The year progressed as it was bound to, September passing into October as the leaves turned from green to amber and began to succumb to the rhythm of the wind that carried them to their burial. They began to rot underfoot as the days became greyer and what was left of the leaves became the only colourful part of the land surrounding Hogwarts. One could smell the rain that filled the air and dampened clothes and hair.
With the new days came new lessons, most memorably that which involved the dreaded little devils: Cornish pixies. One would think of pixies as nuisances, sure, but harmless ones. They would be wrong.
Lockhart carelessly released a cage full of the miniature beasts into the classroom and Hell descended upon them without a shred of mercy. They giggled as they flew about the room, destroying it as they tugged at students' hair and clothes as well as the hanging decorations. They pulled down an animal skeleton and, thinking quickly, Ed was forced to dive out of the way and drag Hermione with him before either of them could be crushed.
"Oi, dickhead!" Ed called to the teacher who, somewhat strategically, chose to ignore him and, after a few failed attempts to cast a spell that would subdue the rampaging creatures, left a few of the students to fix his mess as he herded the rest of the class through the door, all the while protecting his "valuable" face.
Ed was fuming and Harry was certain Lockhart had made a poor decision when he left the blonde boy to clean up his mess. He grit his teeth and stared at the havoc around him with such a feral expression that even the pixies didn't dare near him. Instead they flocked to Neville who was yelling and sobbing as he was carried upwards by the creatures and strung on the chandelier, scarce heard amid the giggles and shrieks that filled the room.
Ed grabbed one in his metal hand as it flew too close to his face and instantly its gleeful, taunting giggles halted, replaced by tinkling gasps. He shoved it forcefully back into the cage, from where it made no attempt to escape as it tried to fill its minute lungs.
"Piss off you tiny fuckers!" he yelled at the pixies before drawing his wand with a flick of his wrist and freezing a group of them in place so he could roughly shove them back into the cage. Hermione sent disapproval towards the violence of his actions but got her own wand out and quickly followed suit, though with more precision, by freezing the rest of what Ed so eloquently referred to as "Tiny Fuckers" and getting everyone to help her scoop them back into the cage. Then Neville fell from the ceiling.
October began to pass just as September had, like the year was wasting away fairly uneventfully. Harry, Ron, Ed and Hermione would all, with little hesitation, admit it was kind of nice, the hassle of the prior year was draining and they'd found out quite a bit themselves about one of their own that year. It seemed to be enough.
But, as it happened, the Halloween of that year, much like that before if, brought upon them a downward spiral that only got faster the closer to the bottom you got.
Harry had gotten roped into attending the deathday party of his house ghost - Nearly Headless Nick - and he'd be damned if he were to go alone.
Hermione was easy enough to convince, she was fully prepared to be nice to the ghosts and was sure they held wealths of information in their brains (did ghosts have brains?) and she eagerly awaited the day they would share every last tidbit of it with her.
Ron was a bit more difficult. The boy could be compelled by a number of things but there was one thing that little else could win over: food. Harry was dragging Ron away from tables lined with the fine food of the celebratory feast. For what? A room full of people that needn't (and couldn't) eat. He could see why Ron was so reluctant.
Still, Ed was the worst. He may have had to spend the meal at the Slytherin table but he liked food as much as, maybe more than, Ron. Harry knew him, knew that he'd shovel as much food into his mouth as time would allow and only really taste any of it or feel the satisfaction of being full following the final of multifarious mouthfuls
Harry also knew that he hated the ghosts. It was as though, every time he looked at their shimmering, silver, ethereal forms, he saw a taunt, a jeer - as though their existence was an insult to his and he was bitter about it. Needless to say, Harry skirted around telling him that he was going to have to forfeit his place amongst living, though mostly spiteful, people and plates of warm food for an evening in a cold room permeated by that cold, unsettled chill that followed every ghost. Instead he merely introduced it as a surprise, something unprecedented that he would never be able to guess. Ed's nature was similar to Hermione's in numerous ways, though less mild: he, like her, could not leave knowledge hanging as close as it was and leave it be - they were both as nosey as they came (not that Harry was much better).
So they walked into the room as a group of four and the curious glint in Ed's golden eyes dimmed as they turned flat and stormy. Then they became alive again, not with the pretty glints of curious, wandering embers. No. They were alight with the roaring flames of red-hot anger that consumed everything in its path, that did not see anything worth sparing, only fuel to their flame that would keep them burning, brighter and brighter. Harry knew better than to stand before him when that look was in his eyes for he would, like all else, be mercilessly devoured in their fuming fit.
But he couldn't escape.
Ed turned to him and stood there for a moment in deafening silence as the curious chatter of the ghosts and the nervous words of their friends were drowned out by the suffocating nothingness. Harry blinked - once, twice, thrice - Ed did not. Another second then a minute. Then Ed's eyes closed and for a brief moment - nothing more than a flash in the pan - the fire was extinguished. Then, as though fueled by the blackness that had been before it, the fire burned brighter than ever as Ed opened his eyes and Harry stepped back, out of the door. Ed followed, shouting at the top of his lungs.
"YOU BASTARD! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? I'M NOT SPENDING MY HALLOWEEN WITH THOSE ABOMINATIONS!" he stormed off, up the corridor as quickly as he could without running. The uneven, metallic twinge in his gait became more prevalent than ever and his face seemed to have adopted a slightly sickly pallor.
Harry just stared after him like a wounded puppy, right up until the tail of his braid had followed him around the sharp corner and out of sight. Hermione and Ron approached Harry from behind and rested a hand each on his shoulders.
"Well," Hermione began, struggling to speak over the harsh disapproval of the painting hanging on the walls "that was a bad idea…"
As though to punctuate her point there was a loud bang, clearly a fist against the brick of the old walls (distinctly lacking any kind of metallic clang).
Ron looked pale, Harry would be tempted to call him ghostly, as he nodded his agreement with fear-filled eyes.
They walked back into the cold room without any further words and simply observed. They felt the wind as though they were outside as the chill of death permeated the small space. Furthermore, there was a certain stench about the room that answered for itself before they could even question it. The walls and ceiling were covered in copious amounts of black mold that had grown from likely centuries of dampness. Then there was the table across the room, funnily enough, piled high with food that the ghosts, who eagerly hovered about it, couldn't eat. Every item sitting upon it was rotting, well passed its use-by date several months before. Harry stared at it as he began to think Ed had the right idea. Nick hovered past and thanked him for coming with the sort of genuine cheer that suggested he hadn't actually expected the children to come.
"Where's that Slytherin friend of yours?" the ghost asked, cocking his head. It wobbled dangerously.
"Didn't want to come," Harry asked, not looking away from the snack table. Nick followed his line of sight and threw his head back as he choked out a bark of laughter. Ron only got paler as the head removed itself almost entirely from the neck, dangling from only a scrap of skin and a little viscera.
"Ghosts can't eat," he said. The kids were aware "but we can kind of taste if it's strong enough. The longer food rots, the more pungent it becomes," he then drifted away to the table in question. Hermione's dark eyes followed his retreating back with poorly concealed doubt written all over them. She doubted that was the case, they were probably just desperate to cling to the life they had lost so long ago, grasping at strands of connection to the loving that were likely only about as thick as the meagre strands that joined Nick's head and body and kept him from becoming a member of the Headless Hunt.
Ed got to the Great Hall long after everyone else and was bitter about the fact that he was able to eat less of the rich, delicious food than he would be otherwise. And what for? Ghosts! Of all the things it could have been it just had to be ghosts; the ghosts were, in Ed's mind, proof of one cheating death, proof that Truth's jurisdiction was not perfect, proof that he had lost to the same force a number of others had won against - many of whom were just as much blundering idiots as Gilderoy Lockhart. He noticed the distinct lack of them in the hall and sighed with relief into his pumpkin juice as he felt the sweetness wash away the bitterness Harry's trick had burdened him with. He ate like he would on any other day and left before Dumbledore gave his speech, figuring he'd escape the swarm of Slytherins that seemed to form around him whenever they were presented with the opportunity as well as ten minutes of boredom. He could find out if Dumbledore had said anything of importance from people in the halls if need be, and he wondered if he may have the opportunity to meet up with his friends - how long could they possibly spend with a room of dead people? - if only to cuss Harry out further.
So he wandered up the dimly lit hallway, passed angry paintings that clearly hadn't forgotten his face. He could hear every creak of his automail, every loud step of his combat boots, every creak of the floor, until he came near enough to the party for it to invade the silence. Harry, Ron and Hermione left the room as he passed by, as though they were running on a pre-planned schedule, and Ron walked right into him. Je jumped back straight away and waved his spindly hands in apology.
They talked as they traversed the halls, Hermione trying her best to keep the conversation as civil as she could possibly managed. It was working better than she had expected.
Then Ron froze and Hermione observed him apprehensively watching a line of wandering spiders. She almost giggled at how deeply irrational his fear was but then caught Harry's image in her periphery. He was as stationary as Ron, eyes glassy, and she couldn't comprehend why. For she couldn't hear the sinister whispered growl that grew in volume with every repetition of that one chilling word that it chorused.
"Kill, kill, kill"
He unfroze as though he were a screen that been taken off of pause and went running around the corner with a sudden burst of desperation. Ed followed without hesitation - showing the same baffling desperation - and Hermione hung back for a moment, mystified. She saw Ron's dismay as the spiders trooped on in the same direction as his friends. He shuddered and followed after her.
They soon came to a pause once again as the spotted the beloved cat of the caretaker and a note.
The cat dangled as though dead and the note consumed the wall, red and dripping as though written in blood.
Enemies of the heir, beware.
