Midsummer's Eve
After the supper discussion of the heirship rituals, Sirius began to rise a bit earlier, and would now go out by himself for a few hours at a time. Afternoons in Sirius’s absence led to additional lessons from Cassiopeia, who took it upon herself to teach Henry more formally about magical history in preparation for the Midsummer celebrations. The pair would recline against Gainsborough armchairs positioned by the front windows of the study, to catch the sun and observe the bustle of the village high street below. A tea table with refreshments and parchment stood between them.
“Traditionally,” Cassiopeia explained, “there are three types of bonfires that may be burned at Midsummer. Most European magical communities have a wakefyre: a large public fire of clean wood attended for the duration of the year’s shortest night. It is said that the flames burn away bad feeling within the community, that all those who feel its heat or see its flame will be bound together for the following year. For that reason, the bonfire is usually burned at a high point–here in Blackmoor, the wakefyre is lit atop Hammersfield hill.
There is also the bonnefyre, a fire of bone, where families conduct their private rites. We will have a bonnefyre at Ravenswood this year to affirm Sirius’s heirship and for you to accept the Black name.”
Cassiopeia tapped her wand upon a piece of parchment, and the words bonnefyre and wakefyre appeared, along with the corresponding terms in Gaelic, Danish, Ogham, and Futhark runes. With a second tap, a map washed upon the sheet, a constellation of small dots depicting the wakefyre locations of a handful of magical communities scattered across Northern England and the Scottish lowlands. Henry examined the parchment and slipped it into his folio for further study.
“And the third type of bonfire?”
Aunt Cass paused to sip her tea. “A fire of both wood and bone, a blend of community and ritual. Powerful magic. Even in ancient times it was only burned at times of need; the practice is now all but banned here in Britain.”
“Banned?”
“Yes. Rituals are… an imprecise art. Some would say dark.” Cassiopeia frowned a moment, considering. “Henry, you are mature for your age, so I suppose I can say this. The term ‘dark’ means different things to different people. Some definitions are based on intent, others on cost… When we’ve spoken before, I’ve been using Swanson’s definition, which essentially defines dark magic as magic that can only be cast with an intent to harm. Applying this definition, very few rituals are dark.”
“I’m guessing the ministry doesn’t use this definition?”
Cassiopeia looked at Henry appraisingly. “No indeed. To the ministry, ‘dark’ is merely a label slapped onto a diverse set of magics that have little to do with one another beyond history and prejudice. The bureaucracy is apparently incapable of using a classification system that is internally consistent,” Cassiopeia scoffed. “There are many spells that the ministry classifies as dark which can be cast without the intent to harm. The killing curse, to use an extreme example, can be cast mercifully to ease the suffering of the dying.”
Henry swallowed. The family hadn’t discussed his relationship with the killing curse yet, and it reminded him of his unresolved fears of a possible horcrux tied to his scar. Sensing his disquiet, Aunt Cass looked pensive for a moment before continuing. “In contrast, if we consider the Swanson definition, there are a number of jinxes and hexes that are perfectly legal and even taught at Hogwarts. I suppose there are times when it is justifiable to harm others, which is why some prefer the Bovet-Gruner definition… but I digress.”
Cassiopeia paused to take another sip of tea. “In the case of rituals, it is true that their imprecise nature has the potential for unintended consequences. This… imprecision has led to the decline of most deliberately cast rituals. The ministry is hardly interested in the informal rituals that wixen are apt to perform unconsciously, as these rituals are nearly impossible to regulate and the effects are typically subtle. In the case of public rituals, however, the power usually scales by the number of celebrants joined in common cause. This means that the unintended consequences have a greater potential to be dangerous. While some private and family rites are still permitted, such as the heirship and naming ceremonies we will perform next week, the ministry has banned all but a handful of community rituals, and the few that remain are highly regulated.”
Henry heard the disapproval in her tone. “It sounds like you disagree with the ministry.”
Cassiopeia eyed her great-nephew for a moment. “Yes, although it is usually best not to speak of these things so bluntly.” She tapped the wand against the stack of parchment between them, and references to key Wizengamot proceedings bled across the top sheet. “There are reasons our ancestors practiced and refined these rituals generation after generation, and to abandon them wholescale diminishes us. We should not let prejudice and fear dictate the tools available to us–caution and care, certainly, but never fear.”
* * *
If Neville Longbottom stepped out of the floo a bit awkwardly, he at least did not stumble. He blinked, taking in the reception room. Opposite the hearth stood a sturdy front door framed by larged windows paned with wavy cylinder glass. The walls were a warm polished sandstone, the floor a herringbone pattern, the furniture upholstered with embossed black velvet and richly embroidered with silver thread. The decor had a predictably nautical theme, and Neville was pleased to note that the painted seascapes forecast sunny weather and calm seas. Overall, the impression the room gave was neither as dark nor as grand as he expected from a Black residence, but then again, this was only a minor holding.
An eldery woman, even older than Gran, rose from her chair to greet them. Behind her stood a boy–no, not a boy, but the boy. The-boy-who-lived. The pair had already donned garlands of flowers: a traditional Midsummer arrangement of white lilies, fennel, and fern flowers, Neville noted. He wondered how they had acquired the fern flowers before midnight even as he internally cringed at the message his Gran sent by arriving in her customary stuffed-vulture hat.
“Regent Longbottom. Heir Longbottom. On behalf of my brother, Lord Black, and his forthcoming Heir, I welcome you to Blackmoor.”
“Merry meet, Madam Black.” A little cold, but not overtly hostile at least. Unlike the hat. “I present my grandson Neville, Heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Longbottom.”
Neville went over his Gran’s instructions again. Shoulders back. Remember your status. He extended a Midsummer bouquet that signalled his wish to strengthen the friendship between their Houses. Madam Black returned a genuine smile. She handed the offering to the boy beside her, correctly interpreting his gesture as primarily directed at the Potter Heir. With a graceful flick of her wand she summoned a vase for a side table, and the boy promptly deposited the flowers.
“Regent Longbottom. Heir Longbottom. May I introduce Heir Potter.”
“Heir Potter is muggle-raised,” his Gran had cautioned him. “The Blacks are correcting the defects in his education, but do not be surprised or offended by his ignorance. I trust that you will guide him during our visit, as befits an ally of our House.”
Neville had never met a muggle-raised wix before. Looking at the scrawny boy, he wondered whether Harry would be as backward or hostile as the muggles his tutors warned him about. Suppressing his urge to fidget nervously, he thought back to the anecdotes he had overheard from Mr. Weasley, a ministry expert on muggles and muggleborns. While the stories themselves were unfathomable, Mr. Weasley always seemed delighted as he recounted the ‘ingenuity’ of muggles and muggleborns. Hopefully that meant that Harry Potter would be okay too.
Heir Potter offered Neville’s grandmother a rehearsed bow before placing a chaste kiss on her extended hand. “Well met, Regent Longbottom.” She offered an approving nod in return. “Well met, Heir Potter. I look forward to guarding your circle come midnight.”
“Thank you,” Heir Potter murmured, before turning to face Neville, arm extended. “Merry meet, Heir Longbottom.” Do not stutter. Make us proud. Neville clasped the extended arm at the elbow, determined to express his desire for friendship. “Merry meet, Cousin.”
“Henry, perhaps you can show Heir Longbottom the preparations at the harbor and the village green while I catch up with Regent Longbottom.” While it was phrased as a suggestion, the dismissal was clear enough. Henry led the way through the thick front door. As they departed, they overheard Madam Black make assurances of the children’s safety as long as they remained within the village boundary stones.
“Sorry about that,” Neville mumbled, still embarrassed at his Gran’s coldness towards Madam Black.
“What? Oh, no worries,” Henry said gamely. “You’ll have to tell me what the flowers mean, though. Fennel and St. John’s wort–that’s midsummer, right? Not sure about the rest–I like flowers but I’m completely new to this stuff.”
“Ah, well, the arborvitae–that’s the evergreen,” he added at Henry’s puzzled frown, “symbolizes a desire for lasting friendship between our Houses. And the gladiolus and the fennel symbolize the uh, strength of that conviction. I included the blackthorn at my Gran’s suggestion since she will guard the west during your ceremony tonight, and it represents protection.”
“That’s neat. I hope we can be friends too. Oh right–please feel free to call me Henry.”
“Neville, then.”
Henry nodded. “Muggles also exchange flowers, but I don’t think they’ve used the language of flowers since the Victorian era. They usually just choose an arrangement of flowers that look nice together.” Huh. “Would you be interested in seeing the harbor or the green first?”
Neville allowed himself to shrug since Henry was being so informal himself. “The harbor, I suppose. I haven’t been to one before.”
“Sure. It’s just around back here,” Henry said, leading them along a narrow path to behind the house. “It’s normally just fishing boats from the village, but right now there are all sorts of ships for the festival to take us to Ravenswood.” Henry paused, and a bit of irritation slipped into his voice. “Which is an island, apparently. Something no one thought to mention to me before today, although maybe it is another one of those things that everyone knows so nobody talks about.” Henry glanced at Neville as if to gauge his reaction, but Neville just shrugged again. He hadn’t known that about Ravenswood until recently either. Gran hadn’t really spoken much about the Blacks until after Sirius’s innocence had been established. Usually she had just ranted about how the Blacks were an object lesson on the dangers of inbreeding and the corrupting influence of dark magic.
“Well, this is it, then,” Henry said quietly. Henry was right: there was quite the diversity of watercraft, most of which Neville couldn’t name even after having spent the previous evening anxiously cramming nautical information. There were fishing vessels large and small, Scottish birlinn, Viking longships, a galleon, and windjammer, and–“Is that a ghost ship, Henry?”
Henry grinned. “Yup. The HMS Eurydice. Came in last night. Not too many ghosts onboard, since the crew was almost entirely mostly muggle, but Sirius says–” Henry prattled on a bit about the history of the wreck and a prank pulled some twenty years ago by a pair of ghost crewmen, a spectral cat, and one Alphard Black. The story was pretty funny, Henry clearly making an effort to draw him in with silly voices and over-the-top gesticulations that he probably mimicked from his godfather.
“So, what do you usually do to celebrate Midsummer,” Henry asked after the story had finished. The boys were perched on some crates stacked against the main boathouse. It kept them out of the way while still offering a good view of the various seamen, villagers, and kobolds hard at work transporting cargo and decorating the harbor.
“Oh, well, Gran is pretty traditional, so we usually pay our respects at the village wakefyre and sometimes at the one in my mum’s village. Gran’s often expected at midsummer balls and galas and the like since she holds the family seat on the Wizengamot, and sometimes I accompany her.” Not very often, thank Merlin. Nobody wants me at those, least of all myself. “But the best part of Midsummer is all the special plants you can collect. Did you know that most medicinal herbs have twice the potency when collected in full sun on Midsummer’s day? And the fern flower… hey, Henry, where did the Blacks get the fern flowers? They’re one of the flowers that can only be found in special locations the night of Midsummer’s eve, you see. I’m surprised that such a delicate flower was able to withstand a preservation charm for an entire year without any noticeable damage.”
“Oh these,” Henry asked, pulling the flower crown off his head to take a closer look at the gently glowing blossoms. “They might have mentioned them coming from Ravenswood, but I didn’t pay close attention–I didn’t realize that they were so rare. Sorry.”
Neville shrugged again. I’m doing that too much. “That’s okay.”
“They’re beautiful though,” Henry said appreciatively. “I can see why people would take the trouble to collect them.”
“Yeah,” Neville agreed, perhaps a bit wistfully.
“Here.” Henry planted the crown upon Neville’s head.
Neville felt his face grow hot. “Henry, I can’t–”
“Nah, the flowers look great on you, and this way I get to see ‘em. Besides, it’s the least I can do since I’m preventing you from doing the collecting you’d normally get to do for the holiday.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Neville’s blush deepened. “Well, Gran and I are returning to the manor tomorrow morning, so I’ll still be able to go collect the daytime flowers tomorrow after lunch.” He felt his throat constrict. You can do this. “W-would you be interested in acc-accompanying me?”
“I don’t know what the–what my family has planned for tomorrow,” Henry admitted gently, Neville beginning to slump, “but I love spending time in nature and in gardens. I would love to go collecting with you sometime even if tomorrow doesn’t work out.”
* * *
The passage to Ravenswood was magnificent.
After a formal procession of torches and flutes and petals raining on the streets, the entire village disembarked on a fleet of flower-festooned ships. The Blacks, Longbottoms, and Tonkses sailed on the largest ship, a windjammer of intricately-carved black wood and star-speckled black sails that billowed even in the absence of a breeze. They were surrounded by a ruckus of celebration: dwarves and men sloshing tankards of mead aboard their longboats; children braiding ribbons around ship masts like maypoles; families feasting as their elders exchanged gifts with the merfolk racing beside them.
The atmosphere aboard the windjammer was comparatively calm, an easy contentment of warmth and grace. Sirius spoke animatedly with Ted and Andy, while the more elderly generation reclined on gilded deck chairs a bit to the side, sipping something vaporous from fluted glasses. Henry, Neville, and Dora scampered around the deck, passing a camera back and forth to capture shots of each other and the scenes of revelry around them.
They had been sailing for less than an hour when their destination suddenly came into focus. The island must have been under some sort of invisibility spell, Henry realized. Otherwise, it would have been visible throughout the entire journey, as well as from the harbor and from his bedroom window. The boats circled around the windjammer as the ship approached a long, lone pier. Connected to the pier was a boardwalk gated by arbors of green birch, white lilies, and glass lanterns. The boardwalk continued across a beach of silver sand and halfway up a wooded hill, connecting to a striking longhouse hewn from the same black beams as the windjammer. At the top of hill stood a tower that–
“Blimey, Harry,” Dora breathed, interrupting his thoughts. “I understand now why mum insisted I come see this, even if only the once.” Henry and Neville could only nod.
The ship docked with ease, and Sirius and Blackthorn hopped off to assist the passengers disembark. Henry brought up the rear, and when his feet touched the pier, he staggered. A clash of axes and spears, a fluttering of wings and flame, the deep toll of a bell, a gust of cold wind connecting the vast distances between the stars…
Sirius caught him by the shoulder. “Steady there, kiddo. You alright?”
“You feel it already then,” Lord Black stated in soft surprise. He stood behind Sirius, his eyes locked on Henry. “That’s a good sign.”
Sirius emitted a low growl. Andromeda turned to face them, gripping her husband’s hand. “Uncle–” she began in a cold, sharp voice.
“Tonight’s rites are not irreversible, Niece,” the Lord Black interrupted firmly. “They merely offer an opportunity. Henry will not be bound to the mantle unwillingly or without time to fully consider his choice.”
Cassiopeia placed a hand on Sirius’s arm before addressing Henry, her expression warm and reassuring. “This is nothing to worry about, child. You merely felt the Black family magick as you crossed the threshold of our lands. While it’s uncommon to sense ward boundaries at your age,” she admitted, eyes flickering to meet Blackthorn’s assessing gaze, “the magick runs especially deep here, and today’s proceedings may have enhanced your senses… regardless, the magick poses no danger tonight to our guests or any of Black blood, magic, or name.”
* * *
The next few hours went by too quickly, in Henry’s opinion. While he hadn’t been taught the cotillon the and other social dances that swept across the floor, he was content to watch: the mood was festive, the music lively, the food varied and delectable. The cavernous hall was illuminated by boughs of glowing golden leaves that circled up the columns and across the ceiling beams. While the exterior of the longhouse was a glistening black, the interior wood was a welcoming rich honey. Henry noted that the floors perfectly matched that of the Harbourhouse reception room (or rather, Henry realized, the reception room’s floor matched that of the Hall). Henry found it difficult to reconcile the splendor around him with Sirius’s assurances that the family would be better equipped to host future celebrations.
After a while, the guests began to drift towards their ships as they prepared to continue their journey to the wakefyre at Hammersfield Hill. The guests Henry had previously met (mostly from his early morning wanderings) offered him blessings for the evening’s rites. Sirius remained at Henry’s side to introduce the remainder. Each group of guests handed Henry a single flower as they departed; Henry held quite the bouquet by the time he and Sirius stood alone in the Hall.
Sirius led Henry to a small antechamber where they changed in garments of plain white linen, their feet unshod. They exited the hall out the back to a small spring, where Sirius instructed Henry to leave his flowers and wash his hands, face, and feet. “Grandfather and I bathed here this morning,” Sirius murmured, “and the others purified themselves while we bid the guests farewell.” They followed the boardwalk as it criss-crossed through the forest to the top of the hill. From the vantage point, Henry could see a distant flickering fire–the wakefyre upon Hammersfield hill. Lord Black, Aunt Cassiopeia, Cousin Andy, and Regent Longbottom stood at the cardinal points of a stone circle. The only light came from a small white fire at the center of the circle.
Sirius took Henry’s hand, and led him to the North point of the circle. “Henry James, blood of my blood, heir of my heir. May the Black magick we share guide your path. May it offer direction even as you lead.” Lord Black stepped forward to drop a bone into the flame. Henry felt a breeze from the North pass against his skin. “Orion,” the wind seemed to whisper.
Sirius brought Henry to Aunt Cassiopeia, who leaned over to kiss his cheek. “As the sun and the moon rise from the east, you began your life Black by magic and Black by blood. May the depth of our heritage strengthen and comfort you, Henry James.”
As they approached the south, Andromeda called out clearly through the darkness. “I witness this ritual. I stand to support you, Henry James, in all your endeavors.”
At the final stone, Regent Longbottom unsheathed a sword, and gently tapped its hilt against his shoulders. “Henry James, I offer the protection of house Longbottom. When your time begins to set, may you sleep untroubled and magic guard against your enemies.”
Sirius led Henry to the center of the circle, where the pair faced each other, hands clasped above the bone-fed flames. “Henry James, son of Lily-flower and my brother by all but name, I name you my heir. I promise to guide you, to comfort you, to support you, and to protect you to my very last breath. Do you accept my name?”
Henry swallowed. “I do.”
Henry felt a distant stillness settle upon his shoulders. The ripples of a stone dropped down a well, the darkness of a moonless night, the call of a raven overhead, the untold depths of a sea of stars…
Tears streamed down Sirius’s cheeks. “I present Henry James Potter-Black. My son.”