BONUS ONE SHOT BY TEDDY

The house is old, very old. Exterior siding holds the unruly might of overgrown ivy sticking its stems under the panels. Moss outlines walkways, digs into faded landscaping. Wood is overcome with rot. The indentation of a finger could sink into the ligneous fibers of the stairs. The house creaks. One step and the atmosphere ignites in an echoing frenzy, scattering crepuscular insects and slumbering bats. They scatter through the jagged holes in the ceiling where floors have collapsed from unknown forces.

Nightfall shrouds the house, deepening the emptiness. Dusty, grimy, and dirty. Chipped paint, withered grass, decayed branches. Homeliness is a word unfounded. Any remnants of family have been lost. Moons ago, laughter might've sailed through the gales, smoke would've toiled from the slivered chimney. Life would've flowed. Bushes pruned, roses glowing, oak trees providing seamless umbrage. Instead, a shell remains. Nuclear family proving to live to its name. Irradiated decay.

Most of all, the house is ugly.

At least, Seline thinks so, and she's usually right. Yellow is an abysmal shade to choose for exterior siding. It's so dated. Forget the obvious abandoned edge, the color itself proves how old it is. It's like the architect attempted a Tudor style, but they failed miserably. Full circle windows? Wooden pillars? Again, yellow? There's multiple different styles represented, which makes it a total train wreck. Seline's not a contractor, architect, or designer, but she could do far better.

"This is idiotic."

Seline rolls her eyes, turning up her nose at Draco. She takes a step onto the overly creaky, cliched stairs. He remains rooted in place, like the weathered oak behind him. "Only because you're here."

Draco's lips curl in that unappealing way.

Although, he doesn't continue berating her with his fitful remarks (Thank Merlin!). In fact, if Seline wants to pull up the receipts, Draco insisted on joining her. Practically begged. She would've preferred to carry out her adventure on her lonesome, but who is she to deny a potentially helpful servant. Draco Malfoy, aka the bag carrier. And what a wonderful job he does.

"If I die," bites Draco, slugging the hefty duffel bag across his shoulder, "you'll have to ghost hunt me."

"Just hand me the EMF reader," Seline orders. She doesn't bother responding to his comment. On one hand, Draco's ghost would be horrific, but his untoned hair and sickly skin makes him seem ghostly enough already (He could star in horror movie). Anytime she turns a corner, it's like a jump-scare.

The black plastic device is albeit roughly passed to Seline. It's around the size of her hand with a small rectangular meter. Green, yellow, orange, red. It doesn't take a genius to decipher the meaning. Seline ambles across the porch and switches it on. All at once, the meter bounces haywire, and a pitched beeping follows. To the red briefly, then it settles on yellow. Her eyes narrow. They haven't even gone inside and it's acting weird. Jackpot.

"What does that mean?" Asks Draco, voice weary.

"It means," Seline extends the EMF a bit in front of her, "I was right." Sending the boy a smile, she doesn't elaborate. "Let's go."

With that, Seline pushes open the door and disappears into the shaded interior. He'll follow. Draco can't stand to be alone outside a haunted house with singing trees. Not that she blames him. And, like always, she's right. Footsteps echo behind her, matching her own. The EMF beeps, and it flips to orange.

"Lumos!" Draco utters. Subtle blue light floods whatever room they've entered, which by the looks of it, is every room. Open concept. Gross.

To the right is a living room that dips into a conversation pit. The light shines on the furniture still in its original place. Straw pokes from the ruptures in the fabric, and Seline can see the skeletal structure of wood. It's like a caved chest cavity. Draco's wand catches brassy fixtures hanging from the vaulted ceiling. They're twisted and dented, harboring swaths of spiderwebs.

Seline outstretches the EMF towards the living room. It flashes red. She points. "Someone died there."

"Yeah, sure," Draco snorts.

"Okay. If you don't believe me, go stand over there."

He doesn't move.

"Fine. I'll do it. Baby," Seline mutters. She walks towards the darkened living room and steps down into the conversation pit. It's definitely mustier. Melted into the carpet (She should mention that carpet covers everything, blue carpet) is a slightly reddish stain. From her brief research, there was a murder here, and it happened right where she stands. Unease settles in her stomach, but she's not a quitter. She looks back at Draco, ignoring the erratic beeping of the EMF. She's going to mess with him.

Putting on a shaky voice, Seline mumbles, "Draco, I'm not sure about this."

"I know what you're trying to do, Seline," Draco rolls his eyes, indifferent, yet she can sense the tiniest tinge of worry. He drops the bag of equipment.

"No, I'm serious. I don't—"

Seline fakes a startled yelp, jumping down to mimic being pulled. Her body disappears inside the conversation pit immersed in darkness.

"Seline!"

She hides her laughter behind her hand. This better be worth it. However, the floor is disgusting. When she dropped down, a plume of dust showered her face. Seline wipes it off with her sleeve. Littered across the carpet are dead, dried insects, some halfway eaten. Cobwebs and specks of drywall. She's going to need a hair treatment after this.

"Salazar, Seline! That's not funny!"

Draco's stopped at the edge of the pit, breathing heavily. His unconventional eyebrows are poised in reprimand.

"Guess you believe after all," she grins.

The EMF bleeps continuously.

"No, I don't," says Draco indignantly.

Rolling her eyes, Seline pushes herself to her feet. She wipes the dirt on her trousers. "Though, I'm flattered you care so much about me," she smiles, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

He scoffs. "If everyone wouldn't think I murdered you, I'd leave."

Draco expects another remark, but he receives none. Instead, Seline's pupils are enlarged, fearful. Her line of sight is focused on something behind him. Seline is headstrong, a bit obstinate. She doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve (She does fancy a good heart pattern). This, this is all-encompassing fear. Plainly expressed in the rigidity of Seline's posture, the statuesque steadiness, and the will to fade into invisibility. A thin puff of breath, visible breath, expels from her lips.

And when Draco readies to dismiss this poorly construed . . . joke, he feels it. Ice. A polar plunge that washes all over his body. It's the feeling of watchful eyes staring faceless in the pitfalls of night. Open closets, scratches on windows, footsteps behind doors. The muggle contraption blinks haywire, and his own wand flutters from his lack of control. Fear pimples along his arms, hair standing on end. Something brushes across his exposed nape. Draco vaults forward with a shriek.

Seline clutches onto his arm the minute he's within reach, but she remains glued. Draco turns. He'd dropped his wand in his fright, but they didn't need light. Hovering just above the scratched linoleum is something encased in opalescent flare. Merlin, it's blinding. He can make out the faintest traits: appendages flowing with wispy cloth, hair frizzed like it'd been electrified, and two cavernous sockets filled by pure white. Unseeing, yet seeing everything.

"Draco," whispers Seline. Her annoying acrylics dig into his skin. "Where's the bag?"

Realization. He dropped it.

"Uh," he starts guiltily, "behind that."

"You bloody idiot!"

Draco can't tear his gaze from the floaty thing. Truthfully, along with the fear, is disgust. His lips curl. It's frightfully dirty, and its attire is simply reproachful.

"Offer yourself." Seline shoves him forward.

"Offer myself—are you insane?"

"You dropped the bag," Seline whisper-argues. She jabs a finger into his chest, eyeing the thing behind him. "You get to be ghost food."

Draco is not up for this. He goes to disagree when the coldness returns with a vengeance. It's odd enough that the floaty thing hasn't attacked, he shouldn't risk tempting its grace. He nods, and Seline gives him a pat on the shoulder before crouching down. Maybe he's putting too much faith in her, but he's desperate. Either way, he shouldn't be scared of a . . . ghost (assuming that's what this is and not some numpty in a costume), he's a Malfoy. His father would not bow in the face of fear. Actually, maybe. His mother certainly wouldn't?

Steeling himself, Draco turns and faces the all-white entity, stares into the caverns of their eyes. "Listen here, you glorified sock puppet," he braves. He hopes it cannot read the underlying fear. "If you lay a finger on me, my father will—"

The floaty apparition extends its jowls, revealing a gaping mouth encompassed by a pure black void. It's toothless. The shriveled, gaunt skin around its widening mouth tightens, almost appearing to rip. Then, with a throaty roar, a windstorm bellows from its rotted insides. The noxious air is like the force of a barreling Nimbus. Draco zips his lips as the ghost continues screeching. In his peripheral, Seline slips behind it and dashes towards the fallen bag. And then, Draco is wholly unprepared.

Like a riptide, a sudden burst of fluid explodes from the entity's gaping mouth. It streams continuously, splashing like a tumultuous wave, and it meets its mark on Draco. Sticky, cold liquid drips all over. His polished sweater is heavy with fluid, ghost fluid. Draco blinks.

With Draco's slightly heroic distraction, Seline slides on her knees by her bag and begins rummaging through it. Where is it? A sea glass bottle capped full of ghost repellent. There's a bone-shattering howl that causes her heart to miss several beats, but she cannot focus on it. Her hands shove past all the useless equipment she bought in a tourist trap. This vial is the only thing capable of defeating ghosts, according to a semi-trustworthy source. At last, her nails clink against the emerald exterior. Fumbling for the cap, Seline bolts towards the ghost puking on Draco?

"Hey!"

White tendrils of its ghostly form turn towards Seline. No hesitation, she flings the contents of the bottle onto the ghost, triumphant. Only a couple seconds then it'll disappear. Just a couple. Only one—nothing happens. In fact, Seline pathetically notices that the liquid went through its form. The linoleum isn't haunting them. Fuck you, Astoria!

Seline raises her hands. "Draco?"

The boy gags as he responds. "What?"

"Just run."

As the ghost pounces, Seline dashes towards the spiral staircase (Who designed this?). She takes them two at a time, using her hands as guides through the darkness. The second floor is hardly visible, yet she can still catch the traces of striped, primary wallpaper. Yuck! Picture frames on the wall glint from the light of the ghost pursuing Seline. Her hand trails the wall as she fumbles to find an open door. By the Great Founders, if she dies in this fugly house . . .

There's commotion downstairs. Glass shattering, voices. Seline twists a knob and barrels inside, slamming the door. It's a bedroom, carpeted with a twin bed and a nightstand. She doesn't want to think of all the spiders nesting under it. White rays shine through the crack under the door. Seline drops to her knees and slides beneath the bed. Each breath is filled with dust. She waits for the ghost to enter. Except, it never does, in a sense.

The door flies off its rickety hinges as someone bursts in. Seline can see combat boots and muddy jeans. Definitely not Draco. It's gripping the ghost, struggling and muttering under its breath. With a thud!, they drop to the floor and begin rolling around the dirt. What is going on? Is this some kind of ghost fight? If so, she wishes she brought up her polaroid. The light creates an impenetrable aura Seline cannot see through, but she knows it's an intense battle. Maybe she can sneak—

Seline screams when something latches onto her ankle and drags her from under the bed. She digs her acrylics into the wood, then she stops because they were expensive. "No! No! Please, don't kill me! I'm too pretty to die!" Seline pleads immediately. "Take Draco, please!"

"Relax," a voice responds.

Seline stops struggling and narrows her eyes at the man that hovers over her. With a shuddering realization, she mumbles, "Zak Bagans?"

Paranormal expert, longtime star of Ghost Adventures, Zak Bagans?

"In the flesh," Zak bloody Bagans grins. He's even got those stupid glasses.

Seline blinks. Then she glances at the fluttering form of the ghost lying on the ground. No way. Did Zak Bagans just fist fight a ghost?

"Rest assured, he can't hurt you," says Zak. He offers a hand to pull her up.

"But—but how can you . . . touch it?" Seline mutters, absolutely confused out of her mind.

Zak rumbles a laugh. His signature black shirt is tight on him. "That's no ghost."

"I'm sorry?"

Dumbfounded, Seline watches as Zak ambles towards the unconscious ghost. He crouches and takes ahold of its frazzled hair, tugging. With a hefty pull, its head pops off. Seline gasps, then she realizes it wasn't a head at all. It's a mask. Zak holds up the frozen face, and it seems to be made of silicone. The makeup is very poorly done.

"Fake," Zak says.

But then, who is the unmasked?

Seline looks down at the unconscious figure, and she squints. Black hair, tanned skin, sharpened features, a rather large neck. "Noah beck?"

"No," Zak shakes his head. "Jordan Riki."

Oh.

RFL player Jordan Riki parading around as an ugly ghost? Is the money not flowing?

A very shrill scream cuts through the surprise. Draco.

"What was that?" Zak Bagans tenses his muscles like he's Superman readying to answer the call of justice. She feels like she's entered some twisted reality.

Seline follows Zak Bagans out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He lights the way with a heavy duty torch, pointing it every which way. There aren't any cameras, he can drop the act. Although, his dramatics are quite entertaining. He stops at every corner, whirls at any creak in the old architecture, brandishes his fists like they're his wand. There's a lot of scuffling below as they reach the annoyingly built spiral staircase.

She lets Zak go first. Better safe than sorry! Once planted firmly on the first floor, Seline follows the shaky trail of Zak's torch. Lo and behold, Draco Malfoy is tussling on the carpeted floor of the kitchen (Seriously? More?) with another specter. By the looks of it, he's not winning. She can't expect him too; he's a bit, well, scrawny. The ghost is a bulbous, stretched figure green in color. A sort of bile green, chartreuse. Its skin is sickly translucent and glowing like the one upstairs (Or should she say Jordan Riki), and it's littered with dark spots.

It's gnashing at Draco. Seline can only imagine how horrific its face might appear. Is this one fake too? But it's hovering. Its unruly legs are suspended in the dusty air. Zak Bagans vaults forward and grips the ghost's rounded shoulders. With a mighty tug, the hunter rips it off Draco who scrambles backwards in relief. Once the two are a ways away, Seline moves to him, but she grimaces at the odd smell surrounding him. Draco grabs her arm like a lifeline.

"You're not possessed?" Seline asks wearily.

Breathing unevenly, Draco scowls. "Really? No, 'Are you okay'?" He smoothes his untoned hair. "I'm not possessed."

"Jordan Riki's upstairs."

Draco doesn't even question it.

"Ah-hah!"

The two teens turn towards Zak. He's holding the ghost's mutated head, or mask. And this is when things go off rails. Wide-eyed, they watch as Zak holds up the unmasked figure. Seline feels all the breath leave her lungs. Actor and comedian, ex boyfriend of Kim Kardashian, Pete Davidson?

Pete Davidson looks absolutely miffed. His sunken eyes are lowered in a frown. "Not cool, man."

Seline has had enough. "Someone tell me what in Merlin's name is going on!"

The response is not what she expected. Zak turns towards an invisible camera, holding the fake head up to nothing. He begins explaining what's happening to literally the air. Seline and Draco share an open-mouthed look. Someone is pranking them. Perhaps Potter and his mousy little friends. Or the ginger freaks. Someone has to be behind this.

"Seline, duck!"

Seline obliges, dropping flat on the tile. Fake tile. There's a rush of wind as something flies over her followed by a ruckus. Draco carefully grabs her arms and pulls her so they're flush against the cabinets, out of view.

"What was that?" She asks.

Draco shakes his head. "A guy. I think."

Cold realization. Jordan Riki.

Seline looks back at Zak Bagans who's still talking to a fake camera, mentioning a random guy named Aaron. He is completely absorbed in entertaining the artificial audience in his mind.

"Zak!"

But it's too late. Pete Davidson is on his feet, angrier than ever. With a singsongy growl, the comedian launches himself at Zak and he grips the hunter's face. "Let's see your mask, dude!"

Seline and Draco watch in horror as Pete Davidson rips off Zak Bagans' face. It's like tearing paper. In his hands is bloodied, jagged flesh. He holds it up to the circular window, letting the night cast the shadow of his face against the far wall. A haunting sight, but one Zak Bagans would probably love. Seline's heart is hammering wildly. Then, against everything, every known law in the universe, Pete Davidson eats it. He eats the face.

From the shadows, Jordan Riki emerges. He's given up the glowing ghost costume in favor of his signature jersey. Who knows where he kept that. His expression is full of disgust as he watches Pete Davidson feast on Zak Bagans' flesh.

"What a freak of nature!" Jordan Riki exclaims.

Slowly, Seline nods. This is happening. This is happening. She is watching a celebrity cannibalize another celebrity. Totally normal! She was only trying to gather legitimate proof of the supernatural to get famous. She does not deserve this.

Draco shoots to his feet and, faster than anyone can object, draws his wand. "Avada Kedavra!"

Green envelops the kitchen. Blinding luminescence that pearls on the cracked chinaware. Squarely, the stream of verdant light hits Pete Davidson. Face covered in blood, he falls. His eyes remain open and no one offers to close them. Draco is spurred on by the frenzy. He stinks of Jordan Riki's simulated ghost vomit, scratched by the comedian's claws. His father should really hear about this.

Jordan raises his hands. "Listen, mate," he begins. "I'm only here for the money."

"Are you serious?!"

All the sudden, a warbling flare flies into the rugby player. He stumbles, doubling over. With a guttural scream, his body begins to expand. Limbs puffing outwards like they're being inflated. His eyeballs bulge before they pop, jelly flinging through the air. One by one, his fingers explode like fireworks, splattering blood across the walls. Before he collapses, his torso combusts. Intestines, brain matter, fleshy sinew, it showers Draco and Seline.

Jordan Riki exploded. And ghosts are real.

Wiping a bit of Jordan from her eyes, Seline looks at Draco. "Harry Potter's behind this."

"Yes, absolutely," Draco agrees without hesitation.

🌸 KARLA YAPS 🌸

hihihi im sorry this isn't a "real" chapter BUT this masterpiece needed to be shared with the world. a huge shout out to pauldanoIvr for writing this & beautifully encapsulating seline & draco !! <3 you guys should definitely go check out their harry potter fic "bad luck black!", it is the fanfic. (also for those unaware, jordan riki is a rugby league player that im in love with)