Chapter 56: Peeves
The soft whisking sound of the evening wind swept through the desolate cemetery.
In just thirty minutes, the endless tide of corpses had been reduced to scattered fragments. Even the tombstones were no longer whole—just broken chunks of stone mixed with zombie heads still roaring persistently, their glowing green eyes flickering eerily in the dark.
If you didn't look too closely, it might almost seem beautiful—like the Indian wizards' so-called glowing fireflies.
"Alexander, that's it? It's over just like that?" Kate's wide cat-like eyes blinked in disappointment.
"Kate, wait a little longer." Alexander pointed toward a nearby zombie with half its head missing and gave a mysterious smile. "Watch."
Kate followed his gaze and saw a tombstone near the zombie slowly begin to shake.
Without any dramatic special effects—just the subtle glow of magic—the ground seemed to come alive. It clicked and swallowed the zombie remains and fragments of the tombstones like a mouth closing.
Then came the sound—click, click, click—growing louder, moving from far to near.
Alexander had already noticed that the biggest cost of the "Zombie Trail" wasn't the zombies or the Lamora fish—it was the land itself.
The zombies were made from the corpses of the poor—something India had no shortage of. The Lamora fish were a local specialty and practically free.
But the land—on this land, hundreds of wizards had once gathered to cast complex, permanent enchantments. Maintaining it only required one or two wizards occasionally recharging it with magic.
In fact, it barely needed any maintenance at all. Few wizards could handle so many corpses at once. Magic is like stamina to a wizard. No matter how powerful a single spell is, it's unrealistic to handle thousands of enemies alone—unless you use wide-range spells like Fiendfyre or Thunderburst.
Thanks to this, the cost of corpses and tombstones could be minimized. And the magical drain on the land? Negligible.
Moreover, the area was inhabited and visited only by wizards. The ambient magical energy they naturally gave off was the perfect upkeep.
That saved not only the trouble of maintenance, but also the galleons needed to hire powerful wizards to recharge the land.
This principle was the very foundation of how Hogwarts Castle operated. It gathered all the young wizards and powerful professors in Britain—and even during holidays, some staff lived on-site.
Thus, the magical magnetic field there became stronger and stronger. The castle itself, like a living creature, grew more powerful over time.
And from this energy, Peeves was born.
He was the embodiment of Hogwarts' chaotic spirit—a poltergeist born from the students' collective dissatisfaction and rebelliousness. A being that couldn't be bound, couldn't be destroyed—freedom incarnate.
And yet, by the nature of his birth, even the freest poltergeist was tethered to Hogwarts.
Peeves was powerful, but not in a combative way. Even Lupin's Waddiwasi could drive him away.
His power lay in his existence. He could not be contained, not permanently removed.
In 1876, then-caretaker Rancorous Carpe—who, like every caretaker before him, loathed Peeves—led an operation alongside nearly every professor to trap him.
They set up a complex trap involving enchanted weapons and a huge bell laced with diversion spells. When Peeves entered the right area, the bell would fall and trap him.
But Peeves, sensing the threat, simply blew up the bell and escaped—with several scimitars, crossbows, a large-caliber musket, and a small cannon. He then proceeded to gleefully fire them across the castle, completely ignoring even the Bloody Baron's attempts to stop him.
When students' safety was threatened, Hogwarts had no choice but to evacuate and suspend classes for three days.
The event shocked the entire wizarding world. Peeves had essentially been born with the castle, a creation rooted in the emotions of Hogwarts' very first students. The Bloody Baron had once been the most feared presence in the castle—like Snape in modern times—so Peeves' defiance of even him was staggering.
It was a disaster. Peeves had become an uncontrollable war machine, possibly even influenced by the Founders themselves.
In times of real danger, Peeves changed. When Hogwarts itself was threatened, he responded—perhaps the "Sleeping Dragon" in the school motto referred to him.
Three days later, Headmistress Eupraxia Mole realized there was no subduing Peeves. To prevent further chaos, she was forced to sign a truce.
The terms? Peeves could bathe in the boys' bathroom on the first floor once a week, have first pick of the moldy bread from the kitchens to throw at students, and receive a new custom-made hat from Madam Bonhabill.
Peeves agreed, disarmed, and returned to his usual mischief.
That was the last—and most disastrous—attempt to get rid of him. Carpe had to retire shortly after due to health reasons.
"Interesting," Alexander mused aloud. "Could this Zombie Trail be a way to harvest wizards' fear and eventually give rise to their own poltergeist?"
The craftsmanship here, though impressive, was still no match for the Big Four of Hogwarts.
But still, a being like Peeves was incredibly valuable. If Voldemort hadn't been a former Hogwarts student—or a descendant of Slytherin, the castle's original owner—perhaps the final battle would've ended with Peeves blasting him to pieces in a fit of rage.
After all, Peeves had been absorbing magic and emotions at Hogwarts for over a thousand years. He was no simple prankster anymore—he was a terrifying force that kept evolving.
It was unlikely, of course. Too many students, even Death Eaters, had once contributed to Peeves' growth through their teenage frustration. That deep connection made him part of the castle itself.
Still, if a foolish Death Eater ever tried to cast Avada Kedavra on Peeves... who knows?
Peeves could be seen as the first of his kind—though he never became something like a phoenix, born from pure positive emotion. A pity.
Today, few wizards realized how dangerous Peeves truly was. A few pranks, a few spells, and he'd vanish. He was even afraid of a ghost.
Even Alexander, when he was still at Hogwarts as a phoenix, had used his detective skills to glimpse the hidden magic beneath Peeves' seemingly childish antics.
His core? Emotions. The raw essence of wizards themselves.
Each wizard was a god in their own right—a reality-warper by nature. But too many gods weakened each other. They became rule-bound casters, their potential restrained.
Muggle-borns had less raw power. Purebloods were weakening. Squibs began to appear.
Magic, in truth, was the attempt to reclaim one's true instinctual power—but the risk of failure always lingered. And sometimes, that failure resulted in magical creatures instead.
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