Haunted

Haunted

The portraits on the walls talk eagerly to the passing children as house-elves scurry about, unnoticed, at their feet. A centaur teaches about the stars that line the blue-black sky and the stories generations have chronicled for millennia. A cat slowly wakes from a nap on a sunny windowsill and begins to prepare for a class she must teach that afternoon. A phoenix sings a soft melody to a battered wizard's hat. There is life in the corridors of the great castle. But the halls of Hogwarts are home to many creatures, some made of nothing more than mist and memory.

Evangeline liked to think of herself as silver, not really grey. Grey was the color of overcast skies threatening rain and blocking the sun. Grey was the color of emptiness and nothingness. Not quite black and not quite white, it was the color of indecision. But silver was the color of the lining of clouds, providing hope where there once was none. Silver glowed and sparkled. It glimmered and glittered. It was the color of celebration and merriment. It was regal.

Now, Montgomery liked to joke with students and teachers alike. Being naturally good-natured, he was prone to giggling fits, and the children thought him a clown. They would often smile and roll their eyes when he passed by, singing some bawdy drinking song. Terribly foolish and often juvenile, he never really took anything seriously. He was in death as he was in life, because he saw no difference in either plane. It seemed pointless to allow something as trivial as his own demise to inhibit his fun.

Nicolas liked talking to the children. He liked to tell stories of his colorful history to anyone who would listen, not quite willing to let go of a past he himself would admit wasn't all that pleasant when he was living it. He spent much of his time trying to belong to something or other, because it was important to belong. It meant he was a part of something greater than himself, and not alone. More than anything else, Nicolas hated being alone.

But Kristoph....Kristoph was a traditionalist; he enjoyed haunting and inspiring fear. What was the point of being a ghost, after all? Nothing was quite as delightful as lurking in dark corners and pouncing on the unsuspecting. He found great pleasure in the looks of horror on stricken faces as they stared at the trail of blood, glowing silver, that ran down his form...and as they wondered how it got there to begin with.

Most of all, he loved the screams.

It may have been the actual sound-- the high-pitched, often frantic cry; piercing tones like wounded animals and shrill screeches of trapped terror. They were melodic, almost lyrical, and deliciously sweet to ears that thirsted for such beloved music. Perhaps it was the twisted features on their blood-drained faces as they screamed-- contorted and warped and beautifully unnatural. Or possibly, it was simply the satisfaction of knowing one could inspire those emotions in the first place. It was like the first time, each time.

Kristoph hated the Living. Life is wasted on them, he often thought. The Living looked at the spirits in amusement, without any understanding of what it meant to be truly dead. They saw Evangeline float gracefully thought the air in her flowing dresses and thought her charming. They laughed with Montgomery and his lewd jokes. They listened to Nicolas's tales, amused by the novelty. They saw ghosts as nothing more than part of the landscape-- a bit of misty air that glided about and walked through walls. And while most ghosts were content with watching the Living, quietly observing and occasionally interacting, Kristoph made it his duty to remind them of his presence. He would not be treated like a bit of canvas and paint stuck to a wall. Nearly every student had a tale of a run-in with the Great Baron, and each of those tales was perfectly preserved in his memory. Each scream, each cry, each whimper fed what was left of his soul, and it was glorious.

There was a time, however, when Kristoph didn't mind blending into the scenery. There was a part of the day when he didn't want to be noticed. When he did quietly observe.

Kristoph could vaguely remember the smooth taste of a rich wine, the sharp tartness of a fresh lemon, or how it felt to bite into a crisp apple plucked from a tree. It had been several centuries since he roasted a fresh kill over an open fire after a hunt. It had been even longer since he tasted his mother's bread. But no matter how faint his recollections of such things were, the yearning for them never waned. The hunger never truly left him.

So he made it a point to be in the Great Hall during every meal. He made it a point to behold the way the Weasley boy filled his plate until it could hold no more, and devoured each bite as if he could never get enough...as each of his brothers did before him. The way the Granger girl resolutely savored each individual mouthful, always eating at a slow, steady pace. The way the Malfoy boy took only the prime cuts of meat, never a vegetable, and two servings of every dessert - just as Kristoph had when he was a child.

He floated silently by as the living dined, and watched as the boys licked their fingers clean in slow languid strokes, not wasting a drop of the juices that coated them. He watched as the nectar from ripe peaches dripped from their lips in a leisurely line down to their chins, leaving glistening trails as they passed, sometimes splattering on their clothes. It was with perfect stillness that he noted the looks of pleasure on the faces of those taking their first taste of the dark chocolate soufflé, and the way they closed their eyes as the rich dessert touched their tongues.

He listened.

He listened to the faint moans, and the delighted squeals, and the surprised gasps. And he hated them more.

The way that their jaws moved as they ground each bit entranced him. His eyes followed every bite traveling down their smooth throats as they swallowed. He watched as they sat back, sated and nearly bursting, wiping their faces and trying to sneak sweets back to their rooms. Through them, he could almost taste the sweet, the tart, the crisp. Through them, he could almost remember the joy of a full stomach, feel nectar drip down his chin, and taste juices coating his fingers. It mattered little that the hunger grew.

Yes, Kristoph hated the Living. He hated everything they reminded him he had lost-- the forgotten faces of friends, the places he hadn't traveled to in centuries, his childhood home, his lover's voice...

What was it to touch soft skin? To run fingers through lush hair, or fingernails down a supple back? What was it to feel plush lips against his own, to cup a full breast in his hand, to taste spiced flesh, to bite into the tender muscle that joined neck to shoulder, or to push deeply into tight heat?

Hatred gave way to fury that built as he watched them waste the few precious moments allotted to them on earth. Rage blinded him. Were it in his power, he would destroy them. He would clutch his hands around their slender necks and squeeze until they gasped their last breath. He would tear at their flesh and watch the red river of life flow freely over the tainted soil. He would revel in their deaths, and welcome them to his world, to hollow purgatory and purposeless limbo, and ask how they enjoyed being part of the scenery.

But he would never harm a living being. He would never take life from any soul. To eliminate them would mean eliminating the one thing that made eternity bearable for the Great Baron. To destroy them would mean to destroy the only thing that kept his sanity.

To lose them would be to lose their touch.

When they passed through his form, sharing the same space and the same bit of earth no matter how briefly, he was alive. He could feel a heart beating again. He could feel warm blood coursing through veins, breath expanding lungs to capacity, and the gentle tickle of the night air on skin. He could touch a wall without falling through it. He could taste. He could smell. He could feel warmth again.

The chill that ran through the living, that bitter cold that felt like a thousand pieces of ice stabbing their skin and cutting their flesh at the contact, was the unbearable joy of the other remembering what it was to live again--to breathe, to taste, to touch, to smell--and it was the all-consuming grief, the boundless pain of saying goodbye. Again.

It was after a bit of life accidentally passed through him that the temptation was too great. Under the cover of night, he wandered into their bedrooms. He would hover over the unmoving figures and try to remember the last time he slept. He would watch the gentle rise and fall of their chests and listen to the sounds of peace. And when he was sure they wouldn't wake, when he was sure they wouldn't remember, and when he was sure no one would ever know, he would let himself fall into their skin. His eyes fixed towards the heavens, joining their bodies as one just to remember what it was like to dream. He would pull fingertips along the soft bedding and up to his face. He would let the hand travel down his neck and torso, but never further, because he couldn't risk being caught and sent away from the Great Castle. There was no place else to go.

The stories of ghosts fueled campfires. Their moans chilled the still air. Their soundless footsteps roamed shadowy halls. Their legends frightened children away in the quiet darkness.

But on some nights, he would sit and watch the great clock in the Slytherin common room, counting his eternity in ticks and tocks. On these nights, he could not bear to wander the halls. He couldn't face the shadows. On these nights, he feared the touch of the Living, and Kristoph wondered who truly haunted whom.

Finis