Bloody Baron

The Halloween feast arrived as scheduled.

The Great Hall's ceiling had been magically transformed into a sky thick with storm clouds, flashing with lightning and rumbling with thunder, yet it did not affect the feast below in the slightest.

The long tables were piled high with food: sausages that hopped into plates by themselves, bubbling purple drinks, and all sorts of terrifyingly shaped but delicious desserts.

Regulus sat midway down the Slytherin table, eating quietly.

Avery sat beside him, Alex a little farther away, while Hermes sat alone across from them, silently cutting his Steak.

The atmosphere had been fairly peaceful until a second-year Slytherin came swaying over with a goblet in hand.

Rababstan Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange's younger brother and Bellatrix's brother-in-law.

The Lestrange family had long been a steadfast core of Voldemort's followers. It was practically an open secret.

Rababstan himself took great pride in it, his face always wearing an expression that mixed fanaticism with arrogance.

He had clearly drunk quite a lot of Pumpkin Juice—perhaps with something else mixed in. His face was flushed as he walked straight toward Regulus's table.

"Look, our first-year Chief." Rababstan's voice was sharp enough to grate on the ears. Deliberately adopting a familiar yet condescending tone, he said, "Happy Halloween, Black.

"Bella mentioned you in a letter a few days ago. She said you'd done well and hadn't disgraced the family.

"My brother Rodolphus also said that perhaps someday, we might have the chance to serve... a greater cause together."

Avery immediately frowned and set down his knife and fork.

Alex nervously lowered his head.

Hermes also stopped moving, his gloomy gaze sweeping toward Rababstan.

Regulus lifted his eyes and glanced at Rababstan. He said nothing, merely picking up his napkin and wiping the corner of his mouth.

Yet Avery immediately understood that single look.

"Lestrange, this is dinner time." Avery spoke neither warmly nor coldly, his voice far steadier than usual.

"Perhaps family letters and private matters would be more appropriate in another setting."

Rababstan had not expected Avery, a mere lackey, to speak first. He froze for a moment, then said with displeasure, "I'm speaking to Black, Cuthbert."

"Black is eating." This time, Hermes spoke. His voice was low and hoarse, carrying his distinctive chill.

"And the great cause you mentioned is probably something many people here would not understand. Boast too soon, and you might bite your tongue."

That was rather cutting.

Rababstan's expression darkened. His two roommates were also pure-bloods, though their families did not hold the same standing as the Lestrange family. One looked as though he wanted to mediate, while the other watched the show as if it had nothing to do with him. The atmosphere grew awkward.

"That's enough, Rababstan. It's a feast." The roommate who wanted to intervene tugged at his sleeve.

Rababstan looked at Regulus, who continued eating expressionlessly, then at Avery's hostile gaze and Hermes's dark stare. He knew he would gain nothing here and might only humiliate himself.

He snorted and turned away resentfully.

Regulus never looked at him again, as if a buzzing insect had merely flown past.

As he cut the food on his plate, he rapidly analyzed the situation. The Lestrange brothers—Rodolphus in particular—were Voldemort's most loyal followers. Rodolphus was Bellatrix's future husband, a fanatical executioner.

This Rababstan had been deeply influenced by his family. He had fanaticism in abundance but insufficient judgment. Easily impulsive, he was the typical sort of thug who could be used by others.

Perhaps, under certain circumstances, someone like that could be put to good use—guided into carrying out dangerous tasks or drawing enemy fire.

Then he would naturally meet his fate.

Regulus had not the slightest excess sympathy for those destined to fall into the abyss and drag others down with them.

The feast continued, and the Great Hall was filled with laughter and cheerful voices.

The long tables were piled with food. Pumpkin Pastries gave off a sweet fragrance, while frosted Spiders crawled between the plates.

Dumbledore rose to his feet. Today, he wore a Deep Purple Robe embroidered with silver Stars, and his eyes behind his Half-moon Spectacles shone with gentle light.

"Happy Halloween, everyone," he said in a booming voice, clearly amplified by magic. "Tonight, we have invited a special performance troupe."

He clapped softly, and a door at one side of the hall opened.

Three wizards in bright costumes entered, followed by several well-trained small Magical Creatures.

Leading them was a short, plump witch. She bowed to Dumbledore, then turned toward the students with a smile.

"The Moonlight Circus from Wales," Dumbledore introduced. "They will be performing several amusing magical tricks for us."

The circus began its performance.

The first act was the Chameleon Lizard Dance. Several small lizards changed colors at the command of wands, shifting from emerald green to golden yellow and then silver-white, arranging themselves on the tabletop into the shape of a Halloween pumpkin.

The students cried out in amazement.

Regulus sat at the Slytherin table, quietly watching the performance.

His gaze swept across the hall, and he noticed Bloody Baron slowly drifting past the Ravenclaw table, dark stains that could never be washed away clinging to the ghost's robes.

Regulus recalled what he had read in A Brief History of Soul Magic. Ghosts were remnants of obsession, Residual Soul Forms.

And a ghost like Bloody Baron, who had existed for nearly a thousand years, must possess an obsession beyond imagining.

Like Ravenclaw's Grey Lady, he was one of Hogwarts's oldest ghosts. Both had been powerful wizards in life, and both had carried countless secrets with them after death.

The performance reached its climax as the circus wizards conjured a swarm of glowing magical butterflies. The butterflies formed the words "Happy Halloween" in midair before turning into golden dust and slowly drifting down.

While the performance held everyone's attention, Regulus rose and left his seat.

When Regulus found Bloody Baron in a corner, he was staring toward the Ravenclaw table.

Barrow's gaze passed through the lively crowd and settled on Grey Lady's drifting figure, his expression complex and unreadable.

"Mr. Barrow." Regulus stopped at an appropriate distance.

The ghost slowly turned his head.

"A child of the Black family." Barrow's voice was dry and hollow.

Regulus's heart stirred. Barrow knew who he was—or rather, recognized his bloodline?

Either way, it was good that he knew him. Regulus happened to have many questions for an experienced ghost.

"I read some accounts in my family's collection and wanted to ask you about them." Regulus chose to get straight to the point. Without waiting for a refusal, he continued.

"Regarding the nature of ghosts, the books say that ghosts are the obsessions wizards leave behind in this world, a condensation of memories and emotions.

"But I do not understand why some wizards become ghosts while others do not. That does not seem to be the result of a choice."

Barrow's lips trembled slightly, as if he were smiling, or perhaps in pain.

"A choice?" His tone held indescribable mockery. "You think becoming a ghost is a choice? No, child. It is not a choice. It is failure."

"Failure?" Seeing that Barrow was willing to speak, Regulus pressed on.

"The inability to let go." Barrow's gaze drifted back toward Grey Lady. "The inability to finish something, the inability to accept something, or... the inability to face certain truths.

"So we remain here, trapped in the gap between life and death."

Regulus recalled the discussion of soul integrity in A Brief History of Soul Magic.

A complete and healthy soul should be able to smoothly enter the next stage, whatever that stage might be. No living person knew.

From one perspective, then, lingering ghosts truly were failed forms of souls.

"Then what is the essential difference between ghosts and the souls of living people?" Regulus pressed. "Other than lacking a body?"

Bloody Baron turned his head and looked at Regulus seriously. There seemed to be a faint ripple in his hollow eyes.

"You are very direct, unlike other little wizards... They either fear me or ignore me." Barrow spoke slowly, his voice like dry leaves scraping together.

"The souls of the living are whole and fluid. They change. But a ghost's soul is frozen, like an insect in amber, retaining the form it had at the moment of death, forever unable to change again."

Regulus caught the key point. "So a ghost's power comes from the frozen state of its soul itself? That state of being frozen gives it certain traits?"

Barrow was silent for a long time.

"Yes. Being frozen means stability. It means being difficult to destroy.

"The souls of the living can be wounded, broken, torn apart.

"But a ghost's soul has already shattered once. It shattered in just the right way—not dispersing completely, yet losing the possibility of change.

"So it is difficult to harm again."

Those words shook Regulus.

A soul being torn apart—this was precisely the process of creating Horcruxes.

Voldemort had torn his soul into fragments and sealed them inside different containers. Did that mean that, in some sense, the maker of Horcruxes and ghosts were alike?

Both unnatural states of the soul?

Regulus cautiously revealed part of the truth. "I have read some books about souls, about how to tear them apart and seal them away."

Then he asked, "I want to know: if someone's soul has already been damaged, how can they protect what remains from further harm?"