Despite how it might seem, this isn't really related to my Trickster AU series. Technically this got conceived and written before that other series ended and I never intended this to be a follow up. Careful readers will probably note the glaring continuity error if I had intended this to be a follow up to Trickster Makes the World. Familiarity with the AU series is definitely NOT required. This is just a story in of itself.

For Harry, it began with a broken glass.

The wizard hadn't been so naïve as to believe that it would be easy for Bob. The former ghost had spent the last 7 centuries being incorporeal. Being tangible would take some getting used to and unfortunately for the necromancer, there wasn't anyone who could give him pointers as to how one should re-orient themselves with the senses after such a long hiatus.

The incident with the copied Justin Morningway had given Bob a small preview to corporeality. But the ghost back then had barely paid attention to the world around him, knowing it would only be brief. Knowing he would be giving it up in less than a day for Harry's sake.

But this was different. This was permanent.

To Harry's increasing worry, Bob hadn't dived back into the world with the confidence the wizard associated so well with his former teacher. Instead, he had hedged, letting the world and its sensations come at him whether he liked it or not. Every now and again, Bob mentioned with a contained strain how loud everything seemed to be. How bright the light shined and how heavy his body seemed to feel at times.

The apartment was getting to him the most. For the first few days, Bob had collected a number of bruises, bumping a shoulder against the doorway or banging a leg into a chair. The place where he had resided for the past several years was both so familiar and yet so foreign to him in this new existence as a human. Were the hallways really this narrow? Had there really been so many tables crowding the storefront?

The former ghost had taken to spending most of his time in the lab, re-working old spells, amidst the quiet and stillness of the small, familiar space. Whenever Harry walked into the area, he'd find him hunched over the long table, poring over sheets of paper, the usage of floating golden writings now lost. And almost always, sitting on a pile of books, would be the skull. Now just an useless artifact, but always present as a reminder. Harry had spied Bob one day, lost in his thoughts, his hand pressing against the engraved, ancient bones. The wizard wondered if Bob got some strange sense of comfort from having the skull nearby. It worried him more to consider that somehow Bob might actually miss being able to vanish back into the bony prison.

Despite his own uneasiness at the state of things, Harry faced every grimace or frustrated sigh from the necromancer with an assuring smile, grappling for the flippant casualness that was the norm between them. "Relax. You just have to get used to things," the wizard repeated, the picture of calm and stability.

And then Bob dropped the glass.

Specifically, a shattered glass did nothing to bother Harry, who tended to break and smash things all the time. While Bob softly cursed his own mistake, the wizard waved it off as no big deal, going to get a towel to clean up the floor. He did not see the pale fingers that reached toward the glass pieces to gather them and only realized it after he returned to find Bob staring at his own hand.

A shard had sliced into the necromancer's index finger. The cut wasn't deep, but it did run down nearly the entire length of the digit, drawing blood. A drop of the dark red liquid, physical evidence of the life that now rushed inside the former ghost, lazily slid down onto his palm. Bob gazed at the stain and felt the softly throbbing pain of the cut with some fascination.

Harry, on the other hand, had a silent panic attack.

The small wound was dealt with by some anti-bacterial cream and a bandage within five minutes. But the event started a train of thought in the wizard that spiraled out of control. He'd never seen Bob bleed before. He'd never seen Bob injured before. Granted, the injury was miniscule, but it hammered home for Harry that it was now possible for something to hurt the former ghost. If a knife or a sword were to come down on him now, it wouldn't pass through the form, no harm done.

Almost instantly, Harry's mind began to conjure up all the varying ways that a person could be killed, his old teacher now completely vulnerable to each and every possibility. The wizard's didn't just leave it at weapons or wayward attacks. There were things like diseases and accidents in the home that could be just as fatal.

Bob was now alive. And therefore, he could die.

It had been a faint twinge at first, but over the days had grown into a dull ache. It reminded Bob of the time he'd returned from the Darkness and had felt his curse re-establish itself inside of him, greedily grasping onto his soul. This phantom pain he felt now seemed to be a cousin to it. It left him feeling displaced, uneasy.

In the privacy of the lab and away from Harry's failed attempts at surreptitiously watching over him, the necromancer had run a few diagnostic spells on himself. There was nothing physically wrong with him. And there was no trace of magic within him that shouldn't be there. It seemed whatever was wrong was all in his mind.


A magical psychosomatic pain, he mused humorlessly, staring at the mixture that had indicated he was perfectly fine. But despite the issued clean bill of health, the former ghost felt drained. Nearly ill. And the mounting frustration he was beginning to feel around Harry wasn't helping matters.

The fact that the wizard had all but child-proofed the entire house yesterday had been the final straw. Adding onto this ridiculous action, Harry had behaved as if nothing was different about the place.

"I just cleaned up," Harry had remarked against the accusatory look Bob had given him. "What? I thought you'd be happy about it. You're always on my case about this place being a mess."

"And why are all the knives missing?"

"They're not missing. I just rearranged a few things. What do you need?"

"A knife to cut the Tallis roots."

"I'll do it."

"Harry-"

"I'll do it," Harry had insisted, already brandishing the tool. "How many?"

Bob had sighed resignedly, too tired to continue arguing about it.

The necromancer rubbed a hand over his eyes, blinking against the graininess. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he saw that it was long past midnight. He set aside the used bowl and snuffed out the flame he'd heated the potion on. He supposed he should be grateful Harry hadn't commandeered the matches as well. As he re-shelved the leftover ingredients, Bob eyed the bandage that still wrapped his finger. He knew Harry was simply concerned and going overboard about it. While the idea of his former student caring about him so much was endearing, it only added onto the guilt the necromancer had been feeling.

He was useless to Harry the way he was now; unable to even walk across the storefront without nearly tripping, wincing at the slightest exterior noise from a very loud city, hiding in this lab. This place that had been his home for so long felt alien to him now. Other than having to just reorient himself to the apartment as a human, Bob felt out of place and anxious about even being here. It couldn't continue like this. It couldn't last without either he or Harry having some sort of break. Sitting dejectedly back on the stool by the lab's workbench, Bob traded a long stare with his now empty skull that sat by his elbow. It always grinned at him, sometimes mockingly, but sometimes secretively, as if trying to impart some secret. Right now, it had its secretive smile on.

"I must repair…whatever is happening," Bob muttered, picking up the skull. Unlike the last time he'd held it, back when he'd been given a time-limited taste at life courtesy of Justin Morningway, the skull hummed with a certain energy. He knew that Harry didn't feel it whenever the wizard picked it up to move it out of the way. Whatever he felt, he felt it alone. Bob wondered if it was related to the unaccountable ache that doggedly followed him.

Pulling in and releasing a long breath, the necromancer closed his eyes, his fingers still wrapped around the marked bones. Sometimes when he concentrated and focused the threads of his own magic toward the skull, he could get a small, indecipherable sense of peace. Something akin to the pleasure one felt when recalling a happy memory. Desperation at his lack of progress prompted Bob to center himself toward the bones all the more at the moment. Whatever ailment he felt, it wasn't affecting his ability to wield the power that had been returned to him along with his mortality.

While the energy rippled around the decorated skull, Bob could feel the beginnings of the emotional balm running over the phantom pain. As he delved deeper into the sensation, he thought he felt a breeze against his face. With every once of control, he kept his eyes shut, not ignoring the sensation, but refusing to break his concentration. Again, a cold gust of air brushed against his face, bringing with it a scent that suddenly did bring back a very vivid memory.

For a moment, he could feel the wet ground under his feet, the rain trailing cold rivulets down his neck. The flush of pleasure at the idea of a warm fire, already waiting for him inside the cottage. And the sound of creaking wood as the door of the cottage opened. His mind got up to almost seeing her standing at the entrance, smiling invitingly at him to enter their home, when he abruptly opened his eyes to cut off the memory.

The necromancer released a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Looking back down at the skull in his hands, he saw it appeared the same as before, its teeth laid bare. But strangely, it didn't look to be grinning at him. It looked expectant, even yearning.

"I see," he said, quietly.

Settling the skull back down on the table, Bob pulled out a clean bowl to work with and re-lit the burner.