Chapter Thirty-one:
Ghost Stories

With Tom's frequent visits, my health steadily improved and I was allowed to return to my dormitory before the eve of the new year. The Ravenclaw Tower was empty, and though I had anticipated it, there was still a certain minute shock at being so alone. None of my House-mates had elected to stay at the castle for the holidays, and while I enjoyed the reprieve from those who had always shunned me, I still felt more desolate than before. It was often that I wished I remained still in the Hospital Wing, where at least Tom could stay with me if he chose. Although, with he being the only Slytherin at Hogwarts at the time, we spent nigh every moment of daylight together.

After the near-ruination of Hogsmeade, the school was guarded heavily by the Ministry of Magic. It was, they explained, to prevent the elusive terrorists from seeping through our walls. I had frowned at this as I read the bulletin posted in the corridor, and beside me, Tom had been equally as silent. When I looked upon his face to see his reaction, his expression was blank and unreadable. Allegedly, they had also begun to reconstruct the shops within the village which had been burned. To further ensure the safety of the students, all scheduled trips there would be cancelled for the remainder of the year. Though I was Head Girl, I had not power to reverse this, and thus we were to be confined to the grounds. However, I did not mind this as much as I knew would our peers, and as I expected, Tom and I were cornered by students of all Houses when the holidays concluded.

The first week of the new term, we made ourselves scarce to avoid these angry confrontations, and soon they became nonexistent, as they accepted that nothing could be done. Tom had also gone to Headmaster Dippet to request that another notice be posted, explaining the board's decision was not subject to change. From that point on, we could freely walk the halls as he had before.

That January, there was one morning that would cause nearly as much of an uproar as the one we had just experienced. The night before, the castle had been buffeted with heavy gusts of wind which sent a cold, hard rain at a slant against the windows and stones. I had lain awake, my knuckles white from clasping the blankets of my bed about my chin as thunder rolled across the sky. I had always been fond of rain: the way it felt upon my skin, and the damp sort of smell the air exuded just before the droplets reached the ground. Yet it had been a full-fledged storm, and the entirety of the school had reverberated with the force of it until the early hours of the morning.

My first class was History of Magic, and I had to stifle a yawn as I walked to my desk at the end of the second row. My eyes blinked rapidly, as though at any moment I would drift off to sleep. Soon, I was tempted to do precisely so, and I laid my head upon the surface of my desk. So great was my exhaustion that it was several minutes before I realized just how quiet the room had remained.

Raising my head from my arms, I glanced about, my mind unfocused and my movements lethargic. Yet in an instant, my senses sharpened. The classroom was full of its habitual occupants, though the expressions plastered across their faces much differed from the usual. Their gazes were fixed solely upon the front of the room, their eyes widened and mouths agape–one even twisted grotesquely in a silent scream. Alarmed, I followed the direction of their eyes with my own, and what I saw forced a gasp from my lips.

His skin had always held a sickly pale color, yet now the entirety of his being was translucent in nature. The spots upon his face which marked his age gleamed prominently silver, as did the formerly white tufts of hair protruding from his head. Professor Binns, who had been absent from class several days prior, had passed from flesh to ghost, and was now examining the words of a heavy tome silently.

At first, worry clenched at my stomach, for I could not suppress the thought that perhaps Tom was somehow involved. Would he strive even for the assassination of a teacher? And if so, what circumstances had surrounded such a horrible act? I unconsciously glanced about, as if searching for the dark eyes that would answer my questions. Yet after a moment or so, I shook my head at my own foolishness. The man had been one of the oldest I had ever encountered, and his demise was inevitable, regardless of how suspicious it might have seemed. In my mind, I berated myself for my ever-surfacing distrust of Tom–though perhaps it was because I had grown accustomed to accepting the acts he had in the past committed.

I returned my attention to the present, just as the hand of a girl in the furthermost row shot into the air. The entirety of my peers seemed to emerge from their frozen states to regard her with pressing curiosity.

"P-Professor?" she stammered, her eyes reflecting horror.

The ghost glanced at her sharply, and she cringed.

"Yes, Miss Hornby?"

Her mouth opened and quivered, yet it seemed that that which she had intended to voice had died within her throat. The pale shadow of the man who had once taught us–and appeared to intend to do so still–had spoken, and even his common words had us transfixed. They were unearthly; though I had heard the Hogwarts ghosts converse amongst themselves on many occasions, their voices had seemed ordinary in comparison. I supposed that this was because one did not often hear a voice laced with breath one day, and the next, have the very life drained from it.

"Sir," a boy at last inquired, "has Professor Dippet been informed of your condition?" His query echoed my own thoughts just then, though Professor Binns seemed affronted.

"My condition?" he echoed hollowly. "I am afraid that I do not understand the meaning of your inquiry." His already present frown deepened as the boy, too, failed to continue. "Now, if there are no further questions, I shall resume our contemplation of Burdock Muldoon's classification of a 'being,' in the sense..."

As his voice fell into his somewhat regular, monotonous tone, my eyes narrowed. He seemed to know nothing of his recent passing, or perhaps such a thing did not concern him–he had been so near to death before that nigh nothing had changed. I found myself listening to naught but my inner contemplations, the concept of death suddenly becoming fascinating. Later, I would come to wonder what else had subconsciously inspired such morbidity.

Time passed quickly, and soon the bell tolled. Before I realized it, I had gathered my parchment–for once, void of writing–and quill into my bag, the blank sheets falling between the pages of a book, and had started down the corridor in the direction opposite of the one I regularly would have intended. As had oft times happened before, my legs felt to have a will of their own. Though I was traveling against the flow of my peers, no one cast a glance at me, in spite of the fact that I felt oddly conspicuous.

It was only when I had reached its door did I notice where I had led myself to: the Staff Lounge. I paused with my hand uncertainly suspended above the knob, my brow furrowed slightly as I wondered why I had unconsciously chosen this location. Surely it was more logical to visit Headmaster Dippet in his office. Deciding that perhaps luck would have me catch him inside, I turned the handle and entered.

As Head Girl, I–as well as Tom–had been admitted into two such rooms on various occasions, in particular the one into which I had just stepped. That year, there were four, one to represent each of the Hogwarts Houses, scattered about the castle. At the time, there were not as many students attending as there would be in the years to come, thus the empty classrooms had been converted to be suitable for other use.

Instantly, my nose twitched and my eyes began to water, for there was an unusually pungent odor floating upon the air. The walls, tinted a dark shade of blue, seemed to swim before me as an enormous blast of heat stung my eyes at the sudden cool air I had let in. Cautiously, I stepped further into the room, and squinted. I seemed to be completely alone; it was void even of the House Elves that might have chosen to linger a bit to tend to things, and the only sound was the steady crackling coming from the fireplace–the cause of the excessive warmth.

Feeling foolish–and further pressed to locate the Headmaster–I turned, when something caught my eye. Later, I would not remember what compelled me to remain for a moment longer, yet at the time, my eyes were trained upon a single armchair, whose back faced me. It stood alone, directly in front of the large fireplace, and was not like in design to any other piece present. I stepped closer, then froze. Upon one arm of the chair rested a hand, the owner of which I could not see.

Hope briefly trilled within me; I thought perhaps I could inform the dozing professor of the recent death in the faculty.

"Excuse me," I said, approaching. "I must apologize for waking you, but... but–"

My words fell frozen to the floor, and I shrieked, recoiling in horror. It was by no means an unpleasant sight, and had I not known otherwise, I would have detected nothing unusual. For I was then looking upon the corpse of Professor Binns, and the foul odor became all the more apparent.

As I stumbled backward several steps, my hands flew to cover my mouth. Though death had left traces of its clammy touch all around me in the past, I had never truly seen what it left in its wake. I had not even seen my parents after their passing, and fleetingly, I was thankful for this. A body was so much more frightening once it had grown cold.

I vaguely heard footsteps, and moments later, someone came to a stop just outside the room; I could not pry myself from that which lay before me.

"Miss Parmellie, are you alright? I heard a scream." I recognized the voice of Professor Slughorn, the potions master, and wished to reply, but found that words failed me.

"Dear girl, whatever is–" There was suddenly a sharp intake of breath. "Oh my..."

The man grasped my shoulders and steered me away from the chair; once it had disappeared from my sigh, I rapidly blinked, as though emerging from a trance.

"Professor!" I gasped, regaining my voice. "I must inform Professor Dippet! Professor Binns has become a ghost!"

Slughorn stopped abruptly, forgetting momentarily his small attempt to comfort me. "Are you certain of this?"

I nodded. "Yes Sir, I am. He continued our lesson this morning as if nothing at all had happened."

His face became troubled. "This is a grave matter indeed. I'll alert my colleagues this very moment!" His hands left my shoulders, and he hurried toward the door from whence he had come. "You'll be alright?" he inquired, hesitating at the threshold. "I ought to take you to the Hospital Wing..."

"I am fine," I confirmed, and with that in mind, he rushed away.

I stumbled from the room with a feeling of nausea clenching at me, and the coolness of the outside corridor did little to lessen it. By then, the halls were empty; even the slowest of students had safely found their way to their respective classes.

My footfalls echoed in the vast openness as I awkwardly traveled to the nearest girls' lavatory. This, too, was empty, though I took little notice of it upon my arrival. As my insides seemed to lurch, I put my hand against the tiled wall to steady myself. The feeling died soon after, and I turned to the nearest sink. I could nigh already feel the coolness of the water upon the perspiring skin of my face.

It was only when the tap did not turn that I realized precisely where I was. The small etching of a snake was still apparent upon it, and I felt the weight of the locket which still hung about my neck: my key to the Chamber of Secrets, which Tom had promised had been sealed. As if forgetting this, I backed away, thus distancing the key from the Chamber's entrance.

"You look a wreck," a voice observed from behind me. Startled, I quickly swivelled to find myself facing yet another ghostly apparition.

"Oh God," I moaned, my hand once more clasped firmly over my mouth. The ghost, clad in Hogwarts robes, peered at me through her spectacles, her amusement apparent.

"You're the Head Girl," she stated suddenly, looking at me more closely. "I've heard them talking about you." Then she straightened and smiled delightedly. "You're supposed to be in class!"

"I do not have class now," I lied, and her transparent face was overcome with skepticism. I had wavered from the truth convincingly almost never, though recently, I had begun to improve. This time, it seemed, I had once more failed.

Just then, I was struck with a thought. "You are that girl," I began slowly, "that Tom got killed."

She drew herself up stiffly. "Tom?" she echoed. "I don't know any Toms, except for Tom Riddle, of course." She giggled. "The very good looking one." Abruptly, her expression clouded to one that resembled anger. "And what do you mean, 'that girl that Tom got killed'? I've got a name, but no one ever remembers. Not even Head Girl Parmellie. And I wasn't gloriously murdered, if that's what you're implying." The ghost tossed her nose in the air.

I studied her in befuddlement, though she pretended to take no notice. Perhaps her murder had been unintentional and without glory–a concept I could not quite grasp–yet it had not been a natural death all the same. I could not decide if it was for the better that she remained ignorant of the circumstances of her demise.

"I am sorry," I murmured, perhaps apologizing for more than just myself. Oddly, I felt somehow that it had been by some fault of mine that this former student had looked into the eyes of the Basilisk. Tom had been careless, I knew, yet I wondered if I could have prevented such an occurrence. Or perhaps, I shuddered to think, I would have merely taken her place had I happened to have interfered. A chill ran along my spine and my arms prickled with gooseflesh. What if I had become more of a ghost than I already was?

-

That evening, I had once more delved into the library and had ensconced myself in a mound of books. Yet another privilege of being who I was that year was that I was granted access to the Restricted Section whenever I pleased. I had not required its use exceptionally often as Tom had, and so without is aid, my search had begun slow and awkward. Soon enough, however, I had been able to discover how it was organized, and I had quickly plucked volumes from their shelves; once I had a considerable collection, I had begun to read.

"Danielle?" Tom's voice interrupted my study. He picked his way through the books I had discarded and came to stand beside me. He was breathing slightly more heavily than usual, and his pale cheeks were tinged with a faint glow, as though he had been exercising extensively.

"Hello, Tom," I greeted, my fingertips resting upon the word I had last read to keep my place.

"I have been searching for you. Slughorn informed me that it was you who discovered Binns."

The memory of what I had seen briefly flashed through my mind, and I nodded, swallowing. Then at length, I softly asked, "What was it like for you, the first time you looked upon a corpse." I sighed. "I know that it can hardly compare to... to watching someone die, yet..." I struggled to find the correct words; when I found none, I shrugged.

He considered. "I have not seen many die–not yet, perhaps–and a body is naught but a body to me now. I am sure that my feelings and yours have differed in this matter greatly."

I shook my head. "I know, Tom, for I expected as much."

"I was... unnerved," he admitted after a pregnant pause, "in the very beginning. It is difficult for anyone when something new confronts them, thus in that way, my reaction was akin to yours. Yet they part, for I was unnerved by the fragility of life: how easily it could be broken and stolen away."

He glanced down at the opened book upon the table before me, and smiled lightly. "'A choice most important must be made," he read, "and a soul departed in fresh doth remain, not in blood nor flesh nor bone, but in shadowed spirit.' Perhaps our thoughts were not so far apart after all.

"Yet the very first time, Danielle," he continued, "I was overcome with reverence for the power that could be possessed; that one such as myself could bring about death. It is the ultimate finality, the very last word in a dispute."

"Do you fear death, then?" I inquired, and he looked at my strangely.

"It is something to be feared."

"The girl that the Basilisk killed, she became a ghost. I met her today. She did not know how she died. I also fear death, Tom, for I am afraid that this fate will befall me as well. A fate worse than death."

He placed his hand over my own comfortingly. "There is nothing worse than death," he assured me, though I was not so sure.