CHAPTER FOUR
HALLOWEEN
"I'm just worried that Sam's visions have to do with… Mary's murder," John sat in the chair across from Professor Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster's large desk separating the two men. The portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black glaring at the school's caretaker from over Dumbledore's shoulder.
The elderly wizard tented his fingers as he peered at the younger man through his half-moon glasses. Today he was wearing grey robes that shimmered silvery whenever he moved.
"John," Dumbledore began, "You and I both know that the wizard responsible for your wife's death is still in Azkaban prison. If he were to escape, the Ministry would be immediately informed and thus, so would you."
"I'm not worried about him breaking out!" John snapped, not meaning to, "I'm worried he's… bewitching Sam or… or something…"
Even as he spoke, he knew his worries sounded immature. He may not know much about the wizarding world but he knew that the man who had killed his wife was serving a life-sentence in Azkaban, along with many other Dark Wizards, his wand long-since destroyed. The man had no way to access magic without a wand, trapped in a prison patrolled by monstrous creatures meant to suck out any bit of joy from the inmates.
"I understand your concern," Dumbledore continued, not even reacting to John's outburst, "But I assure you, your son is safe."
John nodded, not feeling as relieved as he felt he would before speaking with the Headmaster. He had thought that maybe Dumbledore would actually be able to do something for his boy.
"It's just… Sam gets so scared… and that scares me," the father explained, not meaning to pour his heart out to the older man but doing so anyway. Dumbledore had a way of disarming people and making them more willing to truly speak what was on their minds- whether it was magic or the fact that he simply looked like a kindly grandfather, John didn't know.
"Do you know what helps to squash feelings of fear and unhappiness?" Dumbledore asked.
John looked up, expecting the Headmaster to say something profound.
"Chocolate," the elderly wizard smiled, "Is the best medicine."
"Chocolate," John repeated slowly, to be sure he'd heard the wizard correctly.
Dumbledore nodded, "It has amazing properties. Even muggles know some of them. Whenever your son is feeling particularly frightened, I suggest he eat chocolate. Honeydukes is the best, of course, but I'm sure you know that."
The Headmaster smiled as though proud of himself for bestowing these words of wisdom on the father.
"Okay," John replied, realizing that the man was finished with him, "Thank you, Professor."
The caretaker stood and left the office without another word, more confused than he had been before he had entered.
"You did the right thing, Albus," Phineas Nigellus Black commented from over Dumbledore's shoulder once the Headmaster was alone again, "Men such as he would not be able to handle the truth. Squibs-"
"Hush," Dumbledore warned the portrait, his tone warm and amicable, however, "He should know the truth but not now… not now."
SPN
The second week of school, Dean experienced his first Quidditch game. It was Hufflepuff against Slytherin but everyone came out to watch, even students from the other two Hogwarts houses because who wanted to pass up a chance to sit outside in the pleasant early fall weather and cheer on their peers as they played the wizarding world's most popular sport?
Dean, sitting in the red-and-gold Gryffindor bleachers with Fred, George and Lee, cheered on the Hufflepuffs as they fought valiantly against the Slytherin team.
Dean had only ever seen one Quidditch game before- the Falmouth Falcons versus the Kenmare Kestrels- in August; his father's gift for his eleventh birthday. Most of the time he simply listened to the commentary on the radio- that is, when Ms. Gibbons wasn't listening to the Witching Hour- and seeing a live game, played by professionals or students was just so much better.
Although this wasn't as exciting as watching his favourite team play- school rules were a bit stricter than the professional Quidditch ones- it was still exhilarating to watch the two teams fight to win the most points, their Seekers striving to catch the golden Snitch first.
"Go! Go! Go!" Dean shouted as he watched the Hufflepuff Seeker, a thin girl named Eliza Gingerich, suddenly flew straight up in the air, her hand held out as she caught sight of the tiny, flying ball.
The Slytherin Seeker, a boy named Travis Muggins, followed close behind Eliza, trying to overtake her and catch the Snitch himself.
Reaching his hand out, the Slytherin Seeker grabbed onto the back of Eliza's broom, causing her to falter and begin spiraling downward, struggling to gain control.
"He can't do that!" Lee shouted vehemently from beside Dean, "Madam Hooch!"
As though summoned by the boy's indignant cries, the professor blew her whistle and forced Travis Muggins to stop on his way to catching the Snitch.
"Unprofessional conduct!" the teacher shouted up at him, "Penalty, Hufflepuff."
It was clear from his body language that Travis Muggins was not pleased with Madam Hooch's decision but he did not try and argue. Instead he watched as one of the Hufflepuff Chasers was given the Quaffle, flew towards the Slytherin goalposts from the central circle on the pitch and threw it towards the middle, and tallest ring. The Slytherin Keeper very nearly caught the bright red ball but it slipped from between his fingers and went trough the goal, earning Hufflepuff an additional ten points.
The score was 50-40 with Hufflepuff now in the lead.
Everyone cheered, everyone of course except the Slytherins, who looked murderous.
Eliza Gingerich continued on her way, her eyes constantly seeking the Snitch.
The game ended in the next ten minutes. Unfortunately, even with their lead, Hufflepuff had lost their chance when Travis Muggins had grabbed Eliza's broom and within minutes, the Slytherin Seeker had spotted the Snitch, quickly grabbing it out of the air, a smug look on his face, while Eliza was still searching for it.
Heading back towards the school, the boys felt just as indignant if it had been their own House that had lost the match.
"Hufflepuff hardly ever wins," George told them, "Percy thinks its because they don't take the game seriously enough. I think it's because they're just too nice."
"They may be nice but Slytherins are cheaters," Lee grumbled, "They don't even let you grab brooms in professional matches!"
"Hey! Dean!" a loud, gruff voice shouted from behind the friends and Dean turned to see Rubeus Hagrid coming towards him, parting students as though he were Moses parting the Red Sea.
"Hey!" Dean called back and waved, smiling.
The boy felt someone nudge his elbow and he turned to see Fred staring up at the large man making his way closer to them, "You know him?"
Dean nodded. Of course he knew Hagrid. Although most of the grown ups at Hogwarts were pleasant to his Dad, John Winchester had a special friendship with the school's groundskeeper.
"Haven't seen you around," Hagrid commented, coming to a stop in front of Dean, "I was hoping to catch you after the match."
"How're you liking Hogwarts?" Hagrid asked, his small, beady eyes twinkling.
"It's awesome!" Dean exclaimed, "I'm making lots of friends- oh- this is Lee and Fred and George."
The boy turned to introduce his friends to the groundskeeper. The three looked a little intimidated by Hagrid's height and gruff appearance.
"Maybe after class today," Hagrid turned his attention back to Dean after smiling at his friends, "You wanna come and have tea with me? If yer not busy o'course."
"Sure," Dean told him, "I'll be there tonight."
The groundskeeper smiled, "See you then."
Turning to Dean's friends, "Yer invited too. If you want."
Fred, George and Lee nodded mutely. Dean sniggered as Hagrid turned and headed back across the lawn towards his hut.
"You're friends with him?!" Lee exclaimed. They of course had seen Hagrid around the school grounds, working in the gardens that fed the students and teachers, chopping wood at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, but never had they actually spoken to him, or he them.
Dean nodded, "He's really friends with my Dad."
"Makes sense," Fred commented, "The groundskeeper and the caretaker."
"Yeah," Dean agreed, "Part of the staff, but not teachers… kind of outsiders. Hagrid can't do magic either."
"He's a Squib too?" Lee asked but Dean shook his head.
"He got into trouble when he was a student here, a long time ago, got expelled and the Ministry took away his wand," Dean explained.
"What did he do?" George asked.
"I don't know," Dean admitted, "He never said. But Dumbledore let him stay and be groundskeeper."
"Wow," Lee breathed, peering over his shoulder to watch Hagrid, dressed in patched, faded trousers and his moleskin coat, lumber back towards his hut, "That's kind of sad."
Dean shrugged, "He doesn't seem to mind."
"Let's get something to eat," Fred announced, "I'm starving."
The three other boys agreed and they headed towards the Great Hall.
W
Dean raised his hand and knocked sharply on the wooden door of Hagrid's hut. He couldn't convince the other boys to go with him, but that was okay. He could always try next time.
"Comin'," the groundskeeper's gruff, warm voice called from inside the hut, even as his boarhound, Fang, barked loudly in response to Dean's arrival.
The door opened wide and the boy stepped inside the warm hut. It was small, only one room, but cozy. A rectangular table sat in the center, with two long benches on either side; a bed covered with a frayed patchwork quilt was pushed up against the far wall and a fireplace with a raging fire filled the wall across from the front door.
Dean sat down on one side of the table.
"Yer friends didn't come?" Hagrid asked, sounding slightly disappointed.
"They had homework to do," Dean lied and smiled as Hagrid handed him a cup brimming with hot cocoa and a plate of treacle fudge. The groundskeeper sat across from Dean, drinking firewhiskey from a flagon.
"So, how are you liking school?" Hagrid asked.
"I like most of my classes," Dean answered, "Except History of Magic, its really boring."
One of Hagrid's bushy eyebrows rose in surprise.
"You even like Potions?"
Dean shrugged. Professor Snape didn't see like the nicest person but he had helped them when Sam was missing so he was going to reserve judgment. Besides, as long as Dean kept quiet and followed the instructions written on the board, Snape had no reason to flunk him.
"I wish it wasn't in the dungeons," he admitted, "But yeah, it's okay."
Hagrid chuckled, "Yer probably the only non-Slytherin student to say that. Ever."
Dean grinned and took a large slurp of cocoa.
SPN
"Sam! Come in for lunch!" Ms. Gibbons' voice called out to the seven-year old and the boy looked up from where he lay in the back garden, watching fluffy white clouds move silently across the sky.
Standing, Sam hurried around to the front of the cottage and stepped inside, slipping off his sneakers before entering the kitchen.
"Look at the state of your jumper!" the elderly witch exclaimed and Sam peered down at his front. There was nothing wrong with his sweater. Yes, it was a hand-me-down from Dean and the colour had faded, the threads balling a bit, but it looked all right to him.
Ms. Gibbons approached and brushed dried leaves from the boy's back. Sam gave a half-smile as the witch muttered something about it not being mud at least.
"Sit and eat," Ms. Gibbons told the boy, waving her wand and enchanting the broom leaning beside the door to sweep up the leaves.
Sam sat down at the table where a place had been set for him and began shoveling spoonfuls of the beef stew Ms. Gibbons had made into his mouth as though he hadn't eaten in days.
The elderly witch sat down and buttered the piece of bread sitting beside Sam's bowl for him.
"Slow down, there's no rush," Ms. Gibbons warned, her lips pursed tightly.
Sam swallowed a chunk of potato and nodded, sipping the stew from his spoon self-consciously.
"Sorry," he muttered.
His tutor smiled.
It was the first day of October, the first day when it actually felt like autumn. The leaves had begun dropping from the trees, the air had a new crispness to it and if Sam didn't know any better he thought he could actually smell the snow coming.
"What were you doing outside?" Ms. Gibbons asked, spooning stew from her own bowl to her mouth.
Sam blushed, "I was… uh… watching the clouds."
The witch nodded, "And did they tell you anything?"
The boy frowned, "What?"
"Pardon," Ms. Gibbons corrected.
"Pardon," Sam repeated.
"Did the clouds tell you anything? Did you see any messages in them?"
"Oh… no?" Sam answered, wondering why the witch was asking him that.
"You'll learn to read the signs in the clouds, the weather," Ms. Gibbons told him, "It's part of Astrology. You'll take it once you get to Hogwarts."
"If I ever show magic," Sam muttered.
"Pardon?" Ms. Gibbons asked.
"Nothing," the boy replied and shoved a piece of carrot into his mouth.
W
Ms. Gibbons watched the seven-year old as he rolled around in the grass in the back garden and sighed.
She knew how badly the boy wanted to go to Hogwarts. But magic was something you were either born with or not, and no amount of wishing would change that.
Temple thought of the family she had grown up next to, while she and her brother Boniface had both shown their magical abilities at an early age, the Figgs, who only had one child- a daughter named Arabella- had been devastated to find out that she was a Squib. Arabella and Temple had been friends up until they turned eleven. They had done everything together but then Temple's letter came. Arabella did not get hers. Soon afterwards, the Figgs sent their daughter away to a relative who lived in the muggle world who would be able to look after the girl and Temple had not heard from her since. The last news Temple had had about her friend was that she had married a muggle and moved to Surrey.
Temple knew that there was a high chance that Sam would not have any magic. He was seven already and his brother had shown his abilities when he had been five or so.
She knew that although some children were late-bloomers, the chances of having a Squib in the family increased when wizards married muggles. Even though John wasn't a muggle, he was the next best thing. He as well, had been the product of a wizard- Henry Winchester- marrying a muggle- a woman named Millie- so Sam's chances increased despite the fact that his mother had been a witch.
Turning away from the window, Temple turned on the radio so she would be able to catch the Witching Hour.
If Sam did turn out to be a Squib, perhaps Dumbledore would let him go with John and learn how to be caretaker when his father retired.
SPN
As the end of October crept ever closer, Hogwarts hummed with anticipation of Halloween. The trees in the Forbidden Forest began to turn orange, yellow and red; their leaves drifting serenely to the ground; the edged of the Lake were skimmed with ice in the early morning, only to melt away by noon, and the air had taken on a chill that remained throughout the days.
"Percy says Halloween is awesome here," Fred was saying one morning during the final week of the month, "It never disappoints."
"This'll be the first year I miss going out Trick r' Treating," Lee announced, spreading marmalade onto a piece of toast.
"Hey Dean, what does-" George began but stopped when he spotted the other boy picking at his bacon and eggs without eating.
"Are you okay?" George asked, concern for his friend clear on his face.
"Huh? Oh, yeah," Dean muttered, "Just not hungry."
"Nuh uh, mate," Fred put an arm around his shoulders, "What's wrong?"
"Aren't you excited for Halloween?" Lee asked through a mouthful of toast.
Dean looked up and forced himself to smile, "I'm fine. Really."
"We're not buying it," George told him, "What's eating you?"
"You can tell us," Fred insisted.
The boy sighed and shoved his plate of uneaten food away.
"It's stupid," he muttered.
"Who cares?" Fred told him, "What's the matter?"
"My mom's dead, right?" Dean looked up at his friends; the three other boys nodded.
"Well, she died on November second," he continued.
"Oh," George commented, "Dean, we didn't-"
Dean shook his head, "No, it's okay. It was a long time ago."
"How did she die?" Lee blurted before he could stop himself and then lowered his face, his dark cheeks turning red with embarrassment.
"Sorry," he muttered.
Dean's expression turned serious. He wasn't mad at Lee. It was only natural that he'd want to know more about Dean's mum. He hadn't really talked much about her with the other boy; Fred and George only knew a little bit more about her than he did.
"She was killed by a Dark Wizard," Dean told them, whispering, "One of Voldemort's supporters in the USA."
All three boys flinched when Dean spoke the Dark Lord's name but he ignored them.
"What?" Fred asked, his brown eyes as wide as saucers.
Dean nodded, "Dad told me he was trying to recruit for Voldemort- or he thought he was- and he found us."
"What… what happened?" George asked, his expression exactly the same as his twin's.
"I was asleep so I don't remember much," Dean confessed, "But Dad told me what happened later. He was asleep on the couch with the TV on so he didn't know anything was wrong at first. Then, he heard Mom scream and Sammy crying upstairs and he ran to the nursery."
Lee, George and Fred leaned forward so that they wouldn't miss a second of Dean's story.
"When he got there," Dean paused, "Mom was dead and there was a fire…."
The bell for their first class rang but all four boys ignored it as though they were deaf to its tolling.
"I heard Dad yelling and Sammy crying and ran to the sound," Dean continued, "Only to have Dad shove my brother into my arms and tell me to run as fast as I could. I was so scared; I didn't know what was happening. I couldn't see Mom… only the flames… and the fear in Dad's voice only made it worse."
"When we got outside the fire department was already there… and Dumbledore," Dean told them.
"Dumbledore?" Fred asked, "As in, our Headmaster?"
Dean nodded, "Yeah."
"Why was he there?" George asked.
Dean ignored the question.
"Did he know your parents?" Fred asked.
Dean nodded, "He knew Mom. She went to Hogwarts when she was a kid, when Dumbledore was still just a professor."
George looked confused, "How did he get to America so fast? How did he know about your Mom's death?"
Dean shrugged. He hadn't really thought about it before.
"Magic?" he replied like it was the most obvious answer in the world.
"Did your Dad know your Mom was a witch?" Lee asked.
"Not until the night she died," Dean replied, "Dumbledore told Dad everything."
The eleven-year old vividly recalled sitting beside his father in a 24-Hour diner miles away from Lawrence, Kansas, the elderly wizard in the booth seat across from them, holding Sam as tenderly as any parent would while the exhausted-looking waitress kept refilling their cups of coffee and fulfilling their requests for more pie. Dean didn't think he'd ever eaten so much pie in his life, but his Dad and Dumbledore just ordered more and more, as though the sweet, comforting pastry would somehow erase their memories of that awful night.
"Dumbledore couldn't leave us," Dean continued, "I think he wasn't sure if we were safe, so he offered Dad a job and that was that. We took what wasn't too badly damaged in the fire and moved to Hogsmeade. Dad started at Hogwarts and our neighbour looked after Sam and I when we were really small. We've been here ever since."
Fred sat back, "Wow."
Dean smiled, slightly. He had never told that story to anyone- other than his little brother (the condensed version anyway) and it felt good to share the burden, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
All four boys were silent for a long moment before Lee looked around the Great Hall and saw they were the only ones left.
"Better get to class," he stood, shoving the last bite of toast into his mouth.
"Lucky its just History of Magic," George chuckled, "Binns won't even know we're late."
SPN
Sam loved Halloween. He loved the free treats Mr. and Mrs. Flume gave out at Honeydukes, he loved listening to the scary stories they played on the radio, but most of all he loved carving Jack-O-Lanterns.
Sitting on the step leading up to the cottage, a fat, orange pumpkin atop pages from the Daily Prophet, knife in hand.
Although he knew Ms. Gibbons could just wave her wand and the pumpkins would carve themselves, Sam, like any other little boy his age, wanted the physical experience of cutting into the squash, of pulling out its insides. He wanted to squish the strings of pumpkin guts and slimy seeds between his fingers; breathe in the vegetable, slightly salty scent of the pumpkin; feel the pride that came from knowing that he had designed and carved a Jack-O-Lantern with his own two hands and not some spell.
Ms. Gibbons sat beside Sam on the step, watching him carefully, sipping hot apple cider.
The boy, with tongue sticking out in concentration, stabbed the blade of the kitchen knife into the squash and began sawing at the orange flesh, cutting around the pumpkin's gnarled stem to create a hole big enough for his hand to fit through.
"Can we roast the seeds?" Sam asked the witch and she nodded, "And can we make pie from the guts?"
Ms. Gibbons smiled, "You know Dean won't be here."
"I like pie too!" Sam insisted, "And I know I won't see Dean 'til Christmas break."
"All right," the witch placated the boy, "We can have pie."
Sam smiled and continued carving his pumpkin, dumping the stringy insides onto the newspaper beside him.
"Do you want some cider?" Ms. Gibbons asked.
The seven-year old made a face, "Can I have cocoa?"
Standing, the elderly witch opened the door to the cottage, "Put the knife down until I come back out."
Sam sighed but did as she asked, setting the knife onto the Daily Prophet on the ground, pumpkin juice soaking into its pages.
He watched as Ms. Gibbons stepped inside before picking the knife up again. He wasn't a little kid, he could use a knife without getting hurt. Sometimes he hated how she treated him like a baby.
Deciding he should cut out the triangles for the Jack-O-Lantern's eyes, Sam gripped the rim of the hole in the top of the pumpkin with one hand and jabbed the knife into the side of the squash with the other… stabbing his palm as he did so.
For a second, the boy didn't know what had happened, and then the pain started and he pulled his hand out of the pumpkin to see blood leaking down his hand from a half-inch cut in his palm.
It wasn't the pain- though now it was throbbing in time with every beat of his heart- but the sight of the blood on his hand that forced the saliva from Sam's mouth and a whine to escape from his lips.
It looks like his hand, Sam thought of the yellow-eyed wizard and shuddered, standing so suddenly he knocked his pumpkin over and sent it rolling down the path.
With his uninjured hand, Sam grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it open.
"Sam? Sam, are you all right? What's wrong?" he heard Ms. Gibbons' voice from the cottage's kitchen before he felt her warm, thin hands on his shoulders.
"Oh Sam, your hand!" the witch exclaimed, "Here, let me fix it."
The boy stared down at his palm and watched as the blood seemed to leak back into the cut and the wound healed itself, leaving no scar, the pain vanishing as though it had never been.
"Sam? Samuel? Can you hear me?"
Sam lifted his eye and met Ms. Gibbons' concerned gaze. Frowning, she put her palm to his forehead.
"Do you want your hot cocoa?" she asked and Sam shook his head.
"No thanks," he muttered.
"Are you going to finish carving your pumpkin?"
"No," Sam whispered, "You can finish it."
SPN
Halloween fell on a Wednesday that year and it was clear to all the professors that their students' minds were not on their schoolwork.
McGonagall, realizing she was going to get nowhere with the lesson she had planned, showed the children how to transform river rocks into gourds. By the end of Transfiguration, all the desks were crowded with orange, white, and green gourds of all shapes and sizes, the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws competing to see which house could create the most unique specimen.
During History of Magic, while Binns droned on and on, a group of third year Ravenclaws who had been to Hogsmeade over the weekend, passed around candies and treats for everyone to enjoy.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick taught the students how to make cobwebs and decorated the entire classroom with them until it looked like one giant spiders' nest.
While Dean and his friends ate lunch, they discussed the events of the morning.
"This is awesome," Lee commented, shoving a piece of steak and kidney pie into his mouth.
Fred nodded but George didn't look too pleased.
"Our fun ends here, boys," he told them, "We have Potions next."
Lee and Fred groaned, "Forgot about that."
Dean, chewing a half of a ham and cheese sandwich, shrugged, "Maybe it won't be so bad."
George snorted into his soup.
"Your mad if you actually like Snape as a teacher," Fred told him, "He failed me and Lee last week for our potion."
Dean set his crust on the plate, "We did all right, didn't we, George?"
George lifted his hand and made a 'so-so' motion.
"We didn't fail," he told his brother, "Just."
"Well we have Herbology afterwards," Dean brightened up, "So we've got that to look forward to."
SPN
Potions class wasn't as bad as Dean thought it would be. It was worse.
The dungeons were as cold and damp as ever and Dean quickly found himself shivering even though he had a pair of blue jeans and a knitted jumper under his robes.
Snape also wasn't into the best of moods. He seemed to have picked up a bit of a bug, which turned his hooked nose a bright red, extremely noticeable compared to his sallow-skinned face. His nose, as well as being the same shade of red as a stop sign, was also stuffed, which muffled his voice, making it harder for the students to hear him. And it dripped. For the entire sixty minutes, over the bubbling of cauldrons or the soto voce whispers, all the students could hear was their professor snorting and sniffling. Snape never used a tissue or handkerchief and the wet sounds he made every time he sucked back mucus was as irritating as it was sickening.
Leaving the dungeons and heading out to the greenhouses for Herbology, George let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
"Honestly, I thought I was going to barf if I didn't get out of there!" he exclaimed, "Can't he just blow his nose?"
The boys chuckled and pushed through their fellow Gryffindors to get to the greenhouses first, breaking into a dash across the grounds, leaves crunching beneath their shoes and the cool late October wind whipping their hair back from their faces.
W
"I'm starving," Dean announced to his friends as they stepped inside, cheeks rosy from the cool air and stomachs growling.
The Entrance Hall was full of students from all four houses, laughing, shouting and chatting, happy to be finished classes for the day and excited about the Halloween feast.
The friends stood behind a hulking seventh-year Slytherin who pushed open one of the doors to the Great Hall and they got their first glance at the decorations.
Dean's mouth dropped open at the sight of the Hall transformed. Real, carved pumpkins, and orange and black streamers now joined the suspended candles that always lit up the tables; the tables themselves draped with orange clothes and bats fluttered to and fro across the hall, squeaking quietly.
The feast itself seemed to have changed as well; glazed hams and whole turkeys replaced the more common roast beefs; tureens of soups now joined the gravys and sauces, dishes of carrots, Brussels sprouts, turnip, stuffing, and mashed potatoes. As well as savoury treats; candies and sweets had also been placed on the table. Plates of caramel and candied apples, chocolates, pumpkin, pecan, and bumble berry pies, cauldron cakes, crystalized pineapple, fudge, and nougat were just some of the offerings Dean recognized.
"Percy wasn't kidding," he muttered to himself and took at seat at the Gryffindor table with his friends.
"This is like Thanksgiving and Christmas all rolled into one," Dean told Lee but forgot the other boy would probably not know what Thanksgiving was.
Not sure what to try first, Dean was saved from his indecision when George dropped a handful of peppermint imps on his plate.
"Try them, Dean," he smiled as he chewed the sticky treat carefully, the black tarlike candies coating his teeth, "They're great."
W
"I've not eaten so much in my life," Lee lounged on one of the cushy red chairs in the Common Room, patted his stomach, "I won't need food for the rest of the week."
"How about for the rest of the year?" George commented, still nibbling away at a bright red candy apple.
"How are you still eating?" Fred asked and both boys laughed.
Dean was only half listening to his friends. Resting with his chin on the arm on his chair, he stared into the fire blazing away in the grate, bathing the room in a warm glow.
SPN
Sam stirred the stew in his bowl without eating it. Ms. Gibbons, sitting across from the boy, frowned.
"What's wrong Sam? You love my lamb stew," she asked.
The boy lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
"I'm not hungry."
"Do you want some pumpkin pie? There's still some left," Temple tried but Sam shook his head.
"May I be excused?" the boy asked and Temple told him he could.
Watching the boy walk upstairs to his room, Temple told herself he would be better in a few days, once the anniversary of Mary's death was come and gone.
But it's never affected Sam so, Ms. Gibbons thought to herself as she cleaned up the kitchen, waving her wand- nine inches, applewood, with a core of unicorn hair- and tried to recall if the boy had ever been so morose around this time of the year before.
The elderly witch told herself that she would cheer up the boy; tomorrow they'd go to Honeydukes and she'd let Sam pick out whatever he wanted. He already had some treats the chocolatier had been giving away before Halloween, but if Ms. Gibbons knew little boys, and she liked to think she knew the two she had been looking after since they were wee, they could never have enough sweets.
Stepping outside, Ms. Gibbons peered at the dark village for a long moment, breathing in the scents of dry leaves and wood smoke, before bending down to lift the top of Sam's pumpkin and blowing out the candle inside.
Author's Note:
Thanks to SPN Mum, reannablue, Sallyannerenee, burninglikeacid and Guest for reviewing.
Please leave a review if you're enjoying this story.