The morning of October 31st dawned with a palpable crackle of excitement in the air. In the Ravenclaw dormitory, Shya was already up, peering out the window at the gloomy grounds.
"Perfect," she declared, a slow grin spreading across her face. "The sky looks like a mouldy blanket. It really sets the mood for a day dedicated to death and sugary bribes to avoid being cursed."
Talora, still buried under her duvet, groaned. "Your morning cheer is terrifying, Bob." She emerged, her strawberry-blonde hair a wild halo. "But you're right. It's the one day where our natural aesthetic is considered festive."
This was their dynamic. Shya, with her deadpan delivery and morbid observations, was the instigator. Talora, with her quick wit and flair for the dramatic, was the perfect amplifier.
As they got ready, accessorizing their uniforms with charmed, fluttering bats and silvery ghost-scarves, their banter was a rapid-fire exchange.
"Do you think Peeves will be extra murderous today?" Talora asked, trying to tame a curl.
"I hope so," Shya replied, examining a bottle of fake blood she'd nicked from the Weasley twins' stash. "It's his job interview for the afterlife. He needs to show initiative." She dabbed a drop on her collar. "There. A subtle hint that I've already been victimized. It'll throw him off my scent."
Talora snorted. "Strategic haunting avoidance. Brilliant. I'll just tell him you're already occupied." She struck a dramatic pose. "Sorry, Peeves, this one's already been spiritually compromised. Try the Gryffindors—they're still fresh and full of screamable energy."
They descended to the Great Hall, their dark humour a private shield against the more boisterous celebrations. At the Ravenclaw table, their girl group was deep in discussion about the feast.
"The pumpkin tarts that breathe smoke are my favourite," Lisa said.
"Statistically, they're also the most likely to be accidentally aspirated by an over-eager first-year," Shya noted, pouring pumpkin juice. "Hogwarts's first pumpkin-tart-related choking incident. It has a certain poetic symmetry."
Talora nodded sagely. "A fitting tribute to the spirit of the holiday. Death by pastry."
It was then that Roman Nott and Cassian Black approached. Roman looked unusually formal.
"Livanthos. Gill," he greeted. "A few of us are observing some of the older Samhain traditions tonight. Lighting candles, remembering the ancestors. It's quieter. You and your friends are welcome."
Talora's eyes lit up. "A real, morbid wizarding tradition? Brilliant. We were just discussing the various ways one could die at this feast."
Shya gave a approving nod. "Acknowledging the thinning veil is more intellectually honest than pretending it's just about candy. We'll be there. We can compare family ghost stories. I bet mine are more depressing."
From the Gryffindor table, a voice cut in. "That's not allowed!"
Hermione Granger had slammed her book shut, her face flushed. "Students aren't permitted to conduct unsupervised rituals!"
Shya turned her head slowly, a predator spotting easy prey. Her eyes glittered with malicious amusement. "Granger," she said, her voice sweetly condescending. "Are you planning to report us to the ghosts for… remembering our dead? I'm sure Nearly Headless Nick will be very sympathetic to your cause. 'Sorry, Nick, you can't participate, it's an unsupervised ritual.'"
Talora bit her lip to keep from laughing. "She's got you there, Hermione. It's a bit of a grey area. Like whether a Howler counts as assault with a magical weapon."
The jab was perfectly aimed. Hermione looked back and forth between their identical expressions of mocking glee. Ron Weasley gaped.
"It's against the rules!" Hermione insisted, her voice trembling.
"Then we'll be sure to invite Filch," Shya deadpanned. "I'm sure he'd love a quiet moment of remembrance. He can tell us stories about all the students he's wished into an early grave."
Hermione fled the Great Hall, utterly defeated. As she left, Shya turned back to her friends, her expression serene. "Well, that was fun. Nothing like a little light heresy before Charms."
—-----
In Charms class, the tension from breakfast still hung in the air. Hermione Granger was present, sitting rigidly beside Parvati Patil. When Professor Flitwick began the lesson on the Levitation Charm, she threw herself into it with a ferocious intensity, as if perfecting the spell could erase the morning's humiliation.
As Shya and Talora practiced, their feathers rising with steady, controlled ease, they watched Hermione. She was visibly flustered, her own feather wobbling uncharacteristically. When Ron Weasley, struggling beside Harry, grumbled about the stupid "wing-gardium levi-osa" pronunciation, Hermione couldn't help herself. She swooped over, her voice a tense, corrective whisper.
"No, it's *Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa*. You have to make the 'gar' nice and long. And it's a swish and flick, not a jab!"
She was trying to help, to re-establish her place as the know-it-all, to reconnect with the boys through the only language she knew: academic correction. It was a clumsy, desperate peace offering.
Ron, already frustrated and embarrassed, shot her a dark look. She retreated to her desk, her shoulders hunched.
The moment the class was dismissed and they were filing out into the corridor, Ron's pent-up frustration exploded. He was clearly trying to make Harry laugh, to regain some social footing.
"It's no wonder she hasn't got any friends," he said loudly, his voice carrying down the stone corridor.
The words hit Hermione like a physical blow. She froze mid-step, her back to them, her entire body going rigid with hurt.
From just behind them, Shya, who had overheard everything, let out a soft, contemptuous snort. She didn't bother to lower her voice as she leaned toward Talora.
"See? Who'd even want to be her friend?" Shya murmured, her tone laced with a cold, eleven-year-old's cruelty. "She tries so hard to be everyone's tutor, she forgot to be a person. Even her own housemates can't stand her."
It was the final, brutal twist of the knife. Not only had Ron, someone she'd thought was a friend, publicly rejected her, but now Shya was coolly dissecting her social failure for all to hear. The truth of it—that she was isolated, that her intelligence was a barrier, not a bridge—was laid bare.
Hermione didn't just look hurt; she looked utterly shattered. Without a word, she shoved past a group of Hufflepuffs and fled, her sobs echoing faintly as she disappeared down a side corridor.
Talora winced, but a small, mean part of her—the part that was always a little annoyed by Hermione's relentless correctness—felt a flicker of satisfaction. "A bit harsh, Bob."
"She makes it easy," Shya replied with an unbothered shrug, continuing toward the Great Hall. "If you act like a walking textbook, people are going to treat you like one. It's basic cause and effect."
Their shared, dark perspective was a bond that excluded everyone else. It was them against a world that took things too seriously or not seriously enough.
This extended to their fury over Defence Against the Dark Arts. As they left Quirrell's classroom, they were fuming.
"He's a disgrace," Shya seethed, her voice low. "He claimed a vampire's reflection doesn't show because their soul is 'too dark for glass'. That's not a theory, it's a bad gothic novel."
Talora was practically vibrating with rage. "I was so excited to learn how to properly behead something! Or at least stun it! And we get… that. A man who's apparently afraid of his own subject. It's like a vegetarian teaching a butchery class."
"At least the vegetarian would have a philosophical reason," Shya countered. "Quirrell just has a stutter and a weird smell. It's offensive."
By the time the Halloween feast began, their mood was a mix of giddy anticipation for their secret Samhain gathering and simmering resentment towards the incompetent adults in their lives. The Great Hall was spectacular, but their attention was elsewhere.
"Do you think she's okay?" Padma asked, glancing at the empty Gryffindor spot.
"Granger?" Shya took a bite of a smoking tart. "Doubtful. She's probably in the library, drafting a formal complaint to the universe for its failure to adhere to her rulebook." She said it without malice, as a simple statement of fact.
Talora grinned. "She's composing a howler to send to herself for having emotions. 'Dear Hermione, You are hereby notified that your feelings are in direct violation of section 4, subsection—'"
A sudden, deafening crash from the Entrance Hall made her jump.
The massive doors flew open, and Professor Quirrell came sprinting in, his turban askew, his face a mask of pure terror.
"TROLL!" he shrieked, "IN THE DUNGEONS! THOUGHT YOU OUGHT TO KNOW!" before collapsing in a dead faint onto the floor.
The panic was immediate. As Dumbledore's voice boomed for prefects to lead them back to their houses, Shya and Talora shared a single, wide-eyed look. The chaos was no longer a theoretical joke.
It was real. And for two witches who thrived on the dark and dangerous, it was, despite everything, the most exciting thing that had happened all day.
The chaos in the Great Hall was a dull roar of frightened voices and scraping benches. As the prefects began herding students toward the house staircases, Shya's sharp eyes scanned the crowd. They landed on a patch of stillness amidst the chaos—Cassian and Roman, standing near the Slytherin cohort. Cassian's gaze met hers across the hall, his expression as unreadable as ever, but his chin gave a slight, deliberate tilt toward the doors. A silent question. Are you still coming?
Shya's lips pressed into a thin line of frustration, but she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Not with this going on.
Talora, gripping Shya's arm, had seen the exchange. "So much for the ancestors," she muttered, her voice thick with disappointment. "Stupid troll."
The walk back to Ravenclaw Tower was a grim, silent affair, a stark contrast to the festive excitement of just an hour before. The common room, when they entered, was buzzing not with intellectual debate, but with anxious speculation.
"Do you think it's still loose?"
"My brother said a troll can smash through stone!"
"What if it comes up here?"
Shya flung herself into a blue armchair, scowling. "This is ridiculous. One lumbering creature with the cognitive function of a concussed flobberworm, and the entire castle shuts down." She kicked at the leg of a nearby table. "We were going to learn something real. Not just another stupid feast."
Talora paced, her usual planning energy turned restless and irritable. "We could try to sneak out. The prefects are distracted."
"And run into a troll? Even you're not that impulsive, Bob," Shya retorted, though the calculating glint in her eye suggested she was considering the odds.
It was then that a school eagle-owl, sleek and efficient, swooped through the common room window. It circled once before dropping a small, tightly rolled scroll directly into Shya's lap. The room was too noisy for anyone else to notice.
Shya unrolled it. The handwriting was precise, sharp, and unmistakably Cassian's.
The obstacle has been dealt with by the staff. The path is clear. The old oak. Now.
She showed it to Talora, whose eyes widened. "Dealt with? How does he know?"
"Who cares?" Shya was already on her feet, her disappointment replaced by a feral grin. "He knows. That's what matters. Come on."
They grabbed Padma, Mandy, and Lisa, showing them the note. A moment of shared, wide-eyed hesitation, then a collective, determined nod. This was more exciting than hiding in the tower.
Sneaking out was almost too easy. The prefects were still taking headcounts and calming first-years. They slipped out the door and into the suddenly silent, torch-lit corridors. The castle felt different—hushed, waiting. The air was cold and still.
They found the old, gnarled oak near the greenhouses, its branches skeletal against the starry sky. A small, magical fire, contained and smokeless, burned in a stone circle. Cassian and Roman were already there, along with a few other Slytherin first-years—a blonde girl named Daphne Greengrass and a quiet boy named Theodore Nott, Roman's cousin.
For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl. Then, Roman began to speak, his voice low and respectful, devoid of its usual charm.
"The veil is thin tonight," he said, his gaze on the flames. "It's a time to remember those who walked this world before us. The ones who built the magic we wield. The ones whose choices, good and bad, led us here."
He didn't say a prayer or chant a spell. He simply lit a small, black candle and set it beside the fire. "For my grandfather, who taught me that ambition without wisdom is a poison."
Daphne Greengrass lit another. "For my aunt, who showed me that silence can be a sharper weapon than a shout."
Theodore Nott lit a third, saying nothing, his silence itself a tribute.
The Ravenclaw girls—Talora, Shya, Padma, Mandy, and Lisa—watched, mesmerized. This wasn't a party. It was solemn, personal. Talora, ever the planner, looked slightly lost without a script. Padma watched with keen interest, while Mandy and Lisa huddled closer together, wide-eyed.
Shya, however, understood immediately. She picked up a candle. Her movements were sure, her expression uncharacteristically soft. She lit it from the main fire.
"For my grandmother," she said, her voice clear and quieter than they had ever heard it. The usual sharp edges were gone, replaced by a profound, aching fondness. "She raised me in a world without magic. She was the one who told me that strength doesn't always have to be loud to be felt. That it can be elegant. Quiet. Like the roots of this tree." She touched the simple gold kara on her wrist, a gift from the woman she spoke of. "She loved me the most, and she'd be so proud to see me standing here, finding my own roots in a world she never knew." She placed the candle with a reverence that silenced even the rustling leaves.
The raw, unfiltered love in her words hung in the air. It was a side of Shya Gill none of them had ever seen so openly displayed.
Inspired, Talora took a candle, her hands trembling slightly. She lit it, the flame catching and steadying as she found her voice.
"For my grandpa," she said, a small, wobbly smile gracing her lips. "He was a man covered in scars, from a life spent in a world that didn't understand him. But he never let it harden his heart. Not towards me." She looked at the flame, her green eyes glistening. "He made me his pride. He was the first to call me a witch, long before I knew it was real. He taught me that it's never, ever too late to connect with who you are, no matter where you've been." She placed her candle beside Shya's, the two flames seeming to burn a little brighter together.
Encouraged, Padma stepped forward. She lit a candle. "For my great-great-grandfather. He was the last witch in our family, generations ago. He built our vault, hoping one day the magic would return. I hope he knows it has." She placed her candle neatly beside the others.
Mandy, looking thoughtful, lit hers. "For my mum. She's a Muggle, but she's the bravest person I know. She wasn't scared when my letter came, just… curious. She taught me that new things aren't something to be afraid of."
Finally, Lisa lit her candle. "For my dad. He's a wizard, but he always says the best magic is making people laugh. I think he'd be happy we're out here, even if it's a bit serious."
A moment of silence passed after the others had spoken. Then, Cassian reached for a candle. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic. He lit the wick, the flame catching and holding steady. "For my great-grandfather, Arcturus Black," he said, his voice low and resonant in the quiet night. "He raised me. He taught me that the name Black is not just blood, but a legacy. It is duty. It is standing when others would fall. He kept me safe, and he taught me what it truly means to be one of us." He placed the black candle beside the others, its flame burning with a fierce, unwavering intensity.
When the last candle was placed, a ring of tiny flames flickered around the contained fire, each one a story, a memory, a piece of a legacy. The silence that followed was comfortable, weighted with meaning.
Cassian,, finally looked up. His gaze found Shya's across the circle. "The troll was in the girls' bathroom on the third floor. Potter and Weasley apparently went after it. Granger was in there."
The information was delivered like a fact, but the implication was clear. This is why the path was clear. This is what we were spared.
Shya held his gaze, her head tilting just slightly. A silent acknowledgment. Understood.
They sat for a while longer, not as rival houses, but as a group of children bound by a shared, secret understanding of something older and deeper than school rivalries. The magic here wasn't in wands or spells, but in the quiet acknowledgment of history, family, and the thin, fragile veil between the past and the present. For Shya and Talora, it was the most real magic they had encountered yet.