Chapter Four
She was right. Things between her and Harry don't get better. He avoids her so well she momentarily wonders if the Weasley twins had given him the Marauder's Map ahead of schedule, before spotting them one day suspiciously bent over a piece of yellowing parchment with moving ink. She quickly hurries out of there, because she had also pissed off the entirety of Gryffindor and broken the uneasy start-of-the-year truce between their two Houses when she had denied them their new Seeker. As a result, their two Houses were both on edge, always on the lookout for hexes and jinxes flying in their direction when traveling in corridors or loitering in public spaces like the library, courtyards, or the Great Hall. No one dared moved alone.
Still, she doesn't regret it. She tells herself Harry will understand when he grows up and goes about her day as usual. Until he does, she'll do her best to keep him safe despite all the ordeals he will have to go through, and in any case, for the moment, she was more concerned with the quickly upcoming Halloween Feast than with wasting her precious time trying to reconcile with her moody brother when he made it clear he wasn't interested.
Once, she'd loved the holiday. It wasn't the candy or the trick-or-treating that did it for her, it was the dressing-up part of it that she enjoyed. She'd often make her own costumes out of stuff she or her family already had in their closets. Find a shirt with a rock band featured on it from her father that hung on her like a dress, pantyhose from her mother, her own Dr. Martens, safety pins chained together into a necklace, unnaturally colored lipstick, dark mascara and eyeliner, and a beany to top it all off, and she's costumed herself into a punk rock enthusiast without spending a dime. Or if she takes another of her father's shirts again, this one of thick fabric with vertical blue and white stripes, she could turn herself into a sailor girl, easy-peasy lemon squeezy. It had been fun, creative, and often a family thing. Now, she had to look forward to five years of danger that for some inane reason often decided to make themselves known on the 31st of October dramatically. This year, there would be Quirrell and his troll, next year, the basilisk and the diary, fifth year will introduce the 'feared mass murderer' Sirius Black, and in her sixth year, Harry will be chosen for the Triwizard Tournament. At least, the seventh year will only have Umbridge to deal with for the most part until Voldemort lures her brother to the Department of Mysteries towards the end and kills his godfather in the process. It'll be a nice break. She would not be able to concentrate on her very important N.E.W.T.s if she also had to keep her brother from running off to get himself killed with his friends in various horrid ways at the same time.
But she digresses. Back to the matter at hand. This year's Halloween. Troll, Voldemort-possessed-Quirrell – she calls him Quirrellmort for short in her mind – and the forming of the Golden Trio.
What's more, it just so happens to be today, because wow does time fly when you have something to busy yourself with. In her case, it's trying not to end up in the hospital wing again because a Gryffindor had cursed her knees backward, and trying to avoid detention when she covers him in stinking pustules in revenge. He'd made her miss Charms, that jerk.
And she had plans for the night too. Fighting XXXX Beasts was not on her itinerary.
Normally, the entirety of Slytherin and more than a few from the other Houses, sneak out after the Feast to leave for special locations where they continued their celebrations outside Hogwarts borders. They had to do it in secret because Dumbledore Did Not Approve. He never did with old pureblood traditions.
Halloween was one of such.
Well, to be exact, Samhain was. Halloween was what it became after the Roman Catholic Church and other muggles were done with it. It also had been celebrated at Hogwarts until Dumbledore became Headmaster, forbid anything even remotely traditional, and established the first Muggle Studies class. He said it was to help muggle-borns adapt to the Wizarding World easier, but everyone knew it was a lie.
For a wix to be forbidden from participating at a festival akin to Samhain was like telling a Muslim woman she wasn't allowed to wear her hijab. It was like telling a Jewish man his kippah was a prohibited item, that a Catholic couldn't attend Church every Sunday, and that a Sikh's kirpan was banned from the school's premises because it was considered a weapon. No wonder the old families hated him. He literally told them he didn't approve of their religion, that it was inherently Dark, and since he taught his muggle-born students to think the same, they grew up to shun anyone who believed otherwise. To them, they were all irredeemable, ignorant, inbred bigots who practiced evil magic and nothing more. In this way, Dumbledore was slowly, but systematically eradicating their entire culture. With the numbers of traditionalists present in Britain steadily decreasing, soon there would no one to continue practicing the Sabbats like Samhain and Beltain and Imbolg and Lughnasadh and Mabon and Ostara… In addition, she had the feeling if Dumbledore had his wish, any book describing pureblood customs will be burned or locked up in deep, well-guarded vaults to avoid 'tainting' future generations.
A load of rubbish, it was. She was of the option the muggle-borns had the responsibility to learn pureblood culture, not the other way around, although the latter could make a little effort to get to know their new compatriots too. They were the ones entering a new society. This all gave her white settler in America versus native indigenous tribe vibes. Or you know, faint Hitler versus the Jews. Not a pleasant feeling at all.
It wasn't like there were bloody human sacrifices at every celebration. They were civilized people, such a thing hadn't happened in a very long time except at Death Eater gatherings, and those were only a small portion of the population. Dumbledore should know better than to paint them all with the same brush.
Samhain was a festival that marked the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter. Commencing on the evening of the 31st of October, it continued into the 1st of November from sunset to sunset. It was one of the purebloods' most important festivals.
They believed that particular date marked the day when portals to the Otherworld opened, allowing the dead to return to the world of the living for a short while through the thinned Veil, and celebrated with great gatherings and feasts, bonfires and occasional animal sacrifices, and of course, dances and disguises.
The bonfires were deemed to have protective and cleansing powers, and yes, there were rituals involving them. Rituals to purify things. One of them included jumping through the scorching flames, or simply passing between two fires that stood side-by-side. When they burned out, the youngest of the participating children scattered the ashes to the wind in all four directions.
There were even divination rituals that were said to work even for those who did not possess the gift on that night. She was curious to try one in spite of her skepticism. During her last two Samhain festivals, she had seen things, unexplainable things even with magic… It was worth a try. Just for curiosity's sake.
Throughout the celebration, the participants paid respect to their ancestors, family members, friends, pets, and other loved ones who have died. It was a festival of darkness, which was balanced by the light and fertility of the spring festival Beltain on the 1st of May.
So yeah. She didn't see anything wrong with it. Dumbledore was a paranoid ass who had never recovered from his lover's betrayal. Oh! And that little tidbit? Totally confirmed by the man himself if not in as many words. The things you get to hear when you're a baby, and your parents don't trust anyone to babysit you while they go to a super-secret Order of the Phoenix meeting with other vigilantes, so they have to take you with them! The gossip! The blackmail! Both her godparents and the Marauders would have been proud.
She picks listlessly at her over sugary food. Halloween Feasts at Hogwarts never had proper fare. She pities the diabetic students.
If she remembered her timeline right, Harry and Ron must have already met Fluffy after being tricked by the younger Malfoy into a duel, and thus knew about the trapdoor the Cerberus was guarding. She couldn't recall exactly when it had happened, but she was certain it did. Honestly, what was Dumbledore thinking? Why did he not just chuck that damned stone into his desk drawer, cast a Fidelus, made himself the secret keeper and called it a day? Personally, she would have left it with Flamel. The guy had been protecting it fucking fine for literal centuries, she didn't see the need to relieve him of that duty now. He probably hadn't been keeping it in Gringotts either, being French. That little show with Hagrid and the mysterious package was likely Dumbledore's opening move in the chess game he was playing with Tom bloody Marvolo Riddle as his opponent. He was trying to get Harry interested in discovering what it was and then gradually having him get invested in protecting the Stone, maybe?
And to think all her current stressing could have been so easily avoided.
She just knew that old man's convoluted plans will ruin her night. She won't get to dance until her feet bleed and she won't get a high from the inexplicably vast amount of magic that drew itself to the unique places where rituals were conducted on occasions such as a Sabbath day. Mysterious things, ley lines.
Irritated, she threw a stunner at a persistent bat that had been trying to steal pieces of her dinner all evening. Gravity reassessed itself and the flying rodent flopped into Katie Bell's pumpkin soup. The Quidditch Chaser's shrill shriek was music to her ears.
"Nice aim." James compliments her.
"Thanks." She tells him, proudly tossing her hair back with a graceful shake of her head. "I've been practicing."
He grins, and with a swish of his wand stuns a bat of his own. That one falls on the head of Oliver Wood. Would you look at that! The pesky little rats that served as Halloween decorations and flew freely among the candles hidden in carved, floating pumpkins were turning out to be useful for something other than aggravating her further. Annoying Gryffindors never failed to bring up her mood.
Burke barks out a loud laugh, preparing to take aim too when the doors slam open and Quirrell comes sprinting into the hall, turban askew, looking absolutely terrified. Lighting flashes on the Enchanted Ceiling accompanied by a theatrical rumble of thunder and everyone stared in various states of disbelief as he reached Dumbledore.
"Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know." He pants out before sliding to the floor in what appeared to be a dead faint. She knew better.
The man was a terrible actor and a terrible teacher. His stutter tended to disappear at random moments when he was teaching class, and he was not subtle at all when checking out the Slytherins. She thought Voldemort was scoping out future followers, the rest thought Quirinus Quirrell was one creepy man. She'd heard several girls promising each other to come help if the professor ever asked one of them to his office alone. And she could never understand why he needed the garlic. The purple turban alone should have been enough to hide his parasite, the smell coming off that thing could kill someone.
Thankfully, as far as she was aware, he had never tried to read her mind. She'd made certain to not look into his eyes and she'd taken to mentally singing annoying songs in his presence. Occlumency was not part of her skillset yet, though she was looking to change that soon. It was hard to learn when you couldn't trust anyone to help.
He did pay a worrying amount of attention to her. Quirrellmort must have fixated on her because she was not only a Potter in Slytherin but the Boy-Who-Lived sister. Confession time; his attentiveness to her every move scared her shitless. It had gotten bad enough she had seriously considered ditching class and she would have had it not been wildly out of character for her. Voldemort might have noticed that she knew something and frankly, she wasn't sure she'd have survived that confrontation. She was counting down days until the end of the school year.
Following Quirrell's announcement, there is an uproar. Students move towards the doors in a mad rush, skirting around their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor's unconscious body. There was yelling and sobbing and a lot of noise in general.
With a heavy sigh, she pushes herself to her feet. She didn't think she would have lost her head like that had she not know the troll wasn't actually in the dungeons.
"Sit down, Potter." Zabini impatiently catches her sleeve. "Where do you think you're going?"
"The dungeons?" She says snappily and pauses. "Oh."
"Exactly." The other girl would have rolled her eyes had it been socially acceptable for a pureblood.
She sinks back down on her seat. "What about the Hufflepuffs?"
"They should still be fine," Zabini answers. "they aren't that far down. Not quite dungeons yet."
"And if they are stupid enough to go wandering then they deserve to die." James shrugs.
Dumbledore manages to get the situation under control with an echoing shout and several firecrackers exploding from the tip of his wand. In short order, prefects are leading students to their dormitories in neatly organized packs, and the professors hurry off in search of the troll. Of course, Dumbledore also conveniently forgets the location of the Slytherin dormitories.
It's almost funny, watching three-thirds of the school panic while they calmly sit and nibble on their dinners. Once the last of the non-Slytherins have left, their prefects shut the doors, bar them, and return to their seats.
"We'll wait here for Professor Snape." Malfoy the Older says and reaches for a syrup-covered apple.
Chatter gently resumes, the troll being the center of their discussions. They wanted to know how it got it in without Dumbledore feeling it pass through the wards. Some suspected it had been let it, and she knew them to be correct.
She nervously spins her wand in her hand like one would spin a pencil. She really wanted to go find her brother. What was she thinking, letting him confront a full-grown mountain troll all alone? What if something went wrong? What if they don't get to Hermione in time? What if –
"What do you think, Potter?"
She glances up at Pucey. "It was let in."
"Why do you say that?" The boy frowns.
"Because there shouldn't be any trolls living in the Forbidden Forest? And because the wards would have alerted Dumbledore that a Dark creature had forced its way through them into the castle grounds on its own?"
"Why would anyone let in a troll into Hogwarts?" Burke asks unsatisfied with her rationalization.
She shrugs. "I don't know, why would anyone tell the Gryffindors there is something deadly on the third floor, and then expect them not to go investigate? If there is one thing I've learned at Hogwarts, it's that wizards tend to lack common-sense."
There are grumbles at that, but no one argues. They enjoy their dramatics a little too much, and they know it. Practicality was not for them. A troll for a distraction? Couldn't Quirrell have just waited until everyone was asleep before going to reconnoitre the defense around the Stone? Everyone needs to sleep sometime. There was no need to ruin Samhain for them.
Eventually, Professor Snape returns and directs them back to their dormitories. He tells them the troll had been deal with and nothing more, but she does notice his rather prominent limp and the drops of blood that fell occasionally on the floor behind him as he walked. He looked massively unhappy, a particular sort of look upon his face that she had already associated with her brother doing something stupid. Not for one second did she believe Snape had believed Hermione's version of the story. He was too smart to fall for such a lie, and he was a mind-reader to boot. Also, the giant House point hourglasses were now showing five additional points to Gryffindor. Obviously, the boy hadn't learned his lesson from their debate about Quidditch and had rushed headless into danger yet again. Somewhere deep down, she'd been hoping he'd acted smarter and had maybe alerted a prefect of Hermione's absence instead of running off himself half-cocked with only Ronald Weasley as backup, but she presumes that was the difference between a Slytherin and a Gryffindor. To her, bravery was often a synonym for recklessness and nobility to stupidity. Why face an opponent head-on when it was easier and much safer to her own person to merely poison them?
They enter their Snake Pit and gather around their House Head silently.
He looks at them severely. "Samhain is not canceled." There are cries of relief. "If you wish to participate, feel free to change and continue as normal. Groups of minimums of five. Students below fifth year are to be accompanied by a prefect at all times."
The professor stalks away, and they hurry off to their dorms.
They don't spend time chatting. Where the previous years they would gossip and help each other, taking hours to carefully prepare themselves, this time they hurry in tense silence.
She slips on unassuming, yet flattering, dark robes with a hood, and pulls out the mask Zabini had procured and forced upon her during their first year. It resembled a full-face Venetian masquerade mask, delicate and graceful. Curling eyelashes were drawn around the eye-shaped eyeholes, and its full lips were painted a deep red. Subtle designs were etched into its white surface mimicking cracked varnish. Gold paint covered the bridge of the nose, up to the forehead,and down across the cheekbones in lace patterns. A patch of the same gold shined on the chin, and pale diamonds studded the exterior here and there. She had thought it too mature for an eleven-year-old, but it was so beautiful she couldn't refuse. She'll grow into it, she had justified to herself.
Her vanity and love of gorgeous things, two of her fatal flaws, would be the death of her.
Attaching her mask to her face with a Sticking Charm, she makes her way back out to the common room. There was no time to do her hair, they had already missed the rituals due to the troll as it was, so she leaves it hanging free over her shoulders in its natural soft curl.
"Ready?" Malfoy the Older asks behind his own mask, and at the accent of their group of eleven, they creep out.
The prefect had at first glance a much simpler disguise than hers; a half mask in soft green. Only, if one looked closely enough, snake scales shimmered over the entire surface which contrasted nicely with his embroidered dark emerald robes and engraved silver buttons.
James, sneaking beside her on exceptionally light feet, had a feathered mask that left only the bottom third of his face uncovered, and that had long, sharp protrusions sweeping back from his forehead. The edge above his nose ended in a pointed beak-like shape. Even his robes had a feathered collar to match the theme, and his color scheme was browns and creams. It brought to mind an owl, albeit one with horns.
Zabini, she notices, had something new. When the previous years she had worn something similar to hers, this time her robes were burgundy -colored, and her new half-mask resembled glittering and dripping in gems butterfly wings. They were very large, bending back past the sides of her head, and jutting on the top. She approved; given the chance, she wouldn't have refused to wear it too.
For little Malfoy the Younger, she had been expecting something frankly outrageous and had been pleasantly surprised. They all were. Instead of the highly anticipated ostentatious diamonds, the single gem decorating his full-face mask had been an unassuming white opal emblemed into the middle of the forehead. There were small horn-shaped extensions pointed up by his temples, and tiny fangs poked out from the painted lips. Color-wise, it was all sophisticated white and icy blue and dabs of soft wisteria purple. It retained a human shape, but it was clearly a dragon face for a Draco. Fitting, she supposed, and probably his mother's choice.
The whole point behind the masks was that no one was supposed to know who the person was. They were hiding themselves from harmful spirits seeking vengeance because with the Veil so thinned on Samhain, it made sense that good souls weren't the only ones to cross over. Unfortunately, some people were too proud to hide. Looking at you, Avery.
Her mask was a tiny thing of sheer black lace. Pretty, but altogether useless, much like her. And her robes were downright scandalous for a sacred celebration.
They travel across the grounds to the Forbidden Forest under a powerful Disillusionment Charm cast by Malfoy the Older, dodging Mrs. Norris along the way in the Entrance Hall, and cross Hogwarts' ward-line. Dumbledore no doubt knew what they were doing, but there was little he could do. Punishments would only lead to parents complaining. They generally knew what their children were doing on Halloween, and were habitually encouraging them.
In a clearing, they join another much smaller group from Hufflepuff – Ravenclaw had the second-highest number of traditionalists after Slytherin, and Gryffindor had practically none – and a slender figure in purple robes slides between her and James.
Ava's half mask was silver with amethysts cut into droplets hanging on elegant chains from the edge of it just below her cheekbones. From experience, she knew her pale blond hair was gathered into a low bun, held together by a longer chain with more gem droplets. Very tasteful, and showed money without overdoing it.
"Did you have any trouble?" Ava asks while the older students searched for their portkeys.
"No." James shakes his head. "We stayed in the Great Hall. You?"
Her lavender lips stretch into a smile. "We didn't even smell it."
The Hufflepuff prefect calls for them, and they go to her, silent once more.
They didn't attend the same celebrations. Because it was impractical to have so many students in one place, they each divided into small groups and got their own portkeys that lead to different locations in Britain. It was random. You never knew where you will land.
This year, the portkeys turn out to be large sticks with iron rings around one end. The year before, it had been colorful meter-long strings. There was none of the muggle trash nonsense, and she was happier for it. There were so many more methods wizards could use to hide portkeys, and old boots were unsanitary.
They grab hold of the sticks, and several people call out the activation phrase. With a 'Portus', they were spinning. It was a particularly unpleasant sensation, and Harry had been spot on describing it. It really was as though a hook had grabbed them behind their navels and had then suddenly jerked them forward. Their feet left the ground, and they were speeding through space in a howl of wind and a nauseating swirl of color, their hands glued with Gorilla Glue to the stick. She'd heard horror stories of people who let go midway. There usually was a lot of blood involved if they didn't just disappear to parts unknown for forever.
They land, and she doesn't make a fool of herself by staggering over or throwing up as she had the first time around. Practice did make perfect.
Immediately at their arrival, they are assaulted by bright light from merrily burning bonfires and music that came from everywhere at once and that reminded her of the Narnian Lullaby from the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe movie. There were people of all ages, from toddlers clumsily dancing in a circle to elders tapping their feet and clapping their hands on the boundaries of the magically enlarged clearing, all wearing masks. There were blank masks, animal masks, Venetian masks, pretty masks, ugly masks, magical masks, disco ball masks… Some were rich, others were poor, some purebloods, others half-bloods, but they mingled together in a way they would have never on any other day. Sabbats were dates where none cared of your station in life.
A passing older boy in a feathery crow mask runs by, and snags her by the hands, pulling her along. With a laugh, she allows him to manhandle her, and soon they were jumping together over flames and twirling barefoot on the cold, wet grass. She didn't know his name. She had never seen his exposed face. They had barely said a word to each other. They were friends. The best of friends who had no need for speech to understand the other. On Sabbats, magic connected them better than their limited language ever could.
They had met on her first Samhain when she had been awkward and shy and he had helped her learn to truly appreciate the Night of the Dead. He had been the one to teach her to let the wild magic fill her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. It was intoxicating. It was addicting. It was wonderful. It was raw power singing in her veins, warm and tingling and glorious. It was each inch of her body on fire. It was orgasmic pleasure a hundred times better than sex.
As she danced, in the flames, from the corner of her eyes, she glimpses images; a book, a ring, a locket, a cup, a diadem, a snake, and a baby boy. A hideous face with flat slits for a nose roars at her. She sees a rainforest and an underwater scene, the ruins of a great city, a circle of Ancient Runes. She sees the Great Pyramids of Egypt and the Great Wall of China. She sees armies of times long past marching by.
Around them, wraiths also dance. There was a woman looking similar to a younger Bellatrix Lestrange, and there was a man with the characteristic blond hair and grey eyes of a Malfoy. A woman was wearing the traditional garbs of a Banduri, another, in a Greek chiton.
The spirits – not ghosts, never ghosts – had joined them. They flew over their heads and danced their own dances midair. They weren't the ordinary spirits of those who had been afraid of death and preferred to remain behind when their time came. No, those were those that had gone beyond and had decided to return for one night on Samhain.
She comes back down from her magical high in her dorm, mechanically putting away her things with only the fuzziest memories of how she had come back. Her robes were blemished with grass stains, her hair was a mess of twigs and leaves, and she smelled of smoke. Her head throbbed from lack of sleep, her feet felt raw, and every step hurt. As if that wasn't enough, she was ravenously hungry. All in all, the usual symptoms of a post-Samhain celebration.
In the Great Hall, the Slytherin table looked like it had been commandeered by the cast of a zombie movie. Everyone was shuffling, and moaning, and clutching in pain at their heads. James had thumped his forehead against the dark wood and refused to move even to drink some tea. Zabini was sleepily stuffing scrambled eggs into her mouth, uncaring of the half that fell right back down into her plate when she missed. Judging by his snores, Burke had fallen asleep and she wasn't any better, having leaned her inexplicably heavy head on her hand, she was fighting to keep her eyes open. It wasn't a weekend. They had class in barely ten minutes.
On the bright side, Avery was quiet for once. Those giant eyebags looked rather fetching on her.
Graham Montague sits down heavily on his seat. "They say Harry Potter fought the troll yesterday and won."
"Ugh," Zabini says in disgust.
"I'm gonna kill him." She mumbles because that was the expected reaction from her.
"Why?!" James groans into the table.
"To save some mudblood or something." Montague shrugs and yawns hugely, causing Miles Bletchley to yawn, which sets of a chain reaction down the table.
Hiding her own yawn behind a hand, she wishes for some Death Wish coffee beans. Or a shot of espresso, at the very least. She'd give anything for a Venti-sized cup of Starbucks Blond Roast coffee. As much as she loved tea, it just wasn't sufficiently strong after an all-nighter of hard-core partying.
At the Gryffindor table, she spies Harry happily interacting with Ron and Hermione and something pleased flickered in her chest before it was viciously squashed by a wave of tiredness. She slumps further, the hand holding up her head sliding from her cheek to her temple. They couldn't even go to the hospital wing for a Wideye Potion, there wouldn't be nearly enough for all of them, and in any case, Dumbledore had forbidden Madame Pomphrey from handing it out after a Sabbat day. He had hoped it would discourage students from sneaking out to join the celebrations, but it hadn't done much, bar making the traditionalists hate him even more.
In fact, she could hear Bole and Derrick and Flint whispering ideas for the man's murder between themselves only a couple of seats away. They had decided the Killing Curse was too easy, too painless, and she had to agree. Though, she did like their 'keep him awake until he died of exhaustion' plan. Unfeasible, but a nice thought. Have him feel like they felt now; drained of the night's euphoria, fatigue sinking deep into their bones where wild magic had bloomed hours earlier. Why couldn't he understand that it wasn't normal lethargy? That it was of magical nature? Or maybe he did understand, but simply didn't care?
She yawns again into her black, black as her soul tea. There were going to be a lot of detentions that day for inattention in class. Only Professor Snape, and perhaps half-goblin Professor Flitwick, will turn a blind eye to their sufferings. And Quirellmort, but she preferred not to think about him.
"C'mon." Malfoy the Older murmurs from behind her, uncharacteristically crassly but understandingly, his hands lightly pressing into her shoulders. She twists her head back to peer at his wan face in concern. "Class is about to start."
Her nose wrinkles. She was so glad she had History of Magic first.
Naptime.
I don't own Harry Potter.