The air in Wangshu Inn, usually thick with the scent of stir-fried almond tofu and damp earth from the Dihua Marsh, tasted today of… nothing. That was the problem, wasn't it? Nothing but the faint, acrid tang that clung to everything after a heavy downpour, a scent that always made my teeth ache. I traced the intricate carving on the wooden railing, the dragon coiling around the pillar, with a single, gloved fingertip. Gloves. Always gloves, even indoors. The sheer number of hand-washing rituals I performed daily would put even a meticulous alchemist to shame, but the thought of bare skin touching… anything, really, that hadn't been immaculately sterilised, sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the marsh’s perpetual chill.
Across the sprawling, multi-tiered inn, the usual spectral hum of activity was muted. The patrons, as translucent and shimmering as ever, moved with a languid grace that spoke of infinite time and no urgent appointments. A group of Treasure Hoarders, eternally arguing over a phantom map, ghosted back and forth on the lower terrace, their half-formed shouts echoing like a distant memory. I watched them, idly wondering if they found their endless bickering as tiresome as I did. They never seemed to make any actual progress, never found any actual treasure. It seemed a rather dismal existence, to be forever chasing the illusion of wealth. I found myself thinking about the ethics of haunting, if one could even call it that. Was it truly a choice, or were they simply caught in a loop?
My own situation, I reminded myself, was different. Or so I told myself, every single day. I had purpose. A single, overriding purpose that had brought me to this very inn, this very spot, for the better part of a week now.
“Another pot of herbal tea, please, Vala,” came a voice, precise and utterly devoid of warmth, from a table near the giant central pillar. Hermione Granger, her translucent form glowing faintly in the dim light of the inn, sat hunched over a stack of spectral scrolls, her brow furrowed in concentration. The scrolls seemed to shimmer with arcane symbols, shifting and rearranging themselves as she studied them.
“Immediately, Miss Granger,” I murmured, moving towards the kitchen area. The inn’s proprietors, the spectral Xianglings and Mamas Ruan of the afterlife, always appreciated the promptness, even if it was born more of a desire to avoid idle contemplation than genuine eagerness to serve. As I passed a particularly ornate vase with what looked like an ancient, wilting orchid, my gaze snagged on a flicker of movement near the entrance.
My heart, which I hadn't realised still possessed the capacity for such a thing, lurched. Not a lurch of fear, or surprise, but… recognition. A sudden, cold certainty that sliced through the usual pleasant numbness that accompanied my days here.
He stood there, just inside the archway, his form more solid, more… *present* than any other spirit I had ever encountered, save for Hermione herself. His dark hair, usually so meticulously styled, was slightly dishevelled, suggesting a rapid journey through the spectral winds. His eyes, the exact shade of turquoise I remembered, scanned the room with an intensity that made the hair on my arms prickle. He wore the familiar dark tunic, but it seemed to hold a subtle, almost imperceptible shimmer that I hadn’t seen before.
Danny.
My hand, holding the empty teacup, trembled. I tightened my grip, knuckles white against the ceramic, a sharp contrast to the ghostly translucence of my own skin. Of all the places, all the times… why here? Why now? Wangshu Inn was a nexus, a crossroads for so many wandering spirits, but it had always felt distant enough, neutral enough, to be safe. A place where the past couldn't quite catch up. I had chosen it for its anonymity, for the constant ebb and flow of transient souls. And for the tea, admittedly. Good herbal tea was surprisingly hard to come by among the departed.
His gaze swept over me, lingered for a fraction of a second, then moved on. He hadn't recognised me. My form here was… different. Less vibrant, certainly. More in keeping with the general spectral aesthetic of Liyue. My hair, once a rebellious copper, now held only a faint, luminous sheen. My clothes, simple tunics and trousers, were a far cry from the practical, but distinct, attire I’d worn in life. And the gloves, of course, were a new addition. A necessary one.
A wave of relief, potent and disorienting, washed over me. He hadn't known. Good. It meant I still had control, still had my carefully constructed anonymity. My purpose, which had felt so clear moments ago, now felt muddled, overshadowed by the sudden, intrusive presence of unfinished business.
I started for the kitchen again, the empty teacup now serving as a shield, a focus for my rattled composure. Just then, a deep, resonant voice, like an ancient cello string plucked in a cavern, drifted from a high balcony overlooking the main floor.
“Potter. Still making a nuisance of yourself, I see.”
Snape. His spectral form, still clad in his billowing black robes, was perched on the railing of the third floor, observing the room with his usual disdainful gaze. He was more opaque than most, his presence almost physically heavy. His eyes, twin chips of obsidian, narrowed slightly as he surveyed the lower levels. There was a faint, almost imperceptible shimmering around him, too, much like Danny's, but colder, more intense.
Hermione looked up from her scrolls, a faint frown marring her ethereal features. “Professor Snape, there are rather more pressing matters than attributing ‘nuisance’ to Mr. Potter, who, incidentally, is not present. Lest you have forgotten, the integrity of the Ley Lines in this quadrant requires our immediate, undivided attention.”
Snape merely huffed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. He said nothing further, but his gaze remained fixed on the entrance, where Danny still stood, now conversing in hushed tones with… a glowing, green-haired figure I didn't recognise. Another one of the newer arrivals, perhaps. The sense of unease intensified. What brought Danny here, to this specific inn, at this specific time? And why did Snape seem so focused on him, even as Hermione spoke of more significant matters?
I reached the kitchen, gratefully plunging my gloved hands into a basin of shimmering water, the chill a welcome distraction. The inn’s kitchen was a marvel of spectral efficiency, phantom fires heating ethereal cauldrons, pots and pans cleaning themselves with a whisper of magic. As I prepared Hermione’s tea, my mind raced. Danny. Here. After all this time. It wasn't just a coincidence. Nothing ever was, not in this particular afterlife.
I finished the tea, the steam rising in delicate, fragrant wisps, and made my way back, carefully avoiding looking towards the entrance. Just as I neared Hermione’s table, a spectral tremor ran through the inn, a low thrum that vibrated through the very air. The lights, usually steady, flickered violently. The phantom Treasure Hoarders stopped mid-argument, their forms momentarily solidifying before fading once more into transparency.
Hermione gasped, dropping a scroll. It hit the ground with a sound like fine sand scattering. Her eyes, wide with alarm, darted towards the ornate vase where the ancient orchid sat. The wilting petals, once merely translucent, now glowed with an unsettling, sickly green light, pulsing in rhythm with the tremor. A thin, sickly tendril, previously unseen, pulsed rhythmically, stretching from the vase towards the inn’s central pillar before snapping back.
"The resonance… it's shifting," Hermione whispered, her voice tight with a fear I hadn't heard from her since… well, since her living days. She didn't explain herself further, but her gaze, now fixed on the glowing orchid, held a stark, desperate worry. She knew something, something she wasn't sharing. Everyone here seemed to keep their own counsel, a ghost in their own private bubble of secrets.
I glanced back at the entrance. Danny, his back still partially turned, had gone completely still, his head tilted as if listening to something beyond the tremor. The green-haired figure beside him had vanished. Snape, high above, had his arms crossed, his gaze now fixed not on Danny, but on the pulsed orchid, a flicker of something unreadable in his usually impassive eyes. He knew too. He always did. His presence here, his unusual stillness, felt less like disdain and more like… watchful waiting.
The tremor subsided as quickly as it began, leaving a palpable silence in its wake. The orchid reverted to its translucent, wilting state, but a faint, luminous scar now marked the spot where the tendril had touched the pillar. I placed Hermione’s tea before her, my hand steady again. Outwardly, I was calm. Inwardly? The encounter with Danny, interwoven with this new, unsettling tremor and the strange orchid, had fractured my carefully constructed peace. The world, already a place of shadows and echoes, now felt precarious, teetering on the edge of… something. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that Danny’s arrival was the first domino.