Chapter 140: Talking To Ghosts
“We won! Harry, we won!”
“You flew brilliantly, catching the Golden Snitch at the last moment.”
“You didn’t see Malfoy’s expression; he looked like he wanted to kill someone.”
“……”
Clean and tidy hospital beds were placed in the middle of the Hospital Wing ward, surrounded by Quidditch teammates who hadn’t had time to change out of their team robes, their gold-and-red cloaks making their faces flushed, along with Ron, Seamus, and Dean.
George and Fred brought candy and pumpkin juice; they were planning a joyful victory party.
First-year Colin could only stand on the outskirts; more than a dozen people crowded the narrow ward to capacity, holding cameras bigger than their heads, capturing the smiles on their faces and incidentally snapping Madam Pomfrey’s ashen face at the door.
Madam Pomfrey had only stepped out to prepare medicine, carrying a tray of Skele-Gro, and when she returned, she couldn’t squeeze in.
“Merlin’s beard! Are you going to bring the Hospital Wing ceiling down?”
Madam Pomfrey roared: “Out! All unrelated personnel out! This boy needs rest; he has 33 bones to grow!”
In this room, the matron’s authority was greater than the headmaster’s; even Professor McGonagall would have to yield. The group of students set down their candy and pumpkin juice and slunk out of the ward.
“Outrageous! He was just discharged this morning, back after only a few hours—what’s wrong with today’s little wizards? I say Quidditch should be canceled; this sport is too dangerous. Minerva and the others don’t even ensure proper protection…”
Madam Pomfrey muttered as she poured a bottle of Skele-Gro into his mouth; the liquid burned like fire, spicy and hot, making Harry cough repeatedly. He gulped down half a cup of pumpkin juice before recovering.
“Rest well; growing bones isn’t pleasant.” Madam Pomfrey finished her check, packed up the tray, and left. “I’ll be right outside; call me if you need anything.”
In the blink of an eye, Harry was alone in the ward. He lay in bed, staring quietly at the ceiling, thinking Madam Pomfrey was right—the taste of growing bones was truly unpleasant. His arm felt limp and powerless; even slight movement triggered knife-like pain.
“Damn it, who cast a spell on the Quaffle?”
The morning match had been intensely close. Due to Slytherin’s ruthless tactics, the Quaffle had been tampered with, putting them behind early on. The situation on the pitch looked grim; desperate to end the game, he ignored everything and, the instant he caught the Golden Snitch, was struck off his broomstick by the Quaffle.
Malfoy had trash-talked before the match about a fair fight, so it probably wasn’t him.
Who else could it be?
None of Slytherin’s players seemed like good people.
Harboring this resentment, Harry gradually fell asleep.
“Ah!”
Harry sat up abruptly, thinking his arm had woken him with pain.
Dim night filtered into the ward, everything blurry and indistinct. His arm ached like pinpricks; the room was so quiet he could hear his pounding heartbeat.
Then he felt someone gently wiping his forehead with a damp cloth in the darkness.
Harry mumbled groggily: “Is that you, Madam Pomfrey?”
“What’s wrong?” a slightly shrill voice replied.
“Nothing, just a dream…” Harry answered instinctively, feeling his throat dry and his body clammy with cold sweat. He took the cup from the shadowy figure, gulped down half of it, and was about to sigh in relief when he noticed something very off about the figure beside him.
“Who are you?” Harry quickly recognized the mysterious visitor and shouted in shock: “Dobby!”
With a snap of fingers, the bedside lights in the ward flickered on, illuminating the house-elf’s face.
Its build was similar to a Gringotts goblin, about two to three feet tall but even scrawnier, with gray-green skin that looked pale and shriveled. Compared to its thin, dwarfish body, its head was oversized, with two bulging green eyes especially prominent, a long pointed nose like a woodpecker’s beak, and ears like bat wings—large, thin, and slightly comical when fluttering.
Over the summer, it had broken into the Dursleys’ home, getting Uncle Vernon to lock him up. If not for Ron and the others’ help, he might still be imprisoned.
Harry was annoyed; he hadn’t even settled scores with it yet, and it dared come to Hogwarts!
Dobby stared at him, tears spilling from its eye sockets and rolling down its long nose as it sobbed: “Harry Potter came back to school anyway, didn’t listen to Dobby’s warning—even missed the train, so why not go home?”
“How do you know I missed the train?”
Harry paused, seeing its guilty, self-reproachful look, and had a sudden realization, incredulously: “You did it! You sealed the platform!?”
House-elves can’t lie easily and punish themselves when guilty. In just a few sentences, Harry learned the truth: it had sealed the platform back then, and it was also the culprit behind today’s rogue Quaffle!
The reason for all this was its admiration for him, wanting to save him.
“There’s a plot, sir. Terrible things will happen at Hogwarts.” Dobby’s voice trembled. “Someone made a transaction with a professor in the castle; the Dark Lord’s relic was brought into the castle. History will repeat; someone will get hurt.”
Dobby blurted it all out, then looked terrified, grabbed the bedside cup, and banged it hard against its head repeatedly: “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Revealing master’s secrets! Disloyal house-elf!”
Harry was stunned; the house-elf was merciless in self-harm, looking ready to smash its head open. He hurriedly reached out to stop it.
One hand grabbed the cup, the other its wrist. Harry thought for a moment and probed: “Who was it? Which professor made the transaction?”
“Dobby can’t say, sir, Dobby absolutely can’t say…” Dobby’s ugly head shook nonstop, convulsing like an epileptic fit. Just as it was about to headbutt the cabinet, it suddenly froze, looking toward the corridor outside.
Familiar footsteps approached from afar, then slowly receded—likely Madam Pomfrey on her rounds.
“Dobby must go!”
With a loud crack, the house-elf vanished from the spot.
“…”
Harry stared blankly at the dim ward, leaning against the bedhead, replaying Dobby’s words in his mind.
A dark wizard made a transaction with a school professor, bringing Voldemort’s relic back to school to harm students… Harry recalled the scene at Borgin’s shop.
Could it be Professor Levent?
Obviously not; Professor Levent encouraged them to investigate the truth, restore Hagrid’s reputation, and even went with them to the Acromantula nest, saving them from the spiders.
Could it be the new Lockhart this year?
Quite possible, but he was a fraud—who would deal with him?
What was Voldemort’s relic?
Who was it meant to harm?
The more Harry sorted through his thoughts, trying to analyze the truth, the more questions arose, until his head ached, forgetting even the pain of growing bones.
…
Discharged the next morning, Harry found Ron and Hermione having breakfast in the Great Hall and eagerly relayed what he’d heard from Dobby.
“Hermione, Ron, which professor do you think might have made a transaction with a dark wizard outside the school to harm students here?” Harry whispered, glancing discreetly at the professors at the high table.
“Need you ask? The old bat!” Ron answered without hesitation.
Hermione’s delicate brows furrowed tightly as she mentally sifted through the current information, but the intel was like Acromantula silk, layered and tangled with no clear end.
They finished breakfast tastelessly and left the Great Hall without untangling any useful clues.
Hermione planned to go to the library to “bump into” some unscrupulous professor and probe further, test her luck. Harry and Ron planned to return to the common room to catch up on homework—despite spending the weekend together, he had no idea how Hermione finished hers.
As the three parted at the staircase entrance, a translucent, ethereal head dangled down from the ceiling: “Harry, dear Harry…”
Ron stared at the head in horror.
“Nick! You gonna scare out my breakfast?”
“Heh heh…” Nearly Headless Nick passed through the wall, floating before them with an awkward smile. “Halloween is coming, and it’s my five-hundredth Deathday. I’d like to invite you to my Deathday party.”
“?”
The three little wizards’ eyes widened.
…
October 30th, evening.
Tomorrow was Halloween, also Ghost Nick’s five-hundredth deathday.
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, in the late 15th century before the Secrecy Law, had served as wizard to Muggle royalty. During a teeth-straightening spell for Lady Grieve, he botched it, giving her fangs, and was sentenced to beheading.
Captured on the spot by court guards and disarmed, Porpington couldn’t resist or escape, meeting death in despair.
Even unluckier, the executioner’s axe dulled and rusted, failing to sever his head completely—leaving a flap of skin—so he couldn’t join the Headless Hunt and was forever nicknamed Nearly Headless Nick.
Time means nothing to ghosts, who rarely celebrate deathdays, but this year marked five hundred years. Nick wanted to seize the chance to show off and pass the Headless Hunt’s review.
Hogwarts’ Halloween banquet this year had two: the usual staff-and-student feast in the Great Hall, and an underground ghost gathering.
Gryffindor long table.
Harry sat at the table, spooning pudding into his mouth, savoring it while eyeing the Great Hall’s decorations.
The Great Hall was decked out as usual: the magical dome showed a half-obscured full moon, live bats and candles floated midair, giant pumpkin lanterns stood in corners, and nearby Justin and Ernie discussed tomorrow night’s skeleton dance troupe performance.
Harry somewhat regretted accepting Nick’s invitation. He turned to his two little friends: “Why did we agree to Nick’s deathday?”
Ron raised his hand: “I’m going for drama script inspiration.”
Dragged by them last week to the Acromantula nest—a near-death trip—he missed the Drama Club audition. After pleading, he got a chance: if he wrote a script to satisfy the professor, Neville would recommend him for re-audition.
A ghost-packed deathday party surely had plenty of stories.
Hermione was equally excited: “Few living people have attended such a party—it’s a rare, wondrous experience!”
“Sigh…”
Harry sighed, the pudding tasteless.
…
Seven p.m., Hogwarts Castle underground classroom: an unusual ghost party quietly began.
The venue mimicked the Great Hall, but while that was warm-toned, this was all cold tones. Hundreds of candles burned silently, emitting dim blue light that made the underground even more eerie. The firelight had no warmth; the deeper in, the colder the air.
The ghost band played unsettling sounds: nails on blackboard as prelude, screeching spikes on glass for mixing, bones crunching inch by inch for drums, banshee wails for harmony.
It made one’s hair stand on end.
“Welcome! Welcome… my dear friends!”
Nearly Headless Nick stood at the door greeting guests, bowing them in.
Clutching their jackets, Harry, Ron, and Hermione forced polite smiles, their breath fogging, shivering as they entered to find the place packed with hundreds of translucent ghosts waltzing to the eerie music.
As they planned to find a spot to hide, Hermione glimpsed an unexpected figure in her peripheral vision and quickly changed direction, dragging her two little friends over.
Harry and Ron whispered in surprise: “Professor Levent?”
Melvin turned at the sound, nodding and smiling at them, then continued discussing with the Grey Lady:
“Wizard portraits are magical artworks that imitate the subject’s personality, behavior patterns, and partial 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 true life.”
The three huddled behind the professor; Harry and Ron felt dizzy, Hermione struggling to follow.
The Grey Lady frowned slightly, nodding with due respect for this young professor who recovered the diadem: “We’ve discussed portraits for ten minutes, but sorry, Mr. Levent, I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“What I mean is…”
Melvin met her eyes: “Ghosts, as the post-death form of wizards, could be seen as another kind of portrait.”
Seeing the female ghost displeased, he apologized: “No offense intended—just a personal thought from my recent magic studies.”
The Grey Lady’s translucent crystal-blue eyes gleamed unusually; she nodded for him to continue.
“Retaining some pre-death memories, personality, and emotions; able to interact with the living, but unable to learn new magic, touch physical objects, or stray beyond places walked in life. Personality altered by regrets, some ghosts even becoming fanatical or irritable…”
“This makes me very curious: are ghosts truly wizards’ souls?” Melvin paused. “Or, like portraits, are ghosts merely fragments of wizards left in the world, while the true soul has departed?”
