Chapter 612: The Baron's Rite
Sean had lost the habit of afternoon naps a long time ago.
Under normal circumstances, a wizard of his age would find it nearly impossible
to resist the pull of sleep during the slow hours of the day. In the Ravenclaw
common room, it was a common sight to see groups of students dozing in the
armchairs, lulled by the gentle crackle of the hearth and the soft breeze
drifting through the high windows.
Today, the atmosphere at the McGonagall farm was just as tranquil.
Downstairs, the younger McGonagall children were charging through the halls, the
rhythmic thud-thud of their feet mixing with the distant grunting of pigs and
the clucking of hens. Occasionally, the air was punctuated by Grandpa Marcus's
booming laughter or Professor McGonagall's rare, sharp chuckle. The sunlight was
perfect—warm enough to be inviting, but not so intense as to be stifling.
Against his own habits, Sean found himself drifting off. He slumped over his
desk, his cheek resting against the smooth wood next to an open book. It was one
of Albus Dumbledore's personal journals—his primary text for mastering
Transfiguration at the Master level.
Scattered around the journal were various postcards, most of them featuring the
smiling face of a blonde Hufflepuff against the backdrop of different
international landmarks.
Zoe McGonagall crept into the room on tiptoe. She felt the weight of two pairs
of eyes watching her: Sean's owls were perched on the rafters, staring at her
with unblinking intensity.
Owls are the messengers of the wise, Zoe thought solemnly. She struggled with a
woolen blanket that was significantly longer than she was tall, nearly tripping
over the hem as she tried to drape it over Sean's chair.
"Do you two actually deliver letters?" Zoe whispered to the birds as she settled
onto a sturdy tree-root stool in the corner.
"Little witch, little witch! I am a noble of the House of Ravenclaw!" the Owl
Portrait (currently in the form of a real bird) hooted indignantly. "I shall ask
you a riddle, and if you answer correctly—"
The portrait's lecture was cut short as Snowy lunged forward, snatching the
chatty bird by its neck and flapping out the window.
"Too. Much. Noise," Snowy hooted. With a casual toss of her head, she dropped
the portrait into the garden below.
Zoe hurried to the window, watching in surprise as Snowy circled back and landed
on her shoulder.
"You. Quiet. Too," Snowy added, tilting her head. Her large, amber eyes were
undeniably cute, yet they made Zoe's spine go as straight as a ruler.
"I won't disturb Brother Sean," Zoe promised, her voice small and trembling.
Snowy nodded in approval and glided over to a Warp Gate standing in the corner
of the room. At that exact moment, a delivery owl emerged from the green flames
of the gate. Snowy offered a polite, rhythmic hoot, took the letter from the
bird's beak, and whispered a single word: "Hogwarts."
The messenger owl turned and vanished back through the flames.
This was the new "Intra-Postal Network"—a concept Justin had dreamed up. He
argued that since Sean possessed mobile Warp Gates, they didn't need to wait for
owls to fly across the country. As long as a handler at each end could direct
the birds through the gates, mail could be delivered anywhere in Britain in
seconds.
It had proven remarkably effective.
Snowy placed the letter on the very top of Sean's stack of books. Then, she
settled silently onto Sean's shoulder, leaned her head against his, and closed
her eyes. Zoe watched the scene with wide-eyed wonder, clutching the hem of her
skirt. She was too fascinated to leave this room of magic.
Sean woke up thirty minutes later.
He extended a finger, and a thin stream of water trickled across his cheek to
clear the sleep from his eyes. A fire-salamander darted from the hearth to snap
up the moisture before both dissolved into a fine mist.
Thoroughly awake now, Sean noticed the letter at his elbow. It was postmarked
from Hogwarts.
Who would be writing now?
Sean mentally reviewed the staff still at the castle, his thoughts lingering on
Snape. He broke the seal and began to read. He had intended to spend the
afternoon grinding his Dark Arts proficiency, but his unexpected nap had pushed
his schedule back.
Respected Mr. Green,
Peeves delivers this missive on behalf of the Baron. Sir Nicholas and the others
wish to know your whereabouts. Should you return to the castle, the Baron most
urgently requests an audience. Please notify him via owl, sir.
On a side note: Is it possible to reduce my 'Good Behavior' sentence by a year?
Or perhaps lower the threshold for what counts as an 'Excessive Prank'? I beg of
you, Mr. Green, three years of being polite is a death sentence for a
poltergeist! I beg you, I beg you, I beg you...
The letter continued for three more pages, consisting entirely of the phrase "I
beg you" repeated in frantic, scrawled ink.
A letter from Peeves, Sean thought, feeling a touch of amusement. He knew the
poltergeist was a creature of chaos, but he hadn't expected the spirit to
actually sit down and use a quill.
The Baron must be putting the squeeze on him. No excessive pranking for three
years? It seemed the Bloody Baron was finally "taming" the school's most
troublesome resident.
Sean stepped through the Warp Gate.
"Mr... Green..."
The Bloody Baron was waiting by the hearth in the Headmaster's office. Sean had
chosen this exit because the office was the only room in the main castle
currently linked to the farm's Floo node—and it was conveniently close to the
Astronomy Tower.
Headmaster Dumbledore had been gone for months. Aside from Sean, no one entered
this room anymore. Sean didn't come because he was the "Successor," however; he
came because Fawkes still needed to be fed.
These daily feedings had significantly boosted his standing with the bird.
[You have gained the favor of the magical creature: Phoenix (Fawkes). Affinity
+10] [Fawkes the Phoenix: Slightly Friendly (Novice Level) (109/300)]
Sean estimated that in another few months, he would finally be able to craft his
first batch of Phoenix Biscuits. He hoped the timeline would allow for it.
"Mr. Baron, have you reached a decision?" Sean asked.
"Could a sinner... such as I... truly be granted...?"
The Bloody Baron was a terrifying sight to most—hollow eyes, a gaunt face, and
silver bloodstains covering his ancient robes. But now, he looked piteous and
small.
"That is not for me to decide, sir," Sean replied. He thought of the Dark
Wizards he had seen in the Lands Between. Their crimes far outweighed the
Baron's moment of jealous rage. But as for their ultimate fate? That was a
question for the mists.
"Your soul, in this place, is judged by no one but yourself," Sean added.
"I have committed many horrors, Mr. Green. Allow me to offer you a proverb: 'Let
the spear of anger strike any target, provided it is not Love.'" The Baron let
out a haunting, dry laugh. "I suspect a soul as stained as mine will not survive
the Day of Judgment. I have one final wish... and I hope you can find it in your
heart to grant a shameless request.
"How is she? How is Helena?"
"She is well," Sean said after a pause.
"Then it is enough."
The silver stains on the Baron's robes seemed to fade slightly.
"Do you still love her?" Sean asked softly.
"Always... but to let love turn to hate is the most wretched of acts. It
profanes both the lover and the beloved."
The Baron was proving to be far more complex than the school rumors suggested.
Sean looked at the ghost—truly repentant and ancient in his grief—and spoke with
a sudden intuition:
"If you promise not to disturb her... and to remain unseen... I can allow you to
see her from a distance."
The Baron lunged forward, his translucent hands trembling. "You mean... such a
power actually exists?!"