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It was just past twilight and the four hundred and eighty-first meeting of the Hogwarts Ghost Council was underway in the new Spirit Faculty Lounge. The Grey Lady floated silently at the far end, arms crossed, a thin veil of mist trailing behind her. The Fat Friar was fidgeting with a teacup that hadn’t held tea in two centuries. The Bloody Baron hovered with arms folded and expression stony. Nearly Headless Nick looked deeply affronted and was mid-way through an indignant harangue.
“—and furthermore, it is patently unjust,” Nick was saying, “that I should be denied membership to the Headless Hunt on the basis of a mere half-inch of connective tissue. They say I’m not sufficiently headless, but I ask you—how headless is headless enough?”
Moaning Myrtle, floating just above a water-stained chaise lounge near the fireplace, rolled her eyes so hard her whole head tilted.
“I submitted a new application last week,” Nick continued, “Photographs. Testimonials. A detailed medical drawing—”
“This counts as old business,” muttered the Grey Lady.
“Deeply old,” added the Baron.
“Pre-Renaissance, even,” sighed Binns. “Sir Nicholas, if we are quite finished revisiting your decapitation—”
“We are not!” Nick said hotly. “The injustice—!”
“I move to conclude Old Business,” the Grey Lady said smoothly.
“Seconded,” grunted the Baron.
“All in favor?”
A chorus of aye’s—some enthusiastic, others sleepy—rang out before Nick could inhale for his next sentence.
“Motion carried,” Binns declared with bureaucratic finality. “New Business.”
Nick sulked.
Professor Binns adjusted his spectacles. “A matter of grave concern has come to light. I refer, of course, to Educational Decree Number 342.”
Murmurs stirred among the assembly. The Fat Friar looked up, crumbs of imaginary biscuits tumbling from his lap.
Binns produced a scroll and read aloud with academic severity:
“No member of the deceased community, be they apparition, spirit, ghost, inferius, or any other creature once formally declared dead, is eligible for the post of teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Any such person hereby has their employment terminated and must leave the castle within forty-eight hours, barring permission to remain in residence granted by the Hogwarts High Inquisitor.”
A stunned silence followed. Even Nick stopped rearranging his cravat.
“I have taught at this school,” Binns said, his voice rising with rare emotion, “for two hundred and nine years. Of which fifty-two were as a living member of staff! I gave my life—and my afterlife—to the education of young witches and wizards, and this… this is my reward?”
“I’m outraged on your behalf,” said the Fat Friar kindly. “I always said your lectures had a… timeless quality.”
“As in time seems to stand still,” mumbled the Bloody Baron.
“Can they even do that?” Nick asked. “Terminate a ghost?”
“What are they going to do, eject his ectoplasm?” said the Baron.
“Perhaps I should start haunting the Ministry,” muttered Binns.
The Grey Lady raised an eyebrow. “Much as we sympathize, Cuthbert, what precisely do you propose we do about it?”
A long pause. Then a tentative voice from the corner:
“We could… go on strike?” Myrtle suggested, peeking from behind a velvet curtain.
All heads—or near-heads—turned.
“A strike?” Nick asked, intrigued. “You mean a full haunting withdrawal?”
“Something like that,” Myrtle said, twirling slightly. “No haunting, no floating, no spooky ambiance at all. Bring them to their knees! And if that doesn’t work — cry.”
The Grey Lady arched a spectral brow. “Forgive me, but what essential public service do we provide whose absence would bring Hogwarts to its knees, as you say?”
There was hemming. There was hawing.
“Well,” said the Friar, “we are scheduled to perform synchronized formation gliding at the Halloween Feast…”
Several ghosts perked up.
“Yes!" Nick brightened. “Yes, we could refuse to perform! No gliding! No moaning! Not even a spectral conga!”
“That’ll show them,” said the Baron, not entirely convincingly.
“I could cross my arms,” said the Friar. “Dramatically.”
“You already are,” muttered the Grey Lady.
“It’s a symbolic gesture.”
“I move we cancel our Halloween performance in protest,” Nick declared, swelling with a sense of martyrdom.
“Seconded,” said the Baron, with less enthusiasm.
But before the motion could be carried, Myrtle piped up again, delighted to be the bearer of bad news.
“Er… I heard Umbridge already booked the Headless Hunt for the Halloween entertainment.”
A gasp. A moan. A thud, as Nick’s head flopped face-first onto the floating table.
“She… what?” Nick wailed, voice muffled from the table. “Those… smug, fully-decapitated… show-offs?”
“Well, that’s that then,” the Grey Lady said coolly. “We’re not even being replaced with competence.”
The meeting dissolved into chaos.
The Great Hall glittered with floating pumpkins, enchanted bats, and the soft glow of hundreds of floating candles, as students chattered eagerly over golden plates laden with roast chicken, pumpkin pasties, and a frankly worrying number of licorice skulls. It was Halloween at Hogwarts, and the atmosphere crackled with excitement.
Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat at the staff table and lifted his arms slightly for quiet. The room obliged—eventually—and he smiled serenely.
“Good evening,” he said. “Before we begin tonight’s entertainment, I feel it is my solemn duty to warn you — The toffee apples may be cursed, the treacle tarts may be enchanted, and the pumpkin juice may contain minor prophetic properties. Consume with caution. Or enthusiasm. Either works.”
A low ripple of laughter traveled through the hall.
“And now,” he added, “I am told that Professor Binns has prepared a brief message.”
He stepped aside.
A collective, instinctive groan rippled through the student body.
From the side of the hall, Professor Binns floated forward, pale, transparent, and utterly determined. He carried a scroll that trailed behind him like a spectral train and took up position behind the podium without looking up.
“Dear students and staff,” he began in his usual monotone, “I rise tonight not to discuss the 1612 goblin uprising—though it remains tragically underappreciated—but to address a matter of pressing educational injustice.”
Several students blinked. One or two Gryffindors began whispering. A Slytherin near the front leaned forward in horror.
“I refer, of course,” Binns droned on, “to Educational Decree Number Three Hundred and Forty-Two, a document so egregious, so administratively incoherent, that it threatens the very foundation of magical pedagogy—”
At that moment, the closed doors of the Great Hall were silently violated as a dozen headless ghosts glided cleanly through the solid wood, a swirl of mist and manic cheer in their wake.
The Headless Hunt had arrived.
Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore glided in with his head tucked under one arm, waving cheerfully with the other.
“EVENING, HOGWARTS!” he bellowed. “LET THE GAMES BEGIN!”
With a dramatic flick of his incorporeal wrist, he hurled his head into the air. It soared over the Ravenclaw table and was expertly intercepted by another Hunt member wielding a beheading axe repurposed as a hockey stick.
“HEADLESS HOCKEY!” roared Sir Patrick. “First team to score a goal in the Slytherin punch bowl wins!”
The students erupted in delighted chaos. Cheers rang out. Hufflepuffs stood on benches. Gryffindors banged their goblets on the table. Peeves appeared overhead and started dropping confetti made of shredded decree parchments.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake…” muttered Nearly Headless Nick, sinking lower in his chair as another disembodied head ricocheted past.
At the podium, Binns continued without pause.
“—to presume that an individual’s expired corporeality negates their pedagogical efficacy is not only discriminatory, but contrary to the long-standing values of this institution, as articulated in the charter of—”
Nick glowered at the hunt.
“No appreciation for subtlety,” he muttered. “I once performed Hamlet entirely through moaning and gesture.”
Nobody heard him.
Binns, for his part, was still speaking.
“—and furthermore, the preclusion of spectral instructors directly violates Article Seven, Subsection Twelve of the Unified Magical Faculty Accord of 1728, which clearly states—”
Moaning Myrtle had drifted up to the ceiling to get a better view and was shrieking with laughter whenever a head passed through a bannister.
“GOOOOOAAAL!” cried Sir Patrick, as someone’s cranium passed squarely through the Slytherin punch bowl.
Professor Binns finally looked up.
He blinked once. Slowly.
“—I see I may need to submit this as a written statement.”
The headless hockey match had ended in chaos and three minor ectoplasmic injuries. The students were still buzzing about it when Professor Umbridge rose stiffly from her seat and gave her teacup a prim, decisive tap.
“Attention,” she trilled, her voice slicing through the noise like a particularly smug cheese knife. “Attention, everyone! Ahem. It is my pleasure to introduce a new member of the faculty, who will be assuming the role of History of Magic professor immediately.”
Several students turned, mid-pudding. The Ravenclaw table looked vaguely hopeful. The Gryffindor table braced for disaster.
“We are honored,” Umbridge continued, “to welcome a celebrated scholar and the esteemed author of A History of Magic—Madam Bathilda Bagshot.”
A polite scattering of applause followed, with a few Ravenclaws clapping more enthusiastically as they processed the name.
From behind the staff table, a very elderly witch shuffled into view, wearing three shawls, two different shoes, and an expression of vague delight. Her hat was slightly askew, her wand was tucked into what appeared to be a crocheted tea cozy, and she was muttering to herself as she approached the podium.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, lovely ceilings,” she murmured, gazing upward. “I remember when we first painted them green. Or perhaps that was the cat.”
Umbridge beamed.
“Do say hello, dear,” she prompted.
“Oh! Am I speaking?” Bagshot turned to the students, blinking owlishly. “Yes, quite right. Good evening, gentlemen and beans. I am Bathrobe Bagstand.”
A Gryffindor choked on a pumpkin tart.
“I have taught at seventeen institutions,” she continued proudly, “One was underwater. Or maybe it was underground.”
Professor Binns still net to the podium looked murderously translucent. His arms were folded, his scroll fluttering with suppressed rage.
“She’s not qualified,” he hissed to no one in particular. “She hasn’t taught a coherent class since 1956.”
“At least her lectures end eventually,” said the Bloody Baron.
Umbridge cleared her throat. “Madam Bagshot is, of course, operating under the full authorization of the Ministry and has graciously come out of retirement to help us bring rigor back to the subject of magical history.”
“Last year she gave a keynote speech to a hat stand!” Binns whispered, aghast. “What’s more, she published it!”
“Her first lesson,” Umbridge continued, “will be held tomorrow morning. All students should come prepared with fresh parchment, an open mind, and an appreciation for traditional values.”
Bagshot gave a small curtsey to the soup tureen.
The new era of magical history had begun. Badly.
Professor Binns hovered three inches above a wobbly pub stool, his translucent arms crossed, his brow furrowed with spectral indignation. A few feet away, Madam Rosmerta was noisily wiping down the bar with enough force to suggest she wished it were Binns’s face.
“I’m telling you for the last time,” she snapped, slapping a cloth onto a butterbeer ring, “if you don’t stop moaning about goblin uprisings, I will have this room exorcised.”
“I have nowhere else to go,” Binns replied frostily. “I’ve been banned from the castle.”
The word banned hung in the air like a hex.
“I thought bans couldn’t be enforced against the dead,” she snapped.
“They can’t really...” Binns muttered, adjusting his glasses though they served no optical function. “But to ignore a Ministry directive—even one as outrageous as Educational Decree Number Three Hundred and Forty-Two—would undermine the very bedrock of institutional order!”
“You are the bedrock of institutional order,” the Fat Friar offered kindly.
“Precisely,” Binns huffed. “Which is why I’ve convened this emergency meeting of the Hogwarts Spirit Council at The Three Broomsticks to determine how best to rectify the gross miscarriage of historical stewardship currently unfolding within our beloved school.”
“You could always possess her,” murmured the Bloody Baron from the shadows.
Everyone turned.
“I’m joking,” he added, rolling his eyes. “Mostly.”
“I don’t think we need to possess anyone,” said the Grey Lady, drifting in through the ceiling and examining the state of the curtains with quiet disdain. “She’ll probably wander off the premises on her own.”
“She called a seventh-year ‘Mister Dumbledore’ yesterday,” added Moaning Myrtle, who was floating upside-down in the butterbeer tap. “And she gave a lecture to a tapestry of trolls.”
“I heard that lecture,” groaned Binns. “She said the Troll Wars were fought over interpretive dance.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” said the Fat Friar, perking up. “We don’t need to argue with her. We don’t need to debate qualifications. We just need to do what ghosts do.”
Everyone looked at him.
“We need to scare her,” he said simply. “Properly. Like the old days.”
A pause.
Moaning Myrtle let out a delighted shriek and spun in midair. “Oh! A haunting! We’ll haunt her!”
“Strategic haunting,” clarified Nick, already pacing. “We’ll need rotations. Themes. Possibly an escalating sense of dread.”
“A progressive psychological campaign,” said the Grey Lady, sounding almost amused. “Delicious.”
“I’ll handle the plumbing,” Myrtle offered. “She won’t be able to take a bath in peace.”
“I’ll take the library wing,” said Nick. “Old haunt of mine. I can do cold spots and dramatic sighing.”
“I’ll handle the portraits,” said the Fat Friar. “I still have connections. We’ll see if we can get them all to turn and stare at her when she enters the room.”
“She won't know what hit her,” muttered the Bloody Baron, drawing a small, malicious smile.
Rosmerta, having returned with a tray of tankards, raised an eyebrow. “Just make sure whatever you’re planning doesn’t spill over into my dining room.”
“No guarantees,” said Nick, bowing gallantly.
Binns straightened. “We are agreed, then. Operation Scare Bagshot is hereby approved by the Spirit Assembly. Let’s restore pedagogical integrity through coordinated ethereal pressure!.”
The ghosts dispersed, excitement palpable in the air.
Back at the bar, Rosmerta watched them go and sighed.
“I miss the days when the worst we had were banshees.”
The first haunting began promptly at 9:00 a.m., coordinated to interrupt Madam Bagshot’s opening lecture on “Historical Misinterpretations of the Goblin Rebellions: A Personal Journey.”
As she arranged her papers—none of which were written in the same language or century—Nearly Headless Nick floated through the back wall, trailed by a spectral wind that snuffed out every candle in the room.
The students gasped. The temperature dropped. Ink froze in inkwells. Nick loomed.
Bagshot didn’t flinch.
“Ah,” she said cheerfully, squinting through the gloom. “Thank you, Gregory. Very dramatic. Could you relight the sconces before the goblins return?”
Nick blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The goblins,” she whispered, glancing under her desk. “They get jumpy in the dark.”
Nick, not known for being easily rattled, backed out slowly.
Later that day, the Bloody Baron staged what he considered a deeply unsettling corridor encounter. He emerged silently from the wall just as Bagshot rounded the corner, trailing silvery blood and a chill that made first-years whimper.
Bagshot simply patted him on the arm.
“There you are, Edwin. You’ve still got that silly theatrical makeup on, haven’t you? We’re not in rehearsal anymore, dear. Go rinse off.”
The Baron, stunned, watched her totter off humming something that might have once been the Hogwarts school song—or possibly a sea shanty.
In the library, the Grey Lady hovered for a full hour just above Bagshot’s shoulder, whispering cryptic warnings in Latin.
Bagshot nodded solemnly. “Mmm, yes, good citation. Put it in the footnotes.”
When Myrtle erupted from the lavatory stall shrieking bloody murder, Bagshot simply asked her to fetch more loo roll.
“She said my vocal projection was much improved,” Myrtle sulked later. “Then offered me a biscuit.”
By the end of the week, the Spirit Council reconvened in the back room of the Three Broomsticks, morale at an all-time low.
“She asked me if I needed a glass of warm milk,” muttered the Bloody Baron.
“She thinks I’m her research assistant,” moaned the Grey Lady.
“She called me ‘Philbert’ and asked if I’d seen her knitting,” Nick added.
“I haven’t lectured in five days,” Binns said dully. “I tried reciting the Treaty of Thistlewick to a pair of barstools just to feel something. One of them left.”
The Fat Friar patted his shoulder. “There, there.”
“We are dealing,” Binns continued, “with a level of delusion previously unrecorded in the history of magical academia.”
“No,” said the Fat Friar thoughtfully. “She’s just... happy.”
The ghosts stared at him.
“She’s not frightened because she’s not bothered,” he went on. “She’s not clinging to unfinished business, or regret, or guilt. She’s in her own little world, and in that world, we’re just... background.”
“She doesn’t see us as menacing,” Binns said hollowly. “She sees us as decorative.”
A long pause.
“Well,” said Myrtle bitterly, “what do we do now?”
There was silence.
From behind the bar, Madam Rosmerta—who had been polishing the same glass for twenty minutes and was visibly twitching—slammed it down.
“That’s it!” she barked. “I’m getting you your bloody job back if it’s the last thing I do. I will not have my pub turned into a retirement home for failed poltergeists!”
A silence followed. Then the Baron muttered, “Technically, we’re not poltergeists.”
“Technically,” Rosmerta growled, “you’re not paying for any drinks, either.”
The ghosts wisely dispersed.
The staffroom was unusually quiet for high tea. The sole occupant, Dolores Umbridge sat primly at the head of the table, pink bow twitching as she buttered a scone with the precision of someone preparing a surgical incision.
The door creaked open.
“Rosmerta!” Umbridge trilled, plastering on a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “What a surprise.”
“Just thought I’d pop in,” said Madam Rosmerta breezily, setting down a tin of biscuits. “Hospitality and all that. Hogwarts runs on tea, doesn’t it?” She poured herself a cup without waiting for permission and stirred it with deliberate calm.
Umbridge watched her warily, pink-lacquered fingers tightening on her teacup. “What brings you up from Hogsmeade?”
Rosmerta took a slow sip, then leaned just close enough for her words to be heard by Umbridge alone.
“Well, Dolores,” she said, lowering her voice, “I was thinking about poor Professor Binns. The way you had him tossed out—so unfortunate. And it set me wondering. What would happen if, oh, I happened to mention a little tidbit I’ve overheard in my bar some months back?”
Umbridge froze mid-sip.
“The episode with the Niffler, the jewelry, and the Bulgarian ambassador’s trousers.”
Umbridge went puce so fast she nearly matched her teacup roses. “That is—that is preposterous! Lies and slander!”
Rosmerta smiled sweetly. “Of course, Dolores. I’m sure your career could survive the Prophet printing the phrase ‘unauthorized wand polishing.’ But why risk it over one faded old ghost?”
The silence stretched. Then Umbridge’s teacup rattled against its saucer.
“Very well,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “He may return.”
By the next morning, Professor Binns was back on the timetable—hovering smugly above his desk, lecturing on goblin tax codes as though nothing had happened.
That evening, the Hogwarts Ghost Council convened once more.
“Old Business?” Binns intoned.
“Yes,” Nick said firmly. “My application to the Headless Hunt remains unfairly rejected.”
The Grey Lady groaned.
And so the four hundred and eighty-second meeting proceeded—unresolved, unrestful, and entirely unquiet.
Just as always.