The Halloween feast arrived as scheduled.
The ceiling of the Great Hall was enchanted to be filled with dark clouds and thunder, yet it did not affect the feast below in the slightest.
The long tables were piled high with delicacies: sausages that jumped into plates on their own, bubbling purple drinks, and various desserts with terrifying shapes but excellent taste.
Regulus sat in the middle of the Slytherin table, dining quietly.
Avery sat beside him, Alex was a bit further away, and Hermes sat alone opposite them, silently cutting his steak.
The atmosphere was relatively peaceful until a second-year Slytherin sauntered over with a goblet.
Rabastan Lestrange, younger brother of Rodolphus Lestrange and brother-in-law of Bellatrix Lestrange.
It was an open secret that the Lestrange family had long been at the firm core of Lord Voldemort's circle.
Rabastan himself took pride in this, his face always wearing a mixture of fanaticism and arrogance.
He had clearly drunk a lot of pumpkin juice, perhaps spiked with something else; his face was flushed as he walked straight to Regulus's table.
"Look at this, our First-Year Chief." Rabastan's voice was sharp and grating, deliberately using a familiar yet condescending tone: "Happy Halloween, Black.
Bella mentioned you in a letter a few days ago, saying you're doing well and haven't brought shame to the family.
My brother Rodolphus also said there might be a chance in the future to… serve a greater cause together."
Avery immediately frowned and set down his knife and fork.
Alex lowered his head nervously.
Hermes also stopped his movements, his gloomy gaze sweeping toward Rabastan.
Regulus raised his eyelids and glanced at Rabastan without speaking, merely picking up a napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth.
But with that one look, Avery understood immediately.
"Lestrange, it's time to enjoy dinner," Avery spoke coolly, his voice much steadier than usual.
"Perhaps another occasion would be more appropriate for discussing family letters and private matters."
Rabastan hadn't expected Avery, the follower, to speak first. He froze for a moment, then looked displeased: "I'm talking to Black, Cuthbert."
"Black is dining," Hermes spoke this time, his voice low and raspy, carrying his characteristic chill.
"Besides, many people here might not understand the 'greater cause' you speak of. Bragging too early makes it easy to trip over your own tongue."
Those words were quite biting.
Rabastan's face darkened. His two roommates were also pure-bloods, but their family status was inferior to the Lestranges. One looked like he wanted to intervene, while the other watched the scene with indifference. The atmosphere was somewhat awkward.
"All right, Rabastan, it's the feast," the roommate who wanted to intervene tugged at his sleeve.
Rabastan looked at the expressionless Regulus continuing his meal, then at the hostile Avery and the gloomily staring Hermes. Knowing he wouldn't gain anything and might even humiliate himself, he backed down.
He snorted and turned away resentfully.
Regulus didn't glance at him again from start to finish, as if a buzzing insect had just flown past.
As he cut the food on his plate, he quickly analyzed: the Lestrange brothers, especially Rodolphus, were Lord Voldemort's die-hard loyalists, Bella's future husband, and fanatical executioners.
This Rabastan was deeply influenced by his family—plenty of fanaticism but lacking in intellect, impulsive, a typical henchman character to be exploited.
In certain situations, such a person could be put to good use, guided to complete dangerous tasks or draw fire.
And then, he would naturally meet his end.
Regulus felt no extra sympathy for those destined to fall into the abyss and drag others down with them.
The feast continued, and the Great Hall was filled with laughter and chatter.
The tables were piled with food; roasted pumpkin pasties gave off a sweet aroma, and icing spiders crawled between the plates.
Dumbledore stood up. Today he wore deep purple robes embroidered with silver stars, his eyes sparkling with a gentle light behind half-moon spectacles.
"Happy Halloween to everyone," his voice boomed, clearly amplified by magic. "Tonight, we have invited a special performance team."
He clapped his hands lightly, and a door at the side of the hall opened.
Three wizards in bright costumes walked in, followed by several well-trained small magical creatures.
Leading them was a plump witch who bowed to Dumbledore and then smiled at the students.
"The Moonlight Circus from Wales," Dumbledore introduced. "They will perform some interesting magical tricks for us."
The circus began its performance.
The first act was a dance of color-changing lizards. Several small lizards changed colors—from emerald green to golden yellow to silver white—under the direction of a wand, forming the pattern of a Halloween pumpkin on the tabletop.
The students gasped in amazement.
Regulus sat at the Slytherin table, watching the performance quietly.
His gaze swept across the hall and noticed The Bloody Baron slowly drifting past the Ravenclaw table, the ghost's robes stained with dark marks that would never wash away.
Regulus recalled the contents of *A Brief History of Soul Magic*: ghosts were the remnants of obsession, the residual form of a soul.
For a ghost like The Bloody Baron, who had existed for nearly a thousand years, the depth of his obsession was unimaginable.
Like The Grey Lady of Ravenclaw, he was one of the oldest ghosts at Hogwarts. They were powerful wizards in life and carried countless secrets in death.
The performance reached its climax as the circus wizards conjured a swarm of glowing magical butterflies. The butterflies formed the words "Happy Halloween" in the air before turning into golden powder and slowly falling.
Taking advantage of the lively performance, Regulus rose and left his seat.
When Regulus found The Bloody Baron in a corner, he was staring toward the Ravenclaw table.
The Baron's gaze pierced through the bustling crowd, fixed on the flickering figure of The Grey Lady, his expression complex and unreadable.
"Mr. Baron," Regulus stopped at a proper distance.
The ghost slowly turned his head.
"A child of the Black family," the Baron's voice was dry and hollow.
Regulus's heart stirred. The Baron actually knew him, or rather, recognized his bloodline?
Regardless, it was good that he was recognized; he happened to have many questions for a veteran ghost.
"I've read some records in my family's collection and would like to ask for your advice," Regulus chose to cut straight to the chase, not waiting for a refusal.
"Regarding the nature of ghosts, the books say they are the obsessions wizards leave in the world, the condensation of memory and emotion.
But I don't understand why some wizards become ghosts while others do not. It doesn't seem to be the result of a choice."
The Baron's lips trembled slightly, as if in a smile or a pained expression.
"Choice?" His tone carried an indescribable irony. "You think becoming a ghost is a choice? No, child, it is not a choice; it is a failure."
"Failure?" Seeing that the Baron was willing to communicate, Regulus struck while the iron was hot.
"Unable to let go," the Baron's gaze drifted back to The Grey Lady. "Unable to complete, unable to accept, or… unable to face certain truths.
So we stay here, trapped in the gap between life and death."
Regulus thought of the discussion on soul integrity in *A Brief History of Soul Magic*.
A complete, healthy soul should be able to move smoothly to the next stage—whatever that stage might be, no living person knows.
And lingering ghosts were, in a sense, indeed a failed form of the soul.
"Then what is the essential difference between the soul of a ghost and that of a living person?" Regulus pressed. "Besides the lack of a physical body?"
The Bloody Baron turned his head and looked at Regulus seriously, a slight ripple appearing in his hollow eyes.
"You are very direct, unlike other young wizards… they either fear me or ignore me." The Baron's tone was slow, like dry leaves rubbing together.
"A living soul is complete and fluid; it changes. A ghost's soul is frozen, like an insect in amber, maintaining the form of the moment of death, never to change again."
Regulus caught the key point: "So the power of a ghost comes from the frozen state of the soul itself? This solidification is endowed with some quality?"
The Baron was silent for a long time.
"Yes, solidification means stability, it means being difficult to destroy.
A living soul can be wounded, broken, or torn apart.
But a ghost's soul has already broken once, broken just right—neither completely dissipated nor capable of change.
Therefore, it is hard to be harmed again."
These words sent a shock through Regulus's heart.
A soul being torn apart—that was exactly the process of creating a Horcrux.
Lord Voldemort tore his own soul into fragments and sealed them in different containers. Did that mean, to some extent, a Horcrux creator and a ghost shared similarities?
Both were unnatural states of the soul?
Regulus cautiously spoke part of the truth: "I have read some books about the soul, about how to tear it and seal it."
Then he asked: "I want to know, if a person's soul is already wounded, how can he protect the remaining parts from further damage?"
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