4th April, 1895 — Your Hogsmeade residence*

The hours of day or night meant little enough to beings like Barnaby. Not being bound by bodily functions or any earthly duties, where in Life he had been Time’s prisoner, in Death he was as good as its lord and master. Barnaby simply continued with one activity for as long as he chose – until it bored him – and then drifted, by intention or by accident, into the next.

Presently, he had floated into the upper floors of some house or another, and, once he had nosed about the room (so much as he could, without being able to touch anything), Barnaby took possession of the bed. By this, he meant, he lay upon it – occasionally he dipped down through the mattress or the bedframe or up a foot from the covers, but if he concentrated just right on hovering he could feign to himself that he was resting upon it, Living-like.

He had closed his eyes, to try and remember what sleep felt like... and he had gotten so lost in his imagination or his memories of it that he had fallen into a rather meditative state. Merlin knew how long it had been, but he was so deep in his fantasy of sleep that a sound at the room’s door quite startled him. “Go away, if you will,” Barnaby declared, eyes still determinedly closed, so lost in his mental exercise that he had forgotten he was not actually an inhabitant of this dwelling, or indeed this bed.

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*I will move to the appropriate subforum!

  

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Roberto had a long day of Quidditch sponsor things and social obligations. He had stopped in to see his son first, who was sleeping peacefully. He dropped a kiss on the boys sleeping forehead before venturing to his own rooms. It was quite a surprise for him to find a medieval looking ghost resting upon his bed. He was pretty sure ghosts didn't sleep. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I getting in the way of your use of my bedroom?" Roberto asked, more amused than anything else for the moment. Perplexed even.

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The intruder sounded amused or bemused, but not impatient enough to fully stir Barnaby from his fantasy. And he had noted well enough that the bed and the room and the residence he had stopped awhile in was in the nicer part of Hogsmeade, and that the occupant was no doubt someone well-bred and wealthy and used to their home comforts – obviously he had chosen this bed, and not some ramshackle thing in the slums – so Barnaby ought to have suspected the proprietor of said bed would not be used to being ordered about or thrown out of their own rooms.

“You are disrupting my concentration,” Barnaby admitted, eyes still resolutely closed, trying to keep himself hovering perfectly still. But since he was not corporeal, and thus not really here, he reasoned he could not exactly be in the man’s way, either. Baranby was mere spirit, little more than air, so there was nothing stopping the man going to bed, technically. But, if the fellow was determined to be present: “But tell me – would you say this bed is soft to lie upon?” A little description could only enhance the imagined experience, after all.

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