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The overdone courtesy made it tricky for Ian to blurt out he'd rather scarper; he could finally grasp how folk felt when he laid on the "Hogwarts hustle" charm.
"Happy Halloween, gents and ladies." Ian gritted his teeth and swallowed the situation. He scanned the dungeon, where over a hundred ghosts revelled in the holiday.
A cluster of merry nuns swayed on the dance floor, while tattered souls in chains slumped gloomily, sighing. Ghosts with arrows jutting from their brows nattered with the Fat Friar, and Slytherin's gaunt Bloody Baron looked just as glum.
Ian couldn't spy the wee Ravenclaw lass, so his hopes of talking his way out fizzled. The vibe in this chilly dungeon was oddly buzzing.
Tables gleamed with golden plates, heaped with rotting meats and spoiled fruits and veg. Lucky the dungeon was frosty, else it'd reek something fierce—though it still ponged, with maggoty beef slabs and moldy green cheese lumped together.
Charred bread and meat pies oozing rank juices left Ian stumped for anything fit to eat. He even clocked a hulking grey cake shaped like a gravestone.
This was likely the only thing that looked half-decent, its icing scrawled thickly with: Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. Died: October 31, 1492.
The cake was clearly Nearly Headless Nick's, as today was not just Halloween but the anniversary of his beheading.
"Happy death day, Sir."
Ian's well-wish felt a tad peculiar, but the ghosts didn't bat an ectoplasmic eye. Nearly Headless Nick dipped into another gracious bow.
"It's a rare treat to have a young wizard at our feast—we're neither fully alive nor properly dead. Your being here's the brightest spot of my night."
He was a proper gentlemanly ghost, all courtesy and warmth, which made it dashed tricky for Ian to blurt out he'd rather leg it.
He was itching to crack the mysteries of Gaunt Manor!
It was maddening!
He could've wept!
"Hope you enjoy yourself here." Nearly Headless Nick offered his hand, and Ian forced a grin, clasping the icy grip.
"Blimey, you're a rare one— making me feel touch again…" Nick looked a bit woozy, hastily mumbling an apology and letting go after a beat.
With fresh ghosts drifting in, he scooted off to play host. Just then, Helena Ravenclaw glided through, her sharp eyes catching Ian's vivid figure amid the pallid throng.
"Didn't reckon little Ian'd turn up at the ghosts' bash." She drifted over, intrigued, sniffing the air near the table before him.
"Can you actually taste the grub like that?" Ian, relieved to see a familiar spectre, couldn't resist asking what'd been niggling him.
"Barely a whiff, but it beats not smelling it at all." Helena kept her prim poise, unlike the Fat Friar nearby, who'd plunged his whole head into a heap of rancid meat.
"Ghosts haven't much in the way of fun— or the senses we had alive. Still, we've got memories, which for plenty of us is more a curse for lingering than a comfort." She gazed at the stage, where a ghostly crooner was belting out their heart.
The dungeon rang with a shriek like a banshee's wail straight out of a Knockturn Alley tale.
"There's always a path, if you're bold enough to seek it." Ian still held to his vow to the Grey Lady. He clapped hands over his ears and leaned nearer.
"I mean well, I know, but look at this lot. Their ranks only swell with time. What you reckon mightn't be a road we can tread." Helena had parried Ian's coaxing before, and he'd wrestled aplenty to find the right moment to lure her for a proper chat.
"Free tomorrow night?" Ian glanced at his watch; it was past midnight. After a quick tally, he piped up, voice a bit stilted.
"Hmm?" Helena shot him an odd look, clearly misreading. "Ian, fancy a date with a ghost centuries old?"
"Your mind's not exactly saintly." With a giggle, she patted his head and floated off to mingle with her usual spectral mates.
"…"
Ian hadn't expected to flop so fast. Should've been plainer, maybe? But ghosts are rotten at keeping mum, and he didn't fancy the whole school twigging he could hop between worlds.
"She's not keen, but I am… you can touch ghosts. Merlin's hat, what a cracking gift." The singer's ghost, fresh off the stage, wafted over.
She was an out-of-towner, specially summoned, not a Hogwarts regular. Having heard of Ian, she drifted close and brushed his arm.
Ghosts really can't hold their tongues.
"They call me the Wailing Widow. Fancy a natter? Don't be shy— I'm dead keen on that ghost-touching trick of yours."
The garish ghost chased Ian around the dungeon.
He scarpered.
She pursued.
He half-wished for wings to sprout and soar off.
"You'd be better off chasing a ghost more of your sort!" Ian whipped out his wand and sent the Widow sailing, only for the dungeon to erupt in cheers.
"It's magic! Magic whacked a ghost! He's Ian! The lad who fetched the skeleton troupe!" Edmund Grubb, who'd dragged Ian here, kicked up a fuss again.
"They're not a troupe!" Ian eyed the ghosts crowding around and shielded his basket, but his protests fell on deaf ears.
"Not a skeleton troupe? One, two, three, four, five… too many to tally!"
"Got to be! I saw Dumbledore's band yesterday— white, fleshless, bones sharp as you like. If they're not a troupe, what are they?"
"Quick! Rattle 'em awake! Make 'em play!"
"Little Ian's fishing for a reward, that's why he won't own up to bringing the skeleton troupe. Hurry, get the Bloody Baron to nab Peeves and fetch Ian a Butterbeer!"
...
The ghosts buzzed and chattered around Ian like a swarm of overexcited pixies.
He'd meant to clarify that these were just his study specimens, but after hearing the Fat Friar's jolly words, he bit back his explanation for the third time that day.
"You can get Butterbeer?" It was the one treat Ian couldn't wheedle from the Hogwarts kitchens— the elves had never bent the rules for him on that front.
Third-year's the cutoff.
And the non-alcoholic stuff… could you even call that proper beer?
"Course, the real stuff, with a kick!"
The Fat Friar dropped his voice, leaning in with a cheeky grin. For ghosts caught up in the revelry, some rules seemed more like suggestions.
"It's not gone off, is it?" Ian gulped, eyeing the ghost warily as he asked. He'd already clocked the state of their banquet spread.
"Not a chance! A professor slipped us some last night. We were letting it mellow for taste, but you're not exactly a goody-two-shoes, are you, heh heh!" Another ghost drifted over, easing Ian's nerves. He glanced at the door.
"Can you fetch Peeves? Or should I nip out myself?" Ian's eagerness spiked. He'd been mad for Butterbeer since he first stepped into this world, yet it'd always eluded him.
"Course! It's a holiday! Guzzle as much as you fancy! Feasts are for going all out!" A ghost's cheer hit Ian right in the chest.
Sure enough.
Soon enough.
A grumpy Peeves floated in, lugging heaps of Butterbeer. Spotting Ian, he puffed up with a dramatic show of effort, dumped the lot, and scarpered—likely terrified Ian might set him ablaze for the ghosts' amusement.
"Brilliant! Proper Butterbeer!" Ian poured a glass, sniffing it first to check it wasn't rancid, then taking a cautious sip.
It was smashing.
He half-fancied some fried chicken to go with it.
Maybe expecting the skeleton band, a ghost zipped off to the elves, and soon Ian had a piping-hot midnight snack.
Though the room still reeked of festering food, he waved it away with a charm and savored his treat, even cooling the Butterbeer with a flick of his wand.
"Proper tasty, this!"
Truth be told, Butterbeer's not heavy on the booze, but some folk spike it extra. Ian's batch clearly had a wallop.
(To Be Continued...)