Remember my name fame.

The third floor was one of Cupid's favourite level of the castle, if he had to pick. Not only did it have relatively decent views, wasn't too far to reach and housed the defense against the dark arts classroom, Cupid's favourite lesson; it was also home to the trophy room. Not many students ever ventured to the trophy room. It was understandable, it was simply a chamber full with awards and names of faceless people, such as 'Miranda Gleek', Cupid noticed as he strolled between two glass cabinets. One day he hoped to make the hall of fame, although the difference between him and Miranda Who is that he wanted everyone to recognise his name.

The Slytherin had left his final class of the day, defense against the dark arts, and as routine on a Monday afternoon he liked to remind himself of why he was here. Which, of course, led him to the trophy room: the hall of Hogwarts fame. It held everything from past Quidditch captains to wizard chess champions. From prefects to triwizard champions. In all fairness there was a plaque with Cupid's name on: Second Year Wizard Chess Champion 2023-2024. Nobody cared, nor knew about that. Chess Champion wasn't what Cupid aspired to be remembered for, he wanted to be remembered for being bold, adventurous, daring and ultimately: great. Greatness would be the result of Cupid's fame-driven ambition.

Of course he would like to be a singer songwriter. Ever since he learnt to play piano the Slytherin simply loved writing songs and hearing the final product at the end of a half an hour playing session. If he had a choice between being Celestina Warbeck or Harry Potter, deep down, he'd pick Celestina. He'd be happier. Or would he? If Cupid became the next Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Gilderoy Lockhart, he'd get more recognition, feel more worthy. That's what he wanted. That feeling.

Making his way to the window he sighed. Life isn't fair. He thought to himself. Just lately he'd gotten so bogged down about how famous he wanted to be, how he wanted to be internationally known and it wasn't happening quick enough. Each day a day went by and he hadn't taken a step closer to his dream was a failure of a day. A day he'd never gotten back. Right now Cupid needed an adventure, something that would take his mind from his ambitions, allow him to relax and refresh his mind.

The Divination classroom had been smoky with incense and some more suspect herbs but through the mire and the smells that cleared airways and minds, the students attending the N.E.W.T class managed to perfect the art of Cartomancy. With their cards in hand, they placed out their cards, their eyes roving carefully over the tarot illustrations, and foretold each other’s fates. Many had encountered the grisly during that hour while others searched the cards for news of their matches - whether they were handsome, dashed ugly or thick in some way or another.

Once the class had ended, however, the students were dizzied and delighted with what they’d found and after packing up their book-bags they departed, making way for the dubious third years who hadn’t the time for such ‘nonsense’ as that which they themselves pursued. Arm in arm with one of her friends, Melissa Finnigan Hayes made her way down the steps from the Divination tower, chatting animatedly about what the cards and the tea leaves they’d also inspected had said.

It was agreed upon quickly that an early lunch would need to be embarked upon so as to allow their lunch break to be used productively. Not attending certain classes had certainly put her back a few weeks and Millie was determined she was going to catch up that afternoon so she could attend the following Monday with all of the knowledge she needed fresh in her mind. Certainly, her friend commended her but he didn’t share her optimism. Still, he had faith in Millie and the pair moved on, determined to eat before embarking on the heavy load.

Such was their eagerness to get down to the Great Hall, the pair decided to take a detour through the third floor. However, as they turned the corner, they split off from each other and attempted to navigate through the water that was covering the floor.

“I wish we could’ve predicted wet feet,” Millie complained, albeit with a grin as she looked over at Stephen. He made a face at her, unimpressed, and lifted his head only to stall in his tracks.

“What is it?” Millie asked, lifting her eyes up, following his gaze.

The books in her arms fell from her grasp and tumbled, splashing onto the watery floor. Above them, the Gloomy Nuns from Nearly-Headless Nick’s Death Day Party hovered, staring unseeingly at the Fat Friar whose head was thrown back, his mouth agog and his eyes as unseeing as the Nuns’.

“Friar?” Stephen called out tentatively, glancing over at Millie. “Friar?!” He repeated, his voice rising with noted panic.

“You don’t think he’s dead, do you?” Millie asked, squinting up at ghosts.

“He’s already dead!” Stephen shot back, a grin broadening on his features despite himself. Millie snorted and shook her head derisively before taking a few tentative steps forward.

Her expression changed as she took note of her surroundings and she watched, bemused as a cat streaked across the corridor that bisected their own, chasing after a rat that had made a beeline for the Grand Staircase. Millie turned around and as she did so her eye caught the window sill where, much to her surprise, she found spiders lining themselves up, waiting as patiently as they could to get out through the hole in one of the panes of glass.

“HELP!” Stephen exclaimed, rushing down the corridor past her. He threw open the Trophy Room door, screaming out his pleas again before scrabbling down towards the Defence classroom.

The ghost merely hovered in mid-air, unseeingly glaring out towards the bathroom at the end of the corridor. Millie bit her lip, and reached down to gather up her books again, sighing absently at their dampness but unable, quite, to care about them as much as she did the ghosts. Part of her was grateful it wasn’t Nick but what on earth had happened to the Fat Friar?

A sparrow had come to land on the window ledge across the pane of glass that Cupid was gazing through. It tilted it's head, made a chirp before one again spreading it's wings and flying off in the direction of the Quidditch Pitch. If only Cupid could fly. Being talented at Quidditch was one ticket to fame, everyone loved the Quidditch Players plus it was daring and fast paced, something that'd get the Slytherin pumped with adrenaline.

What were his options besides Quidditch? Solve investigations, fight crime? There was another option: singing. His sister always say he had s voice and Cupid did love to sing whether it be in the shower or lightly humming to himself in the dormitory. The only thing holding him back was confidence and of course it wasn't as fun as being the next Harry Potter. 

'HELP!' The scream and banging of the trophy room door dropped mist over his ambitious thoughts. What on earth was going on? Whipping out his wand Cupid swiftly sped through the isles of cabinets and crests to the door. Nobody was there and the door had fell closed once more.

'Hello?' He called out. No response, someone surely was outside along the corridor somewhere? Someone who needed help. Perhaps this was Cupid's chance? His first step to conquer his test of greatness, become the victor of fame. Grasping the door handle, his heart skipping lightly, he heaved the door back and burst into the third floor landing.

Someone was running towards the defence against the dark arts classroom. 'Hello?' Cupid called once more, although they had already burst into the classroom. Was there something happening there? Or was the person running away from something? Something was telling Cupid the later was correct, they'd burst into the trophy room then advanced onto the defence. Turning right the Slytherin followed his hunch, if he was wrong he'd simply turn back but...

'Wow.' Cupid gasped as the fat friar and a handful of nun-like ghosts hovered spookily in the air. 'What's going on?' He called over to the girl, looking back over his shoulder double checking to hear another scream. A congregation of ghosts wasn't exactly scary, for a Muggle maybe, but not for a wizard. 'Um, are they okay?' Cupid added with a puzzled look taking in the vacant expressions on their translucent faces.  

She was coughing. Coughing and coughing and coughing her lungs out, like her air passages were determined to eject every particle of soot that had lodged itself in their corners, along with blood and phlegm and tissue and whatever else that chose to come out. But the smoke did not abate, the rising, churning swirls of black staining the air like a disease; and worming its way into her nose and ears and whatever crevice it could find. It was choking her.

Dip into soapy bucket. Swipe rag at dusty floor. Rub rigorously. Repeat.

She was sitting on her bed, knees folded and drawn to her chest, eyes fixated unseeingly on the dormitory ceiling. She had shut the door, and both the windows, a long time ago. But still the smoke seeped through; sliding though gaps under wood and between glass, marring the elegant nymph design on the stained glass window beside her bed, black splotches of soot settled here and there, till the mystical creature looked like she was choking too.

After the breech, she had slept on the Astronomy tower, icy winter wind chipping away at frail cotton and skin and bone, for three days and three nights. On the fourth day, she had attended Defense class. It had been a practical one. She had refused to use her wand. After a solid fifteen minutes of appeals, reprimands, and stern commands yielding no results, her Professor awarded her detention. Rika kept on staring at the floor.

Dip. Swipe. Rub. Repeat.

She hadn't moved even when the boy, replete with dishevelled robes and blackened face, had darted into the room, yelling that portions of the castle were on fire. The boy looked at her with widened eyes, screamed at her to get a move on, and then receiving no response, proceeded to tug at her arm frantically. She couldn't even wince. Her body had locked down ever since the smoke had come, and the voice inside her head had been silenced. She could only wonder absently that the castle must have been charmed to remove all obstacles against the boys entering the girl dorms in times of need. She could only watch her frozen, paralysed fingers and toes, and wonder if they would ever move. It was quiet, inspite of the screams and the roar of Fiendfyre. Too quiet, without Brenda.

Her detention had been to scrub at the floor of the rooms and corridors on the third floor, till students could 'see their reflection in the shining stone'. She had pulled up her sleeves, fallen to her knees and proceeded to work at the floor without comment. That had been the way she had dealt with most things after Brenda had fallen silent. She scrubbed the floor vigorously, pausing to wipe off the sweat beads that bunched up near her eyebrows after intervals, then continue. After two hours, her body was screaming for mercy, aching and drawn taut, unused to physical exertion. She continued working. She was almost close to the Trophy Room, now.

The boy had finally managed to tug her out of bed, and then proceeded to drag her bodily across the room, like a limp, wooden puppet. The door suddenly swam before her vision, and with a dull clunk, realisation settled in that they were escaping. And this room might perish behind them. Already she could see Fiendfyre licking at the nymph's hair.

"No," She breathed. All that she could remember after was flashes, tugging herself out of the boy's sweaty grip in a sudden burst of strength, the dresser door being flung open, taking out the telescopes, two and huge and heavy. Already they were beginning to feel warm. Then a knock on the side of her head, her unrelenting, claw-like grip on the instruments, a hand grabbing her by the scruff off the neck, dragging her across the floor, fire lapping at her feet. Then that reddened face, those blown-up pupils and the boy yelling in her ear, "Are you mad!"

Are you mad.....are you mad......are..you......mad.....

Another boy's feet, large and agile and heavy, tripped over the bucket that Rika was trying to dip the sodden rag into, there was a large clang as the entire water upended on the floor; and she watched dumbly as he sped away to the Defense classroom she had just mopped; yelling something about ghosts and spiders and Friars.

Yelling. Simply too much yelling.

There were another two, a boy and a girl, standing in the corridor outside the Trophy Room, ghosts teeming around them like a wreathing, puffing circle of mist. She stood up, left hand hoisting up the fallen bucket; and walked towards them, steps unsteady and voice weary, "Could someone fill this bucket up with water for me, please?"

Before the older girl, wearing Gryffindor robes Cupid noted, could reply the sound of company pursed his eardrums. The Slytherin turned around to see Erika Dixon. They hadn't met formally although he was well aware of who she was, given the drama last year between her and Henri Finch it was hard not know.

Cupid had remembered it well, he'd admired Henri somewhat, to an extent envied. A mixture of envy and admiration is what the Slytherin had felt towards Henri Finch. Everything about her seeped ambition and desire for fame, which is after all what Cupid aimed for in life. He admired the fact that she did whatever she could to achieve her means, even if it mean't publicly humiliating Erika Dixon and anyone who stood in her path. On the other hand Cupid had been jealous. Jealous of much attention she received even when the twisted girl within surfaced. It stumped Cupid, here he was, sharing the same ambitions as her (or so he had thought), doing things the right way, the moral way and not getting any attention whilst Henri was ready to poison peoples emotions to scramble the social hierarchy. None of it had made any sense.

'I haven't learnt the spell yet.' Cupid replied to her, taking in the bucket in her arm and the patches of worn fabric by her knees. 'But you could just clean the floor by magic.' He suggested, shrugging his shoulders, 'do you know what's gone on here?' He asked her, looking around first to make sure nobody he knew would stumble upon the scene of him talking to Erika Crazy Dixon.

“No, they’re not okay,” Millie replied simply to the Slytherin boy’s first inquiry. “First of all, after all, they are dead.”

Despite herself she had to laugh and she stepped beneath the Friar and the nuns, despite being able to walk through them, and stood between them to better appraise the situation - though she chose to ignore the spiders in that moment. The water was a constant and it seemed to swath continuously onto the floor as fast as the drains tried to ferry it away, as though it was coming downhill from somewhere to them. Millie didn’t move to explore this avenue - rather she continued to stare at the ghosts, wondering.

Soon enough, a third joined rank while Stephen continued to aimlessly scream down the corridor. Millie shook her head, more to herself than anything or anyone else, and ducked back under the Friar to meet the girl and the boy who had clustered together. She overheard half of the girl’s sentence and grinned broadly, taking her wand from inside her robes. Millie tapped on the bucket, filling it up with the spell she uttered under her breath, and once again the bucket was ready to be used to, no doubt, clean the floors.

“Is Professor Rookwood overseeing your detention?” Millie asked, realising the girl must have come from the Defence room.

Cupid watched as Melissa had stepped under the ghostly figures that were resting peacefully in the air, their reflections shimmering scarily in the water below. Where on earth had all this water come from? If the Slytherin had arrived after Dixon then he'd have guessed she spilled her bucket, then again there was too much water for that. The water was still flowing. Perhaps it was a burst pipe?

Pulling his trousers up slightly showing his socks Cupid advanced across the water in the direction where it was coming from, making sure not to splash too much. Ugh. He thought, noticing the spiders in line as though marching into battle up the wall and out of a crack in the open window. It wasn't that he was scared of spiders but they certainly wouldn't be invited to a picnic.

'It looks like the water is coming from upstairs.' Cupid told the others as he examined part of the wall further along the corridor. Spurts of water were seeping through the cracks halfway down, then again a leak was noticeable at the top. 'Do you reckon we should tell a Professor?' Cupid asked the others, not wanting to be too friendly or over excited about something as mundane as, what Cupid was guessing, a burst pipe.

His eyes caught the ghostly figures again. It really was spooky how they weren't moving. Cupid was beginning to silently admit why muggles were so afraid of ghosts, when they hung there in the air as though fastened to an invisible hook it could be unnerving - especially the fat friar, a usually jolly chap.

(( Soooo sorry guys....totally forgot about this thread ))

The boy nodded amiably, then told her to simply clean the floor by magic. Rika tamped down on the urge to snort, let out a sound of self-deprecating amusement. So very simple for them, wasn't it? Just wave the wand, a swish and a flick, and the job was done. So simple.

The boy seemed nice enough on the surface, but for a girl who had been watching signs as early as eleven, she didn't miss the quick look-around for 'people' that the boy conducted just before he spoke. Worse, she didn't even blame the guy. It was natural. Quite understandable too. The resentment used to come, before. Now, she was just used to it.

The girl with the Gryffindor tie, was much, much more helpful. She filled the bucket in a jiffy, and Rika's lips lifted into a small, recalcitrant yet grateful, smile. She also asked a question, to which Rika answered with an inadvertent eye-roll and a good-natured, "Nope." Then realising it wasn't answer enough, added simply, "He knew I wouldn't use magic to get out of it."

Which raised a whole new question, why? Rika wasn't inclined to answer it.

The boy had trudged further ahead, and was mumbling something about telling Professors. Rika's shoulder lifted in a one-arm shrug, while her mind mused upon what to do next. Wiping this part of the floor was pointless, it was overflowing with water anyway. That meant that in effect....her detention was done. She should probably report to Professor Rookwood but....

Her eye flitted up, catching on the Friar almost absentmindedly. His eyes were protuberant, almost popping out, his mouth blown wide. It certainly looked absurdly off. Her memory stirred, words scrawled across an old page in curling script leapt off at her, and her mouth opened distractedly, "He looks Petrified."

Then, the words sunk in.

Rika blinked. Again, twice, and a third time. There was something almost unsettling in her gut, a distinct sense of unease, in the atmosphere: the still water steadily soaking into her shoes, the scratch-scratch of the spiders. And she wasn't afraid. Fear wasn't a part of this equation, strangely enough. No...this was something else.

Her mouth opened of her own volition, "I think we need to check that pipe."

She justified it to herself, easily enough. Flooded corridors were still dirty corridors. And it was her punishment to get this floor absolutely, spick-and-span clean by tonight. That was all she was doing, attending to her detention. Nothing else. It was just a burst pipe.

Out of the corner of her eye, a spider was vainly wriggling to get out of a crack, scrabbling in space desperately; like its life depended on it.