The Halloween feast arrived right on schedule.
Dark clouds rolled across the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, thunder flashing and lightning splitting the sky, yet none of it disturbed the celebration below.
The long tables were piled high with food. Sausages leapt into waiting plates on their own, purple drinks bubbled cheerfully, and desserts shaped like all manner of horrors somehow tasted wonderful.
Regulus sat midway down the Slytherin table, eating in silence.
Cuthbert was beside him. Alex sat a little farther away. Hermes sat across from them, alone, methodically cutting his steak without a word.
The mood was calm enough, until a second-year Slytherin swayed over with a goblet in hand.
Rabastan Lestrange. Rodolphus Lestrange's younger brother. Bellatrix's brother-in-law.
The Lestrange family had long been one of Voldemort's most fanatical inner supporters.
That fact was barely a secret anymore.
Rabastan clearly took pride in it. His face always carried a blend of zeal and arrogance.
He had obviously drunk more than his share of pumpkin juice, perhaps with something mixed in. His cheeks were flushed as he came to a stop near Regulus's table.
"Well, look at that. Our first-year Chief," Rabastan said, his voice sharp enough to grate. He deliberately adopted a familiar yet condescending tone. "Happy Halloween, Black.
Bella mentioned you in her last letter. Said you've been doing well, not embarrassing the family.
My brother Rodolphus says that maybe someday, there'll be a chance for us to work together… in service of a greater cause."
Cuthbert frowned at once and set his cutlery down.
Alex lowered his head, shoulders tight with nerves.
Hermes paused as well, his gloomy gaze sliding toward Rabastan.
Regulus lifted his eyes and gave Rabastan a brief look. He said nothing. He simply picked up his napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth.
That single glance was enough.
Cuthbert understood immediately.
"Lestrange, this is a dinner table," Cuthbert said coolly, his voice steadier than usual. "Family letters and private matters are better discussed somewhere else."
Rabastan clearly had not expected a response from Cuthbert of all people. He froze, then scowled. "I'm talking to Black, Avery."
"Black is eating," Hermes said instead, his voice low and rough, edged with his usual chill.
"And that great cause you're so eager to show off. A lot of people here wouldn't understand it. Bragging too early tends to bite back."
That landed like a blade.
Rabastan's face darkened. Two of his dormmates stood nearby, both Pure-bloods, though their families carried less weight than the Lestranges. One looked like he wanted to smooth things over. The other watched with detached interest. The air grew awkward.
"Come on, Rabastan. It's a feast."
Rabastan glanced at Regulus, who had already gone back to eating without a shred of reaction. He looked again at Cuthbert's hard stare and at Hermes's cold, unblinking gaze.
He knew he would gain nothing here. Worse, he might humiliate himself.
With a sharp huff, he turned and stalked away.
Regulus never looked at him again, as though the interruption had been nothing more than a buzzing insect passing by.
As he cut his food, his thoughts moved quickly.
The Lestrange brothers, Rodolphus in particular, were Voldemort's most devoted followers. Bellatrix's future husband. Fanatical executioners in the making.
Rabastan, shaped deeply by his family, had passion to spare but little judgment, his reckless and impulsive nature making him the perfect expendable enforcer.
Someone like that could be useful in very specific situations. Like dangerous tasks or operations meant to draw attention.
After that, fate would take its course.
For those destined to fall into the abyss and drag others with them, Regulus felt no unnecessary sympathy.
The feast rolled on. Laughter filled the Great Hall.
Platters overflowed. Baked pumpkin pie scented the air. Sugared spiders crawled across plates.
Dumbledore rose from his seat. He wore deep purple robes embroidered with silver stars, and behind his half-moon spectacles his eyes shone warmly.
"Happy Halloween, everyone," he said, his voice clearly amplified by magic. "Tonight, we've invited a special group to entertain us."
He clapped his hands lightly. Doors along one side of the hall swung open.
Three witches and wizards in bright costumes entered, followed by several small, well-trained magical creatures.
At the front was a short, round witch. She bowed to Dumbledore, then turned to the students with a broad smile.
"They'll be showing us a few magical tricks."
The performance began.
First came a dance of color-changing lizards. At the wave of a wand, the small creatures shifted from emerald green to gold, then to silver, arranging themselves into the shape of a Halloween pumpkin atop the tables.
Gasps and applause rippled through the hall.
Regulus watched quietly from the Slytherin table.
His gaze drifted across the crowd, catching sight of the Bloody Baron gliding past the Ravenclaw table. Dark stains marked the ghost's robes, blotches that would never wash away.
Regulus recalled passages from A Brief History of Soul Magic. Ghosts were remnants of obsession, lingering forms of the soul.
And a ghost like the Bloody Baron, who had existed for nearly a thousand years, must carry an obsession beyond imagining.
Like the Gray Lady of Ravenclaw, he was among Hogwarts's oldest spirits. Powerful in life, burdened with countless secrets in death.
The performance reached its peak as the circus wizards conjured glowing magical butterflies. The butterflies formed the words "Happy Halloween" in the air, then dissolved into drifting golden dust.
While attention was fixed on the spectacle, Regulus rose from his seat.
He found the Bloody Baron in a shadowed corner, gazing toward the Ravenclaw table.
The Baron's eyes passed through the noise and color, fixing on the Gray Lady's wavering figure. His expression was impossible to read.
"Baron," Regulus said, stopping at a respectful distance.
The ghost turned slowly.
"A child of the Black family," the Baron said. His voice was dry and hollow.
Regulus felt a stir of surprise. The Baron knew him, or at least recognized his bloodline.
That was fine. Familiarity made questions easier.
"I've read some records in my family's collection," Regulus said, getting straight to the point before a refusal could come. "There are things I wanted to ask you.
They say ghosts are formed from obsession. From memories and emotions that refuse to fade.
But why do some witches and wizards become ghosts while others do not? It doesn't seem like a choice."
The Baron's lips twitched. It might have been a smile, or it might have been pain.
"A choice?" His tone carried a bitter mockery. "You think becoming a ghost is a choice? No, child. It is failure."
"Failure?" Regulus pressed, encouraged by the ghost's willingness to speak.
"An inability to let go," the Baron said, his gaze drifting back to the Gray Lady. "An inability to finish something. To accept it. Or to face certain truths.
So we remain, trapped between life and death."
Regulus recalled the book's discussion of soul integrity.
A whole, healthy soul should pass on to the next stage, whatever that stage might be. No living person knew.
A ghost, in that sense, truly was a failed state of the soul.
"Then what is the difference," Regulus asked, "between a ghost's soul and a living one, aside from the lack of a body?"
The Bloody Baron turned fully toward him. For the first time, something stirred within those empty eyes.
"You are direct," the Baron said slowly, his voice like leaves scraping stone. "Unlike other students. They either fear me or pretend I do not exist.
A living soul is whole and moving. It changes. A ghost's soul is frozen.
Like an insect trapped in amber, it remains locked in the moment of death, unable to become anything else."
Regulus caught the implication at once. "So a ghost's strength comes from that frozen state. From the nature of that fixation itself."
The Baron was silent for a long time.
"Yes. Frozen means stable. Difficult to destroy.
A living soul can be wounded, broken and torn apart.
A ghost's soul has already shattered once, shattered just enough. It did not disperse completely, but it lost the ability to change.
Because of that, it is very hard to harm again."
The words sent a tremor through Regulus's thoughts.
A soul being torn apart. That was the essence of creating a Horcrux.
Voldemort had split his soul into fragments and sealed them in vessels. In a sense, did that place him closer to a ghost than to a living person?
Both were unnatural states of the soul.
Choosing his words carefully, Regulus offered part of the truth. "I've read books about the soul. About how it can be torn, and how those pieces can be preserved."
Then he asked, "If someone's soul has already been damaged, how can the remaining part be protected from further harm?"