In life, Vincent Crabbe was by no means an intelligent man. His marks were wretchedly below average and on the rare occasion he did his homework, it was embarrassingly substandard. In death, although there were no tests to take or essays to copy, the situation was not so different.
So as the large boy hovered around one of the many arches holding up the ceiling in the Great Hall, looking down on the final battle with what could accurately be interpreted as mild apathy, awaiting instructions from someone – anyone with some semblance of authority – he could do nothing but turn over in his mind all that his life had been until the moment of his death.
Why didn’t I just listen? he lamented, turning his beady little eyes towards the magicked ceiling. It was painted as a dark blue sky, dotted with a thousand stars, a full moon, and few clouds; a beautiful night to die, by any standards. Unmoved by the scenery, Crabbe continued to bemoan his unfortunate situation. All of my life, I listened to what Malfoy said, never bothering to question him. And now, the one time that I think for myself, I end up dead. Crabbe cursed his bad luck and glanced down at the battle scene below.
I wonder if they can see me… he thought. I wonder if I can be seen. A jet of green light flashed from the tip of some Death Eater’s wand – was it Dolohov? Yes, he would recognize that mask anywhere. The beam of light hit Remus Lupin square in the chest. Far to his right suddenly appeared the ethereal form of his old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, joined momentarily by a woman with bright pink hair; he heard the unmistakable screech of Bellatrix Lestrange’s laugh from below. The reunited couple clasped hands and gave him only a cursory look before turning their attention to the battle, which they followed with much more enthusiasm than he did.
Crabbe’s disproportionately sized mouth fell into a small frown. How the hell did this happen? It was so frustrating, this being dead thing. He didn’t know where to go, he didn’t know what to do, and he didn’t have anyone to rely on for orders. So for lack of a better idea, he was stuck on these stupid rafters, looking down at this stupid battle, waiting for someone to inform him of what his next best move would be.
What the devil do I do until then? Crabbe did not want to watch the battle. Quite frankly, he didn’t care. What would it matter if the Dark Lord won? Things would be – would have been – the same in his family anyways. Crabbe got no respect from his Death Eater father. His mother was nothing more than a semi-senile drunk. All of them were constantly threatened by the Ministry’s inquisitive and insistent fingers. No, the state of the world did not matter when things were so terrible at home. What will happen there now that I’m gone? he wondered absently. That question did not matter overly much either, though, and Crabbe resumed his original train of thought.
What if Potter won? Well, supposedly the world would be saved. Although Crabbe couldn’t see how: that wouldn’t change things at home either. Potter winning would just make a lot of important people very angry. Like Malfoy. No, Malfoy wouldn’t be happy about that at all. Where is he anyways?
He looked back down at the battle for the familiar platinum blonde head of Draco Malfoy, the leader of their steady group. If only I had listened! he thought again, still scanning the wild activity. Finally, through the jets of light and the swarms of crazed wizards and witches, he spotted him – high on a railing engaged in conversation with an upset-looking Death Eater. Crabbe’s chest constricted – if it was able to do such a thing in his current state – as the Death Eater raised his wand. Then, out of nowhere, a blast of red light. Following that quickly was Draco’s sharp recoil, which landed him against the banister and clutching his nose in what looked to be pain.
Odd,thought Crabbe. Malfoy had always intrigued him, kind of like how a Venus flytrap intrigues an ignorant fly. They had met on Platform 9 ¾. Crabbe immediately knew this was someone to stay around. The way he always had a plan…the way he appeared so powerful…so put together and polished… I may not be intelligent, but I’m not dumb, he thought smugly. It would have been foolish, utterly foolish, to align himself with anyone else. And if I hadn’t, I may never have met Goyle.
The boy gave a weak smile. Goyle – now there was a friend. The two boys bonded instantly. Whether it was their size, their stupidity, or their attachment to Draco Malfoy was unknown, but it never really occurred to either of them, or anyone else, to wonder. Oh, the good times they had…Eating those two cakes second year and then mysteriously waking up in a broom closet with no clothes and no recollection of how they got there…boy had that raised some interesting questions! Becoming Beaters for the Slytherin Quidditch team…Drinking that Polyjuice Potion to help Draco guard the Room of Requirement…Alright, so maybe the last wasn’t exactly a good memory, but they had more than a few chuckles while in the female form.
And earlier this year…well, who could forget that? Crabbe remembered wistfully. Goyle and he had done so well with the Cruciatus Curse…they were the Dolohovs favorites, by far. They were lauded – actually praised! – for their good work. It was the first time Crabbe could remember being congratulated for doing something well.
He glanced down and saw that old Weasley woman brandishing her wand spectacularly at Bellatrix, beams of light flying from it rapidly. Then, another burst of light and the cackling smile disappeared from her face and reappeared to his left, as did the rest of her. She ignored him, was silent and still in shock for a moment, then spontaneously started to weep, alternately straining her arms towards the Dark Lord and clutching them to her chest. She looked like quite the nut-case, black hair still shimmering wildly around her.
Very odd, he thought vacantly again, and inspected his nails, absently picking some grime from underneath them. He cursorily looked around the rafters and, to his great surprise, there were more people present than he had thought. They were spread out, none within four feet of another on either side. Familiar faces, too: one of those Weasley twins, some small Gryffindor boy, and…Professor Snape?
Crabbe’s gaze lingered on his Head-of-House-turned-deceased-ex-Headmaster for a moment longer. When did that happen? Although he supposed the when was of little consequence – they would all die one day, wouldn’t they? Was the time frame really that important?
The how, on the other hand… Now that was important. Fiendfyre…he seethed. Blasted Fiendfyre! He ran a hand through his thin brown hair. Why hadn’t Alecto warned him about it? Merlin, that was a terrible way to go. That cursed fire felt even hotter than the regular kind, and it was so quick! All consuming and all encompassing…he felt pain like never before. It was fast and searing and excruciating but soon, mercifully soon, it was gone. It was a painful, horrible death, but at least it was quick.
Nothing like what Potter experienced, I’m sure, he thought, looking at the limp boy’s figure. It was held lovingly in the arms of that oaf of a gamekeeper Hagrid. The bloody fool was crying like a lost babe over the death bespectacled boy. Crabbe looked around the rafters. Potter was dead…but where was his impression? Shouldn’t he have been up here too?
Odd… Crabbe attempted to pick at the wood of the rafters, which he found quite impossible as his skin wasn’t skin so much as it was some kind of mist. Crabbe frowned deeper as his hand passed right through the wood. I wonder if they will be able to find my body. Part of him wished they would, but all of him was also quite certain they would not. Fiendfyre did not seem like the type of conflagration that would leave any tangible remains. No, his body would not be found, and his dear, deranged mother would not be able to cry over his burned corpse at his funeral. Crabbe sighed. Oh well. He looked around the arches again: where was Potter?
The scene below him, though stagnant and immobile for a while, erupted. Creatures flooded the Great Hall from all angles and spells flew everywhere. The specters on high tensed with excitement, their spirits shimmering and growing stronger with their excitement. Crabbe’s only dimmed. But alas, he had run out of thoughts, so he watched the proceedings blankly, seeing but not understanding.
There was apparently a good reason for Potter’s form not to be with the departed on the rafters: he was not dead. He had faked it, although how such a thing had slipped unnoticed right under the Dark Lord’s nose was a complete mystery. A tense verbal exchange; his audience hung on tenterhooks. Crabbe yawned. Finally, it was the Dark Lord and Potter: the fate of the world would be decided. Merlin, if only I cared. It would make all of this far more interesting.
As it was, Crabbe should have cared, for two jets of light later, the Dark Lord himself appeared on the rafters, looking down at his prone body in abject horror. The ethereal forms who had watched the final battle now looked at him in amazement. Most were smiling. Their faces were lit with smiles so wide and so genuine that their forms seemed to glow. As soon as this glow reached maximum capacity, they disintegrated. Disappeared. Lupin and the pink haired woman, the Weasley twin, the small Gryffindor, and about forty other souls simply vanished.
Wonder where they went, thought Crabbe, whose form was obviously not going anywhere.
The dead Death Eaters looked at their lord questioningly. Bellatrix inched closer, reaching out for him. “My Lord…” she murmured. Now Crabbe looked on in interest. Here was someone who would tell him what to do, where to go. Instead of issuing an order, Voldemort did not move, continuing to stare at the unbelievable scene of triumph below him.
“I was so close,” he whispered in a broken voice. “So very close…” As if on a faint breeze, the Dark Lord slowly disintegrated into nothing. Bellatrix, desperate, tried to hold onto him, to capture any shred of him she could. When she found her grasps ineffective, she let out a terrible, sorrowful wail, which echoed as she disintegrated as well.
Well that’s just great. The one person Crabbe was relying on for orders had, quite literally, vanished into thin air. Now what? He looked around him. Surely he wasn’t expected to hang in these rafters for the rest of his death. No, that wouldn’t work. But could he move?
Crabbe looked down at his translucent self. Am I a ghost? Though he still looked human in every way, except for perhaps being a bit see-through, the dull boy decided that this was the most logical explanation. Never mind that ghosts didn’t just disintegrate for no reason at all. No, I must be a ghost now. And if they can move, so can I.
Feeling confident, Crabbe took a step. But this step must have been a misstep: it surprised him to feel nothing under his feet. Maybe his gasp was too loud or maybe his concentration simply failed, because that one ill-placed foot caused the world of rafters and cobwebs and ceiling to fade to gray and eventually black. Then, Vincent Crabbe – the unintelligent Slytherin whose father was a Death Eater, whose mother was a drunk, who was crony to the great Draco Malfoy and friend to the greater Gregory Goyle, who had lit the Fiendfyre which ultimately culminated in his demise and, unknowingly, the demise of Voldemort himself - blinked out of existence for all eternity, mindless, bodiless, but not soulless, which was more than some could boast.