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 27-HALLOWEEN MAGIC

The rest of October flew by in a daze of grading, spying, and Quidditch fever. The clumsy and nearly deadly attack on Katie Bell earlier in the month left Snape spreading himself extra thin. He was certain that a Slytherin was responsible for the cursed necklace that had left the Gryffindor girl lying in St. Mungo’s, and he had started doing extra patrols of the dungeons to make sure that no one from his House was making his life any more complicated than it already was.

On the Aurora front, his pupil was making progress with her Mentior-Occlumency and was learning to mask the disgust she felt whenever he unearthed a memory associated with the Kiebitzeis. In typical Aurora fashion, however, complications arose when he had off-handedly mentioned that the Order communicated via Patroni. When she admitted that this was another branch of Defense Against the Dark Arts in which she was woefully weak, Snape was once again convinced that this woman had no place trying to move back and forth between the Order and the Death Eaters. Nevertheless, Dumbledore insisted that he continue Aurora’s tutoring sessions, leaving Snape’s schedule splintered into short shards of time for teaching, tutoring, brewing, patrolling, Ordering, Death Eatering, and occasionally stewing over how to save his sorry ass from a certain Unbreakable Vow.

By the time all the squares but the one for the 31st of October had been neatly marked out with a thick black X, Snape wondered where the month had flown. Unlike most wizards, he had never learned to eagerly anticipate Halloween. Yes, he took a certain satisfaction in knowing that the day was his father’s least favorite day of the year—the day when the heathens frolicked in their heathen ways—but Snape had never been able to relish the merrymaking of the wizarding world. It would have required being merry.

That evening, Snape stalked into the Great Hall, elbowing a couple of Ravenclaws who had stopped in the doorway to gawk at the floating pumpkins and dancing skeletons that decorated the room for the Halloween Feast. The walls echoed with laughter and a number of students were pointing toward the front of the room. As Snape made his way up to the staff table, he realized what was drawing so much attention. Dumbledore had carved enchanted jack-o-lanterns in effigy of each of the faculty. A tartan-colored gourd was fussing in a Scottish brogue about the amount of space that Hagrid’s pumpkin—the size of an industrial cauldron—was taking up on the table. A palomino pumpkin with a horse’s legs and tail had galloped across the table to speak to Dumbledore’s jack-o-lantern, a tall and skinny gourd with a white beard that hung off the edge of the table. A few spaces down from this, a yellowish pumpkin with sharp, crudely cut features and a particularly large nose was glowering at the revelers in the Great Hall.

Snape scowled.

“Yes, I do believe I captured the expression perfectly,” the real Dumbledore said from his place at the center of the long staff table. He beckoned to the seat behind the frowning pumpkin. “Join in the festivities, Severus.”

Festivities. Snape hated festivities. Too much laughter made his head hurt. He picked up a decanter of wine before he was even entirely in his seat. If his head was going to ache, it could at least be from a mind-numbing hangover. As he pulled out the stopper, he calculated how many glasses of wine he could drink without becoming so completely intoxicated that he would end the night by standing atop a table and declaring himself a spy. When he heard Flitwick start to harmonize with his acorn squash jack-o-lantern on a ditty about the hag who married a werewolf on All Hallow’s Eve, Snape decided he preferred inebriation to discretion.

Stupid holiday, really. For a night that was supposed to be the most magical and meaningful to the wizarding community, it generally seemed like an excuse to overeat in the company of nauseatingly cheerful people…and now pumpkins.

Snape sloshed a shot of wine into his goblet and took a swig. He poured again with the intention of filling the glass to the brim. He concentrated on the red liquid splashing against the walls of the goblet in order to ignore the fact that Dumbledore had now made the hag song a trio and that Flitwick was looking to him to make the ensemble a quartet. Nevertheless, Snape glanced up when Dumbledore broke off his harmonizing in order to declare, “Oh, excellent! Aurora’s here.”

Snape had missed her entering the Great Hall. It appeared that most of the student body had overlooked her too, for she didn’t have her usual crowd of French-speaking fans fawning all over her. She blended right into the sea of black uniforms because—Merlin Almighty—she was wearing black. Her black dress dipped low at her chest, contrasting with her white skin. A long piece of black lace, fixed into her hair by an ebony comb, accentuated the shine of the uncovered golden tendrils framing her face. Black became her. It made her look regal; it made her look commanding. Any woman who could wear black like that…well, Snape felt new admiration; he felt intrigued; he felt…wet?

“Pay attention, you idiot!” the Snape-o-lantern snapped. The pumpkin was sitting in a pool of red liquid. Snape started as he realized that the wine he had been pouring was spilling over the top of his goblet and onto the table and was now dripping into his lap. Hastily, he cast a Drying Spell over the table and himself. Yes, black was a most excellent color, he decided as he examined his own robes and found any stains undetectable.

Once Aurora made her way up to the staff table, Snape expected her to circle round to her seat—it had to be the one next to him; it was the only one remaining. (He checked to make sure that this area was also dry.) Instead, she stopped in front of the table and nodded to Dumbledore, then remained standing in front of the Hall. What did she think she was doing? Surely she wasn’t going to recite some runic saga in honor of the holiday. Couldn’t they just eat their pumpkin pasties and leave?

Dumbledore stood from his spot behind the table and clinked his knife against a glass. The chatter and clatter in the room died away immediately. “Welcome! Before we all stuff ourselves silly, we have a special treat this year. Professor Bernard has agreed to share with us a remarkable Halloween tradition carried out by the Holdahexe.”

Merlin’s beard, she was going to recite a poem.

“Please prepare yourselves for the Wiederwachrufen,” the old man declared with an impressive German accent. “Professor?”

“Thank you, Headmaster.” Aurora walked toward the center of the room, where a silver basin stood atop a waist-high stone column. As she did so, the torches illuminating the Great Hall died away, leaving just the jack-o-lanterns to flicker against the stone walls. Snape glanced over at Dumbledore. Lighting effects were usually the Headmaster’s trick, but he detected no sign of magic from the old man. He returned his attention to Aurora. Her arms were hanging at her sides, and he could see that her wand was not in her hand. However, he caught the slightest motion of her flattened palm seeming to press down upon the air as the last of the torches faded away.

The room was silent, and Snape prepared himself to hear Aurora’s cadenced voice issuing from the near-darkness. She would tell them a story. She was the Runes teacher after all. So what if she had done a little wandless magic over the entire Great Hall? She was just the Runes teacher, and his recent experience told him that Aurora Bernard wasn’t much of a witch when it came to doing real magic. She couldn’t conjure a Patronus, and her Legilimency skills were still questionable. As far as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was concerned, the only thing Aurora could do well in the magical world was translate silly symbols.

But when Snape at last heard her voice, it did not resonate like a poetry recitation. (Most speakers seemed to think that volume alone could counteract the fact that no one ever really wanted to listen to poetry recitations.) In fact, her voice was only a murmur. In the flickering light, he caught the silhouette of her hand passing over the basin in front of her. It erupted in blue flame. A few students whispered to each other in wonder.

The fire lit, and Aurora’s murmurs turned to chant. The words were too quiet for Snape to hear at first, but as her voice crescendoed, he realized they belonged to a language he could not decipher. The words got louder, and she almost seemed to grow with their volume, becoming increasingly formidable in that black gown against that eerie blue light. Her voice was now echoing against the walls. It was reverberating in his head. He could almost see her voice, swirling in translucent colors like a ghost’s, the palette of intonations mixing into human shape.

The form was female, and Snape initially mistook it for a reflection of the woman who had called it into being. It had a golden glow about its head, and the rest of its shape beamed in warm white radiance, but when Snape peered harder through the half-light, he did not recognize Aurora at all. Somewhere under that eerie brilliance was a strangely familiar plainness—a longish face with a dark line at the brow, a thin wire of a mouth and an even thinner fringe of brown at the forehead.

“Mother?” Snape asked; he wasn’t sure if it was out loud.

No, no. How could he sink to such foolishness? Visitations from the dead? Such was the stuff of fairy tales and religious zealots. Angels were lies that mortals told themselves to fend off the unceasing night. Whatever he was seeing was a trick or a hallucination, the product of having thrown back his wine like it was pumpkin juice.

“Believe,” the form said, looking directly at Snape.

Snape tried to disregard the shape, his stare cutting through the translucent light to focus on the solid black silhouette of Aurora.

“Believe, Severus,” the form said more insistently.

This was ridiculous. Why would Aurora conjure an image of his mother for all the Great Hall to see?

“You must have faith, Severus.”

Despite himself, Snape could hear his bitter response resounding in his head. “Faith? Faith like Father had? Remember what that got him? What it got you?”

The woman shook her head sadly. “Have faith and all is forgiven.”

“Some things can’t be forgiven.”

“You’ll be saved if you believe.”

“Believe in what? In bullies and sham prophets?”

The distant chant of incantations was dying away, but the woman resembling his mother continued to look upon him with calm knowingness. “Believe in angels.”

Snape shook his head. The house elves must have spiked the wine with some high-proof Firewhiskey.

“This is real,” the form said in a flickering addendum. “This is real…I am real…She is real…Believe.”

Snape’s eyes refocused on the solid just in time to see Aurora sway ever so slightly. She reached for the edges of the basin to steady herself, and as she did so, the blue flames faded and the magnificent magical aura around her seemed to fall away.

Immediately the Great Hall broke out in an electric buzz. People turned to their neighbors to speculate about what had just happened and to describe what they had seen. Several students were crying. Flitwick was clapping his tiny hands.

“Brava!” he chirped. “My late wife Bertha just told me where to find the key to her Gobstones collection. I’ve been searching for it for years!”

Snape felt an instant wave of relief as he realized that the people around him were all relaying different visions to their neighbors. Whatever he had seen, he had seen it on his own. At the same time, however, the fact that the entire Hall was still gaping in the wake of a shared powerful experience meant that Snape could not shrug his vision off as the byproduct of his drink. Whatever other nonsense the woman resembling his mother had spouted, one thing was certain: The magic that had brought her to Hogwarts this All Hallow’s Eve was real. Snape shivered to recognize the electric remains of that power still in the room.

Flitwick turn to Snape. “And what did you see, Severus?”

Snape bristled. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. I saw only blue flame.”

The little man just shrugged. “Yes, well, perhaps the experience is different for each person. I’m sure Aurora will explain.”

But Aurora offered her mystified audience no such enlightenment. She simply turned from the empty basin and walked stately up the aisle. She still carried the air of one who had just done powerful magic. The sight of her sent a tingle down Snape’s spine.

“Very impressive, Aurora,” Dumbledore said when she paused by him. A little more softly and with raised eyebrows, he added, “Though I recall the Wiederwachrufen being longer the one time I saw Helga Albrecht do it.”

Well, that wasn’t very nice. Snape had never known Dumbledore to detract from anyone’s accomplishments before. That was usually his department.

Aurora only answered in a grave nod. She then circled round the staff table and slipped into the chair next to Severus. Hundreds of eyes were still fixated upon the witch who had just performed such strange magic over the entire Hall. Dumbledore, however, quickly refocused their attention with a clap of his hands. The tables suddenly buckled under platters of food for the feast.

Thankful the food might make his co-workers forget to ask about his vision for a time, Snape helped himself to the platter of roast goose, which he then passed to Aurora.

“No, thank you,” she answered a bit queasily.

Snape studied her. The magical aura about her was fading fast and she looked drained of energy. “You ought to eat something.”

She smiled at him. “I will in a bit. My stomach just has to return to the land of the living first.” In the meanwhile, her eyes fell upon the carved winter melon in front of her. She turned it toward her and was met by a glowing version of her own fine face smiling up at her.

“Bonjour.”

“Oh, these are delightful!” Aurora reached for Snape’s pumpkin, which flashed her a dangerous look.

“Do I look like a Quaffle to be thrown around?”

Aurora giggled. “Really fantastic.”

Snape pretended not to have heard her as he went about methodically stabbing and sawing his goose. Aurora paid no heed to the way he ignored her, though, for she was already chatting with Sprout, who was gushing about how fortunate Hogwarts was to have a Holdahexe in their midst and how she had seen her mother during the Wiederwachrufen. The rest of the table had started praising the food and making small talk. It appeared the annual mundane festivities had resumed. Snape went back to dissecting his food.

The feast seemed to drag on and on. Snape had efficiently cleaned his plate and felt satisfied, but his colleagues and students continued to gorge themselves on rich foods and sweets. Once he had the pleasure of being able to deduct twenty points from Gryffindor for launching enchanted chicken wings at the Slytherin table, but otherwise the evening brought him none of the amusement that those around him seemed to be enjoying. Now that he had seen the extent of Aurora’s Holdahexe powers, he wished she would demonstrate another of her talents. As unnerving as his vision had been, he had to admit that the magic that had produced it had impressed him. Instead, she was discussing with Sprout the best methods for clearing up mandrake acne.

Snape’s pumpkin seemed equally irritated by the evening. The Flitwick jack-o-lantern was talking around him, telling the Aurora carving the joke about the goblin, the vampire, and the house elf that walked into a pub. The Snape pumpkin was glaring at the white one, which actually had the gall to laugh at the worn-out anecdote. The real Snape wondered whether he ought to knock his jack-o-lantern off the table and put it out of its misery. At least one Snape in the room ought to be happy tonight.

“Good Holda, what is that?” This was the real Aurora, whose attention was now diverted from Sprout to the jack-o-lanterns on the table.

Snape realized that his own pumpkin had smoke billowing out from under its lid. Apparently it had listened to one too many of Flitwick’s anecdotes. He reached for a pitcher of water and was about to douse the object when Aurora’s hand grasped his arm.

“No!” She rose from her seat and leaned across Snape’s portion of the table in order to whisper something into what would have been the pumpkin’s ear had the carver chosen to give the pumpkin an ear. The smoke died away and Aurora glanced under her arm to smile smugly at the man whose space she had just invaded.

“Talking to pumpkins now, are we?” he asked dryly.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” she answered, returning to her chair.

“I’ve known a number of students with brains like a jack-o-lantern’s—all hallow inside. Speaking to them never seemed to do much good. What on earth did you say?”

Aurora’s eyes glinted mischievously and she leaned conspiratorially toward Snape. “I told him,” she nodded toward the Snape-o-lantern, “that he might be happier if he talked to her.” She motioned toward the white pumpkin.

Snape felt heat rising to his face. “And what are your qualifications for pumpkin psychology?”

Aurora simply shrugged. “I just like to help. Would you pour me a glass of water?” she asked innocently.

Snape again reached for the pitcher and looked back to the sharp-nosed pumpkin with whom he could commiserate. Much to his surprise, he realized that the Snape-o-lantern was engaged in a conversation about ancient potions with the white pumpkin to his right. Traitor. He slammed the pitcher onto the table, only barely managing to avoid his second spill of the night.

“Severus?”

“What?” Snape growled.

“My water?”

Clenching his teeth, Snape picked up the jug again and poured into Aurora’s goblet.

“Thanks so much.” She raised her glass to toast him. He conceded to clink goblets with her. Her eyes met his in an expectant gaze, but after a moment, she took a sip of her drink and started to turn back to Sprout.

Just before she turned away from him, he finally spoke. “What was that all about with Dumbledore?”

Aurora faced him again as if they had been engaged in conversation all along. She moved closer to him so that the black sleeve of her dress brushed his arm. “You try acting as a conduit for hundreds of spirits and using Occlumency at the same time,” she whispered.

“You didn’t use Mentior Occlumency, did you?” At this point he might not have been entirely surprised if she had said yes.

“You know where I stand with that, Severus. No gold stars there,” she said wryly. “No, I just used the standard sort. It was a precaution Albus suggested I take.”

Snape felt a flare of possessiveness at this news that Dumbledore was interfering with his student’s use of any kind of Occlumency without consulting him first. The least the Headmaster could have done was clue Snape in about this Wiederwachrufen business. Had Snape known that Aurora was capable of this kind of magic, he would have held her to a much higher standard in their lessons.

“I suppose Albus is right,” Aurora continued. “You don’t go back and forth between the living and the dead without opening yourself up to a few nasty things.”

“The living and…the dead?” Snape repeated. “What, are you trying to tell me you were dealing with some sort of…of…” The word sat dryly on his tongue, so he coated it with a sneer, “Angels?”

“Well, not exactly….”

“Hmph! I knew it,” Snape muttered to himself.

Aurora gave him a curious look but went on. “This world has the closest ties to the spirit one on Halloween. It’s the chance for everything that has remained unspoken between life and death to finally be heard. Every year on All Hallow’s Eve, each Holdahexe is obliged to perform the Wiederwachrufen for the uninitiated. Through us, each living individual can converge with the one spirit he or she most needs to hear from…maybe a friend or a lover or a parent.”

“What if someone doesn’t see anything?”

Aurora squinted at him. “Impossible. There is always a spirit to speak to a person. Even someone who doesn’t know anyone who has died—which might be the case for some of the children here, though in these times, I fear, far too few—even then one might have a guardian ancestor with a word or two of advice.” She studied him again and then leaned toward his ear. “Though if you want to say you saw nothing, I can forget to mention that part to the others.”

Snape’s gut twisted in a knot. Rather than offering him some kind of assurance, her words made him certain his secret had been betrayed. She must have seen who had visited him in the Wiederwachrufen. Had she heard his mother’s absurd advice as well? His experience as a spy told him that his best defense was silence, but he just had to know what it was that she had learned. “And that nonsense about faith?”

“The conduit sees nothing, hears nothing. Hundreds of spirits—it’s impossible to distinguish them all. They’re not for us anyway.”

This explanation, which he at once recognized as simple truth, might have been a source of relief had Aurora’s eyes not spoken with deeper meaning. His own question had given himself away. She had seen enough of his parents in their backfired lessons to know the path upon which he was headed. Nevertheless, she merely gave him a small nod of reassurance and did not pry or press him further.

“And you?” Snape asked, trying to steer out of these dangerous waters. “Did you also receive a visitation?”

“No, the Wiederwachrufen is the Holdahexe’s gift to others. We neither take nor experience anything in return.”

“That seems a bit unfair.”

“It is an honor,” she shrugged.

“Like your clothes?”

She grinned. “You noticed.”

“You ought to wear black more often. It becomes you.”

“It doesn’t matter what becomes me,” she answered with surprising stiffness, but just as quickly she was back to her usual lightness. “We only wear black on Halloween. You’ll just have to wait until next year if you want to see me in this dress again.”

Snape swirled the dregs of his wine in his goblet. He had every desire to see her in that dress again, but he’d be a fool to think he’d see her next Halloween. “Pity,” he stated, and he drained the last of his alcohol just in time for the dinnerware and leftovers to vanish from the table. The feast was over.

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AN: I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. It’s been written since almost the beginning of the story, and I’ve been dying to share it. I was really tempted to steal a line at the beginning from Star Trek: TNG, where Worf (stuck in a Robin Hood fantasy) proclaims that he’s “not a merry man.” It definitely served as inspiration!

Thanks to Trickie Woo/Rodger for sticking with me and to Jediashes, pittwitch, and all my other readers.