October 31st, 1981

The woman never liked Halloween very much. All those children running around in those horrible costumes – black witch’s robes and pointed hats and swinging cauldrons – they disgusted her. Dudley, thankfully, was young enough not to care about the holiday. She knew, when he got older, that she would have to stomach it; she always did her duty, that much could be said of her. But for now, she bundled him up in his smart little coat and carried him around the neighborhood, greeting all the neighbors with a fixed smile and not even staying long enough to gossip.

                She was back home before four, and she shut the door behind her with a firm snap, pulling the curtains closed. She had left out a little plastic bowl of candy for the neighborhood children, and as she set about making dinner, she ignored the shouts of glee that drifted in from the street.

                When the woman’s husband came in, he did not press her for details about her day. He knew better than that. He complimented her dinner, pecked her on the cheek, and settled himself in front of the television for the night. The woman clenched her teeth and cleaned up the kitchen, shivering slightly despite the warmth the stove had diffused throughout the room. She put her son to bed. She joined her husband in front of the television.

                She lay still beneath the covers that night, finally drifting off to sleep with the consolation that at least tomorrow would be a solid, dependable Tuesday, free from the echoes of witches and goblins and ghosts, free from the sound of shouts and laughter drifting through the air long after children should be in bed.

000

                The boy watched the man with wide eyes. He stood up and gripped the bars of his crib, flexing small, fat fingers. When the man turned his gaze on him, he started crying—something was wrong--

                The cloaked man raised his wand, and there was a flash of bright, green light, the echo of a high, cold laugh, and then silence.

000

                The man paced around his study. He had been busy all day today, had just settled down with a book, but the searing across his arm had startled him out of his rest. He’d felt the mark burn plenty of times, but never like this. The pain had been excruciating, but brief, flaring out almost as quickly as it had started.

                His long fingers twitched. He picked up a glass vial from his desk and threw it at the wall. Shards of glass bounced off it, one of them flying back and slicing his hand. He didn’t feel the sting.

                Where was Dumbledore? He’d flooed him—where was he? Didn’t he understand that something was wrong here, terribly wrong?

                The floo rushed into life behind him, bright green flames throwing shadows against the wall. The man turned to face it, to face the old wizard stepping out of it. When he saw the look on his face, his own converted into a howl. He slid to his knees.

October 31st, 1988

                Harry’s stomach gave a nervous lurch. He wiped his hands on his faded jeans and rehearsed what he was going to say when his teacher called on him.

                Harry liked Ms. Greenfield. She had big brown eyes and she wore flowery dresses and she always smiled when she looked at him. Not like Mrs. Harrison from last year; she had believed all the lies Dudley told about him, and her eyes had narrowed in dislike every time she looked at him. It was a look Harry was used to.

                Today they were cutting out paper pumpkins and bats and ghosts from construction paper. Harry had sat as far away from Dudley as possible – he didn’t want him messing up his decorations. He wanted to make a perfect one and give it to Ms. Greenfield after class. He had tried giving the little crafts he made in school to Aunt Petunia, but after she’d thrown the last one in the trash, he’d given up. Harry was certain Ms. Greenfield wouldn’t do that though, so he was cutting his paper in perfectly straight lines and gluing and coloring with all his concentration.

                Harry’s concentration had been interrupted, however, by Ms. Greenfield, and now he was nervous. She had just asked everyone to go around the room and say what they were dressing up as for Halloween. Harry was never allowed to dress up for Halloween.

                Dudley always had a shiny expensive costume, usually as a superhero or character from his favorite TV show. He and Aunt Petunia would go around the neighborhood for an hour to two, leaving Harry in the cupboard as they did so. It was something Harry never questioned—he had learned by now to stop asking questions.

                It would be his turn to answer soon. He cleared his throat softly before he spoke.

                “I’m going to be a wizard.”

                “That’s lovely, Harry!” Ms. Greenfield beamed at him, and his stomach gave a happy little squirm, quite different from the squirming it had been doing just a few minutes ago. As she moved on to the next student, Harry caught the glare Dudley was giving him from across the room. He looked down, putting his attention back on his paper pumpkin.

                At recess, Harry brought his markers and paper out with him. The other kids, too worried about incurring Dudley’s wrath, never played with him. Harry usually didn’t mind, as long as he wasn’t bothered.

                The day was crisp and a little windy. Pulling the sleeves of his overlarge sweater down over his hands, Harry scooted closer to the tree he was sitting underneath. A few leaves drifted down toward him, and he picked up one and turned it between his fingers, admiring its orangey color. He put it down beside him, and was just adding a smile to one of his ghosts when the marker was yanked out of his hand.

                Harry blinked. Dudley was standing above him, a few of his friends hanging behind his back. Harry just stared at them—sometimes, if he didn’t put up any struggle, they got bored of him and left him alone.

                Unfortunately, this was not one of those times.

                “Look what the freak’s doing,” Dudley sneered, ripping the rest of Harry’s ghosts and pumpkins out of his hands. “Coloring at recess because he has no friends.”

                Harry tried to ignore the sting he felt at the words; he heard them often enough that they shouldn’t matter to him, but sometimes he couldn’t help it.

                “Give them back,” Harry said, getting to his feet. It was a mistake. Dudley pushed him down, and his hands skidded against the ground with a sharp smack.

                “Why should I?” Dudley said, his eyes glinting with the satisfaction of having something Harry wanted. That was one of Dudley’s favorite things to do: take things from Harry. He did it all the time with food, often if he’d already had twice as much as Harry had.

                “Because they’re mine!” Harry said, rising to his feet only to be pushed back into the dirt.

                “Not anymore,” Dudley said, handing the paper out to his friends, who, taking their lead from Dudley, began ripping them up. The wind picked up the fragments of colored paper, blowing them up and away. Dudley and his friends left laughing.

                Harry picked up the few scraps of paper that were left, blinking back the threat of tears.

                He hated Halloween.

000

                Petunia Dursley was having a terrible day. She always had a terrible day on Halloween.

                Her bad mood had started as soon as October blew in, the gentle days of September replaced by the crisper, colder days of October. Every year, when she turned the page of her calendar from September 30th to October 1st, it was if a small, sharp ice pick pecked at her chest. The feelings only deepened as the end of the month drew nearer. The decorations went up, the pumpkins and candles and every other foul thing. She could feel her nerves stretching thin and taut, her tongue sharpest with the boy, even a little less kind toward Vernon and Dudley. She banged pots and pans a little too loudly or snapped at cashiers and waiters who were too slow for her liking.

                Everyone in the house accepted this behavior; they had grown used to it, knew what was coming every year. Petunia noticed. She noticed that Vernon was more patient with her, that Dudley followed his father’s lead, barely talking back to her, instead scurrying off to one of his many playdates.

                And the boy.

                She could barely stand to be around him. She couldn’t stand the way he looked at her, those familiar green eyes at first widening with surprise, then retreating into that flat, still nothingness whenever she snapped at him.

                She hated it. She sent him to his cupboard right after school, turned away slightly when she was forced to speak to him. She ignored that flat look in his eye when she did these things.

                She was sitting at the kitchen table now, a cup of tea cooling between her hands. She was gathering her strength for later, for when she would have to take Dudley on his rounds trick-or-treating. He had insisted he could do it himself, but she wouldn’t let him go wandering alone. Not on this day.

                The front door opened with a bang. Dudley had hurdled through, threw a quick hello at his mother, and dashed upstairs to try on his costume. Petunia fixed her eyes a few feet to the left of the boy, who had trailed in behind Dudley, and opened her mouth. Before she could say anything, though, he had already slipped into the cupboard, closing the door softly behind him.

                Petunia felt a stab of something like gratitude.

000

                Even on the best of days, Severus Snape had a reputation. He was snide, rude, often downright cruel—the list went on. But on Halloween, he was positively terrifying.

                The fact that Snape was ten times as bad as his usual self on Halloween was common knowledge. The older students told the younger students. Some of the younger students skipped class, complaining of head or stomach aches.

                Today, it was the unlucky lot of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs to have Potions. Word spread throughout the school quickly: Snape had, after an hour of berating the entire third year class’s terrible potions-making skills, sent a thin boy with black hair running out of the class in tears. Madam Pomfrey had given him a Calming Draught, and had made sure to speak a few choice words to Dumbledore.

                It was late now, after the feast. Severus hadn’t gone.

                He sat across from Dumbledore in his office. The man was surveying him over his fingers, his blue eyes stern, even for a meeting with Severus.

                “This cannot continue, Severus,” he finally said, after several long minutes of silence.

                Snape sneered at him.

                “I have always been…tolerant with regard to your teaching methods. And I understand the day is difficult for you.”

                Snape’s sneer became more pronounced.

                “But the boy needed a Calming Draught, Severus.”

                “Hufflepuffs have always been prone to that sort of thing.”

                “Severus.”

                Dumbledore paused.

                “Perhaps you should take tomorrow off.”

                “I do not need to do so.”

                “You will apologize to the boy.”

                They locked eyes. Snape broke off contact first.

                “Fine,” he spat. “May I go now?”

                Dumbledore nodded. A sad look crossed over his face.

                “And Severus,” he said, when Snape’s hand was upon the door. “I’m sorry.”

                Snape swept out of the room. He did not need anyone’s pity.

October 31st, 1995

                Harry shakes off Ron and Hermione after lunch. They’ve been shooting him nervous glances all day, bowing their heads together and whispering when they think Harry isn’t looking. Harry tries not to let it bother him. He knows that they’re just worried about him, knows that he has been far too short with them lately. But he can’t handle it today. He can’t deal with Hermione’s soft questions of concern and Ron’s blundering attempts at starting a conversation. Right now, on this day of all days, he just wants to be alone.

                It seems like he always wants to be alone lately. He tries not to dwell on that as he ducks into a bathroom on his way to Potions, hoping that, this close to the start of the class period, it will be empty.

                He’s right; there’s one student washing his hands, but he’s already out the door by the time Harry leans against the sink; perhaps the sight of Harry spurs him on, but Harry finds he doesn’t care very much.  For the first time that week, maybe all month, he relaxes, if only for a few minutes. He closes his eyes and splashes some cold water on his face, savoring the bite of it.

                He rests his arms against the sink, but before he knows it he is clenching it tightly. The back of his hand stings, the red, raw words standing out sharply. Hermione gave him some Murtlap essence the other day, but he had detention again last night. He’s starting to wonder if the marks will ever go away.

                Distantly, he hears the bell ringing, signaling the start of classes. He can’t find it in himself to care—what’s a few minutes missed of Potions? It’s not as if he’s going to learn anything in that class, not with Snape needling him and vanishing his potions every class.

                All he wants right now is to crawl into bed and take a Dreamless Sleep Potion; his nights have been just as bad as his days lately, full of dark corridors and locked doors. He looks at himself in the mirror, at the shadows beneath his eyes, and grimaces.

                And then his thoughts turn toward the date: Halloween. He can’t stop the prickling in his eyes as he remembers, as he often does, the echoes of their dying voices, the ones he first heard when Dementors were around. He clenches the edges of the sink more tightly and closes his eyes.

                He doesn’t know why he decides to go to class, only that he suddenly cannot take it, cannot take standing at the sink in the empty bathroom trying to ignore the memory of his parents’ dying pleas. Even Snape would be preferable to this.

000

                Severus Snape’s eyes narrow when the boy walks into class ten minutes late. He doesn’t notice the way his eyes are rimmed with redness, or the way his lips are swollen, as if he has been worrying them between his teeth. He only notices the fact that he comes in late as if he owns the place, that messy black hair sticking up all over, the way his very walk seems to mimic his father’s. His lip curls in a sneer.

                “Ten points from Gryffindor,” he drawls, enjoying the way Potter seems to tense when he speaks. It’s always so easy to get the boy upset. He hopes that he’ll answer him back—today, he’d love to snap back at the boy. But he says nothing as he drops into his seat, just begins pulling out his things. Severus pushes past his disappointment as he finishes his lecture, then begins prowling around the classroom as the students begin making their potions.

                He watches the boy from across the room. If he looks at him from this distance, it’s easy enough to imagine it is just James Potter; that type of hatred is easy. But when he lifts his head, when he sees those green eyes, then it all falls apart.

                Sometimes he wonders if this is Lily’s way of punishing him.

                If it is, she’s doing a pretty good job of it.

                He pushes back the only way he can.

                “What is this mess, Potter?”

                The boy tenses again, shoulders hunching forward.

                “My potion, sir,” he says, his words so stiff his lips barely move.

                “Really?” he asks, making his voice loud enough so that the entire class can be sure to hear. The Slytherins grin at each other. The girl beside Potter glares at him. “Because I wouldn’t call it that. Not even a first-year could manage to mess up this badly.”

                He vanishes the potion with his wand, striding away to whispers and snickers of appreciation from the Slytherins.

                Later on, when the class leaves, he ignores the glare Potter gives him. He doesn’t like to see those eyes looking at him out of James Potter’s face.

                A vanished potion is far less than what he deserves for living, for taking his mother’s place on this Earth.

000

                Petunia sits at the kitchen table. She has nothing to focus her mind on today: Dudley is away at school, Vernon won’t be home from work for a few hours. She’s given up trying to distract herself with errands. Last year, on her way back from the supermarket, she saw a little girl with red hair dressed as a witch—she isn’t sure how she even managed to drive home.

                So today she does nothing. She tries to clean around the house, but her hands freeze, clutching a bottle of bleach, and she stays like that, sitting on the floor, for over an hour. She only just manages to pick herself up, to put some tea on and sit at the table.

                There’s a little bowl of candy outside for the children.

                It’s especially windy today, and the sound of it buffets against the house, leaving her feeling more unprotected than usual. She pulls her arms tight around herself.

                She can’t help but think of the boy.

                Yes, she can help it.

                She doesn’t need to think of those green eyes, of the fact that she’s barely looked at him straight for years, that she’s ignoring every opportunity she has to see her sister’s eyes.

                She doesn’t need to think of that.

                The day will be over soon.