Chapter 102: Unicorns and Ghosts

Come October, Hogwarts entered the rainiest time of the year. Just how rainy, you ask?

Well, Harold actually saw his pet cat Tom show up in the Gryffindor common room.

That was a rare sight—Harold had assumed Tom had permanently moved into the Forbidden Forest. But apparently, the endless downpours had finally driven the cat back indoors, thoroughly soaked and utterly fed up.

Not wanting to waste the rare encounter, Harold gave him a good head rub. Tom was rounder than ever—he must've gotten fat living in the forest.

"Living's that good in the Forbidden Forest, huh?" Harold teased, giving Tom's belly a poke.

Whap! His arm got a swift slap in response.

"Alright, alright, no belly rubs. Stingy," Harold muttered, standing up and leaving the common room.

Out in the corridor, Oliver Wood was talking excitedly to a few Quidditch players.

"I just asked Professor McGonagall—she said we can apply to use the Quidditch pitch right after Halloween!"

His eyes sparkled as he spoke, though the others looked far less enthusiastic.

Honestly, training in this weather was sheer misery. They'd seen how bad things had gotten for Hufflepuff's team during practice yesterday—completely drenched and caked in mud. Half the team had come down with colds, and now wherever they went, a trail of white steam followed them.

That steam came from a tonic Madam Pomfrey had given them—great for colds, but with the embarrassing side effect of puffing white smoke from your ears.

Fred and George actually considered themselves lucky—they didn't have to train in this nightmare weather. Hopefully, the rain would ease up after Halloween…

Then again, no guarantees. It was the last weekend before Halloween, after all.

Harold didn't interrupt the conversation. He stuck to the wall, making his way carefully downstairs toward the library.

For some reason, he'd been feeling tense—especially with Halloween approaching.

That missing diary… He still couldn't shake the feeling that it was somewhere inside Hogwarts.

At first, he'd even suspected Lockhart. The man had been acting too strangely—who could've guessed he'd remain that popular with the students for so long?

Plus, Lockhart had been at Flourish and Blotts the day of the incident. He could have taken the diary.

So Harold had come up with a test. He brought a black diary—one Hermione had given him on the train, just a regular Muggle-made notebook with a black cover—and asked Lockhart for a signature.

From the outside, it looked very similar to the Horcrux diary. Not a surprise, really—Riddle's had been Muggle-made, too. Could be the same brand, for all he knew.

As Lockhart signed it with his flashy peacock-feather quill, Harold carefully watched his expression, looking for a flicker of recognition or surprise.

Nothing.

Lockhart didn't bat an eye. In fact, he enthusiastically signed it and even cheerfully added a little heart flourish.

Harold then asked whether he kept a journal.

"I spend six hours a day writing back to my adoring fans. That's plenty of journaling for me," Lockhart had replied.

Harold had also asked Harry, who confirmed he hadn't heard any strange voices lately… Everything at the castle seemed perfectly normal.

At the library, Harold took his usual seat at the familiar oak desk.

Because he often stacked books several feet high, most library regulars had learned to associate this spot with him and usually left it empty.

Not that he actually liked the seat—it was too close to the window and kind of noisy.

But the first time he'd visited, it was the only seat available. Madam Pince had started putting his books there ever since… and now it might as well have been his.

Three hours later, Harold got up to grab lunch from the Great Hall.

"You shouldn't have agreed to that," someone was saying.

"But I already promised him."

"Can't you back out?"

"Oh, come on, Sir Nicholas has helped us a lot—Harry can't just ditch him."

The voices were familiar. Sure enough, as he stepped into the hall, he spotted Harry, Ron, and Hermione talking at the entrance.

"Knew it was you lot."

"Oh, Harold! It's weird seeing you outside the library," Harry joked.

"Even I have to eat, you know," Harold replied. "What were you talking about?"

"Don't ask," Ron groaned. "Harry agreed to go to Nearly Headless Nick's 500th Deathday Party."

"Deathday Party?"

"Yeah," Harry sighed. "He invited me…"

After Snape's detention, Harry had been feeling too sick to eat. But the night before, he'd been starving and went looking for food in the common room—where he bumped into Nearly Headless Nick.

Nick showed him how to get into the kitchens, and after Harry had eaten, they got to chatting. Nick happened to mention his upcoming Deathday Party, and Harry, grateful for the favor, said he'd love to come.

Now he was regretting it.

Ron had told him Deathday Parties were usually held in the dungeons—and Harry hated the dungeons. Just the thought of them gave him flashbacks to Potions class.

"It's fine," Harry said, forcing a smile. "I'll go by myself. I was the only one invited anyway."

"What kind of friend would I be if I let you go to a ghost party alone?" Ron said at once. "Of course I'm coming with you—ugh, speak of the devil…"

His face darkened as Malfoy strutted into the hall.

Malfoy looked just as annoyed. "Bloody Weasley…"

"What, still in the mood for slug salad?" Ron said, twirling his wand.

Malfoy's face turned red with fury—but luckily, Professor Sprout walked in right then, and the two boys broke apart.

Ron was still fuming. "One day I'm gonna make him eat more slugs. Maybe I'll learn a leech spell next…"

"You want another round of detention with Snape?" Hermione snapped.

"Anyway, back to the party—I'll bet hardly anyone living has ever been to a Deathday Party. It might be… kind of cool."

"You'd be wrong," Harold said. "Imagine a walk-in freezer filled with ghosts who all died in the weirdest, most gruesome ways—and tables full of rotting, maggot-covered food. That's pretty much it."

"Maggots?" Harry and Ron went pale. They looked like they were about to be sick again.

Even Hermione looked queasy. That wasn't at all what she'd pictured.

"Maybe I'll just tell Nick I can't go," Harry said weakly. "No offense, but I really don't think I can handle that."

"I'll go instead," Harold said after a moment's thought.

"Really?" Harry's eyes lit up.

Harold nodded. "Assuming everything goes smoothly…"

He'd just thought of something.

If unicorns could tear a bit of Voldemort's wandering soul away… what about ghosts?

He wanted to find out whether unicorns could harm non-Horcrux spirits. And this Deathday Party would be the perfect opportunity to investigate.

Nick would definitely help. Even if unicorns couldn't affect normal ghosts, there were still ghostly beings like the Wailing Widow that Lockhart often bragged about. She was technically a ghost too—just a more dangerous kind.

He didn't know if London had any of those kinds of spirits—but some of the guests traveling from all over Britain might.

Harry had no idea what Harold was thinking, but he looked deeply moved.

"You're not going to the Halloween feast?" Hermione asked.

"Of course I am," Harold said quickly. "No way I'm missing that."

Whatever happened, he'd definitely wait until the Halloween Feast was over before doing anything else.

"But won't the party and the feast overlap?" Hermione asked.

"Don't worry—they won't," Harold said. "Ghosts are nocturnal creatures. Their parties don't even get started until really late. It's pointless to go early."

"And besides, the food's not fit for the living. Better to eat first."

Hermione nodded, though she wasn't entirely convinced.

When they sat down, Fred and George joined them, grinning from ear to ear. Without a word, they slammed a heavy sack onto the table.

Thud!

"What's this?" Ron peeked inside—and couldn't look away.

Silver Sickles. Dozens of them. A few gold Galleons glittered at the bottom.

"Did you rob Gringotts?" he asked, stunned.

"Please," George snorted. "Selling stickers is way more profitable than robbing Gringotts."

"Don't say that," Harold chuckled. "Gringotts still pays better."

There were maybe five hundred Sickles in the bag—around thirty Galleons total. Not bad, but it wasn't get-rich-quick money.

Selling stickers was a slow grind. Dye spray, though—that was where the real profit was. Unfortunately, it was too expensive for most students, so interest hadn't yet translated into sales.

For now, Harold had put it on hold, waiting for the sticker hype to fade.

"You shouldn't have gone with Lockhart," George muttered, sitting beside Harold. "If you'd made a gold Snape sticker, the Slytherin rich kids would've cleaned you out."

"They're not idiots," Harold replied. "They'd see right through it."

"Fair," Fred said, sliding into the seat on the other side. "So what about your dye spray? You said silver and green were the priciest—is it going on sale soon?"

"Nope."

The twins blinked.

"But… why not? You just said it makes more money than stickers."

"It's different," Harold said. "Snape and Slytherin are two different things. And the dye's expensive—just one sale is worth more than this entire bag of Sickles."

He gave the sack a heft to prove his point.

"So when's the launch?" Fred asked.

"I don't know," Harold sighed. "I don't really have the headspace to think about it right now."

"Relax, no one expects you to master all of Transfiguration by second year—not even McGonagall," George said, clearly misunderstanding the source of Harold's stress.

But Harold didn't bother correcting him. He just nodded and said, "I'll come find you when I'm ready."

(End of Chapter)