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The battered table in the Spirits Faculty Lounge wobbled faintly under the collective non-weight of its occupants. Candles sputtered and shadows flickered as the four hundred and ninety-third meeting of the Hogwarts Ghost Council was underway.
Professor Binns had been droning about the minutes. “…and in subclause fourteen, paragraph three, it was determined that Sir Cadogan’s repeated intrusions were to be discouraged…” when Nearly Headless Nick cleared his translucent throat.
“New business, if I may.” He adjusted the angle of his ruff, which bobbed precariously against his half-severed neck. “Esteemed colleagues, it is time again for our sestercentennial field trip.”
Moaning Myrtle’s spectral eyes went wide behind her thick glasses. “Sester—what? What’s that supposed to mean?”
The Grey Lady, drifting an elegant inch above her chair, sighed with cool patience. “Sester is two and a half. A sestercentennial marks two hundred and fifty years. It has, in other words, been that long since our last outing.”
“Ohhh.” Myrtle’s voice warbled through the pipes in the wall. “So… it was a big ghostly field trip?”
Nick beamed. “Precisely. And what a trip it was! Our last one was in 1745… We went to Glastonbury Abbey, all shrouded in mist and ruin. Muggles fled shrieking—thought we were the shades of long-dead monks. Splendid atmosphere, very dignified. Except,” his smile wavered, “for the fellow with the aspergillum.”
“Holy water,” the Bloody Baron rumbled, arms crossed.
“Quite,” Nick admitted, smoothing his doublet. “But other than that it was all in good fun, and no lasting damage. Some churches mistook us for visitations by saints. In Bath, we even managed to clear a tavern without lifting a finger—every patron bolted at once. Very invigorating.”
“Invigorating for you,” the Grey Lady said crisply. “Some of us don’t enjoy being mistaken for itinerant monks.”
“You should be so lucky,” muttered Myrtle. “When I show up, no one thinks I’m a saint. They just scream and throw loo rolls.”
“That’s because you haunt bathrooms,” the Baron said flatly. “Not exactly a cathedral.”
“Better than brooding in a dungeon for five centuries!” Myrtle shot back.
“Order, please,” Binns mumbled, riffling through his notes as though the parchment might rise up and restore dignity. “Let us not—er—descend into personal recriminations.”
“You call it personal,” the Friar chuckled, “I call it entertainment.” He bounced slightly in his chair, sending up a faint puff of ectoplasm. “Last time we freaked ’em right out, those Muggles. And those who insisted they saw us? Their neighbors thought them mad. Absolutely priceless!”
“Hardly dignified,” sniffed the Grey Lady.
“You say that about everything,” Nick muttered.
“Because everything you do lacks dignity,” she replied smoothly.
Nick’s ruff quivered. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been frightening Muggles with the utmost elegance for over five hundred years!”
“Yes,” said the Baron dryly, “and they still laugh about your head.”
Nick opened his mouth to retort, then closed it with a sulky snap.
Myrtle wrung her hands and piped up again, almost eager. “So we’ll do it again? Terrify the Muggles?”
“That,” said Nick, puffing himself up, “is the very spirit of a ghostly field trip. A harmless bit of haunting. A chance to stretch our… incorporeal legs. And above all—an excellent tradition.”
The question that remained was where to go.
“The Tower of London,” the Bloody Baron growled, slamming one spectral fist through the table. “Nothing else will do. A fortress of death, soaked in history. Ghosts aplenty. We’d be welcomed as kin.”
“I second that,” said Nearly Headless Nick, his ruff bobbing uneasily about his half-severed neck. “It was there, in 1492, that I endured my own… unfortunate end. Forty-five strokes of the axe, and still not cleanly done. If we are to mark the sestercentennial in proper spirit, what better place than the site of my own execution?”
“Oh yes,” the Grey Lady drawled. “Because nothing says ‘festive outing’ like watching you sulk over your old chopping block.”
Moaning Myrtle burst out of the water jug in the corner, droplets spraying through her ghostly hair. “I don’t want dusty old towers! I want a swimming pool! With diving boards. And drains. And boys in… speedos!” She hugged herself with a dreamy sigh.
“Utterly pathetic,” the Baron muttered.
“At least she has a hobby,” the Friar said cheerfully. “Yours is just glowering.”
“Juvenile nonsense,” Professor Binns cut in, ignoring them all. “The Bodleian Library is the only sensible choice. Oldest reading room in England. Proper atmosphere for study. Very instructional.”
“Thrilling,” said Nick. “Nothing enlivens a field trip like footnotes.”
The Grey Lady arched an eyebrow approvingly. “At least some of us appreciate civilization.”
“Civilization?” Myrtle scoffed. “You’re just hoping for a quiet corner to moan about lost love.”
The Grey Lady didn’t even look at her. “And you’re hoping to spy on adolescent plumbing.”
The Fat Friar gave a cheerful shrug. “I rather like Myrtle’s idea. Nothing empties a pool faster than a good wail. Much more efficient than lifeguards.”
Nick groaned. “We’re ghosts, not summer camp attractions.”
“Speak for yourself,” the Friar replied. “I’ve always fancied a whistle.”
Nick raised his translucent goblet with long-suffering dignity. “Very well. To a vote.”
The tally was called. The Bloody Baron and Nearly Headless Nick voted for the Tower. Myrtle and the Fat Friar voted for the pool, while the Professor and the Grey Lady voted for the library. A three-way tie.
Professor Binns shuffled his notes, peering through them as if the words might vanish if he didn’t keep reading. “According to… er, bylaw thirteen, subsection C… in the event of a tie…” He paused, cleared his ghostly throat, and blinked at the assembled Council. “The current Headmaster of Hogwarts… has the deciding vote.”
The room went utterly still.
The Bloody Baron’s eyes narrowed. “The headmaster…”
“Headmistress,” corrected the Grey Lady coolly.
“As of Educational Decree Number… I forget, Dolores Umbridge now holds the office of Headmistress of Hogwarts,” Binns stated, adjusting his spectacles. “Which means…” He smiled.
A dreadful hush fell over the Council. Nick’s ruff sagged. Myrtle drifted slowly downward until her chin hovered just above the tabletop. The Friar’s cheerful smile faded like mist.
Finally, Nick whispered, aghast, “You mean… Dolores Umbridge decides where the Ghost Council goes on its sestercentennial field trip?”
The Baron growled, “I’d rather haunt a cesspit.”
“I already do,” Myrtle shot back.
The silence deepened, broken only by the faint hiss of candle smoke.
But the Grey Lady looked triumphant. “It looks like the probability of a library visit just went up.”
“Wonderful,” Nick muttered. “Two hundred and fifty years of waiting, and we’re off to read a card catalog.”
The ghostly procession to the Bodleian Library drifted south in the moonlight, a shimmering convoy of pale figures gliding in stately disarray. Nearly Headless Nick led proudly, ruff bobbing, while the Baron hovered behind like a brooding thundercloud. The Grey Lady glided serenely as though carved from mist. Moaning Myrtle darted in and out of puddles along the roadside, splashing spectral droplets onto the Friar, who muttered but didn’t shoo her away.
Oxford’s spires were already rising in the distance when the Friar peered back over his shoulder. “Er… are we being… followed?”
Indeed, behind them trotted a small caravan of Muggles with cameras, peculiar beeping boxes, and bundles of wires slung over their shoulders. One lugged a glowing screen that cast garish light across the hedgerows. Another brandished something that looked like a metal whisk attached to a battery pack.
“Honestly,” the Grey Lady said icily. “If that is supposed to be threatening, I’m not impressed.”
“Looks like they’re hunting omelettes,” the Friar said helpfully.
Professor Binns, drifting at the rear, tilted his translucent head. His ears pricked faintly at a scrap of conversation.
“…biggest haul we’ve ever had… do you see this EMF spike? Actual class-A apparitions—this’ll be the series finale for sure!”
Another voice, muffled through a headset: “Forget grainy orbs—this is the real deal! The Oxford episode will win us awards!”
Binns blinked, slow and owlish. He shuffled back up the line until he hovered beside Nick. “I believe,” he said in his eternal monotone, “that we are being… hunted. By a troupe of Muggles. Television personnel. They refer to themselves as… ghost hunters.”
The Council froze mid-air.
“Ghost Hunters?” Nick repeated faintly. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You don’t like the sound of anything,” the Baron growled.
“Television?” the Friar said. “What’s that?”
“Moving paintings for Muggles,” the Grey Lady explained. “Endless noise. No artistry.”
“Bit rich coming from you,” Nick snapped. “You spend most evenings moaning in Latin.”
“Which is still more refined than your attempts at poetry.”
“Excuse me!” Myrtle piped up, delighted. “Did you hear that? We’re proof! We’re famous!”
“Famous,” the Baron snarled, “or in danger of becoming… exposed.”
Behind them, one of the ghost hunters shouted in triumph as a sensor emitted a shrill alarm. The Muggles surged forward, cameras whirring.
“Wonderful,” Nick groaned. “Centuries of tradition, reduced to a beeping box and a headline.”
“At least your head is finally newsworthy,” the Baron said dryly.
Nick spluttered.
The next morning, every newsstand in Britain sagged beneath a flood of glossy tabloids.
THEY WALK AMONG US! shrieked one.
REAL BRITISH GHOSTS: OXFORD HAUNTED BY APPARITIONS! blared another.
One particularly lurid cover featured Myrtle half-emerging from a drainpipe, mouth open mid-wail, captioned: GIRL GHOST CRIES FOR LOVE IN LIBRARY LOOS.
The Council gathered again in the Spirits Faculty Lounge, Peeves having collected all their press cuttings and gleefully taped them up on the walls. Nick’s portrait on the Daily Mail caught him mid-ruff adjustment, jaw hanging open in a ghastly gape.
“Utterly undignified,” he groaned, pressing a transparent palm to his face. “Hundreds of years of respectful haunting, and I’m reduced to… to this.” He waved the paper. The headline above him read: HALF-HEADED HORROR HAUNTS HIGH STREET.
As they were processing the full horror of their media attention, the door opened with a thud, and there stood the toad-faced headmistress, a murderous expression lurking under her simpering smile.
Umbridge’s smile twitched. “Good morning, spirits,” she sang, voice sugared and strained. “I see you’ve been… curating your press.”
“Effective immediately, Hogwarts is instituting a Spectral Media Policy.” She produced a scroll that unrolled to her ankles. “All public appearances by ghosts must be pre-approved, pre-scheduled, and accompanied by a Ministry-certified chaperone, to ensure propriety and accurate messaging.”
“Who’s our chaperone?” the Fat Friar asked hopefully. “Someone fun I trust?”
“Argus Filch,” said Umbridge, with grim satisfaction.
“Rule one: No gliding in front of cameras without prior notice. Rule two: No moaning into microphones. Rule three: No emerging from muggle plumbing.”
Myrtle raised a trembling hand. “Even… even the drains with the swirly bits?”
“Especially the swirly bits.”
Myrtle made a noise like a clogged kettle.
“Rule four,” Umbridge pressed on, pink spots brightening on her cheeks, “all quotes to press must be pre-cleared with the Office of the Inquisitor.”
Nick stared. “Quotes?”
Umbridge smiled with too many teeth. “You may choose from a list of approved sayings.” She flipped a page. “‘Boo.’ ‘Study hard.’ ‘I have no comment.’”
The Fat Friar raised his hand. “What about ‘Repent, ye sinners?’”
“Absolutely not.”
“Motion to reject the entire scroll,” said the Bloody Baron.
“Seconded,” murmured the Grey Lady.
Binns cleared his throat, hovering nearer. “Bylaw sixteen, subsection A,” he intoned, “states that the Ghost Council recognizes no mortal authority over matters of—”
“Spirit-based public relations,” Peeves supplied helpfully.
“—internal affairs,” Binns finished, offended.
Umbridge’s nostrils flared. “Very well,” she said sweetly. “If you insist upon obstinacy, I shall have no choice but to issue a… Spectral Embargo. No hauntings outside approved zones from dawn until dusk. No field trips. No processions. No—”
Nick perked. “Processions?”
“—and certainly no unsanctioned trips to Oxford.”
“Headmistress,” Nick said with brittle politeness, “You sanctioned it. You cast the deciding vote.”
Having no answer for that, Umbridge swept out.
Professor Binns cleared his throat with the weary gravity of a man who had been clearing his throat for three centuries. “The sole item on today’s agenda—Educational Decree Number Three Hundred and Something-Or-Other, the so-called Spectral Media Policy.”
“More like Spectral Muzzle Policy,” muttered Nick, adjusting his ruff.
“More like Spectral Nonsense,” said the Friar cheerfully.
“Order,” said Binns, who was ignored entirely.
The Bloody Baron slammed his translucent fist through the table, rattling its legs. “This simpering Ministry toad dares dictate terms to us? Ghosts of Hogwarts bow to no living tyrant.”
Nick sniffed. “Hear, hear.”
The Friar perked up. “So what do we do? A petition? A strongly worded moan?”
“Petitions are useless,” the Grey Lady said coolly. “She would frame it and hang it on her wall.”
“I could moan in hexameter,” Nick offered. “Very moving.”
“Not moving enough,” the Baron growled. His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. “It is time to bring out the big guns.”
The Council blinked.
“…You don’t mean—” Nick began.
“Yes,” the Baron said, eyes gleaming with spectral menace. “Peeves.”
“Peeves is uncontrollable,” the Grey Lady said sharply. “You cannot simply unleash him.”
The Friar looked delighted. “Why not? He’s like us, only louder. And stickier.”
“He’s a poltergeist,” the Lady said icily. “Not a ghost. He doesn’t attend Council. He doesn’t follow rules.”
“Neither,” the Baron rumbled, “does Umbridge.”
A ripple of ghostly agreement passed through the lounge.
Binns shuffled his notes anxiously. “If you are proposing… direct action… then we must consider risk mitigation. Peeves has a long history of… escalations.”
“Escalation is precisely the point,” the Baron snapped. “And as the only one he fears—”
“—respects,” corrected Nick delicately.
“—fears,” the Baron repeated, eyes narrowing, “I can provide sufficient motivation.”
“Translation,” the Friar stage-whispered, “he’ll growl at Peeves until he behaves.”
“I don’t behave,” Peeves’s disembodied voice sang suddenly from the chandelier above. He materialized upside-down, grinning, juggling three inkpots and a dead frog. “But I do love a bit of chaos.”
The Council groaned as one.
“See?” Myrtle squeaked. “He was listening the whole time!”
“Of course he was,” the Grey Lady muttered, pinching the bridge of her incorporeal nose.
Peeves cackled, somersaulted in midair, and blew a raspberry so loud the portraits rattled. “What’s the job? Dungbombs? Tripwires? Discreet or disastrous?”
“Disastrous,” the Baron said grimly. “We sic you on Dolores Umbridge.”
Peeves froze mid-somersault, eyes widening with unholy delight.
“Ohhh,” he whispered reverently. “The pink toad herself.”
He dropped all three inkpots at once. They exploded across the table in a spray of phantom blotches.
“Council,” the Baron intoned, straightening to his full terrifying height, “it is decided.”
“Seconded!” the Friar cried, bouncing.
“Motion carried,” Binns sighed, already scribbling it into the minutes.
Nick glanced nervously at the ink dripping through the table. “Merlin help us all.”
Dolores Umbridge swept into her office the next morning, humming smugly, only to find every single one of her kitten-themed china plates broken.
“PEEVES!” she shrieked.
The chandelier above her trembled as the poltergeist somersaulted into view, decked out in a frilly pink pinafore stolen from her laundry. He tooted a trumpet fashioned from a gramophone horn and bellowed:
“All hail Dolores, Queen of Bores!”
Then he upended a bucket of ink over her stack of decrees, cackling as the words bled into blotchy nonsense.
Umbridge raised her wand, sputtering with rage—only for a second bucket to tip from the ceiling, this one packed with live croaking frogs.
By the time Filch arrived, Umbridge was shrieking on her desk, skirts hitched to her knees, kittens mewing furiously from their broken plates while Peeves zoomed laps around the room chanting:
“Toady, Toady, Pink-and-Loady—
Kiss a frog and croak, Miss Bloaty!”
Filch dropped his broom and muttered, “I’ll come back later.”