Chapter 8
OWLS
When Harry and Ron stepped over the portrait hole to leave Gryffindor tower at eight that evening, they were greeted by the ghostly grin of Nearly Headless Nick. "Fine night, my lads. Best of the year, don't you think?"
Harry returned a faint smile. Hallowe'en was the day, 503 years earlier, when Sir Nicholas de Mimsey-Porpington had had his ill-fated encounter with an executioner's dull axe. Their second year at Hogwarts they'd attended his deathday party out of curiosity. One evening of rotting food and howling music had been enough. But if Nick invited them, he wouldn't want to hurt his feelings by saying no.
"Wish you could come to my deathday celebration, but this year it's strictly spirits—almost axed spirits, actually." He jiggled his partially attached head above his wide Elizabethan ruff. "None of that hoity-toity headless bunch. But I'll be whisking by your party later. Special invitation."
As Nick faded, Harry shot Ron a relieved smile. Then more Gryffindors crawled out the portrait hole after them, and together they made their way to the feast.
Entering the Great Hall, Harry saw that the theme was The Haunted Woods—complete with towering trees. Some were skeletons, struck by lightening. Others dripped with phosphorescent moss. A spectral wind rattled the jack-o'-lanterns and corn dolls that hung everywhere. From the eerie chorus of hoots, Harry surmised that the Hogwarts owlery had perched throughout the rasping branches. Peering around, he spied ghost-white Hedwig blinking solemnly from a hole in a dead oak. As usual, Ron's flibbertigibbet Pigwidgeon was fluttering about, vainly seeking Hedwig's attention.
"If we ignore her, maybe she won't come hover around my head," Ron whispered, then poked Harry's arm. "Hey. Look at Daine."
Turning, Harry saw a vision hesitating on the threshold. Ariel Daine wore a fitted white gown that flared from her waist in an abundance of lace and ribbons. Silver beads twinkled with every movement. White ribbons festooned her wand. Instead of fluffy blonde, her hair was a mass of red curls crowned by silver stars.
"Oh, goodness." She stared at the roomful of black robes. "Am I the only one who wore a costume?"
Harry heard Ron suck in his breath. Evidently, his friend felt as he did—anxious to rescue their sweetest teacher from embarrassment but at a loss for how to do it.
Then Professor Flitwick scurried forward. "My dear child, so charming! Glinda, isn't it? Good witch of the North."
"Of the South, actually, as Mr. Baum wrote her. Hollywood moved Glinda to the North." Professor Daine smiled sheepishly. "I must look a sight. Do I have time to change?"
"Nonsense," Professor Sprout soothed, bustling up beside her. "Next year I vote we all wear fancy-dress."
Harry watched the two older professors shepherd the sparkling good witch towards the High Table. The other staff smiled at her. Only Snape stared with eyebrows askance.
Relieved, Harry turned to the Gryffindor table and waved to Hermione. Quickly, he zigzagged with Ron through a copse of phantom birches. Taking their seats, they leaned close to their friend. "Do you have it?"
She grinned and patted her side pocket. "The other two are brewing nicely. Someone needs to slip in at ten to give the dreams a stir."
"I'm ready," Harry said. Then oohs and ahhs around the hall drew his attention to the serving platters. His housemates were already piling their plates with apple-and-walnut salad, beef brisket, grilled trout, fried potatoes, kale with rosemary, baked yams, roasted chestnuts, wheat cakes, corn muffins, gooseberry jelly, hazelnut tarts, and mounds of pumpkin fritters.
A long while later, after dedicated feasting had given way to contented sighs, Headmaster Dumbledore rose from the High Table. "As all of you know, music sparks a special joy in my heart. This Hallowe'en, I have prevailed upon Professor Ariel Daine to introduce Hogwarts to a delightful custom from across the sea—square dancing."
Professor Daine stood, took a deep breath, smiled and raised her wand. In a moment, three black boxes, strung together by black wire, burst through the Great Hall's double doors, whizzed over their heads, and settled on the table before her. Harry stood and craned his neck, as did several of his classmates. She touched a button on the squat box between the two tall ones, and a tray slid out. Spinning it slowly, she placed five shimmering disks around it. When she pushed the tray back, music filled the room.
"Wicked!" Ron breathed. "What is that apparatus?"
Hermione groaned. "A CD player, Ron—a non-magical, battery-operated CD player. But what on earth is that noise?"
Except for an occasional discordant rendition of the school song, music at Hogwarts was rare. But Harry had enjoyed what Uncle Vernon called that racket coming from the neighbors back on Privet Drive. And an occasional musical assembly in Muggle primary school had taught him to identify instruments. "I guess it's square dance music." He could pick out twanging guitars, a banjo, a bass, a quavering organ, and half a dozen fiddles screeching like banshees.
Professor Daine stood and walked around the High Table. With a twitch of her wand, she drew the floating candles into a double line down the center of the hall. "We'll start with ten volunteers—two staff and a boy and girl from each house. Don't worry. Everyone who wants will get a turn."
From the Hufflepuff table, Barden Grandstaff immediately raised his hand, followed by Hannah Abbott. Giggling, Ginny Weasley stepped forward with Dean Thomas. The two Ravenclaws Harry didn't know. At the Slytherin table nobody volunteered. When Professor Daine flashed them a dazzling smile, Millicent Bulstrode's ham-like hand slowly rose. She jabbed a pint-sized first-year next to her, and Slytherin had their pair. Professors Flitwick and Sprout completed the ten. Professor Daine set everyone in two facing lines, flourished her wand, sang some words, and off they went—skipping towards each other, joining hands, twirling, and passing. As they danced, Professor Daine called out their steps.
"She's enchanting their hands and feet," Hermione observed.
Ron arched an eyebrow. "Well spotted. You don't think that hag Millicent could manage that dosado and swing-your-partner stuff on her own, do you?"
Harry pushed back from the table. "I'm going to go watch." Reaching the crowd in the center of the hall, he squeezed in beside Professor McGonagall. Surprisingly, his stern housemistress was clapping in time to the music. Glancing around, Harry saw that all of the staff had left their table to fraternize with the students. Except Snape, of course. He sat alone, his cold eyes fixed on Ariel Daine like a hunter sighting a swan.
Then a flapping overhead drew Harry's gaze upward. An owl swooped across the gathering to land on the table in front of Snape. Startled, the professor broke his scrutiny of Professor Daine and leaned forward to retrieve his letter from the bird's leg pouch. He appeared to note the sender before quickly unrolling the small scroll. As his black eyes darted across the message, a smile twisted his lips. He slapped down a coin for the delivery. After pecking up the payment and stowing it in its pouch, the owl took wing out of the Great Hall.
Unexpectedly, Professor McGonagall growled the suspicion on Harry's mind: "He's up to something." Out the corner of his eye, he watched his housemistress narrow her gaze. Looking back to the High Table, he saw Snape rise and saunter around it.
Who wrote the letter? How could he find out?
As Snape neared, Harry snapped his attention back to the square dancers in time to see Barden grin as his raised hand met Millicent's and they circled each other. Apparently, the complex patterns of Professor Daine's spell were designed to mix and match Hogwarts's four houses.
With a sideways glance, Harry saw Snape stop beside Wilhelm Avery. He couldn't believe his luck. Straining his ears, he caught, "Your father sends his greetings."
Harry felt a tug on his sleeve. Meeting Ron's eyes, he knew his friend had heard Snape, too. Avery Senior had sent the message—Avery Senior the Death Eater, Snape's old comrade under Lord Voldemort.
The dance ended with bows and curtsies. The surrounding students applauded. Panting and grinning, the dancers dispersed into the crowd.
"Okay, now. You all see how it's done. Who'll be next?"
This time a mass of hands rose. When Professor Daine picked Cho Chang from Ravenclaw, Harry shot his hand into the air. His heart jumped when, out of all the volunteering Gryffindors, Professor Daine chose him and placed him facing Cho. He promptly cast his eyes down to his feet.
"So I can take a turn, the Sorting Hat has kindly consented to call the next dance. To complete our group, I think . . . Severus."
Harry glanced back. Snape looked momentarily thrown. Then his lips curled into a sneer. "Nobody dances unless he is drunk or mentally unbalanced."
Professor Daine's smile widened. "A quote from Cicero, yes?"
Professor McGonagall burst out laughing. "You're on my team the next time we play Muggle Trivia."
As Harry watched, the Hogwarts staff descended on Severus Snape. The more they urged him, the paler he grew. "You'll manage. You're not that clumsy," Professor Sinistra said helpfully. "Show some pluck," Madame Hooch chided. Hagrid nudged Snape from behind. "Get on with yeh, then."
Only Professor McGonagall stayed apart, her mouth quivering with the effort of hiding an impish grin.
Suddenly, Barden began a rhythmic, "Professor Snape! Professor Snape!" Dumbledore joined him. In a minute, the whole room was chanting. From a position atop the CD player, the Sorting Hat's voice rang out the loudest. With an increasingly thin smile, Snape slinked forward. He faced Professor Daine with the resigned stare of a condemned man.
As the music restarted, Harry felt a pleasant tingle spread up his arms and legs. He relaxed into it and found himself skipping forward, then passing shoulder-to-shoulder with Cho. Stealing a glance, he saw a faint smile spread across her lips. He was grateful a spell controlled his movements—otherwise he might have melted into a happy puddle at her feet. As they sashayed right and left, Cho's eyes sparkled like black onyx. When they linked hands, her smile broadened. As he swung her in a circle, her hair swirled like a black satin scarf. The melody wove the lines of dancers in and out and he lost her—only to rejoin her, breathless, on the far side.
Harry fell back to a position next to Ariel Daine. In her glittering white gown, she seemed a fairy godmother amid the somber black of Hogwarts. He tried to catch her smiling eyes, wanting to thank her for one of the most magical evenings of his life. But her gaze was focused on Snape. When the Sorting Hat called their next step, they glided towards each other.
For once Snape's sallow cheeks held color. His thin lips quivered, either from the effort of denying the dancing spell or because he'd succumbed to it. Mirroring Professor Daine, he arched his arms toward her. As he did, his loose black sleeves slid to his shoulders. In the next instant, his jaw stiffened. On Snape's left forearm, Harry caught the pale gray outline of the Dark Mark—the Death Eater snake striking from the jaws of a skull. Gritting his teeth, Snape wrenched his arms downward. His feet continued to take him around Professor Daine, but his hands stayed clenched at his sides.
Glancing about, Harry saw no shocked faces. Apparently, Snape's angle was such that only he had glimpsed the forbidden brand. But when the two professors completed their circle, Harry saw from the horror in Daine's eyes that she'd seen it, too. A moment later, she swallowed her dismay and summoned back a weak smile.
When the music ended and the square dance spell sent him into a bobbing bow, Harry kept his gaze on Professor Daine. When the charm released him, he blinked, then looked up. With a sinking feeling, he saw that Cho had already rejoined her friends. Sighing, he rejoined his own. They barely noticed him.
"I'm not dancing—not to that," Hermione muttered.
"Oh, yes, you are." Ron grabbed her hand and raised it with his own.
When Daine smiled at them, Hermione screwed up her face appealingly to Harry.
"Almost ten," he said cheerily. "Time for me to go stir."
Harry slipped away from Hallowe'en with a jumble of images tumbling through his mind—Snape's satisfaction with Avery's letter, McGonagall's grim He's up to something, the glow in Cho's eyes, the revulsion in Daine's. The fragments jostled and jarred each other, reaching no conclusion. As he darted up the moonlit stairs to Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, one thought rose clearly above the rest: How could he wait three weeks to question Snape?
Author's Note: Yes, this is not how Cho turned out as the books progressed. But when only four books of canon existed, she could have been a match.
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