mod vanessa likes this
Post by Deleted on Jan 21, 2022 19:21:01 GMT -7
September 2, 2019
To Bludworth, there was no better a tradition than starting the term off with some morbid poetry spoken to impressionable first years.
A hushed throng that consisted of students from each House were gathered around the pirate ghost in the dark, drafty corridor in the dungeons. Staged individually on each side of the floating ghost were two black candles, their initially orange flames turned blue by his spectral presence. They were all listening with intrigue as Bludworth recited his own written poem which he titled An Ode to the Dead.
“When th' air grows cold, 'n th' candlelight flickers
When yer all alone, 'n th' darkness snickers
Th' floorboards creak, yet thar be no one around
Then wha' on earth could be makin' tha' sound?
A bone-chillin' clatter like none heard afore
Ye can't look away...yet ye dare nah explore
Fer this presence tha' lurks in th' dark up ahead
Fills th' pit o' yer stomach wit' a lump o' pure dread
Ye hope 'n ye pray tha' it's all jus' pretend
While th' hairs upon yer neck stand straight-up on end
Yer heartbeat quickens, 'n yer mouth goes dry
As ye feel th' stare o' each cadaverous eye
Thar voices whisper gleefully o' death
Tha' chill down yer spine be thar cold, lifeless breath!”
Ever the showman, the ghost knew to take a dramatic pause of two seconds. In that fleeting duration, Bludworth's translucent eyes sought out their covered mouths, wide-eyed stares of fear and anticipation, clenched fists – all his motivation to continue.
“Th' disembodied souls o' th' graceful dead
Who haven't crossed over, but remain here instead
Some make themselves known, while others would hide
Thar's even a few who don't know tha' they've died
They move about within death's bleak rhyme
In perpetual twilight, impervious t' time
One wit' th' wind tha' sends th' leaves skitterin' past thar graves
Below which lay th' dust 'n bones tha' be thar earthly remains
Amongst these graceful wraiths, ye may have a home...
Should th' next life tha' ends jus' happens t' be yer own!”
Rather they wore expressions of apprehension, admiration, or a mixture of both, every student in the small audience applauded at the conclusion of his poem. Bludworth bowed with pride.
“A ship worth's thanks fer th' lovely ovation, young sprogs,” Bludworth purred. “Tha' particular poem be one I composed ten years aft me death. It be in dedication to not only th' spirits tha' reside at Hogwarts, but across th' sphere o' water 'n land tha' be th' planet earth. Do take care t' get t' know me fellow school spirits: th' Bloody Baron, th' Fat Friar, Nearly Headless Nick, 'n th' Gray Lady.
“They've haunted these medieval corridors long before I took me firs' breath! Along wit' many others!”
Bludworth knew that, with his theatrical solicitation, the students would collectively plan to get to know the ghosts of Hogwarts. They would have Bludworth holding onto the ambition he held in life to thank for such. After all, the ghost was as passionate about positively promoting his fellow ghosts as he was his fellow Muggle-borns.
