Chapter 102: Unicorns and Ghosts

Once October arrived, Hogwarts welcomed the rainiest time of the year — and to what extent, you ask?

Put it this way: Silven actually saw his pet cat Tom in the common room.

What a rare sight. Silven had once assumed the cat had already made a home for itself in the Forbidden Forest, never expecting it would actually bother to come out — probably driven back by the relentless downpour of the past few days.

But since they rarely met, Silven went over and rubbed its head. Round and plump, it looked like it had put on another whole layer of fat since last year.

"Is the food in the Forbidden Forest really that good?" Silven gave Tom's belly another pinch, and promptly got a solid slap on the arm.

"Fine, no touching then. Stingy." Silven stood up and left the common room.

Out in the corridor, Oliver Wood was chatting animatedly with a few Quidditch players.

"I just went and asked Professor McGonagall, and she said we can apply to use the Quidditch pitch after Halloween!"

As Wood spoke, his eyes were practically shining. The other players were excited too, but none quite as over the top as him.

Honestly, training in this kind of weather is pure torture. They'd seen how wretched the Hufflepuff team looked during yesterday's practice — covered head to toe in mud and water, half the players catching colds, and this morning trailing little clouds of white smoke wherever they went.

That was the invigorating draught Madam Pomfrey had prepared — remarkably effective against colds, though the side effect was a touch embarrassing: white smoke would keep streaming out of one's ears.

Fred and George considered themselves lucky not to have to train in this ghastly weather, though after Halloween it probably wouldn't keep raining nonstop, right?

Hard to say — after all, this was already the last weekend before Halloween.

Silven didn't disturb them. Keeping close to the wall, he carefully made his way downstairs toward the library.

For some reason, Silven was feeling a little nervous, and the closer Halloween drew, the more nervous he became.

He thought again about the vanished diary — hard to say whether the thing was still inside Hogwarts castle.

At first, he'd actually suspected Lockhart, because Lockhart's behavior had been too strange. Who would have thought that, this far into the term, he still enjoyed such enormous popularity among the students?

And Silven had also thought of something else: when the incident happened, Lockhart had been in Flourish and Blotts too — it was possible he'd taken the diary.

So Silven had deliberately found an opportunity, taking his own black diary to ask Lockhart for an autograph.

This diary was one Hermione had given him on the train — it had nothing to do with a Horcrux, just an ordinary, Muggle-made diary with a black cover, and also a gift from Mr. Granger thanking him for speaking up in his defense.

But just from the outside, it did look quite similar to the Horcrux diary — which wasn't strange, since Riddle's was also a Muggle product. Maybe this one was even the same model as Riddle's.

So while Lockhart was signing it, Silven kept watching his expression, hoping to catch a flicker of surprise or astonishment.

But nothing — Lockhart's face didn't change at all. He cheerfully took the diary and signed his name with that fancy peacock-feather quill.

Silven then pretended to ask casually whether he had the habit of keeping a diary.

"I spend six hours a day replying to my admirers — those are the best diaries I have," Lockhart said.

Silven had also asked Harry, who likewise hadn't heard any strange voices… everything in the castle seemed perfectly normal.

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

Worth mentioning: because he often stacked books several feet high, many students who frequented the library had come to recognize Silven, and would instinctively leave this seat free for him.

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

Mainly because the first time he'd come to read, the place was packed and this was the only empty seat. After that, Madam Pince had taken the initiative to set the books he'd borrowed on this table… now it was practically his reserved seat.

Three hours later, Silven got up and headed to the Great Hall for lunch.

"If you ask me, you never should have agreed."

"But I already did."

"Can you take it back?"

"Don't say that — Sir Nicholas has helped us loads before. Harry definitely can't do that."

Silven listened and felt the words were familiar. He walked into the Great Hall and, sure enough, it was Harry and the other two standing at the entrance talking.

"Just as I thought — it's you lot."

"Oh, Silven — rare to see you somewhere other than the library," said Harry.

"I do still need to eat," said Silven. "What were you just talking about?"

"Don't even ask." Ron sighed. "Harry agreed to go to Nearly Headless Nick's five-hundredth Deathday Party."

"Deathday Party?"

"Nearly Headless Nick invited me," said Harry.

Ever since Snape's detention, Harry had had almost no appetite for quite a while. Last night he'd been so hungry he went to the common room to find something to eat, and ran into Nearly Headless Nick there.

Nick told Harry where the kitchen was and how to get in.

When Harry came back after eating his fill, the two got chatting, and Nick happened to mention the Deathday Party. To express his gratitude, Harry said he'd be very happy to attend.

But afterward he was a bit regretful.

Because Ron told him that Deathday Parties were usually held in the dungeons, and Harry had a bit of a shadow over the dungeons — apart from Potions class, he usually went out of his way to avoid them.

"It's fine — I'll just go to the Deathday Party on my own when the time comes," Harry said, forcing himself to sound brave. "After all, I only promised one person."

"What kind of talk is that?" Ron said at once. "How could we possibly let you go alone with all those ghosts? We have to go together… oh, this is awful, let's move somewhere else to talk."

Ron's face suddenly changed, and he looked with utter disgust at Malfoy walking in from outside.

Malfoy was much the same.

"Bloody Weasley…"

"What, fancy another slug-vomiting?" Ron deliberately drew his wand and gave it a little flick.

Malfoy's eyes went red instantly, and the look he fixed on Ron could have spat fire.

Fortunately, Professor Sprout happened to walk in from outside just then, and the two finally parted ways.

Ron was still not satisfied, muttering angrily: "It's all Malfoy's fault. Sooner or later I'll make him eat slugs again — if there were a leech jinx, that'd be even better."

"Do you want Snape to give you detention again?" Hermione glared at him, thoroughly annoyed.

"Let's get back to the Deathday Party. I bet hardly any living people have ever been to one — maybe it'll be a really fascinating experience."

"Then you'd be wrong. Ghost parties aren't fascinating at all," said Silven. "Just imagine yourself inside a big refrigerator, surrounded by ghosts who died in all sorts of bizarre ways, and all kinds of rotting, stinking, maggot-infested food… that's pretty much it."

At the word "maggots," Harry and Ron both went pale at the same time, looking like they were about to throw up again.

Hermione's expression wasn't great either — this wasn't quite the Deathday Party she'd imagined.

"Maybe I should go find Nearly Headless Nick instead and tell him I'm not going," Harry said, taking a deep breath.

He was already certain he couldn't attend that party at all, or he'd very likely throw up all over the place.

"In that case, I'll go in your place," Silven said after a moment's thought.

"Really?" Harry's eyes lit up.

"Mm." Silven nodded, then said thoughtfully, "If everything goes smoothly…"

The reason he wanted to attend the Deathday Party was that a possibility had just occurred to him.

If a unicorn could tear a piece of Voldemort's wraith off, then what about ghosts?

He really wanted to know whether, without the Horcrux dark magic, a unicorn could still harm a ghost. The moment this thought arose, it lodged in his mind and wouldn't leave.

This Deathday Party was a perfect opportunity. Other ghosts were hard to say, but Nearly Headless Nick would surely be willing to do this favour…

And even if a unicorn couldn't harm ordinary ghosts, what about "Voldemort"-type ghosts? For instance, the Wan Lun female ghost Lockhart was always bragging about — she counted as a kind of ghost.

Silven didn't know if there was one in London, but the ghost guests coming from all over Britain for the party would surely know, and perhaps they'd be willing to share some information with him.

Harry didn't know what Silven was thinking; by now he was almost moved to tears.

"Then aren't you going to the Halloween Feast?" Hermione asked.

"Of course I am, definitely am." Silven spoke quickly, without the slightest hesitation.

Not attending the Halloween Feast was impossible — no matter what came up that day, he'd have to wait until the feast was over before leaving the Great Hall.

Only after that could he decide whether to go do other things.

"But if you attend the Halloween Feast, the timing will clash."

"Don't worry, it won't clash," Silven said. "Ghosts are different from us — the dead of night is when they're liveliest. Going early wouldn't be much fun."

"Besides, the food ghosts serve at the party isn't really suited for the living either. Better to eat your fill before going."

Hermione nodded, half-understanding.

She had no idea about any of this knowledge, but since Silven said so, it was probably right.

When the few of them sat down at the table, Fred and George happened to come over as well. Their faces wore unconcealed delight, and upon seeing Silven they said nothing at all, simply setting a bag down heavily on the table.

The bag was quite weighty, and upon hitting the table it gave a dull thud.

"What's this?" Ron only leaned over curiously to peek inside the bag, and couldn't look away again.

Sickles — the bag was full of Sickles, with the occasional scattered Galleon visible.

"Did you… rob Gringotts?" Ron managed haltingly.

"Robbing Gringotts doesn't earn as much as selling stickers," George said with a contemptuous snort.

"Don't say that — robbing Gringotts still earns more," Silven said with a smile.

These Sickles were at most around five hundred — sounded like a lot, but converted into Galleons it was less than thirty.

Selling stickers was a slow-and-steady stream; the dye spray was where the real money was, but that stuff was too expensive — lots of inquiries, few buyers.

Silven simply packed it all away, planning to wait until everyone's novelty with the stickers was fading before bringing it up again.

"You really shouldn't have picked Lockhart," George said, sitting down beside Silven in a low voice. "If you'd done a golden Snape, you'd be raking it in by now — those rich Slytherin types have plenty of money."

"But they're not idiots either; they won't just hand their money over to us," Silven shook his head. "If I really did that, the intent would be too obvious — they wouldn't fall for it."

"Alright, you've got a point," Fred said, squeezing Ron out of the way and sitting on Silven's other side, asking quietly, "So what about that dye spray of yours? I remember you said green and silver were the most expensive — are you going to drop the price on those too?"

"No discount," Silven said.

Now Fred and George were a bit baffled — how was that contradictory? Stickers people wouldn't fall for, but dye spray they would?

"It's not the same."

"How is it not the same?"

"The difference between Snape, and Slytherin," Silven explained. "And the dye spray is more expensive — once even one person buys it, it'll be worth two big bags of Sickles."

Silven picked up the bag and weighed it in his hand — it really was quite heavy.

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

"Let's wait a bit longer," Silven sighed. "I really don't have the mood to think about these things right now."

"Relax — nobody masters all of Transfiguration by second year, not even Professor McGonagall," George said, clearly having misunderstood Silven's meaning.

But Silven didn't explain either, just nodding and saying, "I'll come find you when the time comes."

(End of chapter)