R.A.B.

Chapter 4: Exploration

If curiosity killed the cat, then who the hell found the feline's corpse. Honestly, if the cat was sniffing around where it shouldn't have been, then some human must have been following it and discovered how the curiosity killed the cat. Or perhaps the cat's owners simply noticed the smell of rotting flesh filtering down from the attic. No, I was right the first time. Right? Oh course I'm right—I'm always right. Malfoy's are rarely wrong. Right?

"Damn it if I'm not confusing myself," I hissed, trying to clear the ramblings from my mind. Stupid brain, always giving me trouble! Why couldn't I retain wisdom or intelligence in the face of danger? Why was courage only a Gryffindor trait? I growled, finding it very unfair that Slytherins had so little an advantage in situations that required more that good social standings.

Tightening my fingers around the towel wrapped around my waist, I stepped out of the small puddle of bath water accumulating on the wooden floor. The attic steps taunted me, mocking my slow movements. I ignored them, refusing to lose my cautious pace. After all, one really didn't need a reason to speed toward a meeting with a ghost.

I swallowed a question before I could even open my mouth to voice it. What if the boy in the bath hadn't been a ghost? He looked like a real child, but I knew that no family was living in this manor with me. Could he have been some other creature, something more threatening than a common specter? At the moment, I had no answer, only an uncommon urge to walk up those steps.

Meet me upstairs.

The attic was not as dark and foreboding as I had imagined from the hallway. The area was quaint, low roofed with a diamond shaped window filtering in coral light from the sun. Crates and trunks were stacked in every corner, squashed between random stools, end tables, and chairs. At the center was a rocking chair, squeaking as it leaned back and forth, back and forth as if some invisible grandmother sat in it, crocheting a mitten. I swallowed, reaching out and stilling the chair's movement. It was then that I noticed something lying on the rocking chair's tattered cushion. I had no idea how I hadn't spotted it earlier. It was a wand, about ten inches from the look of it and fashioned from a dark, reddish wood.

I picked it up gently, remembering what Snape had said about using magic in the house. However, there seemed to be no threat from the wand itself. No sparks shot out, announcing its properties. In fact, it felt completely hollow, as if it was nothing more than a feather light, carved stick. I sat it back down onto the cushion, and explored the attic further.

To my relief, no little boy jumped out at me from the darkened corners with riddles and childish ponderings. Nor could I spot any wet footprints (other than my own) for me to follow. One trunk caught my attention while I was looking from the child phantom. It was reasonably small, black and plain. The silver lock hung open, lazily. I pushed at it, and the lid rose. Inside, covering the rest of the contents, was a robe. I picked it up, sneezing as inch of dust in the room finally caught up with my nose. I spotted it then, the Slytherin crest on its breast.

I don't know why that made me smile; knowing that whoever had lived in this house last had something in common with me should have spooked me. Under the robe was a stack of school books, advanced seventh year editions. Why exactly would a family living here have children attending Hogwarts? Then I remembered that the little boy had referred to this place as a summer estate. Likewise, Snape had said that a wizarding family had used this as a second home. In that case, the school trunk made some bit of sense.

I packed the robe back in and closed the trunk gently, ready to move on to the crates. I was halfway across the attic when a familiar squeak halted me. The rocking chair swayed back and forth behind me as if it had been pushed. I scanned its form, half expecting someone to be sitting in it this time. Instead I found that the wand was missing from its cushioned seat. A thin book now took its place.

Someone must have set it there while I had my back turned. For some reason, that thought scared me. Forgetting the story of the fated feline and the murderous monster called curiosity, I picked up the book, turning it over in my hands. It was black leather, worn, soft to the touch, and decorated with silver corner slippers. The spine was so thin that the book folded back when I held it from one ragged edge. I ran my fingers over the front until they landed at the lower right hand side of the cover where the letters R.A.B. were engraved in elegant silver font.

I hesitated only for a second before making my way back to the attic steps with the book still in hand. I held it to my side and stared down the hallway. The wet footprints were gone. The bathroom door remained open, and I looked into the small room as I passed. There was no bathwater in the tub. In fact, it was bone dry, the ceramic streaked with brownstripes of dust and mildew. Only my damp hair and towel convinced me that the little boy and the bath had not been part of some elaborate dream.

Walking quickly, I reached the green bedroom where I had slept that first evening. I closed the door behind me and sat the book down on the bed, giving it a suspicious glare before turning my back on it. I reached for the rose covered wardrobe, opening both doors at one. Fine robes, some wrapped in paper or plastic hung from a wooden rod. Thankfully, they seemed to have one belonged to a male—I did not plan to wear a woman's frilly robes, even if I was in an empty house. I pulled out a set of blue robes and slipped them on, kicking my towel to the side, half expecting a house elf to appear and snatch it. Satisfied that my new clothing fit well and did not seem to smell too musty, I slammed the wardrobe closed.

Running my fingers through my hair, I turned back toward the bed. The book awaited me, calm as any object should be. I approached it as if it were an animal (as had been my ritual behavior with strange books since my third year class with that oaf of a teacher and his stupid biting texts). Taking a seat beside it I ran my hands over the cover once before opening it.

Its pages were hand written in tight, scrunched script. Though the first page did not seem to be dated or signed, I realized that this must be a journal of some sort, the journal of one R.A.B.

End Notes: Sorry this chapter was so short, but I want to start the next part with the journal entry. Anyhow, review and tell me what you liked or didn't like. Thanks.