Chapter 104

Harry and the others forced their way into the underground classroom; since they'd come this far, they couldn't turn back at the door.

Nearly Headless Nick warmly welcomed them, though late, but the mere fact that living people had come to the party already made him delighted.

Yet Harry and the others didn't stay long—perhaps the rotting food in the underground classroom stirred up unpleasant memories; Harry and Ron merely circled once, then clenched their lips and bolted out.

Hermione, worried for them, followed them out, leaving only Silven as the sole living person still inside.

Silven glanced at the pitch-black, charred cake before him, large chunks of rotting meat crawling with maggots, and moldy, spoiled pudding cheese…

The smell here was indeed not pleasantly astonishing, but he could still barely manage to bear it.

Silven had intended to find Nick first, but today Nick was too popular—the ghosts were lined up inviting him to dance.

There was nothing for it; Silven could only go elsewhere for a while.

He took a quick look: hundreds of milky-white ghosts had crammed into the small underground classroom.

Of course, ghosts didn't feel crowded, but for Silven, a living person, it was unfriendly—any slight movement of his might pass through one or several ghosts' bodies.

He could only walk slowly along the edge of the dance floor, circling the cramped room, then exiting through the door to the corridor outside.

Silven had intended to stretch and warm his body, but then he suddenly noticed a lone ghost drifting in the corner.

It was a ghost Silven had never seen before, dressed in medieval attire and draped in a bizarre, tattered cloak, stained all over with silver blood.

He faced the wall, floating unsteadily in midair, doing… something… he looked almost drunk.

Can ghosts get drunk?

Silven didn't know, but he realized this might be a rare good opportunity.

He wanted to find Nick but had no idea when he'd get the chance; he couldn't just stand here forever.

So half a second later, the wand Silvermane was in Silven's hand.

With a low murmur, a bright blue light flashed through the dark corridor.

"What's wrong? What's happening?" The ghost by the wall jerked upright as if startled, but his lower half remained where it was.

Silven could clearly see his intestines floating in midair.

"Living person…" The ghost now noticed Silven, "Have you gotten lost? Your party should be upstairs!"

"Sir Nicholas invited me." Silven said, his eyes instinctively glancing at the cloak behind him.

Intact, no change whatsoever… It seemed the unicorn couldn't directly harm ghosts, which left him slightly disappointed.

"You look disappointed."

Hearing this, Silven nodded instinctively, "A bit."

The next second he realized the speaker was the ghost himself—but he'd clearly misunderstood.

"Disappointment is natural; after all, how ghosts celebrate is entirely different from how living people do."

Silven thought he saw a flicker of bitterness in the ghost's eyes, "Since we can't eat, we let food rot—as if that somehow makes the flavor stronger. As we grow more numb, we stimulate our brains with ever louder sounds… if we still had such things."

As he spoke, the ghost grew suddenly melancholic, like a collection of negative emotions, radiating a pale blue aura from every part of him.

Seeing Silven silent, he sighed, shoved his stray intestines back inside haphazardly, and drifted back to the corner, motionless.

He and Moaning Myrtle would probably get along well.

Silven glanced once more at the cloak behind him, then returned to the underground classroom.

Though the cloak showed no damage, from his sudden jerking reaction just now, it seemed he wasn't entirely insensitive—there was still some effect.

In the underground classroom, Nick was still dancing, but he'd found another ghost he somewhat recognized.

The Fat Friar of Hufflepuff, a kind-hearted ghost, who was speaking with Patrick from the Headless Hunt when Silven approached.

Yet a living person among hundreds of ghosts was like a giant spotlight—the Fat Friar had noticed him from afar and greeted him warmly as Silven came near.

"Ah, I know you—you're the Ollivander boy, right?"

"Hello, Fat Friar." Silven said.

"I thought you'd left with Mr. Potter." The Fat Friar smiled.

"Actually, I wanted to ask about ghosts," Silven said, "but Nick's been dancing nonstop…"

"Oh?" The Fat Friar regarded Silven with interest, "If you don't mind, tell me—perhaps I can help answer a bit."

"It's about our Defense Against the Dark Arts class," Silven said. "I really liked Professor Luohate's book, 'Breaking Up with the Female Ghost,' and I'm curious whether Britain has anything like the Wan Lun Female Ghost."

The Fat Friar froze, then looked embarrassed—he simply didn't know.

He'd become a ghost over six hundred years ago, confused and unaware of anything, instinctively returning to Hogwarts, the place he cherished most, and never left again…

He'd never even stepped outside the castle—how could he know what kinds of ghosts existed beyond?

But it didn't matter; though he'd never left Hogwarts, today there was no shortage of ghosts.

At the Fat Friar's call, the room quickly filled with milky-white ghosts, surrounding Silven in the center, waves of bone-chilling cold surging over him as if he stood inside a cold storage room.

And this cold was a ghost's inherent trait, unrelated to magic—so even gripping Silvermane did nothing. In mere seconds, a thin layer of frost formed on his hair tips.

But at the same time, he finally obtained the information he wanted.

"I've never been to Wan Lun, but if you mean a ghost that tortures and kills Muggles for amusement, then it's certainly the Bloody Baron." A ghost wearing chains and tattered clothes said.

Silven's eyes lit up—this name didn't sound like a good ghost at all.

He asked further, "But isn't the Bloody Baron a ghost? Can he harm Muggles?"

"Most ghosts can't," said the chained ghost, "but there are always exceptions. He killed sixteen Muggles and one wizard, yet the Ministry's Aurors couldn't touch him—not a single one, useless since centuries ago."

Clearly, this ghost held deep resentment toward the Ministry's Aurors.

"What happened to him now?" Silven asked next.

"I don't know," he shook his head. "The Bloody Baron vanished mysteriously; no one knows what happened."

"I know, I know!" Another ghost drifted over from behind, voice tinged with excitement. "About seventy years ago, a foreign wizard trapped the Bloody Baron in an abandoned village, then the Ministry placed Muggle-Repelling Charms all around—"

"What was that foreign wizard's name again? I forgot, but I remember he later ran for Head of the International Confederation of Wizards—he was a big shot."

"How do you know so much?" The chained ghost turned his head in surprise—and twisted it clean off from the force.

"Hmph…" Nearly Headless Nick let out a meaningless cold snort from afar.

"Don't mind me, keep going," the head shouted from the floor. "I even went out of my way to ask around, but I got nothing. How do you know this?"

"Because I'm the wizard the Bloody Baron killed—I watched him get trapped right beside me."

"…"

This answer was authoritative.

The ghosts fell silent; only a pair of chained hands silently picked up the head and set it back on the neck.

"Where is he… the Bloody Baron?" More ghosts gathered around; as Silven spoke, mist coalesced before him.

The ghost did not answer, only stared at Silven and said seriously, "If you're just seeking thrills, I suggest you find another way—that ghost can kill wizards."

"Thank you. I fully believe that," Silven said, glancing at him.

He looked young, no more than twenty, clean all over, with no obvious wounds—unlike other ghosts, who were streaked with blood or pierced with arrows.

But he just looked a bit dim.

"I'm asking on behalf of our… Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Silven rubbed his shoulders hard to warm them. "Gilderoy Lockhart… he's an extraordinary wizard. Maybe he could kill the Bloody Baron outright… help you get revenge."

The ghost paid no attention to Silven's words, treating them like a joke—ghosts were merely the lingering marks of dead wizards, devoid of life; how could they be killed a second time?

Still, he gave Silven the address.

"South of Wiltshire, you tell Professor Lockhart to find a mountain shaped like a fork, climb over it, then cross a river…"

Well, this ghost really did seem dim—he'd even misremembered Lockhart's surname… hopefully he was just bad with names.

Silven carefully wrote down the long address, planning to search for it during the holidays.

After that, he got two more names and corresponding addresses from other ghosts—one in Kent, the other in Cornwall.

Though their deeds weren't as famed as the first, they had all been notorious dark wizards in life, and as ghosts, they'd terrorized Muggles and plagued the Ministry—perfectly fitting Silven's needs.

…

(End of Chapter)