Summertempt

“So ends another year,” languished Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington, better known to all as Nearly Headless Nick. He floated over to a group of graduates lingering in the front hall and, with a grander flourish than usual, tipped his head onto its side. The students applauded the trick for what would probably be the last time, and Nearly Headless Nick moved on to entertain another gaggle of exiting pupils.

Suddenly a scream penetrated the corridors, and a second later the ghost of Moaning Myrtle came tearing around the bend, followed closely by a maniacal, laughing Peeves. Peeves held a handful of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans and was pelting them gleefully at the distressed Myrtle. Being transparent, the candy sailed right through her, but that didn’t seem to be much of a comfort to her.

It was only with the intervention of the Bloody Baron that Peeves left poor Myrtle alone and flew off to torture some unsuspecting second-years instead.

“Something must be done about him,” the Grey Lady pronounced, not for the first time.

“Hope Myrtle’s all right,” the Fat Friar added sympathetically.

Myrtle was, in fact, not all right. She’d never been particularly insouciant when it came to matters of teasing, but this last encounter with Peeves had left her even more dejected than usual. Weeks after the fact, her sobs and sniffles could still be heard throughout the classrooms and halls.

“I can’t take it anymore!” Professor Binns complained one particularly wail-filled afternoon, holding his hands over his ears. “I’m bloody going deaf!”

“Wish I was,” murmured the Grey Lady, wincing as a high-pitched cry echoed down to them.

“I know what might cheer Myrtle up,” the Fat Friar said suddenly.

“Cheer her up? Can’t we just shut her up?” the Bloody Baron grumbled.

“A party,” the Friar continued.

The other ghosts stared at him. “But it’s not her Deathday,” Nearly Headless Nick protested somewhat indignantly. He’d had to wait 500 years for a party, and didn’t think it too fair for Myrtle to get one without any real reason.

“And she’s never much fun at parties,” the Grey Lady added. “Kind of a stiff, actually.”

A warble drifted down to them, punctuated by choking sobs. The ghosts looked at each other.

“Well then,” the Baron said crisply, clapping his hands. “Who shall we invite?”

And so it was that one week later, a fantastic celebration was held in a shocked Myrtle’s honor. All the Hogwarts ghosts attended, minus Peeves, who’d been instructed to stay clear. The dungeons were decorated, screeching music was performed by Better Off Dead, and the rooms were filled with disgusting foods like moldy luncheon meats, curdled milk, and rotten eggs. When a bug-infested cake was brought out, Myrtle, overwhelmed, burst into sobs.

“Here we go again,” moaned the ghosts.

“This is so nice,” Myrtle hiccupped mournfully. “Even though you’re only doing it ‘cause you feel sorry for me and how pathetic I am.”

“I’ve never had a party before,” she admitted sadly later on. “Not even when I was alive.”

“Really?” Missy Dukes, a tiny and oft-overlooked ghost who haunted a statue on the first floor, asked curiously. “Not even by your parents?”

Myrtle shook her head pitifully. “I was supposed to have a dance at the lake for my 12th birthday,” she told them, “but I was the only one who showed up.”

She lapsed into miserable silence, the events of her childhood overtaking her.

“Myrtle!” The voice was contemptuous, the speaker one Olive Hornby. Tiny and prim, nothing delighted the Ravenclaw girl more than teasing the acne-ridden Myrtle Lockley.

Myrtle pushed a strand of greasy hair behind her ears.. “H-Hello Olive,” she murmured.

Olive cut right to the point. “I received this by owl today,” she announced, holding a thin envelope in front of her as if it were a dirty rag.

Myrtle recognized it. “I’m having a birthday party,” she told Olive eagerly. “My mum and dad have rented out the lake near Partridge Center—“

“Myrtle,” Olive cut her off. “No one’s going to come to your party. Nobody likes you. You’re an ill-kempt embarrassment.” Myrtle swallowed the tears in her throat as Olive walked away. “I reckon not even your parents will bother to come,” she called back over her shoulder.

“She was right,” Myrtle said sourly. “They plum forgot about me.”

“I went to a party by the lake once,” Nearly Headless Nick offered. “Many summers ago. Lovely weather. We went swimming.”

“Ah, swimming,” the Fat Friar nodded fondly. “I was quite the swimmer in my day. They used to say I was graceful as a merman.”

“I find that hard to believe,” the Baron said snidefully, looking pointedly at the Friar’s rotund figure.

The Friar wasn’t bothered. “I’m all muscle,” he informed his critic daintily.

“I think your brain is waterlogged.”

“What’s left of it, anyway,” a voice said gleefully behind them.

“Peeves!” the Baron thundered, instantly outraged, as the poltergeist floated nearer.

“Oh, let him stay,” the Fat Friar pleaded. “It’s really not fair to discriminate against him. That is, if Myrtle is all right with it,” he added hastily, lest the girl become offended and throw a fit.

But Myrtle had other things on her mind. “Summer at the lake,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Under the sun, with hamburgers and bonfires…”

“Impromtu quidditch matches,” Sir Nicholas put in.

“Studying the constellations come nightfall,” the Grey Lady sighed dreamily.

The party was silent for a moment, each thinking of their own pasts.

Suddenly Nearly Headless Nick stood up. “I,” he announced regally, “am going outside.”

The other ghosts gasped. “You can’t!” the Grey Lady exclaimed. “It wouldn’t be proper!”

“I don’t care. I haven’t felt a summer breeze in 500 years,” Sir Nicholas answered defiantly, before turning on his heel and striding out.

The rest of the party stared after him. “That old fool,” the Baron said scornfully. “How does he expect to feel anything? He’s dead, for crying out loud.”

“He’s gone noddy,” Professor Binns proclaimed.

The Fat Friar, however, floated away as well. “I want to see the lake.”

One by one, the other ghosts sailed through the castle walls to the grounds outside. (“What the hell?,” the Bloody Baron muttered.)

The night passed quickly, the party officially moved to the outdoors. The ghosts were struck with memories as they floated around trees and dove into the grass. And whether it was just hopeful delusion or maybe a bit of summer magic, they could all swear they felt a warm breeze wafting towards them.

Nearing midnight, Moaning Myrtle found herself sitting at the edge of the lake, moping at the realism of being left all alone at her very own party.

“Moaning Myrtle…” came a singsong voice behind her.

Myrtle tensed automatically. “Come to push me in?” she sniffed. “I swear, Peeves, I’ll have the Baron on you!”

Peeves grimaced at the threat. “No no, don’t get the Baron,” he said quickly. “I’ve only come to… er, apologize.” Myrtle stared at him in disbelief. “For picking on you,” he clarified unnecessarily.

Myrtle studied him skeptically. His toes were scuffing the air, and if she didn’t know better, she’d almost think he looked nervous. “Well… thank you,” Myrtle said finally. “I suppose.”

An awkward silence settled between them. Peeves scratched his head uncertainly and cleared his throat. “Uh… you’re not quite so ugly in the dark,” he suddenly blurted loudly. “I can barely see that pimple on the edge of your chin.”

Myrtle slapped a hand to her chin in horror. She bolted away, her mewls drawing the attention of the other spectres.

“Peeves!” the Baron yelled a moment later.

Peeves dashed quickly back to the castle. “Last time I try to be nice,” he muttered, annoyed.

The Baron shook his head irritatedly, but decided not to pursue the young trickster. Next to him, Nearly Headless Nick smiled, his eyes fixed on the stars in the night sky.

“Why don’t we do this more often?” Sir Nicholas asked the Bloody Baron lazily.

The Bloody Baron raised an eyebrow. “So we can avoid sights like that?” he suggested, gesturing in front of them. He’d been watching with a certain amount of disdain as the Fat Friar swooped through the waters of the lake, now and again becoming solid enough to splash a little as he went.

“Still got it!” the Friar whooped jovially every few seconds.

“Oh lighten up,” Sir Nicholas scoffed. “He’s only 108 years old – we were all young once. Even you.” He glanced sideways at his companion and added slyly, “In fact, I seem to recall an incident—“

“Oh shut up.”

“What was it now – something to do with enchanted broomsticks?” Sir Nicholas mused, feigning ignorance.

“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Or was it the Inflemgilus potion,” Sir Nicholas continued, angling his head contemplatively. It tilted over completely, and he pushed it back upright, unbothered.

The Baron pursed his lips. “It was infected scopia serpents, and I was fourteen, for cripe’s sake. Besides,” he added with a twist of his lips, “that portentous Gryffindor had it coming.”

“I did not!” Nearly Headless Nick protested instantly. “You were jealous of me, is all. Still are.”

The Baron snorted. “Me, jealous? At least I’m a menacing ghost. You’re not scary enough to frighten a flobberworm, you nearly headless hack.”

Nicholas gasped. “That, sir, was a cheap shot,” he declared, and floated away, umbrageous. “Thinks his corpse don’t stink, just ‘cause he’s got a poltergeist in his back pocket,” the Baron overheard him mutter, and then, moodily, “I am too scary. If everyone else knew how he really got to be so ‘bloody’…”

The Baron made a face at the acknowledgement, glancing down at his robes with distaste. It would always be a mar on his reputation that he’d happened to spill his best silver ink over himself moments before he was killed. He preferred to be spotless, as was customary of a dignified Slytherin. But it’d worked out for the best, as the students were all the more afraid of him for it.

The Grey Lady, a good deal away from the rest of the party, felt freer and lighter than she had in ages. She closed her eyes to better soak up the feel of her surroundings, and when she opened them again, found herself facing a figure she’d met once or twice before.

The first time had been minutes after she’d died.

“This way,” she’d whispered to her, softly.

The Grey Lady, still more than a little surprised at being suddenly dead, had taken a few minutes to realize what she was seeing.

“This way,” the woman had said again. “Come, my daughter.”

She’d taken a hesitant step, stopped, feeling strangely confused. Part of her was practically itching at the promise of what lay beyond. She’d reached out a hand, longing to touch her mother’s skin once more. But something had held her back. She’d waited a second too long, and her mother had appeared to evaporate into thin air.

Presently, she shook her head at the beckoning woman and smiled. “Not yet,” she said softly. “I still have much to learn.” Her visitor faded slowly from view, as eventually did the night. By sunrise, the party had disbanded, no remnants left on the grounds for Filch to complain about.

The rest of the summer was much quieter for the ghosts of Hogwarts. Despite the occasional disturbances from Peeves or Moaning Myrtle, they passed the days peacefully, waiting for the students and professors to return.

As September fast approached, so did a definite change in the atmosphere. Although it was never spoken of aloud, the ghosts were all aware of it. It was… a chill, something foreboding. Something dark. Ghosts have a knack for auguring when their numbers are about to increase, and as they watched the returning students enter the Great Hall, they couldn’t help wondering which of them they’d be welcoming to their fold.

THE END