The Eve of St Agnes

by rayon.de.soleil

It is said that on St. Agnes' Eve, if a maiden performs certain rituals before going to bed she may be visited by her future husband in her dreams. One chilly night, Hermione dreams of her lover.

Disclaimer: Characters credited to J.K. Rowling, plot/descriptions/speech to John Keats. I am not profiting from this, it is merely a creative writing task.

The Eve of St. Agnes

'Never on such a night have lovers met,

Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.'

-John Keats, 'The Eve of St. Agnes'

The night air surrounding the castle of Hogwarts hung like a freezing cloak, studded with sparkling stars. The windows were glazed over, the grass on the moors still with the prospect of snow and the flocks of sheep all silent under their woolly coats.

In the tiny chapel adjoining the castle, the old caretaker, Filch, stood at the alter, gazing up at the stained-glass window depicting the Virgin Mary. The image was familiar to him; he had been inside the chapel every night for 25 years to lock up and then twice on a Sunday when he would attend morning service with the family. He was not a holy man. He often daydreamed through the priest's sermon of his little room next to the warm kitchens, where he would sit in his patched chair with his cat and drink some smuggled ale.

But this evening he gazed upon the Virgin's image with awe; the frosty moonlight shone through the panes and caused her nimbus to glow with a magic he had never associated with the piety of the chapel. His breath rose in clouds as he whispered an amen and he turned, feeling an extra presence pressing in around him from the walls of the little building. As he hobbled back down the aisle, the stone sculptures of dead knights and noble ladies gazed down upon him from behind their wrought iron cages. He shivered and quickened his step to the door, barely able to peer into the gloom of the now empty chapel. He shut the door, jumping at the loud noise it made, and hurried to lock it.

Shuffling down the corridor, he came closer to the heart of the castle and he could hear music coming from the Great Hall. But Filch, so old and bitter with the world, shut his ears to the sounds of merry-making and turned to the staircase that took him down to his little room, muttering to himself about the mess the feasters upstairs would make. He had grown tired with youth and its constant joy. He didn't know much about religion, but he did know that those who enjoyed life, would burn in Hell. He settled down on his straw mattress but didn't sleep for a long time, as he continued to mutter to his cat, who had curled up on his feet.

The feast was being eaten and drunk (mostly drunk) in the hall upstairs, where a hundred noble men and women laughed and danced and sang. Another hundred servants hurried back and forth with dishes of capon and goose and lamprey. Lute players and jugglers travelled through the groups of people sat at the long banqueting table or else stood in gossiping groups. They were watched over by carved angels who basked in the glow of the flaming torches and feasted themselves on the rich attire of the guests. Women and men were decked in their finest velvets and silks with glinting jewels and embroidery, bloated with false romance and exaggerated laughter.

A little apart from the crowd sat a young maiden who was too full of her own thoughts to be concerned with the meaningless chatter. The evening held a greater importance for her than anyone else in the room. That night, she was to see her true love. But not in person. She had heard from the old dames in the castle (Lady Weasley had confirmed the stories for her personally), that if a young Virgin was to perform certain ceremonies on this particular night, then she would see her future husband in her dreams and they would feast together and she would receive his adorations. For this eve was St. Agnes' Eve and the young girl sitting alone was Hermione, who was eager for Agnes' sweet dreams.

Hermione did not usually follow such whimsical traditions. She preferred the stability of books and facts, leaving the romantic folklore to her ladies-in-waiting, Lavender and Parvati, who were often found whispering recipes for love-potions. But this tradition held an especial appeal for Hermione. She wished to see her lover, who had long been banished from Hogwarts and the thought of him made her anxious to leave the feast and retire to her room. Lady McGonagall had warned her not to take the stories of delightful dreams too seriously, but for once Hermione did not heed her advice, already too roused by the hopes of seeing her love's face.

She kept her seat at the table, twisting her hands in the folds of her dress and not touching a morsel of food. For that was one of the conditions of St. Agnes: that the maiden go to bed without supper, as she was to feast in her dreams.

As Hermione sat alone at the table, a tall youth on a white horse galloped across the icy moors, towards the looming castle. His name was Draco and his heart was on fire for fair Hermione. As his horse reached the drawbridge, he dismounted, not wanting to be heard. He crept across the bridge and stood at the door left open, allowing a sliver of warm light out. He put his eye to the crack and prayed to the angels standing guard over the entrance for a glimpse of his love so he could kneel at her feet and perhaps steal a kiss.

He pulled the door open and snuck inside, his soft leather boots leaving no trace of sound. If any noise of his entrance was to be heard by the throng of the Great Hall he would have a hundred swords to face. He knew that behind the doors the music and merriment could easily turn to battle if anyone were to find him within the walls of the kingdom of Hogwarts. The Malfoy and Weasley families had long been at war, and there was no one sure to show him mercy: except one.

From around the corner, there came a stooped woman by the name of Arabella. She was godmother and servant to the maiden, Hermione, who trusted her, even though Arabella was weak and ancient. The woman shuffled, leaning heavily on a walking staff and Draco, recognising her, leapt from behind the broad pillar he hid behind. She was startled and had to grasp her staff more heavily than before, but she too recognised him and took his hand between her wrinkled fingers.

'Mercy, Draco! Get away from this castle,' she exclaimed, glancing back to the doors of the Great Hall. 'The whole family is here tonight and they will have your head if they are to find you!'

Draco merely shook his head at her, too relieved at his good chance of finding the one who could help him.

'Leave now! I beg you,' Arabella continued. 'There's Sir Harry, he has cursed your house and land. And Lord Weasley too. He is no meeker for all the grey on his head. Oh please, Draco! Leave! Leave as soon as a ghost would disappear.'

'Ah, Arabella dear, we're safe enough,' Draco told her, no angst in his voice. 'Sit here in this chair and tell me how –'

'Good Saints! Not here, not here,' she cut him off. 'Follow me, child, or else these walls shall make your tomb.'

Draco followed her through a low archway, the white peacock feather in his cap brushing the cobwebs off the ceiling as Arabella muttered to herself under her breath. He smirked at her bustling and fretting; he felt at peace within the walls of his love's home.

At last they came to a tiny room, an ante-chamber, very cold as there was no fireplace and completely silent due to the distance Arabella had put between them and the revelling feasters.

'Now tell me where is Hermione,' said Draco, turning to face the elderly creature, clutching her staff, catching her breath. 'Oh tell me Arabella, by the secrets you witches keep for St. Agnes.'

'St. Agnes! Ah, it is St. Agnes' Eve,' she sighed. 'Yet men have killed on more sacred days than this. I am amazed to see you here Draco. You must be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays to even think to venture out on this holy night.' Arabella took a seat on a cold bench before the tiny window. She shook her head and continued, more to herself,

'Merlin's help! My lady fair is to be deceived by conjurors and good angels this very night! But let me laugh now. I shall have much time to grieve later.'

And so she laughed feebly and the pale moon caught her wizened skin and ruined teeth. Draco merely gazed down upon her with no emotion upon his face for the poor palsy stricken crone, except a slight crease between his eyes, as if trying to undo the rhymes of some ancient spell.

But as Arabella continued to cackle, Draco's eyes burned with fury at the thought of Hermione wrapped up in those old legends, at the mercy of ancient enchantments, carried to a place where he could not reach her. The idea was more terrible than the thought of facing all the men in the Great Hall without a sword or shield.

Suddenly, an idea came to him that caused his pale cheek to redden like a blooming rose and his pained heart to throb harder. It was brilliant and cunning and as he relayed his plan to Arabella, she could not contain her shock.

'You are a very cruel and impious man. Let the sweet lady pray and sleep and dream alone with her good angels, far away from wicked men such as you. Go, go! You are not the same man I once knew.'

'I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,' Draco implored her. 'If I were to harm one of her soft ringlets, or look upon her face as a ruffian might, may I never find grace in this life or the next. I should even awaken my enemies and fight with them, though they are more deadly than a thousand wolves and bears.'

'Ah, why do you frighten me so? I have only the weakest of souls, yet I have prayed for you Draco, morning and evening.' This confession of Arabella's coaxed mournful words of his pining heart from Draco, and she gave him her promise that she would do anything he wished, whether it brought her joy or pain.

He asked her to lead him to Hermione's chamber, and hide him in a closet, where he could see her beauty unespied.

'It shall be as thou wish,' Arabella told Draco. 'Cates and dainties shall be stored in the closet in which you will hide. Wait here, my child, with patience, for I am slow and feeble. Kneel in prayer now. You must wed the lady, else I shall perish now and go to my early grave.'

Arabella left Draco, who sank to his knees, but could scarce murmur 'Holy Father' without trembling in trepidation of seeing his Hermione so soon. Thankfully Arabella returned and whispered in his ear that he should follow her. Her pale eyes were wary and she glanced around her often for fear of seeing someone creep from the shadows of the many long galleries they passed through. Finally, they reached the lady's chambers without meeting a soul.

Draco crept through the door and quickly found the hiding place he sought.

***

Meanwhile, Hermione had risen from the feast, excusing herself to her friends and family. Arabella was ready to meet her and led her up the stairs in silence, Hermione holding her own taper of silver light.

As soon as she reached the door of her room, Hermione bid goodnight to Arabella and fled into the privacy of her chamber. She was breathing quickly, like an escaped dove soaring away from her captors.

Out went the taper as she shut the door behind her and the room was flooded with moonlight. Magic seemed to hang in the air, full of visions of delight. Her heart pounded relentlessly in her breast, given new life with the prospect of fair dreams.

There was a high casement in Hermione's room. It was framed with carved garlands and images of fruits and flowers and its panes were tiny diamonds of different colours and dyes. In the middle of the glass was the image of the Hogwarts coat of arms: the badger, the eagle, the lion and the snake all emblazoned into the scutcheon. Tonight, the long reviled serpent seemed to shine especially bright in the light of the moon as Hermione gazed up at the tall window.

The wintry moon threw jewels of light onto Hermione's fair breast, as she knelt and prayed for heaven's grace and boon. Red patches appeared on her breast and hands from the fiery lion and gold light crowned her hair like a saint. She appeared to be a splendid angel, ready, save wings, for heaven. Draco grew faint in his closet as he watched her kneel, so pure and free from mortal taint.

At last his heart returned to a normal rhythm, - or at least as normal as it ever was in Hermione's presence, as she rose from her prayers and began to free herself from all the unnecessary ornaments to her beauty. She removed the pearls from her hair, letting it loose and her wild curls fell to her waist. She unclasped her warm jewels from her ears and her neck and her wrists and laid them on the hard oak of her dressing-table. Her hands reached up to loosen her bodice and Draco's breath hitched in his throat. Slowly, the heavy layers of her dress crept to the floor, rustling as they passed over her silken skin.

Hermione stood, her feet hidden in the folds of velvet and silk, like a mermaid in seaweed, fancying the sight of St. Agnes in her bed. But she dared not look behind, lest she break the spell, and tiptoed into her chilly bed.

Trembling she lay, in a wakeful swoon, until the warm wash of sleep could no longer be oppressed. Her limbs relaxed and her soul flew away from her body; she was blissfully havened from both pleasure and pain. She was like a rose that had shut itself against the world, transforming back into a bud, closed against the sunshine and the rain.

Draco, in his own piece of paradise, gazed at her empty dress, left on the floor before her bed, and listened to her breathing grow steadier. When at last it rose and fell in a slow rhythm he could breathe himself and he stepped from the closet noiselessly and over the carpet to Hermione's bed. He opened the heavy curtains an inch and saw her fast asleep.

So he proceeded with his plans; he set a table next to her bed under the dim twilight, on which he placed a gold and crimson tablecloth. A door was thrown open somewhere downstairs and the sound of music and celebration rang through the castle. Draco froze, his hand still clutching the edge of the woven cloth. But then the door shut again and he let out a low breath.

Still Hermione slept on, her azure lids closed against the outside world, lying on the blanched linen, still, save for the rise and fall of her milky bosom. Draco took from the closet heaps of Eastern fancies: candied apple, quince and plum, smooth jellies and lucent syrups flavoured with cinnamon, dates brought in vast quantities from Fez and other such dainties from Samarkand to Lebanon.

He piled them onto golden dishes and silver baskets; a warm glow seemed to emanate from the perfumed luxuries, easing the chill of the room.

'And now, my love, my fair seraph, awake!' Draco whispered to the sleeping Hermione. 'You are my heaven, and I your eremite. Open your eyes or I shall sleep beside you. I won't leave you again, now that we have been reunited.'

As he whispered to her, Draco sank his warm arm into her pillow, his eager face so close to her own peaceful one. But her dream was difficult to break through and the spell of St. Agnes held strong over her sleeping form. Draco hovered over her body for a while, allowing his wandering fantasies to envelope him as he lay so close to his true love.

At last, he roused himself from his thoughts and fetched her lute from the closet. He began to play an ancient song: 'La belle dame sans mercy'. He smirked as he recalled the lyrics; Hermione was the one at the mercy of his passion and he would not relinquish the power held over her. Not as long as she held the same power over his heart. He sat by her side on the edge of her mattress, the lute close to her ear, his body tense in fervent desire for her. Her eyelids flickered and she let out a soft moan; Draco immediately put down the lute and gazed at her in trepidation. Hermione's dark eyes opened wide and Draco sank to his knees, pale as sculptured stone.

Hermione's eyes were open, but she could still see the object of her dreams knelt before her. Yet there was a painful change and she felt lost and cold without the blisses of her dream. She began to cry softly and moaned aloud indistinguishable words, sighing for the warmth of her sleep. Draco remained kneeling, too afraid to move and scare her more.

'Ah, Draco!' she said. 'One moment ago, your voice was sweet at my ear and your eyes were deep and clear. How changed you are! How pale and chill and grave you are! Speak to me that way again, my Draco. Don't leave me in this way. I won't know what to do.'

Draco was so moved at her speech, he could not have moved if he had been half as impassioned by her. He rose, ethereal as Raphael and swept his feathered cap from his flaxen hair. His pale cheek flushed, he undid his doublet, casting it to the floor and stood before Hermione gazing with a sense of conquest down at her prone form.

He lowered himself onto the bed beside her and like the blending of the scent of the rose with the violet, he melted into her dream under the canopy of her warm bed. Meantime the frosty wind and sharp sleet pattered against the window-panes like Love's alarum.

St Agnes' Moon had set.

'This is no dream, my bride, my Hermione!' Draco whispered into her ear as the icy gusts beat against the walls of the castle.

'No dream?' She asked, her pink lip trembling and he clutched her tighter in his arms. 'You will leave me now, won't you? What traitor would bring you here? Oh, I cannot be upset with you; my heart was lost to you long ago. But you have deceived me Draco and now you will leave me lost and alone in this castle.'

'My Hermione! Sweet dreamer!' He replied, wiping her tears with his thumb and pressing his lips to her hair. 'I am your servant now and I shall stay forever by your side to do your bidding. After so many hours, searching for a way to get to you, I will not rob your sweet self. Please trust me Hermione.' And he grasped her hand, seeking the return of her affections.

She lay in silence, pondering the feelings of pleasure and pain washing through her. But it was the clutch of his arms around her that made her bury her face in his shoulder and ignore them.

'I may seem a poor choice now,' Draco sighed, knowing it was almost time. 'Arise my dear, the morning is near. The slumbering wassailers will never catch us. Let's leave now, my love, quickly whilst no one will hear or see.' He rose from the bed, reluctantly removing himself from her silken warmth. 'Awake! Arise, my love and don't be scared. I have a home for you over the southern moors.'

He smirked down at her, his pride ever at the surface of his emotions and she smiled shyly up at him, sure on some level that this was right.

Draco placed his peacock feather cap back on his silken hair and turned to beckon to Hermione who was wrapping herself in a green velvet cloak, pulling up the hood and fastening it at the neck. She hurried and took his proffered hand for all around the castle were sleeping dragons, ready to pounce on the couple as they made their swift exit. They crept down the wide staircase, pausing to listen for any sound.

They glided like phantoms out the front door, past the snoozing porter Stan, and his bloodhound who watched with doleful eyes as Draco slid open the bolts and turned the key.

And the two lovers were gone. They were gone long ago, fled away into the storm upon his white horse. That night, the whole court tossed and turned in fretful nightmares and the guests were haunted with spectres and demons. Arabella, the old maid died, her thin face deformed and her hands shaking to her last breath. The caretaker Filch, after bidding his cat goodnight, slept among his cold ashes in a grave outside the little chapel.

The End

A/N: a total rip off of the poem 'The Eve of St. Agnes' by Keats but with some much beloved characters inserted. I know Hermione's a bit of a sissy but who wouldn't be if Draco came to carry them off on his white steed? Review?