A/N: Ok, so I have an apology for you all. I'm extremely sorry for not just the lateness of this chapter but for the chapter itself. I originally wanted to do a nice, light-hearted little thing for this chapter. I've realized that I'm unable to make chapters like that for this story. And that, when I do try, you are all forced to suffer through things like this one.

Also, to whoever voted in my poll, both of the options you chose will come shortly. Thanks for taking it!

"Alright, alright. So it wasn't the best story ever." Pansy crossed her arms over her chest, the off-white fabric of her blood-stained brides dress wrinkling at the movement. Like most of the other Slytherins, even though the Halloween party had ended almost an hour ago, she was still in her costume.

After the party had ended, Dumbledore had sent all of the students up to bed. Mathew had been ready to go to his room and change; get out of the uniform he'd chosen to wear that morning and back into his own clothes, his own skin.

The rest of his house had other plans.

Goyle had been the one to suggest it and everyone else had thought it a fitting idea for the evening. Sitting around in the common room, eating candy that had been brought up via pocket, and exchanging the most terrifing tales that they could think of. No one had managed to come up with anything even remotely scary to Mathew. Blaize's tale about Shadow People had come close to it but...

If he didn't look at them, they wouldn't bother him. That's what Mathew's uncle, Scotland, had said. Don't look at the shadows if he knew they shouldn't be there. And that one...The one standing at the end of his bed, black and empty cold, it shouldn't be there. So Mathew closed his eyes tight as he could, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and waited for it to go away.

The rest of the stories had been rediculous. Unbelievable. Unimaginable. With no base or reason as to why the things were happening. And that last one...Even Crabbe and Goyle seemed unimpressed by it.

Draco snorted. "Not the best? That story was horrible, Pansy." He waved the hand that wasn't draped over the back of the sofa he was stretched out on in front of him. "A scarecrow that comes to life and skins the farmer that made it? How very believable."

Sticking out her jaw, the dark haired Slytherin girl frowned at Draco. "Oh, and yours was any better?" Pansy shook her head and laughed, a high-pitched nasally noise. "I don't think so!"

"Mine was better." Draco drawled. His story had been made up on the spot too, inspired by the costume that Pansy had charmed into being. A tragic tale of love lost and the disaster that trusting a swamp-witch would bring. "And, unlike yours, mine at least made sense!"

Pansy had already opened her mouth, retort ready, when Blaize leaned in front of her and grabbed a blood pop off the coffee table. Leaning back against the cushion, he shook his scarlet covered prize at them both. "Oh knock it off you two. Pansy, you're story sucked. Deal with it."

Draco cast the girl a cheeky grin, fake vampire teeth catching in the light, before turning to face Mathew. "What about you, Soldier Boy? You have anything to tell us?"

It was odd to see the normally withdrawn blond so cheerful. Since the party downstairs ended though, Draco had really gotten into the Halloween spirit. Talking, argueing, laughing...It was nice to know that whatever he was hiding under his cloak hadn't completely crushed his spirit yet.

And the only reason he was going to tell them his story, Mathew told himself, was because he didn't want to be the one to break that almost-happy atmosphere that filled the Slytherin common room. So, after a few moments hesitation, he nodded. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper. "Have any of you ever heard of the Wendigo?"

It had so many names. So many tales and faces and origins. But he knew the truth. Mathew knew where it really came from. What it really was and what it wanted. How it was always hungry, always craving the warm sustenance that kept him alive. Forever alive. Forever hungry.

None of the others said anything, though Mathew could hear Pansy snort at the name. The noise made a surge of anger flare up in him because it wasn't anything to be laughing at, nothing to grin at like Goyle was off in the corner, but something to fear. Something that, if seen, would haunt you forever.

Casting a doleful look at his housemates, Mathew started his tale in a voice just as quiet as before. "It was made for the first time centuries ago. A tribe of natives in the northern part of Canada was running low on food. People were dieing. Cold. Hungry. And one man, a powerful warrior, wasn't ready to die yet. So he cornered the weakest man in his tribe and he killed him. That evening, his family feasted."

It was back before he was given a name. Back when he was still just a person, living among his natives, and not yet Canada. Mathew had been appalled by his peoples actions; appalled by the fact that, every time one of them took a bite human flesh, he could taste it in his own mouth.

It took a moment for the meaning behind his words to sink. When it did, Pansy pulled her face back in a mock gag and Blaize snickered.

Mathew felt his stomache churn and found himself wondering why he had chosen this tale, this part of his history, to tell. "The act of canniblism opened the warrior to the evil spirits that lived in the woods nearby though and, that same night, he lost his soul. The people of his tribe called him a Wendigo after that. They feared him above all else."

"And why," Draco drawled, amused look on his face. "did they fear him? Afraid he would start to eat them too?"

"Because a Wendigo is never full." Mathew whispered. Licking his lips, Mathew stared into the fireplace flickering just past Draco's head. "And once they have your scent, they chase you until you can't even walk anymore."

Mathew had never hated his connection with his people more than he did then. When one of his people turned to that awful method to survive, he felt their misery. When they changed into the grotesque form of a Wendigo, neither dead nor alive, he felt their hunger. And when they set chase after their prey, he felt thier energy flow through his veins. Tasted the spoils of his victory. Heard the screams of the fallen warrior when his legs finally gave out on him. And Mathew wanted nothing more than to cut off his connections with them and sleep at night.

And there was something about the shadows that played across Mathew's face, the way those last few words were spoken with such finality, that sent shivers down the other Slytherins spines.

Mathew didn't stay to listen to the rest of the stories.