"We won, Harry! We won!"
"You flew brilliantly—snatching the Snitch at the last second!"
"Did you see Malfoy's face? He looked ready to hex someone."
The hospital wing's pristine bed sat in the center of the room, surrounded by Quidditch teammates still in their scarlet-and-gold robes, faces flushed with excitement. Ron, Seamus, and Dean were there too, adding to the lively crowd.
George and Fred had brought sweets and pumpkin juice, ready to kick off an impromptu victory party.
First-year Colin hovered at the edges, snapping photos with a camera bigger than his head, capturing the team's beaming smiles—and, accidentally, Madam Pomfrey's stormy expression at the door.
She'd only stepped out to prepare some Skele-Gro, and now, holding a silver tray, she couldn't even squeeze back in.
"Merlin's beard! Are you lot trying to bring the hospital wing's ceiling down?" Madam Pomfrey roared. "Out! All non-patients, out! This boy needs rest—thirty-three bones to regrow!"
In the hospital wing, the matron's authority outranked even the Headmaster's. Even Professor McGonagall would've backed off. The students sheepishly set down their sweets and juice, filing out.
"Outrageous! Discharged this morning, and he's back within hours. What's wrong with young wizards these days? Quidditch should be banned—it's far too dangerous. Minerva and the others should enforce better protections…"
Grumbling, Madam Pomfrey poured a dose of Skele-Gro into Harry's mouth. The liquid burned, spicy and scalding, making him cough until he chugged half a glass of pumpkin juice to recover.
"Rest up. Regrowing bones isn't pleasant," she said, finishing her checks and gathering her tray. "I'll be right outside. Call if you need me."
Suddenly, the ward was quiet, just Harry alone on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Madam Pomfrey was right—regrowing bones was miserable. His arm felt limp, useless, and even the slightest movement sent sharp, stabbing pain through it.
"Damn it, who tampered with that Bludger?" he muttered.
The morning's match had been intense. Slytherin's aggressive tactics, combined with a jinxed Bludger, put Gryffindor behind early. The game looked grim, and in his rush to end it, Harry had gone all-in for the Snitch—only to be knocked off his broom by the rogue Bludger the moment he caught it.
Malfoy had bragged about a fair fight before the match, so it probably wasn't him.
Who else, then? Slytherin's players didn't exactly seem like saints.
Fuming, Harry drifted into a restless sleep.
"Ah!"
Harry jolted upright, thinking the pain in his arm had woken him.
The ward was dim, moonlight filtering through, blurring the edges of everything. His arm throbbed like it was being pricked by needles. The room was so quiet he could hear his own racing heartbeat.
Then he felt someone gently wiping his forehead with a damp cloth.
Still groggy, Harry mumbled, "Madam Pomfrey?"
"What's wrong?" came a high-pitched reply.
"Nothing… just a dream…" Harry answered instinctively, his throat dry, sweat beading on his skin. He took the cup offered from the shadowy figure, gulping down half of it. As he exhaled, ready to relax, he realized something was off about the figure beside him.
"Who are you?" Harry's eyes widened as he recognized the visitor. "Dobby!"
With a snap of fingers, the bedside lamp flickered on, illuminating the house-elf's face.
Dobby looked similar to the goblins at Gringotts—two to three feet tall but far scrawnier, with pale, wrinkled gray-green skin. His head was oversized for his frail body, with bulging green eyes, a long, pointed nose like a woodpecker's beak, and bat-like ears that flapped comically.
This was the same elf who'd crashed into the Dursleys' home over the summer, getting Harry locked up by Uncle Vernon. If Ron and the others hadn't helped, he might still be trapped there.
Harry's annoyance flared. He hadn't even settled the score, and now Dobby had the nerve to show up at Hogwarts!
Dobby stared at him, tears welling in his eyes, rolling down his long nose as he sniffled. "Harry Potter came back to school, ignoring Dobby's warning. You didn't even catch the train—why didn't you go home?"
"How do you know I missed the train?" Harry froze, noticing Dobby's guilty expression. A realization hit him. "You did it! You sealed the platform!?"
House-elves couldn't lie easily and often punished themselves when guilty. In just a few questions, Harry got the truth: Dobby had blocked the platform, and he was also behind the rogue Bludger.
All because he admired Harry and wanted to "save" him.
"There's a plot, sir," Dobby said, voice trembling. "Something terrible is coming to Hogwarts. Someone made a deal with a professor, bringing one of the Dark Lord's relics into the castle. History will repeat itself, and people will get hurt."
Dobby's words spilled out in a rush, his face twisting in fear. Then he grabbed the bedside glass and started smacking it against his head. "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Betraying Master's secrets! Disloyal house-elf!"
Harry gaped as Dobby went at it with alarming force, like he meant to crack his skull. He lunged, grabbing the glass with one hand and Dobby's wrist with the other. Thinking quickly, he asked, "Who's behind it? Which professor made the deal?"
"Dobby can't say, sir, Dobby mustn't…" The elf's head shook violently, almost convulsing. As he lunged to bash his head on the cabinet, he froze, staring at the corridor.
Familiar footsteps approached, then faded—likely Madam Pomfrey on her rounds.
"Dobby must go!"
With a loud pop, the house-elf vanished.
Harry sat stunned, staring into the dim ward, leaning against the headboard as Dobby's words echoed in his mind.
A dark wizard making a deal with a Hogwarts professor, smuggling Voldemort's relic into the school to harm students… Harry's thoughts drifted to a memory from Borgin and Burkes.
Could it be Professor Levent?
No, that didn't add up. Levent had encouraged their investigation, wanted to clear Hagrid's name, and even saved them from the Acromantulas.
What about Lockhart, the new professor? He was a possibility—a bit of a fraud, though. Who'd make a deal with him?
What was this relic of Voldemort's? Who was it meant to harm?
The more Harry tried to unravel it, the more questions piled up, until his head ached worse than his regrowing bones.
---
The next morning, discharged from the hospital wing, Harry found Ron and Hermione at breakfast in the Great Hall and eagerly relayed Dobby's warning.
"Which professor could be working with a dark wizard to hurt students?" Harry whispered, glancing at the staff table.
"No question—it's got to be the old bat," Ron said without hesitation, clearly meaning Snape.
Hermione's delicate brows furrowed as she mentally sifted through the clues, but the information felt like a web of Acromantula silk—tangled, with no clear starting point.
They ate a tasteless breakfast, leaving the Great Hall without any solid leads.
Hermione decided to head to the library, hoping to "accidentally" bump into a certain shady professor and probe further. Harry and Ron planned to return to the common room to tackle homework—somehow, despite spending the weekend together, Hermione had already finished hers.
As they parted at the staircase, a translucent head dropped through the ceiling. "Harry, dear Harry…"
Ron stared, horrified.
"Nearly Headless Nick! You nearly made me lose my breakfast!" Harry exclaimed.
"Heh…" Nick floated through the wall, grinning awkwardly. "Halloween's coming up, and it's my five-hundredth deathday. I'd love for you to join my deathday party."
"?"
The three young wizards blinked in surprise.
---
October 30th, evening.
Tomorrow was Halloween—and Nearly Headless Nick's five-hundredth deathday.
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, a wizard at a Muggle court in the late 15th century, before the Statute of Secrecy, had botched a spell meant to fix a noblewoman's teeth, giving Lady Grieve tusks instead. He was arrested, his wand confiscated, and sentenced to beheading.
The executioner's rusty axe wasn't sharp enough to finish the job, leaving a thin flap of skin connecting his head. Unable to join the Headless Hunt, he earned the nickname Nearly Headless Nick.
Time meant little to ghosts, and deathdays weren't typically celebrated. But five hundred years was a milestone, and Nick saw it as a chance to shine and maybe finally impress the Headless Hunt.
Hogwarts was hosting two Halloween feasts this year: the usual one in the Great Hall for students and staff, and a ghostly gathering in the dungeons.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry spooned pudding into his mouth, eyeing the Great Hall's decorations. The enchanted ceiling showed a half-hidden moon, live bats and candles floated above, and giant jack-o'-lanterns glowed in the corners. Nearby, Justin and Ernie were chatting about tomorrow's skeleton dance troupe.
Harry was starting to regret accepting Nick's invitation. He turned to his friends. "Why did we agree to go to Nick's deathday party?"
Ron raised his hand. "I'm going for drama club inspiration."
After their near-death trip to the Acromantula nest, Ron had missed his drama club audition. He'd begged Neville for another shot, and a good script could get him recommended for a second try. A ghost-filled deathday party was bound to have stories.
Hermione was equally excited. "Hardly any living people get to attend something like this. It's a rare, fascinating experience!"
Harry sighed, the pudding suddenly bland.
---
Seven o'clock that evening, in a Hogwarts dungeon classroom, a peculiar ghost party was underway.
The setup mimicked the Great Hall but in cold, eerie tones. Hundreds of candles burned with dim blue light, casting a chilling glow over the dungeon. The air grew colder the deeper they went, the flames offering no warmth.
A ghostly orchestra played unsettling sounds: nails scratching a chalkboard as the prelude, spikes scraping glass for texture, bones grinding to replace drums, and the wails of banshees for harmony.
It was enough to make your skin crawl.
"Welcome! Welcome, my dear friends!" Nearly Headless Nick stood at the entrance, bowing to arriving guests.
Clutching their coats, Harry, Ron, and Hermione forced polite smiles, their breath visible in the frosty air as they shivered their way inside. The dungeon was packed with hundreds of translucent ghosts waltzing to the eerie music.
Just as they looked for a corner to hide in, Hermione spotted an unexpected figure and veered toward it, dragging her friends along.
"Professor Levent?" Harry and Ron whispered, shocked.
Melvin turned, nodding with a smile, then resumed his conversation with the Grey Lady. "Wizard portraits are magical creations that mimic a person's personality, behavior, and some memories. They can interact, talk, sing, tell jokes, even offer advice. But they lack independent consciousness, can't form new memories, and have no emotional depth, so they're not truly alive."
The trio huddled behind him, Harry and Ron lost, Hermione struggling to keep up.
The Grey Lady nodded slightly, her brow furrowed, showing respect for the young professor who'd recovered Ravenclaw's diadem. "We've been discussing portraits for ten minutes, Mr. Levent, but I'm sorry—I don't quite follow your point."
"What I mean is…" Melvin met her eyes. "Could ghosts, as manifestations of wizards after death, be seen as another form of portrait?"
Noticing her slight displeasure, he added, "No offense intended. It's just a thought from my recent studies on magic."
The Grey Lady's crystalline blue eyes glimmered with curiosity. She nodded for him to continue.
"Ghosts retain some memories, personality, and emotions from life. They can interact with the living but can't learn new magic, touch objects, or leave places they knew in life. Their personalities shift due to regrets, and some even become volatile or angry…" Melvin paused. "It makes me wonder: are ghosts truly wizards' souls? Or, like portraits, are they just fragments left behind, while the real soul has moved on?"