The Past and Present Collide

Sunday came swiftly, and Mandy found herself dreading her meeting with Patrick. It wasn't that she didn't want to see him - she did - but if he was connected with the "monster" at Hogwarts, she wasn't sure if getting close to him was a good idea. But since her talk with Dumbledore, there was no way to avoid him now.

It was six thirty, and Mandy was sitting on her bed, alone in her dorm. She stared into the full-length mirror across the room, watching her reflection without really seeing it. She still wore her uniform, but she had taken off her vest and unbuttoned the collar of her shirt and loosened her Ravenclaw tie. She debated whether or not to clean herself up and try to look nice. After deciding that it was better to go as she was, she stood up slowly and began hunting for a brush.

She wondered if her friends were having a better time than she was. Padma was in the Great Hall with Julian (probably being terrorized by Millicent), Terry was in the library finishing his homework, and Adrian was still in the hospital wing, probably ready to bash his head into a wall because of Draco Malfoy's unending babble about his father. So maybe they weren't having fun.

"Well, if they're not having fun, I'm going to," Mandy announced, to no one but herself.

"That's the spirit, dear," her mirror wheezed, and Mandy jumped about six feet in the air. The mirror chuckled. "Tidy yourself up a bit, first. You look like you've been dragged across two continents."

Mandy scowled at the mirror and continued hunting for a brush. Her fingers were clumsy in the semi-darkness of the room, and her hand accidentally collided with a framed photograph of herself and Adrian at the Yule Ball. It toppled off the drawer and the glass shattered, tiny shards littering the carpet.

"Oh, bugger!" Mandy got down on her hands and knees to pick up the frame, and then swore again when a sharp shard sliced her finger open. Blood dripped onto her blouse, staining it bright scarlet, and she reached into her pocket with her clean hand to pull out her wand. She muttered a simple spell to clean up the rest of the shards and heal the cut on her finger, then opened the picture frame and slid the photograph out. She gave it a mournful look and then set in down on the drawer and began to hunt for a new blouse.

She pulled out the first one she found, took off the bloody one and tossed it into her laundry basket, and then stood in front of the mirror in her bra, the clean shirt dangling limply from one hand. She was a disaster, quite simply. Her hair was tangled and dirty, her skin pale, and now her hand was stained with blood.

I need to get some sleep and stop worrying about this. I do look like I've been dragged across two continents. She glanced at the clock and sighed when she realized that she had no time to take a shower.

She spotted her brush, grabbed it, and forced it through her tangled hair, biting down on her lip as she pulled it through a particularly stubborn knot. When she had finished, she shrugged her shirt on, put on a bit of chapstick, and rubbed her cheeks in a vain attempt to restore some colour to them. When she looked a bit less like a corpse and more like a human, she left the room and began to make her way towards the owlery.

The Common Room was more alive today. A fire danced merrily in the fireplace, and students talked in loud voices. Mandy wished briefly that she could join them, or Terry, or Padma, or Adrian, or anyone that was living and breathing that she was allowed to be attracted to . . .

She shook her head and kept walking, reminding herself constantly that she had to see Patrick, and she wasn't attracted to him, he was just a friend and he was dead anyway. She repeated those sentiments to herself all the way to the owlery, until she had almost convinced herself that they were true. And then she pushed open the door, and they - along with the steely resolve that she was only here to ask for information - deserted her immediately. Patrick was standing there, looking so happy to see her that she couldn't help but smile.

"Hi," she croaked.

"Hello," he responded, and she stepped inside the room, shutting the door behind her.

As soon as she got closer to him, Patrick frowned and took a step forward.

"You look awful. Is everything all right? It must be pretty hectic around the castle . . ." He noticed her bloodstained hand and picked it up, examining it. "What happened to you?"

She jerked her hand out of his grip and rubbed it on her skirt, trying to wipe off the blood.

"Oh . . . picture frame. I knocked it over, and it broke. I cut my finger open on some of the glass. It's ok, though, I--" she broke off when she noticed the expression on his face. It was almost hungry, maybe even jealous, and it made her take a step back. "What's wrong?"

He blinked, and looked at her. "Oh, I'm sorry, it's just . . . nevermind. It's crazy."

She shook her head. "No, go on, tell me."

He turned his gaze to the floor and said, in a half-mumble, "You can feel pain. I can't. Sometimes I almost miss it . . . well, not the pain, really, but the feeling it gives you, like you're alive. You can't feel pain if you're dead, and that just reminded me that I'm dead, and I'm always going to be."

Mandy bit her lip. It had never occurred to her that people would miss physical pain. She was the kind of person to avoid it whenever possible. She could handle mental stress, but physical exertion just wasn't her thing. But somehow, he made sense. She frowned and walked towards the window.

"It can't be all bad, though - being a ghost, that is," she mused. "Even if you miss pain sometimes, that's better than constantly feeling it, isn't it? Nothing can hurt you, and you get to stick around for hundreds of years and watch the world change before your eyes . . . It's almost like being immortal, if you think about it, only you don't breathe or eat and you can walk through walls." She turned around and smiled at him.

"I guess you could say that," he agreed. "But then, being immortal can't be all it's cracked up to be. Sure, you'd live forever, and nothing would hurt you. But what about your friends? They'd grow old, and you'd watch them die, while you'd just stay young until the end of the world. And as exciting as watching the world go by may be, it's nothing without someone to share it with. If you're alone for that long, you stop living and just start existing."

Mandy considered that for a minute. "So you're saying the only good way to go about it is to just die?"

He nodded. "As long as you live your life to the fullest, death is a good thing."

"You sound like a psychologist," she laughed. "You should be one. No one's wiser than the dead, eh?"

"Actually, no one's wiser than me in general."

She laughed again, and then turned back to the window. The sky, which had barely begun to darken despite the hour, was covered in a thick, impenetrable blanket of cloud, a dull ocean of white that stretched on forever. The faintest hint of fog twisted around the Forbidden Forest, weaving in and out of the trees. It was the kind of day that made Mandy want to cuddle up in bed with a warm blanket, a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and a good book, but instead she was in the chilly owlery with a ghost talking about immortality. An interesting alternative, certainly, and she was surprised to find that she liked it.

"How are your friends?" Patrick asked as he moved beside her.

"Well, Terry's finishing some last-minute homework, Padma's talking with Julian in the Great Hall, and Adrian's in the hospital wing, so I guess they're fine," said Mandy.

"Adrian's in the hospital wing? Why?"

"Didn't you hear? The Slytherin Common Room was attacked on Friday night. About half the House was hurt, but no one was seriously injured. Adrian broke a few ribs and got scratched up, but he's all right. He leaves the hospital wing tomorrow," she said.

If it was possible, Patrick blanched. "I'm sorry . . . I didn't know."

Mandy couldn't stop herself. "How could you not know? It's been all around the school! Half of Slytherin House was injured, people were talking about shutting the school down, everyone had to be moved to the Great Hall, and I wouldn't be surprised if this whole thing is being splashed over the front page of the Daily Prophet right about now. Hell, it might even be connected to You-Know-Who! This is a big deal, Patrick. You should know about it. And maybe if you talked to one of the thousands of people in this school other than me, you would know."

Patrick seemed to pale even further, and his tone took on a sharp edge of defence. "I haunt a bunch of corridors no one seems to visit, and since I'm dead, not many people are concerned about me enough to come tell me if something's going on in the castle. I don't have friends to tell me what's going on, either. I'm sorry, but I don't. You're the only person I really talk to, and I didn't see you yesterday, but I'm seeing you just now, and you just told me. So now I know. Are you happy?"

"Sure," she muttered, and looked down at the ground. "I don't get it, but oh well. I guess I'll have to learn how to be your Daily Prophet."

Patrick sighed and leaned against the wall. "If it means that much to you, I'll subscribe to the newspaper. I've never heard of a ghost reading the newspaper before, but it can't hurt, can it?"

"How would you do that? You have to pay, you know."

"Oh yeah. I guess that makes it a bit impossible, then."

"Well, I subscribe, so when I finish mine, I could send it to you . . . or something . . ."

He laughed. "Maybe. I'll try to keep up somehow, though. I've just never felt the need to, being dead and all."

"You're awfully bitter about that, aren't you?" She said, a hint of amusement playing in her voice.

"I suppose it has its advantages, but it's bloody boring. After a while, the novelty of walking through walls wears off, and as fascinating as the castle may be, you've seen all of it within the first 20 years. And when you're alone the whole time--"

"You don't have to be," Mandy blurted, and then tried to recover. "I mean, there are lots of other ghosts here, and I'm sure they can relate. Have you ever talked to Moaning Myrtle? She's not exactly great company, but she's close to your age."

He laughed hard, so hard that his shoulders shook. "Moaning Myrtle? Last time I spoke to her, she ran sobbing out of the room before I could finish my first word. Apparently Peeves told her that I only speak to her out of 'pity for the less fortunate.' She still hasn't recovered from that, I don't think, because she tears up, scowls, and zooms away every time I look at her."

"Only Myrtle," Mandy said, grinning. "Once, last year, Padma accidentally flushed her toilet and she ended up in the lake. She really hasn't recovered from that."

That made Patrick laugh harder, and Mandy decided that she liked his laugh. It was deep and warm, unlike Adrian's, which had an edge of roughness to it. She didn't make Adrian laugh all that often, either, and making Patrick laugh was oddly satisfying. A shiver crept up her spine, and she turned to look out the window again.

A tall figure, cloaked in black, was standing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, watching the castle. Its head turned, and if its eyes had been visible, they would have met Mandy's. She blinked, startled, and stepped back. Her shoe caught on a crack in the stone floor of the owlery, and she fell backwards, gasping as she smacked against the cold floor.

Patrick knelt beside her, his brow furrowed deeply in concern. "What just happened?"

"There was something out there," she said raggedly. "I swear it was a Dementor."

"You should go tell Dumbledore," Patrick replied, his eyebrows now raised. He held out a hand to help her up, and she took it, though not without flinching at the sudden wave of cold that swept through her body.

Her eyes met his, and she shook her head. "No, I was probably imagining it. Serious sleep deprivation makes me see things sometimes." He raised an eyebrow. "Really. When I blinked, it just disappeared."

"All right . . . maybe you should go get some sleep, then. What time is it?"

Mandy rolled back her sleeve and looked at the golden watch that glimmered on her skinny wrist. "Seven forty-five. I'll leave at eight, maybe."

But she didn't leave at eight. It was past nine o'clock when she realized that she'd stayed too long, and she muttered a quick, "Oh, bugger," when she saw her watch.

Patrick glanced down at the time. "Oh. You should probably go. Do you want me to come with you? You shouldn't be walking the halls alone, especially not since Friday . . ."

"Er, I suppose," she said lamely, obviously unsure of what she should say. "I mean, you don't have to, I can manage perfectly well on my own, but if you've nothing better to do--"

"I don't," he said, grinning, and then he motioned to the door.

Mandy smiled and left the room, wrapping her robes more tightly around herself as she walked. The corridors were icy, and Patrick's presence certainly didn't help matters. Soon she found her arms covered in goosebumps, and cast an inquiring glance at Patrick, who had been staring silently at the wall.

"Why's it so cold?" she murmured, and he turned to look at her.

"I've no idea," he said softly. "I can't even feel it."

With a shrug, she continued on her way, shivering. The silence of the halls pressed in around her in an almost oppressive manner, and so she forced herself to talk.

"How much has Hogwarts changed since you were here?"

He frowned. "Not as much as you'd think. I've come to the understanding that they don't like to innovate often. The whole wizarding world is actually like that, if you look at it . . . not much changes other than the people."

"But what's actually different?" she persisted.

"Some of the policies have changed, but that's to be expected, with new headmasters and all. And we had the Triwizard Tournament every five years." He suddenly beamed. "In my sixth year, it was held at Beauxbatons, and I was one of the students selected to travel to France and enter the Tournament. I didn't get selected as a Champion, of course, but I've never had so much fun in my life. Even if all three of the champions did get killed . . ."

"But I thought you died in your sixth year," she said without thinking.

"I did," he replied mournfully. "After the champions died, we were sent back to Hogwarts for the rest of the school year. That was in early April. I died in June."

She nodded, and then realised that they had just reached the Common Room. Shifting awkwardly, she stopped and tilted her head to look up into Patrick's eyes.

"Well, goodnight, Patrick."

Without warning, he reached out and brushed a lock of hair off her face. She stepped back, shocked.

"Come see me again, Mandy. Whenever you have the time."

She nodded wordlessly and broke away from him, barking the password out and then stumbling into the Common Room. Padma and Terry were nowhere to be seen, so she simply collapsed onto the nearest chair and sat, staring into the fire.

Her fingers reached up to run across her cheek where he had touched her face, and she closed her eyes and fell backwards into an unhappy sleep.