At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Amossta paused to glance back at Hagrid's hut. The crude wooden cabin was dark, devoid of any flickering lantern or the hum of magical energy. It seemed the gamekeeper was away.
It was common knowledge that Hagrid was one of Albus Dumbledore's most trusted confidants. Often, the Headmaster would entrust vital, private errands to the giant man who looked rough but proved unfailingly reliable in a crisis. Amossta couldn't be certain if Hagrid was out on business or patrolling the deeper woods, so to ensure he wouldn't be disturbed, he trekked a significant distance south before finally stepping into the tree line.
The dense Forbidden Forest was an abyss of silence. Aside from the rhythmic crunch of dry leaves under his boots, even the biting winter wind seemed to lose its voice, intimidated by the oppressive atmosphere of the place.
Amossta pushed deeper into the woods, veering off the winding paths and bypassing a clearing of moss-covered stumps. Only when the last glimmer of the castle lights vanished behind the thick canopy did he stop. He climbed atop a large, flat bluestone.
"This is the place, Philena," Amossta whispered to the photograph. The elderly woman's kind smile was frozen in time. He set the frame on the stone, propping it up with a snapped twig.
"In the world I once knew, it was tradition that on the seventh night after passing, a soul is granted one chance to return and visit the family they left behind."
Amossta shook his sleeve, and a twelve-inch ebony wand with a dragon heartstring core slid into his palm. It was perfectly maintained, the wood polished to a dull sheen. He pointed it at a fist-sized rock at his feet; the stone levitated instantly, spinning into a blurred silhouette before transforming into an orange-yellow copper basin.
"And at this time, the living honor the dead with a final gift..."
Amossta sat cross-legged on the stone, ignoring the slick, numbing chill it pressed against his body. He retrieved a cloth pouch from his robes—a two-Galleon purchase from Dervish and Banges in Hogsmeade, enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. He had personally modified it; it could now hold the equivalent of a small car, with nested compartments for categorized storage.
"I hope you like this," he murmured.
He emptied a thick stack of yellow joss paper and a small hill of hand-folded gold ingots into the basin.
Whoosh!
A brilliant golden flame erupted, hungrily consuming the paper. The intense heat quickly scorched the rim of the basin and dried the moisture from the freezing air. The light reflected off the glass of the photo frame, illuminating Amossta's pale, drawn face.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be there at the end. It will likely be the greatest regret of my life."
His lips were dry and cracked as he fed more paper into the fire, speaking to the woman in the flames. The flickering light made the photograph seem to move, as if she were a magical portrait, offering silent comfort to the grieving boy.
"—If not for you, I would have died at that woman's hands sixteen years ago. I would never have seen this wonderful world."
The piercing north wind grew strangely gentle as it entered the circle of firelight. It tugged softly at Amossta's hair, like an invisible hand stroking his head. He whispered his deepest secrets to the grave—absurd truths he could never tell the living. Only here, in the presence of the dead, could he be entirely himself.
The moon began its slow descent. In the pre-dawn hours, a thick mist rolled out from the heart of the forest, shrouding everything in a ghostly haze. Small shards of ice hung from the leaves, drooping like lost souls from the branches.
"What do you think he's doing, Prian?"
Lost in his memories, Amossta had let his guard slip. He failed to notice two figures fifty feet behind him, clutching broomsticks and wearing the scarlet jerseys of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. They had been watching him for several minutes.
"Hard to say, Filoya. But it looks like some kind of dark ritual," whispered Prian, a fourth-year Beater with a round face and small, squinting eyes. He nudged the girl beside him—his teammate and girlfriend. "That's Amossta Blaine. A real weirdo. A total bookworm."
"A weirdo?" Filoya, a girl with pale blonde hair and sharp features, arched an eyebrow.
"Exactly," Prian snickered. "Heilsen from Ravenclaw says he sees Blaine in the library every Saturday morning, buried under a mountain of books. He doesn't talk to anyone. Thinks he's a scholar, but his marks are nowhere near Charlie Weasley's brother. Probably because he's just thick."
Filoya let out a sharp giggle, leaning against her Nimbus 1700 as she snuggled into Prian's side. "Maybe we should head back to the castle and fetch a professor. We can't just let him use Dark Arts to curse a dead woman, can we?"
"Bad idea, Filoya." Prian's eyes glinted with mischief. "Charlie and the others are still playing hide-and-seek with the giant spiders deeper in the woods. If we bring a teacher, they're all busted."
"Charlie said his brother Bill is the Prefect on duty tonight. We could tell him," Filoya suggested. "Bill wouldn't sell out his own brother."
"Better idea," Prian said, staring at Amossta's thin, solitary back. A malicious grin spread across his face. "But I have a funnier way to punish this little snake. Come on, Filoya. Get your wand out. Let's teach him a lesson he won't forget."
On the stone, only a few pieces of joss paper remained. Amossta gathered them with both hands and dropped them into the dying embers of the basin.
"—I hope the kindness you showed in this life becomes your blessing in the next, Philena. The place I came from was a beautiful country. If you have the choice, perhaps you could be born in—"
"Hey! Face judgment, you Slytherin Dark Wizard!"
The sudden shout shattered Amossta's focus. Before he could even process the words, the sharp whistle of two spells cutting through the air reached his ears.
"Petrificus Totalus!" "Confringo!"
In the heartbeat that followed, Amossta's instincts screamed. He reached for his wand to counter, only to realize with a jolt of horror that he was sitting on it. His legs, cramped from over an hour of kneeling on the cold stone, were numb and unresponsive.
Damn it! Careless!
Amossta threw his weight to the side, rolling off the stone. He managed to snatch his wand as he fell, the spells missing his head by an inch.
But Philena's photograph and the copper basin were not so fortunate.
Prian's Full Body-Bind Jinx missed Amossta but slammed into the basin. The impact sent a spray of white-hot embers flying into the air, lighting up the Forbidden Forest like a mock sunrise.
Filoya's Blasting Curse struck true. It hit the marble frame square on. With a sickening crack, the glass shattered. The photograph, torn in two, was swept up by the golden tongues of the scattered fire. It blackened, curled, and dissolved into ash in seconds.
As Amossta scrambled to his feet, a charred fragment of the photo—its edge still glowing with orange sparks—drifted past his eyes and fell limply to the dirt.
His gaze followed it.
Shock, disbelief, and finally a cold, abyssal fury flickered across his violet eyes. As the last scrap of ash vanished, Amossta lifted his head. His gaze locked onto the direction of the attack.
Slowly, with terrifying deliberation, he raised his wand.