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Chapter 120: Moaning Myrtle
On the other side of the underground classroom stood a long table covered with a black velvet cloth, arranged with a certain grim elegance.
"What do ghosts eat?" The strange idea immediately caught everyone's attention, and they eagerly moved closer to take a look. But they quickly regretted it—the sight was utterly revolting. The moment they approached, a wave of foul, rotten stench hit them.
Large chunks of decaying meat lay on fine silver platters. Cakes coated in black icing gave off a rancid smell, piled high on trays. There were also sheep stomachs crawling with maggots and cheeses covered in green mold.
The only thing that looked remotely normal was a massive gray cake in the center of the table, shaped like a tombstone. Written on it in icing were the words marking the occasion:
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, died October 31, 1492.
This bizarre scene made everyone truly understand the boundary between life and death—and the separation between the living and the dead—that this gathering symbolized.
A ghost floated over and crouched near the table, passing straight through it. Opening its wide mouth, it tried to swallow a piece of odorless salmon. The fish slid right through its translucent mouth and head without changing at all.
"If you go through it from that angle, can you taste it?" Harry asked curiously, staring at the unchanged salmon.
"Perhaps…" The Fat Friar drifted away, his face filled with quiet sadness.
From his appearance, it was clear that food had once meant a great deal to him. But now, whether decades or centuries had passed, this endless torment continued—unable to truly taste anything.
"I think they let the food rot on purpose, so the smell becomes stronger," Hermione said seriously, covering her nose as she glanced up at the rotting sheep stomach.
"Obviously, ghosts don't have human senses. They experience things in other ways," George added, quickly shifting his focus. Tonight's experience was opening his eyes—he was beginning to understand the ghostly world on a deeper level.
If ghosts could interact with certain objects imbued with ghostly properties, and spells could repel or even destroy them, then could objects themselves be given a ghost-like state through magic?
If he could figure out how to turn food into something ghosts could truly interact with, he might gain the ability to command countless spirits wandering the world.
Sometimes, curiosity and the thirst for knowledge could lead to frightening ideas.
"Let's go, I'm going to be sick," Ron muttered, his voice hollow. He clearly hated this party.
Just as they were about to leave, a mischievous little spirit suddenly popped out from beneath the table and floated in front of them.
"Hello, Peeves," Harry said cautiously.
Peeves was a well-known poltergeist at the school, infamous for his pranks. Unlike most ghosts, he could touch physical objects and wasn't pale or translucent.
He wore a bright orange party hat and a spinning bow tie, his wide grin twisted into a mocking smile. He looked both ridiculous and unsettling.
"Want something to eat?" he asked sweetly, offering them a bowl of moldy peanuts.
"No, thank you," Hermione replied politely.
Even though she knew he meant trouble, it was best not to provoke him.
"I heard you talking about poor Myrtle," Peeves said with a grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "It's very rude to speak badly about that poor, foolish girl."
Peeves was in a foul mood. He had helped decorate the party, light the candles, and prepare the food—but none of the other ghosts showed him proper respect. No one invited him to give a speech, greet guests, or even thanked him. Naturally, that annoyed him.
And when Peeves was annoyed—or even when he was happy—he caused trouble.
Now, he had found his target.
Earlier, while hiding under the table, he had heard Hermione say, "Don't look at Myrtle, don't talk to Myrtle," before they hurried away. Peeves had been thinking about how to play a prank—and now the perfect opportunity had appeared.
Taking a deep breath, he shouted loudly:
"Myrtle!"
"No—don't do that, Peeves! Don't tell her, she'll be upset!" Hermione pleaded anxiously.
George watched the scene with amusement. Everyone had been worried that Hermione's frustration would drive her to attack Myrtle with spells—but now, at the thought of Myrtle hearing her words, she panicked.
After all, she was still just a kind-hearted twelve-year-old girl.
She might complain in private, even fantasize about getting rid of Myrtle—but actually hurting someone face-to-face was another matter entirely. In the end, she was far more likely to blame herself.
George remained neutral on such matters. In his view, personal growth was something everyone had to figure out on their own. Kindness wasn't a flaw—but compared to reason, it wasn't always an advantage either.
For someone as troublesome as Myrtle, most people would quietly avoid her, unwilling to say anything harsh directly. Yet sometimes, being honest about unacceptable behavior was necessary—it all depended on the individual.
"I was just joking, I don't mind—I don't hate her at all—oh, Myrtle… hello…" Hermione was still trying to smooth things over when a short, ghostly girl drifted toward them.
It was Myrtle.
This was George's first time seeing the ghost who had managed to irritate Hermione so much—a rare achievement.
At first glance, Myrtle was clearly not a pleasant sight. Her face looked gloomy and unsettling, like something out of a horror story. Her round face was mostly hidden behind long, straight hair and thick, pearly glasses.
"What?" she said, pulling an ugly face that made everyone feel immediately uncomfortable.
"Hello, Myrtle," Hermione said stiffly, forcing a friendly tone.
"It's nice to see you outside the bathroom."
Myrtle sniffed but didn't reply. She wasn't a likable ghost—everyone knew it, and so did she.
(To be continued.)