Chapter 104: The Bloody Baron

Harry and the others braced themselves and stepped into the dungeon classroom—after coming all this way, there was no turning back now.

Sir Nicholas greeted them warmly. Though they were a little late, he was delighted that any living students had come to his Deathday Party at all.

However, the trio didn't stay long. The rotten food in the dungeon must have triggered some unpleasant memories. Harry and Ron barely made it one lap around the room before slipping out, lips tightly sealed.

Hermione, worried about them, followed shortly after—leaving Harold as the only living guest remaining.

He glanced at the pitch-black, charred cake in front of him, the slabs of maggot-infested rotting meat, and the moldy, spoiled pudding and cheese...

The smell here was far from pleasant, but he managed to endure it.

Harold had originally intended to speak with Sir Nicholas, but the ghost was far too popular tonight, with a line of other ghosts waiting to dance with him.

Left with no choice, Harold wandered elsewhere.

He surveyed the room. The small dungeon classroom was packed with hundreds of pearly white ghosts.

Of course, ghosts didn't feel crowded—but for Harold, the only living soul in the room, it was suffocating. Every move he made risked passing straight through one or more transparent bodies.

So he skirted the edge of the dance floor, slowly circling the room, then slipped out into the corridor for some air.

He meant to stretch and warm himself up a little, but then noticed a lone ghost hovering in the corner.

It was one he'd never seen before, dressed in old-fashioned medieval clothing, draped in a shabby, mismatched cloak stained with silvery blood.

The ghost faced the wall, swaying slightly midair, doing... something. It looked drunk, honestly.

Can ghosts even get drunk? Harold wondered.

He didn't know. But he did know this was a rare opportunity.

There was no telling when Sir Nicholas might be free. He couldn't just wait around here all night.

Half a second later, Silvermane was in Harold's hand.

With a low murmur, a streak of bright blue light flashed across the dim corridor.

"What? What was that?!" the ghost near the wall jolted up in alarm—well, the top half of him did; his lower half remained where it was.

Harold could clearly see his intestines drifting midair.

"A living person…" The ghost now noticed Harold. "You're in the wrong place, you know. The living party is upstairs."

"Sir Nicholas invited me," Harold replied, his eyes drifting instinctively toward the cloak behind the ghost.

Not a scratch. No change at all. Looks like unicorns couldn't harm ghosts directly.

He couldn't help but feel disappointed.

"You seem disappointed."

Harold nodded instinctively. "A bit."

Only then did he realize it was the ghost who had spoken—and he'd misunderstood.

"Not surprising. The way ghosts celebrate is nothing like how the living do," the ghost said, eyes flashing with a hint of bitterness.

"We can't eat, so we let the food rot, hoping it might somehow taste more. We grow more numb over time, so we use increasingly harsh sounds to jolt our minds—if we even have those anymore."

The ghost sank into a gloomy haze, like a walking collection of negative emotions, bathed in a faint blue glow.

When Harold didn't respond, the ghost sighed, shoved his dangling intestines back into place, and floated motionless in the corner again.

He and Moaning Myrtle would probably get along, Harold thought.

He gave the ghost's cloak one last glance before heading back into the dungeon.

Though the cloak wasn't damaged, the ghost had reacted to the spell. So it wasn't entirely ineffective—just not enough.

Back inside, Sir Nicholas was still dancing. But Harold found another familiar ghost—The Fat Friar of Hufflepuff, who was chatting with Patrick from the Headless Hunt.

Being the only living person in a crowd of ghosts made Harold stand out like a torch. The Fat Friar spotted him at once and greeted him warmly.

"Ah, I know you! The Ollivander boy, aren't you?"

"Hello, Friar," Harold replied.

"I thought you left with young Mr. Potter," said the Friar with a smile.

"I meant to ask about ghosts," Harold explained. "But Sir Nicholas has been a bit... busy."

"Oh?" The Friar looked intrigued. "If you don't mind, ask away! I might be able to help."

"It's for our Defense Against the Dark Arts class," said Harold. "I really enjoyed Professor Lockhart's Break with a Banshee, and I was curious if England had any ghosts like the Banshee of Bandon."

The Friar's face went blank, followed by a sheepish smile. He didn't know.

He'd become a ghost over six hundred years ago. Dazed and confused, he had instinctively returned to Hogwarts—the place he loved most—and had never left since.

He'd never even stepped outside the castle, so how could he know what ghosts roamed the rest of the country?

But that didn't matter. If there was one thing they had tonight, it was plenty of ghosts.

With a few calls from the Fat Friar, Harold was quickly surrounded by pearly white spirits.

Trapped in the middle, Harold felt waves of bone-deep chill washing over him—it was like standing inside a walk-in freezer.

Ghost-cold wasn't magical, so even Silvermane couldn't help. Within seconds, frost formed on the tips of Harold's hair.

But finally, he got the answer he wanted.

"I've never been to Bandon," said a ghost wrapped in chains and rags, "but if you mean a ghost who delights in tormenting and killing Muggles, then that'd be the Bloody Baron."

Harold's eyes lit up. Now that didn't sound like a friendly ghost.

"Wait—he's a ghost, right? How can he hurt Muggles?"

"Most of us can't," said the chained ghost. "But some are... different. The Bloody Baron killed sixteen Muggles and one wizard, and the Aurors couldn't lay a finger on him. Bunch of useless cowards, even back then."

Clearly, this ghost held a grudge against the Ministry's Aurors.

"So what happened to him?" Harold pressed.

"No idea," the ghost shrugged. "He vanished. No one knows how or why."

"I do!" another ghost drifted over, brimming with excitement. "About seventy years ago, a foreign wizard trapped the Bloody Baron in a ruined village. Then the Ministry sealed it off with Muggle-Repelling Charms."

"What was that wizard's name again? Can't remember. But he ran for the International Confederation of Wizards Presidency later—big deal, that one."

"How do you know all this?" asked the chained ghost, turning so fast he twisted his own head off.

"Hmph." Sir Nicholas scoffed somewhere in the distance.

"Never mind me—go on!" the disembodied head called out from the floor. "I tried asking around myself and got nothing. How'd you find out?"

"Because I was the wizard the Bloody Baron killed," the ghost said casually. "I saw him get trapped with my own eyes."

"…"

Well, that settled that.

No one said anything. The chained ghost silently picked up his head and reattached it.

"Where is he now?" Harold asked. More ghosts gathered around. Every breath he took turned into fog.

The ghost didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stared at Harold and said seriously, "If you're just looking for a thrill, I suggest finding another way. That ghost could kill even wizards."

"Thanks. I believe you," Harold said, studying him.

He looked quite young—twenty at most. Clean, unmarked. No blood, no arrows sticking out, unlike most other ghosts.

Just... didn't look very bright.

"I'm asking on behalf of our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Harold continued, rubbing his arms for warmth. "Gilderoy Lockhart. Brilliant wizard. He might even destroy the Bloody Baron... you know, avenge you."

The ghost didn't take Harold seriously—just chuckled like it was a joke.

Ghosts were the remnants of wizards who refused to move on. They had no life left. How could anyone kill them again?

Still, he gave Harold directions.

"South Wiltshire. Tell that... um, Lockhack professor to find a mountain shaped like a fork, cross it, then go over a river…"

Harold sighed. Great. He really isn't good with names.

But he memorized the location anyway—he'd go look once the holidays rolled around.

By the end of the night, Harold had also gathered two more names and locations from other ghosts—one in Kent, the other in Cornwall.

While neither ghost had a resume as bloody as the Bloody Baron, they were both infamous dark wizards in life, who now haunted Muggles and gave the Ministry constant headaches.

Good enough for what Harold needed.

(End of Chapter)