Barnaby held his tongue, because if he had managed to point out that ghosts had no use for galleons or that he would never, in Life, have lowered himself to having an actual profession, either sentiment would only have come out of his mouth as an inhuman shriek.

Barnaby’s eyes bugged out of his face. And now the rotten wench was offending him about his lack of ability to smell. This was why taverns were a veritable hell on earth! (Barnaby should have incited the Hogsmeade villagers to arson that day when he’d been confronted by the constable about it, after all.)

In the meantime, he had to do something about this loathsome creature and her unceasing quips. Unfortunately for Barnaby, she had made him so angry that all thought was quite scuppered, and he just gaped at her for a moment or so, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. “Well,” he pronounced finally, quivering with fury, “I hope it is made of rat-tails – and – and that thou may’st choke upon’t, thou moldy flap-mouthed strumpet!”

(Belatedly, Barnaby realised that he was perchance making quite the scene here, and that the Three Broomsticks mightn’t invite him back to sing again.)

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