Fear stole through Hogwarts castle during the next few days, passed from student to student faster than a contagious virus. The very idea that a centaur – far larger and stronger than a human – had been attacked, killed, and then eaten down to his bones, terrified the castle's inhabitants. Raised with the belief that Magical defenses could handle nearly every threat – except, possibly, for Voldemort and his Death Eaters – the students and staff felt virtually helpless at the knowledge that Aguamenti was their only likely defense, with Eruptum Sal as a less-likely last resort.

Professor Flitwick patiently coached the younger students in casting both Charms, although Aguamenti normally did not appear on his syllabus until O.W.L. year. Eruptum Sal was mentioned in N.E.W.T. readings, but casting it had never been required on actual exams. Even so, under Flitwick's tutelage, and with older students assisting the younger years, every Hogwarts student was soon casting Aguamenti, and all but the First Years had managed to produce at least a tiny burst of salt from their wands.

"Barely enough to salt my dinner," complained a frustrated Second Year Hufflepuff, but Filius Flitwick was quick to praise her efforts, and he gave the young girl's shoulder an encouraging pat.

Umbridge, of course, was a different story.

"Wands away," she admonished, as Harry had predicted. "With the castle wards in place, not to mention that ridiculous salt ring, there is no perceivable danger. Today, you will copy out Chapter Nine."

As the Fifth Year Gryffindors and Slytherins despondently took out parchment and quills, the pounding of multiple footsteps in the corridor distracted them, followed by excited shouts of, "They've been sighted! They've been sighted!"

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Umbridge, her pink shoes tapping firmly upon the polished hardwood floor of the classroom as she strode to the door.

Several N.E.W.T. students with a free period had been rushing past the DADA class, but they stopped short, eager to impart urgent news of gloom and doom.

"The Fatal Squirrels, Professor! They've come out of the Forbidden Forest onto the grounds!"

Instantly, the Defense classroom exploded into activity, students rushing, pushing, climbing over desks to get to the windows overlooking the Black Lake and one edge of the Forest.

"MERLIN!" shrieked Pansy Parkinson. "THERE THEY ARE!" Her trembling finger pointed through the sunlit glass of the leaded window.

And there – way, way down the hill, beyond Hagrid's smokeless chimney, beyond the gleaming barrier of salt – tiny forms bounced across the fading autumn grass. The students gasped at the sheer numbers, for there must have been more than two hundred of them! From this distance, except for their color, they could easily have been mistaken for ordinary squirrels. Suddenly, however, one squirrel sat up tall, its attention caught by –

"A rabbit," whispered Lavender Brown. "Oh, please run…"

But the rabbit continued to nibble at some tasty greenery until an unearthly screech caused it to freeze. The horde of Fatal Squirrels had swarmed into action, speeding across the grass toward the hapless victim. The approaching verdigris storm finally galvanized the rabbit into motion and it took off, running a spasmodic zigzag as if hoping to throw the bounding squirrels off its trail.

"This way! Come this way!" urged Hermione, pounding her fist on the window sill.

Almost as if it had heard her, the rabbit swerved and headed away from the shore, running frantically toward the castle. But just before the imperiled prey reached the salt barrier, the undulating blanket of bunched squirrels overtook the rabbit, and it vanished beneath the ravenous verdigris swarm.

One Fatal Squirrel overran the downed rabbit and blundered onto the edge of the salt barrier. To the students' horror, the squirrel began to smoke, and its shrill shrieks of obvious agony could be heard, even at this distance and through the heavy glass. Stumbling over its flaming paws, the Fatal Squirrel fell headlong into the thick salt, writhing wildly in unbearable pain as its leathery wings torched into flapping flames. The animal's panicked movements forced salt grains through the verdigris fur, all the way to its sensitive skin. Within seconds, the entire squirrel had combusted, screaming in uncomprehending terror as it flopped agonizingly in live cremation upon the gleaming salt.

Just a couple of minutes later, the poor creature had been reduced to a smoldering black clump, which contrasted sickeningly with its pure white surroundings. Several other squirrels, who had been unable to get close enough to feast upon the rabbit, stared at the smoking remains of their former companion. None seemed inclined to approach it, simply observing the blackened lump with puzzled curiosity, as if trying to figure out what had happened.

"As I said," stated Umbridge coldly, "there's nothing to fear out there."

Slowly, the students turned away from the windows to stare at the nightmare in pink. Had she NO compassion? No EMPATHY?

"Take your seats, please. Wands away." And she firmly swung her own wand to shutter all of the windows.

-:- -:- -:-

In the few days following brave Paltarre's death and before the advent of an ever-increasing number of Fatal Squirrels onto the Hogwarts grounds, Firenze had urged the remaining centaur mothers with young foals to take shelter inside the castle. Several other juvenile centaurs of both genders accompanied them. Under the age of four solar years – the equivalent of about sixteen human years - these young centaurs were not yet considered adults. But the rest of the adult centaurs, male and female alike, continued to inhabit the Forbidden Forest, standing watch both day and night, ready to flee the Fatal Squirrels if an alarm was sounded.

Dumbledore had transformed a number of large, unused rooms into a series of connecting suites, complete with grassy floors, leafy trees, and enchanted ceilings to reflect the actual skies above the castle. The largest room contained a gently-sloping pool for bathing, with an enchanted waterfall splashing tranquilly into the deepest end. The centaurs' favorite foods were made constantly available, and their other needs were met by either the house elves – who cooed over the small foals – the Headmaster himself, or even Magic, such as the turf which had been spelled to automatically Vanish unnecessary waste. Although the juvenile centaurs seemed delighted with their unusual holiday from the forest and took an interest in becoming acquainted with any students who chose to pay them a friendly visit, the older females tended to keep their distance from the Wizarding population, all except for Fayleene. Despite her grief, the young mother tried her best to return the open hand of friendship extended by the sympathetic staff and many of the students.

It was after Hermione and several other female students had paid a visit to Fayleene and Braeden on Halloween morning that they heard some astonishing news being discussed in a vacant alcove amongst the members of the teaching staff, all except for Trelawney, who remained tightly locked up in her tower.

"Pink!" exclaimed Minerva McGonagall. "Are you certain, Albus?"

Dumbledore nodded, a gleam of humor in his eyes. "That's what the French Ministry just passed on to Fudge, who passed it on to me. The color pink, they recently learned, incites the Fatal Squirrels to raging violence." He peered at Umbridge over his spectacles. "Doubtless, Dolores, that is exactly what happened the other day when you visited Hagrid's hut. Your pink robes caused the squirrel to 'go off', as it were."

"Nonsense!" blustered Umbridge. "I've never heard of anything so ridiculous."

Grubbly-Plank frowned thoughtfully. "It might explain the gender difference in the squirrels' attacks upon humans. More females than males wear pink."

"That does make sense, Professor," Snape concurred. He smirked unpleasantly at Umbridge. "Might I suggest, madam, that you refrain from attiring yourself in pink until after the crisis has passed?"

"Excellent recommendation, Severus," said Dumbledore. "Perhaps a sedate navy, Dolores?"

"Or hunter green," put in McGonagall.

Umbridge puffed herself up indignantly. "That's absurd! I don't intend to give up wearing pink. It's my signature color!" She whirled around and flounced away, her fuchsia robes swinging defiantly.

"Well, Albus," said Pamona Sprout, "It was worth a try. Too bad our eyes won't get a much-needed break."

Filius Flitwick nodded sadly, adding, "With a signature like that, she should have been a Healer."

Dumbledore chuckled before he sobered. "Quite seriously – I do hope Dolores has the sense not to show herself outside the castle, at least during daylight."

Shaking their heads, the various staff members went their separate ways, while the eavesdropping girls rushed to spread the news that the color pink would incite the Fatal Squirrels.

Less than an hour later, desperate screams were heard from the front steps of the castle. Pansy Parkinson, her face suffused with horror, kept shrieking and pointing toward the top of the path which led down to Hagrid's hut.

Responding to the source of the high-pitched screams, Severus Snape rushed onto the outer steps, grabbing the hysterical girl by her elbow. "Miss Parkinson!" He had to shake her arm to get her attention. "Calm yourself! What is the meaning of your unseemly behavior?"

"It's Draco! It's Draco!" she sobbed. "Merlin help him! He's going to die!"

Snape stared in the direction which her shaking finger indicated.

Classes had just ended before lunch, and it seemed that half of the student body was squeezing through the castle's main doors in an attempt to find out what this latest fracas entailed. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had just come from History of Magic, and when Harry looked past Snape's billowing black robes to see what Pansy was pointing at, he burst out laughing.

"Harry! It's not funny!" Hermione remonstrated with him, but the green-eyed Gryffindor kept guffawing at the bizarre scene playing out before them all. Once Ron figured things out, he joined in the laughter, as did at least half of the male students around them.

Just on the rim of the steep slope, Draco Malfoy and his usual brainless companions, Crabbe and Goyle, were all waving bright pink pieces of some sort of fabric, which seemed festooned with white lace. The three Slytherins' attention was focused toward the farthest end of the grounds, beyond the salt barrier, near the shores of the Black Lake, where a group of Fatal Squirrels were nosing through the grass.

Incensed, Snape waved his wand and silently Accioed the pink "signal flags", leaving Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle abruptly empty handed. The lacy items whizzed through the air too quickly for the other students to identify them, until they landed in Snape's outstretched hand. Pandemonium then ensued, with some students bursting into laughter, others gasping in horror, or – in Pansy's case – shrieking louder than ever in her mortification, as she watched the dark Potions Master hoisting aloft her bright pink nightie, knickers, and bra.

Without a word, the man tossed the offending items to the Slytherin girl, then wielded his wand once more to Summon the three Fifth Year idiots back from the top of the path. As they sprawled painfully on the uppermost step of the castle, Snape loomed menacingly over them.

"What the… WHAT, in Merlin's name, were you IMBECILES trying to DO?" he snarled, glowering down at the boys.

Unbidden, the thought crossed Harry's mind that this may have been the only time he'd ever heard Snape ask a totally redundant question. To him, and to every other student crowding onto the steps, the Slytherins' actions were entirely self-explanatory.

Crabbe and Goyle both looked at Draco, waiting for him to explain the situation for the three of them.

The blond teen shrugged at the irate man's furious question. "We were just trying to get the Fatal Squirrels to run across the salt, Professor. We saw what happened to that other one, and we thought it would be one way to get rid of the rest of them, since nothing else seems to work against them."

Snape stared at the boys in disbelief. "Mr. Malfoy," he said heavily, enunciating every syllable. "We do not begin to know everything about Fatal Squirrels. When we tested the animal's ability to cross a salt barrier, we simply used food as a positive enticement. We did not know at that time that the color pink could incite absolute rage in the creature – perhaps sufficiently to induce it into flying horizontally across the barrier."

Draco suddenly seemed to pale as he realized what his Head of House was saying.

"Had your experiment succeeded better than ours did," Snape hissed fiercely, "you could be dying now. Or you could already be stripped to the bone." He glared at the three Slytherins. "Detention. Tonight."

"But the Halloween Feast – " Draco's whine was instantly cut off.

"NOT. For. You. Three." Snape glared again for good measure. "The Potions Dungeon. At the beginning of the supper hour. Don't. Be. Late." Whirling to face Pansy, he added, "Miss Parkinson, please get your undergarments under cover. Immediately."

"Yes, sir," she mumbled, her face flaming as pink as her knickers.

-:- -:- -:-

To Dumbledore's surprise, in early afternoon on Halloween, he received an urgent firecall from Madame Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France. After informing McGonagall and Snape that he needed to leave and might not return until the following morning, Dumbledore threw Floo powder into the flames of his personal fireplace, watched them flare green, and stepped quickly in, giving a destination, which was not, in fact, Beauxbatons. The occupants of the framed portraits in the Headmaster's office watched him disappear from view, leaving his office empty, except for the now-yellow flames and a crimson Phoenix.

Barely an hour later, the thickly-overcast skies opened, drenching the ancient stones of Hogwarts' edifice with a heavy downpour which gave no indication of stopping.

Minerva McGonagall came across Severus Snape as he stared out a rain-smeared window toward the Forbidden Forest, which was all but lost behind the dense curtain of rain. "Knut for your thoughts, Severus."

He sighed and turned to look at the Deputy Headmistress. "I just heard the weather report on the Wizarding Wireless. This heavy rain is supposed to last through the night, into late morning tomorrow. There's danger of flooding in low-lying areas."

McGonagall chuckled. "If that's so, then I'm glad the Founders decided to build Hogwarts on a hill!"

Snape's lips twitched. "Also, I've been thinking about the Fatal Squirrels."

"They'll be bogged down by the rain, won't they?" she asked.

"They should be," he nodded. "And that's all to the better, given that this rain will probably wash away the salt barrier. We'll need to recast it in the morning, if Dumbledore does not return before the rain stops. As for the squirrels' mobility – a light sprinkle might not have much of an effect on them, but a heavy rain this steady should cause them to hole up somewhere under cover until morning."

"Good," said McGonagall. "One less thing to worry about, with Albus away. Now – the Feast. What are you going as?"

A loud, derisive snort echoed along the length of the corridor.

-:- -:- -:-

"It's really pouring!" said Ron, pressing his nose to the dormitory window in Gryffindor Tower. Darkness lay beyond the rain-splattered pane.

"I guess we can use the rain," Harry commented as he buttoned a clean shirt to wear to the Halloween Feast. "It's been a really dry fall. We don't need a forest fire to break out."

"I'll bet that would work to get rid of the Fatal Squirrels," Ron chuckled.

Neville Longbottom rolled his eyes. "More creatures than the squirrels live in the Forbidden Forest," he pointed out. "You wouldn't want to kill off innocent creatures, would you?"

Ron shuddered. "Well, Aragog wasn't exactly innocent, regardless of what Hagrid thought of him. But, yeah, you're right about the other things, like unicorns, centaurs, bowtruckles, and other stuff."

"Well, at least the rain should keep the Fatal Squirrels from moving around too much," said Harry. "They can't fly or glide when they're wet, and they find it harder to climb, too."

"What about the salt ring?" asked Neville, frowning in concern. "Do you think it'll hold up to this rain?"

"Dunno," said Harry, frowning himself, now. "But if it doesn't, they can always make a new one when the rain stops, right?"

"I suppose so," nodded Ron. "But can you believe Malfoy and his goons? What a bunch of morons!"

"Harry, are you guys ready?" Hermione's voice filtered up the stairs from the Common Room. "We can say goodnight to the centaurs on our way to the Great Hall."

After telling Neville they'd see him at the Feast, Harry and Ron trotted down the steps to meet Hermione.

"I take it the centaurs aren't coming to the Feast?" asked Harry.

Hermione shook her head. "Fayleene says the other centaurs don't want their youngsters to get too involved in 'human rituals', as she put it. She says they're all planning to lock up and have an early night of it. If it weren't raining, they'd stay awake and stargaze, but since the enchanted ceilings are just showing the rain tonight, they're planning to go to sleep early. But she did say they'd stay up until we came by. Braeden is eager to see us."

The Gryffindors made their way down seven flights of steps until they reached the main floor, where they turned into a wide side corridor which led to the "Centaurs' Wing", as people had begun to call it. Harry supposed that it might always be referred to as such in the centuries to come, as future students read a revised edition of "Hogwarts, A History" detailing the Fatal Squirrels crisis and the fact that centaurs had sheltered down this wing of the ground floor.

"Mama! Mama!"

Little Braeden had caught sight of their human visitors and broke into a gallop to greet them. Excitedly, his short little tail swished to and fro as he grinned from cheek to chubby cheek. Gleaming in the flickering torchlight, his little roan haunches quivered with each prancing step as he led them back to Fayleene, who was waiting in the doorway to their naturized chambers.

She reached out a tender hand to caress her son's silky red curls. "My little one has been waiting for his 'tall friends' to come by," she said with a hint of a smile.

The Gryffindors smiled back at Fayleene and then grinned at Braeden, who took to kicking up his heels in joy, bucking and laughing.

"It's good to see him healed," Harry said quietly, looking up at Fayleene, whose human head topped his by a couple of feet. Baby Braeden's head was not yet on a level with the human teenagers', but Harry suspected it wouldn't be long. Foals grew quickly, and those born earlier in the spring were already able to look the students straight in the eyes.

"Braeden!" Fayleene admonished, but the foal was gone already, galloping up the corridor, only to turn around and gallop back past them to the other end before returning once more. "He likes the sound his hooves make on the stone floor," his mother explained wryly. "Earlier, all of the foals were racing each other. I've never heard such a clatter!"

"I suppose it's good exercise," Hermione tried to look on the positive side.

"Yeah," added Ron. "It must be hard for them to be shut in the castle like this. Kids are always full of energy. That's what my mum says."

Fayleene smiled at Ron, the first full smile any of them had seen her give, and her face shone with a sudden, glowing beauty.

Ron blushed at her smile and looked unaccountably flustered.

Harry tried to help him out. "I'll bet your mum would also say that Braeden will sleep well tonight after a good workout."

The roan foal galloped past again, his high-pitched giggles echoing off the walls.

"I certainly hope so!" exclaimed the centaur mother. "Braeden! Come here!"

"He'll probably calm down after we've gone," Hermione said with a smile, "so we'd better say goodnight, now." To the little centaur, she called, "Braeden, we're going now."

The roan foal stopped suddenly, then came clip-clopping slowly back, practically dragging his hooves, his tiny tail hanging limply in disappointment. "Go bye?" he asked, his dark blue eyes sad. When the students nodded, he sniffled and poked his thumb into his mouth for comfort.

"I'll come back tomorrow," Hermione promised, "but you have to have a good night's sleep, okay?"

"'Kay," Braeden mumbled past his thumb. Suddenly, he flung both of his arms around Hermione's waist, startling her before she laughed. "You nice," he said, hugging her, and then moving on to hug Ron. "You nice," he repeated, causing Ron to chuckle. As Braeden squeezed Harry around the middle, Harry's stomach growled loudly, causing the foal to jump back in alarm.

"Don't worry, Braeden," laughed Harry. "I wasn't growling at you. My stomach was growling because it's hungry."

"Hun-gee?" asked the foal. When Harry nodded, smiling, Braeden said, "Mama feed," and he began pulling loose the laces of Fayleene's vest.

"Oh, no!" blurted Harry, feeling his face heat up as if he were making a firecall. "I – uh – we – um…"

"We have to eat people food, Braeden," Hermione rushed to Harry's aid, while giving Ron a solid thump on his bicep. The redhead looked ready to completely lose it. "That's why we have to leave now. We're going to eat."

"Bye!" said Harry, not able to even look at Fayleene. He turned and walked away as fast as he could. As his friends caught up to him after their own good-byes, the Gryffindors heard a most gratifying sound echoing off the walls behind them.

Fayleene was laughing her head off.

-:- -:- -:-

"Well, it WAS cute," Hermione insisted as they entered the already-crowded Great Hall, where glowing jack-o-lanterns floated above the House tables. Multiple festive orange-and-black banners with animated designs hung down from just below the numerous high owl windows nearly all the way to table level along each side of the long room. As usual, the house elves had outdone themselves, filling every table to groaning with an unimaginable array of sweets.

"Anyone get the idea that Halloween is Dumbledore's favorite holiday?" asked Ron. "Not that I'm complaining!"

"But it was good to hear her laugh," continued Hermione, as they headed for their usual seats at the Gryffindor table. After surveying the nearby treats, she selected a chocolate éclair.

"Huh? Who?" asked Ron, as Harry helped himself to a heaping slice of pumpkin chiffon pie slathered with a thick layer of whipped cream.

"Fayleene, Ronald!" Hermione rolled her eyes impatiently. "Her husband was killed only a few days ago, and I imagine she's felt as if she'd never laugh again. And then Braeden offered – "

"NOT HERE, Hermione!" Harry glared at her fiercely, a smear of whipped cream on his upper lip lending a comical element to his pained expression.

Ron kept piling pumpkin ice cream into a large bowl until he'd accumulated almost a quart (1 litre) of it, then doused the orangey mass with warm caramel sauce, toasted walnuts, and miniature marshmallows. Ignoring the teaspoon in his place setting, the redhead began shoveling gobs of ice cream into his mouth with the large serving spoon. Several marshmallows rolled off the spoonful before it reached his mouth, landing on the front of his shirt, sticking to the fabric with caramel sauce.

"Oh, Ron…" Hermione sighed, eyeing the mess with a combination of amusement and disgust.

"That's weird," said Harry.

"Talk about an understatement!" she retorted.

"I mean Snape," Harry clarified, watching as the black-robed Potions Master approached between the House tables, heading for the Head Table. "I thought he'd be in detention with Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle."

The Gryffindors quickly searched the Slytherin table, but did not spot the three detainees.

Harry didn't realize that he was staring speculatively at Snape until the man stopped across from his seat. "Something bothering you, Potter? Or were you simply attempting to catch flies with the half-masticated food in your gaping maw?"

"Where's Malfoy?" Harry blurted before realizing Snape would never answer an impertinent question about something which was clearly none of Harry's business.

But he was wrong.

"Not that it's any of your business, Potter – "

Well, sort of wrong.

" – but Mr. Malfoy is in the Potions Dungeon."

"Alone?" Harry could hardly imagine Snape allowing anyone – even his favored Slytherins – to serve an unsupervised detention.

Snape's lips twisted his face into a sneer. "I hardly think the fact that he is spending the evening in the company of Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle, and Mr. Filch is any of your business, either, Potter." The Potions Master swept away toward his colleagues already seated at the Head Table, where Sybill Trelawney's chair sat vacant and Dolores Umbridge's fuchsia robes served as a blazing beacon.

The three Gryffindors stared at each other, then dissolved into snickers of quiet glee.

"Filch!" whispered Hermione. "That's even worse than a detention with Snape!"

They laughed again, before Harry observed, "I guess Mrs. Norris must be with them. Filch hasn't let her out of his sight since we first learned about the Fatal Squirrels."

"Just as well," said Ron, scraping the large spoon around the bottom of his empty bowl. "Remember last year, when Mrs. Norris came to the Halloween Feast? She ended up jumping onto the Hufflepuff table and got a popcorn ball stuck in her fur! Colin Creevey's photo of her careening around on top of the House tables made the front page of the Daily Prophet!"

The students' laughter blended with the general loud hubbub in the Great Hall, rising above and beyond the floating jack-o-lanterns. What nobody noticed – neither students, nor staff – was the enchanted ceiling. Black as the Scottish night, the downpour amongst the rafters had gradually tapered off. By the midpoint of the Halloween Feast, the rain had stopped entirely.

Upon the Hogwarts grounds, several hours of relentless, heavy rain had dissolved, diluted, then washed away completely the remnants of the protective ring of salt.

-:- -:- -:-

Had researching Wizards in either France or Great Britain had sufficient time to discover it, they would have known that Fatal Squirrels will shelter in a hollow tree during heavy rain, if one is available. To avoid the handicap that comes with a severe drenching, the squirrels will pack themselves into a hollow trunk, or even a hollow log, so tightly that they barely have room to breathe. Thus protected, they will wait out the storm, emerging only after the rain has ended. Rather than allowing desperate hunger to force them out of shelter during several days of rain, Fatal Squirrels will turn cannibalistic, feeding upon each other in the tightly-packed tree trunk, where few could hope to escape such a grisly fate.

Had Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, been in residence, instead of off on a mission known only to Albus Dumbledore, the gamekeeper could have pointed out every hollow tree and log going nine miles (13.5 kilometres) deep into the Hogwarts side of the Forbidden Forest, having learned every tree, shrub, hollow, cave, spring, and creek by heart over the past half century.

But neither Wizarding researchers nor Hagrid himself could have predicted the inexplicable lull in the downpour. Yet, when the rain quit pounding against the squirrel-stuffed trees, one by one, the Fatal Squirrels emerged into the black night where residual dripping pattered onto the fallen leaves littering the wet Forest floor. Aside from a few individuals unlucky enough to have been sheltering closest to the weather-exposed entrance holes in the trees, the squirrels were dry and ready for action.

Spreading their wings, they glided to the ground, calling through the darkness to gather their comrades. Bat-ears twitched at hearing the beckoning, and dozens gathered, then hundreds, and by the time the Fatal Squirrels had reached the thinning trees on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, nearly two thousand of the verdigris vermin were congregated in a gigantic pack. Some were newcomers, having arrived from the south just before the rain hit, while others had been in the vicinity for the past week. But all could feel the pull of the castle, the Magic throbbing within the pile of ancient stones.

Magic called to them, causing their blood to tingle, and the black ground at the edge of the Forest began to glow with an unearthly bluish light as thousands of eyes blazed electric blue through the darkness of Halloween night.

Slowly, the band of blue light crossed the wet grass, drawn by the Magic, but leery of the memory of that white barrier which had thwarted previous attempts to approach the pile of stones. A number of squirrels had suffered burnt paws and mouths, and one poor soul had gone up in flames. But tonight, new leaders emerged. Newcomers who had never encountered the white barrier led the way, bounding faster and faster toward the castle. And when the remaining squirrels realized that the ring of burning snow no longer impeded their passage, they followed hard upon their compatriots' clawed heels.

Up the wet hill … over the low walls… Their blazing eyes lit their impassioned advance like blue lanterns of doom. The squirrels froze momentarily as a high-pitched shriek rent the black night from one of the highest points of stone, and the opening they had sensed was there, through which the sound had issued, was suddenly closed with a bang.

Never mind, never mind…

There were other openings into the stone pile. High up, as high as birds could fly. Openings through which the Magic throbbed, and through which the scent of hot blood wafted, spilling down the stones upon a gentle downdraft. Ignoring the faint shiver of the protective wards through which they passed unhindered, the eager creatures reached the stones at last.

The Fatal Squirrels began to climb.

Rough stone, weathered, centuries old – easy to find clawholds. The vertical stones were as easily scaled as the trunk of a walnut tree. Higher and higher, past glowing golden light … the Magic throbbing, throbbing, throbbing, a tantalizing heartbeat within the stones … the scent of blood, an anticipation of a taste hot and sweet upon their tongues…

Searching for access, a way past the flat overhang … there!

Now on a slanting pile of slate, higher than any tree they had ever climbed – the golden opening to the Magic and the blood lay just above their heads … throbbing, throbbing, throbbing…

And the moon fell from the black sky and sailed whitely through an opening just ahead of the swarm of squirrels…

-:- -:- -:-

A frantic screech high above the revelers made Harry's messy hair stand on end. His hand automatically massaged his traitorous hair follicles as his eyes searched the blackness amidst the rafters of the Great Hall.

"What's Hedwig doing up there?" he wondered aloud, as his snowy owl circled against the enchanted ceiling, screeching repeatedly. No letter or package was tied to her foot…

"It sounds almost like she's trying to warn us about something," mused Ron.

Harry's blood went cold. He lurched to his feet, holly wand in hand, and shouted to the Head Table, "Snape! Snape! The rain has stopped!" He pointed up at the vaulted ceiling soaring beyond the hovering pumpkins.

Realization shot across the Potions Master's features, followed by horror, which was reflected in the faces of all of the teaching staff at the Head Table. Harry's head swiveled around to see what they saw, as all had drawn their wands…

Dozens of verdigris squirrels – no, hundreds! – no, there must be THOUSANDS! – had flung themselves through the numerous owl windows and were gliding relentlessly down on widespread wings, their blazing blue eyes fixed upon their panicking prey. Hedwig circled high enough to stay out of their reach, screeching, screeching, screeching… But the layers of descending horror took no interest in a mere owl – not when there were hundreds of warm-blooded Magical beings gathered below, ready to supply their feeding frenzy.

"Aguamenti!" screamed Harry, aiming his wand high overhead. "Aguamenti!" A huge jet of water shot forth, knocking several Fatal Squirrels out of the air. Two thudded to the stone floor, and another plopped into the bright orange frosting of a towering multi-layered pumpkin cake.

As other students followed Harry's lead in frantically casting Aguamenti, a tremendous thunderclap suddenly rocked the Great Hall. Still fending off the swirling cloud of squirrels with his squirting wand, Harry looked over his shoulder to see Snape's long arm thrust toward the rafters, a brilliant spiral of white Light spinning upwards, barely missing Hedwig before his spell slammed into the enchanted ceiling.

The Great Hall was still raining squirrels when the deluge began, great sheets of water cascading down from ceiling to floor the entire length and breadth of the room, while Snape held the spiral of white light steady. Hundreds of students screamed as the squirming bodies of Fatal Squirrels fell against them beneath the onslaught of a veritable waterfall.

And while the sudden flood may have slowed the squirrels' mobility after hurling them to the tables and floor, those which had landed on or near warm-blooded humans had not hesitated to attack, despite the downpour, sinking fangs into shoulders and legs, ripping tender flesh to bleeding shreds wherever they could reach it.

"Get on the tables!" Hermione was shouting at the top of her lungs. "Get on the tables!" She yanked a sobbing Second Year Slytherin off the writhing, squirrel-infested floor and shoved him atop the Gryffindor table. "Get on the tables! Kick the food off!"

Students nearby who could actually hear Hermione over the blend of shrieking children, squealing squirrels, and the roar of the ceiling's torrent, scrambled up onto the House tables. They began kicking squirrels and the Feast overboard onto the flooding floor, making room for more students to jump up. Those farther away saw what was going on and immediately followed suit, struggling up to get away from the squirrels, many of which now floundered amidst a mélange of waterlogged desserts disintegrating upon the flat stones in the downpour.

The Weasley twins had transfigured teaspoons into Beaters' bats and were smashing Fatal Squirrels across the Great Hall with practiced precision. "Take THAT! Take THAT! Take THAT!" And THUMP, THUMP, THUMP – sodden verdigris bodies got pummeled into oblivion.

But still the squirrels came on, pulling themselves relentlessly onto the long benches, and from there up to the tabletops…

Students kicked away every squirrel that made it onto the tables, sobbing in anger, fear, and frustration. The ceiling was POURING rain – WHY hadn't the squirrels stopped yet? COULD they be stopped? Terrified screams continued to fill the Great Hall as the irresistible greenish-gray force kept encroaching upon the near-helpless humans.

A Ravenclaw First Year swung her foot at a squirrel hoisting itself onto her table, and to everyone's horror, the girl lost her balance and fell, bouncing painfully off a hard bench before landing in the disgusting goulash covering the floor, where the Fatal Squirrels instantly engulfed her small form. And then the girl was flying through the downpour toward the Head Table, Accioed by McGonagall, who beat nearly a dozen squirrels off the child with her bare hands.

The teaching staff seemed to be trying every sort of Magical defense, and Harry recognized the wand movements for Incendio, Confringo, and Evanesco, but the Fatal Squirrels could not be Magically incinerated, blasted, or Vanished. At some point, Harry became aware through the chaos that Umbridge had disappeared, and he could only assume that the sadistic toad had fled the Great Hall like a coward, while the remaining teachers bravely stood their ground. Even tiny Professor Flitwick was still there, standing on the Head Table, waving his wand through a litany of spells and curses as if conducting an orchestra.

Harry decided to try a new tactic against the squirrels. "Eruptum Sal!" he shouted, but the salt spurting from his wand dissolved in the downpour before it could even reach the squirrel that had just poked its head over the edge of the table. Maybe, if he fired at point blank range… After kicking that squirrel away, he leaned over in preparation for the next attack, carefully aiming his wand, allowing for the backslash movement… "Eruptum Sal!" he shouted, ending the backslash with the wand tip pointed directly into another oncoming squirrel's face.

Salt spewed forth, some actually hitting the squirrel, and he had the sickening view of the blazing electric-blue eyes cooking into curdled blind lumps, but the squirrel itself was not dead, though in its shrieking agony, it fell off the table, splashing into the messy flood undulating across the ancient flagstone floor.

That gave Harry a new idea, and he moved carefully forward along the top of the Gryffindor table, trying not to lurch against anyone else, hoping he wouldn't knock someone off. He finally reached the farthest end and shouted up to the Head Table. "Professor Snape! Hey, Snape!"

The man's black eyes glared at him, and Harry realized at that moment what a strain he must be experiencing to have kept the deluge going for this long. Snape said nothing, but was obviously waiting for Harry to continue.

"Professor, I tried Eruptum Sal," Harry shouted, "but the salt just dissolves in the downpour. Since the squirrels are already wet, would it work to stop the ceiling raining and just squirt salt at them? And what about the flooded floor? How much salt would it take to make a strong enough solution to burn the squirrels?"

McGonagall, who was doing battle alongside Snape, raised her eyebrow and spared a quick, inquiring glance at her tall colleague encased in sodden ebony robes.

"Let's find out!" shouted Snape. He released his spiral command of the enchanted ceiling, and following a few seconds of delayed reaction, the deafening waterfall roar ended, leaving the Great Hall eerily quieter in one sense, although the air remained punctuated by constant screams and splashes.

"Eruptum Sal!" shouted Snape.

"Eruptum Sal!" chorused McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Grubbly-Plank, and all the other Hogwarts staff.

"Eruptum Sal!" yelled Harry, followed closely by Gryffindor, then the other Houses.

Gouts of salt burst forth, some hitting squirrels, and some hitting wounded students, who screamed in pain as the salt burned their unprotected eyes and the ragged gashes in their flesh.

"Eruptum Sal!" shouted Fred, aiming at a single squirrel.

"Aguamenti!" George's wand shot water, blending with the salt to soak into the squirrel's already-wet verdigris fur.

The squirrel they had ganged up on began to thrash around, its saturated wings fizzling as salt hit them. The twins continued their double-barreled attack. "Eruptum Sal!" "Aguamenti!" Shrieks pierced everyone's ears as the Fatal Squirrel's body began to smoke. "Eruptum Sal!" And the squirrel burst into flames.

A few cheers went up nearby, but most students were too busy dealing with their own attackers, given that squirrels outnumbered humans about five to one.

"This will take too long, Severus!" shouted McGonagall.

"Then try for the floor," the Potions Master commanded. "But forget Potter's idea about creating a saline solution – we won't have enough Magical energy for that. Let's just Vanish everything on the floor, and since the squirrels – " he paused to send one sprawling with the toe of his boot, "can't be Vanished, we'll salt the dry floor."

"All together now," said Filius Flitwick. "One, two, three – AQUA EVANESCO!"

With a low swooshing sound, the watery mess covering the entire floor seemed to roll back from the Head Table, like the shoreline water being sucked out to sea prior to a tsunami. Faster and faster it rolled, disappearing beneath the length of the House tables, and Vanishing entirely as it reached the closed doors at the far end of the Great Hall. Wet squirrels floundered awkwardly across the suddenly-dry stones, dragging soggy wings behind them.

"Eruptum Sal!" shouted Snape.

"Eruptum Sal!" shouted the staff and students.

Salt spewed forth from nearly every wand, this time aimed at the floor.

"Eruptum Sal!" And the squirrels screamed, scrambling desperately through the salt on smoking paws.

"Eruptum Sal!" And the squirrels shrieked, flames bursting forth from their feet and fanged mouths. Frantic to escape, they futilely attempted to deploy sodden wings to fly upwards, but the leathery appendages had already begun to blacken and shrivel from the salt-storm.

"Eruptum Sal!"

And all over the Great Hall, two thousand Fatal Squirrels combusted upon the salt-strewn stones, their high-pitched screeches of agony forcing the students to cover their ears.

But the cacophony ended quickly, and the towering room lapsed into near-silence at last, broken intermittently by quiet sobs and a faint residual sizzle emanating from the roasted, blackened remains of the squirrels.

"I suppose we could have tried the salt to begin with," McGonagall observed ruefully, "but I never thought of it."

Snape shook his head, long strands of ebony hair plastered wetly to his cheeks. "Nor did I. My immediate goal was to attempt to immobilize the animals as much as possible by grounding them to the floor with heavy rain."

A voice broke into their quiet discussion. "Professors, is Madam Pomfrey here?" Harry looked from one exhausted teacher to another. "Some students are injured, some worse than others. They could use her help."

"They'll need to wait, Potter," said Pomfrey's voice from behind the Head Table. It sounded as if she was down on the floor.

"We'll go," volunteered Pamona Sprout, and she and Flitwick slipped off the tabletop and headed out across the smoking remains of incinerated squirrels to begin tending to the injured students.

Harry rounded the corner of the Head Table to check on Pomfrey, then wished he hadn't. Madame Pomfrey was kneeling next to Professor Grubbly-Plank, and both of them were waving wands over what remained of someone who had been utterly ravaged by the Fatal Squirrels. Most of the person's clothing and visible skin had been gnawed away, leaving nothing but bloody raw flesh beneath. And was that stiff-looking thing a bit of bone…? Harry's breath caught in his throat as he tried not to gag; he couldn't even tell at first glance whether the victim was male or female, student or staff…

And then he caught sight of a small fragment of fabric which had not been stained by blood. Fuchsia fabric… And then the victim groaned, an unearthly sound, as if hell had opened to admit one of the damned.

"She's – she's still alive?" Harry whispered in horror. "Like … THAT?" Half of her actual muscle tissue must be missing… And the flesh of her face … and an eye…

"Dum … ble … dore…" groaned Umbridge, her strained, guttural voice barely audible.

And so suddenly that Harry couldn't even assimilate it, Dumbledore WAS there, passing Harry's frozen figure to kneel by the downed Defense teacher.

"I received your Patronus, Minerva," said the Headmaster, "and I returned as quickly as I could."

At his knees, Dolores Umbridge's remaining eyelid fluttered, and she seemed to be squinting through tears, as if trying to put Dumbledore into proper focus.

"Dum…" she moaned.

"I'm here, Dolores."

"F … F…" Her breath slipped between the shredded vestiges of her lips.

Dumbledore sadly shook his head. "I couldn't make out what you said, Dolores."

"F-Faw – kes…"

"Fawkes?"

"Y … esss…"

"Of course I'll call Fawkes, Dolores." He snapped his fingers, and the Phoenix burst into being, glowing with golden flames. He alighted upon Dumbledore's arm.

"B … Beau … ful…" whispered the raw remains of the High Inquisitor, her lone eye blurrily finding the crimson bird.

Dumbledore turned to the Phoenix. "I believe Dolores would appreciate your assistance, Fawkes."

The shattered woman managed to focus momentarily. "T-Tears…" she grunted. "G-Give … me … your … t-tears…"

The crimson Phoenix looked down upon her fang-mangled living carcass disdainfully.

"T-tears…" urged Umbridge's fading whisper. "H … elp … m … ee…"

In response, Fawkes turned around on Dumbledore's arm until he faced completely away from Umbridge.

"I'm sorry, Dolores," Dumbledore said gently. "As I told you, in regard to the centaurs, Fawkes heals as he pleases. Apparently, the thought of healing you does not please him at all."

To Harry's amazement, anger seemed to give the dying woman a momentary burst of energy. Her watery eye burned with a final fury, and she said quite distinctly, "Bloody bird."

Fawkes squawked indignantly, raised his elegant tail, and let drop a loud splat on the floor next to Umbridge's head. With a flap of his long, crimson wings, the Phoenix disappeared in a burst of golden flame.

As the Phoenix-fire dissipated, so did the light in Dolores Umbridge's eye. Her throat gave one horrible rattle before her bloodied remains fell completely still.

"And that, as they say, is that," muttered McGonagall. "I'll call the Ministry to collect her mess. And stop looking at me like that, Albus. I'm not sorry she's gone, and I won't pretend, no matter how horribly she died, whatever you may think of me for being bold enough to say so."

Collecting Poppy Pomfrey and Professor Grubbly-Plank, McGonagall cast a drying charm on her bottle-green robes before sweeping surefootedly across the salty, squirrel-littered battleground of the Great Hall to tend to Hogwarts' injured students. Professors Flitwick and Sprout had already made headway in organizing triage, with the least-injured students assisting them with other victims. Dumbledore conjured a covering which he laid gently over Umbridge before – nodding to Snape – he moved to join them.

"I never liked her," said Harry, looking down at Umbridge's concealed remains. "Hated her, even. But I never imagined that she'd die like this."

"And you feel guilty, do you, Potter?"

Harry glanced up in surprise at the absolute absence of sneering sarcasm in Snape's voice.

"Yeah. I guess I do." He frowned. "I feel like it's my fault, somehow."

Snape cast a drying charm on himself, and after a moment's hesitation, he sent one Harry's way as well.

"Because you wished evil upon Umbridge?"

The Gryffindor nodded.

Snape took Harry's shoulders in his hands, forcing him to turn his view away from the deceased and outwards to the rest of the Great Hall. "Look around you, Potter. Do you honestly think you are the only person in this castle who wished something bad to happen to her? The only one out of hundreds?"

Harry shrugged beneath the firm weight of Snape's grip. "Maybe not."

Snape snorted. "I assure you, Potter, you are not alone. If you feel it necessary to assume personal responsibility for Dolores Umbridge's death, you have my permission shoulder part of the burden, but to accept it all is overly egotistical, even for you."

Harry emitted a strangled chuckle, despite his acute awareness of the dead woman lying a couple of paces away. "I suppose so, Professor."

Snape's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the aftermath of the Night of the Fatal Squirrels. "At least now we know that we have a genuine weapon we can use against these foul creatures."

"Salt."

"Salt," Snape concurred.

Harry looked up at the Potions Master. "Do you really think there are more of the squirrels out there, Professor?"

"I wouldn't bet against it, Potter. This may well be only the first wave of terror. Time alone will tell. For the future… We will need to devise a way to bait a trap ... then salt them down…" The man in black walked away, still thinking aloud. His robes billowed with their usual grace across the whitened floor, catching occasionally on a protruding, blackened corpse.

At the far end of the Great Hall, the tall doors abruptly opened and Argus Filch marched in, Mrs. Norris draped furrily over his narrow shoulder. "Headmaster, we heard shrieking! From all the way down in the … dungeons…" The squib caretaker's eyes bulged as he slowly took in the scene before him.

Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle had followed closely in Filch's wake, and all four stopped dead when they caught sight of hundreds of soaking wet, bleeding students sitting atop tables bereft of the expected leftovers of a Halloween Feast. Through the damp, smoky atmosphere, they could see the floor covered with salt, some of it ankle deep. As for the blackish things…

"What the hell happened in here?" demanded Draco, his gray eyes wide with shock.

Goyle experimentally prodded a shriveled black lump with the toe of his shoe.

Hedwig – a rather wet Hedwig – swooped down to land on Harry's arm, as Filch began muttering imprecations to the four tall walls. "I knew it! I just KNEW it! I knew I'd end up having to clean up after a pack of damn vampire-squirrels!"

Fred Weasley waved his wand and transfigured one of the squirrel bodies into a push-broom. He passed it to George, who handed it to the caretaker with a grin. "Here you go, Mr. Filch."

The cantankerous man glared at the redheaded twins, then shrugged and accepted the broom. "Might as well get started," he grumbled. And with Mrs. Norris watching wide-eyed from his shoulder, Filch slowly began pushing against the salt, sweeping up the charred remains of the Fatal Squirrels.