Harry Potter and the Dovahkiin

Inside the party, Ben quickly figured out why the Headless Hunt never took Nick seriously. For starters, his full name was Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. Talk about trying too hard and still falling short.

The room was packed with ghosts of all shapes and misfortunes. Some looked drowned, still dripping wet; others had nooses dangling from their necks. A few had arrows sticking out of them, one was charred from angering a dragon, and another had a head caved in—courtesy of a troll. Some were downright terrifying, while others just looked... well, pitiful.

And then there was Peeves, the only splash of colour in a sea of grey, zipping about in search of trouble. At the moment, he was pelting Myrtle with mouldy peanuts and shrieking, "Fat! Ugly! Miserable! Moaning! Moping! Pimply Myrtle!" as she fled, sobbing.

Nick looked positively radiant—well, for a dead man—basking in the attention of his guests. He was at the centre of it all, and Merlin knows he loved nothing more than being the centre of attention.

That was, until a ghostly hunting horn blared through the dungeon, and a dozen headless horsemen came thundering through the wall, instantly becoming the death of the party.

Leading the charge was a burly ghost clutching his bearded head under one arm, merrily blasting the horn. He swung off his spectral steed, hoisted his head high to scan the crowd (which earned a few chuckles), then marched straight for Nearly Headless Nick, casually jamming his head back onto his neck.

"Nick!" Sir Patrick boomed, striding over with a wide grin. "Still hanging in there, are you?"

He let out a loud, wheezing laugh and clapped Nick on the shoulder—hard enough to send his head wobbling dangerously before it rolled clean off. The look on Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore's face was something to pay for.

"No, Patrick," Nick said dryly, scooping up his head and setting it back in place with an air of dignity. "In fact, I am no longer hanging in there."

Sir Patrick hesitated—just for a moment—before his smirk widened. "Ah! Yes, well, you're—"

"Completely headless and finally qualified for the Headless Hunt," Nick cut in, folding his arms.

A few ghosts murmured in amusement. Everyone knew Sir Patrick had spent years denying Nick's request to join their rowdy little club. The Hunt prided itself on a certain… enthusiasm for the whole headless experience, their games mostly revolving around tossing, kicking, and generally treating their detached heads like a Quaffle. Nick, meanwhile, had always been a touch too well-spoken, a bit too—well—proper for their liking.

And Sir Patrick was

"Well, Nick," he said, clearly scrambling for an excuse, "while I'm thrilled about your—ah—recent full decapitation, I'm afraid you still don't quite qualify."

Nick narrowed his eyes. "And why, pray, not?" He plucked his head off again and held it up pointedly. "This seems to meet the standard."

Sir Patrick gave a sympathetic wince, as if this were all terribly unfortunate. "Yes, well, it's not just about the head, you see. There's also the small matter of… a horse."

Nick blinked. "A horse?"

"Yes, a horse," Sir Patrick said smoothly. "Every member of the Hunt rides one. And, well, I don't see one trotting beside you, do you?"

Nick faltered, his head sinking slightly in his hands. "…No, I don't."

Sir Patrick sighed, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "Such a shame! But don't feel too bad, old boy. I'm sure you'll find yourself a fine ghostly steed one day." He clapped Nick on the shoulder again—looking altogether too pleased with himself— and swung onto his own spectral mount.

Before Sir Patrick could let out a triumphant "Yah!", Ben—who had endured quite enough of the ghost's smugness—eyed the horse thoughtfully. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he gave it a quick jab with his bound dagger.

The reaction was immediate. The horse gave a startled, echoing whinny, reared up high, and then bolted straight through the dungeon wall, vanishing with a fading shriek.

Sir Patrick, left flailing, tumbled straight off its back with an undignified yell. His head bounced once, twice—then rolled across the floor like a particularly disgruntled cabbage. His body landed a second later with a spectral thump.

Ben crossed his arms. "Well, would you look at that? Seems like Sir Patrick's just been unseated from the Headless Hunt."

A few ghosts wheezed with laughter as Sir Patrick's body groped blindly for his head.

The severed head glared as his hands blindly groped about for it. "A living boy stickin' his nose where it doesn't belong," he muttered. At last, he snatched up his head, dusted it off, and shoved it back onto his shoulders. "I'll have my horse back in no time."

Ben hummed. "Oh, brilliant! And while you're fetching your steed, how about finding one for Sir Nicholas too? Wouldn't want to leave him out again, would we?" He gave the ghostly dagger an idle spin.

Sir Patrick stiffened, eyeing the blade before scoffing. "Ridiculous."

Nick, however, merely sighed. "It's quite alright, Ben," he said, with the air of someone who had made peace with disappointment. "I rather think I've wasted enough centuries on this, it's rather pointless to join the Hunt if I'm not truly welcome."

Then, smoothing down his ruff, he turned back to the gathered ghosts. "Now, if I might have your attention, I should like to begin my speech."

He floated up onto the stage, clearing his throat. "My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow…"

Ben, however, barely had time to listen before Hermione rounded on him.

"So this is why you wanted to come?" she whispered furiously. "Where did you get that dagger? Can it actually hurt ghosts? Is that—"

"Bloody hell, Hermione," Ron muttered through chattering teeth, "can we save the interrogation for later? I can't feel my ears."

"Let's get out of here," said Harry. With that, the three of them slipped away unnoticed, Ben following close behind, leaving Nearly Headless Nick to his speech and Sir Patrick still brushing ectoplasm off his robes.

-End of Chapter-

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