Chapter 36: Happy Halloween

The annual Halloween feast at Hogwarts was filled with a bustling excitement, the Great Hall coming alive with the orange glow of pumpkin lanterns specially cultivated by Hagrid. Black bats, conjured by the adept hand of Professor Flitwick, flew in dizzying swarms across the ceiling.

But there was an unusual emptiness among the crowd of students—a lack of familiar translucent faces.

Though not openly discussed, the older students knew the reason why the ghostly residents of the castle were conspicuously absent for Halloween, a day when the veil between the spirit world and the human world was at its thinnest.

Today was not just any Halloween. It marked the 500th death day of Nearly Headless Nick, the resident ghost of Gryffindor House. Given the nature of the event, Nick had invited all his ghostly friends, both within and outside Hogwarts, to honor the occasion. Courtesy of a nod from Dumbledore, Nick had taken possession of a dungeon classroom to host his Deathday Party.

Whilst this absence of boisterous spirits accounted for a quieter-than-usual Halloween feast, there was a lingering ripple of anticipation. Whispers drifted among the tables about Dumbledore arranging for a performance by a Skeleton Dance Troupe.

Alas, it was a false hope. Students settled at their tables to find no sign of skeletal entertainers. But despite the absence of ghostly companions and mythical skeleton dancers, the spirit of Halloween still resonated strongly among the students.

The feast was richer than the usual Start of Term banquet, culminating in a glorious selection of sweets that couldn't fit into even two pockets of a Hogwarts robe, much to the delight of the younger students.

The adult banter over at the teachers' table was interrupted when Hagrid, his cheeks a tad rosy with tipsiness, asked Sherlock Forester, "Chanced upon any interesting tidbits from Slughorn after we left the two of you to talk at the Three Broomsticks, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was momentarily spared from addressing the question as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick shot stern glances at Hagrid. "Let's not poke our noses into private matters, Hagrid," McGonagall reprimanded, her tone sharp.

Hagrid, coming back to his senses, scratched his head and let out a few chuckles of embarrassment. "Just the mead asking, I swear," he muttered sheepishly.

Sherlock waved away Hagrid's apology nonchalantly, reached into his robe, and pulled out a locket he wore around his neck. Inside it was a small vial. "There's no need for secrecy," he reassured. "Slughorn gifted me a small vial of Felix Felicis." The potion inside the dainty bottle stirred gently, appearing under the flicker of candlelight like a piece of exquisite art.

A distinctively cold and distant voice broke the lull. "Given the acute accuracy required to brew this potion, this is an incredibly generous gift," remarked Snape. He was rarely known to join the friendly conversations among the teachers, even now his tone was sharply cold, almost provocative.

Sherlock, with an air of indifference around him, tucked the locket back into his robe. "Yes, Slughorn certainly is far more generous than you, Professor Snape. We've known each other for so long, yet I cannot recall you ever gifting me anything."

Sherlock's quick wit rendered Snape speechless. With heavy eyelids, McGonagall tried to maintain her stern facade, but the corners of her lips curled up into a faint smile, hinting at her amusement. Professors Flitwick and Sprout couldn't hold their mirth either. Even Dumbledore joined in on the camaraderie.

"Horace seems to hold only you in such generous regard, Sherlock," he quipped. "I've known him for well over sixty years, but I can't remember him so much as gifting me a single Christmas present!" And he twinkled mischievously at Snape, "And Severus, you too have yet to give me a Christmas present."

"Humph!" Snape replied curtly, an edge permeating his tone. "I don't celebrate Christmas."

Dumbledore merely chuckled at Snape's retort. "Fear not, today is Halloween. So let's all raise a toast to celebrate!"

All the professors present, Snape included, raised a glass. In one voice, they exclaimed, "Happy Halloween!"

Sherlock, albeit quietly, joined in the chorus, with a small shrug. Once the chant died down, they clinked their glasses and drained their drinks, lost in the spirit of the holiday.

In his two months at Hogwarts, Sherlock had already come to realize the significant role Dumbledore played at the school. Both the students and the teaching staff held their headmaster in absolute reverence and trusted him unquestioningly.

Or perhaps it was Dumbledore's unchallenged authority within the castle that everyone respected. The man was the bedrock of Hogwarts – an entity accepted by everyone within the castle walls.

Sherlock found himself silently echoing the sentiment, understanding just a little more why the previous owner had held Dumbledore in such fanatical admiration.

His own family having been lost to him at a young age, Hogwarts had become his second home, and young Sherlock had found in Dumbledore a supportive pillar he could turn to.

As laughter and cheer filled the Great Hall, and festive celebrations continued among the students and teachers, for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, the night was unfolding in a far less fortunate manner.

Human beings, they soon found out, were not meant for a ghost's deathday party. With the bone-deep cold and the unearthly screeching masquerading as music, staying through Nick's party became a test of endurance. The "delicacies" served at the party were another point of contention, the spectral cuisine not agreeing much with the living palate.

After enduring the better part of the eerie event, and in the midst of the chaos caused by the headless hunt, the trio made the decision to return to the Halloween feast in the Great Hall.

"I just hope they've left us some pudding," Ron grumbled, his teeth chattering as he wrapped his robe tightly around himself.

It was clear the ghostly room had taken its toll on the trio. As they navigated their way through spectral figures with politely strained smiles, they were eager to say their goodbyes.

However, as they made their way to the Great Hall, an icy voice flooded Harry's mind — a voice that held an eerie familiarity, a voice that uttered terrifyingly murderous vows. "...tear you... rip you... kill you..."

Harry, caught off guard, stopped abruptly. Sensing Harry's discomfort, Hermione and Ron leaned toward him. "What's going on, Harry?"

Harry held up a hand to silence them, leaned heavily against the wall, and tried to discern the source of the ominous echo in his mind. Unlike the previous time, this murmur didn't vanish immediately, although its intensity began to dwindle.

Harry was certain it was moving, climbing upwards. His gaze darted to the dark ceiling. A mixture of fear and excitement bubbled within him.

Harry then traced the spectral voice to the third floor, led Ron and Hermione through a labyrinth of corridors, around corners, and finally to a desolate strip of hallway. Just as Ron, red-faced and huffing from the exertion, was about to question Harry about the procedure, Hermione took in a sharp breath of horror.

"Look!" she gasped.

The foreboding voice had drowned in silence, but something froze them in their tracks. Outside of their huddled trio in the dim corridor, the wall shimmered faintly. Their hearts pounding with alarming intensity, they cautiously moved closer. As they squinted in the faint glow of the torches, about a foot off the ground, they found mystical, glaring writing etched into the wall.

"The Chamber of Secrets has been opened."

"Enemies of the heir, beware."

Their collective gaze dropped to a stiff form slumped on the freezing stone beside the chilling inscription, an unmoving boy lying as still as a statue.