A pale gold glimmer rose on Theodore Ashbourne's palm as he pressed down through the air.
Peeves felt a terror swell inside him—stronger even than the time, decades ago, when the Chamber was opened and he'd nearly met the Basilisk's gaze.
A Basilisk's stare might petrify a ghost for ever, yes—but you could sometimes fix stone.
This, though? If Theo's hand touched him, Peeves had the sick certainty he'd be gone—utterly erased.
Theo's palm stopped ten centimetres from Peeves's face.
"Can we be quiet now?"
The words snapped Peeves back to himself. He bobbed his head so fast the cap wobbled—then froze, afraid even nodding might brush that hand. His eyes brimmed with respect and something like awe.
Horrible, horrible little wizard, he thought. Only just enrolled and already scarier than Dumbledore will be in a few years—give him time and he'll be nipping at the Founders!
Not someone to cross.
Peeves went meek as a mouse. The sight made Harry's eyes go round. Merlin's beard—was this really Peeves, the bane of every night-time wanderer, ranked even above Filch on the Gryffindor "obstacles" list?
Theo, meanwhile, had a private spark of satisfaction. Adamantine Body, Unclouded Mind clearly suppressed spirits as well as other evils. No wonder Peeves folded so fast—first-rate warding, courtesy of a flesh-sanctified art.
He lowered his hand. Peeves sagged in relief—and then, being Peeves, slowly recovered a bit of cheek.
"Little wizard, how'd you do that? Very few can hurt a ghost—fewer still can end one. That's Dumbledore level—Founders level!"
Theo's eyes flashed, but he didn't answer. He asked a question of his own.
"So you've met the Founders?"
Peeves puffed up, drifted in loops, and began morphing shapes: a bobble-headed swordsman with a great blade; a long-skirted figure wearing a diadem and cradling books; a shield-bearing knight; a small, sharp man with a serpent's sigil. After playing through the quartet, he preened.
"'Course I did! Hogwarts barely built, first class barely sorted—Peeves was already here. Oldest thing in the castle, that's Peevsie! Knew the Four like this." He knotted two incorporeal fingers.
Theo raised a brow. "Oh? Prove it."
Peeves, stung, rattled off tidbits:
"All those tiny Slytherins who think Salazar Slytherin must've been tall and grand—ha! Strong, yes, but he was short, short as Peeves! A little old monkey!"
"And Godric Gryffindor? The finest duellist of his day. Two-hander, one-hander, shield-sword, lance—said it all the time: 'Better than a wand.' Oh! And the Sorting Hat is his hat. Do you know how long he had to grovel to get the others to pour magic into that shabby thing? Rowena Ravenclaw was fastidious, and the other two would've preferred a diadem to a torn felt…"
Theo's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He'd planned to sound out the Basilisk someday about Ancient Magic—Hagrid's stories of the Cinder Serpents and that vanished power had whetted his curiosity—but he'd overlooked the castle's other archive: ghosts.
And Peeves, who'd been here since Year One, might know as much as any snake.
"Do you know anything about Ancient Magic?" Theo asked.
The reaction was immediate and violent. Peeves emitted a shriek, as if Theo had spoken a forbidden name.
"Ancient Magic? Where'd you hear that? Don't—don't—bring it back! Nothing good ever comes of it! Beyond the wizard's limit there's no pretty view—only terror, sharpened to a hair!"
"The Four—yes, the Four—they were frightened! They went mad. Ravenclaw held on with her diadem, but when it was stolen, she failed as well—none of them ended well!"
"My head—hurts—don't ask! I don't know! I know nothing!"
He clutched his skull and began to slam himself against the wall, each impact ringing like a cracked bell. Merely hearing the words Ancient Magic sent him spiralling.
Theo hadn't expected that. So there is a deeper story. The Founders' ends were suspiciously blank in history—no dates, no places, no proof. Only a whisper about Rowena dying ill after the diadem vanished. No grave that anyone could agree on.
Add Peeves's panic, and the pattern darkened: the Four ran into something colossal and didn't want to be found. And the century-old flare of Ancient Magic at Hogwarts? It, too, vanished without a trace.
Speculation churned—then Theo filed it away. Too little hard information; Peeves was clearly destabilised. Another time.
He stepped close, gentling his voice. "All right, all right—I'll stop asking."
"Peeves, breathe. If you stop head-butting the wall, I'll bring you something from the Muggle world over the holiday: Cat and Mouse."
Peeves peeked out from behind his hands, trying for lofty disdain and failing. "Peeves sees plenty of cats and mice in the castle."
Theo smiled. "Not those. These ones do pranks. You'll see a cat slice himself into paper and fold back together; a mouse flattened by a one-hundred-ton hammer—pfft!—and reinflated. Gags you've never dreamed of."
"Between their tricks and yours—well, let's just say yours look a bit… basic. Dropping armour, smashing vases, spiders—child's play compared to them."
Peeves's eyes gleamed. "No such cat and mouse in the wizard world!" He squinted suspiciously. "You're not lying to Peeves, are you? Bring it, then! Bring it and Peeves will watch every second!"
Theo nodded solemnly. Peeves, mollified and humming his awful tune, zipped away.
Theo allowed himself a grin. A single cartoon to buy a poltergeist's goodwill—still a child at heart, then.
The System panel brightened.
You and the Night-Wandering Deity converse pleasantly.
Your relationship has reached: Acquaintance.
Talent gained — Soul-Calling.
Your relationship has reached: Close Friend.
Talent gained — God of the Night.
Theo's pulse thumped once, hard. Two boons secured—exactly as planned.
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