Music. The only thing that he still cared for. The only thing that could bring out any emotion from beneath his cold, ghostly demeanor. It comforted him, and quelled his uncontrollable anger at the most difficult times. He was angry with everyone and everything. He hated the students, so full of life, not giving a second thought as to what would become of them once that life was taken away; he hated the teachers, mostly old and withered but still clinging to mortal existence. Even the moving portraits seemed to taunt him.
He would glide down the shadowy halls at night when moon shone the brightest, giving a good scare to any student who had the misfortune of being locked out of their dormitories. It gave him a sort of distorted satisfaction to see the looks on their terrified and disgusted faces as they gazed upon his blood-splattered robes. He could see in their easily-read minds that they all wondered how he had become drenched in the silvery, translucent substance in the first place.
'Well, they can find out for themselves,' he had always thought nastily. He would then hurry along to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, ignoring the stupid ghost girl's aggravating whining.
Professor Dumbledore had thought that the grand total of Parseltongues at Hogwarts was two. 'Just one off,' he had thought grimly. Focusing on the little engraved snake on the faucet handle, he would hiss 'Open up,' to open the secret tunnel.
Even though he was a ghost, he still was unable to glide through the wall like he could through all the other opaque objects in the castle. That's what made it so appealing in the first place. No one could bother him there, mortal or ghost. Moreover, no sound could float through the thick stone walls. Now that the damned basilisk was gone, thanks to some scrawny second years, he could enjoy his music in peace.
He no longer needed a wand; that was the advantage of being free of a worldly body. 'Melodia Fluito,' he muttered. The beautiful strains of music wafted down from nowhere in particular, each note swirling and intertwining with each other, producing an exquisite melody that would have made the winged angels in heaven envious.
The Bloody Baron sighed contentedly.
A/N: This is stupid and short, I know, but nobody has done anything on Bloody Baron, at least to my knowledge, and I didn't want to do some clichéd Snapefic.
Oh, by the way, I know nobody ever reads these anyway, but I have to say that the Bloody Baron and all the rest of the HP universe belong to the ingenious J.K. Rowling.
