False Prophets
TanninTele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.
NEIL: "So, does everyone come back as a ghost?"
NORMAN: "No. My grandma told me it's usually people that still have stuff to figure out,
or sometimes it's the ones who died suddenly or in a bad way."
- Paranorman, Focus Features
Late Spring, 1998
Age Seventeen
I:
As soon as the girl stepped into his shop, Harry looked up from his book, the page sliding from his fingers. Harry worked in the back of Knockturn Alley, next to an old antiquity dealer and a small mom-and-pop's café. Knockturn was in a seedier part of London, prone to prostitites, pickpockets and pests, but customers didn't come for the aesthetic.
His store was sparsely decorated, with worn seats, an old desk and several paintings nailed to the wall. Dim lighting originated from a few flickering candles, giving the The Veil of Death a mysterious, dismal ambiance. Harry lived upstairs in a run-down, dusty apartment, but the rent was cheap.
As the woman sat primly across from him, Harry asked for payment up front. It was shady, he knew, but he'd been the victim of too many unhappy, unpaying clients.
The woman was close to his age, perhaps a bit older, with long brown hair and hooded brown eyes. Introducing herself as Padma Patil, she showed him a card - Harry's own business card. It was crinkled and well-read, passed from hand to hand numerous times. Crudely made, the card read simply The Veil of Death: Psychic Readings.
Padma didn't wait long before making her request. "Mister Prince - " she called him by his pseudonym.
"Harry, please."
"Harry, then. I need you to tell me who killed my sister." Her bluntness both surprised and amused him.
The boy debated internally.
Talking to the dead was - of course - Harry's specialty. However, he didn't particularly like murder victims. Their deaths were sticky and painful, and the spirits often problematic, scared and angry.
"First, I should say - "
Padma sat impatiently, tapping her foot. "Just get on with it. You're the dozenth psychic I've seen, and likely the last. I've heard it all before."
He hid a smile, liking the girl's gumption. Most psychics had a spiel about the unreliability of their methods and the fickle way of the dead. But Harry was a genuine clairvoyant, nothing like the other frauds scattered across the country. Sybil Trelawney was a popular one, obsessed with her tea leaves and fond of spouting outlandish, doom-mongering claims. She left her clients (victims) either in tears or rejecting mysticism all together. Madam Umbridge, a particular thorn in Harry's side, claimed that the dead communicated by writing messages in her cat's litter box. Obsessed with superstition and the 'luckiness' of felines, Umbridge was often referred to as 'Lady Lucifer'.
Harry hated Umbridge with a passion.
Pushing those feelings aside, it took some time for Harry to to separate his thoughts from hers. The spirit was a cold, crippling presence, pressing suffocatingly close. He took a deep, steadying breath.
"The first thing you should know about your sister is that she was a prostitute." He waited, back tense in anticipation for the expected response.
"She won't believe you," the ghost whispered, seconds before Padma Patil spat at him. Harry delicately wiped the spittle from his cheek.
"That's a lie," Padma's lips curled into a hurt, angry snarl. "Parvati would never."
The boy sympathized, but he had little time for blissful ignorance. The spirit was restless, memories and truths bubbling at the surface, threatening to spill over. "It's true," he said, crossing his legs at the knee. "She was an exotic dancer. That's how they found her, wasn't it? In lace and leather."
Her pants were so tight that they fit almost like a second skin. Sweat pooled beneath her arms as her hips rolled in time to the pulsing music. Vivid lights strobed across the chamber, illuminating the diverse skins and glittering outfits. Very little could be heard through the music, masking a cacophony of tittering laughter, sensual moans and sultry whispers. The girl glided down the silver pole, smirking as the man in front of her panted heavily.
"That could mean anything," Padma insisted.
"Her name?" Harry brought his fingers up to his throat. His pulse was short and erratic; asphyxiation, he recognized distantly.
"Parvati," the girl shifted on the arm chair. "I told you this."
"Her middle name, then. Something floral." A memory of pungent perfume hit his nose. "Rose? Yes, I thought so. They called her Rosie at the club," Harry informed. "Because her lips were always painted - "
Padma's eyes widened. "Red."
Well-manicured fingers expertly twisted at a golden tube. Rosie watched her face carefully in the mirror, a pointed chunk of bright lipstick brushing delicately over plump lips.
"She wore a locket engraved with a rose," Harry mused, green eyes flitting to Padma's bosom. She wore a loose dress shirt and black trousers. "Just like the one you're wearing right now, hidden beneath your shirt. I assume you got it from her personal effects. May I see it?"
With trembling fingers, Padma pulled out a golden chain. The pendant was heart-shaped and had a tiny picture inside. It was Padma and Parvati, both teenagers in the image. Padma looked much the same, with long brown hair and silver glasses. Beside her was a nearly identical girl, pretty and thin, with bright red lips. Though they were twins, they couldn't be any more different.
Rosie's cheeks were stained with rouge, dark eyes made larger by grey eyeshadow. The girl reached into a small purse and pulled out the necklace. The pendant settled between between her breasts, completing the ensemble. By now it was habit to wear it before every performance.
"Do you believe me now?" Harry asked Padma.
The girl nodded, her expression one of faint awe and fear. "Can - can you tell me who killed her?" She tore a notepad from her purse, the pencil perched with anticipation. "Anything - his name, his clothes, hair color. Something."
A sudden frigid breeze lifted bumps onto his skin. "Tell her everything," Parvati urged. "I want that bastard to pay."
Wisps of foreign memory passed before his mind's eye. "He had dark hair," Harry murmured. "And grey eyes."
His eyes were so incredibly bright in their intensity. While many of her other clients preferred to focus on the tan skin of her legs or the tight fit of her shirt, he always watched her face. The attention thrilled her. Tonight, their eyes caught half-way through the dance, dark orbs meeting light. The man licked his lips, leaning forward. Her gyrating quickened, and he smiled knowingly. Rosie felt a shudder go down her spine.
"He had a mole on his neck." Rosie's lips lingered on the mark as he pushed her against the wall. She suckled on the beauty mark, his throat vibrating with a guttural moan.
"And a cracked front tooth." The jagged bone had caught on her bottom lip, tearing it with a hot sting. Once he got a taste of that savory, metallic flavor, he seemed determined to drag more blood to the surface. He bit down on her throat, Rosie's trachea tightening in pain. He licked the wound apologetically.
Padma's pencil seemed to fly down the parchment, spectacles sliding dangerously down her nose. "His name? Does she - do you know his name?"
Harry's lips tightened, alien rage thrumming through him. "Marcus."
'My name's Marcus. Yours?' He leaned back onto a motel bed, gasping out the question. His pants were down, revealing a lack of boxers and a puff of curly black hairs. Rosie had her mouth full and was unable to respond.
But Marcus already knew the answer; he'd been watching her for a very long time.
"A last name?" Padma asked excitedly.
"Flint." Apparently, Marcus frequented this nearby motel quite a bit. The receptionist had known him by name, sending them a wink as Marcus dragged Rosie into the small room.
"Flint," Padma breathed out, body trembling with frantic anticipation. "Tha - thank you, Harry. You don't know how much this means to me."
Harry couldn't respond immediately, memories of a sweaty body and a heavy pressure ricocheting through him.
A long-fingered hand grasped at the chain clunking between her breasts. The metal cut into the back of Rosie's neck as it snapped, earning a painful gasp. 'D - don't do that,' she whispered, blinking up at the man. In the darkness, he didn't seem quite so handsome. His eyes were still that intense shade, but the way he looked at her made her feel like a piece of bloody meat. A cruel glint shot through them as he swiftly took her wrists and yanked them above her head.
'You were so beautiful up there,' he breathed onto her nipples. 'Dancing like that, showing off your skin and flashing that smirk of yours. I could almost - ' Marcus dug his teeth into the tender skin of her jugular.
A scream worked it's way up her throat. This pain wasn't intermixed with pleasure like it should have been. It felt menacing, like she was being eaten alive; his touch burned her, frightening her. Marcus had moved down her stomach, mouthing toward her crotch.
She couldn't breath - his hand had crept around her throat, cutting off any potential protests. This reminded Parvati of when she was a young girl being taught to swim, with her lungs protesting, the pressure too much to bear. Her brown eyes began to flood with tears, the veins tinting a rosy red. She sought out the necklace - a gift from her sister on their eighteenth birthday. The golden chain glinted on the bed-spread. Her hand crept around it, clutching it consolingly.
"She wanted you to have her necklace," He said, blinking back tears of his own. Harry turned his head so Padma could not see them. "She was glad that they found it with her body."
Life began to flash in an almost cliche way. Parvati remembered donning her first training bra, her first kiss (with a girl, very pleasing but lacking a sort of zest that she prefered), helping Padma carry her textbooks into their small home, greeting their baba with a kiss on the cheek. Parvati remembered late nights, the sharp tang of vodka lingering on her tongue. She remembered warm, spiced tea and her sister leaning against her, crying about a failed test. Parvati remembered the darkness of their mother's funeral and getting broken glass stuck in her palm from cleaning up her father's strewn bottles of brandy. She remembered applying that first tub of lipstick and later smearing it on a stranger's penis; she'll never forget the satisfaction that came from palming that large handful of cash and slipping away quietly into the night.
"She did all of that for you. Every tip, every payment went towards putting you through college. But, Padma, it was her decision to pursue that career path. It was her decision to follow Marcus to that little motel beside the brothel. She misses you greatly, but she's - she's so proud of you. You're so strong, Paddy," the nickname slipped from his lips, eyes softening. "She wants you to kick the bastard in the balls for her."
Padma let out a choked noise.
She scrambled to collect her things. "I have to go," she wiped her face, trying to conduct herself. "I'm going to the police with this. I'll contact you if anything comes up."
Parvati choked, attempting one last time to inhale. His grip was too tight. Her ears rang when he came in her with a long, deep groan. Meanwhile, her eyes slipped shut, rosy lips parting . . . As she died.
"Wait," Harry rasped. "Don't tell them about me," the girl lingered, confused "They won't believe you. My sort of profession is rather . . . frowned upon." More accurately, treated like witchcraft and blasphemy.
"What do I tell them, then?"
"You're a clever girl," Harry flapped a hand. A migraine began to creep up on him. "Make something up."
There was a frustrated huff, a blur of movement and the front door slammed shut. Unfortunately, Padma did not take her sister's spirit with her.
Harry released a heavy breath, placing his forehead onto the table. A soft breeze caressed the back of his neck. "Do you think she'll find him?" Harry asked the spirit, allowing her invisible fingers to continue their light ministrations. He did have quite the headache.
"Padma has always been stubborn," she said with bittersweet fondness. Harry and Parvati spoke as though they'd been friends for years. After all, they'd merged minds and memories in the most intimate way possible. Parvati was stronger now, leeching off the medium's life-source.
Harry was always drained after a confrontation like this.
Spirits were curious beings. When someone died, they usually passed on to whatever their version of the afterlife was; others had unfinished business. Without the power of a medium, they wandered, lost, powerless and forgotten.
The lucky ones, like Parvati, found people like Harry. He always tried his best to help them pass on peacefully.
For the longest time, Harry thought he was the only one who could see the dead.
His Aunt and Uncle had thought him mad. The dead whispered secrets to him and, sometimes, Harry could convince them to manipulate the world around them. Windows would shatter, plates would spray from cupboards, spiders would swarm and - when Vernon beat him - the belt would suddenly fly from his trusted the dead more than he did his own family. At age thirteen, when Harry was finally sick of his relatives, he ran away to the streets.
The spirits had saved Harry's life often; in return, he always tried his best to save theirs.
After years of practice, he could open and close his mind to them on a whim. Those that weren't powerful enough to physically manifest he was able to ignore; the ones that were determined and stubborn and often just bloody fucking insane, they were destructive enough to gain his attention. He supplied them energy from his very core, allowing them to break the barrier between life and death. It was physically draining and, unfortunately, that wasn't the only negative side affect.
Like with demons, spirits needed permission to enter your body. But once they had - there was no telling the sort of havoc they could wreck. Too weak to resist, Harry allowed Parvati to slip into his mind. Harry was far too nice for his own good.
"Just a moment," she pleaded. Too weak to resist, Harry allowed Parvati to slip into his mind. Harry was far too nice for his own good.
With a surge of power, his back arched. She landed in his body with a jolt. The whites of his eyes glimmered with a milky hue.
"God, this is amazing," she purred, stretching her entire body like a wildcat. Standing up, she was a bit clumsy at first. Parvati was now unaccustomed to a living body, and had to remember to breath.
Stumbling over her feet, Parvati pushed open an unlabeled door and climbed the winding staircase. Tapping into Harry's memories, she easily found his bathroom.
Rummaging through the drawers, she pulled out a silver tube of cheap lipstick. The pink hue didn't feel quite right, but Parvati supposed it would do. She uncapped it and leaned toward the mirror, stomach pressing against the sink. Removing his glasses, green eyes clouded with hedonistic pleasure, Parvati expertly applied the lipstick. The chalky texture gave her goosebumps. She smacked her lips, giving a coy smirk. Parvati almost felt like herself again.
She fluffed Harry's shoulder-length hair, finding the riotous waves charming. Harry really was a pretty boy. Parvati undid his belt, feeling pleased with her sister's choice of medium. Harry was a lithe, almost under-fed man, with slim hips and effeminate features. He was, however, perfectly endowed. Tossing aside his loose cotton shirt, Harry began protesting internally. Parvati gave him little consideration, fingering the perk, pale nipples.
The dead didn't hold many inhibitions.
Parvati was very familiar with the male anatomy, effortlessly slipping her fingers around his member. It didn't take long for him to harden, her fingernail slipping into his slit. The girl bit back a moan, tossing her neck back. Adam's apple bobbing, Parvati followed the cracks in the ceiling, breathing hard.
"P - please," Harry's voice was but a little whimper in the back her her mind.
Parvati supposed just a simple hand-job wasn't quite his forte. In life, Parvati never left her men unsatisfied, and not even death could hinder that. Leaving one hand to massage his balls, Parvati slipped a finger between his pink lips, suckling at the salty pre-cum. Once the digit was wet, she wasted little time penetrating Harry's anus. The rim was tight, at first, loosening as she began fingering him. The boy let out a pained mewl, eyes rolling back.
Parvati reveled in the pleasure-pain, imagining it was her cunt being worked at. She leaned against the wall, hips gyrating, pressing the finger deeper and jerking his cock harder. It was glorious. Parvati hadn't felt anything but that all-consuming numbness in so long.
Harry's fingers weren't nearly long enough to reach his prostate, but the ministrations were enough to bring them close to the edge. Parvati's mind mixed with Harry's, drawing Harry back to the surface. Green eyes watering with outrage and agonizing pleasure, Parvati jammed in another finger, unlubed, and came with a gasp. Pearly strands spilled onto the tile, and it might as well have been liquidized gold for the astonishing relief it gave her.
Collapsing onto the floor, Harry removed his fingers, flexing out the cramps. Parvati, returning to her ghost-like figure, placed a gentle kiss on his sweaty forehead. Harry flinched, eyes fluttering shut.
"Thank you, love," her voice faded with the wind.
Harry's ears rang, his body sore and sated. He didn't want to move, but the uncomfortable stickiness between his thighs urged him to stand. Harry met his eyes in the mirror. His eyes, he insisted, despite the pink lipstick smeared across his mouth and the wetness to his hole.
This happened often. Not quite that level of violation, no - but there was always some sort of backlash after a 'reading'. A brutal take-over like Parvati's was rare, and bound to leave a mark.
He felt like a stranger to his body. The last time Harry had even thought about sex had been . . . too long ago. Harry remembered dark eyes and a whisper of not his name, a shudder going through him. His heart ached almost with the same intensity of his body.
Stepping into the small shower, he forced the thoughts away. His fingers weakly grappled for the tap. The water was cold when it hit his shoulders, too similar to Parvati's chill touch. Harry turned on the hot water tap to the highest level, letting it scald him with a fierce pressure. Harry let the sheen of filth and the smell of sex wash away, back muscles clenching and releasing. When his skin began to prune, Harry finally began to wash himself, fingers carding through tangled black hair. He scrubbed viciously at his face, the pink of his lipstick coming off in thick, sticky clods.
He could barely distinguish his tears from the rest of the water dribbling down his body.
When Harry woke the next morning, he felt as though he'd been hit by a truck. Sometime between thinking I want to die and fucking prostitute ghosts, a pigeon fluttered onto his window frame. Obnoxious and loud, it began to screech. No matter how many pillows Harry threw it the glass pane, the bird refused to flee.
Today would be a coffee day, then.
He rolled out of bed, dressed in an over-sized shirt and boxer shorts. The shirt reached his knobbly knees, and with a belt, it could pass as a horribly unfashionable dress. Not caring enough to change, he tugged on a pair of loose, torn capris. Tight clothes made him uncomfortable today. Running a hand through his hair, the boy noticed the subtle, pink stain to his lips. He tried scrubbing at it, but there was little change.
Bounding down the steps, Harry noticed he'd forgotten to lock up the night before. Well, he had been a bit occupied. It seemed nothing had been taken, not that Harry had much of value to begin with.
A notorious thief by the name of 'Dung' had been striking shops on Knockturn lately. The antique shop was a common target and poor Mister Borgin, cantankerous as he was, was fraying at the seams. He'd just installed a new security system, but kept forgetting the passcode.
Flicking the 'closed' sign, Harry stepped out into the summer breeze. It was a weekday, and Knockturn Alley had a fair number of patrons. The Hut was particularly popular this time of day, the smell of tea and biscuits wafting out into the street. Stepping into the brick-and-mortar café, Harry gave a weak greeting to Mister Flitwick, who seemed to have already had his share of caffeine and sugar. Flitwick was a short, perky man, and a locksmith of all things.
The Hut had several loyal regulars. Sitting across Flitwick was Rolanda Hooch - former tennis player - who owned the sports shop. She was none-too-subtly slipping liquor into her tea. Pomona Sprout, the florist, was picking morosely at a pastry while the washed-up actor, Gilderoy Lockhart, was regaling her with tales of some D-list cast party.
"Bonjour, darling," Olympe greeted in a smooth french accent. She stood behind the counter, her ebony hair pulled into a white hairnet. The woman was tall and robust and she wore it with confidence. Her long nails were painted a shade of dark blue, clicking away at the cash register. Her brown eyes caught on Harry's attire, nose curling delicately. "Oh, 'arry. What are you wearing? If you wanted to wear a dress, you could've borrowed one of mine."
"Thank you," Harry coughed. "But no thank you."
Olympe sniffed. "Can't blame me for trying. Your regular then, dear?"
"As always."
Ringing the silver bell at her side, she called for her partner. "Rubeus, darling. One order of buttered toast and - "
Hagrid peered his head out of the kitchen, bushy hair tucked into hairnet. It was quite the amusing sight. His bushy curls strained against the confinement. "Harry's here? Ay, lad!" the man enthusiastically greeted, waving a spatula. "Place it on the tab, Olympe."
"As always," she sighed, sparing Harry a fond look.
Harry occupied his usual seat next to the window, the metal chair creaking beneath him. Sunlight shone through the pane, the golden rays dancing across the tile floor. The Hut was decorated in warm tones of brown and deep blue. Before Olympe took over public relations, the café had been in near shambles. Hagrid had inherited it from his mother, a gruff Icelandic woman that cared little about appearances. Fridwulfa was a neglectful mother and worked herself to the bone, leaving Hagrid and his half-brother to be raised by his kind-hearted father. Harry didn't know much about Hagrid's family beyond that; Fridwulfa had been long dead by the time Harry moved in next door.
Hagrid started off as a terrible cook but his earnest enthusiasm easily charmed customers. His French lover, Madam Maxime, had proved to be a capable domestic and business partner. For whatever reason, they'd been unable to have a child of their own, and so treated Harry as their surrogate son.
Olympe pushed a porcelain plate in front of him. Instead of just toast and jam, as he prefered, Olympe also gave him a stack of sausage and a steaming cup of tea. Harry smiled gratefully, the spicy, heady scent reaching his nose. "Eat it all. You need more meat on your bones." She squeezed his bony shoulder tightly.
He made it through half his meal before any drama occurred. His watch beeping, Flitwick bounced out the door, Hooch nodding her thanks to Olympe. Pomona looked at them wistfully, stuffing in one last bite of her pastry. "Thank you for the lovely story, Gilderoy, but I really must be going." She slapped a tip on the table and practically fled, breathing a sigh of relief.
Lockhart seemed truly despondent at the sudden lack of company. Then their eyes met. Harry's stomach sank in horror.
Smoothing back his dyed blond hair, Gilderoy plastered on a charming smirk. "So, Hadrian," Lockhart purred, sliding across from Harry. "How is our resident medium? Will you read my palm?" the man shoved his hand into Harry's face.
"I don't read palms, Gilderoy."
"Some psychic," the man grumbled. "Well, what are you doing today? Hopefully shopping for better clothing, because, darling, that shade of elephant-skin grey is not your color. How would you like to stop by later today?" the man leered. "I'm sure we can find something that fits."
Gilderoy ran a negligee store on the other side of Knockturn. The outfits were outlandish, indecent and colorful, attracting only the colorblind and the sex-crazed. Harry steered far from Lockhart's Lusty Looks (the man loved his alliterations), thus minimizing the risk of seeing Gilderoy in his natural habitat. The stylist was intent on putting Harry in sheer, lace boyshorts, and not for entirely professional reasons.
"I appreciate the offer," Harry said tightly. "But I've made previous arrangements. There's an old man who needs his house cleansed 'immediately'."
Gilderoy tutted. "Pity. I'd have loved the company. You know, love - you really need some friends, outside those silly ghouls of yours."
The boy twitched. "Spirits. Not ghouls."
"Details," Lockhart said dismissively. "Ever since poor Severus died, you've been holed up in that shop of yours, wasting your good looks - "
At the mention of his former partner, Harry set his cup down with a clatter. Lockhart was a fool, but Harry's expression brokered no other interpretation. "This was a truly scintillating chat, Gilderoy," the green-eyed boy said through clenched teeth. "But I've got to make my appointment. Excuse me."
Lockhart blinked, watching as the boy gave Olympe a peck on the cheek. "No goodbye kiss for me, then?" he pouted.
"Goodbye, Gilderoy," His politeness was forced. The door banged shut.
Gilderoy's gaze roamed over to the hostess. "Olympe, dear," he grinned. The woman flushed brightly, eyes darting toward the kitchen. "I really must compliment your style choice; floral is so very in right now. Why, I believe Celestina Warbeck - the famous actress - wore something similar to the Spring Fashion gala. I met her once, you know, on set for - " Olympe's eyes glazed over in boredom.
Harry changed shirts and hailed a cab.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry leaned against the window of the taxi, his breath fogging the glass. "This your stop up ahead?" the driver asked, flicking his cigarette toward the distant cul-de-sac. The houses were all one-level and painted beige. Poltergeists loved bringing chaos to such uniform, bland settings.
Passing over a roll of cash to the driver, Harry stepped into the dry, crunching grass. Just in case Filch's poltergeist wasn't the talkative type, he brought a satchel of incense and a necklace made of black tourmaline. Even if Harry was a progressive medium, there were some methods that were tried-and-true.
A number of gnomes guarded the house, their paint chipped and faded. Harry tentatively knocked on the door, settling back on the balls of his feet. There was a sharp mewl from inside the house and the door opened, latch catching.
"Mister Filch?" he greeted. A hairless, wrinkled head peeked out.
Argus had beady brown eyes and a scruffy face. Grunting, the man eyed Harry, as if appraising his worth. "Yer the psychic Arabella recommended, then?"
Harry thought back, remembering a dotty old lady, insistent that her dead cat, Mister Tibbles, was haunting her. She'd tripped mid-air one day and broke her leg, swearing that she heard a feline cry in the otherwise empty room.
"Hadrian Prince, yes," he tried to smile. "Nice to meet you." Argus grunted again, unlocking the door. Harry stepped in, glancing around with polite curiosity. "Lovely home."
Beer bottles were scattered across the floor, the wall-paper torn and the carpet stained with a mysterious purple liquid. "No, it's not," Argus sighed. "That damn creature has destroyed my home. But worse than that, he antagonizes my sweet Missus Norris." Crouching down, the man scratched behind the ears of a brown cat, the fur horribly matted. "Don't be afraid of our guest, my dear," he crooned. "He's here to get rid of that pest."
Missus Norris wrinkled her nose at Harry, rather pompous for a cat.
"Is there a Mister Norris?" Harry tried to joke.
Argus shot him a scandalized look, covering Norris' ears. "Mister Norris had to be 'sent to a farm' several years ago. Missus Norris hasn't fully come to terms with it."
"Erm, my condolences."
The man rolled his eyes, letting his cat slink off into the kitchen. He pressed a finger to his lips. "This way. The poltergeist likes 'ta watch the telly."
Now that he mentioned it, the television was running rather loud. Harry peered into the room, snorting at the sight of a chubby, pinched-face munchkin floating cross-legged above the couch, watching reality television. The spirit was faintly orange-tinted, sunlight filtering through the smoky body.
Filch's eyes flickered across the room, back tense. He had no idea where the spirit was, but likely felt the dark and - frankly - devilish energy. "I'm going to approach the spirit," Harry murmured. "It would be best if you left the room." Argus narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but quickly fled as the poltergeist let out a belch that shook the window panes.
Harry took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards squeaking beneath him. The poltergeist's head turn a full one hundred and eighty degrees, his lips stretching into an obscene smile. "Who's this, then? Has old Filchy sent Peeves a friend?" his words were sonorous, echoing painfully through Harry's skull. Poltergeists were particularly skilled at creating headaches.
His head was woozy. Blood dripped from a cut on his forehead, glass shards littering his skin.
"A friend, perhaps," Harry said, showing his empty, unarmed hands. Though the poltergeists wore a facade of humor and jest, they could be truly dangerous when threatened. "You call yourself Peeves? Very funny."
Peeves smirked, the glow of the telly making his skin glisten. "Peevsie knows his wit is true. Now, I've told you my name, who are you? 'Tis rude," he tsked.
Harry hedged, debating. Names had power, and Harry had power in spades. He wasn't about to become host to a scheming demon. "Call me . . . Prince."
"Prince?" the ghost tittered, writhing midair. Harry flinched as Peeves popped right above his head. The poltergeist made a circlet with his hands, settling it over Harry's scalp. He didn't quite touch the psychic - but the proximity was enough to send shivers down Harry's spine. "More like farce," he spat. "Liar, liar, pants on fire!"
"You have your moniker, I have mine." Harry stepped out of Peeve's reach, feeling a tell-tale flush of warmth. The floor where he'd just stood was scorched, the smell of fire reaching Harry's nose. A flash of foreign memory shot through him.
Gasoline was spilling from the tank; he could hear the engine whistling. It smelt like something was burning.
Peeves scowled. The air began to churn around them, and Harry took another cautious step away. This was not going the way he'd planned.
Panicked tears fell, hot and sticky, onto his cheeks. He struggled to unlatch his seat-belt, but his hands ached from clenching the steering wheel. All because of that damned cat, he was going to die.
"Your real name, though," Harry persisted. "If I guess it, will you leave this place and pass on peacefully?"
Peeves pressed his lips together, sucking them into his mouth with a thoughtful whistle. "Mister Prince, you think yourself so clever. What does Peevsie get if you fail in this endeavor?"
"If I don't guess your name," Harry rubbed his head. "You can use my body for one hour. No less, no more."
The spirit's eyes lit up with greed. "Agreeable, yes indeed. But we will shake on it," he demanded. The lights flickered dangerously. "Or leave."
Rolling up his sleeves, Harry wondered if this was what they meant by 'a deal with the devil'. Peeves did an excited belly roll. The persistent pounding in his head amplified as the ghost viciously yanked Harry's hand up and down. Pain ricocheting through him, Harry threw his head back.
He was an entertainer, a comedian for bars and clubs, famed for his slightly racist and misogynistic jokes. But the audience loved him all the same. He wasn't afraid of speaking the truth. Peter Pettigrew hated liars and always been unfailingly candid.
Dressed in a wrinkled, bright orange suit and mouth tasting of scotch, Peter drove home after a successful evening at Zonko's Comedy Club. Though he tried in vain to focus on the road, his mind wandered.
He'd met a girl at the club. She was young, pretty and prone to heckling; just his type. Pansy, despite her unfortunate name, was incredibly easy on the eyes. He remembered the delicious curve of her arse and the hint of cleavage.
Pansy could very well be his daughter, but Peter never cared much about age differences. In uni, he dated a woman well in her fifties. To be honest, he only went with her to gain the respect of the fraternity boys. She'd been ridiculously botoxed, giving her a severe, pinched appearance. And she always wore the ugliest plaid undergarments, Peter shuddered at the thought. Even so, he missed Missus McGonagall. She'd been a fierce old pussy cat.
Almost by chance - or a sick twist of fate - a large brown cat darted in front of his car. Whether the beast was chasing after a mouse or a moth, Peter didn't notice. He jerked the wheel, the beat-up buggy smacking into the curb. The sound of crunching metal and shattered glass filled his ears. Head flinging forward to slam against the steering wheel, all went black momentarily.
Then, in an instant, the engine exploded and Peter Pettigrew was consumed in flames. Heat unbearable, smoke suffusing his lungs and burning his throat -
Harry sucked in a ragged breath, soon deteriorating into a coughing fit as he choked on the musty, dusty air.
A cat meowed. Argus tapped his foot impatiently, face unimpressed. "Get off the floor," Filch barked. "Is the demon gone?"
Harry blinked, looking around. The television was smoking, the lamps burst. Though he couldn't see the man, Harry knew Peeves was still around. Green eyes flickered to the cat. She was anxiously prowling the room, brushing against Filch's leg for comfort.
He shakily stood. "Not yet. Mister Filch?" Harry began. "Do you let your cat outside much?"
Filch's brow furrowed. "To relieve herself, o' course, 'n Missus Norris likes to hunt. It's cruelty, it is, keepin' pets trapped inside like some sorta zoo animal."
"Right," Harry murmured. "Well, I'm quite certain . . . " He felt incredibly stupid saying this. He decided to say it in a rush. "That your cat may have inadvertently killed the man who haunts you."
Argus gaped. "You take that back!"
"I'm sorry, sir. He was driving home one evening and Missus Norris darted out in front of him. He spun out of control and, well, I guess when he died, he followed Missus Norris home."
The man blustered in disbelief. Harry lifted his hands consolingly.
"I swear, pointing blame isn't my intent. I'm just trying to help the spirit pass, and he's holding quite the grudge."
"I'm not apologizing," Filch spat, clutching his hear. "He could have ran over my sweet! Now get rid of that stupid, pathetic poltergeist or get out of my house!"
The air churned around them, causing the windows to shake. Missus Norris slowly rose tail-first into the air. She yowled fearfully.
"Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?" Peeves cackled, tossing her into the air. "Frightening poor Peevsie and making him scream. Pussycat, pussycat, what did you there? You caught your precious mouse and stuck your nose into the air."
Filch screeched, jumping wildly to catch her. "Put the her down," Harry said sharply. "Put Missus Norris down." The poltergeist showed no sign of stopping. "Now, Peter."
Missus Norris' body jerked to a stop. There was a second of utter silence before the cat was dropped into Filch's outstretched arms. Peeves vibrated, his now-visible body glowing with disbelief. "The devil told you that! The devil has told you that!"
"It's time to move on, Peter. Are you really going to let some grudge with a bloody cat - " Argus gasped in insult. Harry tactfully ignored him. " - keep you from your next great adventure?"
Peeves tittered softly, glaring at the curled up, frightened feline. "It's a stupid cat," the man pouted. "But . . . no . . . I am not." For once, he had no reason for riddles or rhymes. The poltergeist blew Filch a raspberry and disappeared with a resounding pop.
Was it really that easy? Harry waited a moment longer, the house utterly silent. Apparently it was.
Filch was relieved, Missus Norris was whimpering and Harry had a killer headache. "Oh, poor Missus Norris . . . "
Harry was paid handsomely and shuffled out of the house so Filch could properly pamper his darling feline. Harry had a feeling Missus Norris wouldn't be let outside for a long while.
As he returned to Charing Cross, Harry let worry mar his tiredly triumphant attitude. Blue and red lights blared up ahead. Harry hurried down the street, gaze darting to The Hut, hoping Hagrid hadn't nearly burnt the shop down again. Instead of a fire-truck, an ambulance was pulled up to Borgin & Burkes' Antiquities. A stretcher was being pushed into the back, the tarp pulled over a human-shaped mound.
"Harry, dear!" Olympe shouted from her front door, waving him in. Harry clutched his tourmaline necklace anxiously. The café was empty.
"What happened?" Harry slipped onto a stool. "Is Mister Borgin . . . ?"
The woman grimaced, looking pale and ill. "He's had a heart attack," she told him. "Poor Pomona found him collapsed behind the counter." Harry nodded slowly. Pomona ran a flower shop opposite Borgin's and took it on herself to bring the crotchety old man lunch each day; it must've been a horrible thing for the chipper woman to witness.
Harry was only relieved Borgin seemed to have passed on peacefully. Balthazar Borgin certainly deserved an afterlife of rest.
Few were so lucky.
To be continued . . .