That evening, somewhere in Eastern Europe...
The moon, like a circle of cheese, hung ripe and yellow above a cavalry of clouds. It bathed the lands below in its drunk light, easing the world into sinful shadow. Tonight, the moon hinted, tonight is the night. The time to lose your inhibitions and give in to the carnal nature of the free spirit. The time to partake in debauchery, to share the love of the universe through food and drink and sex! Tonight, there would be no rules; no regrets; no fears of public condemnation that always rise with the puritan sun!
Tonight, it mattered not whether you were human or fae, goblin or dwarf, fairy or mermaid! All races, all people were welcome to come and frolic, fight and fuck! All were equal beneath the stars and the moon!
And so they flocked. They came by broom and carpet, by apparition and portkey. They swam through rivers of frosty waters, climbed the highest mountains, dug through caverns of rigid stone, and flew between thunderous clouds. They did what was necessary to make it in time. They did what they had to…to come to the party of the year – the Shabash on Bald Hill!
This is an ancient celebration; years of merrymaking have cemented the festival as tradition. It started when pagan gods still walked the earth and Zeus reigned supreme in palaces of thunder on the snowcapped peak of Olympus. It is said that Aphrodite herself blushed at the decadent lecheries this night revealed in untouched maidens, and Dionysus smacked his lips, winking at the heaving shapes of their bodies, caught in the hedonistic throws of ecstasy.
Religions rose and fell, governments collapsed into heaps of ashes, but the Shabash never faltered. Every year, it gathered peoples from all around the globe, and, like long lost lovers, they dove back into its passionate embrace.
The world could end, and they would not notice.
Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
The cry, liberating and free, reverberated through the skies. An orchestra of satyrs accompanied it with pulsing melodies that flushed the skin, enticing the body to move in primitively instinctive ways.
Women know these sinuous movements, oh, so well. It is the hedge that daughters of Eve hold against man's brute, yet simple strength. Passed down through the generations, mother to daughter, this knowledge is ingrained in their very DNA, giving women the power to deter even the staunchest warrior with just a simple, delicate touch.
Hermione heard this ageless call, a sensation almost indecent in its delight, as a slow, smouldering burn under her skin. Her heart danced, feeling the music, the tempo that could reach the darkest corner of the blackest soul. Shrill, haunting notes escaped from flutes of cane and bamboo; hornpipes and lurs bellowed with pride; drums shuddered in rhythmic glee.
Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Strange, glittering creatures dove on outstretched wings between rising columns of pillared clouds. They sang the songs of their homeland – a different world, where the sea and the sky meet in eternal battle and the winds tear foam away from giant cresting waves, sending it up high, providing for ecosystems that rely on the bounty of microorganisms within.
Fires lit up the night. They burned red and orange, purple and blue. A group of gnomes gathered at one, a herd of centaurs at another. They drank from jugs of wine and ale, laughing raucously and belching their approval to the stars.
A hazy smoke pooled across the flat expanse. Twisting into meandering trails, it grew thick near the fires and thinned out further away. It smelled of a fresh, salty breeze; of sails flapping in a westward wind; of old, creaking parchment and dusty books; of a shoulder that was so safe and so comforting to lean into…
Heat rising to her cheeks, Hermione recalled the potent fumes of amortentia she had sampled so long ago, in a classroom that now seemed like a distant memory. She had gone to school once… been so young, so righteous, so hopeful and naive.
Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Bald Hill was aptly named. It was naked, a rough slab of basalt and granite jutting out from the ground like the tip of some broken spear. A mighty oak grew near its base. Gripping the ground with sturdy roots, it easily bore the weight of a massive golden chain circled round its trunk. A tomcat, ragged and whiskered, walked its length. Squinting through the smoke, Hermione noticed an oddness to the creature's movements: when he went to the right, the tomcat would sing, but a step to the left – and a story would pour out of his feline mouth.
An audience had gathered below, listening raptly, a pair of mermaids among them. They lounged in a stone-rimmed well under the tree, giggling and sipping on margaritas. From time to time, they'd smack their tails against the cool water, splashing the tomcat, sending him into a spitting fury. He would hiss, tearing great scratches into the oakish bark, while the audience, believing this to be a part of the performance, cheered on.
The mermaids giggled louder, and the infinite sky twinkled above.
Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
A scarf of white shrouded Bald Hill's summit, a blizzard that touched only the peak and nothing else. A Muggle meteorologist would have gone crazy just staring at such anomalous behavior, but Hermione knew the cause. This year's Shabash was special; tonight, the Queen of the Winter Fae was holding her court among the festivities.
The Fae were a common topic of academic dissent in the wizarding community. Not much was known about them, except that they were intricately linked to the earth's weather patterns and separated themselves into two groups: the winter and summer fae. Both were ruled by queens.
A queue of people wound around the hill, spiraling up its slope, disappearing into the white snow at the top. They had lined up to pay their respects to (or even just see) the mysterious queen and her subjects. Hermione felt an urge to join them; to gaze upon another marvel of this world that she never even knew existed until that world-shattering letter which had arrived on her eleventh birthday.
This was her world now. She had fought for it, killed for it. By her sweat and blood, she had earned a place among its hollow eaves. She wanted to experience it fully, to leave no stone unturned, and catalogue all the wonders that magic had to offer, the Fae among them.
Oh, how she yearned…but it would have to wait. They needed to find the Dolohov girl first.
A heavy sigh escaped her lips. She turned to Draco, tearing her eyes away from the sights.
"Do you have the picture?" she asked her…friend. Was that the proper term? Was he just a friend, or had their relationship evolved into something more significant? Something she had been too terrified to even consider for years - something that, maybe, this night could change?
The wizard, unaware of her thoughts, nodded and retrieved a small photo from the confines of his cloak. Draco's acquaintance from the birthday party – the one who had invited them to share his portkey here – had given it to him. A young woman – Anastasia Dolohova – was laughing from within as she waved a fist at whoever was taking the picture. Hermione had to admit the girl was beautiful. She had tresses of long, silky hair, black as a raven's wing, and expressive, almond-shaped eyes that are so common among those living to the east of the Ural Mountains.
This picture was all they had to go on, but it should be enough. Draco's friend was certain that Anastasia would be at the Shabash…now, it was just an issue of finding her.
"Well," Hermione said, giving the picture a second glance and then looking around, "let's get to it."
Draco nodded again and led the way.
They wandered to and fro, crossing the dreamy landscape. Approaching one fire and then the next, they showed the picture to all sorts of people and magical creatures, asking if anyone had seen this girl. Hermione marveled at the diversity. It seemed like every wizarding culture, every community had brought a representative.
A group of voodoo practitioners from Haiti pointed them one way; a pair of Native American shamans – another. A lonely kikimora garbled something in old Russian, shaking her head. A leshy ambled by. Upon seeing the photo, he grew excited and started wildly gesticulating with his wooden limbs, attempting to express some thought in his tree language. Unfortunately, there was no dryad nearby to translate, so Hermione and Draco had to move on.
Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
The fires changed; the smoke shifted. A cracking boom, almost like the snap of some giant whip, ripped through the skies. The airborne animals roared in reply as a quartet of thunderbirds from the American southwest joined the fray. Hermione lifted her head, savoring the flying forms that graced the skies above. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a dragon's thorny crown peek out from over the hump of a cloud, but then it was gone.
Spying something out of the corner of her eye, Hermione turned her head and gaped. There, hovering near Draco's ear, was the most ridiculous little creature. It looked like a tiny, pink elephant with four wings much like a butterfly's.
Hermione grunted disbelievingly. Draco startled and met her gaze.
"What?" he asked quizzically.
The elephant squeaked and started to fly away.
"There!" Hermione shouted, pointing. "Look, Draco! Right there!"
Draco swiveled his head back and forth, trying to see whatever she was pointing at. The elephant disappeared.
"Where? I don't see anything!"
"Oh my God, Draco!" Hermione was actually jumping up and down. "It was a wrackspurt! A fucking wrackspurt!"
"A what?!"
"A wrackspurt! Luna told me about them! Oh, Gods, I have to apologize to her now." Hermione was rambling now. "They do exist! Wow. I cannot believe this! Not a single book – can you imagine that?! – not a single book or bestiary has them, but Luna knew!"
"Luna? The Lovegood girl? Why do you have to apologize to her?"
"Ugh, because," Hermione groaned with apparent disgruntlement at such unfairness, "there was not a single shred of evidence to this creature's existence! But Luna, being Luna, insisted they were real, and I was grumpy and snapped at her that unfounded fantasies don't make reality, that science is about the observable universe, and then she got all huffy and told me in that roundabout way of hers that some blind would never see, and that I could essentially go f...you know what, actually? Never mind."
"No, no," Draco chuckled, "please, continue."
Hermione glared. Draco grinned.
"It was some time ago, anyway," Hermione said, softer now. "Over a year ago…or maybe two? Huh. I can't really remember when I last saw her."
"Why? Were you close?"
Hermione shrugged. The joy of the party fled for a moment, leaving behind an empty melancholy. "Not as close as I was with Harry and Ron. Still, she was a good friend. I just…stopped keeping in touch, I suppose. Lost myself in work, and then this curse business. I ended up drifting away, losing her and so many others…"
Draco looked at his companion with sadness, musing at how life had turned out for the both of them. Never bet against the future. It will always find a way to surprise you, to tear you from the beaten path, thrusting you into a new direction. You can flounder and struggle, but the loom is already in motion, weaving threads of destiny into the tapestry of reality. And once the plan is set, what do a mortal's whims matter? The outcome has already been determined, fate set by the staff, the spindle and the scroll.
Man's dominion…those words are an oxymoron beneath the weight of the cosmos. Man may battle for his life, his choices, but, on a heavenly scale, his fight is microscopic, and his actions – irrelevant.
Our greatest strength, thought Draco, comes not from the ability to exercise our will onto others, but from aligning ourselves with the natural order. To bear the galactic testament with as much dignity as one can possibly muster – that is the true meaning of life.
"You'll get her back," he promised, tugging Hermione close. "Nothing's over, it's all just beginning."
"You think so?" she sniffed.
He nodded, holding her intimately, inhaling the smell of aster and foxberries. It mingled freely with the other scents of the Shabash: the woody smoke, the fat dripping off spit-roasted pigs, the barrels of spilled wine…It made for an intoxicating aroma, one that he wouldn't mind breathing in for the rest of his days.
But for Hermione, there was one more smell. It was close, warm and comforting, something inherently Draco, someone who had grown in her soul from a boy she despised to a young man that made her heart flutter.
She leaned in, resting against his form. He was a pillar of pale marble stone, and she – a clinging vine, lush and verdant. Together, they were a picture of Renaissance, one worthy of Rubens' brush.
Stepping back, her moment of weakness passed, and she felt stronger.
"Let's find Anastasia already," she said.
They continued their wanderings, parting waves of smoke like a pair of ships on a foggy sea. The thrill of exploration returned to Hermione's bones, as her ears picked up the distant melodies of the satyr orchestra. She was Magellan and Columbus, Marco Polo and Ponce de Leon, opening up the untouched horizons of terra incognita. What would the next fire reveal? Another new creature that she would have never read about in a book? Would the next discovery be her Fountain of Youth or would she stumble onto that spot on the map that read 'Here There Be Monsters'?
They paused suddenly, becoming acutely aware of the silky sighs coming from behind a curtain of smoke. Hermione blushed; it didn't take much of an imagination to realize what was transpiring there. She made a gesture to tug Draco away, when an unexpected breeze blew by, casting the smoke to the side, revealing a sinful sight of liberating proportions.
Hermione gasped and looked away quickly, very quickly…but it was too late. A uninhibited warmth started to spread through her body, and her mind – her brilliant, perpetually curious mind – traitorously whispered, "Just a peek."
She obeyed, turning her head to look at the remnants of a fire and the two bodies by its side.
Hermione could see them – him and her – in the dim ruby light of flickering coals. She was wild and free, riding her partner with shameless abandon. Her eyes were vivid, filled with a captivating, open lust. Back arched into a curve, her hips danced in an almost desperate cadence, matching his thrusts, up and down. Beads of sweat glistened on flushed skin. Enraptured, Hermione watched one grow fat, dipping low to sink into the valley between the woman's heaving breasts. They were supple and heavy, an image of feminine bounty, nipples dark and tight.
Hermione's breath hitched and then came out as a series of shallow pants, while her heart galloped in a chest that was suddenly constricted by too many layers of clothes. She had never seen – never imagined, even – such a display of raw sexuality.
The woman was moaning wantingly, uncaring – or maybe even delighted – that someone could hear. Her eyes were closed now, face lined with heavenly bliss. When the man reached up to a cup a breast, giving it a firm squeeze, a sigh of of summer sweetness escaped her lips. He grunted, gripping her waist with his other hand, holding on with that enchanted hopelessness of a sailor drowning at sea, lured to his death by the fatal songs of the siren.
They were moving quicker, faster. The coals in the fire burned brighter and danced, filling the surroundings in a tango of dark and light. Hermione gulped thickly; she became acutely aware of Draco's arm snaked around her back. His fingertips were fiddling with the hem of her shirt, and then slipped under, grazing the skin with an cool touch, sending waves of shivers up her spine and a pooling warmth in between her thighs.
Without thinking, she rubbed them together, gasping at the frictious pleasure.
...The woman heard. She opened her eyes, slowly, lazily, never pausing in the act. Turning her head, she looked at the two unwitting spectators. She smiled, ambiguously, all-knowing, like an angel descended from the heavens above. Her eyes were piercing, and Hermione felt naked under that gaze.
It felt like, in that singular moment, the woman saw all of her: the good and the bad, the hopes, the dreams, the fears and the insecurities. She saw it all, reaching even into the depths of that dark, tiny corner in the back of Hermione's mind. The one that contained her worst memory and caused her to freeze in terror when Draco had kissed her yesterday. The one that forced her to stay up at nights out of the irrational fear that when she closed her eyes, she would be back there. Back in that cellar, back with the silver-masked man.
Hermione wanted to look away…and found that she couldn't. She trembled, biting her lip, silently begging whatever magic had gripped her to let go. She didn't want to remember that moment, nor re-live the pain and humiliation that followed. Her eyes, however, would not move, fixated on the sight of the carnal delight before her, one that felt so wrong…and yet so right. There was a power in this woman, a desire so strong that it chained the man beneath her to her will, and had caught Hermione, too, in its fiery pull. So Hermione couldn't move. She was a moth burning up in the heat of a flame that turned her defences to ash, exposing her most vulnerable core.
The woman kept looking… and she saw. She saw that night in Hermione's memories: the recollection of rotting vegetables, the feel of wet dirt mudding Hermione's face and hands. Her bruises, her innocent blood, her choking helplessness.
The woman saw…and snarled.
There was nothing angelic about her now. It was an instant metamorphosis: her face becoming angled, sharp, almost feral with hate. Hell burned through her eyes. Hermione heard it then…the scream of tortured souls writhing in pain, the sizzle of boiling oil stripping away flesh...she felt the weight of eternal damnation press against her shoulders, only to pass away moments later…
The coals ignited with infernal glow, flames bursting forth. A wave of heat crashed around them as the woman cried out, bucking her hips with inhuman force. The man shuddered, his face contorting in euphoric madness. He howled incoherently, begging, pleading…and yet never ceased his movements, thrusting into the woman on top like it was the last thing he was meant to do on this earth.
Which, as Hermione noticed a pair of horns – curved, like a ram's – peeking out from the woman's lustrous mane, it probably was.
The fire exploded. The pair's voices peaked in a satanic crescendo, as the man made one final thrust and froze in a pose of lewd nakedness, tremors rocking his body. His eyes were open, consumed by greed, desire and lust. Hermione felt his essence – his very soul – rip away, flowing into the woman. This lasted for a second…or maybe an hour, but then his look became distant, and an empty nothing – the very absence of being – came to rest upon his still features.
The flames died down that very instant, cooling down to chilled embers, black and ashen gray.
But the woman – or the demon, the succubus – oh, she glowed. She was full, content, her beastly hunger sated. She rose from the unmoving body, stretching languidly, a lioness licking her chops. Spots of white dribbled down her inner thighs, one of the most obscene visions Hermione would ever witness in her life.
She still couldn't move, glued to the ground. Was she breathing? Hermione didn't know. The woman cocked her head, analyzing, deciding, and then walked…no, not walked, but swaggered over with a distinctive panache, exposing her body to the world, letting all admire the curve of her hips, the swell of the breast, and the lips of her swollen sex.
She stopped right in front of the Gryffindor witch, a tail swishing behind the cloven hooves that her feet had turned into. She looked right at Hermione, and Hermione, petrified, had no choice but to stare back. The succubus leaned in...
Her eyes, pools of liquid agate, were only inches away. Their depths swirled with emotion, and there, in the dark, something human lingered. Something lost and ravaged, lonely and…understanding. For a brief moment, Hermione didn't see the woman or the demon. She saw a little girl, barely fifteen years of age, taken against her will by the lord of the lands. Her family gave her up quickly – too many mouths to feed – and the lord threw down down a handful of coins onto the ground. Her father and brothers dropped to their knees, squealing with gratitude, and then scurried like pigs sniffing out the little pieces of silver.
The lord was a brute and a sadist, and, when the first night was over, she prayed for God to have mercy on her, for Him to send to an angel to smite down the evil man with a sword of righteousness and take her away from this prison of pain and tears.
God didn't answer.
Something else did.
And now she was here, her lips whispering soft, soothing words into Hermione's ear, as she pressed something – some object – into the palm of the witch's hand. Her deed complete, she backed away, gave Hermione one last, sad but comforting glance, and then stomped her hoof, disappearing in a puff of smoke.
Yaaiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Laughing voices rang through the night. Wind whistled in the oak's crown. The audience clapped, the mermaids giggled.
...Draco woke first. He blinked, mind foggy and slow. Where was he? Ah…the Shabash. It was the smoke, the atmosphere; it got to you. He shook his head, trying to remember the last thing they were doing. Oh, of course. The silly wrack-something that Hermione had seen. Her argument with Luna…he…he noticed, suddenly, that Hermione was standing right next to him, her eyes locked onto some point in the swirls of smoke before them. Merlin, you couldn't see five feet ahead, so thick it was here.
"Hermione!" he yelled, shaking her.
She snapped out of it instantly, confused.
"Wh–what?" she stammered. "What…happened?"
Draco frowned. It was these fumes, he thought again. Merlin, they ought to make drugs outta them.
"The wrack-thing," he explained helpfully. "You saw it and told me about Luna."
"Oh, right…the wrackspurt, Luna…" Hermione didn't look wholly convinced. One of her palms was curled into a fist, and she tilted her head down to stare at it.
"What is it?" Draco followed her gaze.
"I don't know…I think…" Hermione slowly unfolded her fingers. They both stared at the palm. It was empty; there was nothing there.
"No!" Hermione exclaimed desperately. "That's not right! There was…There was…Circe, I can't remember, but it was important! It was–"
"Are you alright?" he asked, now starting to get worried.
"I don't know!" Her lips quivered. "I think I saw…I can't remember, Draco!" she repeated, glancing around like a lost child.
His heart tensed; he didn't like seeing her like this. "I'm sorry," he said, moving to take her into his arms. She was just about to fall into his embrace, when a voice right over their shoulders cried out.
"Germiona!" The "G" came out soft, as in "Ghana". "Germiona, eto ti?!"
They jumped, swiveling around, hands on their wands. There, standing in all her eastern beauty, was Anastasia Dolohov.
"It is you!" she laughed, throwing her arms up. Her accent was thick, Russian. "So, tell me," she said, her slanted asiatic eyes sparkling with mischief and curiosity, "you find him?"
Shocked, Hermione managed to utter just one word: "Who?"
Anastasia looked at her like she was insane. "Deda Moroza! Who you think?! My cousin, of course! Ze crazy one with sickness inside! So, you find?"
Hermione looked at the woman they had been chasing all evening, and dumbly nodded. The moon smirked overhead, the stars twinkled.
The night was just beginning.
If you think this release is a little more polished, that's because I have a beta! The wonderful Frogster is helping me out! A round of applause for her, everyone! She's written a lot of fics, and you should definitely check it out!
I love to hear your thoughts, and a deep thank you to all reviewers!