Hermione was looking forwards to Samhain more than any other ritual she'd ever taken part in. She had a spectacular black dress with lace skirts and petticoats and spiders embroidered in glittering black thread across the stiff bodice. She had a skull shaped iron mask, polished until it gleamed silver - she was the only one allowed to wear a skull, as she was the moon for this ritual, everyone else had to wear animals.
Samhain was the most dangerous of the rituals because it involved the opening of the veil between the living and the dead. It was also the most ritualistic. It took all morning for the two drummers and Lady Grindelwald to paint all the symbols on her skin in the blood of one of the slaughtered bulls. Unlike last time, there was no levity between the twins as the focused solely on getting each stroke of the brush millimetre perfect. They helped her dress as the sun set, then left to dress in their own black dresses.
The elves meanwhile had been busy leaving offerings at the caves and barrows and completing the two huge bonfires. She could smell the feast cooking already and there were flocks of wizards on broomsticks, brushing up on their skills in preparation.
She made her way down to the ritual area alone, arriving early to try and forge a connection with the family magic inside her. Lady Grindelwald had suggested that she invite the magic to take part early on and that it might hurt less if she wasn't fighting.
The alter was plain compared to the previous rituals she'd taken part in and definitely toed the line of dark magic - there was a large silver bowl of deep, crimson blood from the same bull who had provided her own protective symbols. A second bowl waited next to it, this one empty. Arranged around the altar were seven candles; one at each corner and one situated in the middle of three sides, allowing a gap for Hermione to climb up the steps.
She took a seat in the middle of the altar, crossing her legs beneath the pool of inky lace that she wore. Her mask rested on her lap, empty eye sockets staring creepily up at her. She shivered and shut her eyes, reaching down into the waiting embrace of her magic. The swirling wind of her family magic rustled the air around her sent a leaf fluttering across the stone slab. She leaned forwards and picked it up, tossing it up into the air again where the magic caught it again, sending it spinning and twirling away into the twilight.
'Ready, Hermione?' One of the twins asked from behind her. She nodded, standing smoothly. The two witches already held the bowls, horns hanging at their hips and gleaming deer antlers rising from their masks.
She lifted the silver athame and nodded, the witches' lips curved into smiles. She followed them down to archway where a crowd of people waited to be let in. A hush fell, the ritual was beginning.
Lady Grindelwald was the first, she curtseyed deeply then straightened. Her wolf mask was terrifying. She drew a wicked silver athame from her belt and held her right hand out over the empty silver bowl.
'For the dead.' The witch intoned, slicing her hand sharply. Bright blood welled up and dripped into the bowl. After a charged moment, she turned to Hermione. Hermione reached to the bowl the other twin held and dipped her finger into the blood it already held.
'For the living.' Hermione smeared the blood across the cut and watched as it sealed neatly, leaving the smear of cattle blood the only blemish on Lady Grindelwald's porcelain skin. Lady Grindelwald moved away towards the altar as Frau Tunninger stepped up and took her place with another curtesy. Her mask was owl shaped, and her athame looked ancient and well loved as she too spilled some of her blood into the first bowl, and was healed by blood from the second.
Herr Tunninger followed, bowing and using an ornate athame. His fox mask incredible in its detail. He took to the skies on his broomstick as soon as he was done, forming the beginning of what would soon be a whole host of flying wizards.
Over the next hour she saw an iron rendition of every animal imaginable, of a vast array of quality and age. She saw athames that were clearly heirlooms, athames that were obscenely ornate and athames that were barely more than a silver shard and took great persuasion to actually cut flesh. Behind them two concentric rings were roaming around the altar as witches took their positions and linked hands. Up in the air, wizards flew in great flocks like starlings, swooping and turning with robes snapping and masks glinting. The last person entered, and Hermione performed the process for herself and the twins.
Hush fell as she made her way up the hill to the altar. The wizards stilled on their broomsticks and the witches closed up any last gaps in their circles.
Hermione mounted the last steps, flanked by the two twins who now only carried the second bowl - the one that brimmed with the blood of everyone present. They placed it down near her feet, then retreated and left her alone. Hermione spread her arms wide.
'The veils are thin, the time draws near.' She called. The family magic howled to life in response, whipping up a wind that blustered through the assembled witches and set the protective runes drawn across her body aglow.
'We are ready.' Lady Grindelwald called from the central position of the two circles of witches.
When Hermione spoke again, it was the ancient and otherworldly voice of her family magic that echoed across the gathering.
'Let us begin.' Magic flared out from her outstretched arms and the candles ignited with a whoosh, flames searing up as tall as she was before subsiding to a normal height. Behind her, the two hunting horns pierced the air, notes loud and clear.
She dipped her hand into silver bowl and drew a long, straight line across the altar in glistening blood.
'We give this gift, from the living to the dead.' The ancient voice spoke through her. Light spilled from the drawings on her hand, and like a spark along gunpowder, lit the line she'd just drawn. The gathered witches echoes her in a murmur. She dipped her hand into the bowl again and drew another line, this one at an angle towards the back corner.
'We remember you, though long you have been gone.' Again, the line sparked and the gathered witches repeated her. She dipped her hand again, drawing another line, this one crossed the first and went straight towards the front of the altar.
'We invite you tonight, whilst the veil is thin.' This one crossed the first again, angled towards the other back corner of the altar.
'To feast and celebrate,' she drew the last line, crossing the second and third, to join with the start of the first. 'Another year gone.' The witches echoed her.
The horns pierced the air again, echoing long past when they should have stopped, swelling and twisting until she realised the sound was actually voices; the restless whispering of hundreds of ethereal voices.
The whispering grew, beyond the sound of the horns until she could make out words, names being called.
'The time is now!' Lady Grindelwald called, her voice carrying over the whispers.
Every witch raised her marked hand and it began to glow, brighter and brighter. The magic within Hermione exploded, roaring out in a blast of fiery wind that spun and vortexed in the centre of the pentacle. Like a tornado, the wild magic whipped the magic from the hands of the assembled witches, stretching the glowing orbs into swirling strands that spun faster and fast, growing taller. Wind buffeted Hermione, lifting her hair and whipping at around her face. She could hear the voices now, like they were screaming at her.
Then it fell silent, the magic still tore and twisted, but the voices were gone, the sound muted. Then, a single woman's voice spoke.
'We have returned.' She said, her tone indecipherable.
Volume returned with a roar and a sound like a thunderclap.
'I tear the veil asunder. Let the dead rise.' She screamed. With a terrible rip, the twisting funnel of magic split down the middle, sides stretching open to form a massive, glowing archway. Ghosts streamed through, glowing like bright pearls as they scattered among the assembled witches. The wizards above descended like a cloud across the moon, darkening the sky until the gateway became the brightest point. She could see something else now, a bloody crimson creature that lumbered towards the gap in the veil from the other side. It roared and bellowed as the silvery ghosts slipped out into the world. Light flashed from the wizard's wands above, purple jets landing on lava-like hide. The creature roared, staggering back from the gateway as the last of the benevolent spirits slipped through.
Hermione didn't need the collective cry of 'close it' to know what she needed to do. The magic within her roared once more and the gateway flexed like a muscle. Slowly, ever so slowly, the two pillars began to inch closed. More jets of purple light shot through, sending the creature reeling sideways as it thrashed it's lupine head and snapped with razor jaws. Two massive, hooked claws curled around the gateway, trying to force it back open and Hermione poured more into it. Another volley of purple spells blasted the first claw away from the doorway and a second scored a direct impact on the beast's maw.
'Finish it, Hermione!' She thought she heard Herr Lintzen shout from the cloud of wizards that swooped past her head. She threw everything she had into it, the pillars flexed once, twice, then shut with a snap, the enraged roar of the beast echoing in their ears.
There was a pause, then cheering. The men settled to the ground, hugging the crowd that seemed to have swelled massively. She looked around, realising that the spirits had solidified into real forms that wore strange, old fashioned clothing and bare faces, unlike the masks of their living compatriots. She could see a knight in a suit of armour standing next to the angelic bird mask of Neele and a severe wizard duelling robes bowed to Lady Grindelwald.
A hand dropped onto her shoulder and Hermione spun to see two ethereally beautiful women in long, ancient looking dresses. One wore green, with a silver kirtle and an emerald diadem that matched her piercing eyes. The woman's hair was a cascade of chaotic black curls, the shadow to platinum of the other woman's hair. The colours may have been different, but that riotous volume was identical to Hermione's own hair.
'Child of Gorlois.' The second woman smiled down at her, running a long, elegant finger down the skull shaped mask and sweeping a lock of wind blown brown hair out of her face.
'Is that who I am? The family I'm from?' She asked uncertainly. The two witches smiled serenely.
'The first in centuries.'
'Almost fifteen hundred years.' The dark haired one replied, 'but you are well worth the wait. Legends rise with our name, and they shall rise again in you.'
'I am a Gorlois?' Hermione asked again, hoping to hear the exact confirmation from the two witches.
'You are a child of Gorlois, we have never carried a family name.' The second witch replied.
'What names do you carry?' Hermione asked.
'I am Morgause, the mother of your line.' The blonde witch replied. Hermione knew the name, she knew the legends, which suggested the other woman with the dark hair... Hermione turned to her.
'Morgana?' She asked uncertainly. The emerald clad witch smiled indulgently. Thunderstruck, Hermione almost fell backwards but caught herself just in time, taking a deep, steadying breath.
'I had no child, but my sister had many, only one of whom had magic.' Morgana told her.
'Mordred, he gave birth to two sons, one of whom was slain and the other survived to give birth to our line.' Morgause finished quietly. Then she looked up quickly and Hermione spun, following her line of sight to see Lady Grindelwald stood behind her. The tall witch stood alone, the spirits that she had been talking to huddled a little way back. The tall matriarch curtsied deeply, bowing her head to the two dead witches.
'I am Katerina Grindelwald, had I known that Hermione had a family to speak for her, I would have sought permission from you before taking her as a ward.' She spoke in softly accented English, to match the language that Hermione had been speaking in. It was strange to hear the older woman speaking without her usual flowing confidence and she stumbled over several words. Hermione imagined that particular line had been rehearsed in preparation for today.
'You have our blessing, it is unlikely that Hermione would ever have learned the old ways without your sponsorship.' Morgause dipped her head towards Lady Grindelwald.
'We only ask that you accompany her to our barrows where she may be recognised as a daughter of Gorlois. The family magic will awaken the ghost of our father, who will perform the ritual.' Lady Grindelwald curtsied deeply, then returned to her own ancestors and headed towards where the feast was starting. The dead and living alike took seats around the tables and the elves brought out the food. Neele jostled in opposite Hermione, a kindly looking old man at her side and she introduced him as her Great Grandfather on her mother's side, who hadn't been properly magical but had been burned at the stake for his uncanny healing ability. It was a rather horrible tale, but the Grandfather in question seemed jovial enough about it. He eagerly asked questions of everyone around him, fascinated by everything from the elves to the plates.
'Are there many people in our family?' Hermione asked Morgana, who was managing to nibble delicately on a piece of meat that was speared on a knife.
'We were one of the oldest and most developed lineages, there were others families in positions like ours but very few. Most magical people lived out their lives as druids or priests, only performing accidental magic in times of high emotion. Our knowledge was closely guarded.'The witch replied, eyeing Hermione as she picked up a piece of potato on a fork. The witch shrugged and ignored her own fork, stabbing a carrot with her knife instead.
'The Blacks, I believe, were a couple of generations old by then. They owned that apothecary outside London.' Morgause added, 'the Gryffindors had the wyverns near the ritual circle at Salisbury. There was a rumour of another family in Gaul- maroon heraldry, wasn't it Gana?'
'Lestrange.' Morgana spat.
'Ah yes, you never liked them...' She trailed off. 'Most countries have a particularly ancient lineage tangled with their royal family - the Grindelwalds here were a powerful, long standing line, but they never garnered much knowledge. The Egyptians really had it done well, they managed to convince the muggles that they were gods! The Greeks tended to be the most knowledgable.'
'There were the Slytherins! That family that Merlin was taken with.' Morgana added.
'Yes,' Morgause added sourly, 'They were a little rustic for my tastes.
'You really should go to the barrows in Orkney; our family grimmoires are there.'
'Is it a family thing that makes my magic blue?' Hermione asked suddenly.
'Blue, no, mine was always green.'
'Always?' Hermione asked curiously. The two witches glanced at her.
'Most things were green, ritual light and fire. You favoured blue though, Morgause.'
'It's just, most people don't have the colour problems I do.' Hermione pointed out. She raised her hand, allowing flames to flicker to life in their typical shade of icy blue.
'It's not a problem, that's perfectly normal. It's just the colour your magic manifests as in the physical world. Of course, some rituals or spells will actively change it, but that tends to be a waste of focus, unless you particularly need to have a different colour?'
The main course disappeared suddenly, fading away on the plates and dessert was carried in. Hazelnuts, ground into a rich cream and apples in every form - baked, caramelised, honeyed, spiced, in cakes, on cakes...
The two witches seemed uninterested in any further conversation, preferring instead to tuck into generous dessert portions. Knowing that they would be flying next, and that her stomach was definitely not as fond of broomsticks as it was of Katana, she declined all but the smallest helping.
The next part of the night was supposed to be true witching, something that Hermione had never experienced. Gellert had explained it as reminding muggles of their existence with a wild sort of glee that perhaps only came naturally to someone who didn't quite see muggles as people. As dessert cleared up the living gathered their broomsticks. Hermione had her own - a nice, steady Oak Expedition. It wasn't as capable as most, but it was certainly better than a broom that soared past overhead making a keening whine.
As the living rose on broomsticks, the dead took to the air as well, taking on the silver, spiritual forms they'd had when they came through the veil. There was an energy and excitement in the air that had even the silver bearded elderly swooping through the sky like someone half their age.
'Piger Messem Perdidit.' Someone shouted. Other people took up the cry, drawing their wands which began to glow an ominous green. They swirled around each other, chanting and whooping, cackling. Iron masks glinted demonically, highlighting savage beaks and curling horns. Black cloaks snapped and ghosts spun between them, greenish yellow mist trailing behind them. Hermione followed the general flow, flanked by her two ancestors. Morgause had drawn her sword, and the blade glowed with sickly green light.
'It means "a lazy man loses his harvest." Morgana clarified for her as the began to break up, stringing out into groups and swooping away across the fields, chanting and crying. They would dip low, skimming the ground and spreading green magic in trails from wands, swords, staves and feather dusters?
Hermione ended up peeling off towards the south with Herr Lintzen and his group. They swooped low across the fields and Hermione reached out with one hand, ghosting it through stalks of ripe corn. Green mist spilled from her fingers with an electric zing without any prompting. It felt wonderful, she realised, to cast for the sake of casting. It was sort of cathartic, like popping bubble wrap.
The wind whipped in her face, cool and fresh with the coming winter. Her magic sung, wild and untamed with the chanting. She could feel other people's magic swirling around her, the vivacity of the young, the experience of the old and the ancient power of the ancestors. She laughed, taking another pass as they flew over wild field of blackberries. She sat up on her broom, fingers splayed and green magic hurled outwards, cutting a glittering green swathe through the night. Morgana and Morgause swooped down next to her, Morgana's hands glittering as she threw balls of light that exploded like paint over the fields. Herr Lintzen swept alongside her a feather duster wielding nanna descended on her other side.
'Leave some for the rest of us!' The coven wizard bellowed good humouredly.
'Let the child have some fun, you big lout.' The nanna screeched over Hermione's head.
'A powerful gift you've got there, child. My Grandson isn't bad either, got a pretty face too.' She brandished her duster at an orchard.
'Nan!' A young voice cried in dismay from just behind her. It was the boy on the whining broom. She didn't know how powerful he was, but "nan" was certainly biased when it came to looks - he certainly could do with putting on some muscle, whoever he was. The pair soared away and Hermione and her ancestors took free reign over a field. She could see flashes of green all around her, as far as the eye could see. Witches and wizards spoiled the crops of those too lazy to harvest them.
The revelry didn't stop until it was well into the early hours of the morning. Hermione was exhausted, cold but felt wonderful. She turned her broom for Blau Berg, accompanied by a rag tag of living and dead.
The two bonfires had been lit, roaring pillars of sweetly scented flame that towered far above their heads. As soon as her feet touched the ground, Morgana and Morgause solidified next to her.
'It's time for us to go.' Morgana said, glancing towards the east where the sky was beginning to imperceptibly lighten.
'It was wonderful to spend the night with you. I can't wait for next year.' Hermione replied earnestly. The two witches smiled, and Morgause tucked a lock of wild brown hair behind Hermione's ear.
'You are a true child of Gorlois. I am proud to have you bear the title.' Morgana brushed her fingers over Hermione's mask again. 'Remember, do not falter, dare to do, you were born to be a legend.'
'Go to the barrows in Orkney. There are many treasures there, and many who would share knowledge with you.'
The two witches hugged her, then with barely a glance back they walked between the two fires. Their forms became silvery and indistinct, then vanished all together. Hermione was left in the field with only the living for company.