Chapter 44: The Bloody Baron
The Halloween feast arrived right on schedule.
Above the long tables, the enchanted ceiling churned with dark clouds and distant thunder, yet not a drop of rain fell and not a gust of wind touched the warmth below. The Great Hall felt like a pocket of comfort carved out beneath a storm.
Food crowded every inch of space. Sausages hopped obligingly into plates. Bubbling purple drinks frothed in goblets. Desserts shaped like grinning skulls and crawling spiders looked horrifying until you tasted them, at which point you were forced to admit they had no right to be that good.
Regulus sat midway down the Slytherin table and ate without ceremony.
Avery sat beside him, posture neat and watchful. Alex was a little farther along, trying to look as if he belonged exactly where he was. Hermes sat opposite, alone, carving his steak with slow precision, eyes lowered but attention sharp.
The evening might have stayed peaceful.
Then a second year Slytherin drifted over with a goblet in hand, swaggering as if the Hall itself owed him space.
Rabastan Lestrange.
Younger brother of Rodolphus Lestrange. Brother in law to Bellatrix Lestrange. It was no secret that the Lestrange family sat at the hard core of Voldemort's circle, and Rabastan wore that connection like a medal. Fanatic pride and arrogance sat on his face as naturally as his hair.
He had clearly drunk far too much pumpkin juice. Perhaps it had been improved with something stronger, because his cheeks were flushed and his eyes a touch too bright.
He stopped at Regulus's place and tilted his goblet as if toasting.
"Look at this. Our first year Chief," Rabastan said, voice sharp and deliberately familiar. "Happy Halloween, Black. Bella mentioned you in a letter a few days ago. Said you're doing well, said you haven't brought shame to the family."
Avery's knife and fork stopped. His expression tightened.
Alex lowered his head at once, as if hoping he could vanish into his plate.
Even Hermes paused, his gloomy stare sliding toward Rabastan with something cold and measuring.
Regulus lifted his eyes. He looked at Rabastan once, not with interest, not with anger, simply with calm acknowledgement. Then he picked up his napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth, unhurried.
Avery read that look instantly.
"Lestrange," Avery said, voice cool and steadier than it used to be, "it's time to enjoy dinner. Another occasion might suit family letters and private talk better."
Rabastan blinked, caught off guard that the follower had spoken first. Irritation crept into his face.
"I'm talking to Black, Cuthbert."
"Black is dining," Hermes said, low and raspy, the words carrying his usual chill.
He did not raise his voice, yet it cut cleanly through the noise around them.
"Besides, plenty of people here might not understand the greater cause you're boasting about. Brag too early and it's easy to trip over your own tongue."
The barb landed.
Rabastan's face darkened. His two roommates hovered behind him, both pure bloods but from families with nowhere near Lestrange standing. One looked as though he wanted to step in. The other watched with detached curiosity, as if observing an experiment.
"Alright, Rabastan," the one who looked anxious murmured, tugging at his sleeve. "It's the feast."
Rabastan's eyes flicked to Regulus again.
Regulus had not stopped eating. He had not reacted at all, beyond that single glance. It was as if an insect had buzzed near his ear and then been dismissed as unimportant.
Rabastan held the stare for a heartbeat longer, then realised he would gain nothing here. Worse, he might lose face.
He snorted and turned away, leaving with resentment still burning on his expression.
Regulus did not look after him.
As he cut the food on his plate, his thoughts moved with quiet speed.
The Lestrange brothers, Rodolphus especially, were fanatical loyalists and the sort of executioners Voldemort loved to keep close. Rabastan was clearly shaped by that household. Plenty of zeal, not enough sense. Impulsive. The sort of person who could be pushed, pointed, and used.
In the right situation, someone like that was useful. A convenient blade to send into danger, a loud distraction to draw fire.
And then, when it was time, someone like that would meet the end he had chosen.
Regulus felt no sympathy for those who walked willingly into an abyss and tried to drag the world with them.
The feast rolled on. Laughter filled the Hall. Roasted pumpkin pasties scented the air. Icing spiders crept between plates, provoking shrieks and delighted snatches of sweets.
At last, Albus Dumbledore stood.
Tonight he wore deep purple robes embroidered with silver stars, and his eyes gleamed warmly behind half moon spectacles.
"Happy Halloween to everyone," he said, voice carrying through the Hall with a gentle magical lift. "This evening, we have invited a special performance."
He clapped lightly.
A side door opened, and three witches and wizards in bright costumes entered, followed by several small magical creatures that moved with the alertness of trained performers. Leading the group was a plump witch who bowed to Dumbledore and then smiled at the students as though she had known them all for years.
"The Moonlight Circus from Wales," Dumbledore announced. "They will share a few interesting tricks with us tonight."
The performance began.
First came a dance of colour changing lizards. Several small lizards scurried across a tabletop as a wand guided them, their skins shifting from emerald green to golden yellow to silvery white. As they moved, they formed a perfect pumpkin pattern, the image appearing and disappearing with every change of colour.
The Hall gasped and applauded.
Regulus watched quietly from the Slytherin table. His gaze drifted across the room, scanning faces, habits, and movements.
That was when he saw the Bloody Baron.
The Slytherin ghost floated past the Ravenclaw table, robes heavy and stained with dark marks that would never fade. He moved as if the noise of living people could not reach him, as if he carried his own silence like a cloak.
Regulus remembered a line from a thin, unsettling book in his family's collection, a brief history of soul magic. Ghosts were not truly the dead. They were remnants, obsession made shape, memory and emotion left behind when the soul failed to pass on.
For a ghost like the Bloody Baron, who had lingered for close to a thousand years, the weight of that obsession was almost beyond imagining.
He was one of Hogwarts' oldest. Like the Grey Lady, he had been a powerful wizard in life.
And powerful people, even in death, carried secrets.
The circus reached a peak as the performers conjured a swarm of glowing butterflies. The butterflies whirled together and formed the words Happy Halloween, shining above the tables. Then they dissolved into fine golden powder that drifted down like slow, warm snow.
Using the commotion as cover, Regulus rose and slipped away from his seat.
He found the Bloody Baron near the edge of the Hall, lingering in a shadowed corner. The ghost's attention was fixed across the room, past the bustle, toward the flickering figure of the Grey Lady at the Ravenclaw table.
The Baron's expression was unreadable. Complex. Still, after all these centuries.
Regulus stopped at a respectful distance.
"Mr Baron."
The Bloody Baron turned his head slowly.
"A child of the Black family," the Baron said, voice dry and hollow, like wind through an empty corridor.
Regulus felt a small stir of surprise.
The Baron recognised him. Or at least his bloodline.
That was useful.
"I've read certain records in my family's collection," Regulus said, choosing directness over politeness. "I would like your advice."
The Baron did not interrupt.
"The books say ghosts are obsessions a wizard leaves behind. A condensation of memory and emotion," Regulus continued. "But I don't understand why some become ghosts and others do not. It does not seem like a choice."
The Baron's lips twitched, as if caught between a smile and pain.
"Choice," he repeated, and the word carried a bitter sort of amusement. "You think becoming a ghost is a choice. No, child. It is not a choice. It is a failure."
"Failure," Regulus echoed, leaning into the opening.
"An inability to let go," the Baron said, gaze drifting back toward the Grey Lady. "An inability to finish, to accept, or to face certain truths. So we remain here, trapped in the gap between life and death."
Regulus thought of what he had read about soul integrity.
A whole, healthy soul should pass on to whatever came next. No living person could say what that next stage truly was.
A ghost, by that definition, was a damaged outcome.
"Then what is the essential difference between a ghost's soul and a living one," Regulus asked, "aside from lacking a body"
The Bloody Baron looked at him more fully, and for the first time there was something like focus in the hollowness of his eyes.
"You are very direct," he said. "Most young wizards either fear me or pretend I am not here."
His voice remained slow, like dry leaves sliding over stone.
"A living soul is complete and fluid. It changes. A ghost's soul is frozen, like an insect in amber. It holds the form it had at the moment of death and never changes again."
Regulus caught the point immediately.
"So a ghost's strength comes from that frozen state," he said carefully. "That solidification gives it a quality"
The Baron was silent for a long time, as if considering whether Regulus deserved an answer.
Then he spoke.
"Yes. Solidification means stability. It means it is difficult to destroy. A living soul can be wounded, broken, or torn apart. A ghost's soul has already broken once, broken in just the right way. Not dispersed completely, yet no longer capable of change. That is why it is hard to harm again."
The words hit Regulus with quiet force.
A soul torn apart.
That was the foundation of a Horcrux.
Voldemort had ripped his own soul into fragments and sealed them into vessels. An unnatural state. A mutilation that refused the natural order.
Did that create a grim similarity between Horcrux making and ghosthood
Both were damaged survival. Both were the soul failing to move on, one by accident, one by deliberate violence.
Regulus chose his next words with care and let only a sliver of truth show.
"I have read books about the soul," he said softly, "about tearing it and sealing it."
Then he asked, voice even, but intent sharp.
"I want to know this. If a person's soul is already wounded, how can he protect what remains from further damage"