarily stunned, burst into ecstatic joy. He dropped to the ground in front of Harry, tugging his head to one side with one hand.
"This might hurt a bit. Bear with it."
It was a simple process. Harry condensed his soul energy into a small blade and sliced through the remaining flesh connecting Nick's head to his neck.
It was like cutting butter with a hot knife—the thin strip gave way without resistance.
Nick's condition plummeted instantly. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but the overwhelming pain left him silent, his once-opaque form dimming as if he might vanish entirely.
"Merlin's beard," Neville swallowed hard, nervous. "Harry, Gryffindor's ghost isn't going to disappear for good, is he?"
"Of course not," Harry shook his head. "This is just a reaction to soul damage. Nick just needs time to recover, and he'll be fine."
"Exactly, Neville, I'm fine," Nick's voice was jubilant. He held his now fully detached head in front of him, staring at it in awe. "My word—it's off! It's finally off!"
"Er, Nick?" Hermione asked cautiously. Nick's behavior seemed… unhinged, and he barely registered her words.
"I can join the Headless Hunt!"
With a sudden, gleeful shout, Nick ignored his weakened state and kicked his head toward the center of the banquet. The flying head cackled wildly, drawing the attention of every ghost in the room. Some of Nick's friends whistled and cheered, and a few even kicked their own heads in sync.
Hermione: "…"
The scene was so surreal she was at a loss for words.
Nick's body, meanwhile, bowed politely, inviting them into the classroom before floating off on its own.
"That's… horrifying," Ron muttered, touching his neck. "Kicking your own head? Is that the Headless Hunt's game?"
"Probably," Neville said, looking even more nervous. "Are we sure we should go in?"
The ghosts' revelry had reached a new peak. The classroom was filled with specters zipping about, and Neville had no desire to be passed through—last year, he'd accidentally walked through a ghost and caught a terrible cold the next day.
"Don't be scared, Neville," Ron said, swallowing hard and clenching his fists. "You don't want to regret missing a ghost's centuries-old Deathday Party in a decade or two, do you? We might only get one shot at this."
Ron's words convinced Neville. With a "we're already here" mentality, they stepped inside.
In the bone-chilling cold caused by the gathering of so many ghosts, their heightened senses immediately picked up a nauseating stench.
Large chunks of rotting meat sat on pristine plates along the banquet table. The cake—if it could still be called that—was charred black. Pies crawled with wriggling maggots, and the cheese was covered in green mold.
At the center of the table stood a massive, tombstone-shaped gray cake, adorned with blackened icing spelling out Nick's full name and date of death.
Even Harry, who'd explored Karazhan with Jaina Proudmoore, felt his scalp tingle. At the time of their visit, Karazhan's ghostly banquet had long since decayed to ash. And with Medivh's resurrection, the weathered Guardian still resided in that dark, Fel-infused tower, maintaining the eternal banquet of its spectral inhabitants, their food and drink reduced to translucent echoes.
Tauren weren't exactly carrion-eaters.
"Hello?" Harry couldn't help but ask. "Can you actually taste food like this?"
Before them, a lady ghost in an ancient robe drifted straight through the table's offerings, her mouth open.
"Oh, perhaps," the ghost replied, her tone turning melancholic. "I like to think so."
With that, she floated away from the somber scene.
"So they let the food rot to make the flavor stronger?" Hermione said, pinching her nose. "By that logic, could Uncle James and Aunt Lily eat something too?"
"No way, absolutely not," Harry said firmly. "Unlike these ghosts, they've never truly returned to this world. Unless it's soul energy used for attack or healing, they can't interact with anything in the living world."
"Besides, I doubt James would ever let himself eat rotting food," Ron quipped. "Can we leave? I'm about to be sick."
No sane person would argue with that.
Though the ghostly banquet's food was far from friendly to the living, Harry summoned Alfred—Dobby's alias for this mission—and had him bring several hearty meat pies and warm butterbeer. Even Ron had no complaints, happily patting his stomach while curiously observing the eclectic ghosts.
If you approached it with a mindset of experiencing something rare, Nick's Deathday Party was actually quite fascinating. The ghosts' conversations and the banquet's entertainment were unlike anything you'd find at a living person's feast.
With his head fully detached, Nick shed his earlier gloom. He floated around, proudly showing off his achievement to every ghost present. Soon, every specter knew it was the Boy Who Lived who'd granted Nick's wish.
More importantly, that boy wielded power over spirits.
Ghosts began approaching Harry's group, most out of curiosity, but a few made requests—asking Harry to "work his knife" on them.
Under the stunned gazes of Hermione and the others, Harry performed four "surgeries" in under ten minutes… or rather, he successfully beheaded four ghosts.
These departed souls seemed to lack certain emotions. Despite their ear-splitting screams or agonized expressions during the process, they eagerly gathered around, pointing and chattering—as if the louder the screams, the more excited they became.
Because so much had to be cut, these ghosts' forms grew even fainter than Nick's had, teetering on the edge of vanishing. Yet, once the pain subsided, they were more thrilled than ever… kicking their heads about like footballs.
"I bet they're desperately short on entertainment," Neville said woodenly.
"Or maybe centuries of unchanging existence have left them bored," Hermione said, rubbing her stiff cheeks. "Look—more ghosts are lining up for Harry's 'head-chopping surgery.'"
Everything she'd seen today defied her imagination. Hermione was sure her father would love this story—ghosts kicking their own heads around for fun.
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