Chapter 1

The quiet in the castle seemed at odds with the day before. Solitary footsteps could be heard echoing in various locations. The stairs continued to shift around, a grating hissing sound, as if to confound students who already departed the school. The mutterings of Argus Filch, the caretaker, reverberated from an unknown spot along with Mrs. Norris' sometimes reply. Here and there a ghost swept through without making a single noise. Even the pictures lining the halls and stairwells seemed quiescent. Without the students, life appeared to slow to a crawl inside Hogwarts.

"Dennis?" Professor Flitwick asked with the name when he spied the young man sitting on the main foyer steps.

Dennis glanced up.

"I thought you left yesterday?"

"I did," Dennis replied as his gray eyes studied the short professor. "But I apparated back this morning."

"Does McGonagall know you're here?" The mixed-blood man inquired.

Dennis nodded. He wore dark brown cargo shorts, something his father seemed to think he always needed, a gray tee-shirt bearing an American rock band logo, and black Keds trainers with white ankle socks. No one would ever mistake him for a wizard in the outside world.

Professor Flitwick eyed him for a few moments, and then joined him for a sit. The two did not speak for several long seconds. The elder male sighed.

"You did well, Dennis, and I'm proud of what you achieved. You were the best in my class from your year… and a top contender for best charms pupil since the war."

Dennis flinched at the mention of The Battle of Hogwarts.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to remind you of… well, that," Professor Flitwick, dressed as usual in his oddly formal teaching attire. The man patted the younger one on the knee. "We all still feel it."

"Sometimes… I wonder if it was worth it," Dennis quietly mused as he glanced around the empty stone corridors. It all seemed airier and lighter without the oppressive crush of young bodies fighting to get class as the castle did its level best to get in the way. The openness appealed to him as he thought of what it looked like following the battle.

His former professor huffed and said: "Of course it was worth it! How can you say such a thing? Do you think it'd be any better if Vol… he was in charge?"

Dennis gave the man a flinty gaze.

"Yes, I know you suffered after the battle and these last few years. I know how much you miss Colin. Yet if the Dark Lord managed to win, any meaning to Colin's death would be lost," Professor Flitwick replied in a voice that grew softer with each word. "Do you know how I know your brother thought it was worth the sacrifice?"

"How? I've been trying to figure it out ever since," Dennis spat the words with an anger and resentment that built over the preceding three years.

"Because he's not here, Dennis. Colin isn't a ghost roaming the castle grounds. His death… there was purpose in how he fought and died. It means he went to his end satisfied he didn't do so in vain. It's a cold comfort, but there is truth to be found there."

Dennis felt his eyebrows draw together. Of all the teachers in Hogwarts, Professor Flitwick became a mentor to him, despite being the Ravenclaw house master, following the war and the personal events in the succeeding years. The young man felt indebted to the diminutive man for the comforts and wisdom he offered, some of the only ones Dennis received from the living inside of Hogwarts.

"I'm trying to understand that," Dennis admitted a few moments later. "It's hard… it… why didn't he bring me back with him? I would've fought… maybe could've saved him."

"Or died trying, and then your parents would be deprived of both their children," the professor immediately countered, and his voice rang in the foyer. "You told me yourself Colin begged in his letter for you to stay home and stay safe and look after your parents. You have magic they don't."

For three years Professor Flitwick reminded Dennis that he likely would be the last line of defense for his muggle parents in the event Voldemort won. The fact roiled Dennis because Colin did not stay home, but he also understood the lure of wanting to defend Hogwarts and defeat the Dark Lord. Coupled with his idolizing Harry Potter, in retrospect it seemed a given Colin would return to Hogwarts. Dennis ran his hand through his short-cropped strawberry-blonde hair. Old frustrations around unanswered questions continued to plague him.

"You lived, Dennis, and I take joy in that fact. Your life wasn't easy here these last two years, but I enjoyed having you in class and… at least, I hope earned your friendship."

"You did, professor," he answered with obvious emotion.

"You are remarkable with charms, my boy, and don't forget that. You also earned a NEWT in transfiguration, so you're not without real talents. Besides, I would rather mourn the loss of your brother together with you than standing alone mourning the deaths of two of the most animated young wizards I ever met," the man finished in a solemn manner.

"Thank you," Dennis whispered.

The professor's words touched him. In the flurry of misery that came with the revelation of his sexuality near the end his fifth year at the school, Professor Flitwick became a stalwart defender and loyal friend. Dennis came to depend on it. As nearly all of his few friends and associates dropped away from him, the charms instructor never failed to offer a warm and welcoming environment. Time and again the tiny man counseled him. In some ways Dennis felt more like a Ravenclaw than he did a Gryffindor, although Professor Flitwick stated on multiple occasions the younger Creevey brother displayed characteristics exemplary of his school house. The man patted his leg again.

"So, why are you here, Dennis? Most students can't wait to get away and be free before becoming nostalgic," Professor Flitwick asked in his customary direct fashion.

"Still needed to say good-bye to a few… well, people. I think of them that way," Dennis rejoined.

"Ah, the ghosts and paintings."

Professor Flitwick proved he knew more about Dennis than Dennis thought possible. The younger male leaned to the side and threw a suspicious glance at his now former instructor. Professor Flitwick grinned.

"Don't be so surprised. You used wording and motions not seen around here for at least a hundred years, and there could only be one source!" The possible half-goblin man regaled him.

"That obvious?"

"Only to the trained eye, my boy. Do you think you're the only who turned to the ghosts and paintings for some tips?"

"Um… yeah, I did," he admitted.

"Ah, the arrogance of youth that they were first for everything," Professor Flitwick sarcastically responded and then chuckled. "I used to think the same thing when I was a student."

"You went to the paintings and the ghosts?"

"Perhaps not as extensively as you… and neither did I pay as much attention as you did, Dennis, but I recognized the signs. Minerva also brought it to my attention, but I asked her to leave you to it. She seemed to regard it as cheating of sorts."

"Why?"

"Because you were learning from a source other than her," the professor said at much lower volume. "Professional jealousy and all that. She did confess you became a much better student."

"Didn't have a lot else to do to be honest," Dennis conceded.

"Perhaps it angers you now, yet did you ever think it may serve you better in long run?"

Dennis simply raised his eyebrows.

"Much of what you learned in a few short years here will take the others far longer to learn. I know you got treated unfairly, and perhaps your… demeanor did not suit others, but you got something that balanced it out. Do you see that?" Professor Flitwick queried.

Dennis shook his head.

"In time, Dennis, in time," the man said and patted the knee again. Then the professor stood. "I'll leave you to your good-byes, but please do stop by before you go. It'd be nice to have a cup of tea with you."

"I will, Professor," the young man said with a nod of his head. "And thanks."

Professor Flitwick gripped his shoulder with seemingly delicate, unusually long, and surprisingly strong fingers. The friendliness of the gesture could not be missed, even by one consumed with thoughts of the recent past. Dennis nodded at the man. Then he found himself alone in the castle once again. This time, however, it did not result from being ostracized.

As the charms professor just did, Dennis rose to his feet and faced the stairs. He began to silently count in his head. Like at least half of the students who passed through the venerated school, the young man figured out the subtle mathematical formula that guided the movements of the stairs. It appeared random to the casual observer, but years spent trying to navigate the mobile treads revealed the truth. Thus, when the stairwells achieved a certain configuration, Dennis began to move.

It took him five minutes to reached his destination: the very bottom of the massive stairwell. Light did not naturally penetrate that far down, and so Dennis held up his wand with the glowing tip. A clean white light spread outward. Above him the staircases continued their never-ending waltz. After the battle with Voldemort's forces, many of the staff focused on fixing the stairs first since it served as a central artery for the school. Thus, it seldom failed to surprise Dennis when he surveyed the underworld of that particular feature of the castle. The lower depths did not sustain any damage. Chunks of stone, rock, and other castle materials once sat strewn about, but it got cleaned by some unknown agent.

The young man grinned as he eyed the collection of other refuse. Some of it, however, did not look to be old garbage littering the dirt floor beneath his feet. Dennis identified objects about which he heard others claim got stolen. Most pieces appeared maliciously deposited or unconsciously dropped. In the end, the articles became the private horde of one specific resident of the castle. Dennis gingerly picked his away among the detritus until he spied one bit that seemed unobtrusively out of place lying almost totally buried in the compacted, hard earth. Perhaps only two or three people alive knew what really lay at the bottom stairwell, and that number included Dennis.

"Can't believe I'm going to say this, but… good-bye, my friend," he quietly stated as he stared at the small, white patch in the ground.

"Thought you'd get gone and scampered without a farewell to me?" A somewhat hollow voice, a rather nasally one at that, whined from behind.

Dennis turned and faced Peeves.

Peeves the Poltergeist, bane to most who passed through the legendary halls within the last ten centuries, stood floating several feet above the floor. In all his time, Dennis never once saw Peeves set foot on the dirt in the base of the stairs. Against all likelihood, he smiled at the semi-transparent figure.

"No, I came back to do just that," Dennis honestly told the ghost.

"Odd one, you are, Weavy Creevey, and not because of all that boy to-do," the poltergeist stated in an odd mix of accents he accumulated over the centuries, much like his mismatched attire.

"Even though you don't really deserve it, I want to say thanks for the help you gave me."

"Don't deserve…! Ha! Methinks without me your life would've been all doom and gloom, and ye'd end your days as one of the haunts here in the castle!"

The indignation in the poltergeist's voice arrived half-feigned and half-sincere. Peeves looked to throw a good snit, something in which he specialized and honed to a fine art. He began to rub his hands together, a gesture that typically inspired fear in others. It meant the irksome spirit planned mischief.

"Do it, and I'll tell them what's down here," Dennis harmlessly threatened.

"Ooh, nasty child! Thou wouldst not dare!" Peeves whined, fulfilling his role.

"You know I wouldn't, Peeves. Just teasing."

"Trickster! You're a vile and pernicious trickster!"

"I learned it from you."

Peeves began to cackle with mirth. He floated closer to the mortal young man. He physically seemed only a few years older, save for the fact Peeves spent just over a thousand years tormenting the students of Hogwarts. Rumor and truth stated the poltergeist came with the founding of the castle. In the thousand years since, barely two score people ever learned the cause of Peeves condition. Efforts to alleviate him of his state resulted in violent outbursts from him. A once petulant ghost became a poltergeist to preserve his rather unique status. Peeves, in short, enjoyed his unearthly state far more than anyone should.

"But you are better at dueling with wands and you know your way with blades, Creevey the Snot," Peeves declared with what amounted to complete pride.

"You threw objects at my head and told me to duck… and not usually in time," Dennis countered.

"And your skills at ducking and goosing are second to none! I've managed nary a single hit on your pate this last year. My work with you sharpened the eyes in the back of your head and made quick your hand!"

Dennis could not help the grin that crept along the length of his mouth. Peeves smirked as well. His dark eyes glittered. The poltergeist befriended him, albeit in Peeves' rather insulting manner, shortly after the start of Dennis' sixth year when the teenager looked for a place to sit in the dark and be miserable. Unfortunately, Peeves always took it as an opportunity to make the sufferer even more miserable. Yet somewhere along the line, the spirit took pity on the mortal youth. Dennis sometimes thought the specter could see his own sadness reflected in the living boy. Once he asked Peeves if he ever favored someone in life. Dennis got subjected to hours and hours of Peeves waxing poetic about a young lass he knew back in his mortal days, and the poltergeist would grow weepy as he spoke. He recited such horrifically bad poetry as to bring tears to Dennis' eyes, but those of pain and not longing.

"You know, I think I'm actually going to miss you, Peeves," the last remaining Creevey brother stated with only a modicum of hesitation.

Peeves stared at him with unblinking eyes, a habit that regularly unnerved Dennis.

"I don't know if you think or feel the same way, but… well, you're my friend."

"Art thou favoring me with thy affections in the dewy-eyed flush of thine youth?" The poltergeist rejoined in a mock coquettish fashion, and he began to coyly bat his eyelashes as he tilted his face downward.

"And still a right git," Dennis mumbled.

Peeves guffawed with delight.

"But I will say you offered me more sport than to which I have claim, cur," the spirit taunted. Then he grew solemn after few seconds. "I saw thee languishing, Creevey, and the wants to see your brother again… this I understood. Sometimes my days are long when I fail to beguile someone into becoming a plaything."

At times Dennis struggled to understand Peeves' words since the poltergeist would make great jumps and shifts in syntax and vocabulary within in the same sentence. Sometimes Peeves would slip into his native tongue: an ancient form of Briton not actively spoken for over eight hundred years. The ghost used such tactics to further antagonize people, and often with remarkable success. However, it did not take Dennis long to realize Peeves sought some form of human interaction. It took some effort and a bit of time, but Dennis learned to ignore the worst of the poltergeist's antics. He earned Peeves' cooperation and a style of friendship for his efforts.

"You helped me, Peeves, whether you meant to or not, and I'm grateful. I'll come visit you again when I get the chance," Dennis promised.

"You are sweet on me!" Peeves howled and began to swim through the air in circles above Dennis' head. "Wilt thou now seek some time alone in the privy?"

"Honestly, you just can't help it, can you?"

"I am true to my ways!"

Peeves then flew in so close his translucent nose hovered inches from Dennis'.

"Mark me, Weavy Creevey. Do not lose thineself to benighted thoughts. You might take a trip and a tumble at an inopportune moment and find the course of your life… perhaps your afterlife, much changed," the ghost told him in a rather somber tone.

"And you still want to remain here? You know what I could do for you?" The mortal young man offered.

"Nay, and keep your mouth closed tight!"

"I won't ever tell a soul, Peeves. This… it's your story to tell. Not mine. But if you ever decide you want out, let me know. I'll do whatever I can."

Peeves floated back and assumed an uncharacteristically thoughtful expression before saying: "That is not the bend of my mind, as is known to you. Yet I'll take thee on thy offer for another. You know of Thomas Lester? The silent one?"

"Yeah, we all do. Not a real talkative bloke, that one," Dennis confirmed.

"Thou art a prat if thee hears only his silence. Get yourself to the upper reaches and find him. Make Thomas the same offer in my stead, and be patient as I have been with you, snotty boy," the poltergeist chastised and entreated him in equal measure.

"You? Patient?" The living one laughed out the words.

Peeves smirked.

"But you're serious, right? About Silent Thom?"

"I am. Whatever sadness you claim is but a mere trifle next to his… and I know not his full tale, yet I can feel it."

Once again Peeves flipped through moods like Dennis' father changing television channels. As quickly as he became earnest, he returned to his needling demeanor. Dennis watched with a bit of amazement. He doubted few others ever saw the sedate side of the castle's chief, resident poltergeist. If anything proved Dennis formed a relationship of sorts with Peeves, then it got displayed in ghost revealing a staid aspect from time to time.

"Off with thee, child. I've plans to make for those who will come in the fall. The headmistress and her cohorts are bedeviling me with their repairs to the castle. Blast that Riddle boy and good riddance to him!" Peeves huffed.

Then he flew in an ever tightening spiral while ascending upward until he disappeared. Dennis watched the ghost wink out of sight. He stood alone in the bowels of the grand stairwell, his wand shedding the only light. The young man turned and looked once again at the easily ignored spot of white in the dirt. It looked more a rock than anything else. However, Dennis knew it to be the top of Peeves' skull. The rest of his skeleton remain submerged beneath the dirt that accumulated over the centuries. Two years-worth of careful questioning yielded only the slimmest of facts.

Peeves arrived as a laborer to help build the castle as basically a peon. He commanded little magic. The poltergeist took on the work when alive to earn some money to woo the woman he loved, and she considered him barely a step above a beggar. At some point during the final construction of stairwell, Peeves tripped and fell or perhaps got pushed. The ghost never clarified that detail. The fall killed him, and his body lay hid in the dark depths. Not a single person ever looked for him and his decaying corpse did not attract attention. Debris and dirt slowly covered his remains. According to Peeves' account, within three centuries no one would even recognize human bones lay there. Although he never gave away his full name, Dennis learned Peeves died sometime between his twenty-third and twenty-sixth years. Then the deceased man took up haunting the castle for over a thousand.

"It's mental, but I know I'm going to miss you," Dennis whispered to the hardly discernible small exposure of bone.

It took a few minutes for Dennis' eyes to adjust once he reached the main foyer. Bright late spring sunlight streamed in through the high, arched windows. The front portal remained open to let in air and a greater degree of light. Spells got placed on all the entrances and windows of the castle to keep the insects and other less savory creatures at bay. Dennis aimed for the door. Once outside, his feet took him to the aqueduct bridge and to the southwest face of the castle. Old memories aided him, and the fact he and Silent Thom at times shared the prominence overlooking the lake.

In life Thomas Lester seemed around thirty-years of age. He stood almost a head shorter than Dennis and appeared comfortably fleshed for a man who lived sometime during the mid to late eighteenth century. Long hair got tied back at the base of his neck and would look to be a light brown coloration. His eyes, too, hinted at brown irises. Thomas wore clothes of the period from his living days, yet the simple attire belied the apparent fine quality of the material. Because he spoke so very little, few facts regarding his life ever got revealed. It seemed to pain him each time Dennis attempted to make conversation with the ghost. It supported Peeves' assertion of the man's unhappy past.

"Thomas?" Dennis quietly said the name as he approached the ghost following five minutes of walking.

The man turned. Daylight tended to render ghosts nearly invisible, and Dennis could not make out the full set of the ghost's face. The living person halted a scant meter before the dead one. Dressed in a simple frock coat, an underlying vest, a plain cotton shirt cinched at the waist by knee-length britches, Thomas looked a common man. The quality of materials, however, told a different story. Even his leggings and shoes looked purchased for longevity rather than fashion. It gave him a rather homey appearance.

"Peeves asked me to come and talk to you," Dennis began.

"That one?" Thomas' quiet voice replied.

"I made him an offer to help end his haunting, but I think he rather likes what he does now."

Thomas nodded his head in agreement.

"Then he said I should make the offer to you," the youngest Creevey stated and received a somewhat surprised reaction from the ghost. "We spent enough time out here together, and you never bothered me and seemed a decent bloke, so… well, is there something I can do to help you?"

"I…" Thomas began and halted. His seeming solidity also increased and became easier to view.

Dennis watched the spectral lips twitch and the transparent jaw muscles flex. Thomas looked away after a several seconds. He seemed both angry and sad. Dennis stepped closer.

"I, um… don't mean to intrude, but… ah, Thomas, is there a reason why you don't talk?" Dennis tried to inquire in polite manner.

Thomas' head swung around. A fierce gaze fixed on Dennis. Tension built in the silence.

"Sorry, if I was rude…"

Thomas held up his right hand as if to block the apology. He inhaled and exhaled, a completely unnecessary act for a spirit, yet it conveyed a sense of frustration. Dennis made note of it and decide to be more circumspect. He thought for a brief instant.

"There's a reason why you can't talk to me, isn't there?"

The ghost's eyes grew wide.

"A spell? Curse? Something like that?" Dennis asked and made a logical leap.

Thomas' eyes widened even more.

"And you can't tell me a thing about it, can you?"

Thomas began to slowly shake his head back and forth.

"That's a right awful spell to put on a ghost," the living young man mumbled.

The ghost nodded, but not as vigorously.

Below them kingfishers and reed buntings squabbled amid the rocks and vegetation growing along the bottom of the rocky prominence. Their voices drifted upward. The giant squid rose to the surface, turned gracefully, and submerged again. Dennis smirked at the memory of when he first arrived at Hogwarts, fell out of the boat transporting him to the castle, and the gentle way the giant squid rescued him. It remained a highlight of his life at the school. The momentary distraction let his mind operate without interference.

"Colin told me 'bout the basilisk that froze him and some other people and a ghost, but who'd want to curse a castle ghost?" He mused aloud.

Thomas shook his head again.

"What? Someone cursed you when you was alive?"

"No," the ghost replied, and it appeared to take him quite a bit of effort.

The living young man squinted his eyes against the sun overhead as he thought.

"So, cursed as a ghost?"

"No," Thomas answered.

"Well, that doesn't make any bloody sense. You're cursed, but it didn't happen when you was alive and didn't happen to you as a ghost. So, when?" Dennis asked in frustration.

Thomas' eyes bored into him. It appeared to be a plea. Dennis pushed aside his aggravation regarding the conundrum. A logical explanation existed, yet it eluded him. He stared at the ghost while the ghost continued to beseech him in silence.

"You wasn't alive, but weren't dead either when it happened. What's in between that? Got to be…"

He ended his musings. Pieces started to click into place. Not long before Professor Flitwick told Dennis his brother died without regret. Ghosts, poltergeists, and spirits often remained in the land of the living due to some unsatisfactory part of their life or death, except Professor Binns who merely ignored the inconvenience of death and continued with his teaching duties. The notion a condition lay between life and death flummoxed Dennis. He frowned.

"The only thing that comes after life and before death is the dying part," he rumbled.

Thomas nodded his head. Dennis' eyes popped wide open. It seemed unimaginable a person would curse a dying man. It marred both the life and the afterlife. He could scarcely conceive of what Dennis would do if someone cursed Colin while life ebbed from him. It seemed to violate the very nature of how magic should be used.

"That's… by Merlin, horrible," Dennis quailed. "Why would anyone do that?"

He watched as Thomas' mouth closed and sealed. The lips wiggled and the jaw fought the constriction, but Thomas could not speak. His body seemed to become frozen. Somebody silenced Thomas at the point between life and death. The horror of it astounded the young living man.

"You got murdered, didn't you?" The answer slipped out of his mouth before Dennis barely finished formulating the thought.

The spectral head bobbed upward with a rather unwarranted look of pleasure. Dennis frowned, but Thomas still seemed pleased. After thinking about the reaction, it began to make sense.

"Am I the first person who figured this out?" He inquired and tried to keep from sounding proud.

"No," Thomas answered and disappointed the living young man.

"Oh, right, but you can't say anything about it, so sort of dead end… er, sorry 'bout that last bit," Dennis remarked, recognized the poor choice of wording, and apologized. He ran his hand through his hair in discomfort.

Thomas flashed him a wan expression.

"Is it alright if I ask you some questions?"

"Yes, please do," Thomas encouraged him, and his face rapidly shifted countenance.

"What year did you get cursed?"

Thomas' lips turned even more lifeless.

"Right. Can't talk about that. Okay, then, what year did you die?" Dennis asked and tried to change tactics.

The ghost remained motionless.

"Shite. Fine, what year was you born?"

"Seventeen-twenty-nine, in August," Thomas answered.

"Okay, good. Good. Ah… how old were you when you died?"

Thomas' mouth went rigid.

"Can't say anything 'bout that," the living man grumbled. "Okay, then who's the last muggle monarch you remember?"

"King George the Third. He was on the throne less than a year bef…"

"Before you got killed."

The incorporeal man struggled to nod his head.

Dennis grew tired of standing, so he sat on the patch of scrub grass struggling to find purchase on the rock. Thomas glanced down at him. The two exchanged a look.

"Maybe you don't get tired of standing, but I do. Take a seat, Thomas. This is probably going to take a while."

"I prefer not to," the departed man intoned.

"What? 'Fraid you're going to get your non-existent clothes mussed up?"

Thomas looked away, but not before Dennis caught a sheepish smirk on the man's face. Dennis then chose to really study the ghost. He noted again the style of dress, and it conformed to the time period in which Thomas lived. However, the simple designs conflicted with the rich fabrics. A bunch of questions piled up in Dennis' head, yet sorting through the mess to find the pertinent ones bedeviled him. The clothes taunted this thinking.

"Thomas, you're a wizard… were a wizard, right?" Dennis inquired.

"I was," Thomas said and kept to his feet.

"Did you go to school here?"

"No, I received private training from tutors and my mother."

"Oh, all fancy, huh? Come from money, did you?"

Thomas' mouth became inflexible. Dennis sat upright. Somehow the man's privileged background played a role in his death and, ultimately, in the curse laid on him. An avenue of questioning opened up. However, Dennis needed to find an oblique route.

"Were you a lord? Part of the peerage?" Dennis questioned.

The dead man stayed motionless.

"Right, any time you can't answer, I'm going to take that as a positive answer to my question. Does that sound workable?"

"You are clever, Mister Creevey," Thomas replied.

"Huh. You do know my name."

"For some time now."

"And, ah, do you know why I was coming out here?" Dennis inquired with some trepidation.

"I do, but the cause is not mine to judge. I take no grievance or umbrage from your person should that thought trouble you. You provided me pleasant and agreeable company for a brief span, and for that I am grateful, Mister Creevey," Thomas quietly told him.

"That may be the most I ever heard you speak, Mister Lester…"

"That is not my surname."

"Pardon?" Dennis said and glanced around.

"Lester is not my surname… or last name if you prefer. Although it is not our practice, Mister Creevey, Lester is what many would call my baptismal name," the ghost of the man explained.

"Hold on a second. Middle names have a purpose other than to give me mum something more to yell at me when I get into a spot of trouble?"

Thomas actually grinned and said: "Might I recommend you tutor yourself in the ways and traditions of the people of these isles? It may prove of some value in time."

"Bugger that. I've done more than my fair share of reading lately. It's all I've really done for the last two years," Dennis rejected the suggestion with a complaint.

"Except those times you sought tutelage from the disembodied persons and portraits within the castle. Tell me, Mister Creevey, do you consider that time wasted?"

Dennis shrugged and replied: "Not really. Got me NEWTS in charms and transfigurations. Got OWLs in the rest, so I guess I did alright."

"Indeed, and what plans have you made to use those achievements now that your formal education has come to an end?" Thomas inquired.

Dennis gave the ghost a blank look, much as he did when his parents asked the same question. He never thought about life outside of Hogwarts. Most of Dennis' private thinking centered on avoiding being harassed or teased. The post-battle personal defense training helped. His one brief foray into love ended in disaster and, for lack of a better term, a broken heart. Thus, the younger Creevey brother failed to consider aspirations and goals upon graduation from Hogwarts. However, he did know he never wanted to work for the Ministry given he would likely face many of his old tormentors. Hence, the future remained an extremely large empty canvas.

"I see. This is a common affliction among your contemporaries. The present demands too much attention, the past easily forgotten, and the future ignored at your age. How, then, do you propose to support yourself in the coming years and decades?" The man, clearly an adult when he died, queried.

"You do know we called you Silent Thom?" Dennis parried to avoid answering.

"I am not certain of the relevance of your question, and that sobriquet seems rather spiteful."

"Did you just call yourself ice cream?"

Thomas rolled his eyes and huffed a little before saying: "That is sorbet, and it is not iced cream. A sobriquet is another word for nickname that usually highlights some aspect of the person. Do you understand now my silence got imposed upon me?"

"Well, yeah, but it's the why I'm trying to sort out," Dennis rejoined.

"And it is precisely that upon which I am not allowed to comment. Mister Creevey, do you realize that almost every other student I ever met seemed intent on discovering the cause of my… demise, and the malediction renders me incapable of that discourse?"

"I do now… I think," the younger man intoned as he tried to dissect the statements.

"You truly need to read a better class of book," the ghost wryly remarked. "However, are you familiar with the works of one Arthur Conan Doyle and Nibly Derge?"

"Oh, sure. Love the Wipple and Derge stories. I'm from a muggle family, and my dad is keen on Sherlock Holmes. He loves the old Basil Rathbone movies."

"Excellent, then perhaps time remains for you to learn the art of deduction."

"Was that an insult?" Dennis inquired.

"Only for the moment," Thomas replied, but then he smirked again.