Chapter 102: Unicorn and Ghost

After entering October, Hogwarts entered the season with the most rain of the year—how much rain?

Let me put it this way: Silven actually saw his pet cat, Tang Mu, in the common room.

It was rare indeed; Silven had once thought the cat had made its home in the Forbidden Forest, and never expected it would bother coming out—probably because the relentless rain these past few days had become unbearable.

Still, since they’d finally met, Silven went over and rubbed its head. Round and plump, it seemed to have grown another layer of fat since last year.

“Is the food in the Forbidden Forest that good?” Silven pinched Tang Mu’s belly, and immediately received a solid swat on his arm.

“Fine, don’t let me touch it then—stingy.” Silven stood up and left the common room.

Outside in the corridor, Oliver Wood was cheerfully talking with several Quidditch players.

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

As Wood spoke, his eyes sparkled; the other players were excited too, but none as wildly as he was.

Honestly, training in this weather was pure torture—they’d seen how miserable the Hufflepuff team looked yesterday, drenched in mud and water, half of them catching colds, and today every one of them trailed a puff of white smoke wherever they walked.

That was Madame Pomfrey’s tonic, highly effective against colds, though the side effect was a bit embarrassing—white smoke kept puffing out of their ears.

Fred and George felt lucky they didn’t have to train in this hellish weather, but surely the rain wouldn’t last all the way through Halloween.

Hard to say—it was already the final weekend before Halloween.

Silven didn’t disturb them; he kept close to the wall and carefully descended the stairs toward the library.

For some reason, Silven felt a flicker of tension—and the closer Halloween drew, the more tense he became.

He thought again of the missing diary. It was hard to say whether that thing was even still inside Hogwarts Castle.

At first, he’d suspected Lockhart, because his behavior had been so odd—who could have imagined that after so long into the term, he still enjoyed immense popularity among the students?

And Silven remembered something else: when the confrontation happened, Lockhart had been in Flourish and Blotts too—he could have taken the diary.

So Silven deliberately found an opportunity, carrying his own black diary, to ask him for an autograph.

This diary was a gift from Hermione on the train—it had nothing to do with a Horcrux, just an ordinary, Muggle-made black-covered diary, a gift from Mr. Granger in thanks for Silven’s stand on his behalf.

But from appearance alone, it looked very much like the Horcrux diary; not surprising, since Riddle’s was also a Muggle product—perhaps this one was even the same model.

So as Lockhart signed, Silven watched his expression closely, searching for surprise or shock.

But nothing—Lockhart’s face showed no change at all. He took the diary without hesitation and signed his name with a delicate peacock feather pen.

Silven then casually asked if Lockhart had a habit of keeping a diary.

“I spend six hours a day replying to my admirers—those are my best diaries,” Lockhart said.

Silven had also asked Harry—he’d heard no strange voices either… everything in the castle seemed perfectly normal.

Silven arrived smoothly at the second-floor library and sat down at the familiar oak table.

Notably, because he often piled books several feet high, many students who frequented the library had come to recognize Silven, and would unconsciously leave this spot vacant for him.

But Silven didn’t particularly like this spot—it was too close to the window, and noisy.

Mainly because on his first visit, the place was packed, and this was the only empty seat; afterward, Madam Pince herself had started placing his borrowed books here… now it was practically his reserved seat.

Three hours later, Silven rose to go to the Great Hall for lunch.

“I say you shouldn’t have agreed to him.”

“But I already did.”

“Can you back out?”

“Don’t say that—Sir Nicholas has helped us so much; Harry could never do that.”

Silven recognized the voices, walked into the Great Hall, and there they were—Harry and the others standing by the door.

“It’s you guys.”

“Oh, Silven, it’s rare to see you outside the library,” Harry said.

“I still have to eat,” Silven said. “What were you just talking about?”

“Don’t mention it,” Ron sighed. “Harry promised Nearly Headless Nick he’d attend his five-hundredth deathday party.”

“Deathday party?”

“Nearly Headless Nick invited me,” Harry said.

After Snape’s detention, Harry hadn’t had much appetite for a long time; last night he was so hungry he went to the common room looking for food, and there he met Nearly Headless Nick.

Nick told Harry where the kitchens were and how to get in.

After Harry ate and returned, they chatted, and Nick casually mentioned the deathday party; to express his gratitude, Harry said he’d love to attend.

But afterward, he began to regret it.

Because Ron told him the party was usually held in the dungeons, and Harry had a phobia of the dungeons—he always avoided them except for Potions class.

“It’s fine—I’ll just go alone,” Harry said stubbornly. “After all, I only promised to come by myself.”

“What nonsense,” Ron said immediately. “We can’t let you go alone among all those ghosts—we’re coming with you… Oh, damn it, let’s move somewhere else to talk.”

Ron’s expression suddenly changed, filled with utter disgust as Malfoy walked in from outside.

Malfoy looked much the same.

“Damn Weasley…”

“What, still want to vomit slugs?” Ron pulled out his wand and gave it a casual wave.

Malfoy’s eyes instantly turned red, glaring at Ron as if he could spit fire.

Fortunately, Professor Sprout happened to walk in just then, and the two parted.

Ron was still fuming. “It’s all Malfoy’s fault—I’ll make him eat slugs again someday. If only there were a leech charm.”

“Do you want another detention from Snape?” Hermione shot him an irritated look.

"Let’s get back to the deathday party—I bet few living people have ever attended one. It might be quite a strange experience."

"You’re wrong," Silven said. "Ghost parties aren’t strange at all. Imagine being locked in a giant refrigerator, surrounded by ghosts with all kinds of bizarre deaths, and food rotting, crawling with maggots… something like that."

At the word “maggots,” Harry and Ron both went pale, nearly vomiting.

Hermione’s face was grim too—this wasn’t at all what she’d imagined a ghost party to be.

“Maybe I should go find Nearly Headless Nick and tell him I won’t come,” Harry said, taking a deep breath.

He was certain now—he simply couldn’t attend. Otherwise, he’d likely vomit all over the floor.

“Then I’ll go for you,” Silven said after thinking.

“Really?” Harry’s eyes lit up.

“Yes,” Silven nodded, then added thoughtfully, “If everything goes well…”

His reason for wanting to attend the ghost party was that he’d just thought of something.

If a unicorn could tear off a piece of Voldemort’s wandering soul, what about ghosts?

He wanted to know—if there were no Horcruxes, could a unicorn still harm a ghost? The thought had taken root in his mind and wouldn’t leave.

This deathday party was a perfect opportunity. Other ghosts might be uncertain, but Nearly Headless Nick would surely help…

And even if a unicorn couldn’t harm ordinary ghosts, what about a ghost like Voldemort? For instance, the Lady of the Vale that Lockhart constantly boasted about—she was a ghost too.

Silven didn’t know if there were any in London, but the ghost guests arriving from all over Britain would surely know—perhaps they’d be willing to share some information.

Harry didn’t know Silven’s thoughts—he was nearly moved to tears.

“Won’t you attend the Halloween feast then?” Hermione asked.

“Of course I will,” Silven said quickly, without hesitation.

He couldn’t skip the Halloween feast—no matter what happened that day, he had to wait until the feast ended before leaving the Great Hall.

Only then could he decide whether to do anything else.

“But if you go to the Halloween feast, the timing will clash.”

“Don’t worry—it won’t,” Silven said. “Ghosts are different from us. Midnight is when they’re most lively; arriving early is pointless.”

“Besides, the food ghosts serve isn’t suitable for the living. Better to eat first.”

Hermione nodded, half-understanding.

She had no idea about such things, but if Silven said so, it must be right.

As they sat down at the table, Fred and George arrived, their faces glowing with uncontainable delight. Without a word to Silven, they dropped a heavy bag onto the table.

The bag was heavy—it thudded loudly when it hit the table.

Ron just glanced inside and couldn’t look away.

Silver Sickles—the bag was full of silver Sickles, with occasional gold Galleons mixed in.

“You… robbed Gringotts?” Ron stammered.

“Robbing Gringotts doesn’t make as much as selling stickers,” George scoffed.

“Actually, robbing Gringotts makes more,” Silven smiled.

These Sickles totaled maybe five hundred—sounded like a lot, but converted to Galleons, less than thirty.

Selling stickers was slow, steady income; the dye spray was where the real money was, but it was too expensive—lots asked, few bought.

Silven simply took it all and stored it away, planning to mention it once the novelty of the stickers faded.

“You really shouldn’t have picked Lockhart,” George said, sitting beside Silven and whispering. “If you’d made a golden Snape, you’d be filthy rich by now—those Slytherin rich kids have money.”

“But they’re not fools—they won’t just hand over cash,” Silven shook his head. “If I did that, the intent would be too obvious. They wouldn’t fall for it.”

“Fair enough,” Fred pushed Ron aside and sat on Silven’s other side, whispering. “What about your dye spray? I remember you said green and silver were the most expensive—will you lower the price?”

“No,” Silven said.

Now Fred and George were confused—how could stickers fail but dye spray succeed?

“It’s different.”

“How?”

“The difference between Snape and Slytherin,” Silven explained. “And the dye spray costs more—once even one person buys it, it’ll equal two full bags of Sickles.”

Silven picked up the bag and hefted it; it was indeed heavy.

“So when are you planning to officially launch the dye spray?”

“Wait a bit longer,” Silven sighed. “I simply don’t have the heart for such things right now.”

“Relax,” George said. “No one learns all the Transfiguration in second year—not even Professor McGonagall.” He had clearly misunderstood Silven’s meaning.

Silven offered no explanation, only nodded and said, “I’ll come find you when the time comes.”

(End of Chapter)