Chapter Seventeen - Samhain 2018
Chapter Seventeen - Samhain 2018
The lights flickered in the dorm as Albus and Scorpius trudged in, exhaustion etched across their faces, their robes caked in mud and marred with burn marks. Their eyes were red, as though they’d been crying.
“At least you’re not soaked this time,” Bowker said with a light tone from his bed as he watched the two boys enter the dorm.
“I think it’s worse—they look burned,” Zabini mused, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
“We’re fine,” Albus snapped, his light tone betraying his fatigue.
“Albus! We are not fine!” Scorpius exclaimed, clearly just as exhausted.
“We’re alive,” Albus muttered, rolling his eyes.
“That’s a pretty low standard,” Nott quipped from his bed, lazily flipping the pages of a book, his tone dripping with indifference.
“These pranks are getting out of hand,” Bowker added, his voice almost sounding concerned.
“Bowker, they’re not pranks. They’re death attempts,” Zabini drawled, his voice flat and uninterested.
“Glad someone’s finally grasped that,” Scorpius retorted, feeling the irritation bubble up.
“Albus—” Scorpius began, but Albus slammed the bathroom door behind him, effectively ending the conversation.
“Oh? Trouble in paradise?” Bowker teased, grinning at Scorpius, though his eyes held no mirth.
Scorpius, looking like he might break down at any second, ignored Bowker’s jab, his face a mixture of exhaustion and frustration.
Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open, and Albus stood in the doorway, shirtless, catching everyone’s attention. His skin was bruised and marked with fresh burns, making it clear just how brutal the attack had been.
A low whistle escaped Bowker. “Morgana, Potter, those are some scars.”
“Nott, did you still have that burn salve?” Albus shouted. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay you.” His tone was casual, almost unconcerned, as his eyes shifted to Scorpius, whose face flushed as he caught sight of Albus’s bruised bare torso. Concern settled across Scorpius’s face as he noticed the old bruises mingled with fresh burns from the ropes.
“Aren't you coming?” Albus asked, raising an eyebrow. Scorpius’s face flushed even deeper as he glared at Zabini amused expression, then met Albus' gaze.
Albus looked at Scorpius then Nott “Please, Nott, the salve?” he called again.
Nott rolled his eyes but hopped off his bed and rifled through his trunk, tossing a jar of salve to Albus, who caught it easily. “Nice. Cheers,” Albus said before turning back to Scorpius.
“Half expected you to follow me. Come on, we’ve got to put this salve on. You know we can’t go to Pomfrey with these,” Albus added nonchalantly. then retreating into the bathroom once more.
The other boys exchanged amused glances before turning to Scorpius.
“So, aren’t you going to join him?” Bowker teased, an expectant grin on his face.
“Don’t take too long, and make sure to clean up after yourselves—” Zabini continued.
Scorpius, flustered, grabbed some clean clothes and marched toward the bathroom, shooting a glare at the others before slamming the door behind him.
For a moment, the room fell silent before laughter broke the tension.
Albus emerged from the bathroom first, pulling on his shirt a bit too big and more expensive looking than his usual. He ignored the others’ stares and flopped onto his bed, stretching out as though the earlier ordeal had been nothing. “What’s happening on your end? Any news about the upper years?” he asked, eyes half-closed.
Zabini leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Oh, you mean besides the usual?” His tone dripped with amusement.
Albus grimaced, recalling the hexes he’d been on the receiving end of. He could still faintly feel the sting from the hexes earlier that day and throughout the week when Zabini got a bit too carried away with his spells.
“Something tells me you’re enjoying yourself a bit too much with those, Zabini,” Albus bit out, irritation edging his voice.
Zabini smirked. “Just playing the part, Potter.”
"After Zabini’s little hex stunt, we’ve earned a bit more respect," Nott remarked, lounging back on his bed. "I expect they’ll let us in soon enough."
Bowker grinned. “It’s a competition between Nott and Zabini for Top boy.”
Albus raised an eyebrow “Not you?” He asked back to bowker, who just shrugged before saying “I'm half blood." Like that would be enough of an explanation.
Yet it was. It was not only Scorpius and Albus who had been branded blood traitors, the new king Burke also held more traditional values, which meant that Half-blood was treated accordingly as well.
“You know who’s really in charge,” Nott replied, casually flipping through a book, completely unbothered.
“Come on, you must know more than that,” Albus pressed.
“Well, Potter, be grateful we’re even helping you. We could easily join them instead,” Zabini said, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. Albus wasn’t entirely sure whether the hexes would actually intensify if they did.
Albus rolled his eyes. “Really Zabini? Seems to me you’re enjoying yourself as it is already.” He spat out clearly annoyed.
Nott, with his usual posh tone, added, “Potter, you should care more about your position.”
Albus shot him an incredulous look. “It’s not your lot getting hexed left and right.”
Scorpius had just made his way out of the bathroom and grimaced. “Or getting tripping spells cast on you on the stairs.”
“My favorite was when they burned your assignments,” Zabini quipped, with a grin.
“Pretty sure that was you, Zabini,” Albus snapped, his patience wearing thin.
Scorpius shot a death glare at Zabini. “That was my first late essay,” he muttered.
Zabini shrugged, unbothered.
Then Nott interjected, clearly unimpressed. “They’ve been planning something, presumingly Rosier.”
The energy in the room shifted.
“Great,” Albus said, rolling his eyes again. “Another big thing. Perfect. You’d think nearly drowning in the Black Lake was enough.”
“It’s hilarious that Malfoy looked more horrified over a late assignment than he did after being bound and thrown into the Black Lake,” Bowker snickered.
“It’s only because he wasn’t awake! I had to do all the lifesaving,” Albus shot back.
Nott grimaced. “Can’t believe they actually tossed the Malfoy heir into the Black Lake unconscious.”
“Can’t believe none of the Professors noticed. They dragged us all the way through the castle,” Albus said, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.
“For now, they seem calm,” Nott mused. “I doubt they’ll pull anything else this month.”
“Great, so we can expect something next month then,” Scorpius replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
“Looks like little Malfoy has finally picked up on Potter’s eye roll,” Bowker teased, a gleeful grin on his face. Scorpius shot him a glare.
Once more, Albus ignored the banter. “Whose idea was tonight’s outing?” he asked.
“I’d put my money on Burke,” Bowker suggested.
“Why not Rosier?” Zabini raised an eyebrow.
“He’s more dramatic, isn’t he?” Bowker replied.
Then Zabini shifted targets. “By the way, Malfoy, did you have a good time in there? You’re glowing more than usual,” he smirked, amusement dripping from his tone.
Scorpius shot Zabini a glare, his face turning a deeper shade of red. “Shut up, Zabini,” he muttered, clearly flustered.
“Relax! I’m just saying… you’re practically radiating,” Zabini continued, his teasing grin widening. “Must’ve been a really thorough shower.”
Albus, lounging on his bed, was only half-listening to the conversation.
Bowker stifled a laugh, while Nott rolled his eyes from the corner, not bothering to look up from his book. “You’re ridiculous, Zabini.”
Zabini chuckled. “What? Just appreciating how refreshed our Malfoy looks.”
Flustered and thoroughly embarrassed, Scorpius tried to change the subject, but the boys were relentless.
“Did Albus help you apply that salve, or did you help Albus?” Bowker added, grinning and clearly enjoying the teasing.
Scorpius’s face flushed an even deeper red, “For Merlin’s sake, Bowker! It’s not like that!” he snapped, his voice cracking just enough to draw another round of amused looks from the others.
Bowker raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Zabini, who chuckled softly. “Right. Just a friendly rubdown after a near-death experience,” Zabini added, still smirking. “Perfectly normal.”
Albus, lying back on his bed, sighed loudly and stretched his arms overhead. “Would you lot shut it already?” he muttered, sounding more irritated than amused. “We got burned, we helped each other apply the salve—end of story.”
“Come on, Potter, you think we don’t know how you sometimes sleep in each other’s beds?” Zabini said, his glee unabashed.
Albus’s eyes snapped open, his expression darkening instantly as he pushed himself up from the bed. “What are you trying to say, Zabini?” he asked, his tone sharp, a far cry from the casual irritation he’d shown before.
Zabini, unfazed, leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “Oh, nothing at all, Potter. Just that you two seem awfully comfortable with each other. Sharing beds, late-night strolls, patching each other up, and now you are wearing his shirt—”
Albus had quickly shot a stinging hex at Zabini, cutting him off, and was now blushing, his expression flickering as the implications sank in. The room went quiet, everyone staring in disbelief at Albus’s reddened face. “Morgana, Potter, did you just realize—” Bowker began, his voice filled with disbelief mixed with amusement.
Albus turned an even deeper shade of red, visibly trying to compose himself. “It’s not like that! We’re—” He faltered, before blurting out, “Like brothers!”
The room erupted into laughter. Zabini nearly doubled over with amusement as Bowker gave Albus a mock-pitying look.
“Brothers, eh? Is that what you’re calling it now?” Zabini said through chuckles, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Morgana, Potter, you really are clueless, aren’t you?”
Albus's face flushed an even deeper red, frustration evident as he clenched his fists. “I’m serious!” he snapped, his defensiveness doing little to quell the laughter. “It’s not like that!”
Scorpius looked genuinely concerned—there was something else in his eyes, something closer to fear.
Albus, struggling to regain control of the situation, only made it worse. “We’re just... we’ve been through a lot together, alright? Doesn’t mean there’s anything—”
“Romantic?” Bowker interjected, raising his eyebrows, his eyes gleaming with mockery. “You don’t have to justify it to us, mate.”
“Yeah, we’re all very open-minded here,” Zabini added, his grin sharp and insincere. “No judgment.”
The words sank into Albus like a knife, twisting painfully. Blood rushed to his face, heat rising up his neck and burning his skin. His stomach churned violently as shame clawed its way up his throat. “It’s not like that!” Albus screamed, his voice cracking, raw with anger and something far worse—humiliation.
But the words were out of his control now, tumbling out before he could stop them. He was filled with disgust. Embarrassment. The overwhelming sense of being seen, judged—like all those times they had been cornered, forced to endure vile things hurled at them. The whispers. The mocking. His hands trembled, feeling like his skin was too tight, as if he would explode from the pressure of it all.
“It’s not like that, That’s disgusting.” The word slipped from his lips before he even registered saying it, the spite clear in his tone, and in that instant, the room went cold.
Laughter died out immediately. Zabini’s smug smile faltered, his raised eyebrows now betraying surprise. He exchanged a glance with Bowker, whose grin had faded as well. Nott, still lounging in the corner, gave Albus a knowing, almost pitying look, as if he could see right through the layers of Albus's defense, as if he knew exactly what was going on inside him.
Albus stood there, frozen in place, face flushed with a mixture of anger and shame. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white, but it didn’t matter. Nothing helped. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, and the room felt like it was closing in on him, suffocating him with the weight of what he’d just said.
But worse than the silence, worse than their stares, was the flood of memories that suddenly overwhelmed him. The things Rosier had spat at him, the slurs, the insinuations. All the times they’d mocked him for being too close to Scorpius, twisting their friendship into something ugly and vile. He could still hear their voices, sharp and venomous in his mind, tearing at his sense of self until he didn’t know what was real anymore. He could feel disgust crawling up his skin, seeping into his bones—not at Scorpius, never at Scorpius—but at the way they had poisoned everything.
The connection between him and Scorpius wasn’t like that. It wasn’t some vile thing or a joke to be sneered at. But in that moment, standing there with all eyes on him, Albus couldn’t untangle the knots of shame and anger that twisted inside him. All he could feel was that creeping, insidious doubt planted by their tormentors, the same doubt that had festered and grown into something uncontrollable.
He didn’t dare look at Scorpius.
He couldn’t. Because whatever expression Scorpius had now—whether it was hurt, betrayal, or worse, agreement—Albus knew he wouldn’t survive seeing it. He didn’t know what would be worse. His mind raced, flashing back to first year, to the moment when Scorpius had given him that birthday gift—before everything had been tainted, before Burke and the others had twisted it into something grotesque. What had been a simple moment of friendship and trust had become another weapon used against him.
Albus hated it.
He hated how they had turned something precious—into something disgusting, something to mock and throw back in his face. He hated himself for letting them get inside his head, for letting their words corrupt what had been so pure. He hated how weak he was for lashing out now, for letting them control him like this.
He didn’t know if it was shame or humiliation that burned in his veins, fueling his self-loathing. His chest ached with the weight of it, and he couldn’t bear the idea of facing Scorpius now. Not after what he’d said. Without another word, Albus turned on his heel, his movements stiff and jerky as if he could barely keep himself together. He made a beeline for his bed, throwing himself onto it and yanking the curtains closed with trembling hands. He didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to hear their whispers or their laughter, didn’t want to face the reality of the damage he’d just caused. He lay there, curled up, fists still clenched tightly, hating himself with every fiber of his being.
Pathetic.
That’s all he was. Weak, spineless. He had let them win. He had let them ruin everything.
As the night stretched on, Albus’s mind wouldn’t let him rest. The fear gnawed at him, unrelenting. Fear of what Scorpius was thinking. Fear of the look on his face, the one Albus hadn’t been able to bear seeing. The thought of it haunted him, and the uncertainty—the guilt—twisted inside him like a blade, making him sick to his stomach.
He hated himself for what he’d said, for what he’d done, but more than anything, he feared that he had just destroyed the one thing that mattered most to him.
++++
It was evident to anyone in the great hall during breakfast that something had happened between Albus and Scorpius. They kept a conspicuous distance from each other, the tension thick enough to slice through the air.
In the corridor, Scorpius finally broke the silence. “I need some space,” he said flatly, detached. The words cut deeper than Albus had expected. He struggled to mask his hurt, knowing he had no right to feel upset.
“Scorpius—” Albus replied, the words spilling out even as his heart begged him to reach out, to hug Scorpius and reassure him that he didn’t mean it.
Scorpius gave him a sad smile which made Albus stop, and look down into the ground “I understand.” He said quietly.
He hardly even cared about Samhain anymore, why did it matter without Scorpius? all that consumed him was how much he missed Scorpius, how much he loathed himself—How he hated himself, he wished he could go back in time and stop himself—His stupid weak self—He dreaded that he had destroyed it all, it made him drown in his own anxiety. He touched the bracelet, but that familiar warmth did not return. He hated himself for being so affected, for letting them affect him like this. This feud had dragged on too long, creating a chasm in his relationship with Scorpius, his best friend, his brother.
If there was one thing Albus excelled at, it was going unnoticed and allowing his grudges to simmer beneath the surface. Revenge consumed his mind, it was easier than the guilt—That swirling like a dark cloud. With determination, he made a beeline toward the common room, then towards their dorm. He rifled through his trunk frantically, pulling out his journal, His heart stung as he pushed away the thoughts of the journal itself being a gift from Scorpius. He clutched it tightly, willing the pain to subside before forcing himself to focus. He tucked the journal and his quill into his school bag and headed straight for an abandoned classroom.
Despite the tension with his yearmates in Slytherin, he knew they would cover for him. After all, they stood united outside the common room.
Once inside the dusty classroom, filled with old, unused furniture and cobwebs, he settled into a quiet corner. He spread his notes across the table, referencing the book Fawley had lent him. At that moment, he began to meditate, closing his eyes and envisioning a forest where the library once stood—a sanctuary from the chaos swirling around him.
He didn't know how long he stayed in his mind, his determination would not let himself leave before his mindscape was perfect, or until he fainted from exhaustion.
It wasn’t until his body finally gave in, his mind clouded by exhaustion, that he slumped forward, He regretfully exited his mind.
++++
The corridor was eerily quiet as Albus made his way out, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. His vision blurred, blackness creeping in at the corners of his eyes. He leaned heavily against the wall, fighting against the dizziness threatening to overwhelm him. With a deep breath, he forced it down, trying to steady his mind, raising his mental shields despite the burning exhaustion in his skull.
Suddenly, his magic flared, a warning, screaming at him that he wasn’t alone. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He pushed away from the wall and turned to face whoever had dared to approach him.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Fawley,” he greeted with a tone that masked his fatigue, his voice carefully poised.
Fawley leaned casually against the stone wall, her shoulder brushing the cold surface, arms crossed in her usual effortless manner. "If it isn’t my favorite little first-year," she quipped, her tone laced with playful condescension. "You look dreadful, more so than usual."
Albus grinned through the pain. “How kind of you, Fawley. But you'll have to come up with a new nickname—I’m not a first-year anymore.”
"Oh, I’m well aware. Time has a curious way of slipping by, doesn’t it?” Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement as they flicked over him, taking in his disheveled appearance.
Albus glanced down at the floor, his exhaustion pressing in from all sides. “Are you going to read my mind?” he asked casually, though the edge in his voice betrayed the vulnerability he tried to suppress.
Fawley let out a soft, almost predatory laugh as she stepped closer. “Is that an invitation?” she purred, her voice sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. She paused before adding, "I suppose I could test your shields. See how much you've improved."
Albus lifted his gaze to meet hers—those dark, all-consuming eyes. He felt the gentle prod at his mental barriers, a subtle probing. She was testing him. The pressure mounted as the intrusions became more aggressive, more insistent. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his jaw tightened as he concentrated, refusing to let her break through easily.
But Fawley was relentless. She breached his shields with a final push, her presence slipping into his mind. Albus wasn’t finished, though. He tried to divert her attention, steering her towards insignificant memories—ones that held no importance. Still, the dull ache in his temples grew with each passing second, and frustration bubbled beneath the surface.
“I’m rather impressed, Potter," Fawley remarked, her voice dripping with aristocratic superiority. "I’d expected your shields to be in worse shape, given your state."
“Are you mocking me?” Albus muttered, barely holding back the pain gnawing at his skull.
“Not at all,” she replied smoothly, her expression teasing yet condescending. “You actually put up a fight this time. Do keep it up.”
“I don’t believe this is all you wanted,” Albus countered, forcing his voice to stay steady. But the exhaustion was creeping back, his reserves nearly depleted after holding her off.
Fawley’s smile widened. “You seem to have fallen out with Malfoy?” Her tone softened, her eyes gleaming with interest as she studied him, savoring the thought.
“Do not worry about it,” he shot back, trying to maintain his composure.
"Can’t I be concerned?" she asked, her voice light but her gaze sharp and unrelenting.
“You’re not concerned, Fawley,” Albus said firmly, though deep down he felt the familiar sting of doubt.
“Oh, but I am,” she replied smoothly, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Especially about how this... disturbance might affect you. And tonight’s celebrations.”
“I haven’t—”
“I know,” she interjected, her voice sharp but calm. “That’s why I’m here. Consider this an offer of assistance.”
“Why?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone, his exhaustion clouding his judgment.
Fawley took a step closer, standing mere inches from him now, her presence overwhelming. “Because it’s important,” she whispered, her voice a low hum that curled around his senses. “Our old ways—and your magic, it craves them, doesn’t it?”
Albus hesitated, his chest tightening. “You... you saw it?”
She gave him a knowing look. “No. Just a guess.” She smirked, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “But you just confirmed it.”
Albus clenched his fists, cursing himself for being so easily manipulated. He couldn’t help the next words that slipped from his mouth. “Is it normal?” He needed to know.
Fawley tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “That depends on the magic one pledges to, Potter. But such a strong pull? No, that’s rare.”
Before Albus could respond, she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "That’s why tonight is so important. Why you must answer the call."
He felt his magic stir uneasily within him, swirling and pulling in ways he couldn’t fully understand. "I suppose..." he murmured, his voice trailing off, though he knew Fawley had her own reasons for pushing this, reasons that likely had little to do with his well-being.
Fawley leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Can’t you feel it, Albus?” she murmured, her voice soft, intimate. Her perfume clung to the air between them, intoxicating and overwhelming.
“Don’t ignore that gift,” she whispered, her lips so close to his skin that it sent a shiver down his spine. Then she straightened, her gaze never leaving his. “Tonight is vital for your path. Aren’t you curious? About the secrets in your blood?”
Albus’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of her words pressing down on him. "What about Burke?" he asked, too tired to fight any longer, knowing he had already lost this round.
Fawley’s smile widened, triumphant. “Leave Burke to me. Meet me at the south gate of the castle tonight, after darkfall.”
++++
The two figures made their way deeper into the Forbidden Forest, the silvery glow of the waxing moon casting long, eerie shadows around them. The night was still, but Albus felt a thrumming beneath the surface of the earth, a pulse of magic that heightened with each step. He and Fawley passed through the dense, knotted trees until they reached a small clearing—one Albus faintly recognized from his first blood rite. The memory brushed against his mind like a whisper, sending a shiver down his spine.
As they crossed the threshold into the grove, Albus felt something shift. The air seemed heavier, saturated with a magic older than Hogwarts itself. He breathed in deeply, as though inhaling the essence of the ancient trees and rites long forgotten.
“You see, Potter,” Fawley began, her voice soft but commanding, “The forest is far older than Hogwarts. We really don’t know how long it’s been here, what creatures it has seen, or what secrets it holds. But one thing we do know—this place has always been a sanctuary for magic. Druids, wizards, centaurs—they’ve all felt its call.” Her tone took on an almost reverent quality. “Groves like this are sacred places, where magic lingers just beneath the surface. Has it always been this way? Or is it the result of centuries of rituals, of rites like the one we’re about to perform?”
Fawley’s dark gaze gleamed as she spoke, her lips curling into that familiar, knowing smile. She exuded confidence, as though she were part of the very magic she spoke of.
Albus stood still, absorbing the atmosphere around him. The weight of the magic hung in the air like a heavy fog. His senses attuned to it, as though something deep within him was drawn to this place. He focused, trying to center his thoughts, trying to reach for the magic Fawley spoke of.
“I can feel it,” he muttered under his breath.
Fawley smiled approvingly. “It’s a gift to feel magic like that, Potter. Not everyone does.”
Albus hesitated. “I don’t really have anyone I’d like to call upon,” he admitted, his voice low and uncertain.
Fawley circled the clearing, her eyes sharp and deliberate as if she could see the lines of magic etched into the earth beneath her feet. “You don’t need a specific person to call,” she replied, her voice smooth and practiced. “Let whoever wishes to come, come to you.”
Albus nodded, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders ease. The grove, ancient and pulsing with forgotten magic, felt calming, like the magic was watching, waiting for him to accept it.
“It’s a simple rite,” Fawley explained, her tone turning instructional. “One to honor your ancestors. As we don’t know when these rites were last performed by your family, it’s hard to predict whether you’ll receive a response. But if the magic favors you tonight…” Her eyes locked with his. “You may uncover truths about your legacy, perhaps even your family magicks.”
The thought stirred something in Albus—a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
“Now,” Fawley continued, her voice commanding, “I need you to enter a meditative state. Clear your mind and let the magic come to you. I’ll prepare the space.”
Albus found a spot within the grove and lowered himself to the ground, legs crossed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the sounds around him: the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, the hum of the forest’s magic. He tried to push aside thoughts of Scorpius, of Rosier, of the darkness growing within him. He needed to focus on the rite and the ancient energy that seemed to settle around him.
Behind him, Fawley moved with practiced precision cleared the clearing of the fallen leaves, with a swing of her wand candlelights appeared around the circled space—making it light up in the dark october evening–the flames flicked with the wind–but magically enchanted they did not simmer out.
“The veil between worlds is thin tonight,” Fawley’s voice cut through the stillness. “If ever there was a time to seek answers from the past, it is now.”
Albus remained still, sinking deeper into his meditation. His breathing slowed, and he felt the magic of the grove swirl around him. The temperature dropped slightly, and a chill breeze brushed his skin.
And then, in the depths of his mind, he heard it—a whisper, faint and distant. He almost doubted he’d heard it at all, but the sensation sent a shiver down his spine.
“This will not be your first time in a traditional circle, Potter,” Fawley said, her tone clipped. “And while it’s not always necessary, tonight it will act as a safeguard—for both those within it and those outside.” Her eyes swept over the intricate markings she had drawn. “We will be calling upon those who came before you—your ancestors—and we have no way of knowing who or what might answer.”
Albus swallowed, his hand tightening around the hilt of the dagger hidden in his robes.
“Therefore,” Fawley’s gaze sharpened, locking onto his, “remember one rule above all—We must always close the circle.”
She let the words hang in the air, making sure he understood. The magic of the circle was unpredictable. One mistake could unravel everything.
Satisfied, she stepped back. “Come here,” she said.
Albus obeyed, his heart quickening as he approached.
“You have the dagger?” Fawley asked calmly.
“Yes,” Albus replied, his voice steadier than he felt. He withdrew the dagger, its blade gleaming in the moonlight.
“Good.” She gave a nod of approval. “Then let’s begin.”
They moved to opposite ends of the circle, wands raised. Fawley lifted hers first, her eyes gleaming with the energy of the night.
“As the wixen declared the longest, I oversee this rite.”
A charge filled the air, like the tense anticipation before a lightning storm.
“Quod est superius, est sicut quod inferius,” she intoned.
(“As above, so below.”)
A chill swept through the clearing as she spoke, the air itself thrumming with raw magic.
“Per tenebras vivo,” Fawley continued.
(“Through darkness, I live.”)
Together, they turned to the right, wands lowered to the earth. Their footsteps were slow, deliberate, as they walked the circle in unison, their voices rising with the rhythm of their steps, the ancient words thickening the air, pulling the magic from beneath the ground.
“Vocamus tenebras ut nos circumdent,” they chanted.
(“We call upon the dark to surround us.”)
The forest seemed to stir around them, the trees swaying unnaturally as if they too were participants in the rite.
“Esto nobis Protector et Dux,” they called.
(“Be our Protector and Guide.”)
A warmth spread across Albus’s skin, a feverish contrast to the chill of the night air, the magic of the circle enveloping him.
“In tenebris,” they finished.
(“In darkness.”)
The air pulsed, alive with magic, the Forbidden Forest itself answering their call.
Fawley moved gracefully to the center, the magic swirling around her, alive and sentient. She unrobed her own dagger—its intricate designs glowing faintly in the dark. She drew a clean line across her hand, letting the blood drip down onto the ground.
“In tenebris, tributum: reddo, invoco vos. Mater mea vocatum exaudi.”
(“In darkness, I pay tribute. I invoke you; Mother, hear my call.”)
Albus felt a rush of energy. The magic that Fawley summoned was overwhelming in its sorrow and beauty, so raw that he forced himself to close his eyes. He knew this moment was not his to witness—Fawley had trusted him to see something intimate, a connection between her and a loved one long gone. For the first time, she appeared unguarded, stripped of her posh façade, only sorrow and loss left behind.
Some time later, Fawley rose from the ground, her expression somber as she moved out of the circle. Albus didn’t meet her gaze, instead bracing himself for his turn. He readied himself and stepped into the sacred space, where death and life intertwined once more.
Albus’s breath came in ragged gasps as the world around him sharpened back into focus. His body was rigid, his muscles tense as if they were fighting an invisible grip that had only just loosened its hold. His hand throbbed, the blood dripping steadily from his cut into the earth, but the pain felt distant—an echo against the overwhelming tide of sensations that still coursed through him.
The red. The endless red.
He had felt it—seen it with a clarity that made his skin crawl. Millions of eyes, all around him like a dome, all staring at him, daring him to look back, to see them. The whispers had been deafening, an indecipherable hum that coiled around his mind, pulling him deeper into a place he wasn’t meant to be. The presence had been suffocating, pressing down on him with the weight of forgotten knowledge, forbidden power, and madness. It had wanted him to submit, to reach into that place and pull something back with him.
But amidst that terror, something else had stirred. Something different.
A flicker in the void—a warmth, like a fire in the dead of winter. It had been there, just out of reach, but he had felt it's call, urging him to hold on. And when he had reached for it, it had anchored him, pulled him from the edge before he could be consumed by the red abyss.
Now, back in the circle, Albus could feel traces of it still—this warmth, this fire. It lingered in his veins, faint but present, calming the dread that still clung to him. The magic around him had shifted again, more stable now, less wild. Whatever had answered his call—both presences—they had left their mark.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, unsteady, his mind racing with questions he couldn’t yet form. He could feel Fawley’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t meet her gaze—Not yet. He had no answers to give, no understanding of what had just transpired. His legs felt weak, but he forced himself to move, stepping out of the circle with trembling feet, trying not to stumble, trying not to let panic seize him.
When the ritualistic circle was finally closed, Albus collapsed to his knees, his breathing ragged in the oppressive silence that followed.
“Don’t ask.” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. Fawley, to his relief, gave him a curt nod, her expression unreadable.
“We’re not done. Help me clean,” she said simply, drawing her wand to clear the remnants of the ritual. Albus, still dazed, pulled himself together enough to help, his hands moving almost mechanically as he followed her lead.
"Potter," Fawley called out after a few minutes. She moved to her school bag, pulling something from it. Albus glanced up, startled, as she tossed one dark robe and—mask? His confusion must have shown on his face because her gaze softened ever so slightly as their eyes met.
“I have a surprise,” she said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"Change, and then I'll explain," she instructed, her tone calm and matter-of-fact. Without another word, she turned and began changing into her own robes. Albus hesitated for a moment before following suit, feeling the weight of the fabric as he slipped into the robe and pulled on the mask.
“This is traditional clothing,” Fawley said as she adjusted her mask. “Dark wixen have worn them during many public celebrations, especially in ages when it wasn’t safe to reveal one’s identity. The tradition has persisted, and every year, there is a feast, a gathering to honor those before us. We wear these as part of that remembrance.”
Albus shifted uncomfortably, his voice barely audible as he asked, “If I speak—”
“You won’t, I want you to watch tonight. listen to the voices, but also to the magic, i want you to feel it—feel the magic from the others—Wixen all have a distinctive magic, one even masks cant hide.”
They emerged into a larger clearing, the one that had hosted the Beltane celebration earlier that year. But unlike that joyous occasion, where laughter and music filled the night, this gathering was somber, almost reverent. A towering bonfire crackled in the center, its flames casting flickering shadows on the robed figures gathered around it. Every person present was dressed in the same dark ensemble Albus now wore—robes and masks concealing their identities.
There was no laughter here, only soft murmurs that barely reached above a whisper. The air was thick with something ancient and powerful, a pulse of magic that seemed to hum just beneath the surface of everything, vibrating through Albus's skin. The weight of it pressed down on him as they moved closer to the fire, and for a moment, he found it hard to breathe.
This wasn’t like Beltane. This was something else—deeper, darker. A night of remembrance, yes, but also of unity, of shared purpose among those who gathered in secret, bound by tradition and ritual.
He tried to focus on the magic, trying to feel its current. Though it was hard—He could only feel it slightly during the sabbats, while he could feel the swiftness in his own magical aura, it was different trying to notice others. His gaze flicked to Fawley, who walked beside him with her usual grace, her mask obscuring any hint of emotion. Did she know? Did she feel it too?
As they neared the fire, Albus’s pulse quickened. He could hear the whispers of others, their voices low and murmured, some that sounded familiar yet none that he could place. It was a start he thought–he tried to find any trace of magic–yet with many people around it was hard to focus on a singular—No he didn't need to, it was overwhelming, and he needed to focus on that—on just the feeling of feeling it. His hands trembled slightly, though he did his best to hide it, the weight of the magic so raw–mixed together with different distinct auras—made his mind swirl, it was hard to focus on anything else–one he found started. His headache–it was becoming too overbearing and even with his shields high, he could not push it out—He touched Fawley hand–a desperate sign that he needed to leave—now.
As they made their ways into the trees from the clearing, he hunkered down feeling his mind swirl, he didn't know if he was upside or down, bile arose from his throat, he found himself removing the mask as it splattered on the wet ground—-his headache. his breath hitched—yet the magic, of the forest somehow seemed to try to calm him down—and there it was something else a flicker he had felt before from behind himA familiar aura—
He laughed, he felt Fawley's magical aura, and it felt so utterly like her.
“So?” Fawley asked, her tone expectant, eyes fixed on him.
Albus spat out the lingering bile from his mouth, wiping his lips with the back of his robe.
"I don’t know what you’re expecting, Fawley—" he groaned, his voice strained and weak, exhaustion weighing on every word.
"Your magic... fits you perfectly," he drawled out.
There was a faint surge in her magic—
She only gave him an amused smile.
Yet he knew that there was something more—something she wasn't telling him.
++++
Albus found himself standing in a vast, moonlit clearing. The snow stretched out endlessly, untouched, glistening like shards of crystal beneath the cold light. The air was heavy with silence, thick and suffocating, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Before him stood a fawn, its body grotesque, twisted by some unnatural force. Two heads sprouted from its delicate neck, one angled downwards toward the snow, the other staring straight ahead with cold, lifeless black eyes—eyes that looked more like dull stones than anything living. Its movements were stilted and wrong, like a marionette clumsily pulled along by invisible strings.
Beside it, the mother lay sprawled, her body grotesquely opened, entrails spilling from a jagged wound that marred her soft underbelly. The snow beneath her was painted red, a thick pool of blood that oozed slowly, painfully. The smell of death clung to the clearing, sharp and acrid—decay mingled with fresh blood, putrid and raw. Maggots wriggled in the open flesh, yet despite the sight of them, the wound felt fresh, the blood still steaming in the icy air.
The fawn remained unmoving, hooves sunk into the pool of its mother’s blood, indifferent to the death at its feet. Its heads shifted slowly—one continuing to gaze into the distance, the other turning toward Albus. Or had it always been looking at him? Time felt distorted, as though it had no beginning or end. Its black, bead-like eyes seemed unnatural, unreal, unfazed. Yet the gaze penetrated him, unsettling and all-consuming.
He took a step back, heart hammering in his chest, too afraid to disturb the unnatural stillness of the clearing. As he glanced down, his breath hitched—his hands were slick, dripping with thick, dark red blood. It ran down his arms in rivulets, warm and viscous, staining the snow at his feet. It wasn't just on his skin—it was in his skin, seeping into his pores as if he had torn something apart with his own hands.
The air was sharp with the scent of iron, overwhelming and thick. He could taste it on his tongue—the unmistakable flavor of blood, metallic and cold, yet strangely pure. His stomach churned, a violent spasm, as something dark and alive wriggled within him, clawing its way up his throat. He collapsed to his knees, doubling over in agony, as he heaved—bile blended with red chunks of skin, intestines and flesh poured into the snow—Demanding to be seen.
The air thickened with a rancid stench, choking the breath from his lungs. Tears blurred his vision, and the edges of the world grew hazy, unreal. But the scene before him—this horrifying, visceral tableau—He couldn't have done this. He couldn’t have.
Yet the blood soaked his arms. The taste lingered on his lips, the flesh stuck in his teeth.
In desperation, his gaze flicked toward the fawn. One of its heads remained locked onto him, unblinking, cold. The other rested against the mother’s ruined body, tears streaming silently from its eye. The tears started clear, but by the time they hit the ground, they were blood—red, slow, and unrelenting, staining the snow further.
Albus scrambled backward, his hands finding something solid. His heart jolted in terror when he realized what it was—the mother’s corpse. The blood was still warm, clinging to his skin, sticky and thick. Maggots crawled up his arm, cold and wet. He recoiled in horror, but the body held him fast, the warmth of death still fresh.
Then In his terror he felt it—a cold breath against his neck reeking of putrid decay, chilling him to his bones. His head snapped upward, and there it was—the fawn, it's dark gaze locked onto him, a silent judge in the dead of night. Albus lurched away, only to fall deeper into the carnage of the mother’s body, the warm, slick blood wrapping around him like a mother’s embrace, pulling him onto the wound. The smell clung to his breath, mingling with the foul taste that lingered on his tongue, as he tried to stop the pull—
And then the fawn screamed.
The sound was otherworldly, piercing, like a cry torn from the deepest pits of despair—unnatural, relentless, a scream that clawed at his soul.
Albus woke with a violent gasp, drenched in sweat, heart pounding wildly in his chest. His breath came in ragged, shallow bursts, but the taste of blood still clung to his mouth. His hand shot to his throat, bile rising once more, but the dream refused to fade. His arms still felt coated in the thick, warm liquid, and the terror still clawed at his insides—the forest, the fawn, the blood. It felt too real, too close.
He cast a quick tempus with a trembling hand. 3 a.m.
Another sleepless night.
He already knew there’d be no more rest. Exhaustion clung to his skin like a second layer, heavy and suffocating, but beneath it, his body thrummed with a frantic adrenaline, as if the dream had been a reality—every detail etched into his mind, vivid and unrelenting. He had truly been there, standing in that cursed clearing, surrounded by the chilling silence of the snow, the fawn’s haunting gaze locked onto him.
What could it mean? Did it hold any significance at all? Or was it yet another cruel trick of his own mind, a relentless tormentor weaving nightmares that gnawed at his sanity, taunting him with visions he couldn’t dispel and emotions he couldn’t comprehend?
Yet there was something more lurking beneath the surface, a sense of dread that coiled tightly around his heart. Whatever it was, he feared it was not the last time it would force itself upon him.
With a soft groan, he sat up in bed, his body still trembling from the aftermath of the dream, the remnants of horror clinging to him like a shroud. He reached for his journal, his fingers brushing against the familiar leather cover, and he began to write down everything he could remember. The dream felt too real, too visceral.
++++
As Albus stared down at his plate, all he could taste was blood and bile. The sight of the meat, glistening under the light, sent a violent wave of nausea through him. It was too much like the dream—too much like the torn flesh, the blood-soaked snow, the rotting corpse. He had to stop himself from physically recoiling. The smell of it, the visceral reminder of that twisted scene, made his skin crawl.
He forced himself to take a bite, but his stomach churned in protest, twisting and heaving as though daring him to push it further. The taste of the meat coated his tongue, but all he could think of was blood—warm, thick, and metallic. He gagged, unable to swallow, the flesh sticking in his mouth like some grotesque mockery of what he had witnessed. His body rejected it with such force that he spit it into a napkin, shaking as the memory of the dream clawed at him.
His appetite vanished. He felt ill, unclean, the bile rising in his throat, the taste of iron still clinging to his senses. He couldn't do it—he couldn’t eat. Not after that. His mind whispered the unthinkable, and he recoiled from it, the thought sending him rushing out of the Great Hall.
Once back in his dorm, he went straight to the sink, brushing his teeth with frantic urgency, as if scrubbing away the remnants of something dark, something real. He couldn’t have done that. He couldn’t have.
It was just a dream. It was just a dream–Yet nothing felt more real.