Matou Shinji and the Heirs of Slytherin
A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story
Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.
Summary: Trouble is brewing in the Wizarding World. In the wake of the Stone Incident, Albus Dumbledore has begun quietly preparing Britain to survive the coming war. The Stone Cutters, a new organization at Hogwarts for the most talented and distinguished of students, seek new blood to bolster its strength. The Boy-Who-Lived seeks his destiny as the Heir of Slytherin. And a boy from the east meets a specter of the past.
Chapter 13. Visitation of Nightmare
Halloween had come, but this year, Ron Weasley had decided not to attend the Feast, since Gilderoy Lockhart - the man he despised, the man who had humiliated him by writing a personal note to his Mum that his grades were not what they could be (at the behest of that wanker Longbottom, no less!) – was providing the entertainment: a Russian epic concerning the fall of some Dark Lord from nearly a thousand years ago.
He would have been fine with something like a troupe of dancing skeletons, but with Sirius Black on the loose, the Defense Professor was rumored to have talked the Headmaster out of booking any outside entertainment, given one could never be too careful of what might be hidden in the luggage or such. Apparently, Alastor Moody had said that it was possible Black might take advantage of such an opportunity to suborn an individual with the Imperius Curse and have himself smuggled himself into – and out of - the castle to do his foul deeds.
Because of the students, Hogwarts could not afford to take any chances, Moody had argued, and one could never be vigilant enough against a Dark Wizard with Black's degree of power and cunning. Ron had been extremely disappointed by this, thinking that Dumbledore would resort to just having the ghosts of Hogwarts come in through the walls yet again, though Gilderoy Lockhart, the slimy git, had graciously volunteered to have his classes put together something noteworthy.
Of course, the man had proceeded to dismiss such classics as Hélas, Je me suis Transfiguré Les Pieds ("Alas, I have Transfigured my Feet!"), which – in addition to presenting the titular accident, also featured how Quidditch had spread across Europe. Instead, Lockhart had chosen something far more obscure, a play from Russia circa the late 1300s, rife with impossible things like wizards riding trees to battle, spells of decay, and the land itself taking sides in a war of words and mystic might.
(Sadly, Ron did not know that students at Koldovstoretz, the Russian School of Witchcraft, were still taught to use their magic on a grander scale, given the enormity of Siberia and the harshness of those untamed lands. This, in fact, included flying using entire uprooted trees instead of broomsticks, in spectacles that more resembled the gladiator games of Rome than any variation Quidditch currently in play today.)
First choice in casting had gone to the Consuls, of course, on top of all the other privileges they already had, not that Ron wanted any part of this play, with his brothers – Fred and George, that was, playing the heroes alongside Draco Malfoy, and Cedric Diggory – a Hufflepuff – starring as the eponymous Makar Zolgen, the villain against who the heroes struggled.
…from what he heard, Lockhart had first approached Potter and Matou about starring as the heroes, but both had demurred, citing other obligations. It figured they would, since they obviously thought they were above such things as appearing in front of an audience, enjoying their power as tyrants. But then, Ron thought, he should have expected this from the moment Potter made Malfoy one of his co-Consuls.
Everyone knew the Malfoys were up to no good, even if their wealth meant they had the Minister in their pocket, and they hadn't been caught doing anything overtly illegal since the War. So what if Draco's father had apparently saved the Minister from being shot by Hagrid? It didn't mean he wasn't evil, just that he knew which way his bread was buttered and didn't want to lose a figurehead he'd obviously bought and paid for.
That was just common sense. One didn't need proof for that.
So Ronald Weasley had decided to stay in Gryffindor Tower for the night to protest this glorification of Lockhart and Malfoy, as it was either that or be at the Feast. The Hit-wizards wouldn't allow him to simply be about, as they wanted to concentrate their forces to protect the students – even though they'd made an exception for Potter and Matou, just because they held Orders of Merlin they probably didn't even deserve! He'd hoped his friends would join him, but to a man they'd deserted him, their stomachs winning out over their good sense (not that he himself was any paragon of virtue, but at least he knew what was right!).
And now he was alone in Gryffindor Tower, waiting. Waiting for the Feast to be over, for his friends to return. Waiting for his brothers to get back for their performance, for his sister to get back from wherever she'd gone with Loony Lovegood – hopefully not the same place Matou and Potter were – for something to happen, because without anyone here, it was boring.
More boring than his sanity could bear, so as he sat by the fire, trying to amuse himself by playing chess against himself, he felt his mind slipping away as he drifted slowly…slowly…off to sleep.
As it so happened, Matou Shinji, accompanied by Harry Potter, Hermione Granger were heading towards the dungeons along with a full escort of Hit Wizards, as they had been invited to the 500th deathday celebration of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington – better known as Nearly Headless Nick, the house ghost of Gryffindor.
Or to put it more accurately, Shinji had been invited to the Deathday celebration by the Grey Lady, the Ghost of Ravenclaw Tower, with the stipulation that he was allowed to bring up to two mortal guests. She admitted that it was unusual for living beings to be at a celebration held by the ghosts, but when pressed, had mentioned that if she didn't, then it was likely Peeves would make him his guest, and it would be beneath the dignity of a Ravenclaw to let that meddling poltergeist gain an advantage.
Well, not in as many words, but the boy from the East was used to interpreting hidden meanings and messages, and as closely as he worked with the Grey Lady, he believed he was coming to understand her.
That, and he thought that being invited to a celebration of spirits was an honor indeed, as it meant he was being noticed in more than just the world of mortals. And, if ghosts liked him, they would be more willing to give him information on what was transpiring around the castle, giving him a personal intelligence network.
In any case, Shinji had decided to take Harry and Hermione as his guests.
Partially, this was due to how much prestige he'd probably gain from the ghosts by bringing Harry Potter – the Heir of Slytherin, Boy-Who-Lived, and so on and so forth. But mostly, it was because he remembered how Harry had felt last year – that he didn't want to celebrate with the rest of Hogwarts on the anniversary of his parents' death – and knew that his friend would likely be feeling even worse this year, with the memory of Sokaris haunting him.
He thought Harry would appreciate something different, something more like a memorial to remember those who had passed.
Hermione, of course, he figured he owed something to after her performance against Moody had led to their class being the only one to beat his challenge. And his bushy-haired friend had seemed thrilled to be invited to a private event by him, her face blushing prettily as she smiled, accepting the invitation – though her expression had gone wooden and fixed after hearing that Harry had been invited as well.
"I understand," was all she'd said.
Harry, on finding out Hermione was also invited, had also been quite unhappy, as he still felt uneasy around the girl after what Quirrell said during the final confrontation. Frankly, he blamed her for Sokaris' death as much as he blamed himself. More, sometimes.
And on finding out what the event was – that it was a celebration of death – both had almost decided not to go. It had taken a great deal of coaxing from Shinji – plus the threat of Lockhart casting Harry in a leading role for his play – for the Boy-Who-Lived to agree. Harry might have accepted that as a child of prophecy, his fate was bound up with Voldemort's, but he didn't want to be reminded of that – and on the anniversary of his parents' death, no less. Hermione had been less stubborn about it, her protests eventually fading as she'd told Shinji that she'd go because he invited her.
Which was why, on Halloween night, the awkward trio was dressed to the nines, walking past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which glittered invitingly with gold plates and candles, their steps taking them deep into the dungeons instead.
Harry was somewhat stiff, wary of the girl walking beside him. Hermione felt put out by the fact that Shinji had invited Harry too and was focusing most of his attention on him.
And of course, the escort of Hit Wizards was silent as shadows as they accompanied the group down the gloomy passageway.
Like the Great Hall, it too was lined with candles – long jet-black tapers burning with pale blue flames – casting a dim, ghostly light on everything, so that even the faces of the living seemed to have taken on an ashen pallor. The temperature dropped with every step forward, and as they advanced, the party began to hear what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard, a sound that became louder and louder as they continued on.
Hermione almost turned back, but did not because Shinji kept on walking – and she didn't want to be left behind. Harry – well, he was a bit confused, now that he thought about it. For if souls went onto an afterlife, how did there come to be ghosts? Was it true what was said, that ghosts simply had unfinished business in the mortal realm? It was an interesting quandary, and distracted him from the visceral sense of discomfort that otherwise threatened to overwhelm him.
Still, none of them spoke. None of them ventured a comment. None of them were willing to break the fey silence that had fallen over them.
At least, until they turned a corner and saw the shade of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington standing by a doorway hung with black velvet drapes, wearing a doublet, a dashing plumed hat, and a tunic with a ruff, with a number of Hit Wizards already flanking the doors.
'…that's odd. Did someone else get invited too?'
But he had no time for further thought, as the ghost was greeting them.
"Ah, welcome, welcome," the shade of Sir Nicholas spoke mournfully, noting the makeup of the party, the three youths surrounded by twice the number of Hit Wizards. "Are you live ones here for my party?"
Shinji bowed to the man in the way a courtier of old might have.
"Greetings and Happy Death-Day, Sir Nicholas. I and my two guests, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, are here at the invitation of the Grey Lady," the boy replied, managing a smile. "The others, I'm afraid, will not be joining us. Security, you see."
"Ah, yes, the Sirius Black affair," Sir Nicholas said in comprehension. "So the other live ones mentioned earlier. And what's this…" The ghost drifted closer to Harry, who stood his ground, uncertain of what the shade intended. "Harry Potter, at my Deathday party! Such an honor." Shinji felt a little miffed, since he was the one who had been invited, but Sir Nicholas was already drifting back. "And you too, Shinji Matou – we heard of what you did from Peeves. I still think he's a troublemaker, but if you managed to rein him in, well…you'd be the first since the Baron." He blinked at Hermione though, not recognizing who she was or anything relevant to say about her. In the end, he settled for a simple: "Ah, and welcome to you too, Miss Granger."
With a sweep of his plumed hat and a low bow, he gestured for the trio to enter – and so they did.
They stood, frozen at the spectacle that awaited them.
The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the ethereal melody of thirty musical saws – which true to the name, were handsaws that had been modified into instruments – played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform.
A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles, and the room itself was like stepping into a freezer.
"…I should have studied the Hot Air charm," Shinji heard Hermione whisper, a sentiment he didn't quite disagree with at that moment in time.
Harry, for his part, just looked on. Confusion – and grief – were quite visible on his face as he tried to process what was going on around him.
Fortunately, it was then that the Grey Lady, Helena Ravenclaw, drifted over to them, her gaze taking in the two Shinji had brought with him.
"So nice of you to finally join us, along with your guests," she said archly, making a moue of distaste as she looked at Harry, her gaze intense as she took note of the Boy-Who-Lived. "One of which seems to have been touched by Death. In that way, you differ from the one you would face, but in other respects, you are much like Him."
Harry stiffened under the ghost's regard, her words making him quite uncomfortable. Did she mean he was…like Voldemort?
"You…knew him?" Harry managed, swallowing as he looked away.
"We were acquainted," the Grey Lady replied without further explanation. She was silent for some time, as she considered what to say, taking in the boy's reaction. "My condolences on the passing of your parents and your late friend Sokaris. Good fortune on your road."
The Grey Lady's words struck Hermione dumb. For all her intelligence and her breadth of knowledge, she associated Halloween only with the Muggle tradition of Trick or Treating – and with the fall of Voldemort in the Wizarding World, as well as being essentially Christmas, Easter, and everything else rolled up into one.
She hadn't known – hadn't wanted to know – that on the night Magical Britain celebrated their salvation, a child had been orphaned. In her mind, she hadn't thought of Harry as another person – just as a concept as most of Magical Britain did: as the Heir of Slytherin, the Boy-Who-Lived, a member of the Order of Merlin (First Class).
To think he'd lost his parents…
She turned to say something to him, only to find his green eyes meeting hers unflinchingly.
"Don't give me your pity," Harry ground out, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't understand. You haven't lived my life. You don't know what I've been through. My parents…Sokaris…"
Hermione felt a flicker of irritation as Harry brought up the one who had been her best friend.
"That's rubbish, Potter. Sokaris was my friend too."
Harry's expression was almost hateful as he looked at Hermione, his eyes judging her – and finding her wanting.
"And you let her die," he said quietly – five words that cut her to the quick.
"I…I…" she tried to say something coherent, but nothing came to mind. Only darkness, only gloom, the wailing of the saws like a thousand screaming souls in her mind. His words echoed the doubts and thoughts she'd had since learning of Sokaris' death, wondering if it was her fault – if she could have done something – if she could have saved her friend somehow.
Over the last few months, she'd almost succeeded in stomping out that treacherous voice in her mind, but Potter's words brought the pain back in full.
"I…"
And then she fled into the room, plunging through the many ghosts on the dance floor in an effort to get away, her feet proving more capable than her mouth or brain at that moment.
"Harry," Shinji said reprovingly, turning a displeased look on his friend, who just looked into the distance after her. He'd tried to stop her, but she'd shrugged off his hand and vanished.
"Sorry…I don't know what came over me," the Boy-Who-Lived said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry." He sighed, his lips pressing together in a thin line. "Tell me, Shinji – how are you so strong? You were the closest one to her. To Sokaris, I mean."
"Because I know I'll see her again one day," was all Shinji answered. "And because she would want me to be."
"I see," Harry acknowledged.
"I hope I will not regret my decision to invite you," the Grey Lady said after some time – probably a least a minute, though Shinji wasn't sure. "My other guests both arrived far earlier and with far less of a taste for drama."
"My apologies for that," Shinji said, looking slightly chagrined. He hadn't expected that to go nearly as badly as it had. But… "…other guests?" Shinji wondered aloud. Under the circumstances, he could only wonder at whom that might be, as he didn't think she was close with any students except himself and—
"Hullo, Matou Shinji. Harry Potter."
—Luna Lovegood.
Said girl was approaching them now, with two figures trailing her, her silver dress robes, blonde hair, and pale skin shimmering in the soft candlelight, making her seem quite otherworldly as she stopped and greeted him with a curtsey.
"I had wondered if you would be coming," the girl said in that fey voice of hers.
"Well, I could hardly refuse an invitation from someone as charming as the Grey Lady," the boy from the east replied, finding that a smile came unbidden to his lips at the sight of her. "And hullo to you too, Luna. You look lovely tonight."
"As do you, Matou," Luna answered, her fey voice casting a spell of its own amidst the music. "And what of my friends?"
He found himself curious about who the blonde had brought, if anyone at all. She was still something of a mystery to him, even if they interacted sometimes while on Consul business, or by reading together in the mornings before classes, enjoying each other's quiet company.
She gestured at the two behind her – one of which was Daphne Greengrass, and the other of which was a red-headed girl that Shinji thought had to be a Weasley.
"Miss Greengrass, lovely to see you as always," Shinji said eloquently. "Wouldn't you agree, Harry?"
"Y-yes, quite lovely," Harry almost stammered – and who could blame him, really? "But what are you doing here?"
"Miss Lovegood had a hunch, as it were," Daphne said, the corners of her lips curling up slightly. "And a proper Slytherin knows better than to turn down an invitation from the Grey Lady, no matter how indirect. Besides, it was better than seeing Malfoy play a great hero."
Harry chuckled at that, as it was difficult to picture the boy as anything resembling a hero – especially when the plot called for the hero to sacrifice his life to hold off the Dark Lord. Even if Malfoy was not as much of a prat this year, being both a Co-Consul and the new Seeker for Slytherin House, it was easy enough to see that he was out for his own gain.
"And you must be Miss Weasley," he said to the redheaded girl beside her. Her flame-red dress should have drawn the eye immediately, but somehow, Harry hadn't really noticed her. "The new Seeker of Gryffindor House that Malfoy speaks of so often."
Mostly complaining that a first year – a Weasley, at that – had been allowed to join a House Quidditch team, when he had not, but there was no need to share that.
"Ah, yes. I'm…Ginny. Ginny Weasley," the girl barely got out, her cheeks burning. "I'm honored to meet you, Mr. Potter." She seemed a bit out of sorts as she caught sight of Shinji. "And you too, Mr. Matou. Luna speaks of you often. As do my brothers."
"Only good things, I hope," Shinji replied, though he wondered what Luna had said. "And by brothers you mean Fred and George, right? You must be very talented to be chosen as a Seeker in first year."
If anything, the blush on her cheeks seemed to deepen until it almost matched the color of her hair.
"N-no, not at all," Ginny stammered, looking down. "It's nothing much, really. Not compared to fighting a Dark Wizard like you, Fred, George, Prefect Hillard and…your friend."
"No point in denying it," Shinji chided. "Accomplishments should be celebrated for what they are, not compared against those of others. Don't you think so, Luna?"
"Just so."
On the other side of the world, a man who had once wished to be an ally of Justice felt an ancient curse eating away at him and knew his time was limited, making it all the more vital that he teach his adopted son everything he knew of the Fourth War, the factions of Fuyuki, and at the least, how to open his circuits.
If the Matou were already taking an interest in him, then Shirou had to have some kind of talent that Emiya Kiritsugu simply hadn't recognized as of yet. What did they know, he wondered? Did they know who he had been before the fire? He wondered, but he did not know.
In the City Beneath the Earth, of course, Aozaki Touko read over the letters her apprentice had sent her concerning the Helena Ravenclaw, the history of the Diadem, Voldemort's identity as a boy named Tom Riddle, and his concerns about Tomas and his abilities.
The puppetmaster had of course, already had her suspicions, given the nature of the curses upon the Diadem and the fact that Tomas was a mere fraction of a soul. And when confronted, Tomas had admitted that in his youth, he had toyed with the idea of becoming Lord Voldemort – showing her how I am Lord Voldemort was merely an anagram of "Tom Marvolo Riddle," but that he'd had no idea about what had happened after he had been sundered from the whole and had come to rest in the diadem.
He had the feeling his wisdom had been boosted from his longtime association with the artifact, but he did not know for sure. He only knew the past – that once he had led the Knights of Walpurgis and wanted to cleanse Magical Britain of its corruption and confusion – and that he thought a stratagem for such might be a civil war.
Touko had remarked on his callousness, though Tomas had simply shrugged, saying that such was an odd remark from a woman who had no fear of death – and who further held his life in her hands.
They'd talked on the nature of the soul for a bit, with Tomas rather aghast to find that it was the soul which gave form to not only the body but the mind, and that the more it was sundered, the more was lost.
Why hadn't anyone told him that instead of simply saying that the making of Horcruxes was a forbidden art that required murder?
For it was becoming quite clear to him how much even he had not understood about the way the world worked, how limited the resources he'd had access to were. And so they renegotiated their deal – he would – under geas – work as her familiar, and she would lift some of his memory restrictions that he could learn about the world. And in time, if he honored his deal, he could learn of the arts of the East, enough about the soul that he might perhaps one day begin to repair his own, and perhaps even the secrets of her own Craft.
For Aozaki Touko was assured of her continued existence by something far more potent than a mere Horcrux. Indeed, her skills at puppeteering made the very concept of horcruxes obsolete, as upon the death of one vessel, she'd simply move onto her next vessel.
If he could learn that...
"Miss…Greenwood?"
Back at the party, Hermione was sitting alone near the long buffet table on which a number of putrefying foods had been set out. Rotten fish, cakes burned charcoal-black, maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold – even an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington died 31st October, 1492.
Now and then, ghosts would approach the table and walk through it, mouths opened wide as if to try and capture a bit of the taste, but Hermione didn't care. The place smelled as wretched as she felt, so wretched she could hardly bear it.
Shinji had gone out of his way to invite her to this event – but she hadn't been grateful he'd chosen her. She'd been…jealous. And not even of Lovegood, who he hadn't invited – she'd been jealous of his friend Harry, who had lost far more than she over the years.
She…she hadn't known.
And once she knew, her reaction disgusted her. It hadn't even been pity, unlike what Potter said. It had been something far darker – almost a sense of gratitude that she wasn't alone in her suffering, with a doubting voice in the back of her mind that said Shinji would hate her if he knew how she really was, would leave her like everyone else had…that she'd ruined everything.
She was pretty sure, now that her head had cleared a bit, that she'd shaken off his hand and bolted, something she was sure Matou would take offense to, since she had come as his guest. And now…now, she'd done something like that in front of Potter, Shinji's best friend.
'What have I done…?'
"Miss Greenwood, are you well?"
"Huh?" Hermione asked, looking up to find herself face to face with the ghost of Cuthbert Binns, the Professor who had once taught History of Magic, and now taught an elective on Wizard-Goblin relations. It was perhaps unkind to say this, but she rather thought she looked like a ghost, given how ancient and shriveled he looked, almost like an old tortoise with a dry, reedy voice.
But…she'd never seen him outside of the classroom before.
"Granger, sir."
"What was that, Miss Greenwood?"
"My name is Hermione Granger, Professor," the girl repeated, with the specter blinking slowly as his eyes focused on her at last.
"Sokaris' friend," he grunted in recognition, with Hermione's eyes widening at the name.
"You…remember Sokaris, Professor?" the bushy-haired girl asked timidly, shocked that he'd recognized anyone, really.
"Hn. She came to my office hours," Binns recalled, almost seeming to squint behind his thick glasses. "Only student to do that in…hm…I don't think anyone has ever done that since I died."
"…you had office hours, sir?" Hermione asked, with Binns just sighing at the question. "But…you never mentioned them, Professor."
"All Professors do, Miss Granger," the old ghost answered after a few moments. "I just stopped talking about mine because no one wanted to talk about History. It's not a class this generation cares about, I'm afraid. Or the last. Or the one before that."
Hermione politely refrained from mentioning that perhaps it was the ghostly professor's teaching style that was responsible for this, given how many people fell asleep in class.
"I'm sorry to hear that, but you said she came to yours…?"
"Indeed," Binns answered, seeming almost thoughtful. "She was a very bright girl, with a hunger for knowledge I have rarely seen. The Giant Wars, the history of Alchemy, the Philosopher's Stone and more – she had many questions, and it was my pleasure to answer."
This came as a shock to Hermione. Not that Sokaris had been very curious or very intelligent, of course, but that Binns actually seemed to enjoy anything.
"She told me of the prank war that broke out last year – a most uncivilized affair. It was around then that I told her about the kitchens to give her an escape from the chaos. I even let her sleep in my office sometimes, since I had no use for it."
The ghost paused for a moment to regard her, and she wondered if he was comparing her to Sokaris – and finding her wanting once again.
"She said you were an intelligent girl, but perhaps a touch prideful about what you knew – and a touch afraid to see or accept what you didn't."
Hermione almost bristled at that, until she remembered how often she'd said things were impossible when they weren't, or that things had to be a certain way because that's how she was taught.
'…maybe she was right. Maybe that's why Shinji liked her more…'
But the ghost wasn't done talking…
"Speaking of which, Miss Granger, why are you here? You're not a ghost," he noted, eyes peering curiously at her over large spectacles.
"I…the Grey Lady invited Matou, Professor," she said, half-stumbling. "He invited me."
"Ah, you are his companion for the evening then," Binns surmised, though he made a point of looking back and forth. "But where is he?"
Hermione blushed a little, mostly out of embarrassment.
"We…had a misunderstanding," she managed.
"So it's like that," Binns said knowingly, in a tone that seemed entirely unlike the History Professor she knew. "The folly of youth." The old ghost seemed thoughtful as he regarded her. "Speaking of youth, how is History under Fauntleroy Lockheed?"
Hermione blinked, suppressing the image of Little Lord Fauntleroy that came to her mind.
"Professor Gilderoy Lockhart is a decent teacher, sir. His love of History is obvious, and he has everyone paying attention."
And that much was true, even if Hermione took exception to his methods – like the Consul system – and the way he didn't mind using his reputation and force of personality as tools to keep the class under control. Compared to what she'd expected after Binns, Gilderoy Lockhart teaching History was akin to a force of nature – intense, powerful, and unable to be ignored.
He was quick to make examples, to have students put on demonstrations, to ask students to look at things from different points of view – and he spared no feelings. Even his Consul system had offered insight into the responsibilities of those in power and the rights of those who were governed, along with allowing him to discuss different forms of Wizarding Government and the strengths and weakness of each.
Really, it was odd how much more willing people were to listen when something was immediately applicable to their situation instead of remaining some nebulous concept they never considered relevant.
"…what you're not saying to spare this old man's feelings is that no one sleeps," the ghost said dryly.
Hermione winced at this, as his remark was spot on.
"Yes, sir," she admitted.
But Binns only shook his head.
"I know what is said about me, Miss Granger, and I cannot argue with the truth," he said simply, half-shrugging. "Frankly, I like my small class better. I only have 15 students this year, but each one studies, has questions, cares. If Fauntleroy is doing better, then more power to him." He paused, seeming thoughtful. "I never did commune with my fellow spirits, Miss Granger. This is the first of their parties I've been to, in fact. So if you don't want to face your young man, might I ask you to accompany me?"
"I. Yes, I wouldn't mind, sir."
"Mm. And if you want to talk about Sokaris, Miss Granger, come to my office. The door will be open to you."
At the other end of the vast dungeon, Shinji had left Harry with Ginny and Daphne while he wandered around the party with Luna and the Grey Lady. He'd wanted to see if Hermione was ok, but the Grey Lady had made a couple of inquiries for him, noting that she had asked Professor Binns to see to her – and that as confused as the girl was, she could probably use some time to think.
He wasn't entirely convinced, but had yielded to female wisdom – and admittedly to a bit of selfishness, since after the awkwardness of the evening, spending time with Luna was like a breath of fresh air, as they spoke about everything, about nothing in particular, and some things in between.
Here and there, the Grey Lady would interject, but all in all, it was a fairly pleasant experience, and once – when he caught Luna glancing at him—he'd smiled, only to see her smile in return.
Of particular interest to her was the play Makar Zolgen, which neither of them were acting in: the theatrical rendition of a Russian wizarding epic concerning the dark lord that had once ruled the lands of Rus as a tyrant, a master of wyrms who had only been driven out by a last alliance of goblins, elves (who they called Blajini) and men, with the latter including the local Church.
In those days, even more than today, the lands of Rus were wilder than those of the West, with magic being more powerful and less hidden, as its users did not dwell in the cities but in the cold of Siberia. Indeed, once the forests had marched to war. Once wizards had ridden to battle not on brooms but vast trees. Once things like animagi were common place in those wild lands.
Makar Zolgen, the eponymous Dark Lord of the play, apparently had power over wyrms – dragons – and could even transform into one…though on hearing this, Shinji privately wondered if there had been a grave failure in translation, with wyrms really being worms, like those used by Matou Zouken, who had once been named Makiri…
Shinji didn't say too much about the play, other than he thought it would be worth watching sometime, or at least reading in more detail.
From what little he'd read of the script, the Dark Lord had been driven from his lands by the Last Alliance, but had laid a curse upon those who had wronged him, vowing to one day return and take his revenge on those who had ruined his dreams of creating a utopia – of creating a paradise that did not exist in this world – because they did not understand the nature of his great work.
That in order to rid the world of suffering and evil, the world must endure a bit of evil – enough that he could open a gate to the source of all magic.
Needless to say, it was that part which had quite disturbed Matou Shinji, given that this bit about a monstrous one opening a gate to the source of all magic…sounded like the ambition of a magus, though some things – like the Dark Lord wanting to make a paradise – didn't fit. Matou Zouken sought Akasha and immortality, not salvation…
But then, as the text said, the worst evils were those done in the name of good.
Luna followed his train of thought, mostly – and often he thought she understood more than he said, her silvery eyes seeing him in the now and something else.
In time, they came to talk of other matters like the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, with Shinji bringing up the legends of the East, and how the beast called either the Kirin or the Qilin fit the description.
All she said in response was "I would like to see that one day," as they walked together, enjoying each other's company.
…until they were brought back to reality by Sir Nicholas, who like any dutiful host, was stopping by to check on his guests.
"Enjoying yourselves?" he asked.
"Oh yes," Luna and Shinji both replied – even meaning it, for it had indeed been a wonderful evening, with sights and sounds they had never expected to see.
"Well, Peeves hasn't taken over this year," the Grey Lady added, amused.
"There is that," the ghost of Gryffindor Tower said proudly. "Not a bad turnout today. No beheaded troll taking the center of attention. Even Harry Potter and a number of other live ones, due to you, Grey Lady."
"It was my pleasure," Helena Ravenclaw said with a sly smile, the sight of which put Shinji instantly on guard. In his experience, such an expression rarely meant anything good.
As if the smile had been some sort of signal, the orchestra stopped playing, with the sound of a hunting horn echoing in the dungeon.
"Oh here we go again," Sir Nicholas said bitterly, sighing as a dozen phantom steeds burst through the wall, with a headless horseman atop each.
Many of the assembled ghosts clapped wildly, though Shinji took his cue from the host's sour expression and did not, as the horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging.
The rider in the lead – a quite sizable ghost who held his bearded head under his arm, leapt down, lifting his head lifting his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd and strode over to Sir Nicholas, squashing his head back onto his neck.
"Nick!" he roared. "How are you? Head still hanging in there?" He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Sir Nicholas on the shoulder.
"Welcome, Patrick," the host of the party said stiffly. Last year it had been Peeves and his tale of slaying a troll – an achievement most of the ghosts only wish they could match. This year, Sir Patrick and his huntsmen…
"And whadda we have here? Live 'uns!" Sir Patrick said with an exaggerated jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again, the crowd roaring with laughter as he did this.
"Very amusing," Sir Nicholas growled darkly.
"Don't mind Nick!" Sir Patrick's head shouted from the floor. "He's still upset we won't let him join the Headless Hunt! But I mean to say - look at the fellow. He is only nearly headless, thanks to his botched execu—."
But whatever he was about to say, he was cut off by an explosion of light, with a slip of paper launched in the confusion sealing the ghostly head's mouth.
"You are being very rude," Matou Shinji spoke up, as the riotous antics of Sir Patrick annoyed him. "You come uninvited to a party. You taunt the party's host and make a general arse of yourself. And you call yourself a knight."
"Who are you to—" one of the other Huntsmen broke in, but Shinji silenced him with a look.
"Matou Shinji, of the Order of Merlin," the boy from the east answered. "I trust you have heard of it?"
There was a murmur, as they had indeed heard of the Order of Merlin – and even more, wondered what a mortal was doing meddling in the affairs of ghosts.
"He's right though," Nicholas said then. "I am only nearly headless, thanks to that wretched executioner. Forty-five blows with an axe, yet he could not finish the last half inch of skin and sinew…"
"I think Matou might help you with that," the Grey Lady interjected mildly, that sly smile on her face.
"You're kind to offer that, but…"
"I mean it, Nicholas," the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower continued. "He can touch us."
At those words, the room fell silent – or almost so – with every ghost and every human present in the room turning to look at the boy from the east, save for Luna who already knew what he could do.
"…is this…is this true, Shinji Matou?" Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington asked, hope warring against fear, as he wondered if he even dared to hope. Ghosts, once dead, were simple impressions of what they had been in life – there could be no changing them – could there?
"It is," Shinji replied, speaking with a confidence he did not feel. The Grey Lady had probably had this in mind the entire time, but it was one thing to touch a ghost. It was another thing to decapitate one…wasn't it?
"Then…please," Nick said, kneeling before the boy and swinging his head off onto the hinge of skin and sinew that held it there, much to the horror of some of the humans there.
"As you will," Shinji said. If he was going to do this, he'd do this well. He reached out with his gloved hands, perhaps slightly roughly, and touched the flap of skin and muscle.
"Ouch! That's…" Nick's exclamation died in his throat as he realized what he had just said. "I felt that."
The ghosts began to murmur. A mortal could touch them – and they could feel it?
Half an inch of sinew was not inconsiderable, of course, and was too much to just tear, but…
"Duros," Shinji said, his wand turning the outer layer of one glove into sharp stone. Bracing the sharpened glove against the almost severed hinge, he cut.
The ectoplasm offered some resistance, and Sir Nicholas whimpered in pain as for the first time in 500 years, he felt the bite of something like a knife, but after some time, the phantasmal flesh gave way, and Matou Shinji lifted Nicholas' now fully severed head into the air in triumph.
Gasps went up from the room, mutters of things such as "Impossible" or "Dark Magic", but Shinji didn't care as he cancelled his spells – both on his glove and on Sir Patrick.
Not that it was the first time, but these were spirits who had seen witchcraft and wizardry of long ago, and something like this – changing the fundamental structure of a ghost – the impression of how one had died – that was beyond anything they knew of, save perhaps petrification spells – and this wasn't it.
"You…how did you?"
"Any further complaints, Sir Patrick?" he asked mildly, whereupon the head on the ground swallowed.
"None. None at all, Sir Shinji. Nicholas, by the powers vested in me as leader of the Headless Hunt, I, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore would like to invite you to join our humble band of merry men."
"Accepted," Nicholas said brusquely, as Shinji handed the ghost his head. But the ghost remained kneeling as he cradled his head in his arms. "Shinji Matou, of the House of Ravenclaw. I, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, owe you a debt beyond measure. Should you have reason to call upon me, know that I will do all in my power to assist you, and those who call you friend." He looked over to the doorway for a moment. "If I may have a light, please?"
A silvery-blue spotlight illuminated his form from above, as for the first time in half a millennium, Now Headless Nick was able to give his speech uninterrupted.
"Five hundred years it has been since I died. Five hundred years since a misunderstanding led to my execution. Five hundred years since I knew the kindness of a living being. For nearly as long I have been a house ghost, helping those in Gryffindor to become familiar with the castle, seeing the generations pass, and the years tick by, each season like the next, each day like the one before. As a ghost, it is easy to become fixed on routine, on why we died and what we regret, all the more because we cannot feel or taste or smell – only see and hear, an echo of what we once were. To have hope again – or even fear or pain – these things are things we long for, knowing our wishes can never come true, because we lost our chance to make them so in life. But you, Sir Shinji, changed that. You give us hope that even in our reduced states, we do not dream in vain. That even though we have shed our mortal forms, there is hope for what lies ahead, that today may not be the same as tomorrow. Today – today my friends, let us remember life, and be merry on this blessed Halloween."
The profound stillness that fell after his speech hung in the air for some time, until one ghost stepped forward and clapped. It was the Bloody Baron, and he was crying. Seeing this, there was a stir, with one ghost, then another joining in until the room was filled with applause.
"Well done, Matou," the Grey Lady whispered softly into his ear, smirking.
"You planned that, didn't you?" he asked, as much for confirmation as anything else.
"Of course," she said. "After all, I am my mother's daughter."
"…touché," he replied, thinking that he should have expected something of the sort. As it was…well, as it was, he probably now had the attention of Hogwarts' entirely spirit community, as the Grey Lady drifted off, leaving him alone with Luna.
"Sickle for your thoughts?" the blonde questioned.
"I think they're worth a fair bit more than that," Shinji replied, feeling more than a little strained after all that had occurred. "It's been an interesting night."
"Indeed," Luna noted, her silvery eyes looking into his as she curtseyed. "Care to dance?"
"It would be my honor," Shinji replied with a slight bow. A smile flitted across his lips as he took her hand and together, they waltzed the night away.
Sadly, things were less wonderful for Ronald Weasley, who was rudely awakened from his sleep, pain blossoming in his shoulders and back as he was slammed against a wall.
"WHERE IS HE?" a voice snarled, the speaker's breath foul in his nose.
'Who? What's going on?'
What was happening? Last thing he remembered, he'd been playing chess against himself in Gryffindor Tower, and now, a shadow loomed before him, the hand around his throat leaving just enough slack to keep him from choking to death – but with the promise that bit would go away if he did not do what was asked.
His eyes darted around all about, recognizing the familiar trappings of Gryffindor Tower. But…how? How had this…this monster broken…
…Ron swallowed, this thoughts falling away as he felt the cold sharpness of a knife against his soft underbelly. This…this wasn't real, was it? It…was...was he going to die? Merlin. But he was so young. He was only twelve. He'd never even kissed a girl, or started in a Quidditch game. So why…
"Answer me, boy! Where is he?"
"I…I don't know," he gasped, eyes bulging. "Who do you…?"
His voice came out in a distinctly mouselike squeak, as the grip around his throat tightened, the knife just beginning to draw blood. Ron tried to be brave, to not give in to the terrible urge to live, but he was just a boy.
But then his mind, his ever treacherous mind, supplied the answer.
…this must be Sirius Black, the Dark Lord's chief lieutenant – hunting the Boy-Who-Lived at the behest of his master. But…why was he here and not in the Slytherin dungeons?
'Unless Potter let him in and he's here for someone else…'
"I don't…"
The grip tightened, the knife pressing against his stomach and beginning to slice. Slowly, slowly, slow.
"Ok. I'll tell you. I'll tell you. Please don't kill me," he babbled, for despite his boasts, Ronald Weasley could very much know fear. "Don't kill me."
"Where?"
The question was a growl, as the figure silhouetted against the fire showed his teeth.
"Tell me, Weasley," the man whispered roughly, eyes bright with madness boring into his own. "Where is he?"
"Potter…in the dungeons. With the ghosts. Please…don't kill me."
The man made a hnn sound, the blade moving mercifully away from his stomach – only to be replaced by the man's knee slamming into his gut. His world exploded in pain. He wanted to cry, to whimper, to double up as his vision went white, but the man wouldn't let him.
"Don't play dumb with me, boy," the man all but snarled. "I don't want Potter."
"You…don't?" Ron asked, eyes round and full with fear.
"No, boy. It's Wormtail I'm after, and you know where he is."
This only confused the poor boy. Wormtail? He didn't know anyone by that name. Or nickname. Or whatever it was.
"I don't—"
His denial was cut short by the knee slamming into his gut once again, with Ron wanting nothing but to die at that moment. He was thankful the Dark Wizard wasn't using Crucio, but he'd never imagined how painful simple violence could be…
"The rat," the man hissed. "The one with you in the Prophet. Where. Is. He…?"
This time, the knife was back. If Black didn't believe him, was he going to kill him? Was he going to die?
"I don't…" he whimpered, only to fall silent as the knife pressed against his skin. "He ran away. Scabbers ran away."
"Ran away?" Sirius Black repeated, with Ron frantically nodding.
"Please…you have to believe me. He ran off. Over a month ago. I haven't seen him since. Please. Please. I'll do anything you want. Just don't…don't…"
Black, of course, was not happy to hear this at all.
"If you're lying to me, boy…" he said threateningly, eyes bright with madness staring into Ron's and horrifying the boy with what was in them - the utter disregard for life, a single minded urge to destroy.
"No…I swear. I'm not lying. Please…I'll do anything. Please…I…"
And then he was free, collapsing into a heap on the ground as he sobbed and gasped for breath.
"And you call yourself a Gryffindor," the man said coldly. "Pathetic. Fine, Weasley, you listen and you listen good, boy. Forget about Wormtail. Padfoot will take good care of 'im, you hear me."
"Pad…?"
"And if you lied to me…"
"No…I…"
He looked up, noticing to his horror that Black was armed with his wand.
"Then I'll just be taking this. You should listen to Moody. Constant Vigilance and all that, for Merlin's bloody balls. Stupefy."
And Ron Weasley knew no more.