A couple of housekeeping things - thanks to that sterling, composite figure of kindness, tough love and genius, Stgulik, for her amazing beta/editing work. She is so important to what I do. Every paragraph you see has been gone through and meticulously corrected by her, so if you see any mistakes, you'll know I made them after she gave it back. And finally, as always, I do not own these characters, nor do I make any money from this or any work of fanfiction.
Beltane and Samhain are bookends for the most important, fertile months of the calendar year. It marks the beginning of a world bursting with life and possibilities, just as Samhain marks the dying off and preparation for the cycle to start up again. Aleister Crowley said it best: 'Magick is the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity to will.' For good or bad, it is our will and our intent that breathes life into our magic. We're on an endless carousel in life, a circle that goes around,
~Chapter Nine: Calming Those Pre-Beltane Jitters – The Witchhiker's Guide to Beltane
~o0o~
The dark and the light in succession, the opposites each unto each, shown forth as a God and a Goddess: this did our ancestors teach. If It Harms None, Do What Thou Will shall be the challenge, so be it in love that harms none, for this is the only commandment, by magic of old, be it done!
~Beltane Ritual
As Filch, Snape and Granger made their way back toward the castle, Rita Skeeter fluttered about, barely able to keep her wings still. She was excited and furious and ready to rip Filch's stringy hair out by the roots. Also, she was fairly angry with herself for falling for the old Squib's ruse. He'd played her for a chump, and she'd let him. She'd known there was a twenty-eight percent chance he might pass her bogus intel, but it was a risk she'd been willing to take.
She had bought his little scam hook, line and sinker. He'd conned her every step of the way. Oh, he'd given her the facts, but looking back at the averages, she should have figured it out long before now. Nine percent of the schedule was changed at the last minute, making her either too late or too early. Seventeen percent of the days were incorrect, meaning she either showed up on the day before or two days after; six percent were postponed due to the wrong kind of weather, well, duh, Scotland... thirty-three percent. No margin for error was that high.
Tonight had been the kicker. 'Meet me in my quarters at ten o'clock,' he'd said. 'That's when the professors will be down at the pitch. I know a back way out to the grounds. The wards are weakest there; never got repaired from the war, proper-like. You'll get all the scoop you want once we go there. '
She looked at her watch. It was nine thirty. He'd known full well they would be there earlier! If she hadn't seen Harry Potter flying in at six o'clock and come down on her own, she would have never been the wiser. Wards, my arse. She straightened her glasses, and quickly placed her Quick-Quotes Quill back in her bag, leaving her parchment copy floating near her shaking hand. She needed a drink, badly.
Trying to catch those two skinny tinribs in flagrante in the dark had been like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. She'd circled that thrice-damned cornfield for ages but had seen nothing. Oh, it was obvious what they'd been doing when they staggered into the clearing, all dewy eyed, reeking to the sky of sex and loam. Salacious, most certainly, but hardly scandal-making. Not nearly enough to appease her readers.
She had already spent far too many Galleons on this, and Perby Smoklehouse was beginning to drop dragon dung-sized hints about it every time she came to the office. We need to get these expenses reeled in, Rita angel... If you'll just devote your attention to the Walter Bloombird piece, Rita dear... I need you to be here on Monday for the Knockturn Alley Minster scandal story, Rita love... there are three solid leads languishing on your desk, so why not leave this silly Beltane business to the boys at the WWW, Rita darling... I think we're getting a wee bit obsessed with this Hogwarts business, Rita dearie...
That was Perby's problem—no vision. She was sitting on top of a fantastic scandal that could spell absolute destruction for Snape and Granger and provide fodder for juicy gossip stories for months to come! Did he honestly think she would let that go to some undeserving fool who couldn't write good copy for toffee?
As she read back over her notes, including that final convo between Filch and the professors, she looked for the angle, the one fact she could tweak and bend and mold into good, juicy dirt. She carefully re-read Granger's pompous little speech about the end of the ritual, and her smile grew. Her shaking stopped, her focus narrowed down onto one pinpoint of thought.
An idea took root; a brilliant scheme bloomed in her head like a giant dahlia, full of colour. It was so daring and bold, it scared her a little. She, Rita Skeeter, was a certified genius. She might even get an Order of Merlin when she blew the lid off this story for the world to see. She knew she could make it work. It would have to be done under the densest cloak of secrecy, but she was used to working alone. No one else to take the blame, but no one else to share the credit, either.
Of course, it would be easier if a second person were involved but... She shuddered when she thought of just how close she might have come to clueing Filch in on the deal. Filthy, scheming Squib! You couldn't trust any of them.
And Snape! When she was finished with him, Snape would be so disgraced he would never be able show his face in Wizarding Britain again. If she played her cards right, he could even end up in Azkaban. She could get revenge on everyone. They would all pay. Then they'd be sorry.
Rita's mind whirled with all the preparations needed. First things first: she had to get to London. She needed Galleons, lots of them, to pull this off. Favours had to be called in. She'd have to keep Argus sweet for a while longer; he couldn't know his cover was blown, and as delicious as tonight's shenanigans in the cornfield were, they constituted no more importance than a starter, a side dish. She was going for the main course, and Granger herself had given her the kitchen in which to prepare it.
"Oh, I like that," she cooed to herself. Taking a good analogy to its logical conclusion was better than sex.
"Getting nervous?"
Hermione jumped at the question, then gave Rolanda Hooch a rueful laugh. "I think at this juncture, 'no' would be a little hard to pull off."
Hooch companionably threaded her arm through Hermione's as they walked from the midday meal in the Great Hall to their first afternoon classes. "Well, I think you'll be grand. I really do."
Hermione flushed with pleasure. "Thank you. I hope that I'll prove everyone's confidence in me."
The older woman nodded absently. There was a frown between her brows, and she glanced at Hermione with her sharp, yellow eyes. "I was about your age when I came to Hogwarts, you know. Fresh from a triumphant season with the Liverpool Larkspurs, green as a grindylow. I didn't know the first thing about teaching. I was absolutely horrendous—I kept the Infirmary full with all my injured students that year."
Hermione couldn't be sure exactly sure where the conversation was heading. It felt a lot like Rolly was setting her up for one of her questionable jokes. "Well, you seemed to have eventually got the hang of it," Hermione ventured.
Hooch shrugged. "I never quite got you on good terms with a broom, though, did I?" she asked wistfully.
"Well, that's true. I'm still rubbish at flying. I suppose I eventually learned out of necessity, but I've never stopped being afraid of it."
"I seem to recall a story about a young girl riding on the back of a blind dragon. Was that apocryphal?"
"Believe it or not, but yes it's true. But you have to remember that 'young girl' was so strung-out on fear at the time, riding a dragon barely made a dent. When I think about it now—"
"That's because you're still thinking like a Muggle, love. Don't forget: you, me, all of us have the ability to fly on our own. A broom is just a tool, like our wands, or cauldrons, or crystal balls—or the magic circle."
Hermione stopped. "Are you trying to tell me something, Rolly? Because if you are, you're taking 'beating about the bush' to a whole new level."
Hooch threw back her head and laughed, earning several smiles from a group of nearby Ravenclaw seventh-years. "Heavens, girl, you're such a Gryffindor! Subtle as a Minotaur."
She regarded Hermione affectionately. "Look, love. You're doing something wonderful. You and Severus are reuniting us with the old ways. You're telling us all to stop being afraid to fly, and to trust ourselves. The light and dark both live within all of us. You're reminding us that isn't a bad thing."
To Hermione's surprise, Hooch leaned over and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. "I'm trying to tell you I'm proud of you and Severus both. We all are. And we're going to be right behind you, showing the Wizarding world just how much fun being a pagan can be!"
It happened while invigilating the O.W.L. Herbology exam. He was sitting at Pomona's desk in Greenhouse Three, when a sudden chill passed through him, and suddenly the room seemed too bright. He closed his eyes and suddenly he was no longer at Hogwarts. He was at the edge of a lake, lit by the silvery moon...
He jerked back into reality. For a moment, he'd simply been... not there.
Severus quickly looked around, in case the students noticed anything amiss, but they were deeply focused on their task. The sound of scratching quills and discreet throat clearing were the only sounds in the room.
He held himself very still, mentally taking an internal assessment. His head was clear; heart rate and temperature seemed normal. No aches or pains to speak of. He glanced at his pocket watch; it was half ten in the morning. Had it been later, he might have blamed it on the afternoon drop, like that queasy feeling when he used to skip lunch on those dark days during the war. He felt perfectly fine, quite alert, in fact. So why did he get the feeling he'd taken a trip somewhere and just returned?
Perhaps I should mention it to Poppy... Gods, no. What am I thinking?
The chime sounded. "This test period is complete. Down quills. You as well, Miss Hamilton. Turn your parchments over. This concludes your O.W.L. exam for Herbology. You will receive your results in approximately seven weeks. You are dismissed."
The students filed out, some talking in animated tones of relief, some silently pensive. They all had that overly-bright look in their eyes from too little sleep and too much last minute revising. It had come as no surprise to anyone that most of the students chose to take their exams early rather than later. A few of the more industrious and ambitious among them opted to use the extra time to swot up a bit more, but most were content to get it over with. Severus didn't blame them.
He stretched silently, and ran his internal diagnostic again. No, nothing amiss. "I must have simply dozed off," he muttered to the empty room as he collected the O.W.L. papers.
As he walked back to the castle, his thoughts settled back to the subject that had hijacked every waking moment since that mind-bending run in the cornfield with Hermione. To say he was finding it less than a hardship to open his eyes each morning to a noseful of Hermione's crazymaker hair and his arms full of said witch would be an understatement. He was enjoying it more than he was willing to admit even to himself.
It probably should irritate him that he was constantly on the receiving end of leering winks and knowing, fond looks from Filius and Hooch, but he found he didn't have the wherewithal to truly mind. After all, Hermione Granger was considered by and large a bit of a catch. It wasn't as if he had planned it, but she was as much fun to bait out of bed as in it.
~o0o~
"This celibacy thing is for the birds," Hermione had grumbled, tossing the Witchhiker's Guide on the floor. "Who's going to know if we abstain the entire week before Beltane?"
Severus had reserved his most self-satisfied smirk for that remark. He'd been affording her that particular look a great deal lately. Perhaps it was the fact that she was sitting up naked in his bed, eating his best biscuits and sipping tea as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do.
She had glared at him suspiciously. "You're looking awfully smug for a wizard whose steady diet of good sex is about to be cut off for an entire week."
He'd laughed at her. She was so unfailingly Gryffindor. "Granger, you're slipping. Either that, or I haven't rogered you past the pedant barrier yet."
She'd made that little growl that reminded him of a long ago day waiting for the Hogwarts Express, when he'd first realised he might have a chance in hell with her. Scornfully, she'd retorted, "Oh yes. That's right—go ahead—throw back your head and laugh like a musketeer. Are you going to clue me in? Let me guess: are you planning on dazzling me with some Slytherin loophole-finding crap that everyone in your house learns as a first year? And I am not pedantic, thank you very much! Are there any chocolate biscuits left?"
Fishing around in the biscuit tin, he replied, "You penchant for non-sequitur is astonishing. And I'll thank you to not insult my house. I threw back my head and laughed like a musketeer, as you so charmingly phrased it, because I've used my advanced Slytherin loophole-finding powers and discovered one."
She paused, and her eyes grew very wide and very interested. "Go on," she demanded.
Placing two chocolate biscuits on her plate, he'd purred, "Can't wait to get into my knickers again, Granger?"
"Don't be an arse! You know I can't," she said, suppressing a smile. The movement caused a charming little dimple to appear in her cheek. Devil woman. She would be the death of him.
"Wording. It's not even a difficult or tricky work round. Not exactly taxing my abilities, at any rate. I think your friend Sebelius Slunt didn't try too hard, either. Accio Witchhiker's!"
The book had flown into his hand, and he'd flipped through the pages until he reached Chapter Nine. He had proceeded to read aloud in a prissy, fraitfully naice accent. "'The High Priest and Priestess need to take every precaution to avoid any procreative or sexual congress of a period no less than six consecutive days before the ritual. This time must be spent purifying the mind and body for communion with the god and goddess, et-cet-e-rah, et-cet-e-rah." He'd shut the book with a satisfied thump and waited for the penny to drop.
She had stared at him blankly. "Well? There it is, in black and white. No sex."
"No sexual congress. No procreative sexual congress." He rolled his eyes as she stared at him blankly. "Gods, Granger, you were quicker on the mark back when you were vicariously living through mating banshees!"
She had glowered at him, but he could almost hear the gears turning. Suddenly her eyes narrowed, and she pushed him onto his back. "Are you saying I can do—"
"Anything your depraved little brain desires, as long as it doesn't involve my penis entering your vagina for the next six days."
Then she'd favoured him with a smile that made his cock sit up and beg. "Anything? I can think of quite a lot," she'd cooed, unbuttoning his shirt.
She had thought of lots of ways. The wicked, torrid creature had mauled him for the past week. She was incredibly deviant, his witch. At this rate, all that would be left for Cernunnos to inhabit would be a husk of a wizard. If he was lucky.
Severus would have never believed avoiding sex could be so pleasurable.
There was no way around it; Rita was going to need a second pair of hands to make her plan work. She knew it increased the chance of failure by twenty percent, but she thought the odds were worth the risk. The real question was, who would make the best patsy, should things go the way of that twenty percent?
"You know me, Mr. Weasley, or may I call you Ron? I have very accurate sources, Ron. They're never wrong. And mine comes from the very heart of Hogwarts." She leaned in, the compleat picture of concern. "It's pitiful, really, how she's been moping for you ever since Christmas."
"Who's moping for me?" Weasley asked. As least that's what Rita thought he said, around the mouthful of food in his big gob. It sounded more like, "Ooze moatin' fer may?"
Rita had sipped her coffee hastily, trying to avoid watching him eat. These Weasleys were all bottom feeders. "Why, your Miss Granger, of course!" she'd trilled. She arranged her expression into one of dire concern. "It's all she can talk about, how romantic you were at the Quidditch match. She's told everyone how much she regrets saying no."
Weasley had looked at her with hope in his watery blue eyes. "Really? Then why hasn't she said anything?"
Rita stroked his arm coyly. "Well, Mr. Weasley, you know how women are. A debonair man of the world such as yourself is quite a catch, and she felt you'd simply not feel inclined to give her another chance."
He frowned, his mouth open, absently chewing. Mouth breather. "So, what exactly are you saying?"
"You know about the Beltane ceremony, don't you? It's all everyone's been talking about for weeks! Aside from the fact a wedding performed that night would be televised all over the world, Beltane is considered one of the most auspicious days to get married." And believe me, you gormless twit, you're going to need all the help you can get.
When he stared at her blankly, she huffed, "Don't you see? You have the most perfect opportunity to stake your claim, to show her you're serious! And," she took a deep breath. In for a Knut...
"I have it on good authority that Severus Snape is planning on proposing to her."
Weasley sprayed the table with half-chewed chicken. "WHAT?"
"Keep your voice down!" she hissed, and looked around the room. Most of the other diners in this particular restaurant were of a similar ilk; dodgy politicians, fallen celebrities, Knockturn Alley libertines. No one wanted to catch Rita Skeeter's attention. They glanced her way, then quickly returned to concentrating on the quality of the Béarnaise Sauce.
She turned back to Weasley. "I told you. I have sources. He's quite determined. Catching her on the rebound and all that. He confided to my source that he planned to do it during the ceremony, seeing as Beltane is the perfect time to pop the question."
"What question issat?"
Rita stared at him and put all her energies into not hexing the oaf. Gods, she never thought she'd say it, but getting Granger married to this idiot might be all the revenge she'd need. "Will you marry me, of course."
Weasley blushed. "Sorry Rita, but as you know, I'm sort of already spoken for, sort of." He cast what he apparently thought was a smouldering glance. "However, if you're free this Wednesday—"
"I don't want to marry you! Gods, how on earth do you find your way to the Quidditch pitch?" she snapped. "I mean that Severus Snape is going to ask Hermione Granger to marry him during the Beltane ceremony!"
Weasley gasped. "Oh, I see." His face fell. "I don't want that to happen." He brightened. "I've got an idea! What if I ask her before he does?"
The Lumos was finally lit, praise Circe and all her sisters.
Rita explained the plan over that very costly lunch; it took her three starters, two main courses and half the sweets trolley to wind Weasley up to the point where it all seemed like his idea. Still, that's what herProphet's expense account was for.
~o0o~
Now, a week later, they were standing in the shadows of the great magic circle, hidden by Disillusion. It was taking all of Rita's time and energy to keep Weasley from wondering off. Gods, the idiot had the concentration span of a Niffler in a Gringott's vault. She tapped him on the head to get his attention. Trying to keep the dunderhead focused on the task at hand, Rita whispered, "Alright, Weasley. Let's run through this once again."
"This is wicked, innit?" He chortled, looking around. "This is going to be awesome!"
Rita rolled her eyes. Confunding Weasley would've been easier than this, but quite possibly as equally maddening. The wizard was a complete imbecile. "Listen to me!" she hissed, then turned away. By the gods, if she got through this evening without casting the Killing Curse on this idiot... "Now, remember what I told you?" she asked patiently. "I have it on good authority that Snape is going to propose, but that's only a ruse. His real plan is to sabotage the ritual, and harm Hermione."
"Right," he answered automatically, then frowned. "So... so... when am I supposed to rescue her?"
"When Snape comes back—" Rita stopped and pressed her hands against her eyes. "For the last time, Weasley, you'll know—there will be danger. Use your brains, boy!"
"Sure, sure," the lunkhead answered, wobbling his head in an approximation of a nod. "I'll know."
"You'd better," she muttered under her breath, watching from the darkness. In the distance, near the castle, she could hear drums and flutes and those shake-y things, whatever they were called. She checked her supplies and ran through her plan once more, checking for any possibility for error.
She looked again at the Weasley oik. He was her unknown quantity, but hell, if he didn't deliver, she could make it look like his fault. It wouldn't take much. She could make anything look like anyone's fault, given enough words and column space. Besides, after tonight, no one would be thinking about her.
Severus Snape would be the star of this show.