Hello, me again.

"Passion at All Hallows" is a bit of an odd one. It's the sequel to "Harry's 18th", but it can be read as a stand alone story too just as well. It is like a very long sex scene, in a way, although that makes it sound terrible, and I don't think it's terrible, in fact I hope it's not, you will have to review and let me know.

It is a very sensual tale of sexual exploration and realisation of personal needs and desires. I think it's quite sweet though I've tried to bring across human emotions rather than just the dreamy factors... hard to explain what I was trying to achieve, but I hope you like it and I would love it if you could review, even a few lines, to let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy belong to JK Rowling, who is probably wondering where they're gone off to. The rose garden belongs in the grounds of Malfoy Manor, and will have to remain there, as it's not very nice to steal gardens that have belonged to a household for so many generations.

Passion at All Hallows

Sequel to 'Harry's 18th'

A sensual night of lustful sensation…

by skinnyrita

He shook his stiff fingers out and flexed them, inhaling slowly as he did so in a belated bid for calm, poised as he was to pass over the threshold into that already crowded ballroom. Recently redecorated to a most lavish standard, it was a setting that was imposing in its opulence. The merest hint of social misconduct in here could result in the direst of downfalls, on this, the family's unofficial night of reckoning.

Yet, should the opportunity present itself, he actively intended to seek out and conduct a liaison so shocking that if known it could only result in the most grievous scandal. It was delicious to contemplate, and had been the source of sleepless nights and heady internal musings for some while now. So it was, with no small measure of delightful anticipation, that Draco finally lifted his chin, and displaying his breeding to its highest physical advantage, stepped into the mass.

It was, to the untrained eye, a veritable melting pot of magical high society: a gathering of Ministry men, well-to-do witches, and gallant post-war 'heroes,' still preening from their honours. Draco accepted a champagne flute from the tray of a passing house elf, his eyes keenly scanning the crowd – firstly for the whereabouts of his mother, the jewel of the evening, resplendent in spotless white dress robes of a diplomatically Muggle style, and then for his father, who was cutting a far lower profile in a well cut yet far more sombre ensemble, politely in discussion of suitably menial subjects; a bid a societal reintegration.

Once he had them in place, he was free to let his eye wander, even as he was accosted and greeted by a smattering of his own former acquaintances – Pansy, hideous in fuchsia, and Theodore, jealously gripping her arm like a vice. He played out a cordial conversation with them, his mind half on their gossip, one eye on the entrance to the hall. His internal organs were taut with anticipation, expectation, and the bracing in case of disappointment.

Then, just as he had given up and begun to allow that guarded disappointment to trickle across his shoulders, the object of his desperation finally made his appearance.

And it was chaos.

The thick crowd surged forwards, instantly obscuring the only guest he had invited personally from view, and he had to school himself in matters of decorum to avoid hastening from his current post. Draco settled, instead, for accepting a proffered glass of pinot noir, and swirling it gently. His companions stood beside him motionless, eyes on the hubbub across the room – the flashbulbs, the ruckus.

"Who in the world invited Potter?" Pansy exclaimed, covering her aghast expulsion by reaching for the floating tray of canapés. Draco sipped his wine, waiting for a lull in the commotion, where he knew the harassed and uncomfortable face of his guest would appear.

"I did," he stated; "Though, that he actually came… I'm impressed." His nostrils flared with desire. "Excuse me."

He left her gaping.

"Potter." He put his hand in the other's before the signal came to shake hands, so that his fingers had time to stroke across the other man's palm, conveying the reason of his invitation in silent stealth before re-asserting, clasping, shaking. "Happy Halloween."

"Malfoy," Harry's lips quirked in a sideways grin. It made Draco's toes curl with the effort of not blushing. "Sorry I'm late. Quite a party."

"Thank you." He released the hero's hand, aware once more of the dozens of sets of eyes upon their greeting, and stepped out of his personal space. He noted his mother in his peripheral vision and ignored her: Potter was his guest, and only the hope of the invitation being accepted had got him through today. No one else was allowed to have him. "May I offer you a drink?" Such manners.

He appraised Harry while he drank and conversed briefly with some Ministry men he had been accosted by. The three months that had separated their last, strange and wonderful meeting from this one had changed Potter in several subtle ways. Firstly, he was standing with an air of slight authority that was assertive without being arrogant. His easy smile was flashed around to those who required it, but more intimate expressions were kept for best, and his robes were flattering without being ostentatious. His hair had grown over his scar, but had been styled in a manner that could trick people into believing that he was not really trying to conceal it. His skin had taken more of a tan, and Draco wondered idly if the man had taken a holiday between the final battle, the Birthday Party, and this gathering at the manor.

"I was surprised to get your invite," Harry commented, a sojourn by a refreshment table allowing them a degree of public privacy.

"But you still came." Green eyes met his grey and flashed mischievously.

"You may not be aware, Malfoy, but gate crashing is not the general method of getting into a party."

This time his blush would not hold itself down, and Draco was forced to let his gaze fall demurely to his plate. "You would not have attended regardless?"

Potter didn't answer him, and finally he was forced to look up curiously. The Gryffindor was regarding him searchingly. "What are your gardens like?" he asked. Draco blinked, and then set his plate down, retrieving his glass.

"Why not take a turn in them and find out? The lamps are lit."

"I'll follow your lead."

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It was cold in the gardens, and dewy, but Draco led Potter down into them anyway, further and further in until he could no longer hear the music playing out of the large French doors, and the conversational chatter from the terrace had faded. They walked in a companionable and unhurried silence. Draco drained his glass and left it behind at the foot of one of the fountains - an elf would no doubt discover it on the clean-up rounds early next morning. He took a large key out of an inner pocket and pushed it into the lock of a door half hidden by ivy.

"Secret garden?" Potter murmured.

"We could return to the ballroom."

There was a cautious intake of breath as Potter looked around and over his shoulder back the way they had come, checking for secreted couples and hopeful eavesdroppers, but they were alone now and there was no other sound save for the sighing of foliage. "That morning, when I woke up, you'd gone. I had to tell Ron and Hermione that I'd gone to sleep off my drinks."

"I didn't know if you wanted me to stay. I took the less awkward option."

"Cowardly."

"Necessary."

"I'll be blunt, Malfoy. When you invited me I assumed you had a repeat performance on your mind."

Draco frowned, face red. "You make it sound so crass."

"Isn't it?"

"No!" he paused and collected himself. "You …enjoyed me, I thought."

"It's not like I hired you out."

That hurt. Like a sharp point had dug him in the stomach. Draco swallowed, and tasted bile. He knew he shouldn't have snacked on the butternut tartlets all evening. "Like a… a prostitute, you mean?" Damn ivy, it made his eyes water. The salt stung painfully.

Potter made a noise of frustration and it made Draco jump. "It was my first time with another bloke. You could have stayed all night," he said, indignant. "I thought you invited me here to share something like what happened… again." There was a long pause. Draco couldn't think of a response. Because that was exactly what he had had in mind. "You told me we had some sort of… of I dunno, a connection," Potter mumbled.

Draco surged forwards and clutched both of Potter's arms in his: "We do. We do have a connection. You felt it too, I know you did."

The darker boy locked his gaze for an agonising moment, and then nodded: "Malfoy… Draco."

He seemed to forget what he had been about to say, if anything. Draco felt behind him for the key once more and turned it, leaning his weight back against the ancient door so that it would fall open with a creak and a shower of dead ivy. He tossed his hair impatiently, shedding the worst, still retreating enticingly backwards into the closed off garden. Potter took in a spellbound breath, eyes widening. Draco pulled the door again and locked it manually. It was by some odd whim of a distant ancestor, not a door that responded to magical instruction, and in Draco's mind that led a greater authenticity to his intentions.

He allowed a short reprieve, enabling his guest to take in their new surroundings with the deference they deserved: the garden was pleasantly warm, the first noticeable change from the chilly October night they had stepped out of. Draco shed his outdoor cloak and draped it over an intricate iron chair behind him, painted a tasteful cream. Roses bloomed all around them in dusky pink tones, lending a vintage colour-drop that seemed pretty without being too emasculating an atmosphere, and perfect for seduction: the plants' cycles were tricked and disorientated by the soft lights dotted between the creeping vines, and the comforting ceaseless warmth, just as Draco had hoped that the softly seductive surroundings would pull Potter towards his intentions and propel himself back into the hero's attentions once more.

Stray ropes of light trickled across the grass, grass as untouched by the dew and the settling frost outside as the Quidditch pitch Draco had once conjured between the walls of the Come and Go room. A wall fountain trickled near the far corner with a soothing, unerring rhythm that was relaxing, rather than incurring a sudden desire to urinate, its spout forming from the mouth of a quirky Cornish pixie – the only bizarre frivolity in the otherwise understatedly luxurious space. The positioning of the flower beds, however, drew the eye into the centre, where there was a day bed set up, plush with neutrally toned silk cushions, and it was to this that Potter's attention had been caught and held.

"Do you like it?" Draco's voice was naturally hushed, and he cursed himself for it – the space was such that such intonation happened naturally, but he was worried that Potter would run from it.

"Did you set this up, hoping we would sleep together again?" he had turned, and was frowning again. Draco couldn't have that.

"The garden's always here. I sort of claimed it as my own space. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He was murmuring as he would to a frightened horse. It irked him into action, and shucking his stylish shoes he threw himself onto the day bed, jostling the pillows. "That ball is a mad, and utterly ridiculously obvious plea for society's pardon, and I'd rather stay here than watch my parents' putting on the show. So if you'd rather go back to the autograph hunters and drooling Ministry puppets, then be my guest, but go on your own. The key's right there in the lock," he told him. Potter quirked an amused grin at him.

"I assumed I was your guest."

"Well I'm sure mother would have invited you herself if she'd actually thought you might turn up," Draco muttered, shortly. He plucked a rose near its head and pulled two of the petals off. "Why did you turn up?"

The cushions dipped beside him. "I was invited," Potter pointed out, "and, I wanted to see you."

"Well you've got a funny way of showing it."

Potter laughed. Draco stared at him. He had his head thrown back, Draco could see the roof of his mouth, the forming wisdom teeth at the back. He shut his mouth again as suddenly as the mirth had burst from him and fixed the blond with a devilish gleam: "You're so odd. God, I've never met someone quite like you," he said, before leaning in and planting a tingling kiss on Draco's frozen lips. Then he lay backwards, down onto the day bed, and gave him an expectant look. "Kiss me back," he suggested, after a couple of moments.

"Potter-"

"Harry."

"…Harry." His fingers were white, almost translucent, he could see his own blue blood vessels standing out now and then as they reached out with minds of their own and stroked from Harry's short sideburns to the angle of his jaw, and down the arch of his neck with the back of their knuckles, pausing hesitantly before dipping, daringly, to his collar and flipping the top two buttons. He watched them, detachedly, until a sudden gentle grip on his wrist jerked him back to himself, and he met Harry's searching eyes with his own.

888

Blond strands kissed Harry's forehead as Draco dipped his head towards him, poised for a moment above him, making the pulse in his neck rise loudly to his eardrums, before his mouth was captured and claimed, not so softly as Harry had offered, and with more fervour. Draco's so passionate, he realised. How many people had ever got to see that? His tongue leapt like a long lost companion in the embrace of his own, drawing it into his own mouth before sucking it slightly, which Harry remembered as unique to Draco, and the few kisses they had lavished on each other that night in July, caressing in turn his tongue, his teeth, the sensitive ridge at the roof of his mouth, that finally coaxed a mewling gasp from his throat. Draco rolled off him and they lay, stunned and recovering, for several minutes, their shoulders and forearms touching. He felt slim fingers sneak into his, and held onto them.

"I'm still the only… bloke?" Harry asserted, checking.

"Yes." Draco turned onto his side and looked down on him. "And you?"

Harry's mouth quirked again. He pulled some strands of blond through his fingers. "Just you. And um… no one… else, either."

"Weasley's sister."

"No," Harry said, firmly, and sat up, bearing Draco back down into the cushions. The rose crushed beneath them. The blonde's eyes widened, and Harry shut his as his lips met their partner's again, unable to forget the expression of innocence in the grey iris, before when he had claimed Draco's virginity three months ago, and now again as he succumbed to Harry's passion. His submissiveness was odd, considering his fiery nature, but curiously arousing. Harry released him when the need to breathe became too pressing, and was confronted with a desirous expression of happiness. He traced one of the blonde's ears with the tip of his nose, pressing soft little o's with puckered lips over his neck, long and creamy, a blend of genetic perfection. One of his hands found a stray rose petal and on a whim he feathered it on Draco's temple.

Draco was drowning. He had known that he would, if Harry accepted his invitation, and now, just as predicted, he was. It was wonderful and terrifying, but not the same as it had been in July. He had sought to create a sensual night, one to be treasured in memories thereafter, and so far, after a shaky start, it was flowing pretty well. He felt a feather-light touch of velvet over the baby hairs between his eyebrow and hairline, and registered the petal. The needy moan that escaped his lips was half for the sensation, and in part also for the realisation that Harry had made such an affectionate gesture towards him.

A cool waft of breeze, quickly replaced by the warm caress of the artificial temperature in the garden, wafted over Draco's throat and collarbones, chest and sternum as his dress shirt was slowly – almost reverently, he liked to imagine – unbuttoned. He opened his eyes and watched Harry uncover one of his nipples and tongue it, gently. He felt suddenly frightened by the seriousness of the situation, that this night was not like the night in July after all, when he had almost gifted himself to Harry as part of the birthday gift he shared, but something tender, something infinitely more … real.

"Harry?"

Darkly green eyes glanced up at him and Harry smirked before craning back up to capture his lips again, this time mashing them messily. His hands were still in Draco's shirt, and the blond took the sides and parted them himself, baring his torso to the other man so that he could slide his palms more easily over its planes. To his consternation, however, his action only prompted Harry to withdraw, frowning at him.

"Why are you… submitting like this?" he asked. He sounded a little cross. Draco felt a small tremor of uncertainty.

"I – I'm giving myself to you," he said, puzzled. "Isn't that what you want?"

"You're just lying there," Harry growled – "you're not even trying to touch me. Did you ask me here to service you or something?" He sat up and rocked back on his heels. Draco lay watching, stunned by the turn of events. "You didn't reciprocate last time, either. You're not a lover, you're like… you're after some sort of fucking chattel!"

That sort of language Draco did understand, and he propped himself up on his elbows, glaring hotly: "What do you want me to do? Isn't this what we did last time?" he was so confused.

"Yes, but…" Harry's expression had turned to exasperation, and he pulled one hand through his wayward hair. "You're not connecting with me, you're not showing me what you like, and you're not trying to touch me at all! You're lying there like a bloody flobberworm!"

"I am not!" Draco sat up fully, outraged. His eyes sparked: "Get on your back, Potter." To his surprise, Harry lay back obediently, watching for his next move. Draco hesitated – he hadn't known how to touch and please another person before, and he didn't know how to now: his strategy had been to watch and learn from Harry, to feel what felt good when it was done to him, and only then to reciprocate, safe in the knowledge that he had a bit of something to go on.

888

He reached out to Harry's still buttoned dress shirt and hesitated. The material was soft and slightly silky, with the lustre of crushed velvet, whilst seemingly plain and discreet to the eye; a flawless white. His eyes flicked towards the Gryffindor's and then away, quickly. Harry was watching him, waiting for progress, and it made him infinitely more nervous. Pulling Harry's shirttails from his waistband, he ran his fingers over the flash of skin, and boldly moved his palm up to caress the toned stomach. He was on good ground here: he remembered doing this to Harry as he leaned over him in the Room of Requirement, and the other boy liking it. On cue, Harry groaned, pleasantly. Bracing himself on his free hand, he leant down and pressed his lips to their partner's once more.

To his surprise, Harry parted them gently, stroking the fingers of one hand over his cheek. "What's wrong?" he asked Draco, kindly. His fingers moved to feather through the blond locks, softening the questions. "Am I pushing you?"

Draco flushed and dropped his eyes. "No," he muttered.

"Come here." He cradled onto Harry's chest, one hand still in his shirt. "You're still a virgin."

Draco frowned, crossly. "You of all people know that's not true."

"Don't be cross. I meant, you still feel like one. I did too, for ages after I started having sex with Ginny." Draco hissed slightly at the idea. Harry rubbed his hair again and ignored it. "I just took you last time, and it was amazing but really fast too… I mean, there isn't any rush, you know? I kind of… like, being close like this. Uhm," he stuttered to a halt, blushing.

"So… you like this?"

"Yeah. Even though you're a pain in the arse."

"Oy!" Draco poked him in the stomach and Harry doubled up, laughing, pulling Draco with him so that he was on top again, breaking the tension and solemnity of the moment. He pushed Draco's shirt open again and attacked his neck and chest, spanning his abdomen with nipping bites and little kisses that caused a flutter in his stomach and groin, before trying to help the blond move to take it off. "No, don't," Draco stilled him. Green eyes peeked up out of the black fringe, nonplussed; "I kind of like the idea of having something left on."

Harry smirked. "Kinky bastard," he commented, affectionately, nuzzling the path of fine hairs that disappeared into the blonde's fine formal trousers. "Can I take these off?"

Draco nodded fervently, blushing. "Y-Yes."

Harry ignored the tented cotton boxers, taking the time instead to sit back on his heels and admire Draco's legs as he reverently peeled their coverings away, doing away with the socks and lingering over the calves, pulling the fabric over and away from them in a tingling caress. "Fuck, mmmgh, your thighs," he commented, appreciatively. Draco blushed harder, breathlessly watching himself being unwrapped. Harry stroked one hand up his right thigh, tracing the lines, whilst using his other to massage the sole of one of Draco's feet, and all the while watching his artlessly open face for discomfort. The blond made quite a sight, bedecked in an open dress shirt and blue boxer shorts, face and torso flushed with more blood than Harry had ever thought the habitually pale boy could possess.

Draco sat up on his knees. He felt reckless and bold, and different. Tonight was the night he had planned, and he was determined to show Harry that he could be a good lover, a good choice, beyond the rather abrupt events of the night they had shared three months ago. There was no need for haste, because Harry was already here; he had accepted the invitation, hadn't he? Against all odds, he was lying here with him in a secluded and enchanted rose garden, locked away in secrecy within mere acres of his parents' pretentious private Halloween party. He had made it happen.

He could make anything happen.

With renewed purpose and no short amount of arousal coursing his body from the brunette's ministrations, he cupped Harry's jaw and with both hands and tilted his face up to him to meet his lips, his tongue, and even his teeth, although he tried to be more conscientious with those… They parted momentarily, panting, and he took the opportunity to open Harry's shirt properly, mirroring the actions Harry had taken with his, and parting the sides to look at his chest, rising and falling. The Gryffindor shucked the garment quickly and tossed it towards where he had left Draco's trousers. When the blond shot him a quizzical look, he explained, "I prefer it like that," and gently took one of his hands in his, guiding it to his chest.

Draco rested his forehead on Harry's shoulder, watching his own hand on the other boy's slightly broader chest, palm petting and smoothing the pectorals, abdominal muscles and stomach whilst Harry waited patiently, although his chest heaved with forcibly controlled breaths. Harry was fattier and coarser than Draco, and he had a few scars, including a large one just above the waistband of his trousers. Draco traced it and looked up into his face, questioningly.

"Appendicitis," Harry told him. "I had it before I went to Hogwarts. The Muggle doctors had to cut me open, take it out, and sew me up again. Sounds barbaric I know, but it wasn't that bad."

"Ouch." He traced it again more carefully, wondering whether Muggle scars still hurt.

Harry guided them both down to lay sideways on to each other, making it easier for Draco to continue his exploration, his awakening. He opened the brunette's fly and dragged his fingers over the jutting hipbone, which created a new and exciting landscape on his flat male body. Dipping his hand down into the fabric, he could cup the other boy's arousal through his underwear, excited by Harry's gasp, quickly controlled, and knowing that the reaction was all for him. Between them, they quickly got the rest of Harry's clothes off, and they were looking at each other properly, appreciatively.

"Do you want to take me? You can, you know, if you want… I haven't done it before, but after we – well, I did think about it a lot."

Draco hid his face in the crook of Harry's armpit. "Um, no, I don't think I can do that," he said, in a small voice.

"Okay." He shifted them so that he was on top, pressing down, caressing, kissing, speaking: "This better?" He feathered his fingers under the leg of the blonde's underwear, who quickly helped him take them off, still embarrassed, but more relaxed now that all that separated them was the open shirt he was wearing. Harry's remaining clothing had been lost long since. Harry instigated a knee between his thighs to part them. He looked up at him blurrily, acutely aware of the other boy between his legs, the softness of the cushions surrounding them, their hands entwined on the left side of his head, his other on his lover's hip as he explored the blond with his free hand.

He was drowning in the sensations of it all again, only this time he was not so afraid.

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When Harry was moving within him, he felt so wrapped up in the connection that his eyes spilled over from the satisfaction, the yearning that suddenly quelled, and he was part of it, not outside from the lovemaking, not the detached lust he had felt that night in July. Harry brushed and kissed his tears away softly, anxious and obliging, which ripped a smile from his mouth instead, his hands and arms cradling the black haired head as he guided the other boy for a kiss, a further connection. His fingers pushed through the unruly strands and fisted them gently at the nape of Harry's neck, rubbing the cords of muscle there whilst his legs wrapped his lover's body in their own embrace.

This was making love! This was what he had made happen, and it was his. He could have laughed with delight to imagine all the carefully constructed social customs he might have been forced to go through that evening, well-mannered and courteous under the watchful eyes of parents, press and Ministry men, ex-Hogwarts fools and clutching fortune hunters.

His release crashed upon him like a powerful wave against the cliff face. It shared itself over his stomach and Harry's, stealing his breath, and for one terrifying moment, stilling his heartbeat as well. The expulsion of raw satisfaction that tore itself from his throat found its echo in Harry's breathy pants and pure exaltation of pleasure. He lay boneless, trying to breathe naturally, for long moments as he searched the brunette's eyes, and finding the appreciation he sought, guided him towards his kiss once more.

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It was lighter than the soft artificial lights had provided during the night, when Harry awoke, and slightly chilly. He pulled his feet up and back under the blanket they had belatedly transfigured from Draco's cloak, and raised himself on an elbow. Draco's eyes were already open and watching him with the slow comprehension provided by residual sleep. Harry smiled at the portrait he made, dipping his head to share the taste of his lips.

"You're still here," Draco said, sleepily. He nuzzled into Harry's armpit, still drowsy.

"Yes." He stuck out an arm and fumbled blindly in his own cloak, until he came up with a small, rounded package that he gave to Draco. "Here, it's for All Hallows."

The blond gave him a bemused look, and scrabbled to unwrap it with one hand. "It's a bun," he said.

"It's supposed to be a Soul Cake," Harry corrected him. "Not half as good as the snitch you gave me, but apparently traditional at All Hallows. I nearly forgot about it."

"Hmm, plus we can eat it," Draco perked up, breaking off a bit and feeding some to Harry. They snuggled together in their makeshift bed for a while, sharing the Soul Cake and kissing sporadically – Harry was a very nuzzly morning kisser, and seemed to have an affinity for the patch of baby soft hairs at the back of Draco's neck and behind his ear. By the time the bun was gone, Draco was lying spooned back against Harry's chest, who had both arms around him in a comfortingly solid embrace.

"Draco?"

"Hmm?"

"I have to go soon. And your parents will wonder what happened to you last night."

Draco groaned. "Pass some clothes this way then." They dressed in a companionable silence. Draco stood waiting for Harry to finish, casting a longing glance over the day bed and the sanctuary of the garden. "They probably won't care where I am," he said sulkily, "too busy getting in the good graces of any lingering socialites. It's too humiliating."

Harry looped his arms round his waist, encouraging him to lean back against him. "I could come in with you if you like. We could say we went for a morning fly."

"In our dress robes?" Draco sighed. "No, I'd better go in by a back door and get a shower, change." He turned to look at Harry, and was unable to keep the vulnerability from his eyes when he asked, "will I see you again?"

"You mean I'm not invited to a Malfoy Christmas extravaganza?" Harry joked. On seeing Draco's slightly stricken look, however, he sobered and said, "I'll owl you."

"This is going to be stupid and very difficult," Draco stated. Harry smiled – he sounded like the old Draco again, and it was relieving. "But I can't get you out of my life."

"Nope, completely stuck with me now," Harry agreed.

As he pressed their foreheads together, Draco thought he felt a jolt of magic all over his body.

He met Harry's lips with unreserved passion.

Author's note:

Another name for Saints Day (November 1st) is "All Hallows", the archaic English word 'hallow' meaning saint. The festival begins on the eve (night before) of Saints Day, i.e. All Hallows Eve, the 31st October, and this is where the name "Halloween" originated. It gradually became traditional to also celebrate All Souls Day (November 2nd) during the same festival as All Hallows, as they are consecutive.

During the 19th and 20th centuries, children would go 'souling', which is similar to carol singing – in the same way that carol singers sing for some 'figgy pudding', 'soulers' would sing for Soul Cakes or alms for the poor (donations). A Soul Cake is like a hot cross bun without the cross on the top or the currants – it is a doughy bun with an all spice or cinnamon based spice mixture for flavouring in it.

I had the Malfoys celebrate All Hallows rather than the modern colloquial 'Halloween' because All Hallows has more specific spiritual and Celtic roots that seemed more relevant to wizarding celebrations – in some traditions it is known as Spirits Night, which is supposedly when all magical beings emerge and can be seen by mortals (or as wizards would term it, Muggles). Harry brings Draco a Soul Cake as an offering of the festivals, and also because, let's face it, it's a bit rude to turn up to a party empty handed.

Please review, it's lovely of you... xxxx