Fic: Lost Boys, 5/14 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 1 (Harry Potter)
Prologue - Two Dads
Part 1 - Visions of the Afterlife
Part 2 - Little Boy Lost
Part 3 - Detention
Part 4 - An Intruder
Title: Lost Boys, 5/14 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 1
Rating: FRT (PG)
Distribution: Sure. Let me know where it’s going. Written for the snape_after_dh ficathon.
Feedback: Makes me write more. Or feel guilty for not writing more. Flames make me toasty.
Thanks to lady_clover, rainkatt and emmessann for fantastic beta work. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else. David Dursley, however, is mine. Please ask before you borrow him.
Summary: Past and present meet in the dungeons of Hogwarts. This part set 4-5 years after the epilogue to Deathly Hallows.
Somehow, the one-time study session (“I passed with an E,” the boy proudly announced later) became a regular part of the ghost’s routine. The boy didn’t come every night, especially after he mended fences with whomever he’d had a row with, but he came several nights a week, saying he preferred this study spot to his common room, and that he generally got more done here than at the library.
Sometimes he asked the ghost an academic question, and they would discuss or debate the answer until almost curfew. Other times, the boy seemed to sense when the ghost was in a more receptive mood, and then he might venture a personal question.
Once, the boy asked, “Have you ever been in love, Sir?”
The ghost snorted in grim amusement. “I’m certain I had young ladies thronging about me in my youth, Mr. Dursley,” he replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. “How ever could they have failed to be attracted by my rugged good looks? Don’t talk nonsense, young man.”
David grinned. “All right, you are pretty off-putting now. But you’ve been dead for goodness knows how long. Don’t you remember anything about being in love, when you were alive?”
The ghost thought of the green-eyed woman in the mirror.
“I’m certain that if I retained any memories of love, they would not be happy ones.”
David sighed. “At the rate I’m going, l won’t ever have any memories. I can’t even talk to a girl without tripping over my tongue and making a complete idiot out of myself.”
“How fortunate for you, then, that idiocy is the natural state of the adolescent wizard,” the ghost replied. “You’ll fit right in with all the other equally idiotic boys your age. I expect girls find it very hard to distinguish between any of you.”
“Um... Thanks,” the boy said.
“Don’t mention it.”
****
Sometimes, David would bring up the ghost’s identity, or lack thereof. “Doesn’t it bother you? Not knowing who you were? What happened to you?”
“Not particularly.”
“I think you must have been a professor,” the boy decided. “You know too much not to have been. Plus, you do haunt a school.”
“No, I haunt a dungeon. A dungeon where nobody save you, for what reason I cannot fathom, ever ventures.” The ghost paused, considering. Then he offered, only half in jest, “I could have been one of the wizards who died building this castle.”
“Maybe,” the boy replied doubtfully. “But the ghost of a builder could probably duplicate my lamp a lot more easily than you seem to be doing.” The boy nodded toward another work table, where the materials for a copy of his magic light globe were scattered haphazardly.
The ghost sniffed disdainfully. “Perhaps I was hopeless as a builder, and that’s how I died.”
The boy regarded him sadly. “I don’t think so, Sir.”
****
“Professor? Do you ever dream?”
The ghost thought of the mirror, and the woman with green eyes, and the boy, and the old man. “No,” he rasped. “Absolutely not.”
****
“What’s a mudblood?”
The word filled the ghost with a curious mix of revulsion and shame. At length, he responded, “It is an offensive term for wizards who are Muggle-born.”
“Like me.”
“Yes.”
“We’re studying about the Last War in history. Professor Binns is a ghost too, you know. He says before I was born, a dark wizard rose up and gained followers by torturing Muggles. But he was half-blood himself. I don’t understand that.”
The ghost felt a dizzying cascade of images, horrors. Things he had seen and done, long ago. He heard himself say, as from a distance, “Those who feel they don’t fit in anywhere will do many stupid things not to feel that way. Including pretending to be what they are not, and hating what they are.”
David mulled that over for a long time. So did the ghost.
"Professor? You say it like-- Did you, you know, ever do something like that?"
With the eyes of the dead accusing him, though he retained no firm memories of his actions, he could not lie to the boy. "Yes. I suppose I must have."
Finally, the boy said, “The Muggles make up names to call other Muggles, too. I heard kids do it at my old school. Sometimes-- I called kids names, too.” He sounded miserable, confessing it.
The ghost considered carefully, then said, “I think it’s more important, what you do when you know. Would you do such a thing today? Knowing what you do now?”
“No.” The boy was emphatic. They shared another moment of pensive silence. Then the boy asked, tentatively, “Professor? Did you know?”
“I don’t remember,” the ghost whispered. But he thought about it, long after the boy had left him for the warm spring night above.
Part 6 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 2
Part 1 - Visions of the Afterlife
Part 2 - Little Boy Lost
Part 3 - Detention
Part 4 - An Intruder
Title: Lost Boys, 5/14 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 1
Rating: FRT (PG)
Distribution: Sure. Let me know where it’s going. Written for the snape_after_dh ficathon.
Feedback: Makes me write more. Or feel guilty for not writing more. Flames make me toasty.
Thanks to lady_clover, rainkatt and emmessann for fantastic beta work. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else. David Dursley, however, is mine. Please ask before you borrow him.
Summary: Past and present meet in the dungeons of Hogwarts. This part set 4-5 years after the epilogue to Deathly Hallows.
Somehow, the one-time study session (“I passed with an E,” the boy proudly announced later) became a regular part of the ghost’s routine. The boy didn’t come every night, especially after he mended fences with whomever he’d had a row with, but he came several nights a week, saying he preferred this study spot to his common room, and that he generally got more done here than at the library.
Sometimes he asked the ghost an academic question, and they would discuss or debate the answer until almost curfew. Other times, the boy seemed to sense when the ghost was in a more receptive mood, and then he might venture a personal question.
Once, the boy asked, “Have you ever been in love, Sir?”
The ghost snorted in grim amusement. “I’m certain I had young ladies thronging about me in my youth, Mr. Dursley,” he replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. “How ever could they have failed to be attracted by my rugged good looks? Don’t talk nonsense, young man.”
David grinned. “All right, you are pretty off-putting now. But you’ve been dead for goodness knows how long. Don’t you remember anything about being in love, when you were alive?”
The ghost thought of the green-eyed woman in the mirror.
“I’m certain that if I retained any memories of love, they would not be happy ones.”
David sighed. “At the rate I’m going, l won’t ever have any memories. I can’t even talk to a girl without tripping over my tongue and making a complete idiot out of myself.”
“How fortunate for you, then, that idiocy is the natural state of the adolescent wizard,” the ghost replied. “You’ll fit right in with all the other equally idiotic boys your age. I expect girls find it very hard to distinguish between any of you.”
“Um... Thanks,” the boy said.
“Don’t mention it.”
****
Sometimes, David would bring up the ghost’s identity, or lack thereof. “Doesn’t it bother you? Not knowing who you were? What happened to you?”
“Not particularly.”
“I think you must have been a professor,” the boy decided. “You know too much not to have been. Plus, you do haunt a school.”
“No, I haunt a dungeon. A dungeon where nobody save you, for what reason I cannot fathom, ever ventures.” The ghost paused, considering. Then he offered, only half in jest, “I could have been one of the wizards who died building this castle.”
“Maybe,” the boy replied doubtfully. “But the ghost of a builder could probably duplicate my lamp a lot more easily than you seem to be doing.” The boy nodded toward another work table, where the materials for a copy of his magic light globe were scattered haphazardly.
The ghost sniffed disdainfully. “Perhaps I was hopeless as a builder, and that’s how I died.”
The boy regarded him sadly. “I don’t think so, Sir.”
****
“Professor? Do you ever dream?”
The ghost thought of the mirror, and the woman with green eyes, and the boy, and the old man. “No,” he rasped. “Absolutely not.”
****
“What’s a mudblood?”
The word filled the ghost with a curious mix of revulsion and shame. At length, he responded, “It is an offensive term for wizards who are Muggle-born.”
“Like me.”
“Yes.”
“We’re studying about the Last War in history. Professor Binns is a ghost too, you know. He says before I was born, a dark wizard rose up and gained followers by torturing Muggles. But he was half-blood himself. I don’t understand that.”
The ghost felt a dizzying cascade of images, horrors. Things he had seen and done, long ago. He heard himself say, as from a distance, “Those who feel they don’t fit in anywhere will do many stupid things not to feel that way. Including pretending to be what they are not, and hating what they are.”
David mulled that over for a long time. So did the ghost.
"Professor? You say it like-- Did you, you know, ever do something like that?"
With the eyes of the dead accusing him, though he retained no firm memories of his actions, he could not lie to the boy. "Yes. I suppose I must have."
Finally, the boy said, “The Muggles make up names to call other Muggles, too. I heard kids do it at my old school. Sometimes-- I called kids names, too.” He sounded miserable, confessing it.
The ghost considered carefully, then said, “I think it’s more important, what you do when you know. Would you do such a thing today? Knowing what you do now?”
“No.” The boy was emphatic. They shared another moment of pensive silence. Then the boy asked, tentatively, “Professor? Did you know?”
“I don’t remember,” the ghost whispered. But he thought about it, long after the boy had left him for the warm spring night above.
Part 6 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 2