Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.
A/N: Thanks for your comments, faves, and follows thus far. I love you all.
Chapter Eleven – There is Sweet Music Here
By the time Harry and his friends met again to work on their dirigible, the entire school knew who held responsibility for the Ravenclaws' collective shame. Luna Lovegood's sudden inclusion in his study group and building crew effectively cemented the message for everyone. Speculation continued, however, as to whom Harry referred with the 'we' in his warning note. Meanwhile, the Doctor and Rose continued their lessons to wide acclaim, and as excitement grew for the flying machine, Rose began weekend seminars for the increasingly curious wizard-raised population. The original two dozen-some regular attendees grew to number over a hundred for her lectures on non-magical culture and science. When she lacked practical demonstrations, they watched in awe of educating and entertaining films projected against a bed sheet (after the television screen proved too small for everyone to clearly see) and marvelled at the ingenuity of those they had once thought inferior. Wizless-raised upper-years throughout the castle suddenly had some proof to the tales many of their friends and classmates previously dismissed. Murmurs spread with increasing excitement (for the wizless raised or newly indoctrinated) and anxiety or anger (for those who feared change or refused to believe). As tensions rose ever higher throughout the castle, most hinged their hopes of vindication on the second-years' pet project.
The dirigible's gasbag slowly came together in heat-sealed panels of nylon-lined vinyl under Hermione and Luna's combined efforts. The Ravenclaw, as it turned out, possessed attention to detail to rival the Hufflepuff, and when they sealed the last seam and reinforced the connection loops, Luna further leant her talents to their cause by leading the technically unskilled but invested masses in painting the envelope by hand. She divided each side of the dirigible's gasbag vertically among the four houses. Dean Thomas painted Gryffindor's quarter with a roaring lion against a scarlet background awash with a pale gold floral motif. Luna similarly painted hers with blue, but instead of floral scrollwork, she mapped bronze constellations across the azure field. Harry, who felt he lacked in the art area, left the Slytherin quarter to Tracy and Daphne since the girls had taken art lessons from an early age. The girls kept with the theme and carefully rendered an intricate silver serpent whose coils curled and crossed the majority of their space. Susan Bones and Ernie MacMillan took over for their side once their neighbour's had dried and completed the set with their badger, which posed regally against a lighter yellow-on-richer-yellow pattern of interweaving vines and leaves. Finally, only the engine's construction remained to complete the dirigible's components.
Harry's detentions, too, wound their way toward conclusion. Since he readily owned up to his actions, Flitwick assigned tedious work to fill Harry's evenings on any night he wasn't working on the dirigible, attending Quidditch practice, or studying. As much as the boy appreciated the professor's sense of justice, he dearly missed freetime. The charms master further cemented his ranking in Harry's regard with his final assignment.
"Mr Potter," he smiled upon the Slytherin's entry to his office. "Are you excited to finally have your Sundays and evenings to yourself again?"
"Yes, Sir," the boy freely admitted. "As much as I've enjoyed my time with you, I kind of miss flying with my sister."
"Ah," Flitwick hummed. "Did Miss Jenny Renette make her displeasure known to you, then?"
Harry grimaced in remembrance of the little girl's anger and disappointment. When she was younger, she had been more likely to throw a tantrum. As a first-former, she had graduated to sulky silence, which bothered her brother more than the crying. He could usually fix the crying.
"I'm sure she'll forgive you," the professor said sympathetically. "Anyhow, I thought I'd give you a learning opportunity for your final detention, if you're amenable. Otherwise, I'm afraid I've run out of chores, so you'd be assisting your head-of-house with cleaning."
The diminutive man waggled his wispy white eyebrows at him, and Harry shuddered. Based on his experiences with potions ingredients, he wanted nothing to do with any of the tasks his head-of-house might assign. He and the Doctor were both convinced the scouring charm had been invented solely for the purpose of cleansing cauldrons of salamander spleens and nappies of their usual contents.
"What sort of opportunity?" he said quickly.
On cue, the Gryffindor ghost, a gentleman in an overlarge neck ruff and voluminous pantaloons floated through the floor.
"Is this he, Filius?" he queried with an unsure look at the second-year.
The boy grinned broadly. He adored ghosts. Their existence remained an utter mystery to Torchwood, the Doctor, and him, so they all revelled in the prospect of someday unlocking how ghosts came into being. Harry felt his already high opinion of the charms master swell exponentially.
"Indeed it is, Sir Nicholas," Flitwick nodded. "May I present Mr Harry Potter? Mr Potter, this is Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington."
The ghost bowed at the waist with a courtly flourish, and Harry did a respectable approximation of the gesture.
"Pleasure to meet you, Sir Nicholas," he greeted.
"Oh! The pleasure's all mine, Mr Potter, all mine, indeed," Nicholas assured him. "Filius implied you might be willing to help me with a little get-together we're having tomorrow evening rather than attend the feast."
Harry glanced at his professor, and finding encouragement, bowed again.
"Absolutely!" he agreed. "I honestly find the whole thing a little much, you know?"
Sir Nicholas nodded solemnly.
"My condolences on your loss, Mr Potter. I remember them both very well, and they were very much favourites within my house."
The boy nodded his acceptance of the ghost's words and made his own suggestion.
"Perhaps you could tell me about them if you have time at your party, Sir."
"Excellent," Flitwick clapped. "I'm sure it'll be quite illuminating for you, Mr Potter. Just so you do not go without dinner, though, I highly recommend eating before you attend at… Did you say it was seven, Sir Nicholas?"
"I did, indeed. We'll be in the East Wing on the second floor. There's a whole disused ballroom languishing there just perfect for something like this. To think," he sighed almost wistfully. "It's been five-hundred years since my death."
The young Slytherin resisted the urge to smile at the ghost's expression, but Sir Nicholas didn't seem offended by the boy's amusement.
"Anyhow, thank you for coming, Mr Potter. Your presence should cinch things for me with the Headless Hunt."
"Er-" Harry frowned. "What?"
The ghost waved a silvery hand and rolled his eyes.
"You'll see, dear boy. See you at seven."
31 October 2013
Hallowe'en dawned cool and dreary. Harry woke to the sound of muffled thunder rumbling, strangely warped, against the long, thin panes of glass framing either side of his bed. With the storm outside, the cool green light that usually filtered in from the lake failed to illuminate his bedroom and left it a mass of shadows despite the ever-burning candles mounted in brackets by the bed and over his small writing desk.
Kilat hissed in frustration when her human sat up, taking his warmth with him.
"Go back to sleep," he yawned with a stretch. "I know you're mostly nocturnal."
Rather than giving a proper answer, the little serpent slid into the recess left behind in the pillow. The boy grinned and obligingly pulled the blanket up and over her, directing his will into a warming charm to incubate his companion further.
She definitely did not approve of the rapidly declining temperatures of the castle, even with her magically enhanced ability to retain warmth better than the average reptile.
When Harry finally left the second year boys' lounge to ascend the stairs from the boys' wing, he found the castle had been transformed overnight to the sort of environment non-magical kids would imagine of a castle overrun by witches and wizards. Live bats fluttered over the sumptuous furnishing of Slytherin common room, and jack-o-lanterns floated in lieu of the usual naked candles and hanging lanterns. The students seemed to have been overcome by a sort of excitement Harry thought to be quite different from that of non-magical children at the holiday. And though the previous Hallowe'en had been a melancholic sort of day – what with hiding on a balcony and later fighting a troll – the steady happiness he'd enjoyed since his parents' introduction to the castle allowed him to pick up on the things he had previously missed in the castle's hum. He could not put his finger on the feeling that permeated the air once he dismissed the whispers he'd become accustomed to, but, to his surprise, the first class of the day shed some light on his peers' excitement.
Unlike many of his classmates, he had been intrigued and excited by the prospect of learning more about Wizarding tradition and culture under the enthusiastic tutelage of Professor Lumsden. He rather reminded Harry of the Doctor's exuberant lessons on history, life, and the universe, as he knew it.
He made his way to the front of the classroom with Draco and Daphne, where they settled in with Hermione and Neville. The professor entered just after the nine o' clock bells, whereupon the kilted man strode to the front of the room and waved his wand at the chalkboard.
The chalk leapt up and began sweeping across the surface in a graceful dash. Runes, Latin, and English script scrawled across the top of the board, followed by the depiction of several magical creatures and a huge, graceful tree.
"Samhain!" he boomed. "The predecessor of Hallowe'en and one of our peoples' most important holidays!"
Harry sat forward in his seat, though he noticed many of the wizard-raised kids seemed bored or annoyed.
"Our folk have celebrated Samhain in some shape or form since before Merlin's time," he continued while his students watched him pace before the board. "And although many of our traditions have been altered through the ages, many of our current customs and laws stem from the old ways of Samhain."
The huge man paused in his trek before the class and looked around at them all with a pensive look on his heavily bearded face.
"So who can tell me one of these traditions?" he prompted. "Each correct answer will receive a point."
No one raised a hand, not even Hermione, who developed a look of supreme frustration. Harry thought that it might have been the first time she hadn't had an answer in all her years of formal schooling.
Their chairs and desks creaked a little as the silence stretched on, and finally the professor gave a mighty huff and crossed his great, beefy arms over his barrel chest.
"Come on now," he frowned. "Surely someone has an answer. Even a guess?"
To everyone's surprise, Draco Malfoy met the professor's gaze. The boy wasn't considered unintelligent by any means, but by virtue of being a Slytherin sitting in a non-Slytherin professor's class, it was considered impolitic of him to volunteer information unless called upon.
"The first that comes to mind, Sir," he began, "Is the final meeting of the Wizengamot at the end of an electoral year."
Everyone looked at him with varying expressions of disbelief and confusion. Harry simply started taking notes.
"Go on," Professor Lumsden encouraged. "How's this relevant to Samhain?"
"Well," Draco continued, "Before the Christian introduction of All Saint's, most of Britain, Ireland, and Scotland believed the thirty-first of October to be the official beginning of the portion of the year in which Dark forced gained inordinate power. It's still customary to wrap up any ongoing business before tonight at sunset in order to give those endeavours the best chances at a positive outcome. Also, the Wizengamot traditionally waits to decide the most important legislation and pending judgments until today, and often decrees those decisions go into effect at sundown."
The big Scotsman clapped his hands once and grinned at them all.
"Excellent!" he crowed. "Aye, that's a good'un. Anyone else?"
"Apples," said a girl at the back of the room.
Everyone turned in their seats to look at Hannah Abbot, who shrank a little behind her desk as her cheeks flamed.
"My mum and would give apples to all the kids who come mumming at our house. Gran says they do it because of Samhain and Allantide."
"Aye, lass. Why apples, though?"
Hannah chewed her lower lip and squirmed a little, before providing a tentative answer.
"She said it's just tradition. Good luck, and all that."
Professor Lumsden gave the strawberry blonde a slightly disappointed, but not unkind, look and turned back to the rest of the class.
"Well?" he sighed. "Anything else?"
Harry sat up a little straighter, his interest growing as his classmates' answers struck closer and closer to some of the things he had studied in one of his primary school classes concerning world religions and the history of the British Isles.
"…Exactly!" the Professor praised someone.
Harry didn't know who.
"So you see, even our procedures in potion-making, enchanting and warding have quite a lot to do with the traditions of our ancestors, who unwittingly created the modern holiday we all love and celebrate. But can anyone explain what Hallowe'en really means to our world? Why not only we, but also our Muggle countrymen, still honour and keep the day?"
Lumsden started calling on students again, until finally Harry's head kicked into gear, weaving together some of his dad's lessons that week, some of the ones in primary school, and a few of the history books he'd read in order to tune out Binns' droning last year.
"Wait a moment," he said, interrupting Ernie Macmillan, who had just started talking about All Saint's Day, Christianity and their influence on Britain.
Ernie scowled, but Lumsden seemed pleased at the interjection.
"Mr. Potter-Smith?"
Harry smiled appreciatively. Lumsden was one of two professors who habitually used what everyone thought to be his full name. It still wasn't what he preferred, really, but it was along the same vein as far as intentions went.
"Sorry Professor, Ernie, but I just wanted to clarify – You see, I've always thought of Wizarding U.K. as rather – Well, not faithless really, but highly secular in almost every aspect of life save around the holidays, but if I'm understanding the direction of your questioning–"
Harry paused at Lumsden's growing grin.
"Well," the boy laughed. "I definitely didn't expect that."
"What?" Hermione snapped beside him. "You're doing that thing again where you assume everyone's brain works like yours."
"Sorry," Harry laughed. "It's just, I think what the professor's getting at is the answer to what's been driving me and my dad crazy since we got here."
"Get to the point," Susan Bones sighed, prodding Harry in the back.
"It's about protecting the population, isn't it?" he said, turning back to Lumsden, who looked as if he'd swallowed a particularly delicious chocolate. "The non-magicals were killing each other over religion daily, and the witch hunts only got worse with the spread of Christianity and the suppression of local pagan and Druidic traditions. Oh, that's brilliant. That's really, really clever!"
Harry laughed out loud, and Draco subtly stepped on his foot. It was all he could do not to yelp and glare at his fellow Slytherin. Although, based on the expressions of some of the Slytherins he didn't know quite as well, it might have been a good thing Draco stopped him where he did. They looked rather frustrated with him.
"Very good, Master Potter," he grinned. "Seven points to Slytherin. So to those of you who haven't caught on quite yet, here's the whole of it:
"As Mr Potter-Smith alluded, time went on and our communities grew more and more unacceptable to the rest of the world. It became quite difficult to practice some of our most important magicks. As I have said before, our ancestors may not have known the properties of dragon's blood, or exactly how many applications there are to transfiguration, but they knew a good thing when they saw it.
"What started as a conglomeration of religious practices of several cultures around the end of October transmuted into the tradition of casting powerful magicks on or just before those days. We're human, after all, and how do we have magic at all? We all believe different ways. Some of us adopted the belief that the Almighty God – Yahweh, Allah, Elomin, whichever you prefer – bestowed it upon His people through grace or His Son, depending on the faith, and all wizards are descended or created through that continued blessing.
"Others held to the traditions of their Norse, European, and Mediterranean ancestors from across the seas, believing we are, in fact, a different breed entirely than Muggles: bred from the likes of ancient deities as Thor, Frey, Isis, Hecate, Odin, and Zeus! Not myths, but ancient wizards and witches.
"Then there are the Celts and others who keep by their old ways, Gods, Goddesses, Fae, and Faeriekind. In that tradition, Magic flows from the earth in wild, temperamental power that chooses its recipients at random.
"In any case, all these magic folk had certain holidays at the end of the harvesting season, and all of them had a tendency to gather to perform magic during those times in celebration of their respective beliefs, most of which had something to do with enhancing harvests, or calling for blessings through the harsh winter by laying protective wards or enchantments. As a result, the places they used year after year, century after century, developed the sort of heightened magical properties Hogwarts enjoys now.
"Despite the changes in belief since then, evidence still pointed to the enhancement of magicks in these places and during this season, and so, Wizardkind continued using them. However, with more non-believing Muggles out and about as time went on, we needed to protect ourselves from their potentially dangerous interference.
"After all, a ritual or complex spell interrupted can have devastating effects."
He paused to take a deep breath, and waved his wand at the board. The chalk began writing again, this time to depict what Harry supposed to be a magical field around the tree, under which stood several robed wizards clasped hands.
"It became apparent we needed a way to disguise our places of enchantment while also distracting the less open-minded populace. It wasn't until 1829 that we invented the notice-me-not charm, after all, and while witch-burnings eventually fell out of fashion, Muggle guns certainly held nasty surprises for many of our number well into the early eighteenth century. Not to mention, the people generally caught and tried for witchery tended to be children who could not yet control their powers, or Muggle political dissenters who didn't have the connections to avoid that fate."
He turned around and swept his wand at the board, where smaller depictions of children roaming a neighbourhood in fancy dress danced beneath the ritual scene above them. The professor stroked his short beard and eyed the classroom while the sound of scratching quills filled his brief pause.
"So Hallowe'en, in its current state…?" he prompted sharply.
Harry grinned and nudged Hermione in the side. As the professor's lecture continued, she had stopped gaping and began vibrating in her seat at the influx of new information and the connections her over-quick mind made with them.
The Scott nodded to her indulgently.
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
"Is it…"
Professor Lumsden smiled encouragingly and Harry grinned at his friend's side.
"They cooperated," Hermione concluded with more confidence. "Rather than move from the places everyone had gotten used to, or changing their traditions, the Non-Magicals and Magicals who believed in those practices banded together to protect them. And the sheer fun of it made it a tradition the world over."
"Seven points to Hufflepuff," their teacher crowed. "Very good, everyone. To this day, there has never been a more poignant example of Muggle and Magical cooperation. And, although many of you probably aren't aware, it is the only day of the year that the Statute of Secrecy relaxes in many countries across the globe."
...
The class had been an enlightening experience for Harry, who had not spent all due attention during the previous Hallowe'en, but as he went from class to class with his fellow Slytherins, the professor's revelations lost a little of their lustre.
He didn't doubt the truth in the man's lesson, but in his excitement over his newly discovered facet of Wizarding culture, Harry had nearly forgotten the part his own history played on the holiday.
As always, he ignored the people who whispered about him. He respectfully avoided the circle of candles and photographs bordering the west courtyard, placed there in silent memory for the men and women who had lost their lives to Voldemort's war. In his distraction the previous year and avoidance of the general population, however, he had failed to notice his own house's disposition. It became apparent as the second-years moved from class to class and sat for lunch that while no one openly rejected Harry from their number, a rift did exist. People like Daphne, whose father had been murdered for failing to fall in line, lay on one side of the divide along with the few recognised anti-Purists. Most of these, Harry noticed, were of his and the first years' number. The others – Neutrals, Purists, and Voldemort supporters, alike – claimed the other side.
To a non-Slytherin, he doubted anything looked different, but he could see the border delineated by slightly turned backs and elbows separating the moderates from the rest of the table.
"It wasn't like this last year," Harry whispered between bites of his sandwich.
He eyed his housemates neutrally, though none of those outside his group of friends met his gaze.
"I wasn't cavorting with Muggleborns and half-bloods last year," Draco sighed over his barely-touched meal. "I was preaching about how some day, the Dark Lord would rise again on a Hallowe'en to teach upstarts like you and Greengrass their proper place in the world."
Daphne scoffed bitterly, and the boy gave her an apologetic grimace.
"It appears my betrayal's just amplified their natural reaction."
"What did you expect?" Tracy rolled her eyes, not bothering to murmur despite the annoyed looks on some of her housemates' faces. "It was one thing to make nice with you, Potter, but it's another thing entirely when your magickless mother happily tramples all over the Purists' illusions of superiority."
"The delligi-whatsit doesn't help," Blaise added. "You lot handled that article well enough, but for a lot of people it gave them more reasons to stew in their own hatefulness."
"Dirigible," Harry corrected absently. "I guess you're right. I just don't understand it. Why take such effort to show me how much they don't care for me when I couldn't give a banana peel's worth what they think?"
"Oh?" Draco asked incredulously, his anxiety raising the pitch of his usually smooth drawl. "And why is that?"
The black-haired boy shrugged and grinned.
"I've lived with you all for over a year, now. I'd rather have a few good friends than a lot of tentative allies with questionable motives," he explained. "Besides, the Zabinis and Greengrasses alone hold a lot of sway in the Wizengamot, and Draco, since you're a Malfoy, as long as you make it to your majority I'm well set for political ties."
"Not to mention Bones and Longbottom," Daphne added primly. "Although I still don't know why you like that Granger girl."
The small smile quirking her lips took all the bite out of the otherwise haughty words. The girls had long overcome their differences. Fighting dark lords together did that.
...
The classes following lunch went by rather quickly as the clock ticked toward seven. Harry returned to his dormitory to find the common study empty of its usual occupants, and the common room itself practically deserted. He barely stopped to put down his bag before calling for his favourite elf.
"Cuddie?"
The excitable elf appeared with a soft pop! of air displacement and a curtsy.
"Hello, Harry Potter, Sir," she smiled. "Cuddie has missed you since term started. What may Cuddie do to assist you?"
The boy grinned. He'd forgotten how much he liked the house elf and quickly resolved the feeling by wrapping her up in a hug. She squeaked, and he laughed.
"Hi Cuddie," he greeted, setting her down in his armchair.
She stared at him wide-eyed at the gesture.
"D'you think you could pop me over to my mum and dad's quarters? I need to go to a deathday party and all my formal robes are up there," he explained as he coaxed Kilat from her heat-charmed terrarium.
She coiled happily around her human's wrist and forearm under Harry's sleeve.
"Oh, yes, Harry Potter, Sir!" she squealed. "Will Miss Jenny Renette be there?"
Harry cast a quick tempus and smiled.
"Yeah, she's home."
Cuddie giggled and eagerly grabbed the boy's hand. A moment of mild discomfort later, the Slytherin stood at the centre of the small stone-floored entry. A modest, but comfortably furnished sitting room lay beyond the granite edged by a large bay window fitted with a bench and several overstuffed cushions. Pale floral fabric in complementary colours upholstered two facing sofas, an armchair, and an ottoman, all arranged asymmetrically before a chestnut-framed fireplace burning merrily in the centre of the room. The walls wore a cheery, pale blue. A small kitchen stood visible through an arched chestnut doorway off to the right, and two doors led out of the sitting room from either side of the fireplace. One held a sign that read, Jenny Renette & Harry James, and the other, The Doctor & Rose.
The nearer door burst open with the sound of their entry, and a girl still clad in her burgundy blazer and navy skirt leapt at her brother. He caught her out of habit. Cuddie laughed somewhere at Harry's elbow.
"Today's your last detention, right?" she asked with a frown. "It's been ages since we've flown."
"Yeah," Harry grinned, releasing the girl to stand on her own. "I'm going to a deathday party, actually. Flitwick knows how mad Dad and I are about ghosts and how all that works. Oh-"
He waved Cuddie forward. The elf hopped from foot to foot, eying the girl with unadulterated adoration. Elves loved children.
"You remember Cuddie, right?"
"Hi Cuddie!" Jenny hugged the little elf. "Shall we have a snack and watch the telly?"
The house elf's ears twitched and she tilted her head slightly.
"What is a telly, Miss Jenny Renette?"
"Oh, you're gonna love it!"
She half dragged the hapless elf into the kitchen, where she raided the pantry for Nutella and biscuits, and plopped onto the sofa with Cuddie at her side. She clapped her hands, and a screen slid smoothly from a recession above the picture window. Harry rolled his eyes. It had taken all of two days before the girl had demanded her father work out the disconnect between satellite broadcasts and magical interference. Girl and elf settled in to watch cartoons, the girl in content and the elf in awed disbelief of the programme, so Harry felt comfortable leaving them to their own devices while he ate and dressed. The cold cupboard provided him with cold cuts and cheese, and the elf-stocked breadbox happily belched a French loaf at him at his request. He took huge bites out of his sandwich while looking through his wardrobe. The Slytherin finally settled on a silver waistcoat, a white shirt and bowtie, and a deep green, almost black fitted robe. He tucked Professor Flitwick's after-curfew permission note in his breast pocket before smoothing a generous helping of Sleekeasy's Hair Potion (courtesy an unknown relative named Fleamont Potter) into his unruly coif, and with one last look in the mirror, returned to the sitting room.
In the ten minutes he'd taken to get ready, the Doctor and Rose had returned to their quarters. Rose lay sprawled across an armchair in her most comfortable jeans, while Harry's dad sat on the floor with his back against her chair.
"About ready to go, Jemmy?" the Doctor grinned, withdrawing his arm from a bottomless satchel. "Do you have your sonic on you?"
"Yeah," he smiled. "I'm going to record everything they say about ghosty stuff."
"Excellent," the Time Lord pointed his screwdriver at his son, and Harry's pocket hummed happily in response. "I just uploaded some programming onto your scanner so it'll be taking care of energy readings for a twenty-foot radius. It's also going to record audio, so have fun and we'll work on it later."
Harry absently patted the holster under his right sleeve, glanced at his pocket watch, and waved to Jenny.
"Save me some Crunchies, yeah?"
The little girl grinned over the back of the sofa at him.
"Maybe. I might just stuff myself, but I could be persuaded to trade some for a butterbeer or two."
Her brother rolled his eyes.
"I'll ask the twins."
With that, Harry shut the door and started making his way across the castle to the rarely used East Wing. He had not visited the long, airy passages since his midnight exploration with Neville, and his rediscovery of the place made him feel like venturing out again, now that he didn't have to schedule his responsibilities around detentions. The professor had been extremely creative to fit seven of the three-hour sessions into a couple of weeks.
As before, the stairways and corridors he travelled held neither doors nor lit sconces. The waning crescent outside filtered through the high, pointed gothic windows to cast bluish light against the naked stone underfoot. Without detailed instructions on how to find the ballroom, the Slytherin allowed his senses to stretch out and brush the walls and ceiling. Eventually, he felt the chill particular to ghosts, which led him down a flight of stairs and up another, down a narrow passageway he discovered behind a bit of wall masquerading as stone, and crested a landing onto what he thought might be the first floor. Black velvet carpet ran the length of the corridor, lit by floating black tapers whose light cast ghostly blue flashes against the windows and walls. He heard a faint, metallic, ringing sort of sound set against a string quartet and a piano calling him toward the wide, curtain-draped arch at the end of the corridor. The hauntingly strange sound raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and the cold crept past even the built in temperature control charms in his robes as he came closer to the ballroom's entrance. The drapes parted before his fingers could make contact with the fabric, and the smell hit him.
"My dear friend," Nicholas mournfully greeted with a deep bow and a sweep of his plumed hat. "Welcome… I'm so glad you could make it."
The ghost of honour gave him a wink, and Harry did his best to smile sympathetically as he stepped past the threshold. The boy's eyes swept the room, and it was all he could do not to crow in excitement at all the ghosts filling the space. A sextet floated above a raised platform, where the soloist played the musical saw with the bow of a violin, creating an eerie, warbling melody that wove in with its accompaniment in a way that both enchanted and repelled. It was beautiful, but the bone-tingling instrument created anxiety just by the frequencies it created. Behind them, a series of lavish arches and columns framed wide, oculus-topped windows of frosted panes, above which soared two more levels arched, stained glass casements shadowed by the high, vaulted ceiling. Lavishly dressed ghosts danced around the band, uncaring of such obstacles as stone columns while they waltzed.
Kilat, curled tight around his wrist under his sleeve, writhed fearfully and began curling her way up his arm to his bicep.
"Thisss feelsss like blindnesss," she complained. "I sssee only you and ssmell only deathhh."
"Sorry," he murmured sympathetically. "Feel free to hang around my neck and shoulders if it's warmer."
"I promissse only to sssqueaze a little," the cheeky little snake answered. "But I expect a hunt, sssoon."
The boy rolled his eyes. The elves would be pleased by her assistance with the mundane rats, by any rate.
Harry carefully made his way through the milling guests, wary of stepping through anyone or unintentionally interrupting a conversation. He spotted the Grey Lady, who gave him a small smile and a nod, and he also recognized the Friar of Hufflepuff speaking to a ghost with an arrow sticking out of his head. His own house ghost, the Bloody Baron, stood away from the other guests and stoically observed the crowd while the occasional movement of his translucent wine cup set his chains to clanging. With no one else in his presence and the advantage of a prior introduction under his belt, Harry made a beeline for the intimidating spirit.
"My lord," he greeted with a bow. "How are you this evening?"
The man's gaunt, angular face tilted toward him, and the dull, staring eyes roved over the student's face without betraying any emotion. He gave his own courtly bow, and the movement momentarily exposed he dark silver stain of blood spread from his shoulder to the hem of his belted tunic. His shoulder-length curls momentarily obscured his face, and Harry thought he might have been handsome in life, like some of the illustrations in his sister's fairy stories.
Unlike other little girls, though, she particularly enjoyed the parts of those books where dragons or ogres noshed the foolish knights and princes the Slytherin ghost resembled.
"Well as anyone could be in death, I suppose," he said in a deep, low voice. "Which is to say, not well at all."
He laughed hollowly.
"But if you meant how I find my surroundings, I admit to mild amusement. There are wizards and witches here whom I've not seen in centuries."
"I wonder what that must feel like," the boy said a little wistfully. "To be ageless, yet not."
The apparition's moustache twitched, and his gaze sharpened a little to better examine the child who dared speak to him without invitation.
"It is lonely," he whispered darkly. "If ever you find yourself passed into Death's shadow, go gently with him lest you wish to torment your soul for eternity."
"Did…" Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I apologize if I'm being indelicate, and please tell me if I am, and I'll happily pick another topic, but er-"
The Baron smirked and stepped slightly forward to allow a pair of dancers to pass. Harry shivered at his proximity, but the ghost made no indication of his displeasure.
"Well, I sort of wondered if you knew, before that point, if you could become a ghost."
The nobleman shifted back a bit, his leather boots making not a sound against the marble floor. He raised a hand toward one of the floating black candles, and so close to the light source, the boundaries of his digits swam in and out of focus: there one moment, gone the next like so much smoke.
"I knew ghosts existed, of course. I knew not how it happened until I myself made the choice," he explained darkly. "I committed a horrible crime, you see, in a moment of grief and madness. I did not understand, then, that a man can own no other than himself, and even then, not completely. Death met me soon after to show me the path onward. There was no way back, exactly, but there was a way to step to the side. I wished to atone. I wished my crime to be known, to deter any who came after me from following the same sorry course."
Harry's brain whirred around the influx of information. He and the Doctor had theorised on how ghosts happened. The latter had experienced the strange half-presence of beings resting in a locked pocket of space-time, after all. Finally, they would have first-hand accounts of the experience.
"And when you stepped sideways?" the boy prompted softly.
The ghost's face blanked again, and his luminous curls bounced with the shake of his head.
"I am here," he slowly murmured. "And yet I am not here. When I close my eyes, complete darkness envelops me, and I can feel nothing. Hear nothing. I cannot touch-"
For emphasis, the man brushed his hand over Harry's shoulder as if to brace it. Harry's teeth gnashed at the shock of cold like a bucket of ice splashed over him, but it faded as soon as the ghost lifted his fingers.
"-And yet you can sense something of my presence. I can speak, though I lack the flesh I thought I needed to do so…" the Baron trailed off and stared hard at the young Slytherin. "You are an odd child, Potter. Most tend to avoid me."
Harry smiled and shrugged.
"Most tend not to take the time to get to know me," he commented. "I think it's in poor taste to form opinions about something without experiencing it first-hand."
The ghost downed another ethereal cup, and his moustache twitched again.
"Hm. I still have not decided whether the Hat chose well with you," he admitted neutrally. "Certainly you have the mind to rise to great heights, but for all that I am, I cannot see what you wish to accomplish."
Harry gestured out a window.
"I want the stars," he said with soft conviction. "I'll never see them up close unless we make some serious changes."
Suddenly, the Baron broke out in harsh, thundering laughter that momentarily stalled the music and the chatter around them. The guests recovered quickly, but many stared at the pair of Slytherins with utterly disturbed looks on their faces.
"Ah," the ghost chuckled. "Whether you triumph or not – and I cannot see how you could – I'm sure no one would ever expect that. But perhaps there's something more to you."
With that, the ancient Slytherin drifted through the floor, and Harry quickly moved away from the empty circle of floor just to avoid the stares of the curious apparitions still following him with their eyes. Wrinkling his nose, he followed the stench he'd detected earlier to a lavish table draped with yet more black velvet and spread with rich silver and crystal. Great, rotting fish on beds of blackened lettuce and fruits lay across sparkling salvers. Breads burned coal-black rose in decorative towers at intervals. An enormous, maggoty roast pig lay further down the line, and a great haggis surrounded by flies occupied a crystal platter. As he watched, a knight with a broken blade of a sword protruding from the slot in his visor bent and walked through the roast, and Harry wondered whether he could somehow taste the rancid food. In the place of honour, an austere cake sculpted in the shape of a tombstone with a moulded ogee edge towered over the other dishes. Its baker had carefully painted the fondant surfaces with greys, blacks and greens to create a very realistic looking head stone complete with the ghost's death date written with tar-black icing in gothic lettering:
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington
31 October 1513
The music stopped, and Harry stopped his examination of the morbid feast to follow the ghosts' gazes as the man of the hour took the stage. It took only a few moments for the remaining chatter to fall away. Sir Nicholas stared around at his guests mournfully.
"Thank you, lords, ladies, and gentlewizards, for joining me on this, the five hundredth anniversary of my near beheading," he began. "Nothing warms my weary soul more than the knowledge that even in death, I have such true and good folk to call friends on whom I can always count to share in my sorrows."
A small smattering of applause filled a short pause, and Harry began working his way toward the stage, carefully skirting the ghostly forms, just to get away from the horrific stench of the fascinating but disgusting spread.
"As a knight in the court of His Majesty King Henry VIII, assured of my place in the world and of the wealth amassed by my forbearers, I squandered my youth on frivolities. My only aspiration was to eventually produce an heir for my estates and to marry a lady of goodly standing and magical stock."
His self-deprecating tone combined with an exaggerated eye roll demonstrated his opinion of his previous self, and the audience twittered its sympathy and shared amusement. Nicholas grasped his hair close to his scalp, and tipped his head sideways as if it moved on a hinge, exposing a cross section of broken vertebrae and sinew.
"You see how well that went," he said sardonically before righting his head and securing it with his unusually high collar.
The only living person in the audience wondered for what he felt was the millionth time how physical things became part of a ghost's existence. If they were beings trapped in a pocket of the void running parallel to Earth, then how could they choose what things joined them? Nicholas's high, ruffled collar, for example, seemed more appropriate for Elizabethan fashion, which didn't quite gain traction until the rule of the period's namesake. Not to mention, they would not have sent him to the block in his best clothes if he were going to die. The guards of the tower would have happily relieved him of such finery or passed his things on to a family member.
"In my youth and my foolishness, I often made a habit of impressing ladies of the court with my magic. I assisted surgeon-barbers with subtle feats of healing, and eventually, my staggering reputation brought Lady Grieve to join my stroll through the gardens at Hampton Court," he continued. "Though comely of face and well-liked by many, the lady rarely smiled for fear of exposing what she thought to be horrendously crooked teeth. I offered my assistance, as any gentlewizard might, but in my distraction at her bearing and visage, I grew her a tusk, instead."
Harry blinked as the audience laughed around him, many sloshing wine from cups whose origins he could not discern. Nicholas, however, raised his hands for quiet, his face sombre, and order quickly restored.
"Oh, you laugh, and you jest, but for the pain I caused and spectacle I created, I found the royal guard at my house come midnight. To the tower I went, and in the morning, the block, where I knelt to receive my end."
He put a hand to his throat and surveyed his guests with a regretful mien.
"I never wished to cause harm to the lady, and doubtless I deserved some punishment for wielding my wand so carelessly, but thought I could fix my mistake to keep my head. But for using witchcraft to curse another, there could be no forgiveness in His Majesty's eyes. The headsman staggered up with his great axe, and in fear I bid him make it swift," he lamented. "He promised me a painless farewell – done in an instant, said he – but the first strokes missed entirely and ate at my back, instead. At least one of the next forty-two attempts swung true enough, but the blade's dull edge more crushed than cut, and only partly struck my head from neck."
He paused to indulge in the mournful, sympathetic sounds sweeping his guests. Harry stared around in confusion. The mood shifted between almost-merry celebration (not unlike a birthday gala thrown for one of his granddad Pete's peers), and a wake. The second-year even caught sight of some finely dressed court ladies quietly sobbing into handkerchiefs.
"And although I suffered such pain, humiliation, and sorrow for the days I would never live, I have found consolation for my heavy heart in your companionship," he straightened, smiling sadly around at the hundreds of smoke-like ghosts filling the hall, and raised his translucent wine cup. "May we go bravely together into the next millennia, shoulder to shoulder as comrades, and bound together by our mutual sorrow and love."
Ghostly tears shone oddly in an eye here and there, and the Friar clapped over his loud sniffles.
"To Sir Nicholas!" someone shouted.
Freezing cold doused Harry from head to toe as phantasmal wine and mead splashed from goblets and glasses held above his head. He bit back his yelp of surprise to join in with the cheering guests.
"HIP-HIP-"
"HUZZAH!"
"HIP-Hip-"
"HUZZAAHHH!"
The mourning seemed to end, then, and Nick grinned as he jauntily stepped off the stage to meet his young guest, who lingered nearby to congratulate him.
"That was a fantastic speech," Harry complimented. "Very moving and highly illuminating. I wondered though-"
"Did the Lady manage to fix her tusk?" Nicholas offered knowingly. "Yes, everyone always asks. His Majesty's court wizard and barber-surgeon sought her out, filled her full of Spanish wine, and discreetly shrunk it back down to a normal tooth. The barber-surgeon told her he'd filed it down, I think."
The Slytherin shook his head in amazement, unable to help a disbelieving laugh.
"So are you learning any lessons from your detention?" the jovial ghost teased. "Just in case anyone asks, you should have a good story, after all."
Harry grinned and shrugged.
"I'll tell them I have to write a report, later, which I essentially will by the time my dad and I are done," he assured him. "In all serious, thank you for inviting me. I wonder, though, why did you think of me to begin with instead of one of your Gryffindors?"
The ghost shifted a little self-consciously, and a darker silver flush almost made his cheeks opaque for a moment. He plucked a see-through envelope from a pouch on his belt and held it so Harry could see.
"…They won't let you in their club because your head's technically still attached?" the boy clarified, his brow furrowed. "Really? After your horrifying death?"
"Exactly my point!" the gentleman exclaimed. "What point is there in all that indignity if I can't even go out riding with the rest of the men? Sir Perfectly-Beheaded Podmore was my squire in life, I'll have you know, and I'm thrice the hunter he is! Anyhow… this is my ninety-second rejection, and I thought you might put in a good word for me. You're renowned among the dead for your part in ending the unkillable, not to mention that business last year."
The Slytherin worked his mouth, closed it, and frowned as he turned over Nicholas's grievances.
"I take it there aren't any other clubs of good standing out there?" he asked neutrally. "Better clubs, I mean, without berks like this Podmore chap."
Nicholas harrumphed and shoved the letter back into his pouch. His shoulders slumped.
"No, as luck would have it," he admitted. "It's the only one in the aisles."
"Well," Harry reasoned. "In that case, I'm sure there are plenty of other worthy ladies and gentlewizards just like yourself who've been disallowed access to their little pity-party. Why not create your own hunting club? You could call it the 'Horrific Huntsmen,' or perhaps the 'Horrendous Hunt.' Well, actually I think some differentiation might be good, like the 'Moonlit Riders.'"
The ghost sighed, shaking his head and setting it to wobble dangerously in its ruffled collar.
"No one would want to follow me. Why would they?" he muttered bitterly.
His friend frowned and made a vague gesture with his hand.
"Well, why not just invite some of your fellow hunting enthusiasts on a moonlit chase, informally of course, and see where it goes from there. You could really stir up some mayhem," he suggested with an encouraging smile. "Go for it. You're nice, and everyone I know of likes you. Surely your centuries-long friends would love a diversion like that."
A pensive look overtook the bitter curl of Nicholas's mouth and chin, and he ran a hand over his silvery whiskers.
"I think I will try that. Filius told me you were a clever one, balancing yourself in the snake pit and beyond-"
The boy shrugged.
"I just don't give my time to anyone who doesn't deserve it," he smiled. "Whether for good or bad. This Sir Podmore person sounds like he's not worth your time, Sir Nick. You can do a lot better than someone who dismisses you for something you can't help."
Nicholas made to hug Harry, which ended in the ghost sighing a wistful apology and Harry's teeth chattering for fifteen minutes after, but the man of the hour left his side standing a little taller than before. A good thing, too, since the Headless Hunt arrived two hours later on ghost horses – Harry vowed to investigate deeply into the readings produced by their presence, because he just could not grasp the rules of what could become phantasmal – and quickly made its best effort to shift all attention to club's antics. The Gryffindor house ghost's face went from frustrated and hurt to indifferent with the smallest glance at his young friend, and the impromptu game of head polo came to an abrupt end as Nicholas deftly kicked the rolling head over the players' shoulders. He affected a bored tone reminiscent of the Baron's usual drawl and slyly mentioned his plans to go riding on the next full moon. He smiled and made vague promises to inform the ladies and gentlemen who praised his athleticism and expressed his interest. Sir Podmore's boyish features fell into a pout.
Harry wandered the company a little longer, but as the hour grew later and his fifth successive warming charm wore off, he determined he had fulfilled his obligations, enjoyed the party more than he thought he might, and ought to find his way back to bed after perhaps getting a bit of treacle in the great hall. With a grateful goodbye to his host, the Slytherin made his way back to the ballroom's entrance, through the long, candlelit corridor and back to the abandoned moonlit paths. His feet ached, he realized, as heat returned to the half-numbed toes and the nerves caught up to the amount of time he'd spent standing around in what essentially amounted to an icebox. He followed the smell of pumpkin pie, which tantalised his senses after four hours inhaling eau de rancid offal.
His tired tread dragged and slapped against the stone. He zigged and zagged with the East Wing's main stairwell, turned a corner, followed a secret passageway, until he emerged onto the main floor. He faintly heard laughter and excited talk borne from too much caffeine and sugar. The feast called to him for its warmth and for its attendees. He wondered whether his sister might have saved him some Crunchies, or if not, whether he could coax Cuddie to invent an elf-made version. Nothing, in his opinion, tasted better than chocolate-coated honeycomb in bar-shape.
He smiled at the crowded hall from the arched doorway. He spotted Hermione, whose parents outlawed real sugar in her house on principal, animatedly argued with Hannah and Susan over a gigantic pile of sweets and minced pies, likely won from a game of exploding snap. She always won because of her memory. Harry refused to play because storing that sort of information never made sense to him. Also, he rather liked his eyebrows. At the table beside hers, Neville chatted with Dean Thomas while the Weasley twins randomly set off wet-start fireworks. Neither seemed to care that McGonagall's piercing, unblinking gaze followed their every move with a nerve twitching over her right eyebrow. Luna Lovegood sat apart from the rest of her house, as always, but she seemed happy enough with her uniform fully in order and an impressive model of Saint James's Palace taking form on her plate from bits of cake and fudge. His own house retained a little of its frigid air, but without his presence, it seemed the other second, third and first years had returned to cordial conversation with his small group of close friends. Despite the other things he felt in association with the date, being there, in the presence of everyone he liked and admired, filled Harry with a sense of contentment he felt not often enough.
…Come…
He paused half over the threshold, straining his ears to hear over the feasters.
...Come take my hand, lost, wandering lamb…
The faint song barely registered in his brain. Kilat, who had fallen asleep across the back of his neck and wrapped around one of his biceps, stirred in response to his rising pulse. The sound chilled him more than the ballroom ever could. Icy fingers dug sharply into his spine and clenched into a fist somewhere in his belly. The melody dipped and rose in an unfamiliar way, so shrill he wanted to cringe in pain. He stared wildly over his shoulder to sweep the hall for the source.
Come, let me guide you away, let me take you in my embrace…
The words should have been comforting, but in that hideous, many-layered chorus of piercing voices of nails on glass.
…Enfolded in darkness, you'll feel no pain. In my arms you'll find solace…
He turned on his heel. Kilat's head hissed near his ear. He absently registered Neville waving to him from the corner of his eyes. The feast was too loud. He could barley make out the words, yet still their grip on his insides twisted tighter and tighter. His heart pounded against his collarbone.
…I bring escape, sweet, dear one, where fear will no more bind you…
"JUST SHUT UP FOR A MINUTE!"
Silence fell in the hall behind him, but the song grew fainter, moving away.
…Come: Greet Death, sweet gentle lamb…
Harry pushed with everything he could, reaching out toward the feeling of terror, and before the song could fade entirely, bolted away from the great hall for the main staircase. Kilat's protests had devolved to furious, wordless threats directed at the source of her human's mania hissed into his ear while he took the stairs three at a time. He pushed himself faster, harder than he ever did for Quidditch or footie. The nimble boy swung himself around balustrades and skid crouched around corners. His palms tingled with a ready banishing hex.
"Argh!" he gasped as icy water soaked his trousers and flooded his shoes, and immediately cursed the distraction.
The boy reached again, feeling for anything he couldn't recognize, and willed his ears to hear the malicious song again.
"Do you hear or taste anything unusual?" he snapped.
Kilat, recognizing his sharpness for the fear it was, nuzzled her cool head under his ear.
"No, human boy. I sssee and tassste nothing sssave what we ssshould."
"Harry!"
Neville, Hermione, Draco and Daphne crested the landing, all flushed varying shades, clutching stitches, and panting for breath.
"What's the matter with you, running off like that?" Draco demanded. "Everyone thinks you're mad after that display."
"Shush!" Harry commanded, his ears still straining. "I've lost it!"
Daphne grabbed his sleeve before he could advance into the dark, and he would have thrown off her grip if not for the fear he saw in her usually amused eyes.
"Lost what?"
"The voice, it was- It was singing about killing someone."
"What's-" a horrified expression flashed across Hermione's face, and her cheeks turned ashen. "What's that, there?"
Everyone turned at once, and Harry caught his wand in his hand. They sloshed through the flood to the end of the corridor, where pale tendrils of smoke swirled from snuffed candles and dark sconces. No window lit the way forward. A shadow swayed stiffly in and out of view.
"Lumos," Harry incanted.
Wet, dark burgundy dripped over the ancient stone. The smell of copper stung his nose, and his heart beat somewhere in his throat as the Slytherin raised his wand higher, pushing more power into the spell. Its stark white light threw the corridor into sharp contrast, and the words painted in foot-high letters glistened menacingly on the long stretch beneath empty torch brackets in the harsh white glare. A shadow swung back and forth across the space like some perverse pendulum, but the minor obstacle did nothing to blot out the message:
THE CHAMBER IS OPEN, ITS SECRETS REVEALED -
ALL SOON SHALL QUAIL 'NEATH THE HEIR'S FORCE OF WILL