A/N: Standard disclaimer; see chapter 1 for details.
Although the Muggle Studies curriculum, now including the topic of proper apparel, had been completely updated, the style chosen by the bride was from decades earlier. Charity Burbage, in a cream-coloured satin gown with a sleek 1930s silhouette, looked absolutely regal as the fabric enhanced her slender form, flowing down to pool on the floor. Her Highness had explained that fashion moved in cycles and that what enhanced a woman's beauty and confidence was more important than slavish adherence to the latest fads.
Hermione let the familiar age-old words fill her with a sense of peace and hoped that the muggleborn and -raised students would be as attentive to the postliminary wizarding ceremony as their pureblood classmates were to this one. However, that was several hours in the future, and there was a wedding breakfast and dance to savour beforehand. (Taking into account everything else that had to be learned to carry the day through successfully, only one totally muggle dance would be included; the others would be those performed in both worlds.)
"I'm warning you, Padfoot," Remus stated as he straightened his friend's tie, "if you set one paw wrong, Lady Brainard has ordered me to drag you out of there, conscious or not."
"Aw, Hermione wouldn't say that," Sirius whined.
"Yes, she would," his godson spoke behind him. "And the others will help me if Moony doesn't have it in him to discipline you."
"Yeah," Draco added, "she actually wanted to put a shock collar on you, but Mum and Aunt Andi said that activating it would cause unseemly behaviour."
"You mean he'd piss on the floor when the electricity hit him," Neville grinned.
"You boys are so stuffy," the head of House Black retorted.
"No, they're just more mature than you," Remus corrected him. "Now behave or I'll conjure a rolled-up newspaper and smack you."
Hermione smiled as Cedric thanked her for the dance then turned away to survey the room for any trouble which might need to be taken care of. Her concentration was broken when her hand was suddenly grasped, and she looked up at Draco's stormy grey eyes. "So, are congratulations in order?"
"What?" She blinked in confusion.
The blond tugged her hand to eye level. "Did Diggory give you this ring?" A delicate circle of gold filagree with a heart embellishment graced her finger.
"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed.
"You had a crush on him last year, didn't you? I suppose he finally noticed you." He muttered in a lower tone, "Took him long enough."
"Honestly, Draco," she sighed, "I don't see why people believe that gossip is a trait of females. And, no, he did not give me this ring. Cedric and I are just friends."
He tilted his head. "Those are code words, aren't they? I'm not an idiot, you know."
"Could have fooled me," she snapped before stalking away, periwinkle skirt flaring.
"Lord Settsburg, I fear you are not attending to our conversation." A gentle smile eased the sting of reminder.
"My apologies, Your Highness. I received word that the latest medical tests have proven that my parents no longer have the necessary control for wand use. In effect, that leaves them defenceless." He shrugged. "And despite Hermione's talks about equality, Dad is taking it harder than Mum."
"Hmm." The two moved faultlessly among the dancers as she pondered the matter. "Would you have considered yourself defenceless when you first arrived at Hogwarts?"
"What?" He almost stumbled. "No, we had much instruction in hand-to-hand combat, as well as blades."
"So the only weapon a wizard may possess is an augmented piece of wood?" she enquired archly.
"If it would not cause an incident, Your Highness, I would kiss you!" he averred.
"My lips, My Lord, may be verboten, but once the music stops you have permission to kiss my hand."
"Consider it done, My Lady."
Gilderoy Lockhart beamed his award-winning smile to everyone in the room as he calculated the power and money which was displayed by the attendees. The Minister of Magic–Oh, Lucius Malfoy had certainly done well for himself; Lockhart had often admired Narcissa's golden tresses. She would have looked to better advantage on his arm, but then, he had a reasonable fear of jealous and irate husbands.
Albus Dumbledore–Well, he had lost a little of his shine, having to submit to evaluations to retain his position at Hogwarts; if the old man had hired him last year, he was sure, between the headmaster's twinkles and his own patented sparkles, that such an unfortunate consequence could have been avoided. And if rumour was correct, Minister Malfoy was conspiring to replace him as the ICW representative, as well as currently giving him fits in his role of Chief Warlock. Hmm, maybe his was not the star upon which to hitch his wagon.
Sirius Black–The godfather of the Boy-Who-Lived. For such an esteemed line he was acting positively common. From what Witch Weekly reported, his best friend was a werewolf–vicious creatures they were–and he even heard the beast was in attendance, although he hadn't spotted him yet; perhaps he could offer some hints on protection for when the monster inevitably attacked him.
But who was that glorious gem with whom Black was dancing? She was certainly the Malfoy woman's equal in pulchritude; too bad that the reprobate had already claimed her. No, hold a moment; his mouth had barely brushed her knuckles, and she waved him away with a smile. Now, he thought triumphantly, I will show her what it is to be courted by a real wizard. But first, let me check on my hair.
Hermione, temper still ruffled by her encounter with Draco, narrowed her eyes at the pompous fool patting stray strands in front of a decorative wall mirror. Somehow the fraud (for she had, at the urging of several star-struck students, read his works and cross-checked the dates) had weaseled an invitation, claiming to be a cousin of the bride. She had perceived the way he had been looking at one of her favourite people and resolved that he was not going to ruin the occasion for her.
"Peeves?" she called quietly.
It was but a matter of seconds before the spirit floated down to her. "Yes, My Lady?"
"Dear Sir Jester, how would you like to revisit your bad old days?"
The parents of the being now known as the Hogwarts poltergeist could tell at birth that this child was not the most-favoured of babes, but of what use was a fair aspect when his future would be labouring in the fields of their pox-ridden master?
However, after several years, it became obvious that the lad would be ill-suited for long hours of work. Stunted in stature, the crooked spine and hump would make him useless for hauling heavy weights. When his unpleasant appearance was added to the fact that the wife had birthed three more children–two of whom yet lived–and they proved normal in face and form, it was decided that the misshapen son was a waste of good food, and he was taken to the nearest crossroads and abandoned.
Luckily for him, an aging minstrel had recently been informed that his sojourn at the manor house was at an end, and he came across the morose child. Quickly he saw the opportunity before him and placed the tyke atop the wheeled cart which transported his meagre belongings. "Stop weeping, moppet," he chided. "Your future has just become much brighter."
He tutored the boy in singing, and while he had a clear voice, the old man felt that the child's different looks were more conducive to proclaiming humourous doggerel. His perpetual grimace earned him the appellation of 'Peeves' and he took the name gladly. It was certainly a more personal title than 'Boy' or 'Fool', and truthfully he remembered not his birth name.
Before two years had passed, they were lucky enough to visit the estate where the King was wintering with whatever noble had 'volunteered' to provide accommodation. As it happened, Henry's machinations to shed himself of his brother's widow were progressing well, and his flirtation with Anne, Marchioness of Pembroke, was flourishing.
One look at the Lady and the boy's heart was caught. Never had he seen a more beautiful and gracious woman. While she laughed with the others at his jests and antics, she also gazed upon his marred body with sympathy and kindness, even to the point of offering him delicate sweetmeats from her own plate.
The wily minstrel saw this and played his hand well. By the time Anne Boleyn was coronated Queen, he and his apprentice were ensconced in the palace.
Over the next few years Peeves discovered once more the fragility of life. When the court turned against the King's consort to ensure their own survival, he remained her ardent supporter. After her execution, his words became even more bitter and his jests pointedly accusative. His master, finding that warning the youth did no good, shrewdly separated himself to avoid the fate which was surely rushing towards the lad.
Henry's tolerance had reached its limit; however, he too had fond memories of the young jester and, instead of sending him to the block, chose to banish him. It was not long until winter set in, and with all setting their faces against him, Peeves reconciled himself to death, his shivering only broken by coughs. His energy depleted, he closed his eyes and prepared to meet his Maker.
He truly believed himself to have reached paradise when he woke to warmth and the lovely face of Anne Boleyn. Having heard of his plight, she had made her way to him and transported him to a rugged castle in the Scottish highlands. He was in awe of the company she kept now, for these wizards made the court magicians appear the rankest of amateurs. He was made welcome in this foreign (to him, at least) world and was content to sit beside Anne and attempt to coax smiles from her more solemn countenance.
Alas, a weakness of the lungs from his prolonged exposure to the winter chill added to the strains caused by his body's twisted deformity. Scarcely two years later, he was back in the infirmary, once more being fed broth by Anne. Tears creasing his face, he expressed the wish to stay by her side after death; at that time there were already more than a few spirits who had refused to pass over and called Hogwarts 'home'.
With answering sadness, she replied that it would not be possible, as he was not intrinsically magical. The resultant sobbing caused such a coughing fit that she feared he would expire that very night.
When next he was conscious, she informed him that she had consulted more knowledgeable wizards. While they did not recommend the action, they admitted that there was a possibility for him to remain if he was given a particular potion. She never told him that the faint pink tinge was caused by several drops of her freely given blood. She herself had prayed hours over this, knowing well the teachings of the Holy Book on the sanctity of blood, but she could not so abandon one who had considered her above himself. Happy with the thought that he would be with his Queen for aye, the teenager died with a smile.
For several decades Anne was accompanied and entertained by the small person from her brief life at court. When her daughter summoned her for infrequent visits, she was startled to realize that Peeves was unable to accompany her. Further research proved that he was bound to the confines of Hogwarts, for only with so much magic around could his form be sustained, even with Anne's gift of magical blood.
When Anne herself passed through the veil, it was a shock to find that she was not permitted to remain at the school. With Elizabeth's legitimacy reconfirmed, Anne was fated to be a Royal Ghost and to spend her afterlife in residences of the monarch.
Peeves, heartbroken, mourned anew. Forever separated, he yet attempted to continue the jests and tricks which had so amused his Lady. As scores and then hundreds of years passed, a never-ending and frustrated adolescence gradually turned him into a spiteful and mischievous being: a state in which he was frozen until one empowered by his Lady's family had recognized his true self and blessed him.
Hermione raised an eyebrow at Harry and Luna's unique dance style. Pureblood she might be, but the blonde Ravenclaw was not a stickler for tradition. It was fairly obvious that Harry was not the leader in this terpsichorean performance, and the other couples were giving them a wide berth for safety's sake. Neville steered his partner to the edge of the dance floor while Draco leaned against the wall, his broody expression dark enough to rival some of Harry's during the early days of their friendship.
Muffling charms on various doorways had been placed to keep the music in the ballroom and allow for private conversations in the alcoves. It did work both ways, so only someone who was actively listening would have heard the hysterical shrieks emanating from outside the main hall. Hermione cast a discreet silencing spell on the retreating Lockhart and refreshed the air in the vacated anteroom which bore the reek of a particularly strong vintage of dung-bombs. "Well done, Peeves," she whispered.