THC Round 8
Hufflepuff
Astronomy
Standard
[Event] Celebrating somebody's death
[WC] Google Docs: 1406 | FFN: 1455 (Story only, not A/N)
Thank You For Dying
The typically-bustling fifth floor was void of any living creatures, repelled by the putrid odor wafting from the Prefects' bathroom. Argus Filch was aware of the smell — and the fact that it probably meant shenanigans — but he still hadn't moved his pending investigation higher on his to-do list.
The fact that even the school caretaker scrunched his nose was concerning. Filch had built up an impressive tolerance to the fouler aspects of maintaining a centuries-old home for grimy teenagers, thanks to his sustained exposure to the greasy mop of hair on his head, which emanated its own unique brand of stink.
The strong stench was no accident. Inside the Prefects' bathroom laid an expansive buffet table, assembled by a reluctant team of house-elves at the request of the Fat Friar. The previous week's rancid leftovers were delicately displayed, having been harvested from mealtimes and kept out in the steamy kitchen left to spoil, another unusual ask from the Hogwarts ghosts.
"It smells so strong!" said the Hufflepuff ghost, his eyes swirling with excitement at the array. "I can almost taste it!"
The pool-sized tub was brimming with bubbles and bustling with activity. Thanks to the begrudging elves, neon lights colored the bathwater, and music echoed off the walls, amplified and melodious, which elicited a few nods of appreciation for the castle's stately acoustics. A sudden splash sent a wave of displaced water into the air, which crashed onto the buffet. The table collapsed under the force, soaking everything and leaving the already-spoiled food squishy and soggy. Peeves then erupted from the water, cackling and pointing at the table, now a useless pile of rubble.
"Peeves!" groaned Nearly Headless Nick. "Why is he here again? He's not even dead."
"Because we need him to hang the banner," said the Grey Lady with an air of expended patience. "Unless you'd like to do it."
Nick glanced at the banner, coiled in a pile next to the destroyed table, and then at his hands, translucent and purposeless. "Fine. Peeves, hang the banner, and then get out."
"Nicky so angry, he's not my fan," chuckled Peeves. "Why would Peeves listen to a grumpy old man?"
Nick rolled his eyes and turned to the Bloody Baron, who was busy directing the elves around the tub so they could get to work on fixing the table. "Can you tell him?"
The Bloody Baron huffed at Nick before raising his voice to the Poltergeist. "Peeves. Hang it up."
"Wheeeeeeeee," sang Peeves as he swooped down to snatch the banner. It unraveled into a ribbon as he launched into the air. Peeves pinned it to the wall so that it hung visibly from the entry door, its message now clear and bold:
Happy Deathday, Myrtle!
"Why does he only listen to the Bloody Baron?" asked Nick under his breath, earning a scowl from the Grey Lady.
"Because the Bloody Baron has quite the temper," she said.
"Oh, yeah. Sorry to bring that up," said Nick. "Things are still weird between you two, then?"
Helena Ravenclaw scowled, and Nick immediately realized he had made things even more awkward by asking about it. He groaned to himself — they had coexisted for centuries, and he still couldn't manage one smooth conversation without reminding her of the whole murdered-by-her-ex thing. It didn't help that the Bloody Baron was always there, keeping his possessive eyes on her, glaring at Nick from across the room whenever he managed to get her alone for a chat.
He knew he couldn't die again, but he still feared the Slytherin ghost. Why did the Bloody Baron have to be so bloody terrifying?
Nick startled as the object of his silent rage appeared between them, as if he had been summoned by Nick's thoughts.
"I apologized for that," said the Bloody Baron through gritted teeth.
Nick glided away slowly, barely catching her response, "Apologies don't bring people back to life…"
"Everyone, quiet!" The conversations died as the room's attention turned to the speaker. The Friar was floating above the newly-repaired buffet table, addressing the group from up high.
"If she breaks your heart, use your head! Just be a man, don't strike her dead!" sang the Poltergeist, his tune echoing from wall to wall.
"Shut up, Peeves!" came a chorus of voices. Peeves cackled.
"Get out," ordered the Baron, pointing a crooked finger toward the door.
He didn't have to ask twice. Peeves zoomed out of the room and into the fifth-floor hallway, his maniacal giggles growing quieter as he whisked away.
Nick sighed, scowling at the door and wondering what it would take to get some goddamn authority in this place. Besides murder, of course.
"Anyway," said the Friar. "Let's all get into place. Myrtle should be here soon. And please, for the love of Merlin, save the arguing for another day," he added with a pointed nod toward the Ravenclaw and Slytherin ghosts.
Everyone found a place to hide — the Grey Lady glided up to the window to mimic the position of the stained-glass mermaid, and the Friar hovered behind the buffet table, his nose conveniently buried into what used to be a treacle tart, maybe. The Baron retreated into the shadows, leaving Nick to submerge himself into the tub, obscured by the bubbles.
They heard Myrtle before they saw her, her nasally voice screeching through the air vents, riddled with gasps, groans, and 'how dare you, Olive Hornbys.' She pendulated between sobs and giggles with impressive efficiency, demonstrating a startling lack of emotional control. It sent a shiver of annoyance through Nick's spineless body so fierce that he almost sympathized with the Bloody Baron's compulsion to kill. It was a good thing that Myrtle was already dead.
Her mumbling and grumbling stopped as soon as she reached the door. When she glided through the entrance, the Fat Friar, the Bloody Baron, the Grey Lady, and Nearly-Headless Nick erupted from their hiding places.
"SURPRISE! HAPPY DEATHDAY!".
Myrtle's eyes grew wide as she scanned the room, passing over everyone's faces before landing on the banner across from her. Its large, drooping letters swayed as the sign rippled in the breeze from a nearby steam vent.
"Deathday?!" shouted Myrtle. "You're celebrating my DEATH?" Her face contorted in anger and her voice crept dangerously close a level of shrill that only Hagrid's pets could hear.
"Why yes, of course!" beamed the Friar, unfazed by her reaction. "You deserve a celebration like the rest of us!"
"So, you're saying that you're happy that I DIED?" she screeched. "Why is everyone so happy that I'm dead?!"
"Myrtle—" began the Friar as his giddy features fell. He couldn't finish because she had already stormed out of the bathroom, her sobs ricocheting through the empty hall.
"What is her problem?" said Nick, shaking his head so that it popped out of its precarious position. "Oops," he added, jerking it back into place.
"What's so bad about being dead?" asked the Bloody Baron, earning another pointed look from the Grey Lady.
"She just needs time to get used to being dead," said the Grey Lady, her eyes glued to the Baron. "It's not like she killed herself."
The Baron scowled back at her. "Now that's cold."
"Enough!" said the Friar. "This isn't about you. Someone should go talk to her."
The four ghosts looked warily at the bathroom entrance, unwilling to volunteer.
"Ooooor," said Nick, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "We could just… stay."
"Yeah," said the Grey Lady, now addressing the Friar. "I haven't been to a party in a while. Would be a shame to waste all the planning and hard work that you did."
"Right," said the Baron. "It's not our fault she can't accept that she's dead." He smirked as the Grey Lady rolled her eyes again.
"At least we tried to include her," said Nick. "I know that was important to you."
The Friar sighed, his guilt evident by his furrowed brows. His expression softened when he inhaled a waft of rancid food and looked longingly at the buffet table. "You're right. We planned a party, so it's only fair that we get to celebrate."
"That's the spirit!" said Nick with a grin.
"Oh, what the hell. To Myrtle!" said the Friar, raising an imaginary champagne flute into the air. "Thank you for dying!"
"To Myrtle!" chorused the ghosts, pretending to chug their drinks, ever-so-thankful for the inevitability of death.