Harry's POV. Pre-series, set not long before he escapes from DuMorne. And I know this isn't how they met, but I liked this idea.

One more bonus story and then I'll start in on Hauntober Returns.

"How was detention?" Elaine asked as I threw my backpack on her bed and flopped down with a sigh. She didn't look up from her homework, seated at the desk, furiously scribbling.

"She hit me with the Bart Simpson."

"Writing lines?"

"They are laughing at me, not laughing with me," I recited, shaking out the cramp in my wrist. "What's your report on?"

"Mount Vesuvius," Elaine answered, reaching for another sheet of notebook paper. She had notes, and an outline and Xeroxed copies from a library book. She had finished two pages already and was starting on her third, grinning smugly at me. Advanced Placement World History was the only class we shared this semester, and she had turned it into a competition. Naturally.

"Well, hurry up," I said, kicking her chair. "The carnival is in town and it's the last night."

"You know Justin won't let us go," she said without looking up. "What's your report about?"

"The Battle of Hastings," I sat up and tipped the contents of my bag onto the floor, reaching for a pen and a notebook. "He's not here, is he? I need an encyclopedia."

She shook her head, swearing softly when her pencil broke. "No, he's not back yet."

"Great," I said, bouncing to my feet. Even if he was gone, I still snuck down the hallway, past his room. Old habits. I slid down the bannister into the living room and landed on the rug, almost silently. It was a few more steps through the downstairs hall to the basement door, hidden behind a wall hanging.

We weren't allowed in without supervision but the lock opened pretty easy with a library card. Justin didn't bother with extra wards on the basement. The only people who knew about it were Elaine and me, and he thought we were too afraid to go exploring.

"Flickum bicus." I waved a hand at the darkness and a few candles flickered to life.

The large finished basement would have made a perfect hangout spot, if it had an air-hockey table and some bean bag chairs. Instead it was full of heavy shelves of dusty old books, potion-making equipment, weird trinkets and spooky magical doodads — it always felt like the pale human skull on the corner of the desk was watching me.

I made a face at it.

It stared blankly back.

I found the row of encyclopedias and pulled the H volume from the shelf. The sound of a car door made me jump, and I dropped my notebook and pen and knocked the skull off the corner of his desk in the process.

"Hey!" said a voice. "Watch it, bub!"

"What the fuck," I said out loud, definitely not jumping like a scaredy cat and backing into a corner.

"Relax, kid," the voice said. "That was the neighbor's station wagon."

"Who's there?" I demanded, looking around the dim study, calling up power, trying for badass intimidating wizard. "Show yourself," I definitely didn't squeak.

"Down here, smart guy," it spoke again. I looked around. At my feet was the skull. Lights glowed orange in the empty eye sockets, blinking. "Hey, it's the apprentice. One of 'em anyway," the skull observed as I picked it up and put it on the corner of the desk. "Not the one I was hoping for, though. Neither cute nor blonde."

"This from a Halloween Express decoration possessed by an asshole," I grumbled, raising the encyclopedia to smash the skull.

"Wait, wait," it said, somehow shaking its head even though it didn't have a neck, or the rest of a skeleton for that matter. "You're Harry, right? The one DuMorne yells at a lot—"

"Yeah, what of it?" I shot back, getting a better grip on the encyclopedia.

"You're funny," the skull laughed. "I like that. What are you researching? I could help you out. You've got H — Haberdashery? Or is it haemoglobin? Hydrogen?"

"The Battle of Hastings—"

"Fought on the fourteenth of October, 1066. The defeat of Harold Godwinson by the Norman forces of William the Conqueror—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said, lowering the heavy book. "What are you, a history teacher's ghost, or something?"

"I'm a spirit of intellect," the skull sniffed, offended. "Also, I was there."

"... Really?"

"Yes. Well—" the spirit hedged. "I was there for some of it."

Blinking at the prospect of defeating Elaine on her home turf, I slid the encyclopedia back into its spot between G and I. I sat down on the rug and picked up my pen and notebook, turning to a blank page. "Alright, say all that again — wait. What's your name?"

"I don't have a name," the skull replied. "DuMorne just calls me Spirit."

"That's stupid."

"He's not the most creative guy," said the skull.

"Tell me about it." I tapped the end of the pen against my nose. "What about Bob?"

"What about him?"

"No, I mean for a name."

"Works for me," said Bob. "Okay, Harry the Apprentice. Get ready to write."

Next up: Fall