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No Ghost is Safe by Nagini Riddle

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Story Notes:

The mention of Sir Nicholas would be the December of Harry's second year at Hogwarts.
The events that transpire after that are meant to be the summer right before Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts.
Chapter Notes: A huge thank you to Vicki, my wonderful beta!!!
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No Ghost is Safe

Light. Dark. Starvation. Satisfaction. I used to think that dying would mean pain, being unable to live anymore, to sleep, eat, laugh, play—a cessation of existence. In death, there is no hunger. In death, the sun and shadows matter not, all light and darkness blend into seamless grey. You no longer have a need to survive. You no longer fear…death.

And you’re no longer of substance. Not even a wisp of air, nothing tangible. You’re less than smoke, which billows into the sky, raining ash upon the inhabitants, giving off a sharp bitter smell and a chalky taste. It feels flaky against the skin. Smoke has essence. But in death, you become just a trick of the eyes, an imprint of past shadows and sketchy memories. There is nothing.

Yet, somehow, through some cruel humor of nature, there is an existence beyond mortal being. You still exist. I still exist. I don’t know how it is, how I am still able to watch time pass me by, or talk to generations upon generations of people beyond my own life. How am I still able to feel emotions thrilling through an echo of my heart? I stare at food, at blankets, at clothing, at men, at the rustling leaves, wondering why I can no longer grasp those tangible items but still gasp at the emotions gutting my chest and mind.

It is not an existence one can take lightly and expect to live with for eternity. Decades, even centuries, may pass by quickly, but at some point, it all becomes too much to bear. I have heard some take to residing in places they most felt at home. Others haunt secluded places in hopes that the living will fear them too much and therefore never venture that way. It was never in my nature to bully or to scare. But I could not dwell in the old places I had enjoyed in my youth, watching everything drastically change but still remain the same. I took to the forests, then, learning to tune out the sounds of nature, for though I could hear the strange, perfect music of it, I could not feel it against my ethereal skin. To hear nature was only a reminder of what I had lost.

I used to think that dying meant pain—and I was right. But in death, I thought the day would never come that I would ever fear for my life again. I was nothing, and therefore nothing could harm me or take me away.

The peculiar thing is, as a ghost, you forget that good and evil still exist. You forget that Dark forces still work their magic, and one day you hear what frightens you most: even the departed are not safe from Dark magic.

It started with rumors flying rapidly across the Scotland country of students being attacked while at school. I never paid much attention to such talk, for it was no concern of mine what should happen to those living.

In the depths of winter that year, it became widely known that whatever was attacking the students was powerful enough to paralyze ghosts. I recall the conversation rather clearly, though many memories since have faded.

–Ingrid, have you heard of the attack at Hogwarts recently? It has all the Hogwarts’ ghosts terrified of turning round the corners.” The news was coming from Moira, who had decided that in her afterlife she would travel around the country and perhaps the world, for staying put was never her forte. Her tendency to flit from one place to another made her a terrible gossip, but a wonderful source of useless information. This occasion was quite different.

–What cause would ghosts have of being scared by something that petrifies the living?” I had asked, slightly irritated. Any news about the living generally left me in a bad mood. Still does, to this day.

–Sir Nicholas himself has been a recipient of this…something,” she answered in hushed tones.

–Nicholas? That fancy, nearly headless fool who petitions every year to join the Headless Hunt?”

She nodded with a little too much eagerness. I could tell she was itching to start up a conversation on the desperate ways ghosts try to live some semblance of a mortal life, but I wasn’t up to a debate. I hastily focused the topic.

–So he was recipient? You mean, he witnessed what happened?”

–No, Ingrid, no. I mean to say that Sir Nick has, indeed, been Petrified!” Somehow, her grey eyes managed to shine with fearful excitement.

Being deceased for more than five centuries had dulled my reasoning, and the words coming from Moira were strange. I could not see the implications of her statement, and I must have shown my confusion, because she leaned in closer (probably more for effect than for real purpose) to continue her story.

–Ingrid, he’s been Petrified! Some sort of magic has made it impossible for Nicholas to do anything. He can no longer speak or move. He is just a floating ghost, nothing more.”

Something twinged in my heart as I slowly began to comprehend the possible repercussions of whatever strange magic was happening at the school. –No ghost is safe?”

Moira could barely hide a smile. –No ghost is safe.”

I tried to swallow the spasm of nerves before I remembered I couldn't swallow, or even breathe for that matter. At least in living I could calm fear down by relaxing. When one is a ghost, the emotions just settle and stay rooted until another feeling can replace it.

"But it is just at the school," I reasoned. "I don't stray yonder."

Moira, ever the gossip and manipulator, narrowed her eyes in a knowing manner. "They don't know what causes it. For all you know, the perpetrator of the magic is traveling this way as we speak."

I could sense the fear starting to cloud my expression, but I did as best I could to coolly ignore Moira's statement.

In her usual fashion, she wickedly grinned and then floated off, leaving me to stare at the wintry ground around me, my thoughts torn between pondering Sir Nicholas' state and brooding over how much I yearned to feel the cold wet snow between my hands again.

In time, news traveled again that the Dark magic had been overcome and Nicholas restored, but the seed of doubt had been planted. I no longer boldly believed I could not die again.

I tell all this now so you may not think me foolish. I regale the forerunner of my fears and condition so you may know that when Dark magic has been introduced to the world, nothing is safe, not even the haven of death.

For there came a dark night, more pitch than usual, though my ghostly eyes beheld a sea of molten grey, that arose in might. It was a time when the sun normally stayed awake for as long as it could, but that night, it scampered behind the mountains to escape the roiling clouds. It was noised about that a summer storm was on its way, and in many areas, thick fog permeated the day, casting gloom and despair. Bridges were collapsing, trees were being uprooted, unpredicted hurricanes devastated the land, murders were far more common, and it seemed that the world was plunging itself into things wanton and diseased. I remained in the forests, sure that nothing would cross my path that I should have to deal with. Listlessly, I wandered, ignoring those musical sounds of nature.

But that night, my travels landed me on the outskirts of a cemetery, and though I did not fear the dearly departed, a foreboding chill overcame me.

At first, nothing really stood out. I was moodily tuning out any hint of a breeze, and because of that, I did not hear the subtle whispers of roots rustling in the ground.

For no particular reason, I decided to gaze up at the sky, and flickers of long-lost memories sparked before my eyes. The ache inside my heart grew tenfold, which I had not thought possible, and if tears could manifest in death, they would have.

Fwsh!

I whipped around, the sudden recall of Moira's news stuck fast within my mind.

Nothing, just nothing, I thought, though the unease crawled over my non-existent skin. I glanced quickly over the cemetery, and the urge to flee back to the forest entered my heart.

Remember how I said that these emotions cannot be calmed down? Without lungs, without a way to relax the thumping of a heart that only exists as a memory, no way to slow down the sudden onset of ethereal adrenalin...I panicked. I froze up, and I briefly wondered if I had, indeed, been Petrified.

But that notion quickly deserted me as I saw before my very own eyes rotted fingers breaking through dirt, followed by desiccated arms, flesh barely hanging on. The apparition’s torso rose next, a layer of emaciated skin stretched over sharp ribs, remnants of organs jostling around in the abdomen. And its face—its face! Deep sunken cheeks and sockets that had not seen the light of day for what may have been nigh a century. Where I had emotion clearly written in my features, poised in every limb, the creature had nothing.

Engrossed in the rising creature, I found my voice had left me. My eyes were fixated on the withering, tattered lips, and I was grateful for once that I had not remained in my deceased body, and even more thankful I did not have a sense of smell.

Similar sounds of corpses pushing up through the dirt caught my attention, and I looked to see grave after grave being disturbed. Decaying limb after decaying limb reached out into the night air, clawing at something unseen.

I screamed. It was unearthly, to be sure, far louder than I intended, and not far from the cry of a banshee. I wish I hadn't.

For in that very moment, something not far off stirred at my reaction. Robed in black and tall, it turned toward me. I sucked in imaginary breath, for his face was far worse than that of a rotting corpse. Malice shone in his skeletal features, his skin taut and deathly pale. But the most disturbing of all was the absence of a nose. Snake-like slits lay in its place, right below two gleaming red eyes that seemed to stare right through me and into my mind.

The mangled bodies were now on their broken feet, converging towards me. If I had not known that Dark magic could petrify a ghost, I would have laughed it all off. I would have let the dead walk right to me and through me without a care.

What was the point of death, then, if one was not safe from the things of the living?

But these weren't living. They were deceased, as I, and my insubstantial form no longer felt like a shield.

One of the cadavers clumsily swung its arm towards me. The sensation of its rancid limb connecting with my spirit gave me cause for nausea, and I literally shivered. I attempted to swat the putrefying thing away from me, as one does with an unpleasant cobweb, but to no avail.

I fled. Or tried to. I had never found the need to learn those ghost tricks, like disappearing. And though the walking corpses clearly had no sight or sense of smell or hearing, they sensed me. They followed me. Suddenly, I feared the dead as much as when I had lived.

Terror gripped me, and the forest didn't appear to be much shelter, despite my knowing every nook and cranny. I didn't believe for one second that I could fool the skeleton man that was following after his army of corpses.

The urge to scream rose to my throat, but I managed to suppress it, sure that screaming would be of no use. Instead, I ran. There wasn't much point to running, since ghosts cannot really go faster than a floating pace. But reasoning had left me. Some survival instinct had awoken inside, and I greatly feared for my departed life.

The corpses weren't of reason, either. Though they hunted, they lacked the understanding that silence was key to capturing prey. They stumbled over roots and bushes, devastating parts of the forest, immediately scaring off other inhabitants. I suppose it didn't really matter. They weren't chasing something living—they hunted something deceased like them.

Briefly, I felt the twinge of guilt for never having settled in a populated area or a safe haven like Hogwarts. But then I remembered that Sir Nicholas had been Petrified at Hogwarts.

I weighed my options as I fled, the grotesque noises of the deceased echoing terribly in my ears. The nearest village wasn't all that far, but I highly doubted it would be a good idea to lead the skeleton man and his army over to the living. The Hogwarts school, though I had my doubts about it, was a few miles off, and seemed a better candidate to flee to. Or I could remain in the forest and try to hide.

Even though my existence as a ghost was not desirable, I still did not wish to have it end. I still clung to life, as foolish as the next ghost. I did not greatly wish to have my life end in the forest, where there wasn't a hope of saving me.

Without meaning to, I glanced back, only to be met with hundreds of gaunt, blank stares. Despite their emotionless manner, I thought I could detect evil grins and malicious eyes and a definite hunger to feed off my otherworldly flesh.

It entered into my mind that Hogwarts was built to prevent outside invaders, and it was also protected by all manner of enchantments that would surely keep away the raised dead. I had my doubts about the dark fellow with his dangerous wand, yet I knew that the forest was no place to set up fort and defend one’s self.

Hogwarts, then, was the path I took, not daring to glance behind me again for fear I would see those terrible red eyes glaring straight at me.

Another benefit to being a ghost is that you do not tire when fleeing. There is not any exhaustion that befalls you, and you can never run your spirit ragged. In very little time, I could see the castle spires ahead of me, and relief flooded my being.

I chanced to look back just before reaching the iron gate, only to be met with silence and empty fields. Pausing, I wondered where the corpse army had headed off to, and I highly doubted I had seen the last of such Dark magic. In that very moment, I remembered my own decaying corpse, and realized it might, too, be used in such purposes. The idea sickened me to the core. I tried not to imagine what my body would appear like after five centuries of decomposing. I was even less enthusiastic about thinking how the skeleton man would treat all those cadavers, and I fervently prayed that my grave would remain undisturbed.

And through this thought process, I wondered if it had not, indeed, been a fanciful nightmare, constructed by myself to feel more alive, to be more normal, to live as mortals live. Yet the images were so vivid and horrifying, and I could not comprehend being able to conjure up such an elaborate hoax. This had not been a dream, I was sure.

Having had enough excitement for one night—and indeed, for my entire existence as a departed soul—I debated on the security of the castle and whether I should stay. I knew I would never stray to a cemetery again, but I had grown accustomed to my life in the forest. Could I bring it upon myself to change my environment, surround myself with living people and other ghosts?

The castle, even in the gloom, appeared warm and inviting. It seemed to say, "Ingrid, death is not so bad. Come, come enjoy life beyond the grave in this magical kingdom."

Certainly it could be a safe haven from Dark magic, and I would surely never run into those corpses again. Yet, what were the chances of encountering that army for a second time?

I cast my eyes aside, ashamed that I would still fear the living after all this time, and certainly after experiencing a close look at death. After a second's hesitation, I retraced my steps back to the lonely woods, my humble abode.

To this day, I still feel the pang of lost life, the inability to touch, to taste, to smell. But no longer do I believe that fear cannot exist in death. In death, there is an hunger, an unyielding need to lead a life as mortals do. In death, the sun and shadows still matter not, all light and darkness blend into seamless grey, but you yearn for color. You still exist. You still have a will to survive.

And you still fear death.
Chapter Endnotes: Ingrid loves reviews!!!