Hogwarts: My Grandmother is the Queen

Chapter 212 Death Anniversary Party

Henry looked at the letter and smiled slightly.

Nick, who is almost headless, is a resident ghost of Gryffindor and an old nobleman who has lived for more than five hundred years.

In the original work, he is a rather interesting character—always complaining that he is "almost headless" and wanting to join the Headless Hunters, but he is constantly rejected.

Draco leaned over and took a look.

"Whose letter?"

"Nick, who almost lost his head." Henry folded the letter and put it in his pocket. "He invited me to his death anniversary party."

Draco's expression turned a little strange. He raised an eyebrow and his lips twitched slightly, as if he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

"A ghost party?" he asked.

"Um."

Are you going?

"Go," Henry said.

Draco remained silent for a moment, resisting the urge to ask a question.

Pansy couldn't resist.

"Your Highness, a ghost party? What's so fun about that?"

"It's nothing fun," Henry said, "but Nick invited me. He's helped a lot of students, and he's helped me too. He asked, so I can't refuse."

Pansy thought for a moment and nodded.

"That's true."

Daphne chimed in, "I heard the ghost parties are freezing cold; they eat and drink rotten stuff. The air is musty."

"Then wear more clothes when you go," Draco suddenly said.

"Yes, I will." Henry nodded with a smile.

On Halloween Eve, the atmosphere in the castle reached its peak.

There were more pumpkin lanterns in the corridor than in the previous days, and the auditorium was decorated especially beautifully for dinner.

A thousand bats flew around the walls and ceiling like black clouds. Another thousand bats formed a huge swarm, hovering above the auditorium, occasionally scattering and gathering again, as if dancing.

Four long tables were covered with orange tablecloths, and on each table were a dozen or so pumpkin lanterns, grinning with flames dancing merrily inside.

The food was more plentiful than usual, with roast turkey, pumpkin pie, toffee pudding, caramelized apples, and all sorts of Halloween-themed foods filling the table.

Ron ate three slices of pumpkin pie and took two more.

Hermione glared at him from the side, but he pretended not to see it.

Henry didn't eat much. He was thinking about Nick's death anniversary party that night and wondered what kind of food they would serve there.

A ghost party probably won't have hot pumpkin pie.

At 7:30, he returned to the common room and changed into a clean black robe. Lucy's robe was perfectly pressed, and even the cuffs were folded neatly.

He thought for a moment and then added a cloak over his clothes.

Daphne is right, it's cold at the ghost party, so it's always good to wear more clothes.

Draco leaned back on the sofa and watched him change his clothes.

"Are you really going?"

"real."

Draco shook his head, thinking that Henry must be out of his mind to attend the anniversary party.

"Then come back soon, don't catch a cold."

Henry left the common room and walked down the corridor.

The castle was quiet; most of the students were in the common room, and only his footsteps echoed in the corridor. The jack-o'-lantern on the wall grinned, its flame flickering, creating an eerie atmosphere.

The door to the underground classroom was made of old oak, and the doorknob was made of rusted brass. There was a line of small writing on the door, probably in Latin, which Henry glanced at but didn't read carefully.

He pushed the door open and went inside; the lights were dim.

Some black candles floated in the air, emitting a cold blue flame that illuminated the entire room in a deep, dark light.

Black curtains hung on the walls, embroidered with silver skulls and roses.

In the corner were several long tables covered with black tablecloths and set with silver cutlery—but the plates were empty, only smelling of decay.

The air was thick with a damp, musty smell, like old books left in a cellar for too long, or like leaves rotting after a rain. The temperature was at least ten degrees lower than in the corridor, and Henry's breath turned into white mist.

There were probably hundreds of ghosts floating around the room. Some were dressed in medieval clothing, with corsets and tight pants.

Pointed shoes; some wore Tudor-style skirts with wide hems trailing on the ground; others wore Victorian-era gowns, top hats, tailcoats, and lace gloves.

Their translucent bodies gleamed with a cold white light under the blue flames, and occasionally one would pass through another with a soft "hiss" sound, like the sound of silk rubbing together.

As Henry walked in, several ghosts turned to look at him.

Their gaze shifted from curiosity to surprise, and then from surprise back to curiosity.

"A living person?" A male ghost wearing a bodysuit frowned. There was a deep wound on his neck, as if he had been chopped with an axe. Blood, or rather, blood-like red marks, seeped from the wound and flowed slowly through his translucent body.

"Who invited this living person?"

"It was Nicholas who invited them," another female ghost in a skirt floated over.

Her face was very fair, her lips were light blue, but her features were exquisite; she must have been a beauty when she was alive.

"I heard it's a prince."

"Your Highness?" The ghost in the bodysuit's expression immediately turned serious. "What, Your Highness?"

"Of course he's British," the female ghost said, a hint of pride in her voice. "The eldest son of the Prince of Wales."

The ghosts exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from disdain to curiosity.

A knight in medieval armor floated over, his face pale and his eyes sunken beneath his helmet.

"The Prince of Wales' son? Prince Henry?"

The surrounding ghosts all looked at Henry, their gazes now filled with a more solemn light.

The ghosts are all figures from the old feudal era, most of whom hold titles and once followed various kings into Xianyang—shedding blood and risking their lives.

Nick, almost headless, floated out of the crowd, dressed very formally today. He wore a deep purple double-breasted robe with silver lace trim at the collar and cuffs, which shimmered coldly in the blue flames; on his head was a small top hat with a black feather clipped at an angle.

His head was almost detached from his neck, held together by only a small piece of skin and flesh, swaying back and forth with his movements, as if it might fall off at any moment.

Every time the car swayed to the left, he would gently steady it with his hand; when it swayed to the right, he would steady it again.

"Your Highness Henry!" he greeted him warmly, bowing deeply.

His head jerked forward as he bowed, almost falling off.

He quickly reached out to steady her, gave an awkward smile, and adjusted his hat.

"Thank you for coming. This is my death anniversary celebration, my 500th birthday. 500 years old, you know, for those of us who are no longer here, death anniversaries are more important than birthdays."