B.Q. Book Two: Black Princess Ascendant

Chapter 28: Very Unmerry Christmas

Disclaimer: Did Dumbledore deny that Death created the Hallows while he and Harry were standing on the DOORMAT of the AFTERLIFE?

If so, I don't own the Harry Potter franchise; it belongs to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Press, Warner Bros., and whoever else she sold the rights to.

-----------------------------------------------------

This is most definitely not where I wanted to spend the rest of my Christmas Eve, Jen thought with no little degree of irritation as she looked at the swirling white mist surrounding her.

That her primary emotion at finding herself again in Death's realm was anger rather than terror was surprising even to her, but after a moment, she realized that such a change was not totally unreasonable. 

The last time I was here, he was… Gracious? Hospitable? At the very least, he was not flying into a rage the way he did with Elsie. That along with how he applauded me during my ritual to summon Voldemort's soul jars – because who else could it have been standing there? – means I should have little to fear.

Hopefully.

"Indeed, you do not."

The echoing, nasal voice broke through the silence, and curtain of fog parted to reveal a shadow that could only be the Baron. Before he came into clear view, Jen dropped to one knee and turned her head downwards. She had no desire to lose his favor by gazing upon him.

"Despite what your mentor taught you, I am not so short-tempered that I will strike down my servants merely for looking at me. I know you are curious." Curious she may be, but years of lessons were hard to ignore. When she did not raise her head, the Baron's voice lost its levity. "I do, however, bear a grudge against those who disobey me."

Swallowing quickly, she finally turned her eyes to the Dark Power. Strangely, the first word that came to her mind was 'long'. His right leg was curled up to his chest, the knee at the level of his chin and his arm wrapped around his shin, while the other leg was stretched out ahead of him; all four limbs were out of proportion with his torso and would all but ensure that he walked with a strange gait. The hand not scratching idly at his leg held a fat cigar, and though ash fell from the glowing tip, the flakes vanished before they could reach the ragged black slacks. A white shirt and purple waistcoat covered his chest – no doubt emaciated, if the thinness of his limbs was anything to go by – and the top button of the shirt was left undone to reveal the deep notch above his sternum. Chancing a quick glance at the Power's face, she could only blink when she found that, unlike the sable of the rest of his visible skin, his bald head was an ashen grey, almost as if the flesh was so thin that the white of his skull was evident.

He grinned, the Glasgow smile that split his gaunt cheeks revealing far too many teeth, as she stared at the top hat that was tilted so as to shadow his eyes and forehead.

"It is still said that the eyes are the window to the soul, is it not?" he asked to her unvoiced question. "I doubt you are yet willing to gamble so recklessly with your own."

"N-No, Baron, I am not," she stuttered. That did at least explain why Elsie had stressed not to look upon him, if even making eye contact with the Baron risked death.

Death grunted and waved his cigar-bearing hand at the low-slung, lacquered table sitting on the frost-covered earth between them. "Come now, fiyèt, don't be shy. Join me."