October had arrived. After weeks of training every Wednesday in September, Loki, Lilian, and Malfoy had each successfully formed their own magical strings and mastered three or four basic spells aligned with their respective elemental attributes. Meanwhile, the temperatures around Hogwarts Castle had plummeted. Damp chills seeped through the grounds and into the castle itself. Students and staff were struck with colds en masse, leaving Madam Pomfrey scrambling to keep up. Her Pepperup Potion worked wonders, though anyone who took it found smoke pouring from their ears for hours afterward.
The rain hammered relentlessly against the castle windows, showing no signs of stopping. The lake swelled, flower beds turned to streams of mud, and Hagrid's pumpkins grew to the size of small sheds.
In the library, Augustus reclined in a plush chair, engrossed in The Comprehensive Compendium of Draconic Incantations. The dragon-speech magic of this world intrigued him; by studying the cadence of incantations in Draconic, he could glean insights into the underlying rhythmic patterns of magical linguistics.
Outside, the rain continued to pour. The sky was black as ink, but the interior of the castle was warm and lively. Firelight bathed countless cushioned armchairs, where students read, chatted, or worked on assignments. Fred and George Weasley huddled over a table, conducting experiments on a fire lizard they had "rescued" from Care of Magical Creatures class. The orange creature sat sulking, small flames flickering from its body, as a group of curious onlookers gathered.
Without warning, the fire lizard shot into the air, spinning wildly and spraying sparks everywhere. It emitted loud pops and crackles, eliciting delighted gasps and scoldings from Percy, who barked at his brothers with a hoarse voice. The lizard spewed flaming orange stars before zipping into the fireplace with a final burst of explosions.
Augustus chuckled softly and returned to his book.
"Mr. Augustus, you're in the library too?" A voice broke his concentration. Looking up, he saw Harry standing a few steps away, drenched and sheepish.
"What happened to you? Shouldn't you change into something dry?" Augustus asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I just came from Quidditch practice. Before I could get back to the dorm, Filch caught me. Then Nearly Headless Nick stopped me to invite me to his Deathday Party. I haven't had a chance to change," Harry explained, adjusting his glasses.
"A Deathday Party? A gathering of ghosts? Sounds intriguing. Mind if I tag along?" Augustus asked, his curiosity piqued.
"At seven in the Great Hall, then. I'll go find Ron and Hermione—they'll probably be interested too," Harry agreed before hurrying off.
By seven, Augustus, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had gathered in the Great Hall. They bypassed the festive tables laden with golden plates and headed towards the underground classrooms. The corridor leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party was lit with dim, eerie candles that emitted a ghostly blue glow. The further they walked, the colder it became. Harry shivered, pulling his robes tighter around himself, as a grating noise—like nails on a chalkboard—echoed through the air.
"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered.
"You can't expect ghosts to share the same tastes as the living," Augustus replied with a faint smile.
Turning a corner, they found Nearly Headless Nick at the door, draped in black velvet.
"My dear friends," he greeted them sorrowfully, "welcome, welcome… It means so much to me that you've come."
He doffed his feathered hat and gestured for them to enter.
Inside, the scene was otherworldly. Hundreds of translucent, milky-white ghosts filled the dimly lit room. They floated in the air or swayed on a crowded dance floor to the dissonant notes of thirty musical saws, played by an eerie band on a stage draped in black cloth. Overhead, a chandelier glimmered with a thousand blue-tinged candles, casting a frosty glow that made their breath fog as if they had entered a freezer.
"Shall we look around?" Harry suggested, hoping to warm his feet.
"Just be careful not to walk through anyone," Ron muttered nervously.
They skirted the edges of the dance floor, passing spectral nuns, a ragged man draped in chains, and a jovial Fat Friar, who was deep in conversation with a knight whose head was pierced by an arrow. Harry spotted the Bloody Baron, the fearsome Slytherin ghost, standing alone with his gaunt frame, vacant eyes, and silvery bloodstains.
"Oh no," Hermione suddenly hissed, spinning around. "Let's go back. I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle—"
"Who?" Augustus asked as they retreated.
"A ghost who haunts the girls' bathroom," Hermione explained. "She's always crying and flooding the place. It's awful. She screams if you so much as walk in."
"She sounds… interesting," Augustus remarked dryly.
"Look, food!" Ron exclaimed, pointing to a long table draped in black velvet. They approached eagerly, only to recoil in horror at the stench. Piles of rotting meat lay on ornate silver trays, burnt cakes crumbled on large platters, and maggot-infested haggis sat next to moldy cheese. In the center stood a massive tombstone-shaped cake inscribed in tar-black frosting:
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington
Died October 31, 1492
As they gawked, a plump ghost floated through the table, his mouth passing through a rotten salmon.
"Does it taste like anything?" Harry asked curiously.
"Sort of," the ghost replied mournfully before drifting away.
"I guess they let it rot for a stronger flavor," Hermione suggested, pinching her nose as she examined the decayed haggis.
Spectral figures swirled around them, creating a chaotic yet mesmerizing display. Among the translucent crowd, Augustus stood tall, his shadow stretching long and pale under the ghostly blue light. In this surreal gathering—a strange clash of the living and the dead—he felt as though he were witnessing a complex performance on an ethereal stage.
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