Ballad of the Bloody Baron

The Baron Ships it like FedEx

"Six hundred and thirteen...six hundred and fourteen...six hundred and fifteen..."

The Baron's lips were pinched so tightly in a line that they had practically disappeared from his pallid face. If he rolled his eyes any more, they'd fall right out of his sockets. Patience. That's what he needed. Just a deep breath (not that it was necessary), and a long exhale. He was zen. His mind was calm, so very calm–

"Six hundred and sixty-five–"

The Baron's mind was no longer calm. "Ripley! Stop it!"

He was trying to have an enjoyable afternoon in the dusty library, and that horrid ghost had been following him around for ages. The Baron's current hobby was sticking his transparent pointer finger through The Monster Book of Monsters; the book was sentient enough to realize something was penetrating the binding, but not clever enough to realize chomping its incisors did absolutely nothing to deter the Baron's intrusion. It was moderately amusing, so the Baron continued to stick his finger in, let the book's teeth go wild, retract his finger, and repeat.

He could usually do this for days at a time if the change in sunlight was anything to go by. But today, Ripley insisted on counting each poke of his finger. It was maddening, and he knew it was purposefully malicious. The Baron glared at the other ghost.

Ripley bared a maniacal grin. "Aw, come on. One more! One more! You're almost there..."

"For god's sake, Ripley! I am not the devil!"

Ripley cackled and flipped onto his head. "You could've fooled me, Barry."

The Baron clucked his tongue. "Don't you have better things to do than perpetually infuriate me?"

"No."

"Go bother the Fat Friar."

"Bleh, he's so boring."

"I don't care."

"Come on, Barry! Everyone knows you're the most interesting ghost in the castle. Show me something interesting. Interest me!"

The Baron had opened his mouth to retort, but then slowly closed his jaw. He supposed he was rather interesting. He certainly couldn't fault Ripley for recognizing his superiority to the other Hogwarts ghosts.

"Very well," he conceded. The Baron carefully dusted off his centuries-old robes and crossed his arms. He fixed his eyes on the library doors.

"Uh, Barry?" Ripley floated in front of the Baron's face and waved his hands sporadically. "Hello? Show me something interesting?"

"I am," the Baron argued, continuing to stare at the doors.

Ripley frowned at the entrance. "Okay..."

The Baron sighed. The poor ghost really couldn't keep up, could he? "Just wait. Today is the day. Should be interesting enough for you."

"Today is the day for what?"

"The day we meet them. The children I was telling you about. You know," the Baron gestured vaguely at a nearby table, "the ones who are always either fighting or falling in love or both."

Ripley wrapped his legs around his head, which was his usual sign of confusion. The Baron often wondered if Ripley had been a contortionist in his living life. Or perhaps he was just very odd in his dead life. Perhaps both.

The two ghosts continued staring at the library doors until finally, a tide of students came in.

"Do you know when quidditch sign-ups begin?"

"Last I heard, Oliver was already at the pitch..."

"I heard that McGonagall is secretly part of the American FBI–"