snowbaronâ:
She knows that thereâs a chance that this wonât work. The cigar smoke might not be the sign that she hopes it is, and there havenât been any other indications to suggest that Allen Snowâs ghost is hanging around the MACUSA building, why would it be? His death is unfinished business to her, yes, but he knew his secrets, he knew why he did it all. She doesnât know the logistics of thisââand neither does Cypress, she would guessââbut sheâs not sure if itâs only lingering ghosts, or if it might be possible to find spirits who have moved on. Either way, she canât help but get her hopes up a little. Hanging in limbo isnât something sheâs content with, especially not when they had gotten so close to things, only for it all to come to a halt, timed perfectly with Judith Eamesâ disappearance. She knows itâs all connected, knows it must be another case of wrongs being righted after mistakes were made, but she doesnât have the pieces to connect it all yet. A conversation with Allen Snow, the real Allen Snow, could be the thing that would fill in the gaps.
So Baron just nods, letting her thoughts race, already trying to work out the best way to go about this all, as they head down to the training rooms, and lock themselves away in an empty room, sitting down. It feels weird, sitting in a training room, the bright florescents, everything about it impersonal, but then maybe thatâs right for this; her job has been her whole life, up until recently, and maybe part of that was Allen Snowâs problem, too.
Itâs strange, it feels like theyâre playing pretend, but she focuses, nods along with his words, closes her eyes, because that feels right, thinks about all that she knows about him, thinks about what it was like to see someone masquerading as him, thinks about that smell of cigar smoke, the taste of bourbon. She reaches out, and puts her fingers on a card.
âI never met him, but I know he liked good bourbon, neat; my mom got that from him. No ice, even. She never talks about him, but one time I caught her mixing it with Ale-8, and she told me he had said thatâs the only way you should ever mix bourbon, and even then, only on occasion. I donât know many personal things about him⌠he kind of looms larger than life,â she says.
She lets out a small sigh, as she opens her eyes, wondering if thatâs the sort of thing Cypress was looking for. Either way, Baron finally draws a car, and looks down at it, resisting the urge to ask what it means.
.
She places the card on the table. The Hanged Man. For the tarot cards being something heâs carried with him nearly every day since he was eighteen, he really doesnât know that much about what the individual cards actually mean, but the image is familiar, and grim, and strange. He wonders what it means, in the context of Allen Snow, wonders if it squares with what Baron is saying about him, this man that loomed larger than life. Â
He takes the card, picks it up so he can focus on it, focus on whatever energy heâs sort of desperately hoping this little made up ritual heâs had Baron go through has imbued it with, some kind of essence of Allen Snow, some anchor to bring his ghost into this room with them if itâs close enough to even notice what theyâre trying to do. He doesnât know anything about summoning spirits, has never even tried to contact ghosts that werenât already there, too preoccupied with the plethora of ones that followed him around already and crowded up places with their too loud voices, their too big presences. He doesnât know if this is right at all, is torn between wishing, as he sits there and closes his eyes and focuses on the tarot card in his hand, that heâd just told Baron to go to an actual medium who knows what theyâre doing, or that heâd bothered to go talk to an actual medium about how the fuck any of this is supposed to work at all.
Heâs spent so many years being the only person he can find who can interface with ghosts in the precise way he can that he never bothered to think those who willingly talked to ghosts might have some helpful advice for him. Maybe he knows better, now, maybe heâs learned, but it doesnât matterâhe just has to do his best here, just has to know whether or not he can do it, whether or not itâs possible...
And then he feels something stir. Smells, for just a moment, cigar smoke. Like Baron had mentioned.
He opens his eyes, very suddenly, looks at her, makes eye contact, eyes wide with surprise at the sudden shift of the energy in the room, wondering if she can feel it too.
   âI think...â he starts, but stops himself from finishing it I think heâs here. It might not be him, might not be Allen Snow. The haunting of cigar smoke Baron had mentioned might have been someone else the entire time, some other ghost with some other reason to linger here. âI think someoneâs here.âÂ
The occlumency rooms are soundproof. Itâs funny, that heâs never thought of that before, never thought to come here when the ghosts were all too loud, but heâs suddenly realized that it is really, truly silent in here, in a way he finds almost unsettling, because heâs never really been somewhere before where he couldnât hear anything, anything but the sound of his own breathing, too loud in his ears.Â
   âAsk something,â he says, and thereâs an urgency to his voice he doesnât mean to be there, but a part of him feels like they have to seize the moment as quickly as they can, in case the ghost is only passing through. He feels strangely nervous, at the idea that this might work. âWhatever you want to know. Iâll tell you, if he says anything...âÂ










