By the pricking of my thumbs
something Wicked this way comes
Everyone in the Village knew to keep their distance from the Castle by the grey sea.
It sat upon a steep cliff's edge, inaccessible by roads or walking paths. The only way up was by climbing the jagged rocks or braving the thick, treacherous wood, a burden few undertook considering the Castle was in ruins, each part of the structure a walking hazard. Beams rotted and snapped, massive stones loosened and fell, the foundation was cracked and caving.
The only piece that remained mostly intact was the tall, narrow Tower at its center.
There were many stories within the Village explaining the Castle's history, its original purpose. But all anyone knew for certain was it had not been properly inhabited in many centuries. For as long as the villagers could remember the remains served as an ominous presence overlooking the town, to be seen from a distance but never touched.
Rumor and legend were quick to follow, as is wont to happen when children are taught at a young age to avoid a place at all costs. The mystery of the Castle grew, the tales became more outlandish, more fantastic, a haunting lore that traveled far beyond the seaside.
And naturally, as time went on a daring rite of passage developed among the Village youth: sneaking up to the Castle, passing through its massive, crumbling doors, and spending the night inside.
Parents did their best to discourage this activity, despite having performed the task in their own youth. Most knew it was a futile effort but still attempted to prevent their children from doing so. Others simply asked that they travel to the Castle in a group, keeping an eye on one another and reporting back to the Village if an accident occurred.
It had been over a decade since the last disappearance.
No one knew exactly what happened to the young woman, many wrote her off as a runaway, only those closest to the girl insisted something sinister must have occurred to explain her sudden absence. But even they wouldn't begin to suspect the decrepit ruins on the cliffside had anything to do with it.
And so the tradition continued, month after month, year after year, teens ventured up to the Castle on the first full moon after their eighteenth birthday with a small group of friends and stayed the night in the crumbling entry, surrounded by candles and an overactive imagination. Their friends waited in the grass outside, everyone returning as soon as dawn broke.
And tonight, for better or worse, it was Hermione's turn.