Chapter Seven
Samhain: Part Two
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"I love you."
"No, you do not."
"But I do! I…"
"You fancy me. You think you love me but you don't."
"Do not presume to know my heart!"
"The mere fact that you are screaming at me proves my words."
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"…and please accept the sacrifice of my blood, oh Mother of all," he cut his palm and watched as the red liquid shone darkly in the moonlight.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drop after drop of his blood, slowly but steadily sliding off his hand, fell on the cold hard ground. Had he been standing he wouldn't have been able to distinguish the darker spots from the dirt.
"For we are all Your children and with my blood, with the blood of my forefathers that flows through me, I give You strength to protect us all," the cut was deeper and longer this time and if it wasn't for the raw magic, so thick in the air to dull the pain, he would have cried out.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It was flowing faster now and the drops were falling in the familiar pattern he had come to know from the past few years.
Ursuz, Hagaliz, Naudhiz, Isa.
The Great Mother, the Magick, the Emotion and the Matter.
Iwaz, Elhaz, Tiwaz and Berkano
Life and Death, the Protection, the Male and the Female, always together, never apart.
Laguz, Ingwaz, Othala, Dagaz
And finally, the four elements: Water, Air, Earth and Fire.
They arranged themselves in circles of four - one within the other. It was beautiful in a strange morbid way. Like death, Sirius thought, it was sad and cold but if one was sick enough (and he certainly was) they would be able to see the beauty of it; the beauty of the white and black marbles and still figures, of glassy eyes and bluish skin.
He knew them by heart now. For years, for twelve long years he had to do the ritual alone. Unable to watch the log burning and almost hear Her. Unable to feel alive. Unable to feel anything at all.
Oh, how he missed the sensation of being eloped by others' magic: the warmth, the security, the love. Samhain and Beltane, and all other celebrations that used to make his blood boil, to wake him up from the slumber that he seemed to be in all other times.
Now Sirius was forced to do it alone, to cut himself, so he could make an offering to Her and have those few minutes of perfect clarity and happiness, uninterrupted by the Dementors or the simple (so very simple) dog thoughts.
No one ever visited, though. No one appeared in his dreams and it felt as if even the dead had abandoned him. And how that hurt! The pain and grieve were much stronger that those of the guards could ever make him feel. Sirius wanted to scream and cry but couldn't. He never could. He was a Black and that went against everything he had ever been taught.
Why did they hate him so? Why did no one ever come? He knew he hadn't been perfect but they hadn't been either. Why?
"Forgive me," he crooked out and didn't (couldn't) recognize his own voice. Once it had been deep and rich and now it was wheezy and dry, becoming more to an old and crippled man than to him. "Please, forgive me," there was something wet on his cheeks. His vision was blurry. Was it raining? No. The sky was clear and Sirius could see all constellations he had known since childhood. But they were blurry as well.
He lifted his left hand, the one that was uncut, and touched his face. It was all wet. The liquid tasted salty, he discovered after he brought his fingers to his mouth. What was happening to him? He couldn't be crying, could he?
"I'm sorry," his voice cracked like Regulus' had when he begged him to stay home. He would never forget the young tear-stained face. It haunted his dreams and begged him for help. Help that Sirius couldn't give from Azkaban. And Regulus died, over and over again and he just stood there, doing nothing. Always nothing.
"I didn't want this, brother," he was screaming and weeping at the same time (and, oh, if the others could see him now, the great Sirius Black, heir to the Black fortune placed before his father even reduced to this sniveling mess. How would they laugh at him). "Forgive me, please, little brother, I am so sorry," if he closed his eyes he could imagine a gentle hand on his shoulder but when he tried to touch it, there was none. "I should have helped you, I'm sorry. I'm so, so very sorry."
"James, don't hate me, please," because he knew, just knew, deep in his heart that James hated him. He hated him for not taking care of Harry, for suggesting the switch, which killed them, for not joining the Order and for so many more things. "Please, don't, please," he sounded pathetic but couldn't bring himself to care. There was no one around, no one to see him, no one to disturb him. He was all alone on Samhain night. Like always: alone, never close to another human being and eve the animals stayed clear of him.
I can never hate you, mate.
Sirius can almost hear his best friend's voice, full of warmth and sadness; can almost feel the hot breath next to his ear. He turned but saw only the darkness and the trees of the Forbidden Forest. What else could he see there? He is alone on Samhain night.
My son, my Sirius, my love.
Mother. Was that her? Was she truly there? With him? He couldn't feel her but the voice was there. She whispered to him as she used to do when he was a child, before Hogwarts, before everything, when she still loved him. When he was the perfect heir, when he was not a Gryffindor, when he was not a blood traitor. But he wasn't, he never betrayed the believes of his kin. He was and always will be a Black; with the Black madness creeping at the back of his mind.
My pride, my joy, my firstborn.
Father. If he wasn't crying already he would have started now. Orion Black had been his hero from childhood and primary role model even after he grew up and turned his back on the family legacy and stopped practicing the Old Arts (he could always feel the brush of the magic, though, he never, could never forget his legacy, no matter how much he tried he was always a Back first). Hearing those words made his heart ache. He longed for better times; for his parents love, for little Reg's adoration. He wanted to go home.
Why? Why did She choose to let him hear and feel but not touch and see his family? Was this his punishment? Samhain wasn't supposed to work like that. The ghosts of the dead visited the living in their dreams.
Sirius always talked with them when he was younger, before Azkaban. Each Samhain one of him family would visit him and they would converse for hours or what felt like hours anyway. Everything always seemed so real, so true but there never was no doubt in his mind that it was a dream. He rarely remembered details, only smiles and warmth, and familial magic; blurred images of people he had seen in photos and pictures and portraits.
This, this was different. It was, at the same time, more and less real than before. Had he finally gone mad? Was that it? Has the curse in his blood finally awoken?
Don't cry nephew. Everything will be fine. There is no need for you to cry. Blacks don't cry.
But he can't stop, not even when his uncle, his favorite uncle, whom he considered a second father, was telling him not to. The one person in his life he had always trusted implicitly and never questioned.
Perhaps they were truly here this year. Perhaps he was not alone. Perhaps for this one night he could feel loved again. And even if this was the madness he didn't care. Let it take his mind, destroy him, he was already a broken shell, a shadow of the person he used to be. Madness was not so bad after all.
He was unable to see them but the voices were there. Regulus' hand was on his left shoulder, James' on his right. Marlene's smell was in the air, the sweet aroma of fresh strawberries and rain he loved and could never get enough of; years ago, when things were good, they would lay for hours in the bed and he would breath in her scent. It smelt like home, like happy times, like love.
Maybe he was too far gone to distinguish reality from dreams or maybe She gave him one night of peace and rest.
Then they were gone. Just like they had appeared, they left: his mother and father, uncle Alphard and little Regulus, James and Marlene. Were they even here? Was it real or his imagination?
He wanted to cry and curse, and yell, but couldn't. Sirius was tired, so very tired of running and looking behind his back, of living in the Shack, of eating rats and whatever small animals he could catch and whatever he managed to steal from Hogsmeade. He wanted it to end and the only way for that to happen was if he captures the traitor, or gets captured himself. One way or another it would all end…
It was Samhain. Didn't there use to be a feast when he was a student? A feast no one ever missed?
He smiled for the first time since he saw that shore, only a couple of miles from Azkaban, but at that time, it had felt as if it was worlds away; there had been no cold, no darkness, no Dementors.
Tonight was the night, the night he would get that rat and clean his name. and if not, the Dementors would suck his soul and he would cease to feel this never-ending anguish.
Sirius could almost taste the freedom, the real freedom and unconsciously slipped in his Animagus form and run at the old castle.
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He was dreaming. Harry knew he was dreaming just as he knew his name was Harry James Potter, heir to the Most Honorable and Ancient House of Potter.
How was he so sure? Because of the room, the teen found himself in.
It was relatively large with many bookcases filled with books. It was also circular, as if he was in a tower. Harry was unable to decide though, there were no windows and even if there were they were hidden behind the bookcases.
The only free of books spot was where the fireplace was. There was a large burning fire, not unlike the one for Samhain. The flames were dancing and forming different symbols but he didn't know any of them. They did look familiar, though, eerie familiar.
And at the middle of the room, on a comfortably looking red armchair, sat a woman. She was in her early twenties and her long hair hid her face from view while she read. How could he guess her age, Harry was unable to tell.
He took a sharp breath, when a strange thought crossed his mind. Could it be?
The sudden noise startled her and she turned to face him.
Green. Her eyes were in such vivid green color that they took his breath away. But it was not only their beauty that regarded him speechless, no, it was their similarity to his own. The color was only a shade lighter and if one did not look for difference, they would be unable to find one.
She placed the book on the armchair and stood up. Her hair was shorter then Harry thought at first. It reached only her shoulders but it was curled, so perhaps it was a tad longer. The dark red color, so unlike the more brownish the Weasleys had, was what actually caught the teen's attention.
"Mum," it sounded more like a sob than anything else. He doubted she understood the exact word, but Lily Potter only smiled and a second later, she was hugging him. His mother smelled like jasmine and roses and was so warm. Harry was crying and if the situation was different he would have denied it and brushed away the tears. But that was his mother. How could he not cry?
"Sweetheart," her voice was nothing special but to his ears, it sounded like music.
"Mum," he said again. At some point, she had starts stroking his hair and it felt so nice. No one had ever done this to him, no one had ever held him with such care and love.
"Sweetie," she led him to the armchair that was now a sofa and the two sat. It was every bit as comfortable as it looked. "Don't cry. Everything is alright."
"No, it's not. You are dead, Dad is dead too and I never even knew you. It not alright. It's not!" and he sounds like a hysterical petulant child but he cannot help it. She is here now but only for a little while.
"I know, love, I know," she kept stroking his hair and whispering nonsense in his ear until he calmed down. "Let me look at you," Lily said and pushed him away. She was smiling while she was memorizing his every feature. Like he did with her.
"You've grown," she brushed away a tear. "I'm so proud of you. I wish my sister was a better person and had given you a real childhood," before the boy could protest she shook her head. "Don't deny it, you could've grown better. Sirius would have taken better care of you."
"Sirius Black?" there was no way she was talking about that murderer, was it?
"Who else" she laughed? "He is your godfather you know, or at least the magical equivalent for it," seeing the look on his face she elaborated. "James and Sirius, they acted like brothers, not like the distant cousins they were, some would say that James was more of a brother you Sirius that Regulus Black. They were like twins, always joined at the hip. It was rare to see them alone. Dates didn't count, of course," his mother said with a wink. "He, Sirius, was the best men on our wedding and we named him your godfather after you were born."
Was it true? It probably was, why would the ghost of his mother lie to him. And it was possible that his father and Black were close, they were in the same year in Gryffindor after all.
"So he was Light then?" Harry couldn't picture a man from a notoriously Dark family to forsake everything and switch sides. Black's own magic wouldn't have let him.
No," his mother said with a smile. "Sirius Black was everything but Light, though very few knew that. Everyone thought that since he wasn't a Death Eater he was Light," she shook her head and Harry noticed the small smile on his lips.
"Fools, the lot of them. Sirius was neutral in the war. He had too many friend and family members on both sides. And he was loyal, too loyal if you ask me," she sounded so sure of herself. And that man was his godfather! He was a killer, Voldemort's right hand man, he was… he was his father's cousin. They had grown up together. James Potter ought to have known about Black's true allegiance. How could he not have known? But, would he share his knowledge with his muggleborn wife? would he betray a fellow pureblood even to his spouse?
There was more to the story, Harry was sure of it. perhaps he ought to talk with Professor Lupin at Hogwarts. He had been his father roommate after all.
"Harry, Harry…"
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"Harry, Harry wake up," a girl's voice shook him out of his sleep. Emerald eyes slowly opened and then closed quickly at the light. "Don't fall asleep again. It's almost eleven. You'll miss out the end."
"I thought the end was last night," the teen said with his still sleepy voice, refusing to open his eyes. His head hurt. He needed a headache drought or a hangover cure. What did he drank last night? Everything was so blurry...
And to research Sirius Black. He had to, he needed to know everything about that man. About his… godfather. The young Potter groaned. Why was his life such a mess?
And why did everything had to happen to him? First the Dark Lord decides to target his family, then he somehow survives the attack (as if by magic) only to be sent to leave with Muggles. He shivered at the mere thought of the Dursley. They were a necessary evil, but an evil nonetheless.
He didn't hate them though. Hate was a very strong emotion that would require too much energy and thoughts on his part. He would much rather ignore his relatives (and didn't he hate to admit any relationship with them) altogether. He had about three, four months tops when he have to put up with their disgusting presence. Though, the chances of him spending over a month with them three summers in a roll were next to zero. Actually, they were way under zero.
"No, silly. The festival began about an hour ago. You'll miss the main part if you stay here." Calypso laughed and suddenly he felt colder, much colder… very, very wet. Oh, he was going to kill her, friend or no!
"CALYPSO!" his screams and her giggles were probably heard on the other side of the manor. Any other day that would have made him blush (well, almost-blush, the Potter Heirs did not blush) and hold his tongue. One did not yell, especially at a witch. It was uncouth and witches were to be protected not scorned, even if he (along with most wizards probably) could easily name many different females who hardly needed protection. Harry could think of several witches that would have his head on a platter only for thinking that they needed protection. Still, it was the norm and a Potter never lacked manners. Merlin, he shouldn't have read that journal, his life would have been way easier if he did not know what were the main rules that had governed his family for generations.
Be that as it may, he was cold, wet and had been rather rudely awaken, so most would forgive him. If not, he could always play the sad-little-orphan card and say that he had met with his mother in his sleep. And then everyone would look at him with pitying eyes and he would have to destroy several things to vent his frustration. He hated pity.
The girl quickly left the room and closed the door after her. Harry was left standing alone in the middle of a cold room with water dripping from him.
Clenching and unclenching his fists, the last Potter vowed to make the Megara pay for this in the most humiliating way possible.
Tossing back his fringe because the wet bangs were in his eyes, he went to the bathroom to have a proper hot shower and brush his teeth.
Now, from where to start with Black?
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Hermione Jane Granger was a girl on a mission. She was going to understand how Black had entered even if it took her months. The teachers had not been able to find him and neither did they know what kind of magic he had used to enter and leave unnoticed. There were many wild theories circulating, from him Appariting (which was ridiculous, hadn't they read anything about Hogwarts?) to Black being a plant Animagus (and God, did that sound idiotic).
With her bushy hair pulled up in a high ponytail and lips presses in a thin line, she was sitting in an out-of-the-way classroom on the fifth floor surrounded by piles of books. She kept sneezing because of the all the dust and would take the longest possible shower after she was done here but for the time being that dusty old and remote classroom was the best way to get some privacy.
Because of what had happened last night and early this morning, classes were canceled. Most students chose to enjoy this extra day of rest and swapping stories, which as the morning had progressed became more and more idiotic. That is way, after she finished her breakfast as soon as possible Hermione went to the library, checked out several books and hid in the old classroom.
Some of the old tomes around her were about wards but, unfortunately, they were, and did she hate admitting to that, too complex for Hermione to understand.
Hogwarts. A History was there as well. It was her own copy, because after last year, she had asked her parents to get her a larger trunk and as hard as it was to move it, at least she had all her books.
Anyway, she was unable to understand even a quarter of the warding books, so they lay forgotten in a pile.
There were several dusty tomes on Scotland's history, mainly focusing on Hogsmeade and Hogwarts. However, they proved useless as well, since it was mostly facts about famous people and several farfetched theories. In The Black Lake – the Truth Revealed the author wrote about several hidden passages, which supposedly existed beneath the lake and on its bottom, but the book concluded that it was impossible. (And no, she did not read the entire book, she only skimmed through it trying and failing to find something useful.)
Pillars of Modern History focused mainly on the building of the castle. Hermione came across dozens legends and theories about secret passages but none of them was confirmed. In fact, the author was a firm believer that had there been any other way out of the school everybody would have known already. The books weren't overly large and she didn't read everything but Hermione felt that she got the gist of them.
Magic – Shape, Mass and Strength, all three volumes, explained how magic worked in details, very boring details that the girl couldn't read without falling asleep. Most of it was also irrelevant to her research, since it concentrated on more basic spells without going any further then second year. Perhaps, if she knew has Black had gotten in the castle, Hermione could guess what had his magic done. As it was, she had no idea, so those books were labeled as useless only after a couple of chapters and a quick skim ahead. By then (which had been about three hours later) she had started to regret the entire thing considering how difficult it was to get all of these books even with feather light and levitation charms.
The teen was currently reading Samhain and Magic hoping to find a lead. The book was not very thick, about two hundred and forty pages, and easy to read. It wasn't written in some overly technical language and filled with references she didn't get. It was more of a fictional book, Hermione thought, but Madam Pence had assured her it was a scientific work. The girl wasn't convinced though.
It is said that on Samhain night, the dead come to visit the living while they sleep. While this may seem unbelievable to many, it is the truth. There had been many documented cases about dead spouses, family members and friends appearing in dreams. It ought to be mentioned here that such visits could not be used as a testimony or evidence in court, because it is possible that it has been just a dream or someone had used magic or potion to influence one's thoughts.
That being said, dead visits (as they are commonly called) differ from one person to another. Some remember then with perfect clarity (very few), while others can recall only impressions. Everything depends on one's spirituality (the ability to contact the Other side, to see the future, to feel the magic). There is a popular theory that it depends on the number of festivals that one has celebrated and their believe in Her but that is of yet unproven.
Interesting thing about dead visits it that…
The door opened with a loud groan, which caused Hermione to jump and turn around, almost dropping the now closed book in the process. The first thing she saw was dark blond hair and grey eyes. Antony Goldstein, her mind supplied not soon after. He was the strange boy that had asked her to make Harry break up with Lisa Trupin (not that she needed to, he did it on his own accord soon after her birthday) and then left before she could answer. She didn't recall him dating the girl though, not that she cared of course. (Even if he was irresistibly cute, her mind supplied.)
The Ravenclaw looked surprised to see her (or anyone else probably) here. He quickly came to his senses and shot her the smile. Not just a smile, but the one that made girls swoon after him and according to Lavender made him look 'so irresistibly handsome and cute, and handsome.' (And she had repeated her airheaded classmate's words, wasn't that embarrassing?)
"Hello Granger," he greeted and she just nodded in response. Goldstein looked at the books around her and raised his brows. "Obsessed much?"
"No!" she did not obsess about anything." "I'm just trying to figure out how Black got in the castle, that's all," like every other student. Of course, her methods were a tad better.
The boy, without asking for an invitation, sat on the desk next to hers and put his feet on her desk. His hair was messy, almost like Harry's but not quite, and the mandatory blue and bronze tie hung loose around his neck finishing the I-don't-really-care-how-I-look-like look that most of their male classmates seemed to prefer these days. Come to think of it, everything had started with Harry but he definitely pulled it off better than them. He had this carefree aura these days that she couldn't help but like. This new Harry was, in some ways, better than the old shy one. For one, he smiled more. (And it was well-known among the girls on Hogwarts that his smiles made him look even more handsome. Poor Ginny Weasley could hardly look at his direction without blushing brighter than her hair. If Harry ever spoke to her Hermione was sure the second-year would pass out.)
"So, what do you have?" he asked with feign disinterested. Hermione didn't role her eyes, as much as she wanted to, and settled for opening Samhain and Magic and ignoring the other person in the room.
Said person had a different idea, however, and kept bombarding her with questions.
… is that it happens only on Samhain, even though…
"How does the magic on Samhain helps with your research?"
… the Vale is as thin on Beltane as well. It is believed that…
"Did you really read all this books?"
… since Samhain is a celebration about the beginning of the winter and death…
"You actually understood the warding ones! My cousin is studying for mastery in wards and says it's really difficult."
… the Vale is more 'open' at the Other side, while for Beltane it is...
"Do you need some help?"
Snap
Hermione closed the book (which mostly fiction in her opinion, though she knew she shouldn't just declare such things) with a loud snap and turned to glare at the intruder. He had that annoying smug look on his face that just riled her up.
"Could you please, shut up?" that came out sharper than she intended it to, but he didn't look bothered.
"I could, of course, but then you'd be bored to death with all these books."
"I'll have you now, I enjoy reading and this is for my research," he rose an eyebrow, which somehow made him look even cuter.
"So you don't enjoy reading this books, huh?"
"I never said that!" exclaimed the girl with a faint flush on her face.
"But you did," he had the insolence to smirk. "You said that you enjoy reading and then that those books are for research. You never said that you enjoy reading those particular books."
"I never said the opposite either and stop twisting my words," said Hermione angrily. "And why are you here either way?"
"If you insist, then I'll have to tell you," she did not insist on anything. That prat! "I was looking for you."
"Why?" asked Hermione suspiciously.
"I never got the chance to thank you about Lisa, so thank you," God, he sounded sincere.
"There is no need to," she tried to explain but he interrupted her, probably taking it for modesty or something.
"There is. You see, I've had this crush on her for a while and…"
"There really isn't. Harry broke up with her on his own accord. Something about Trupin being too clingy or whatever," she hadn't cared all that much when he had explained to Ron why he had ditched his girlfriend. Their redheaded friend had thought him mental and had spent hours trying to prey out answers from Harry. She had been too busy with her Transfiguration essay to care.
"Lisa is not clingy!" Goldstein bowled at the insult of his not-girlfriend and like some knight in shining armor immediately came to her defense.
"Not my words," the girl shrugged and went back to her book. This conversation was pointless. "And Harry does not want to date her anymore, so you should be happy."
"She isn't happy!"
"And what do you want me to do?" the Ravenclaw was distracting her and she couldn't find the right page. Come to think of it, did she really need to read the rest of the book?
"Tell him to apologize and date her again," he just kept getting more and more stupid, didn't he? For the second time she snapped her book and turned her attention to him.
"First of all, I cannot tell Harry to do anything, so stop demanding it from me. Second, he wanted fun and some snogging," Hermione ignored the way her she blushed at that, "not the committed relationship and romance Trupin wants. And third, next time you come bothering me again, I will hex the living daylight out of you! Now, could you please leave the room?"
The murderous glare he sent at her direction before he left and slammed the door shut was so worth it. Now, back to her research.
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Harry basked in the warmth of the too hot for the season November sun for a moment. In the big (huge) park that the Megara Manor dozens of tents were set, each entrance opened so everybody could see what was inside. There were tables and chairs outside the tents and a very big stage. The ritual fire was in its centre and Harry had no idea how it had been moved up there.
"So the Son of Thar finally decided to grace us with his presence," Kalina's voice said from behind him.
"Son of Thar?" asked Harry after he turned. It was probably from some wizarding story he had never heard of. The benefits of being raised by Muggles.
"You know, from the 'City of Thar' story. The one where everybody was cursed and to sleep forever."
"Yes, of course. I guess I am not quite awake yet," he joked, trying to hide his ignorance. Logically he knew it wasn't his fault, but he hated feeling inadequate.
"Well, you better wake up, the final part is about to begin," the Bulgarian girl said with a smile and rushed ahead of him. Harry spent several seconds admiring the view of her long neck and pale shoulders (and maybe even several things lower), before hurrying to catch up with her. The red dress she wore was very flattering and the way the skirts of the dress danced around her made his friend look like something from another world. Up close, he could see several red gems braided in her hair keeping it up.
"Where are the others?" Harry asked curiously.
"Dancing," replayed Kalina with a smile. "You know how Calypso gets," the two shared a laugh at that. If there was anything she liked more than dancing, Harry was unaware of its existence.
"Everybody does. Say, Kalina, do you want to dance?" he asked trying (and hopefully not failing) to sound nonchalant. The girl blushed prettily and looked at the ground for a second before nodding her head.
"I'd love to, but after the ceremony."
"Of course," the final ceremony was one of the most important parts of the Samhain celebrations. While the main part was held during the night and strictly speaking the festival was over once the sun rose (even if the festivals continued throughout the entire day), the final ceremony was about the greeting of the winter and the transfer of the Samhain log. The family that had the honor of receiving it had to prepare some sort of spectacle, dance or song or both and from what he had heard, every family wanted to be known as the top one.
"Who is receiving this time?" asked Harry. It was a Bulgarian family. He knew that, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember the name.
"Yotovi," the girl replayed with barely contained enthusiasm. "Rumor has it, it will be grand. Come on!" She took his hand and pulled him toward the stage where everybody was gathering.
A lone wizard stood there and was waving his wand around. Soon around the stage was raised a huge tent that covered everything and everyone. The only light came from the pyre and for a brief moment, Harry wondered whether the tent would be set on fire or not but he soon remembered about the firerepeling charms. The entrance, which had been open previously, closed. Most likely, there were no more people to come.
The wizard cast another spell and several shining balls came out of his wands and spread all over the wooden stage. Then the man bowed and stepped down.
Suddenly the fire erupted, for the lack of better word, upwards and Kalina grasped his right hand. Harry squeezed it reassuringly, eyes never leaving the stage for a single second.
The fire soon became a burning column made of red and orange flames. The pillar seemed to grow branches, which then had branches of their own and soon Harry realized that someone, probably the wizard from before, was shaping the flames into a tree. The amount of magic that this probably took would have to be enormous.
The tent had grown quiet. No one dared to make even the smallest noise, so when the first accords of the piano began everyone noticed. It was eerie, the way the sound spread, it was as if it came from everywhere. Harry suppressed the urge to look around to find the piano.
Eleven male figures, each wearing long white robe with long sleeves and covered with black and red ornaments, went out on the stage. The men spread behind the fire-tree in a half circle and sang something; it was probably in Bulgarian, considering that the Yotovi family came from there.
As they were singing a woman came out as well, but instead of standing behind the 'tree' she stood up in front of it. Her robe was of similar design to the men's, but the sleeves were much wider and the designs were only on them. On her waist, the robe was tightened with a large red sash.
Whatever the men had sang before, they repeated it and she sang as well. Her voice carried out to every corner of the dark tent. There was sadness in her voice and Harry, along with everyone else was captivated.
At one point, the men started humming something and a young man, maybe early twenties, went next to the lead songstress. With strong voice that carried out as easily as hers did, he started speaking something in Bulgarian.
Harry nudged his friend and whispered.
"What is he saying?" Without looking at him, Kalina started translating.
"the tallow lams, and the peonies, and the grasses," in a way, her voice was as captivating as his. The woman joined the choir. At the back of his mind Harry noted the shadow figures that were playing on the back of the tent's cloth.
"and your coolness/ everything, I am saying, sometimes/falls like a bullet," here Harry was rather surprised at the muggle reference, considering how conservative all Balkan magical states were concerning things like that. "to the heart, which/ is every time ready/ to cry, when it sees/ something new in the nature when it sees how the spring/ sends off the old age/ and under the cold, and under the snow/ a life arises."
It was better suited for Beltane, according to Harry, but since Samhain had been considered the New Year Eve for many centuries, it might be appropriate.
The man stepped away and as he was doing that the woman and the choir kept on singing. Next to Harry Kalina was humming the sad melody, but kept on translating for him.
"And who that must/ forever leave you / cannot, as he lives/ forget you."
The applause after the final accord carried on for several minutes. The performers bowed several times under the clapping noise.
When they finally left the stage, the big tree shrunk back to its original form. The lights that had previously been on the stage-floor rose and spread around the tent, lightening it up.
A tall wizard with dark (possibly black) robes and a red sash, similar to the woman's from before, stood on the left side of the pyre. His dark hair was straight and brushed his shoulders. The fire illuminating him accented on every wrinkle on his face, making him look in his mid-fifties to sixties. Harry was unable to tell his real age, or name for that matter.
On the other side of the fire stood Lord Megara, his pale robes were contrasting the dark ones of the Bulgarian Lord, like Light and Dark.
"This is Ivan Yotov, the Lord of the family," whispered Kalina from her place at his right. "He is famous for being the first person to tie with Grindelwald academic score," Harry had to suppress the urge to whistle at that. From the year he had spent in the foreign school, he had learnt that if there was one thing Gallert Grindelwald was famous for (except being a Dark Lord and all) was his academic achievements. Before he had been kicked out of the Institute, he had been their best and brightest.
For Lord Yotov to be capable of achieving the same score… That was not a wizard Harry ever wanted as an enemy…
Meanwhile, the two on the stage had exchanged whatever formal word they needed to (from which Harry understood none) and Lord Megara stepped into the pyre. While, rationally, Harry knew that the flames would not harm the man, it was still a bit startling seeing someone walking into a (literally) burning pyre.
Lord Megara silhouette bend and picked something up. Then, for all to see, he raised the log high above his head. Lord Yotov followed his fellow wizard example and soon joined him in the flames. The log was exchanged and the Greek Lord exited the flames from the left and after raising the log in a similar manner, the Bulgarian did the same in the opposite direction.
No sooner had he stepped out of the pyre and the flames died out. Samhain was officially over.
Kalina's dress (only instead of orange imagine red; don't forget that the girl is thirteen): .
The song that was performed, if anyone is interested: watch?v=WnBP6SC7va4
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Last Revised: 29.03.2014