Disclaimer: Oh my gosh! I've never done one for TOPC before! Coolio! So, I don't own ANYTHING. Except the ghost, who is TOTALLY KICK-A$$.
Author's Note: Okay, I begin this chapter with a note-passing sequence, and even though I give clues to everybody's identity, here's who it is: Harry, Hermione, Ron. And all of them use underlines to emphasize their points.
So read.
And review.
Chapter Nineteen: The Revenge of the Ghost
Are you packed?
Harry, you know she'll catch us! McGonagall isn't as stupid as you think she is.
So . . . are you packed?
No. You?
No.
Harry!
Take a chill pill, Hermione.
Don't get me started on you, Ronald! Honestly! We're leaving in three days for Christmas vacation, and you haven't gotten a single piece of your essay done. It is due the Monday we come back, you know.
We have all of vacation.
What do you mean, WE? Harry, you haven't . . .
Well, maybe I haven't started mine yet either.
Really! I should have known you two couldn't be trusted. I should have badgered you more often.
When it comes to dark wizards, we're entirely trustable.
Too bad that doesn't work the rest of the time!
Yeah, and what is it with this badgering stuff? Your badgering level is just fine right now.
My badgering level?
Hermione, you've always known that Ron doesn't know proper English like you do.
Even so . . . badgering level?
You should really try to be a bit more sympathetic, you know – seeing as of our joint plight and all.
What plight?
Ron, shut up.
WHAT PLIGHT.
Our plight.
RON.
As in . . . Harry and my plight.
Hah. A likely story.
Can I please tell her?
No, you idiot. You can't. Don't worry, it's a pleasant surprise. We just promised we wouldn't tell you. For good reason, I now see.
If it's good, why did Ron call it a plight?
Ron isn't very fond of our surprise.
And you think I will?
It's not like you and I agree on anything.
Tell me what this plight of ours is, or I won't give you the answers to the questions we're supposed to be answering right now.
She drives a hard bargain.
Hermione, we almost swore a blood oath not to tell you, honest to God.
'Almost' doesn't mean you actually did.
And you'll be happy. We promise. Aren't you the type who finds joy in others' misery, or something?
Ron, that was not the way to go about doing this.
What did I say?
You two are despicable.
So . . . how about those answers?
The Great Hall of Lord Voldemort was quickly becoming infamous. As Wormtail stumbled his way down the center of it, to the imposing figure languorously, and a little oxymoronically, sprawled on the dais, he thought of this. To his left and right were sweeping arches that, under different circumstances, might have been seen as majestic.
But buried inside the walls were the bones of those unlucky few who had been sacrificed so the Great Hall would be properly warded. There had been blood in the mortar as well, and the grey stone was lined in a dusty brown. Torches, their flames shut in small houses of smoky glass and black iron, hung above each archway. Underneath the torches were pairs of thick, tall wooden doors, gated with iron and magic, each bolted securely. The wall towards which Wormtail was hobbling had no doors, only a single, larger archway that extended to the ceiling, to end in a pointed arch. Behind Wormtail, a final, even larger, pair of wooden doors was thrown open.
The dais was settled under the largest archway, twin torches to its left and right. They flickered, gently, but there was a shadow about Tom Riddle that even the brightest lights wouldn't have been able to extinguish. Other than the dais, the stone floor was devoid of any chair, rug, or stool. Death Eaters and lower minions were expected to stand.
"How are our plans progressing?" inquired Tom Riddle silkily, stroking the smooth arm of his chair with seeming nonchalance. The man known as Lord Voldemort was well aware that his minions thought of it as a throne, but he knew better. To have a throne, one needed power. Once he had a pint of the Potter brat's blood to pour over it . . . then it would become his throne.
For the moment, however, it was simply a chair.
"Wormtail?"
Peter Pettigrew jumped a few centimeters off the ground, and immediately began groveling. He recognized the impatient tone in his master's voice, implying that someone was going to be hurting soon.
"O, our, our plans?" stuttered Wormtail, his jaw shaking perceptively. Voldemort, used to having to deal with the absolutely ineffective Peter Pettigrew, didn't even deign to sigh. He did, however, allow himself the small pleasure of meeting Wormtail's eyes, and seeing the small man squirm.
"Yes, you imbecile," said Voldemort, his voice cold but detached. "Our plans."
"Tthhthey are progressing as, as you ininstructed," replied Wormtail quickly. He swallowed hard. Voldemort hadn't tortured anyone in a few days, and was most likely looking for a candidate.
"As I instructed, you say?" asked his master, drawing small bursts of joy from Wormtail's tormented expression.
"Yes, master," mumbled Wormtail.
"And the newest Potter brat?" continued Voldemort, returned to stroke the smooth wood of his chair. "Is she being watched?"
"Oof course," assured Wormtail, bobbing his head rapidly in assent. He swallowed again, wondering if the chicken he'd had for lunch would be his last meal, and how he'd rather it have been something more pleasant, such as veal marsala.
"Then get out," replied Voldemort with no real conviction, and Wormtail scrambled to comply, backing away quickly. "Close the doors," he added, knowing that his minion would forget unless reminded. Wormtail had, in fact, run out of usefulness and should have been disposed of a long time ago. All the same, the one thing Voldemort had learned during his decades-long battle against the Potter family was that loyalty should not be underestimated.
The doors were shut, clumsily and loud enough that Wormtail would have to be punished for it. Voldemort, restless, stood and stalked off the dais. It was unusual for him to be rattled this far into a scheme, but there was an air of finality about this one. His final, for when – not if – it succeeded, he would have swept the board clean. No Potters, no Dumbledore, no more of that infuriating Weasley clan that bred like rabbits on Muggle steroids.
It was, perhaps, just enough to make a man nostalgic. In an unfamiliar move, Voldemort chuckled to himself. He was still doing so, standing in the center of the Great Hall, when he heard it.
Tommy.
Voldemort hissed, and swiveled the right, the chuckle dead. The sickening endearment had come from his right, and yet there was no one there. He moved forward, looking at the next archway, and found the wooden doors wide open. A single source of light, a spare iron lantern, most likely, shed illumination of a sliver of stone a few meters down the corridor. It was held so that its bearer could not be seen.
"Who's there?" he demanded, and when there was no answer could feel his fury building. Years of power had made him used to his questions being answered immediately. Silence descended for a few moments, and then there was another playful, Tommy, and the lantern swung in circles to entice him.
Rage outweighed caution, and Voldemort stalked under the archway into the corridor. It was his castle, and whoever the hell was taunting him like this needed to be taught who was master. "Who's the hell are you?" he almost yelled, and this time there was no Tommy. Instead, the wooden doors slammed shut behind him.
Furious, Voldemort stalked towards the light at a brisk pace. He'd been walking for about thirty meters when his shoes began to make squelching noises. Disgusted, he continued onward, towards the light which had been previously moving. Now it had stopped, maybe ten meters away, and yet it was too dim for him to recognize anything.
With three powerful strides, Voldemort found the light bearer. He realized his mistake a split second too late, and when he turned to leave, hefty iron doors swung shut. Trembling, Voldemort turned to his guide.
Tommy.
The purred voice, hauntingly familiar, would have been enough to recognize her, even if he hadn't seen the hungry eyes. She was a ghost, her clingy dress tattered at the base and the tips of her short sleeves frayed. The lace that had once framed china white skin was no more than mangy threads. One arm was extended outward and up at a forty-degree angle, so the lantern light illuminated not only the chamber but also her face.
Forty years as a ghost hadn't made her dark hair less thick and glorious, but her golden eyes were narrowed and sinister, her brows settled low over them in anger that had mellowed into a thirst for vengeance. A mother-of-pearl comb, one he recognized, held part of her hair off her face, and the golden pendant, another of his gifts, settled at the hollow of her neck.
The room would have been silent for those few evaluating moments if it hadn't been for steady, sticky plops that sounded strangely like rain. She read his face with ease, and her mouth twisted into a smile that he also knew. She moved the lantern to her left, and the light exploded outward, illuminating the octagonal room.
Voldemort's mouth opened for a scream, a demand, a plea – anything but the silence that emerged.
From the highest recesses of the room, fell a steady torrent of sticky, dark drops that slipped down the wall like dew. There were spots in the stone where the drops were caught in the mortar, and gather ominously, before they fell in one singular, sinuous bead of despair.
Blood.
Hello, Tommy.
Voldemort could feel the terror clawing at his throat, and he choked on the combination of fear and helplessness that swallowed him whole. He tried again to speak, but even as he opened his mouth, the words couldn't come. A high, keening note came from the back of his throat and he stifled it. "What do you want?" he asked his voice high and wavering.
Her lips curled cruelly at the corners, and her smile never reached her eyes. The thin streaks of blood like scratches of ink drew themselves down the wall at her back.
What have I ever wanted, Tommy?
"I'm sorry!" he shrieked, clawing at air. "I'm sorry!"
That's just not good enough.
She raised her head back, so her neck was exposed, and the flesh where her pulse should have been throbbed rapidly, grossly distorted, as if there was sometime moving under it. The small lumps traveled upwards from her chest to her neck, combining into a sole bulge that twisted lithely. Her head titled forward again, and blood dripped from her left nostril, a drop poised at the curve of her lip.
What do I want, Tommy?
He didn't respond, but he instinctively knew the answer she wanted. She wanted him dead, and for him to die the same way she had. He had drowned her in the blood of innocents, and now she would do the same to him. In his silence, the bulge in her neck traveled upwards, disappeared at her jaw.
WHAT DO I WANT, TOMMY?
The blood erupted out of her mouth in a hideous display of gore. Her fury and his heightened terror brought him back to himself. Voldemort curled his fingers around the smooth wood of his wand, and, fingers trembling, blasted the doors. They withheld the first blow, but his immediate second set them exploding outwards. He didn't wait for the iron shards to settle before launching himself out of the octagonal room.
The darkened corridor stretched onward into oblivion, and Voldemort whispered a lighting spell to float ahead of him as he staggered into the blackness. He heard her harrowing scream as she realized he had escaped her clutches, and he ran faster.
His uneven steps echoed hollowly, and her shrieks grew louder and louder, until he finally saw the illuminated barred doors. They imploded at his first spell, and he skidded through the wooden splinters into his Great Hall, and she screamed again and again, unable to pass into his warded Hall.
Chest heaving, he took a few steps forward, and then turned to survey her. She was fading quickly now, her screams only echoes. He took some calming breaths, and watched as her voice finally died, and then she too became a mere shadow. Once she was completely gone, the lantern crashed to the floor. It blazed once, brightly enough that he had to shield his eyes, before it was extinguished.
"Hullo, Hermione!" The aforementioned black-haired girl twisted her head to the left to see Ginny leaned against the opened doorframe. There was a large smile scrawled over her face. Hermione, raising an eyebrow, turned from her open bag on the bed.
"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" asked Hermione, hands on her hips. Harry and Ron frequently visited her in the Head Girl dormitory, but she wasn't aware that Ginny even knew where they were. "And how did you get in?"
"I got the ferret on his way out," replied Ginny. "Blind luck I guess." She pushed herself off of the doorframe and walked calmly into the room. "And this unexpected pleasure is because I want to know what you're packing."
Hermione laughed. "Ginny, I've had Christmas at the Burrow before. I know how cold it can get." She folded a bulky cable-knit jumper and laid it in her suitcase to emphasize her point. "So really, you have nothing to worry about."
It was Ginny's turn to laugh. She gently nudged Hermione aside, and began to dig through Hermione's suitcase. Sniffing, she tossed the cable-knit jumper back into Hermione's bureau.
"Ginny!" shrieked Hermione, uncertain whether to lunge for the jumper or the redhead. "Ah! What do you think you're doing!"
"Please," snorted Ginny, ditching a particularly ugly brown shirt. "As if you don't know."
"Know what?" demanded Hermione, finally deciding to go for the jumper. She grabbed it out of the bureau and attempted to stuff it back in, only to be thwarted in her efforts. "Ginny, you know how cold it gets at the Burrow! I'll need that jumper!"
"You know what I'm talking about," continued Ginny cryptically. She found the white cashmere pullover jumper that Hermione had gotten from her parents . . . her adoptive parents . . . the Christmas before. "Now, this we keep."
"Ginny," hissed Hermione, clutching the cable-knit jumper to her chest, "if you don't tell me what's going on, someone – probably you – is going to get cursed into oblivion." She bared her teeth menacingly.
"Hermione," laughed Ginny, finally looking at her. She saw Hermione's bared teeth, frowning for a moment, and then her mouth twisted in horror and shock. "Oh my god! They didn't tell you! I'm going to kill them!"
"Who tell me what?" asked Hermione, the anger streaming out of her voice. She stopped baring her teeth, and set the jumper down on the bed. "Ginny, what's going on?"
"Oliver's coming for Christmas!" explained Ginny. "Ron was supposed to tell you, at least according to Mum! And after that capital 'M' Moment the two of you had in Possets, I thought you'd appreciate the help with choosing what to wear! You must've thought I'd gone spare!"
"That did cross my mind at one point, yes," said Hermione, faintly, sinking into her bed. "Christmas?" She blinked. "Oliver?" There was a throbbing sensation beginning over her left eyebrow, prophesying a major headache. "Burrow?" She hadn't thought about him in months – or at least, tried to; there were times at meals when she glance at the Head table and see him looking in her general direction. "Oh, god." Their eyes had always met for a moment before skidding off in other directions.
"So you do fancy him!" exclaimed Ginny happily, pulling Hermione out of her thoughts, and the migraine out of its cave. "I was almost certain!"
"What?"
"Oliver!" said Ginny, grinning. "You fancy him! That look on your face just sealed the deal! Oh, that's wonderful, because I think that he fancies you." She nodded sagely, and then noticed a paid of tweed slacks. "How do these look on you?"
"Fine," replied Hermione. "And what on Earth do you mean, me fancying him? I don't fancy Oliver."
"Of course," giggled Ginny. "And I'm shagging Malfoy."
"Who are you shagging?" demanded someone in the doorway. The girls turned to see Harry and Ron, scowling, standing in the doorway.
"I'm not shagging anyone," snapped Ginny, primly. "And even if I was," she added with a devilish grin, "it wouldn't be any of your business."
"How did you two get in here?" asked Hermione.
"Ferret," they replied easily.
"Why didn't you tell me about Oliver coming to the Burrow for Christmas break?" she demanded, her gaze hardening. The boys shifted from one foot to the other, mumbling and turning pink.
"Well, that was our surprise," muttered Harry, rubbing the back of his neck. "Surprise."
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