"Look! Something's emerging over there!"
A stir rippled through the Hufflepuff table, drawing eyes to the space before the staff table. The flagstone floor had softened into damp earth, dotted with weathered tombstones. As they teetered and toppled, skeletal figures clawed their way up from the soil.
Draped in shimmering silver chains around their necks and wrists, the skeletons formed ranks and marched toward the house tables with eerie precision.
Anthony, standing nearby, murmured, "That's the Dancing Skeletons."
Vizette scanned them appraisingly. "At least a Wingardium Leviosa to maneuver them, combined with Transfiguration for the flair..."
A haunting pipe organ swelled through the Great Hall, and the skeletons began to dance to its somber rhythm. Their motions veered from rigid jerks to feral bursts of energy, teetering on the brink between life and decay.
A glockenspiel chimed in, spurring them into frenzy. They hurled their bones skyward, reshaping them mid-air into the emblems of the four houses: azure and bronze for Ravenclaw, emerald and silver for Slytherin, sunny yellow and jet black for Hufflepuff, scarlet and gold for Gryffindor.
The bony crests twisted and spun, glowing in solitary hues or blending into swirling rainbows—like the glockenspiel's crystalline notes weaving a spell of enchantment and shadow.
As the dance accelerated, the Great Hall drowned in a kaleidoscope of light, hypnotic and overwhelming. Just as it threatened to blind, the music cut off. Silence fell. The skeletons froze in place on the cleared floor.
A veil of smoke billowed, then vanished, erasing the graveyard. In its stead stood a dozen silver-haired wizards, beaming and waving to the crowd. These were the true Dancing Skeletons, their illusory act unveiled.
The hall erupted in thunderous applause, cheers echoing off the enchanted ceiling.
Vizette joined in, impressed. The performance relied on simple spells: Wingardium Leviosa for control, Transfiguration for the spectacle. Yet weaving them into such vivid illusion demanded flawless precision—years of rehearsal to sync every twist and glow.
He pulled out his notebook, jotting notes: "Mastery through relentless practice. Control every nuance with unyielding focus. Transfiguration and levitation as the backbone—patience turns the ordinary extraordinary."
At the staff table, Flitwick spotted him scribbling and stroked his beard. "Spot on. Precision is the soul of spellwork."
McGonagall's eyes gleamed with approval. "Indeed. Vizette grasps it perfectly—he's Ravenclaw through and through."
Lockhart, fresh from glad-handing the performers, slid into his seat and caught the tail end. Flashing his trademark grin, he chimed in, "Ravenclaw material? Flattered, but surely you mean me?"
Flitwick and McGonagall stared straight ahead, stone-faced, as the troupe departed amid final waves. Lockhart's smile faltered into awkwardness.
It didn't linger. Dumbledore rose and strode to the podium, signaling the Halloween feast's start. With a casual flick, golden platters materialized, laden with delights.
This banquet outdid the welcome feast in whimsy. Steaks drowned in black-pepper sauce laced with squid ink, lending a briny depth and inky hue—true "dark cuisine." Giant pumpkin cakes loomed at each house table, crowned with chocolate tombstones and ringed in crimson jam that mimicked fresh blood.
Beside them sat platters of "eyeballs" and "severed fingers"—ladyfingers frosted in bloody chocolate, grisly yet tempting. The tables brimmed with tricks: chocolate bats that fluttered at a touch, spiders that spat peanut-butter webs.
"Professors are sipping Pepperup Potion too!" a keen-eyed Hufflepuff whispered.
Dumbledore, ever fond of sweets, twisted the cap off one for McGonagall with a wink, then downed his own. Steam curled from his ears as he chuckled, beard quivering.
Snape uncorked a bottle but poured it neatly into a goblet, sipping with restraint. For a fleeting moment, his lips curved in genuine pleasure—raw, uncalculated delight.
"Cool... Rick!" Fred whistled low. "Snape smiling? For real?"
George snorted. "Thought his face only did sneers and smirks. Who knew he had an 'innocent' gear?"
The twins weren't alone in their shock; whispers flew, elevating the potion's mystique. George leaned in, eyes alight. "Ministry's reviewing it next week. Once Madam Pomfrey green-lights distribution, we're golden."
Fred cracked his knuckles. "Cloudy season's wrapping up—no more school stock. Our big break."
Their M.S.C. scheme—polished from years peddling pranks—promised mischief amid the holiday cheer.
Laughter and clinking silverware filled the hall as students dove into the feast, Halloween's thrill electric in the air. It was all about the eerie eats and shared spooky joy.
Sated at last, students watched Dumbledore return to the podium, faint wisps still trailing from his ears. Their giggles bubbled up; he grinned in kind. "Delighted we savored this Halloween without a hitch..."
He raised his wand high. "As with last year's treats, may these reach you unburnt and bright."
The unlit candy-flame candles ignited, raining a cascade of multicolored sweets over the tables—Halloween's sweet finale.
—