Chapter 9 – Boil and Trouble
Scott's mood did not improve over the next few weeks, much to the chagrin of everybody he spoke to. Among the school body, he had managed to create for himself the image of a quick-to-anger fool. His temperament had been so foul as of late that he'd managed to reduce Katie Bell to tears during Charms, had a shouting match with Cormac McLaggen over Quidditch, and caused Ethan and Alex to distance themselves from him slightly. His Potions results had dropped even further than they already had, though for some reason, he never seemed to be able to gather enough energy to spar verbally with Skeres.
Scott had also forgone his morning exercise, which had once been a nearly daily activity (excluding Wednesday mornings). Despite the lack of gruelling physicality, Scott looked tireder than ever. There were visible lines under his eyes, and even he had begun to doze during Binns' classes.
As his presence could hardly be stood by his own friends, Scott found himself spending larger amounts of time with Professor Foley. It was in the resident archaeologist's office that he found himself in now.
Foley handed Scott a mug of steaming tea and sat down behind his desk. Scott stared absent-mindedly into the piping hot liquid, thinking about nothing in particular.
"Scott, can I just apologise for distressing you so much?" Foley said suddenly, breaking Scott out of his reverie.
"Apologise?" he asked disconcertedly. "What for?"
Foley frowned. "For telling you the truth about our economy," he said slowly. "I didn't quite realise how much of an effect it would have on you, and I was perhaps a little bitter, myself."
"Oh," was all Scott answered with.
Truthfully, the horrible reality of the international tomb-pilfering that had been carried out for centuries had only been a secondary concern for some time now. Ever since his Tuesday night detention, he'd been more occupied with the unshakeable misery that came from insecurity in oneself. His Sorting had come back to him in his dreams whenever he had managed to ignore the continuing stinging from the carbuncular growths on his back enough to fall asleep. The Sorting Hat returned in his nightmares, mocking and clever, and whenever he begged for Ravenclaw it simply laughed and said: "Fools don't belong in Ravenclaw. No, you ought to be where you truly belong: GRYFFINDOR!"
"Maybe I can make you feel better," Foley offered. "I think you'll be pleased to hear that we're on track to reach the structure that we discovered. We've had to be careful with the castle's structural integrity, as well as to not breach any rooms the school needs intact, but I think we're past the main hurdles now. We've already surpassed the dungeons - it'll be any day before we find what we're looking for."
Scott was perturbed. "But when you do manage to reach whatever it is, what's to stop the Ministry, or Gringotts, or whoever from taking what they want and turning it into profit?"
"Thankfully, I've got some time before anyone else can get their hands on whatever we discover. If I'm fast enough, we'll be on track to getting what we want out of this project, and maybe more," Foley reassured him.
Scott didn't feel particularly reassured, however. "And if you take too long?" he asked nervously.
Foley's face went slightly grey. "Well... We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he responded evasively.
They lulled into uncomfortable silence. Scott wasn't appeased, though he knew Professor Foley couldn't exactly say anything that would make him feel better about the situation. The pure helplessness that accompanied his thoughts regarding the historical destruction and appropriation of ancient artefacts ranked far higher on Scott's list of subjects that made him feel unhappy, and so he quickly preoccupied himself by stewing in his regular insecurity. He sipped his tea quietly.
"So," Foley interjected, piercing the silence, "Halloween tomorrow. What classes have you got?"
"Thursday's D&E, Herbology, History, Charms and then double Transfiguration," Scott recited.
"History of Magic, huh?" Foley grinned. "Still wanting me to take over the job?"
Scott nodded fervently. He'd already begged Foley to take Binns' subject instead, but he'd refused him every time. "Surely Professor Dumbledore can find a substitute for Defence?" he asked desperately.
Foley smiled sympathetically at his beseeching expression. "Dumbledore was very specific when he said that I was the only man for the job. I think there's been... twenty-four that stayed on for one school year each. I'm not sure I would have taken the job if Dumbledore hadn't shown me the Pensieve. In fact," he added, grinning fondly, "I'm sure that's why he did."
After putting his now empty cup down, Scott crossed his arms and huffed querulously. Foley offered him an understanding expression.
"Scott," Foley said slowly, looking him in the eyes. "You've been struggling with History-"
"I've not been struggling with History, I've been struggling with Binns!" he cut in hotly.
"But," Foley continued, as though there had been no interruption, "I'm sure you can think of a way to make class bearable, even," he chided, as Scott opened his mouth to interject again, "with Professor Binns as your teacher. You know the subject material better than anyone else in your year. Maybe you can find a way to use that to your advantage?"
Scott didn't respond. He was too busy trying to think of what Professor Foley could mean, but before he could ask, Foley glanced at the clock on the wall.
"Ah, looks like it's almost seven. You'd better run off to your detention. I wouldn't want to make Severus any less fond of me than he already is," Foley said, standing. Scott followed suit dispiritedly.
They headed over to the door, where Foley stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Scott," he said seriously. "You're a brilliant young man. I'd hate to see you give up on something you really care about."
Scott nodded.
"You can't let people or things keep you from doing what you want to do, or what you need to do," he continued passionately. "Maybe it seems hard, but from the time I've known you, I reckon you could find a way. That sphinx you told me about?" He laughed. "And every teacher I've asked has said that you're one of their best, if not the best, students they've had the pleasure of teaching."
Scott smiled tremulously. He had the bizarre urge to hug the man, which sat very oddly with him, as he rarely even hugged his own father. Foley took his hand from his shoulder and gave him a firm reassuring pat on the back. At once, Scott doubled over in agony. He couldn't help but cry out as he felt a few furuncles burst.
Foley stared at him with concern. "Scott? Are you alright?"
Through blurred vision, Scott looked up at him. He tried to open his mouth to reply with an affirmative, but all he managed was a stream of vomit.
Madam Pomfrey's reaction to the gangrenous infection that had spread across Scott's back was one to behold. She had shrieked in disbelief when he told her that he'd been exposed to the Bubotuber pus exactly three weeks prior. She had informed him that he'd be staying the night, detention or not. When asked why he hadn't come to see her sooner he'd simply shrugged, to which she had shaken her head exasperatedly and headed for a cabinet of elixirs, muttering about masculinity.
Scott felt extremely humiliated, as he had expected to be, though he felt slightly thankful that he'd miss his detention. He and Skeres barely spoke a word to one another these days – they'd seemed to both come to the conclusion that they both acted irrationally around one another, and decided that the best way to avoid doing idiotic things that they'd simply ignore one another. Predictably, this made detentions and Potions class a bizarre experience for the both of them - they did them entirely together.
The determined avoidance of their issues with one another had led to an unsettling degree of tension - thick enough to have to wade through. Scott rather thought that Snape got a sick sort of pleasure at their mutual dislike for one another, as he often tried to inflame their rivalry by making snide comments about one dragging the other's efficacy down. Scott, of course, was normally on the receiving end of this abuse. He'd been called as many synonyms for 'moron' as there were under the sun at this point, and it was seriously grating on his nerves.
Nevertheless, his excuse for missing the delightful three hour activity Snape had set for them tonight – pickling frog brains and hearts – came with a few detractors. He'd not visited the hospital wing of the castle after receiving his injury because he'd not wanted to look like an idiot. As far as he was concerned, it was her fault that he'd ended up here on the Friday her cauldron had exploded, and her putting him back in a similar incident only a few days later would have severely damaged his image – to himself and to everybody else. He simply couldn't have it. So he'd suffered through the boils. As difficult as it was to sit in a chair, lie down, or walk too quickly, that was nothing compared to how he'd feel if he admitted defeat. But now, here he was, worse than ever in every way.
Halloween morning arrived with a golden sunrise. Madam Pomfrey insisted that he remained in bed for the rest of the day, despite his protestations that he felt much better. She provided him some breakfast and swept away to her office. He lay there on his stomach, chewing at his toast, and listening intently for Madam Pomfrey. His back was heavily bandaged and smeared with thick green cream, which relieved all of the pain that he might have otherwise felt. He knew that the infection hadn't entirely subsided, but as long as he kept the cream and bandages on, he should be in the clear.
Quietly, he slipped off the hospital bed and grabbed his freshly ironed robes, pulling them on. He made sure his wand was in his pocket before tip-toeing over to the double doors that led out of the ward. The doors clunked dully as he tried to open them - Pomfrey, it seemed, had locked them. He pulled out his wand and jabbed the keyhole of the door.
"Alohomora," he whispered.
The lock clicked, and he pushed the door open. He'd discovered the Unlocking Charm upon reading about the Jacobean thief, Eldon Elsrickle, whose plundering had led to the loss of many ancient artefacts. He hadn't realised it would come into use so quickly - before he could even impress Professor Flitwick. He sneaked out of the ward and made his way up to Ravenclaw Tower, where he grabbed his bag and headed down to Herbology.
He arrived in Greenhouse One to see the class already gathered around a table of metal cans. Professor Sprout, a squat woman in dirty patched robes, glanced up as he arrived.
"Ah, Carter, excellent," she greeted.
"Sorry I'm late, Professor."
"Not a problem, Carter, we were only just starting," she said graciously.
He stood beside Alex, who was beside Ethan. She glanced up at him, looking like she was bursting to speak to him.
"Not yet," Scott whispered to her, nodding at Sprout.
"Now, in the field of Herbology," Sprout was saying, "certain pruning measures can be necessary. Weeds and other growths can severely damage gardens and plants, and in order to deal with these blighters, we use Herbicide. Also, if some of your plants are being particularly uncooperative, you can threaten them with the stuff, too. Works remarkably well on Mandrakes, wouldn't you know it, but never mind that now.
"Now, I believe you've all brewed Herbicide in Potions, so you know how to make it. But using it is another thing entirely. The cans that you have in front of you are filled with Herbicide. I want you all to get into groups of four, and then you'll take a can per group. Then, proceed to the edges of the greenhouse, and I'll give you your next step."
They all did so, standing in front of the plants that lined the walls of the greenhouse. Scott had partnered with Alex, Ethan, and Eloise Midgen of Hufflepuff. Midgen was a quiet girl, who was met in equal silence by Ethan, who hadn't quite gotten over his ridiculous behaviour regarding girls despite his friendship with Alex.
Once they busied themselves with sprinkling Herbicide over specific areas of the plants they were tending to, Alex began speaking.
"Scott, what the hell is going on? You weren't at breakfast or Essaycraft, and Skeres was going on about the hospital wing or something. What happened in detention last night?"
"I didn't go to detention because I was in the hospital wing having my back uninfected, but that's not important right now," he muttered.
"How is that possibly unimportant?" she whispered agitatedly.
"I just want to apologise," he continued, ignoring her question. "I've been acting ridiculous for weeks now, and it's because I've been angry."
"Really? We had no idea!" she remarked archly. Ethan snorted.
"I've been angry because I'm not as good as I should be," he pressed on. "But that doesn't mean I should take it out on you, or on anyone else. I'm sorry, and I'll try to be better."
Alex and Ethan both looked at him. They both wore near-identical expressions of pity and sympathy, to which Scott just barely held off rolling his eyes at.
"That's okay, Scott," Ethan piped up at once. "You were upset, and we didn't bother to find out why."
"No, that's not- " Scott began.
"And you've apologised, too, so we forgive you- " Alex cut in.
"Would you stop? Please?" Scott almost yelled. Eloise Midgen glanced nervously over at Professor Sprout as she dripped Herbicide over a bioluminescent red weed.
His friends blinked at him. "But it's true, we really don't mind," Alex assured him.
"But it's not okay," Scott said tiredly. "I acted like a prat because I felt like one. And I ended up with my whole back infected because of it."
They didn't seem to have anything to say to this admission, and so occupied the silence with the uprooting of weeds too weakened to clamp down around their gloved hands.
"Er, about that back infection..." Alex finally asked. "What exactly is that all about?"
He told them about his detention with Skeres, and how she'd been provoked into retaliating. He also admitted the truth about the confrontation he'd chalked up to Peeves' interference, and that he'd pretended to be unhurt for weeks and weeks. When he'd finished, the lesson was nearing its end. Alex was watching him with a look that he didn't much like.
"Let me guess," he sighed, without too much heat in his voice, "you're going to call me a hypocrite?"
Alex had the grace to look abashed, but continued all the same. "It's just... you were the one urging me to come out and tell Ethan before it was too late, y'know, get things over and done with? I thought you might've learned from where I screwed up."
"That was my fault, anyway," Ethan mumbled quietly.
Scott didn't really have an answer for her. He'd considered the question long before she'd even asked it, last night in the hospital wing. He'd thought he was ingenious for coming up with such good wisdom for his friend, but when it had come to applying it himself, he'd failed miserably. The only solution he'd arrived at was to simply be better in the future, which was vague and unhelpful.
"One thing that I'd like to know," Ethan eventually intoned, "is what the infection is like. Bubotuber pus can do interesting things if left untreated. The bacteria should have mutated a culture of fascinating growths under the skin. Did you get a good look?"
Eloise Midgen looked positively green.
The bell chimed to signal morning break and they were dismissed by Professor Sprout. They found a spot in the courtyard, which had been decorated with Halloween decorations. A jack-o-lantern emanated dark organ music, which Scott's walkman accompanied with the sound of gothic rock.
"I've had an idea for History of Magic," Scott announced suddenly. "To make it more bearable. For all of us."
His friends looked at him curiously.
"Some people get by
With a little understanding
Some people get by
With a whole lot more..."
"What could possibly make Binns not boring?" Ethan asked sceptically.
"I don't know
Why you gotta be so undemanding..."
"Well, I don't know for sure if everyone won't be bored..." Scott admitted. "But if he wasn't..."
"One thing I know
I want more!"
"If he wasn't bored?" Alex questioned over the rising music. The combined organ, percussion, and electric guitar had caused a few other denizens of the courtyard to glance over.
"You'll see," Scott said mysteriously.
"I want more!"
As they filed into the History of Magic classroom, Scott made sure that he sat at the desk in the very middle of the room. He didn't want to be too close, nor too far. When Binns emerged from the blackboard in his usual disaffected manner, Scott prepared himself. He didn't need any notes open, nor a quill, or any ink. What he had was what he knew.
He waited for the class to drudge along, barely keeping up in Binns' dull wake. When enough of them were suitably bored, and Binns was a fair way into his monologue, Scott's hand suddenly rose.
Binns continued to drone on. Scott wouldn't have been surprised if he had entirely forgotten that he had a class before him at all. The rest of the cohort, however, had begun to notice Scott's hand. They really shouldn't have been surprised – Scott had raised his hand for every subject, even Potions on occasion. He'd never – however – raised his hand during a class with Binns. He'd never bothered to pay attention enough to feel the need, and in the earlier classes he'd attended he'd already known everything Binns had spoken about.
Scott waited patiently, his arm unwaveringly held firm. After a full minute, Binns' attention was finally caught by the lone appendage; a buoy in a sea of uninterested faces. He gazed at Scott amazedly, as though he'd never before seen a child in his unlife.
"Yes, Cartwright?" Binns wheezed.
"Would you be able to explain the outcome of the duel between Emeric and Egbert for me?" Scott asked curiously. "It's just that I read that at the time Egbert was quoted as saying: "Swá ic copiecopiġe sé Ƿand orgilde Ealdorlegu" which I think translates to "So I purloin the Wand of Destiny." Is it normally held by historians that this may have been a genuine claim by Egbert, or is it the ravings of a megalomaniac?"
Binns blinked several times. The rest of the class seemed quite astonished, especially at the Anglo-Saxon that he'd quoted perfectly.
"Well," Binns said, coming back to himself (though not corporeally), "historians have long been divided over whether or not such an artefact found its way into the hands of Emeric the Evil in the first place. Most history books skim over that detail, as most sources on the subject only arose decades after both wizard's deaths, and primarily in fanciful prose from the era. But to discard Egbert's assertion that he held what was believed to be the so-called 'Wand of Destiny' based on the idea that he was, as you say, a megalomaniac, would feel disingenuous at best."
As he'd hoped, the class' interest had been piqued. Most of them were watching the exchange curiously, some of them jotting down some of the points Binns had just made. But Scott knew that the engagement wouldn't last long - he needed to keep a momentum going, while still making sure important information was being conveyed.
"So if the Wand of Destiny really did exist, at least in the late twelfth century, would it maybe relate to how Emeric managed to gain an air force of six Welsh Greens? I think most dragonologists agree that the Common Welsh Green would take six years to make docile enough to even approach safely, and yet Emeric was said to have personally ridden the things after a training of four measly years?" He saw Ethan raise his eyebrows. No doubt he'd guaranteed his friend's interest with this revelation.
"Would a powerful wand explain that fact away," he asked, continuing his spiel, "or is there some dark magic that Emeric had that would make his Evil nickname an understatement?"
Scott continued like this for the remainder of the class, watching out of the corner of his eye as his classmates diligently took notes on the more important feats and battles that he discussed with Binns. Binns seemed somewhat confused by the endless stream of questions and ideas put forward by Scott, though each time he denied, or allowed certain theories. Scott made sure that none of the questions that he asked were too outrageous or off-topic, so as not to discourage Binns from continuing their back-and-forth.
By the end of the class, Binns had actually managed to concisely explain several events vital to understanding Emeric's Uprising. By engaging the ghost, Scott had circumvented Binns' usual drone and replaced it with one of polite arrest. Scott left the classroom feeling substantially happier than he had earlier that morning. As the class filed out into the corridor, Ed Carmichael accosted him.
"So how'd you do it?" the pudgy boy demanded. "Some Wit-Sharpening Potion? A Remembering Spell?"
"What?" asked Scott, nonplussed.
"Because Carter, listen, if you let me know how you're getting your stuff, I can cut you in on-"
"What are you on about?" Scott implored him.
"Well, you can't just have all that bouncing 'round your head, right?" Carmichael reasoned. "All that History rubbish, I mean, who has time for it with Binns ranting on?"
"The thing is, Eddie," Alex answered fondly, "Scott does have time for it, always."
They had Charms class next, where Professor Flitwick informed them that today they would finally begin casting the Levitation Charm that they'd been studying ever since they'd moved on from Wand-Lighting. The classroom was filled with a cacophony of voices crying "Wingardium Leviosa!" with varying levels of success. Predictably, Scott's feather found its way into the air first. Flitwick finished awarding him house points, a crackling pop emanated from Ethan's wand and his own feather suddenly caught fire.
"I just wish I knew why!" Ethan pouted later, on their way to lunch. They were all still uncertain as to why he seemed to have such a severe block in Charms. He didn't struggle nearly as much in any other subject, and even exceeded Scott in some.
"You just need practice," Alex repeated for the nth time. She had managed to levitate her own feather with this outlook, though it had taken several attempts.
"What do you do to get your Charms to work, Scott?" Ethan beseeched.
Scott thought on the question. He thought it must have something to do with how he visualised the spells. He'd read that a mixture of lateral and literal conceptualisation could be very useful in most spell models. He utilised problem-solving by weighing different approaches against one another, and realising the most effective solution from that. He supposed that he was better at applying lateral thinking than Ethan, which was why he was usually the one to answer most riddles to enter the Ravenclaw common room. It probably helped that he was very precise in his wand-movement. He had far better hand-eye-coordination than Ethan, who, despite his comically huge glasses, still failed in that regard.
He was about to explain his thinking to Ethan when Alex suddenly shot up in height by nearly a foot. He cursed, glancing down at his robes which were now too small for his now-male body. This phenomenon wasn't common during the day, but it had occurred at least once per week.
"If you're quick, you could run up to our dorm and throw your other robes on before lunch finishes," Scott reminded him.
"No need," he replied, jiggling his bag. "I remembered to bring my replacements today. I'll see you in a minute." He dashed off for the closest bathroom as Professor McGonagall approached.
"There's no need to run, Wroxton!" she called as the blond boy sped out of sight. She turned to face Scott, a severe expression on her face. "Carter, I understand Madam Pomfrey is looking for you. She expects you back in the hospital wing so she can finish her job."
"Er, yes, Professor McGonagall," Scott mumbled shamefacedly. "I'll head there now."
"See that you do, Carter," she said sternly, and she strode off.
Scott looked apologetically to Ethan. "Er, I'll meet you later if Pomfrey doesn't murder me."
Ethan seemed to be contemplating whether to eat food or potentially see the after effects of severe Bubo infection, but in the end decided on lunch.
Ethan made his way into the Great Hall alone, heading for the Ravenclaw table between Slytherin and Gryffindor. From behind him he heard Skeres and Pellon talking, not bothering to keep their voices down.
"Frog-boy's all alone, where do you suppose the Mudblood's run off to?" Skeres was saying.
"Probably realised hanging about with other weirdos was a bad idea," Pellon said loudly.
Skeres' distinct cackle accompanied Ethan as he sat at the long table and moodily piled Yorkshire pudding onto a plate. Cyril let out a croak from within his robes as the scent of food reached him. Obediently, he piled a large helping of sausages down his front. He glanced up to see a few girls staring at him with expressions of mixed revulsion.
"Er," he said, his face going hot, "j-just saving s-some for later!" He laughed, though the same was high-pitched and hysterical to his ears.
"Croaker," Sophie Fawcett directed at him, "are you aware that you... croak?"
Ethan didn't have a response to this. He tried to keep Cyril hidden away in his robes or dorm most of them time, so people rarely caught a glimpse of the juvenile Clabbert. His toad excuse seemed to work if they did, as they never got too much of a look before he was quickly stuffing him away. He hadn't wanted others to know about Cyril because he didn't think he'd be an approved pet at Hogwarts. He knew exceptions were occasionally made – he'd seen a red-headed fourth-year carrying a pet rat once – but Clabberts weren't exactly in the same ballpark as a domestic animal.
Ethan realised that he'd been staring at Sophie for a little too long, and hastened to reply. All that emerged was another croak, this one actually from him, and entirely involuntary. The girls gathered about giggling at his failed attempt at a response, which luckily disguised the loud munching sounds coming from his robes.
When Alex and Scott arrived, they thankfully sat with him, and he put his embarrassment out of mind. He hardly needed to concern them with yet more of his personal troubles. They were already trying to help him in Charms; he didn't think they'd have any advice on how to not make people think you're a weirdo.
The rest of the day passed peacefully, with the exception of Peeves the poltergeist's antics. Halloween, it seemed, made the amortal entity more mischievous than ever. Scott and his friends were accosted as they walked up to the common room after Transfiguration.
"Peeves, open the door!" Scott yelled, pushing his weight against the aforementioned door. They were in a corridor in the west wing of the castle.
"But it's All Hallows' Eve, ickle firsties!" the poltergeist cackled. "Say Trick or Treat, and we'll see if you can get through!"
"This is ridiculous," Scott muttered, raising his wand. "Alohomora!"
The spell had no effect.
Peeves gave another cackle. "You won't get through with that, silly sod! It's not locked!"
The corridor had started to fill up with more students now. The other Ravenclaws had arrived from downstairs.
"Fine!" Alex shouted. "Trick or Treat!"
"Hmm..." Peeves pretended to think. "Trick!"
A clattering sound emanated from behind the door, and suddenly dozens of spiders flooded out from underneath it. Peeves laughed louder than ever as they frantically – with the exception of Ethan – danced around in a panicked fashion, trying to keep the arachnids from climbing up their trouser legs. Ethan was scooping up the spiders and putting them in his bag. Several of the girls who'd arrived shrieked, and Marcus Belby cried out in terror, tripping over in his haste to escape.
"Arania Exime!" called a deeper voice.
A light blasted the spiders aside, where they shrivelled up on their backs. Robert Hilliard strode forward to reach the door.
"Peeves, open this door at once, or I'll do it myself!" he yelled furiously.
"Oooh, is that a big scary prefect?" the poltergeist jeered. "Peeves is done for now!" He cackled again.
"Sequitur Inimicum!"
A small ball of orange light was expelled from Robert's wand, which slipped itself through the door's keyhole. A moment later, an echoing bang erupted opposite the door and Peeves screeched furiously. They could hear him cursing loudly as he zoomed away.
"Try the door now," suggested Robert.
Scott did so, and the door opened for him. "Thanks, Robert!" he said to the prefect.
"Strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to use magic in the corridors," he pointed out. "But Peeves needs it sometimes, today especially. He's blocked off the broom shed as well. Poor Gryffindors just found out, and I don't know if they can deal with many more obstacles to their chances next week."
The Gryffindor Quidditch team were scheduled to play against Slytherin in early November, and most were of the opinion that their chances of winning were as good as zero. From what Scott had heard, Slytherin were the best team at Hogwarts; they were mostly undefeated for years now. Their Quidditch successes were what won them both the Quidditch and House Cups so often, and many were rooting for another team to win over Slytherin in anything.
A few hours later, they all gathered in the Great Hall again for the Halloween feast. The Hall was decorated with thousands of live bats that swept over their heads, screeching loudly. At times Scott wondered whether he was really hearing Skeres laughing from the Slytherin table, but a glance told him that she was too preoccupied with her dinner.
Floating jack-o'-lanterns accompanied the usual hovering candles, and a haunted organ sat up next to the staff table, where it piped ominous tunes at them. Several ghosts glided in and out of the Hall, occasionally trying to scare unsuspecting students. The food was a mixture of savoury and sweet, with mince pies, baked potatoes, roast pheasant, and steak-and-kidney pudding preceding a veritable banquet of colourful sweets and desserts that managed to outstrip anything seen at the start-of-term feast. Lemon meringue, Scottish Cranachan, and strawberry tart met cauldron cakes, clumps of candyfloss, and an enormous basin of Every Flavour Beans. Scott made sure that he'd eaten his fill of vegetables before dessert began, and by the time that the remaining food vanished from the golden plates and bowls, he felt as though he'd eaten enough to explode.
Professor Dumbledore stood, waving merrily for quiet. The room went silent as they waited for him to speak.
"Well, I think it safe to say that you are all extraordinarily full to bursting with food and drink. Perhaps we ought to leave our feast off here?" he called, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Personally, I find that I benefit from a nice sleep following so much food, and you do all have classes tomorrow."
The Hall was cacophonous in its refutations. Cries of 'Show! Show! Show!' went up on all tables, and students began banging their fists on the wood. A few ghosts and portraits joined in on the chanting, though Professor Foley was the only teacher.
"A show?" Dumbledore asked with feigned surprise, barely bothering to hide a smile. "Well, I suppose there's something we could come up with. Perhaps we teachers shall demonstrate a performance of synchronised trapeze acts?" The students all laughed uproariously, whilst the teachers looked stone-faced. "Maybe we could host a Quidditch match in the Great Hall?" Several members of the school's house teams agreed loudly. "Ah, but these would require more preparation, I'm afraid. We'll save them for next year, shall we?" Everyone cheered.
"I suppose that leaves just one last possible act, then," Dumbledore announced. "Could you please welcome to Hogwarts School; singing sensation: Lorcan d'Eath!"
Scott's jaw dropped. All at once, the countless bats that filled the Hall swarmed downward, sweeping into a great black clump. They gathered before the staff table, where a great platform had suddenly materialised. The bats continued to swarm in their thousands, the screeching reaching deafening levels. Then, a sonorous note characteristic of an electric guitar blasted from within the bat swarm, and they separated, flying in haphazard directions. As they returned to the air, a new figure was revealed standing on the platform, guitar hovering beside him.
The man was tall and deathly pale, which contrasted heavily with his black cloak. The Hall exploded with screams of excitement. Scott noticed that even Declan Haworth had stood, a look of rapturous awe donning his features. Many girls and a few boys had surged forward as d'Eath arrived, but were blocked from the platform by an invisible barrier. Suddenly, the haunted pipe organ began again, as several other enchanted instruments on the stage with the singer began to play on their own.
The music that issued forth was a melody of dark romanticism. Lorcan d'Eath, Scott knew, was a part-vampire singer, who'd found great success among adolescent girls. He quite liked the part-vampire's music, too - it reminded him of several Muggle bands that had started in Britain, like The Cure.
"Farewell, Sanguinares!" d'Eath cried dramatically after about half an hour of music. He raised his arms as though being crucified, drawing out his long cloak. The bats that had seemingly carried him in once again swept down from above, enclosing him in their mass. They then flitted away, leaving nothing where the part-vampire had once stood. The platform and instruments vanished, and the students all returned to their seats after finishing their chorus of clapping.
Dumbledore stood again. "Well, that was excellent," he declared. "Thank you to the fantastic Lorcan d'Eath, and to the Board of Governors for providing the funding for such an extravagance. We rather thought you could all do with a treat this year. But I think we've all had quite enough excitement for the evening. You ought to all head off to your common rooms now!"
They were still discussing the surprise appearance of the artist when they reached the Ravenclaw common room. Alex had announced that he was in love, and Scott had passionately explained the musical techniques that d'Eath had utilised in the song 'Your Love Leaks from You'. Ethan had wanted to discuss how exactly a part-vampire's powers related to a full-blooded creature of the night, but was constantly drowned out by the girls' loud giggling. Eventually, they all left the common room and headed for bed.
Ethan awoke to darkness. He wasn't sure why he'd been jarred from his sleep, which had involved a dream about a Graphorn, a goblin, and a fistful of Galleons. He glanced over to see if Cyril was the perpetrator, but saw that he hadn't made a sound. The Clabbert was, however, awake, and he looked terrified. The red pustule on his head pulsed with an ominous glow as he stared at the blue curtains.
For some odd reason, Ethan didn't much feel like asking what was wrong - he didn't feel like speaking at all. Slowly, against his better judgement, he drew his bed curtain aside. The room was dark and cold, and utterly silent. Nothing moved, but he felt as though there was something there regardless. He could barely see through the oppressive darkness, and his lack of glasses didn't help.
A shadow on the wall seemed to shift, and Ethan held his breath. He hadn't been afraid of the dark for years, but now his fear seemed to come back in full force. He wasn't sure why he felt as he did, but it was as though he sensed something dark in the room with him. He could just make out the curtain to Declan Haworth's bed shift aside, and then return to normal. The edgy feeling that had pervaded the room subsided then, and Ethan lay back in his bed, his heart hammering against his chest. What the hell had that been?