CHAPTER ONE
Paranormal Activity

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NOTHING INVOKES THE HEEBIE jeebies within Harvey quite like the dungeons.

Well, that's not entirely the truth. Nothing other than spiders, rodent tails, thunderstorms. . . oh, and he can't forget mandrakes! He fainted in the Herbology greenhouse the first time he ever set eyes on one, taken aback by a sentient and extremely cross plant within the smooth terracotta of his plant pot. Their strange little faces paired with their shrill screams were a bit too much for poor, twelve year old Harvey and his fragile muggleborn mind.

On a slightly unrelated note, he found out the following year that Boggarts don't know what to do with him because, fun fact, they tend to malfunction when faced with such a wide selection of phobias! Who would've known? It's a real shame that he can't use that to benefit him anymore. . .

   Merlin, where was he, again? Ah, yes: the dungeons. Right in the underbelly of the castle, a labyrinthine network of corridors coiled up like Devil's Snare — thriving in darkness and asphyxiating lest you know just how to handle them. Torches flicker within wall sconces and cast grizzled shadows across the floor, the feeble imitation of many shapeless mosaics to make up for the drab decor and serious lack of, er, friendly portraits. Harvey would comment on the slimy cold that envelops him the further he ventures, but he can hardly find words to describe it when he's numb to most temperatures above freezing point. A blessing and a curse, really.

   Harvey phases through a wall, ignoring the tremors that pinch and prod at his empty veins. ( As a fledgling, he found that you actually get used to that shivery sensation rather quickly. ) He flickers as nothing more than a wispy apparition before materialising on the other side, his unearthly skin gossamer and vaguely azure in the dim lighting.

A suit of armour stands to attention, iron palm shooting up into a rusty salute as it has been enchanted to do in the years gone by. Harvey raises his hand in a meek little wave, but he can't help looking to and fro, eyebrows cinching towards one another. He sincerely hopes the magical knight doesn't coin on to his ill manners. That would never do.

"Hello?" he calls, arms folding across his chest. His foot begins to tap against thin air. "I don't have all day, you know."

A lie. He has all of eternity, really.

"Hiya. Thanks for coming."

Harvey would've jumped out his skin if he had any, eyes wide and arms flailing as he whips around to face the perpetrator. He's quick to correct his posture, fumbling with his blue tie and ensuring that his head is on straight before sizing up the spectre before him.

   He's met by the sight of a lanky boy, his curls raven and his limbs still wispy in the early stages of phantasm. The expression worn upon his sharp features carries traces of a former mischief maker, though it has since slackened through the traumas of death and tensioned into something gloomier. He has a shocking amount of metal stapled to his face, his uniform seemingly askew and disorderly on purpose. Harvey realises that this is one of the modern punk rockers he's been warned about — he shall approach this here. . . gentleman with caution.

    "Godric's heart!" he cries, eyes narrowing to accusatory slits. "I wish you fledglings would come with bells attached. You are rather terrifying at times, don't you know."

   The ghost's face twists in offence. He huffs, his bold facial piercings jingling as his unearthly features simmer with anger. "Thanks for reminding me, mate."

   Harvey blinks unaffectedly. "Not a problem at all." He thinks about sticking his hand out to offer a polite handshake but quickly backpedals since physical contact is out of the question. He clears his throat. "I'm Harvey—"

  "Yeah, mate. I know who you are."

   He falters, blinking away the surprise. "And who might you be?"

   He clicks his tongue. "Turner. Jett Turner."

   The missing puzzle piece interlocks with the rest of Harvey's jigsaw scatterbrain. Yes, he's seen this raucous chap around the castle before; always up to no good, bracketed by four equally as unruly boys.

  He's not laughing anymore. The forgotten colour in his cheeks has hollowed out to fill in any smile lines, his eyes supermassive black holes of grief over his own mortality. Harvey silently wonders how exactly he passed on — no visible scars aside from a gaping gut wound, no bruising, no signs of struggle. . . the boy before him is an enigma disguised as a ghost. He wants to dissect his mystery as much as he wants to cozy up in the real afterlife and leave all this merciless haunting behind.

  Harvey has to admit that it's slightly unnerving to see Jett so ghastly and gossamer after witnessing him amongst the living only. . . what was it, a week ago? Perhaps longer. Eh, what does Harvey know — time to the dead is like a single droplet of rain in the vastness of the ocean, insignificant and vaguely bothersome to some. Speaking of which, he realises that he's been staring at Jett for an improperly long period of time and should probably say something before he's spooked away forevermore.

   "Yes, lovely to meet you. A fine name." His smile is tight lipped and awkward. "Now, forgive me for being so forward, but what exactly can I do for you, Mister Turner?"

   Jett side eyes him, looking as though he regrets ever asking to meet in the first place. He exhales heartily and runs a bedazzled palm through the tufts of his unkempt hair.

"Need to figure out why I'm dead. Unfinished business and that."

Harvey can't help chuckling. "Nobody knows why they're dead, I'm afraid. I doubt—"

"Nah, nah. You don't get it." Jett crosses his arms defensively, swishing the next words about in his mouth and spitting them out like a cruel venom. "I need to find out who killed me."

Harvey blanches. "A murder?"

Jett flinches at the terminology and sheer bluntness of his words, slowly managing a nod through his discomfort. Harvey blinks in response, the chills electrifying his anxieties sputtering out to pave way for his confusion.

"Er, not to be rude or anything but why, out of every spectre in this castle, would you come to me for a murder case?" Harvey wonders, truly perplexed. "Im terribly sorry to waste your time but I'm sure there are other ghosts better suited to that sort of malarkey than I."

  Jett looks at him like he's just grown another head. He stuffs his hands in his jacket ( a muggle invention covered in pins and fabric paint that are hardly regulation! ) and fixes his burning glare onto a random brick in the wall.

   "Christ, what am I doing. . ." he mumbles exasperatedly, swiping a hand over his face before shaking himself back toward sanity. "I was told that you specifically could help me."

   Harvey frowns. "Really? By whom?"

   "Nearly 'eadless Nick." Jett says it like it's the obvious answer. "He mentioned sommat about you looking for people to help out. He was talking all about your, eh, expertise."

   "Oh dear," Harvey breathes. His face soon downturns in irritation, fists clenching at his sides like an admonished child. "That ratbag!"

   Jett raises his brows. "You what?"

   "With all due respect, Mister Turner—"

   "Jett."

   "With all due respect. . . Jett, I do not believe myself to be qualified for detective work. This seems to be a colossal misunderstanding and a grave mistake on Sir Nicholas' behalf." He grimaces. "Rest assured, he will not be getting off lightly. What an insolent little—"

   Jett's face flickers with a grin. "What've you got against 'im?"

   Harvey waves it off as if deigning to answer is beneath him but continues speaking anyway. Always a gossip, as much as he'd like to deny it. "Oh, you see, he's terribly jealous of me. He's been desperate to join the Headless Hunt since, well, forever, and believes it to be lunacy that I always decline their invitations." His palm grazes the incision in his neck thoughtfully. "They can be awfully barbaric with their games and shenanigans, that group. Not my sort of crowd."

   Jett barks a curt, humourless laugh. He seems to anchor himself back down to reality quickly, his eyes growing heavy and sad. "So, you can't help me?"

   Harvey grimaces at the stab of guilt which runs through him at how utterly dejected the boy sounds. The sinking of his shoulders, the delicate wavering of his confidence. The pathetic sting wrought from bitter rejection dances across his face and for the first time in decades, Harvey finds himself feeling bad.

    "I-" He purses his lips, pausing a fraction to think. "I don't know. Going on a wild goose chase after a murderer sounds awfully dangerous and, er—" He gulps, tugging on his collar. "—rather frightening."

   Jett shakes his head, muttering something about 'a waste of his time' and beginning to back away down the corridor. It seems that he hasn't gotten used to the idea of phasing through walls just yet, instead opting to walk back out of the dungeons like a material mortal. Harvey can sympathise.

   Sympathise, sympathise, sympathise. Harvey gnaws on his bottom lip and flinches at a feeling akin to ice cream scraping along one's sensitive front teeth. He watches the receding figure, at war with his conscience as the ghost's shoulders sink dejectedly and his glow shines a little bluer. It feels almost as if letting this freshly dead ghost stumble away from him, not a clue to guide him through the afterlife, is virtually the same as kicking a puppy or something cruel like that.

  Golly, is he a bad person? Wait, no, don't answer that! It was supposed to be rhetorical. . .

   Oh, bother.

   "Er, Jett?"

Jett brightens up. He spins around on his heel, hope glistening in his undead eyes and a trickle of ectoplasm seeping from his gut wound at the sudden movement. "Yes?"

   Harvey deflates a small fraction, defeated. "I suppose I could help you with this. . . issue of yours if you were to assist me in return. Quid pro quo, correct?"

Harvey floats after him, bobbing through the air with newfound interest sparking like gunpowder in his chest. Jett's giddiness is contagious like a virus and Harvey has to purse his lips to avoid smiling back — it appears that Jett Turner is a droplet of water to unsettle the still waters of Harvey's perfect equanimity, which is an issue considering that composure is all he can afford in his current state.

"So, where do we begin?" asks Harvey.

Jett comes grinding to a halt. His easy grin is a grand show of perfect teeth, mischief making and it quite frankly makes Harvey nervous. He crooks his head to the side imploringly, amplifying the gnawing feeling of what Harvey assumed to be dread as it blossoms in his gut.

"You ever read Sherlock Holmes, Harvey?"

JOE'S THOUGHTS ! ! !

first chapter let's goo 🥳🔥

when i published this fic i was like "yes i'll have it finished by halloween" even though i know what i'm like and in hindsight i should've known better lol. thank you sm for being patient with me, i fear that this initially halloweeny fic will be dragged out wayyy beyond halloween

this wasn't a very interesting chapter to start with tbh but i wanted more of an easy introduction to how harvey and jett actually met each other than diving into the proper plot headfirst

please remember to vote & comment, i adore hearing your thoughts and your comments always give me a good laugh. love you all sm,
mwa mwa mwa