The Charms classroom, usually a vibrant space filled with the cheerful hum of incantations and the occasional sparkle of errant magic, felt unusually tense. Professor Flitwick, perched atop his stack of books, surveyed the room with an almost impish gleam in his eyes.
"Alright, class, settle down, settle down!" his squeaky voice chirped, yet there was an undercurrent of seriousness that commanded attention. "I do hope you've all utilized the time I gave you wisely. Because today, my dear students, you are to undertake your final test of the year!"
A nervous murmur rippled through the students. Echo, his black hair still faintly damp from his earlier swim, felt a familiar thrill of anticipation.
"For this grand finale," Flitwick continued, a dramatic pause hanging in the air. "You will each present your very own, specially designed containment unit!-a unit, I might add, capable of… holding ghosts!"
A collective gasp filled the room. Holding ghosts? That was an advanced, almost theoretical, branch of Charms.
"And to ensure the highest standards of quality and efficacy," the Professor added, his eyes twinkling mischievously, "I have secured a most distinguished and discerning guest to personally quality test your creations!- Please welcome… the Bloody Baron!"
A chilling gust of cold air swept through the classroom, and the spectral form of the Bloody Baron materialized in front of the blackboard, his eyes wide and hollow, his ethereal chains rattling softly. A few students shrieked, while others merely paled considerably.
Flitwick, seemingly unfazed, clapped his tiny hands together. "Excellent!-Now, then, let us see these magnificent contraptions!-I shall give you a visual score before the containing begins. Line up, if you please, and present your work!"
One by one, students hesitantly approached, showcasing their designs. Intricate silver cages shimmered with anti-ectoplasmic wards, ornate crystal globes were designed to trap spectral energy, and even a few more traditional wooden boxes were inscribed with complex runic sequences. Each varied wildly in design, some looking functional, others more artistic.
Finally, it was Echo's turn. He calmly walked to the front of the class, not with a single elaborate device, but with five glass bottles of different sizes and shapes. They ranged from a small, elegant vial to a robust, almost jug-like flask, all meticulously cleaned and gleaming in the classroom light.
Flitwick stared at the collection, his head tilted. "Mr. Echo," he began, his voice laced with a touch of bewilderment. "While I admire your… enthusiasm, I only asked for one containment unit. You do realize that, don't you?"
Echo, his black hair flickering with a hint of mischievous yellow, merely shrugged. "Oh, I know, Professor," he said, his hollow eyes sparkling. "But these aren't for containing ghosts."
Flitwick blinked. "They're not? Then what, pray tell, are they for, Mr. Echo?"
Echo's grin widened, his yellow hair dancing with uncontained excitement. "They're for containing poltergeists, Professor!"
The entire class collectively gasped, and even the Bloody Baron, who had been observing with a detached air, seemed to lean forward slightly.
Flitwick let out a soft, almost pitying sigh. "Mr. Echo," he said gently, patiently, "as I've explained numerous times throughout the year, poltergeists are non-beings. They are not ghosts, nor are they truly alive. They are merely manifestations of chaotic energy. As such, they cannot be entirely contained, controlled, or expelled. It's simply… impossible."
Echo's yellow hair blazed defiantly. "That's the fun of it, Professor!- What's the point of not trying? After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained!"
Flitwick paused, a thoughtful expression on his face as he looked from Echo's determined eyes to the array of glass bottles. A flicker of his own adventurous spirit seemed to stir. "Very well, Mr. Echo," he finally chirped, a slight smile touching his lips. "I am mildly curious to see the end result of this. You may proceed."
A grumble broke the sudden silence from a student in the back. "Oh, great, he's showing off again."
Another student muttered, loud enough for those nearby to hear, "Now he's taking to publicly boasting. The internal, behind-the-shadows, laughing about it to himself was bad enough."
Echo's reputation, which had been steadily declining over the weeks after the rumor about him being a haughty show-off had spread—a rumor that, despite being repeatedly disproven, only seemed to intensify—had clearly not improved. But Echo, his yellow hair dimming slightly but still holding its defiant glow, tried to ignore the comments. He had a challenge to undertake and a point to prove.
Echo sighed, ignoring the muttered complaints, and took a deep breath, his yellow hair settling into a determined black. "Peeves!" he called out, his voice echoing through the silent classroom. "Oh, Peeves, where are you, you glorious chaos-bringer?"
A moment of silence, then a faint giggle echoed from the ceiling. A moment later, the mischievous poltergeist, clad in his usual mismatched jester's attire, popped into existence right above Echo's head, hanging upside down with a wide, impish grin. "Ooh, lookie here! Little Half-Blood wants Peeves! What mischief are we getting into today, eh? Is it a prank? A glorious, magnificent prank to annoy the greasy Potions master?"
Echo, his black hair flickering with a pleased yellow, shook his head. "Better, Peeves. Much, much better. I need your help with my Charms test."
Peeves scoffed, righting himself and floating in front of Echo. "Charms? Boring! Peeves doesn't do Charms! Charms is for boring old fuddy-duddies who like things to be… contained!" He punctuated the word with a dramatic shudder.
"Exactly!" Echo exclaimed, his yellow hair blazing with excitement. "That's where you come in! Professor Flitwick thinks poltergeists can't be contained. He thinks it's impossible. But I think it can be done. And I need you to prove him wrong!"
Peeves narrowed his eyes. "Contain Peeves? What fun is that? Peeves likes to be free! To float, to fly, to fling rotten fruit at the old Headmaster!"
"But think of it as a game, Peeves!" Echo pressed, his voice full of persuasive charm. "An escape game! You let me suck you into one of these bottles," he gestured to his array of glass containers, "and then you try to break out as fast as you can! The faster, the better! And here's the best part: every time you break out, you get to choose what kind of grand, spectacular effect happens! Anything you want! Confetti? Sparks? Maybe a burst of brightly colored slime? Or how about… a shower of live snakes? I'm really hoping for the snakes, Peeves. That would be awesome."
Peeves' eyes, which had initially been skeptical, now gleamed with a nascent interest. "An escape game? And Peeves gets to choose the exit effect? Hmm… snakes, you say? Live ones? And perhaps a bit of that green slime you mentioned?"
Echo nodded vigorously, his yellow hair practically vibrating. "Absolutely! Anything you want! The wilder, the better! Think of the glory, Peeves! Proving Professor Flitwick wrong! Showing everyone that you, the legendary Peeves, cannot be truly contained, even by the most clever of charms!"
Peeves cackled, a high-pitched, gleeful sound. "Peeves likes the sound of that! Very well, little Half-Blood! Prepare to be amazed by Peeves' escaping prowess! Which one first? The small, pretty one? Or the big, clumsy one?"
Echo, his yellow hair now a brilliant, triumphant orange, picked up the smallest, most elegant vial. "Let's start with this one. See how long you last, Peeves!"
Peeves, with a dramatic bow, zipped into the opening of the vial. With a soft WHOOSH, Echo clapped a specially charmed stopper onto the bottle. The vial glowed faintly, and Peeves' muffled cackles could be heard from within. The class, and even the Bloody Baron, leaned forward, completely captivated.
A few seconds passed, then suddenly, with a loud POP, the stopper flew off, and Peeves burst out of the bottle in a shower of glittering, multi-colored confetti that coated the entire classroom and every student in a festive, sparkling mess. He spun around, cackling wildly. "Too easy! Peeves needs a challenge, Half-Blood!"
Flitwick, brushing confetti from his robes, looked utterly stunned. "Remarkable! Truly remarkable!"
Echo grinned, picking up a slightly larger, more robust bottle. "Alright, Peeves, this one! Let's see you escape this!"
Peeves, eager for the next challenge, zipped inside. Echo quickly sealed it. This time, after a mere three seconds, Peeves exploded from the bottle with a loud KABOOM, releasing a thick, green, viscous slime that coated the front of the classroom, narrowly missing a shrieking student. Peeves, dripping with slime, let out another triumphant cackle. "Next! Next! Peeves is unstoppable!"
The third bottle, a spherical crystal globe, was next. Peeves lasted exactly five seconds before bursting out in a flurry of sparks that crackled harmlessly through the air. The fourth, a jug-like flask, saw him emerge after seven seconds, unleashing a sudden, chilling gust of wind that sent papers scattering and students shivering.
"Right," Echo said, picking up the final bottle, a seemingly ordinary glass jar. His orange hair had settled into a determined, focused black. "This one, Peeves. This is the big one. Let's see what you've really got."
Peeves, his ethereal form shimmering with excitement, zipped into the jar. Echo quickly sealed it. The jar glowed, a faint, pulsing light emanating from within. The classroom fell silent, the students and even Professor Flitwick holding their breath.
One minute passed. Two minutes. Five. Ten. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with suspense. The jar continued to pulse with a soft, steady light, but no sound, no cackle, no sign of Peeves. The students exchanged nervous glances. Flitwick adjusted his spectacles, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and growing apprehension. Even the Bloody Baron seemed to shimmer with an unusual intensity.
Still nothing. The jar remained sealed, its contents unseen, unheard. Peeves, the uncontainable poltergeist, was gone.
"Did I… did I do it?" Echo whispered, his voice barely audible, his black hair flickering with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
Flitwick, his usual cheer replaced by a profound bewilderment, slowly lowered himself from his stack of books. "You… you did, Mr. Echo," he stammered, his eyes wide. "You actually… contained him."
A stunned silence filled the room, broken only by the soft rattling of the Bloody Baron's chains as he, too, seemed to sag slightly, as if the sheer impossibility of the feat had momentarily overwhelmed his spectral form. The students, their faces a mixture of shock and grudging respect, stared at the unassuming glass jar.
Flitwick slowly walked towards Echo, his tiny hands clasped together, his expression shifting from bewilderment to a dawning, incredulous admiration. He stopped in front of Echo, gazing at the jar, then at the boy. "Mr. Echo," he said, his voice unusually quiet, yet ringing with genuine awe, "you have just accomplished what countless witches and wizards, what even the most renowned Charms Masters, have deemed impossible. You are, to my knowledge, the first person in history to find a way to contain a poltergeist. Even the Bloody Baron, who has spent centuries attempting to rein in Peeves when he gets out of hand, seems utterly impressed by your ingenuity." He looked out at the class, a small, proud smile touching his lips. "Give Mr. Echo a hand, everyone!"
A smattering of polite, yet undeniably hollow, applause filled the room. The students clapped, but their faces remained a mosaic of irritation and disbelief. They clapped out of obligation, not joy, their earlier mutters about his showboating still fresh in their minds. The thought of Echo succeeding where so many had failed, and doing so with such apparent ease, only seemed to fuel their resentment.
"Woohoo! That's my boy, Echo!" Frank's voice, however, cut through the grudging applause, loud and clear. He clapped enthusiastically, a genuine, wide grin on his face, truly thrilled for his friend.
Suddenly, with a violent shudder, the glass jar in Echo's hand began to shake, vibrating with an ominous intensity. The pulsing light within flickered wildly, then a faint, high-pitched giggle could be heard, growing louder.
"Oh, no," Flitwick whispered, his face falling.
With a deafening CRASH, the jar exploded, sending shards of glass and a torrent of writhing, live snakes showering down upon the startled students. Shrieks of pure terror erupted from every corner of the classroom as the snakes, though harmless, slithered across desks and coiled around terrified ankles.
"YES!" Echo shrieked with delight, completely unfazed by the slithering creatures. His black hair blazed a triumphant red as he danced amidst the chaos. "Live snakes! I knew you'd do it, Peeves! Awesome!"
Peeves, floating high above the terrified students, his jester's hat askew, let out a triumphant, yet slightly shaken, cackle. "Ooh, that was fun! But a bit scary, even for Peeves! Peeves was sure he was trapped for a good while there! But I found a way out, as usual!"
Professor Flitwick, his face buried in his hands as a stray garter snake slithered over his stack of books, let out a long, suffering sigh. "I knew it was too good to be true," he mumbled, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his voice.
Echo, his blue hair softening to a conspiratorial black. "Professor," he began, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I can give you the charms and incantations I used for that last bottle. Even if you can't fully contain Peeves, it should keep him from interrupting your class and any downtime you want." He paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Just… don't tell Peeves it was me who gave them to you, alright? I don't want to be on his bad side."
Professor Flitwick's eyes widened, then a wide, genuine smile spread across his face. "Mr. Echo," he chirped, his voice filled with delight. "That would be… most agreeable. Most agreeable indeed."
Later that evening, the Slytherin common room was unusually quiet. The chaos of Chamrs class had long faded, replaced by the usual chill of the dungeons. Echo, his black hair dull and lifeless, dragged himself towards his dormitory. He felt a profound weariness settle over him, the earlier joy of swimming lessons and ice cream now a distant memory, overshadowed by the persistent undercurrent of animosity he faced daily. As he pushed open the door to his room, he stopped dead. His bed, usually neatly made, was buried under a mountain of owl posts. Not just a few letters, but dozens, perhaps even hundreds, all addressed to him. A knot of unease tightened in his stomach. He picked up the top letter, the parchment crisp and unblemished. He tore it open.
You think you're so special, don't you? Just another show-off, seeking attention.
Echo's black hair flickered with a faint, resentful red. He tossed the first letter aside and grabbed another.
Your little tricks don't impress anyone, half-blood. You're nothing but a fraud.
Another, and another. Each letter, an anonymous missive of hate and scorn, confirmed his worst fears. They called him arrogant, a boastful display, a cheat. They accused him of manipulating others, of seeking glory at their expense. The words, sharper than any curse, pierced through his carefully constructed defenses.
No one likes you. You're just a freak.
Go back to the orphanage where you belong.
After the fifth letter, Echo stopped. His hands trembled, and the remaining pile of unopened mail seemed to mock him, a physical manifestation of the disdain he felt from his peers. He sank onto the edge of the bed, the unread letters rustling around him like whispering accusations. His black hair, now a mournful grey, hung heavily around his face.
He had tried so hard. He genuinely had. He'd tried to be helpful, to be friendly, to show everyone that he wasn't the haughty, arrogant kid who did things behind others' backs. He wasn't a show-off; he was just… himself. But the more he seemingly tried, the worse it got. Even his friends telling everyone the rumors weren't true didn't help. Lily was half-ready to start setting people on fire for it – her words, not his. He almost longed for the days when he was just ignored. That was easy, compared to being actively hated.
Echo thought he was strong and that he could get through this. He always had before. But this… this felt different. It was a relentless, insidious assault on his spirit, chipping away at his resolve. He didn't know if he could. He buried his face in his hands, and the first tear escaped, hot and stinging, followed quickly by another, and then another. A quiet, heartbroken sob wracked his small frame as he cried into his hands.
Sniffles, who had been curled up at the foot of the bed, stirred. Sensing Echo's profound distress, the Niffler uncurled and gently nudged his head against Echo's arm, letting out soft, comforting chirps.
Shimmer, previously unseen, materialized on the bedside table. Its intelligent eyes, usually filled with mischief, now held a fierce, protective glint. With a determined grace, the Demiguise began to gather the discarded letters. It moved with surprising speed, meticulously collecting every single piece of hateful parchment, stacking them neatly in its tiny arms. Once the pile was complete, Shimmer, still clutching the stack, padded silently out of the dormitory and into the Slytherin common room.
The common room was mostly empty, save for a few older students huddled by the fireplace, their hushed conversations drifting through the air. Shimmer walked purposefully towards the roaring flames. Without a sound, it threw the entire stack of letters into the fireplace. The parchment caught instantly, curling and blackening, then bursting into hungry orange and red flames. Shimmer stood there, its back to the room, watching the letters burn, one by one, until nothing but ash remained. Its posture, still and unmoving, radiated a silent, menacing intensity.
Anyone who saw the sight of the Demiguise throwing letters into the fireplace and watching them burn menacingly knew instinctively not to get close. Only one person, a sixth-year Slytherin who had been one of the more vocal proponents of the "haughty show-off" rumor, started to approach, a sneer forming on his lips. Shimmer's head snapped around so fast toward him that the boy yelped, stumbled back, then fled from the common room, his face pale with sudden, inexplicable terror. The Demiguise turned back to the dying embers, a silent guardian of its distraught master.