A Matter of Black and White

DISCLAIMER: This story is based upon the works of JK Rowling. Anything you recognize is hers. I’m making no money off of this. I’m just having some fun adding my own little corner to the amazing world she has already created.

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CHAPTER 15—ENTER AURORA

Snape sat in his office putting the final touches on his syllabi for his upcoming Defense Against the Dark Arts courses. After waiting fifteen years for the post, he was would finally be teaching the most ill-prepared lot of Defense Against the Dark Arts students in all his time at Hogwarts. At least when Gilderoy Lockhart had been teaching, the students had had to practice a bit of magic in order to clean up the buffoon’s blunders. But Delores Umbridge and her Educational Decrees had seen to it that ordinary dunderheads had been reduced to numbskulls on par with the average mountain troll. The combination of their ineptitude and his demanding standards would no doubt bring a number of students to tears. A thin smile twitched on Snape’s lips. He couldn’t wait.

Unfortunately, Snape reminded himself, he had more immediate and less appealing lessons to consider. Aurora—her name was so saccharine it made his teeth itch— would soon be arriving for her first Occlumency lesson since her arrival at Hogwarts. This time, he vowed, the lessons would be on his terms. He would suffer no more silly card games.

Snape leaned back in his black leather-upholstered chair, perfectly molded through time to conform to his long, angular body. He stared across his desk toward a low, roughly-hewn stool, from which most people had to struggle to see over the desktop. High Inquisitor or not, Umbridge had nothing on him when it came to interrogation, and he had watched a generation’s worth of students squirm and fidget in this chair until they had spilled their guts about copying homework, exploding dungbombs, or sneaking out after curfew. Yes, Snape was back on his turf.

She was in his school and would soon be in his office. If she didn’t like his teaching practices, she could wipe her pretty blue eyes on her lily-white sleeve and take the next train back to Switzerland. It wouldn’t be his fault if she couldn’t keep up with his rigorous teaching. Then, maybe, Dumbledore would have to see that she was not cut out to be a spy.

In addition to imposing a more demanding set of lessons, Snape was looking forward to being able to pry more information out of his rival’s blonde little head. Miss Goodness and Light she might seem as she chattered on about colleagueship and motivating students to love learning, but Snape remained suspect of anyone who appeared out of thin air, offering her life and devotion to Dumbledore’s cause. She was, after all, the self-admitted daughter of Death Eaters, and she had yet to offer any convincing evidence as to why she had given up her life on the Continent to fight in a country she hadn’t seen for twenty years. If there was one good thing—probably the only good thing—about these lessons, it would be finally finding out who the hell this woman was.

At a quarter past three, Snape heard a crisp knock at his door. He was about to remove the wards while still seated at his desk so that he could continue working on his syllabi—just to show her how busy he was. However, the thought of her waltzing into his office unchecked gave him pause. He rose from his desk, Noxing a few candles along the way (no point making the place seem too inviting). He positioned himself like a sentry at the threshold and opened the door.

She appeared before him in the deserted dungeon corridor in all her white and gold glory. She greeted him brightly, “Good afternoon, Severus!”

Snape didn’t return the greeting but stepped resolutely to the side, permitting her to enter his domain.

She breezed into his office. Her blue eyes took in the darkened wood and black leather of the sparse furnishings, which absorbed what little light was left remaining in the dungeon room. “Severus, I get the impression you have a very distinct sense of style.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Snape said dryly.

“Really lovely,” she answered absently as she spotted the wall behind his desk lined with magical specimens suspended in jars of colorful potions.

Snape waited for the inevitable grimace of revulsion.

“Is that a hinkypunk?” She pointed to a small one-legged creature floating in a translucent yellow solution.

Snape was surprised that she was even looking at it, let alone had been able to recognize it, but he answered lazily, “Naturally.”

“How did you get it to stay materialized?” she asked.

“One part ground firefly. One part mercury. Two parts formaldehyde.”

“Fantastic,” she breathed. She walked down the length of shelves and stopped at an organ still pulsing within its container. “That’s a dragon heart. A Horntail’s?”

“A Fireball’s,” Snape corrected. After the immense, stinking vat of Polyjuice Potion he had brewed up in exchange for the heart, that prize at least deserved correct identification.

She threw him an impressed glance before finding yet another jar of interest. “And is this…?”

“Do you plan on taking a complete inventory of my specimens?”

She grinned sheepishly.

“If you’ll sit down, we can begin.”

“Alright,” she said serenely. “Where are we doing the lesson?”

“Where?” Snape asked dubiously.

There was an unnerving glint in the woman’s eye as she finished surveying the room, her gaze pausing upon the black leather chair behind Snape’s mammoth desk and the rickety wooden stool in front of it. “Yes, where,” she repeated prettily. She stepped away from the shelves to run a finger along the edge of the desk. Before Snape knew what was happening, she was seated behind his desk in his leather chair. “You’re such a gracious host to offer me a seat, Severus, but I wish you could be comfortable, too. And it might not be safe for you to stand. My Occlumency does have that nasty habit of knocking you off your feet,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps you have a sitting room?”

For the first time in his career, Snape stood in his dungeon office—the most feared place in Hogwarts Castle—surrounded by his grisliest possessions, wearing a scowl that had absolutely no effect. The impertinent little witch simply looked up at him from his leather chair and blinked at him expectantly. His expression grew even fouler as he paced over to the bookcase and pulled out a small red book entitled Techniques for Tubeworm Dissection. The bookcase swung open ninety degrees.

This got her out of the chair. “How perfectly gothic,” she exclaimed as she scuttled over to join him. As intrigued as she seemed, she still cautiously peered through the opening before slowly stepping through. Snape wished he had a few more wards on this entrance to give her the shock she seemed to be expecting.

Once she had stepped all the way into his private chambers without setting off any explosions or alarms, she surveyed the tiny parlor. It was as dark as the office and as sparsely furnished. At the center of the room was a shabby velvet-upholstered sofa in front of an empty fireplace. It was the only seat in the room.

“You don’t entertain much, do you?” she asked playfully as she perched herself on one end of the sofa.

“I prefer my privacy,” Snape growled.

“Here and I thought you’d be the life of the party,” she said with a grin.

“I haven’t time for parties,” he answered briskly. “In fact, I haven’t time for these lessons, so the sooner we finish them, the sooner we can both get on with our lives. We’ll both be starting our teaching and…other…duties soon. These lessons will therefore be rigorous and efficient. If you are not prepared to meet these standards, I suggest you tell me now so that we can make other arrangements.”

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll have a problem, Severus,” she said pleasantly, though she met his gaze squarely. “You’ve taught me so well already.”

Why didn’t he think she was serious about that?

“I’m glad we agree,” Snape answered smoothly. “Since you feel so well-prepared, we will begin working on real memories today.” As much as he hated having to join her on the sofa, he knew he was safer tackling her…volatile…thoughts from a seated position. He situated himself on the furthest end of the couch and reminded himself of his plans for this lesson. With penetrating eyes, he stared at the witch sitting next to him and thought, Who are you, Aurora Sugar-Shock Bernard?

To Snape’s surprise, she was actually set on meeting his expectations for more efficient lessons, and she let him enter her mind without her usual preliminary struggle. Snape skimmed over a stream of memories, all sparkling with colors completely incongruent with the dark path upon which their owner was setting forth. There were ones with assemblies of white-clad Holdahexe gathered around a pale fire, ones with packs of students in Beauxbatons-blue robes, and then one in black and white.

That was odd. There was no way this could be a real recollection. It had the grainy, monochromatic look of a scene reproduced in a Daily Prophet photograph. Nevertheless, it seemed firmly planted in her mind. Was this a fabricated memory? She had shown no signs that her skills were yet so advanced. On the other hand, Snape had been skeptical from the start that someone who packed such a punch with Pure Occlumency could be completely unversed in its more advanced forms. This memory merited further investigation.

* * *

Wizards were congregating on a mountainside punctuated with craggy rocks and a few standing stones, which cast long shadows in the late of the day. The recollection was set upon a wizard, perhaps thirty, who carried himself with the air of one who was aware of his good looks. In the black-and-white vision, the man had light—Snape supposed blond—hair and a thick handlebar mustache. He was dressed in dark, tailored, velvet robes.

“Wolfram!” a stocky man with sideburns called.

The fair-haired wizard turned. “Antonin, good to see you.” Wolfram clasped the other man’s hand jovially.

“I didn’t know if we could expect you,” Antonin said.

“Minka’s spitting mad. I had to dodge her hexes going out the door.”

“When is she due?”

“Any day now,” Wolfram answered. “I explained to her that I’ve been coming to Germany for the Walpurgisnacht revels since I was thirteen. I told her it’s a tradition that our son—if we have a son—will be proud to continue. But you just can’t reason with a pregnant witch.”

“You’re hoping for a boy, then?” asked Antonin.

“I’m just hoping it’s healthy,” Wolfram said with a nervous smile, revealing his anxiety about his soon-to-be entrance into fatherhood.

“You parents, you’re all alike,” Antonin chortled. “Next thing you know, you’ll be knee-deep in nappies and boring everyone with stacks of baby pictures.

“Don’t worry, Antonin, I’ll never be boring,” Wolfram said confidently.

“Oh?” his friend laughed. “You’re the one exception to the rule?”

“Of course,” Wolfram grinned, “because my baby is going to be the most fascinating child in the world.”

Antonin chuckled. “Keep telling yourself that, friend. Meanwhile, I have to track down Stefan Eichmann. He still owes me fifty Galleons from the World Cup.”

“You’re buying the drinks, then, when we’re done here.”

Wolfram nodded. “Easy come, easy go, I suppose.” He thumped his friend on the shoulder. “Good to have you here.” He disappeared in the direction of a small band of wizards and faded into the periphery of the memory.

Wolfram was alone only a moment before he heard a new voice.

“You speak English.”

A new figure was in the vision, tall and dark. Wolfram turned to face him. The man was of an indeterminate age, handsome and boyish one moment and withered the next. His eyes were slightly slanted, and even in black and white, they seemed a strange color.

“Yes,” said Wolfram. “Is this your first Walpurgisnacht?”

“The revels at Mt. Brocken are legendary. My travels have brought me here at last.” The stranger’s voice was hypnotic, like the wind rushing through the leaves.

“Then you’re in for a treat. There’s no better place in the world to spend a May Day Eve. My father used to say that Halloween was for the family and Walpurgisnacht for the men.”

“You are German, then?”

“Alas, I am a man without a country,” Wolfram answered gallantly. “My father was raised in these mountains, but he went to England, where I was born, during Grindewald’s war.”

“He was a displaced person?”

“Let’s just say he went to England to ensure that these revels might continue.”

“He was a spy,” the stranger interpolated.

“‘Spy’ is such an off-putting word. I like to think of him as a representative of Pureblood interests.”

“And after Grindewald was defeated?”

“One country seemed as infested by Mudbloods as the next. Between the magical and the Muggle wars, at least something was left standing of England.”

“Pity the Mudbloods chose then to make peace,” said the stranger. “What a glorious world we’d be
left with if they’d done us the favor of exterminating themselves. They seemed so on the right track.”

Wolfram nodded vigorously in agreement. “Trust the Mudbloods to foul up a good thing. Then again,” he grinned, “we’d be missing out on all the fun of Walpurgisnacht. Look, it’s starting.”

Wolfram motioned to the setting sun falling between two mountain peaks. As the glowing orb fell away, a dark, morphing shadow rose into the sky.

“It’s the Brocken Spectre. Quick, we must call it. It will give us power this night.” Wolfram drew his wand and directed it at the growing mass of darkness. “Kom, kom,” he chanted.

The stranger followed suit and joined his voice to the hum of wizards murmuring the magical summons. The shadow drew toward them in one imposing mass, but when it was almost directly upon the congregation, it dissipated into wisps of smoke that were sucked up by the tips of the wizards’ wands. At this moment, the last bit of sun hid itself behind the mountains, and a peal of bells erupted from the village down in the valley.

A stout wizard carrying a riding crop called out to the men in German. The others answered him with “HURRAHs.” Masks started circulating from somewhere, and the men were fixing them over their faces.

“What are they saying?” the stranger asked. He did not speak like one disoriented by foreign languages. Instead his words were more of a command, and they carried the authority of someone who was accustomed to being answered.

Wolfram chortled. “In short: ‘The Muggle fools are ringing their bells to fend off evil spirits. Little do they know they are issuing the horns to the hunt.’” Some of the masks passed by them, and Wolfram grabbed one for himself and his companion. “Here, take this. The Mudbloods think we’re fiends after all.”

The stranger examined his mask thoughtfully. It was the face of a horned demon with thick, black furrows in its brow, which hung shadows over dark-circled eyes and a wide, devouring mouth. He brought it up to his face. The rings about the eye holes made his own slanted eyes look sunken and deathly. A thin smile appeared from behind the mask. “We would hate to disappoint the Mudbloods, wouldn’t we?”

The two men joined the throng of masked wizards marching down the mountain. Some were singing raucous songs, and others were passing around flasks of something that was definitely not pumpkin juice. As they drew closer to the village in the valley, they started coming across deserted farmhouses with their windows shuttered tight against the evils of the night. Suddenly, someone at the front of the party raised his hand for silence.

“Ah, the prey has been sighted,” Wolfram breathed in anticipation.

Rounding the corner of the road was a young woman on a bicycle with shopping bags balanced on both of the handlebars. The stranger withdrew his wand.

“No, not yet.” Wolfram shook his head. “Our entertainment has to last all night. We begin much more subtly.”

The stranger’s eyes glinted behind the demon mask. “Yesss,” he hissed. “Subtly can be very amusing. Proceed.”

Wolfram darted into the edge of the woods, and the stranger followed. The woman rode closer, the crunching of her tires on the loose stones providing an unrhythmic percussion line to a tune she was humming under her breath. Then a wizard further up the path stepped out of the forest shadows just as she passed. Her eye caught the movement, and she glanced back over her shoulder. No one was there.

The wizards closest to the bicyclist started stepping nearer the road to those places where light met shadow. Some of them were visible only if one knew they were there. Others looked like the forest’s creatures of the night with only their eyes reflecting the moonlight. Still others drew closer so that their hellish masks were visible even from a distance.

The woman passed by some of the more carefully concealed men, but even her Muggle instincts seemed to tell her that she was not alone. From time to time, she would glance back over her shoulder or peer into the dark woods, but whatever it was she thought she had seen had disappeared. At first she just shook her head and continued singing her song. Then she caught a better glimpse of one of the monstrous faces that lingered just a little longer in the half-light. Suddenly she started pedaling harder. Her eyes were now resolutely set upon the road ahead of her.

“Tut, tut,” tisked the stranger. “So like a Muggle to refuse to see what is right there before her.”

“Shall we help her see the truth?” Wolfram asked.

“After you,” the stranger said graciously.

Wolfram Apparated a few meters into the middle of the road, just on the other side of a rise from whence the woman was riding. Her gasp was audible when he came suddenly into her sight. His back was to her so that all she could see was a dark form directly in her course. Her path began to serpentine as she seemed to debate turning around, but a glance back at the dark way from whence she had come made her reconsider. She rolled closer and closer to the lone figure ahead of her, veering slightly to the right so as to give the stranger a wider berth. She kept her eyes trained on the ruts in the road until she had overtaken him, when at last she snuck a glance back at the man from under her right arm. Finally she saw the demonic face of the figure she had just passed. It leered at her from hollow eyes. She screamed and rode harder, but when she cast her terrorized gaze forward again, she found herself heading straight for yet another fiend with sinister eyes boring into her. She swerved and barely missed the stranger, but now all the masked men were making their presence known, Apparating and Disapparating in and out of her path so that the road seemed one of the most densely populated straights of hell. The woman veered and swerved through the devilish obstacle course. One of the grocery bags on her handlebars landed in the road, leaving a gooey mess of spilled milk and broken eggs. This unbalanced the bicycle, and the woman tipped over onto the cold, hard ground.

Laughter broke out amongst the wizards. She whimpered as they circled around her menacingly. One of the men stooped down to her. The woman drew back as far as she could, but he grabbed her by the arm and said something inaudible to the rest of the group. When he was finished, she gave him a dubious look, which morphed back into fright as soon as she considered the other fiends blocking her way back into the village. Tentatively she got up off the ground. She was favoring her right ankle. She hesitated for a moment and then bolted toward a slight opening in the ring of men. The circle parted, allowing her to pass.

“I assume this is to prolong the entertainment?” the stranger asked Wolfram, who was again at his side.

“Naturally,” answered the wizard. “Shame she’s injured so early in the fun, though she might surprise us. A wounded animal sometimes fights all the harder.”

What followed was the typical Muggle hunt—gasps of terror and exhaustion as the woman tried to escape, bushes blasted on the off chance that they contained the prey, heckles from the hunters and screams from the hunted, disorientation and anticipation, resignation and triumph. Then there were the games—jinxes and levitations, Crucios and Imperios. Inevitably, someone whisked away the young woman’s clothing. The crowd of wizards started shoving her around the circle, each set of male hands grabbing at some new part of her now scratched and bruised flesh. Then someone kept hold of her a little longer than the rest, and suddenly he was on top of her, loosening his robes. The woman’s pleas were drowned out by the wizards’ hoots and hollers.

Wolfram noticed the stranger draw away from the crowd. He stepped out of the ring of onlookers just as the first wizard finished taking his pleasure and another one moved forward for his turn.

The stranger stood off from the group, looking at the mob in revulsion. “A wizard should not sully himself with a Mudblood,” he seethed. “It’s on par with bestiality.”

Wolfram nodded. “It is an…unsanctioned…part of the revels, but hardly a first. I myself prefer more refined games.”

“Games?” the stranger challenged. “Are these only games? It’s not for games that I seek out Muggles. It’s for war! The Wizarding World is rotting in complacency while the Muggle one thrives. We need more than games in order to survive!”

“There is only so much that the Ministry is willing to overlook,” Wolfram answered carefully. “There is a reason Walpurgisnacht comes just once a year.”

“Then perhaps we should make the most of this one night,” said the stranger thoughtfully. He was staring down the hillside toward the village. All was dark except for the glinting lights coming from the high windows of the church. “Tell me, do the Muggles have their own traditions for Walpurgis Night?”

“The youths commit pranks and tomfoolery. Most of the elders spend the night in church trying to pray away ‘sorcery.’”

“All night?”

“I believe so. They think anything with a cross will protect them from evil.”

“Then perhaps they need a reeducation.”

“I always fancied being a teacher,” Wolfram answered, and together they set off down the hill.

The town was as dark and deserted as the farms they had passed earlier in the night, but as they drew closer to the heart of the village, they began to catch strains of solemn hymns from what seemed the only sign of life in the town. The light from the stained glass windows shown warmly, defying the darkness of Walpurgisnacht.

The stranger stopped in the square on which the church stood. He seemed to be trying to stare the tall, steepled building down. “The Mudbloods think two pieces of wood nailed together can save them? They must learn to respect magic. They must learn that nowhere is safe—not their churches, not their homes, not anywhere in the world. It isn’t the Wizarding World and the Muggle World. It’s all one, and it’s all under the domain of magic!”

He raised his wand and shouted, “Aeturnus Incendio!” sending a bolt of eternal fire toward the door.

Wolfram followed suit, firing another part of the building. Though everything else in the scene was black and white, the flames burst into hellish shades of red. They rose high in the air like unfurled banners in the wind, displaying their colors triumphantly.

The wizards situated themselves in front of the exits and waited for anyone who might try to escape. The low notes of hymns soon transposed into high shrieks of pain and fear. The Muggles were slow in finding an escape route since the fire had started at the main entrance. Eventually, though, glass shattered and several people started crawling out of a window. The flashes of light from the wizards’ wands were barely noticeable against the blazes of the fire. The stranger cackled wickedly as he charmed the broken panes on one side of the building to reseal themselves, leaving the Muggles pounding on the glass. At some point the cracks and roar of the fire were joined by the sound of the structure buckling under itself. The high-vaulted roof collapsed into the heart of the building, and the steeple fell into the square, its bells clattering to the ground.

The stranger sent a bolt toward the fallen bells, making them reverberate dully. “See what good your bells do? They cannot stop us! Nothing can!” He laughed hysterically.

The magical fire worked quickly, and soon nothing was left of the church but a stone skeleton. Though the flames had nothing left to consume, they continued to burn as red as the dawn that was peeking out from over the mountains. No amount of water would stifle them, and they would live off of air until a team from the German Magical Ministry could douse them.

Wolfram motioned to his companion. The darkness was waning. “We must leave the Muggles to discover what has passed in the night.”

Both men Apparated back to the meeting place on the mountainside. Crimson light seemed to run down the rock as the sun began to challenge the red flames of the fire still burning in the village.

The stranger removed his mask and threw it into a box on the ground. He paused for a moment and then turned to Wolfram. “Thank you for joining my crusade.”

Wolfram removed his mask to reveal an expression of admiration. “Thank you for leading it,” he answered gravely. Then with a smile he added, “You might say we are the Knights of Walpurgis Night.”

“Truly,” the stranger said thoughtfully.

“Tell me, friend, who might I say led me in this righteous cause?”

The man looked down on the fire below, his slanted eyes reflecting the glowing red flames. “Voldemort,” he answered. “You may say you were with Lord Voldemort.” Then he Apparated out of sight.

Wolfram stood apart from the other returning revelers for a long time afterward, watching the fire and sunrise compete for the monopoly of color in the scene. His reverie was broken only when an owl swooped down before him and dropped a letter at his feet. He picked it up and turned it over. There was a seal of a snake strangling a lion. He tore it open quickly and read:

Dearest Wolfram,

Send your regrets to Antonin at the pub, for you won’t have time to celebrate with him. This morning I delivered our child—a beautiful daughter with golden hair. I am waiting for your return to name her. Hurry home and I will consider not hexing you for being gone.

Your loving wife,
Minka

Wolfram gave a whoop of joy. “It’s a girl! It’s a girl!” Then to some of the bewildered onlookers he exclaimed, “Ich bin ein Papa!” Several people offered applause or thumped him on the back.

He bounded over to Antonin. “Sorry, Antonin, but I’ll have to take a rain check on that drink. My baby girl needs me!” Before his friend could respond, a new thought hit him. “Damn these National Border Wards. It’ll be hours before I get home. Write—that’s what I must do. I must write to Minka and tell her I’m coming.” He fished around in his pocked and found a crumpled piece of parchment. “Do you have something to write with?” he asked impatiently.

Antonin produced an Ever-Write Quill. “Today a quill; tomorrow you’ll be asking me to babysit,” he said with a smile.

Wolfram hurried over to a plinth out of which he made a makeshift desk:

My darling Minka,

Congratulations, my love! I’m sure our daughter is as beautiful as you.

I regret having missed the birth, but I hope you will forgive me when I tell you what has passed this night. It’s a good omen that our daughter was born on the morn of the most extraordinary Walpurgisnacht ever. Her Papa met a great man by the name of Voldemort. He is a visionary, Minka, in the way that Grindewald was. This morning the sky burned red with Muggle blood—a true Morgenrot. With her Mama’s permission, of course, I wish our daughter to be named after this momentous event.

I will Apparate to the North Sea as soon as I finish this letter, then take the EuroFairy to Dover. Imagine me tearing through the air like a dragon to see you.

All my love to you both,
Wolfram (Papa)

Wolfram sent the letter off with the waiting owl and then disappeared with a “POP.”

* * *

Aurora was staring resolutely into the empty fireplace. “Did you get what you wanted?” she asked in low tones.

Her voice called Snape back to his chambers, which were nearly as gray as the vision had been. He had almost forgotten she was there, especially since she had had so little to do with the “memory” he had just witnessed. “And what precisely was it that you think I wanted?”

She glared at him with blue eyes much colder than usual. They betrayed the rigidity behind her sing-song speech. “You don’t much like my name, do you, Severus?”

“Why do you say that, Aurora?” Snape tried to let the name fall off his tongue naturally, but it caught in his mouth like a glob of sugary molasses on which he wanted to gag.

The arched eyebrows told him she had read his bluff.

“No doubt you found that recollection interesting then?” she asked simply.

Snape hating being in the dark, and he had learned to mask his rare occasions of ignorance with hostility. “You must have your memories confused. Not a word was said about ‘Aurora’ in this one.”

The witch rolled her eyes and murmured something about “The English” under her breath. “Words were said, Severus, you just have to know what they mean.”

“Are you suggesting I’m ignorant of the English language?”

“Actually,” she replied with a resurgence of some of the brightness that always set Snape on edge, “I’m suggesting you’re ignorant of any language besides English.” She smiled sweetly for a moment to allow him to take this statement in. When he didn’t respond, she said impatiently, “Morgenrot. It’s German. Literally ‘red morning.’”

She seemed to expect some reaction, so he tried to feign some understanding. “For the dawn, naturally.”

She wasn’t fooled. “You don’t honestly expect that my mother would have allowed me to be named Morgenrot, do you?”

How was he to know what her mother’s tastes were? Obviously she hadn’t named her daughter that, and she hadn’t named her Voldemortia either, so Snape really didn’t see what this whole charade had to do with Aurora.

“They translated Morgenrot,” she said in exasperation. “Aurora and Morgenrot. They’re the same thing. They didn’t name me for some pretty pink lights in the sky. They named me for a Muggle bloodbath and for all the ones to come after they joined up with the Dark Lord.”

How had she known what he’d thought of her name? It was time to redirect the course of this conversation. “A lovely fairytale, but I’m afraid your abilities are not up to such tasks,” he said silkily. “Even if you could have been present for events prior to and coinciding with your birth, the memory was quite obviously a false one.”

“Excuse me?”

“The memory was in black and white, except, of course, for the fire and the sky, which,” he added lazily, “I’m afraid were simply over the top.”

“I don’t know why the memory was in black and white, but you’re right. It was probably like that because it wasn’t my own. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t true.”

“Tsk, tsk, grasping at straws now, are we?”

“That Walpurgisnacht was legend in my family—the day of my birth, the day my father met the Dark Lord. My father saved it in his Pensieve and let me look at it when I was growing up. Even so, I was always asking to hear the story about how I got my name. That night—black and white or not—is ingrained in my mind and was as real as you and me sitting here right now.”

Alright, a second-hand memory did explain the strange color-scheme of the vision. Snape hadn’t thought she was up to fabricating an entire memory anyway. Even so, the session was a failure. “Presuming that I was interested in the origins of your name and that this is a legitimate event, why show me? The point of these exercises is to keep people from mining these little gems out of your head. There are Greek epics shorter than that memory, and you didn’t do a single thing to divert me.”

“Consider it a freebie,” she said tersely. “I know you think I’m out of my league. You may be right. But don’t think I don’t know what the Dark Lord can do. I’ve carried that knowledge with me since the day I was born.”

Snape watched with a smirk as she got to her feet and she dashed out of the room in a flurry of white robes…maybe a little less dazzling than they had been an hour before. He had gotten under her skin at last.

* * *

AN: As always, thanks to my reviewers Trickie Woo and Rodger.

Walpurgisnacht comes from JKR’s original name for the Death Eaters—the Knights of Walpurgis (another of her many puns since Nacht is German for “night.”) Yes, it was nice to be back in my German element again. Here’s the Wikipedia link to Walpurgis Night is you want to know more: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walpurgis_Night. If you can read German, here are a few other sites: http://www.das-freizeitportal.de/news/walpurgisnacht.shtml#hexen http://www.bautzen.bz/index.php?site=regionales_details&objekt_ID=61

Ironically, the folkloric figure of Holda is sometimes associated with this night because we Muggles (JKR excluded) generally associate it with witches rather than wizards. I assure you, however, that most of the Holdahexe want no part of all the Dark Magic and testosterone found in the wizarding celebrations.

Though it has nothing to do with this chapter, I suppose this is a good time to explain a little about the Holdahexe as well. The society to which Aurora belongs is named after the German matriarchal figure of Frau Holda, who is associated with witchcraft and womanly interests like spinning and childbirth. Wonderfully, I also discovered long after I had already decided upon the Holdahexe’s wardrobe that one of the images in which Holda is said to appear is as a young woman clad in white. Ye Ol’ Wikipedia Link for Holda is http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holda.

Finally, since we’re on this track, a note on the grammar of the Holdahexe’s name. I realize that it is technically incorrect if we are thinking about witches in the plural, in which case we have Hexen. However, I couldn’t think of a single instance in English where we refer to the plural of a German noun and use the proper German ending. I couldn’t quite tolerate the English speakers in the story adding an –s, though, so we’re left with this neutral name that is indistinguishable between the singular or plural. If it bugs you, I’m sorry. It kind of does me too, but I just couldn’t picture most of wizarding Britain being enlightened enough to know the proper ending given their general cluelessness about the organization and foreign languages overall.