Chapter 9 ~ Ghosts

I decided to go home for the first weekend of November. It isn't often I do this as there isn't much point to it; however I decided I would like some peace and quiet, if only for a weekend. As Friday the 1st came along I packed a small bag, walked to Hogsmeade and took the Floo Network to my home. I arrived at dusk and stopped at the kitchen to grab a bite of dinner, before safely making it into my room, and I locked the door behind me.

I admit that I was surprised as I walked in and noticed the change - though I shouldn't have been. My mother had warned me. Still, I wasn't expecting quite the level of commitment she had in her little project, as my room had completely changed. Each and every piece of furniture was different. The paint on the walls and colour of my bedspread (once deep blue) was sickly red. She seemed to have attempted a 'royal' design, for I even had a throne as a desk chair.

It disgusted me. The carpet was velvet, and everything was red or furry white, with speckled black dots. I would be quite uncomfortable on my pillows for the night, as surely the fluffy white material would tickle my face, and eventually the synthetic material would rub my cheeks raw. I sat down on my bed and put my bag down on the floor beside me, before using my foot to shove it under my bed.

I hate red. I would have preferred hot pink to the monstrosity my room had become. Red only reminds me of blood and anger - two things that I avoid. Fortunately my mother had left my personal belongings untouched, including my bookshelf and closet. I made my way over to my bookshelf and picked up the book I had been reading before I left for Hogwarts, an interesting muggle book called "The Catcher in the Rye." It is a rather old novel, and a fairly good read, I must admit.

I walked to my bed, fluffed my pillows and rested back against the headboard. Not particularly comfortable, but if anyone invents a comfortable reading position I would be the first to know. I used a little reading torch as it darkened and the words had become more and more unclear. By the time I finished the book it was well past midnight. It was always times in like these that would wish the months would quickly pass and January would hurry up and arrive so I would turn 17 and I could use my wand whenever I pleased.

I slowly stood and stretched the sore muscles I had gained from sitting in an uncomfortable position for those few hours. I sighed before I glanced around, and debated whether I should risk sneaking down to the kitchens for a 'midnight snack,' or not. I try to avoid walking around my house at night, but sometimes I just have to push my natural human instincts to the side and force myself to open my bedroom door and drag myself into the hallway.

I did just that, slowly pushing open the door, lighting my path and making my way out into the dark hall. My bedroom is on the third story, and the kitchen is on the first. I've learnt to avoid the marble staircase and the parlour, both of which are located at the front of the house. So, obviously, I took the back route, and I turned right as I left my room.

As I walked down the halls I passed the decorative portraits of my ancestors and dead relatives. They were all asleep, though a few opened their eyes and eyed me off as the light shone by them. I walked straight towards the end of the hall, finally reaching the back staircase and the dumbwaiter. My mother prides herself in the fact that her home is new, modern and newly furnished on a regular basis, but in actual fact, though the décor is new and polished, the building itself is centuries old.

As a young child I would often go missing for hours or even days at a time, though eventually one of the house elves found my hiding place – the dumbwaiter. I would sit in there and close my eyes and I could be anything. Oh, the vivid fantasies I once dreamed of. Of course, when the house elves finally figured it out, every time I would go missing my mother would know exactly where to find me, and my little fantasy land no longer held the magic I had believed it had.

When I was seven I went to live in Italy with my close relatives, not long after my step father had passed. I learnt to read and write there, and I came back when I was eight. Finally able to understand the words on the pages of the books, I ran to sit in the dumbwaiter with the first book I had found upon arriving home. Try as I might, I unfortunately would not fit into the little shaft I easily slipped into only a year before.

I made my way down the wooden stairs, which creaked only slightly as I descended. A flash of movement at the base of the stairs immediately caught my attention, though upon shining my light on it I simply found a little house elf watching me with his big shocked eyes, like a deer caught in headlights. I tutted slightly and told myself to 'calm it' but before the little house elf could squeak his apology I lifted my finger to my lips in a signal for him to stay quiet.

He obeyed my silent command and simply dashed off into the dark without another glance. Letting out another soft sigh I finally made my way into the kitchen and simply grabbed a few pieces of bread. Not an exceptionally delicious or sweet midnight snack, but one that would be sure to fill me up. I sat myself on the bench and stayed there until I had finished eating, silently chewing in the ill-lighted kitchen.

I then stood and made my way out again, but not before glancing out of the glass back door. The moon was exceptional that night. Enticed, I made my way forward. It was full, and extremely bright. So bright I wondered why my home, and even the kitchen, was so awfully dark. I stepped closer and finally lifted my chin up to peer out through the frosted glass.

The face of a man suddenly appeared on the glass, screaming in agony. Blood dripped from his ears and nose. One of his eyes sat out of place, rolling back in his eye socket. His other eye was wide, though he had no pupil. The torment of this man was extremely evident, if not by the sound of his screams, but by the tortured expression on his grotesque face. His jaw cracked and broke, snapping as he opened his mouth far too wide in his anguish. He made a gurgling noise and no longer was he just an image as blood poured from his mouth, seeping through the glass and pooled on the floor at my feet.

I had jumped back and watched as the sudden scene unfolded in front of me, frozen in shock, unable to make even the slightest of noises. It seemed the breath had been knocked out of me, almost like I had been punched in the gut and winded. As the blood pooled, my brain began to click back into action. I finally sucked in a gulp of air and let out a quiet cry of frustration. "Every fucking time!" I growled, and I shook my head at myself as I watched the face freeze in time, motionless… though his frozen eyes still silently screamed of his torturous death.

Ghosts. I call them that even though I do not believe that word is correct for this term of the living dead. Perhaps evil spirits would be a better suited word, but even then "evil" implies cruel intentions that they do not seem to possess. I don't believe they have any intention or purpose. They are tortured souls that have nowhere to go and no one to re-join with. They are abandoned here to linger eternally at their death-place, stuck in between the world of the living, and the dead. They know nothing but their suffering.

There are many forms. Some, like the one I had just awoken, that are frozen in glass. Others roam and wander at night, and I often have the unfortunate luck of stumbling across them. I have yet to meet any creature like these outside of my home, however. They are not harmful, physically, nor are they anything close to pleasant. Upon meeting with one my initial reaction is to freeze. Helpful with the timid type that simply glide off, hiding their face, too caught up in their misery to notice me.

Not so helpful for the vengeful type, who will be searching mournfully for their killer. Upon meeting me they pause, lock eye contact and yell, diving straight through me, and disappearing before I can yell out in fear. As I said, they are not harmful, though they do give me a sudden chill, and there's no way to measure the fear that is injected into my blood when one locks my gaze with their pupil-less and bloody eyes.

I finally collected myself and I ran back to my bedroom and I once again locked the door quickly behind me. I then lied down on my bed, and tried to catch my breath. I decided I wouldn't fall asleep that night, so I stood to go get another book. I then realized I had forgotten my little torch downstairs. Cussing at my stupidity I made my way back to my bed and attempted to get comfortable. I tried to fall asleep but the face seemed to jump out at me from every corner of the room, no matter much how I twisted or turned.

I spent the weekend avoiding my mother and the kitchen. I had house elves bring me my meals and the little male house elf I had shone a light on early Saturday morning timidly brought my torch back to me, as though he knew I would want it. I thanked him – With my torch I could at least read through the nights if I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep.

I floo'd back to Hogsmeade on Sunday evening and walked back to Hogwarts. Upon reaching my dorm I found a note on my bedside table – Not unlike the one I had been given on the train ride here. I quickly read through it before shoving it into my drawer.

'Mr. Blaise Zabini,

I would be delighted if you would join me for dinner (and dessert!) at 8:00pm, on Wednesday the 6th of November, in my Living Quarters.

Sincerely, H.E.F Slughorn'

'I'll consider it later' I thought to myself as I got in bed and drew the curtains around me. I needed to catch up on sleep before class on Monday morning.

"Ah, Blaise! So glad you could join me!" Horace Slughorn's voice reached me before I had even entered the quarters. I had arrived a few minutes after 8:00 and I was thankful to see the Carrow twins and Marcus Belby had already arrived. Slughorn gestured for me to sit at a particular seat on the round table, next to Belby, and so I did despite this awful seating arrangement. I ignored Belby and glanced around at the cutlery Slughorn had placed around the table. He must truly believe the little 'meetings' he holds should be a fine dining experience for all of his chosen students.

Speaking of chosen students, I was somewhat surprised Slughorn had once again invited Belby, and even Longbottom, and as the hesitant boy made his way into the room and was seated on the other side of the table, I couldn't help but wonder once again about the judgment of the old wizard. One by one each of the students I had previously seen in Compartment C on September the 1st arrived and were seated.

I did note that one student was obviously missing, as there was a vacant seat on the other side of the table. Despite this Slughorn finally sat down on my other side, and dinner instantly appeared in front of us. He didn't even have a chance to say "Help yourself!" before Belby had grabbed as much of the food as he could, dragged it onto his plate and began to shovel it into his oversized mouth. I couldn't help but notice the look of disgust in Slughorn's expression as he watched this, before then I served myself.

The conversation was very choppy at first as Slughorn attempted to make small talk with each of the students, though he paused constantly to eat his meal. It didn't really pick up until each student had finished dinner, and dessert appeared. I was extremely pleased to find out what dessert we were having – Ice cream. Yes, alright, I have a bit of a sweet tooth, but not only was it ice cream, it was also my favourite kind. A mix of a smooth vanilla and a rich chocolate… Alright, alright, I'll stop.

Slughorn continued to interrogate each of his guests, and upon interrogation towards Belby, the whole group found that Belby's family had not spoken to his uncle (who had invented the wolfsbane potion, which was presumably the reason Belby had been invited to these gatherings) in years. Not only that, but his own father believed potions was rubbish. I thought that it was a curious thing for him to say to the potions teacher, and I couldn't help but wonder how on earth he was in Ravenclaw House.

I came to the conclusion that I wouldn't be seeing him again at one of these meetings. I was half way through dessert when Weaslette walked in and apologised for being late. Potter stood up for her and I had to smirk a little. How gentlemanlike. Of course, only Potter would stand up for a Weasley. After dessert we were ushered out and I walked slowly back to my dormitory. Upon reaching my bed, I once again noticed a little note on my bedside table, and Slughorn's handwriting was now easily recognizable.

The note was an invitation to a Christmas Party in which Slughorn would be hosting on Christmas Day. He said he would have a few guests present that he would like me to meet, and he made sure to include that a date was necessary. By the time I fell asleep that night I knew who I would ask.