The Dejected Dead | Brígh

[Deleted]

May 1, 2027

Ever since he was a living Hogwarts student, the Three Broomsticks had never failed to be Bludworth's favorite haunt (no pun intended). The Slytherin ghost had been leaving his home in the Black Lake more frequently than ever since Hogwarts's destruction. Lingering within the dim depths of the lake was bittersweet without the Slytherin common room to complete its entirety. Over the centuries, floating in through the windows to the green gleam of the lanterns had become second nature to him – Slytherin had become his resting place and eternal home.

And now all that remained was a mountain of stone, glass, and demolished plumbing. No sign of the scholastic life the great castle once sported. Bludworth could only endure so much of the grave of his alma mater before it became too much and he had to seek another setting's solace.

Bludworth was “seated” upon a stool at the far end of the pub's bar, in his hand the spectral duplicate of the poisoned bottle of spiced rum that ended his life over three centuries ago. Around him circulated animated conversations and lively laughter. Bludworth may have been dead, but he was always one of the more jolly spirits.

But the despair at the possibility of Slytherin – which he was once Head of – never returning weighed down his non-existent heart. No cheerful shanty would leave him today.

He sipped the perpetually full bottle of rum, savoring the strong taste of alcohol and enduring the acrid taste of poison mixed into its contents. He then looked back to the happy throngs with depressed, translucent eyes before staring back to the wood of the bar.

He was certain that, despite his ghostly glow, he wouldn't be noticed by any of the other patrons. He was just the mourning needle in the jovial haystack that was the Three Broomsticks.

[BRÍGH ENNIS O'DALAIGH]

Brígh felt like time had both sped up and slowed down. On one hand, she was so incredibly busy she could barely keep her diary in check. On the other, the moments she spent with Aidan seemed to stretch forever, which she appreciated very much indeed. She'd spent this rather blustery May day at the MWRC with Aidan and Eli, a lovely day filled with crups, whispering about Bran and his dealings with dragons, and languishing in fields of flowers. Aidan and Eli had been reprimanded for fooling about too much, sending a dejected Brígh off into Hogsmeade to distract herself until their day was done.

With a weighty plunk, Brígh dropped her tankard of butterbeer onto the bar. She wished she'd gotten a firewhisky, but Aidan seemed to think she consumed too much. He had once even suggested that was why her hair was so red. Brígh grinned at the fond memory, and a pang of longing sounded through her heart even thought she'd just seen him. It was nauseating in a sense, that Brígh was so attached to one person - one person that wasn't Addy, at least. But when Brígh looked up and around the pub, she found something that sent all thoughts out of her mind but blatant curiosity.

"You're dead," said Brígh to the ghost, once she had managed to push her way to his side. "Like, very dead. How can you be drinking?" asked Brígh, her gaze flitting from the bottle of rum in his hand to his transluscent gaze. "I've never seen ghosts in here. And... why does your rum smell so strongly?" she asked, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

@dess

[Deleted]

There was a young girl speaking to him, and Bludworth was pulled from his depressed stupor. He turned to the female who had asked him a question while curiously eyeing the ghostly bottle of rum in his hand. Bludworth understood that it was a rare happening for a ghost to leave their most-haunted abode, thus his presence in the Three Broomsticks was a perplexing one. He'd been convinced that the festive atmosphere would make him invisible, but clearly this wasn't the case for the young girl.

“Ye should take a closer look at th' bottle, lass,” Bludworth lukewarmly responded. “It be but a ghostly doppelganger t' its original state. Thar be certain objects tha' certain spirits hold onto after death – this ol' bottle o' rum bein' one o' mine.”

Where was the harm in adding to whatever amount of education she had been given on ghosts?

“As fer th' smell,” he grimly continued, “th' scurvy wench who prepared it fer me added a touch o' poison...which gave me a hangover from which I'd never recover, as ye can see.”

BRÍGH ENNIS O'DALAIGH

[BRÍGH ENNIS O'DALAIGH]

The way the ghost spoke was reminiscent of a time when Scottish clans roved the wilds, where loyalty was the currency and bloodshed as common as snow. She frowned slightly. Brígh knew she'd seen the ghost around, but admittedly had never taken the time to get to know him - or any ghost apart from Nearly Headless Nick. Nick had once explained to Brígh that ghosts couldn't leave the place their souls had been bound, but could travel for brief times. "Imagine being tied to a pub," said Brígh, more to herself than anything. The thought wasn't actually so bad.

Brígh peered more closely at the bottle, frowning at the markings. "So you keep drinking the thing that killed you?" asked Brígh, immensely perplexed by this notion. "Why not something that you enjoyed in life? Maybe something... without poison?" she added, unable to keep the smirk from spreading across her lips. "Who was this girl - did you haunt her until she died?" asked Brígh, her eyes brightening at the thought of this ghost's vengeance. "I thought only pirates drank this much rum," she added as an afterthought, her gaze darting from the bottle to the pearly face of the ghost before her.

@dess

[Deleted]

“Aye, me red-haired siren,” he replied, his gaze putting more focus than usual on the bottle. “I keep drinkin' th' thing tha' killed me – 'tis me perpetual quietus. Most ghosts don't get t' choose how 'r when they die, let alone wha' they can keep latched t' thar spirits. Fate didn't fortune me enough t' 'ave a bottle o' pumpkin juice 'r butterbeer in me grasp when I was murdered, so...”

With a listless shrug, Bludworth took another swig from the bottle before depositing it into his coat's inner pocket.

It was her next two questions that caused the ghost to raise an eyebrow. Bludworth had been the first Muggle-born ever to have been made Head of Slytherin, cementing him in the House's history as a historical figure; Hogwarts: A History had a section dedicated to his life's story. Though not every student was bookish enough – he certainly hadn't been as a student – to be aware of his legacy.

This induced no annoyance or offense on Bludworth's end, for he took pride in personally apprising the youth of his life.

“Thar was no need, lass, fer th' wizarding law provided a fate far worse than lifelong hauntin' upon me murderess,” he said, his tone and mood brightening eerily as he turned towards her. “See, Selena Gaunt, th' woman who killed me, was a fellow classmate, 'n we were both Slytherins. But in our adult years, I was given th' position as Slytherin's Head, makin' me th' firs' Muggle-born t' ever achieve th' position. Th' cow came from a purist family, so losin' out t' a Muggle-born didn't sit well wit' 'er. She seduced me t' a boat ride o'er th' Black Lake after poisonin' a bottle o' me rum.

“We clinked bottles 'n drank merrily. As I slowly started t' die, she drowned me and left me body afloat in th' lake. She well-nigh got away wit' it, but she didn't count on me comin' back as a ghost 'n exposin' 'er as me killer. Th' penalty fer 'er crime was a nice, cold kiss from a Dementor – courtesy o' th' Ministry o' Magic.”

He also happened to be there on the day of Selena's “execution” laughing as he watched her soulless form fall to the floor after the kiss was over, but he would leave that detail out.

“Ye think correctly in regards t' pirates 'n rum, lass, fer tha' was me life before 'n after th' discovery o' me bein' a wizard.”

BRÍGH ENNIS O'DALAIGH

[BRÍGH ENNIS O'DALAIGH]

Brígh was watching the ghost with a sort of detached interest - she couldn't quite figure him out. However, she perked up at the mention of Gaunt. "That's Voldemort's family line!" she said brightly. The Dark Lord's name had fallen into disuse over the years, and Brígh had not been alive at the time where it was certain death to utter it. She listened in rapturous silence, her eyes focused solely on the semi translucent being before her.

Cringing at the relish with which the ghost told his story, Brígh pushed away her half drunk drink. "A fate worse than death," said Brígh to no one in particular. "I can imagine it was quite tough, being a muggleborn and in Slytherin. I thought Slytherin didn't accept muggleborns," Brígh mused. "My best friend is a Slytherin. Well, was. She's in the ministry now." She made a face at that, wondering still how she survived that boring fate. "Was it worth it? All the hate and everything for a position of power?" asked Brígh after a pregnant pause, her voice hushed.

Something about the ghost reminded Brígh of piracy, though she knew modern pirates operated much differently from those in films. She'd been bored to death watching a documentary of Eritrean pirates blocking ports in the Red Sea with Cheese, who insisted it was useful knowledge. Not to mention the sweeping camera shots and lighting used in the filming process. "You were an actual pirate? Did you steal loads of gold? Or just capture ships and ransom them for dubloons?" asked Brígh, an air of sarcasm in her tone.

@dess

[Deleted]

Having lived long before the existence of the Dark Lord and died with a jolly demeanor, Bludworth never experienced any terrified jerk at the sound of his notorious name. But apparently the same couldn't be said for the elderly barmaid, who gasped and nearly dropped a tankard of butterbeer.

“Oh, collect yerself, ye yellow-bellied wench!” Bludworth barked. Honestly, decades after Voldemort's death, people still felt a great fright over a corpse? Bludworth may have been mentally frozen in the 18th century, but his social skills weren't so rudimentary that he couldn't acknowledge the silliness of it all.

“Aye, she was born o' th' Dark Lord's clan,” he said grimly. “Thar barely be a member o' tha' accursed collection o' inbred purebloods tha' don't deserve a fate worse than death – though nah all o' them were foul.”

Bludworth raised an eyebrow at her comment addressing the low acceptance rate of Muggle-borns in Slytherin. “A Muggle-born wouldn't be let in Slytherin House only if they didn't possess th' level o' cunnin' 'n ambition like yer's truly. Sure, I caught bunk from a lot o' Slytherins fer me blood status, but th' Sortin' Hat wouldn't 'ave put me in th' House o' snakes if it thought I wasn't strong enough t' withstand it. I had been through far more lurid than a bunch o' prejudiced brats afore me comin' t' Hogwarts. Becomin' th' Head o' Slytherin may've ended me, but 'twas th' goal I swore t' seize, 'n in th' end I did. I became a historical figure at th' cost o' me last breath, 'n tha' be an end I embrace entirely.

“As fer me clandestine career as a pirate, I had made a pastime out o' huntin' other pirates fer thar treasures 'n turnin' 'em in fer hefty bounties in me adult years.”

BRÍGH ENNIS O'DALAIGH

[BRÍGH ENNIS O'DALAIGH]

Brígh was silent for a long while, mentally thumbing through her relationships and wondering if she had any pureblooded friends. In all honesty, she couldn't think of one. Not from the top of her head. The only person who came to mind was Albus' mum, and she was alright. She narrowed her eyes slightly as the spectre went on about being placed in Slytherin with his cunning and ambition. Seemed like rather a perilous duo to her. "So you wanted to be in Slytherin?" asked Brígh, the distaste evident in the turn of her lips. "Did you look into the history of Hogwarts and such when you found out you were a wizard?"

"Suppose it's a shame that you were killed. I think Selwyn may have mentioned you but I never paid much attention to History of Magic," added Brígh sheepishly. "Why come here though? Why Hogwarts? You must have had so many options, why would you live out your ghost life here?" asked Brígh, reaching for her previously forgotten drink. The ghost before her was perplexing and confusing. Brígh didn't think she'd like coming back as a ghost. She had a feeling she'd become very lonely indeed. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, it escaped her lips. "Do you get lonely? Being dead in a world of the living?"

@dess

[Deleted]

“It's nah tha' I wanted t' be in Slytherin – I was destined t' be in Slytherin,” Bludworth proclaimed. “The Sortin' Hat itself told me tha' me ambitions were too titanic t' belong t' any o' the other three Houses. Slytherin fit me personality like a glove, it did.”

Muggle-born or not, what Bludworth lacked in magical heritage he made up for with a cunning, cutthroat disposition.

“Aye, I be well aware o' Slytherin's history, bloody obsessed wit' the House as I be; Salazar Slytherin's conquest o' mixed-heritage students bein' allowed ah Hogwarts is easily the darkest part. Ye aren't a student in his House without catchin' wind o' his lust fer Blood Purity. But me ambition was ne'er t' prove Muggle-borns worthy o' thar place in the Wizarding society. Me goal was becomin' Captain o' Salazar's vessel: Slytherin, me red-haired siren.”

Having grown accustomed to his centuries-long title as “The Ghost of the Black Lake” it stunned the spirit to be asked why he lingered upon Hogwarts grounds.

“Ye went t' Hogwarts didn't ye? It be the very castle where I met me end. I be Bludworth Bathory: Ghost o' the Black Lake! The lake beneath which lurks the Slytherin common room, me eternal haunt. It be impossible fer me t' experience loneliness wit' all the proud Blood Traitors 'n fellow earthbound spirits tha' reside thar.”

Bludworth studied her curiously "Wha' did ye say yer name was, lass?"

BRÍGH ENNIS O'DALAIGH