Chapters 111-120

And If Thou Wilt, Forget

At ten o’clock Hermione went outside to ensure that no errant students had crept out of the castle. It was also a splendid opportunity to seek a short respite of the rampant Halloween craziness in the rose garden.

Minerva must have been mad to allow a midnight curfew. Especially since somehow the Muggle custom of dressing up for Halloween had somehow made its way into Hogwarts this year. While a strict prohibition had been issued to use spells on other students in order to change their appearance, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and the simple ingenuity of children were causing quite enough craziness to be going on with. There were hags and vampires and Inferi, as well as more mundane Muggle monsters, including Gollums, Darth Vaders and assorted Superheroes. All that on top of the disrupted Halloween dinner.

The rose garden was an oasis of peace. Even so late in the year roses were blooming here and the air was filled with the scent of herbs. Pomona Sprout selected the varieties carefully and kept the ground infused with charms. Thus you could find roses here even in the depth of winter. At the end of the garden, guarded by a low limestone wall and surrounded by white roses, rosemary and lavender, a patch of lawn beckoned.

But Hermione hesitated to step out onto the grass.

A sliver of light touched the edge of the grass and glinted on a silver plate and goblet. Someone had brought the traditional Samhain gift of food and drink out for the dead who slept underneath the lawn. There were no memorial stones here, just the grass, the herbs and the roses. Severus’ explanation of the symbolism of flowers at their wedding had prompted Hermione to study the ancient lore of the language of flowers. Now she inhaled the cool, fragrant night air, trying to recall their meanings: white roses for reverence, rosemary for remembrance, and lavender for devotion. And to keep the aphids away from the roses, of course. It certainly made for a lovely fragrance.

Hermione stared at the shadowy lawn and tried to remember the faces and the voices. She’d never forget Tonks, of course. Or Lupin. Or Moody. Or Dobby. But there had been so many others. Students she’d known only in passing. Others she hadn’t known at all.

A phrase drifted to her mind. A fragment. She wasn’t quite sure what it was. Maybe a few lines of a poem? She associated her mother’s voice with it, and a feeling of consternation, the feeling that she was missing something essential, something that she should understand, but didn’t—at least when she’d first heard the words.

Green grass covered these graves. And the climate of the Scottish Highlands certainly provided sufficient showers and dewdrops.

But what about the last two lines?

Hermione dropped her gaze to the ground, to the plate with its piece of shortbread or cake, and the goblet, filled with some liquid she couldn’t discern. She wondered who had thought of setting food and drink out for the dead here in the garden. Thoughtfully, Hermione sucked in her lower lip, but resisted the temptation to gnaw on it. She wanted to remember. But she wasn’t quite sure if she could. Or indeed, if she ought to.

She sighed. Straightening her shoulders, she carefully stepped around the plate and the goblet and onto the lawn—just to jump back with a scream, when suddenly a pale shape advanced on her.

A strange sweet scent floated up to her. Then she found herself face to face with a terrible white visage. Papery skin clung so tightly to the bone that the countenance looked more like a skull than a human face. That was probably why she didn’t recognize him at once. The eyes lay deep in their cavities. They were filled with a dark fire, a strange, unearthly hatred.

The lips were drawn up around horrible teeth that looked far too long to belong to a human being. But still there was something to this monstrous creature that was frighteningly familiar.

Hermione took a deep breath. She really didn’t care for the latest line of products from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. She braced herself. ‘Students aren’t allowed out in the gardens after dinner. You know the rules. What’s your House? Whatever it is, ten points for that little escapade, and now get back inside. They’ll miss you already, I expect. And congratulations on your costume, it’s really scary.’

She wrinkled her nose. Whoever that was should really rethink their choice in perfumes. It was much too sweet. ‘Well? Don’t stand there, gawking! Get back inside!’

‘You fucking cunt,’ the figure snarled at her, long teeth gnashing. He seemed to be unable to focus his eyes on her. ‘You bloody forget who I am and then you poxy pussy get your panties in a twist ‘cos I’m out and about…arsehole…fucktard…I’ll fucking show you how to push up the daisies…bloody whore. Shanky-arsed, crotch-slurping, shit-munching, pimple-nibbling, cock-brained jizzmopper!’

Hermione recoiled, took a step back and drew her wands. But whoever—whatever—that was, he was supremely unafraid of her wands. He stepped straight into her wand, and for a moment she had the feeling as if her wand sank into his body, burying into flesh that was too soft to be alive. She shivered. Absently she realised that the lawn under her feet was covered with hoarfrost.

He was mere inches away from her when his dark eyes suddenly brightened and warmed, for no more than a heartbeat.

‘Hermione!’ called the bright young voice of Colin Creevey. ‘Really great to see you!’

Then his fingers closed around her neck with an icy, iron grip. And before she had a chance to even think of a spell, or a charm, or of calling for help, darkness claimed her.