The calendar no longer had dates on it.

He sat on his bed, staring at the wall calendar, blinking on the occasional interval, but somewhat content. The calendar no longer had dates on it. He had scrubbed them all off, on every month, every week, every day. No longer would a number reside in the corner of the little box, marking each passing day like a catalogue.

He felt like someone trapped in that box when the numbers were there, but when they weren’t, he could crawl out through their scrubbed hole, and disappear into the realm where he wasn’t trapped in day to day life.

Wasn’t trapped the catalogue of his days till he met Voldemort, till the Prophecy made its stand.

He liked it this way.

Sure, he knew that the rest of the world had dates on their calendars, and always would, but somehow, just his one calendar, his calendar not having dates was good enough for him.

Yes, indeed, it was good enough for him.

Scrubbing his face, he laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Downstairs was a mess of gossip and rumors, for Hogwarts, true to its word on holding secrets, had spilt the beans about Harry and company having an invitation to a Halloween Ball. Yeah, they spoke in awed whispers behind hands (for the hand was a soundproof barrier that no one else but the speaker and the listener could hear from) and they all gossiped it of being Harry’s…

Well something.

He wasn’t sure what exactly it was at the moment that led them to the Halloween Ball, because it changed just as quickly as Tonk’s hair color, and he wasn’t too up to going and finding out. Instead, he would sit on his bed, gazing longing at the ceiling.

He was still ticked that he had to attend the stupid Ball, because he wasn’t going to be able to get over Sirius’s death by dancing his troubles away, traipsing in some ridiculous costume that he had to dream up in two days lest he, god forbid, have to go just as plain ol’ Harry.

Not that’d rock before off their rockers wouldn’t it?

The door slowly creaked open, and Ron popped his head in. “Oy, mate, there you are,” he smiled his abundantly freckled face. “I just figured out a costume for you and me, whatcha say to that?”

“Bloody wicked,” Harry snarled in dripping sarcasm that amazingly mirrored Snape’s own sarcasm.

Ron overlooked the comment, knowing his friend’s bad humor, and pounced forward, landing in a heap at the end of the bespectacled boy’s bed. “We’re going to be Pirates.” Harry just blinked. “I’ve never been a pirate,” he said, almost wistfully. “I want to be Captain…Captain Hooker though.”

Harry broke in a barking laughs at that, his face reddening and flushing, his stomach hurting. Ron flushed red, seeing himself being made fun of, and frowned. “What?” he demanded. “What did I say? Oy, stop! Come back!”

Yet it was too late, Harry had rolled off his bed, laughing so heavily one might think he had been hit with a laughing curse, and stumbled off in a run out of the room. He had to find Hermione.

Bounding into the Common Room, barely noting the startled, wary looks of the house mates, and he shoved through, still wheezing in laughter, while Ron chased him. Dropping before Ginny, he looked imploring at the girl.

“Hermione?” he gasped at the bemused girl, who just dumbly pointed out the portrait.

“Library,” she breathed. “Is somethin’ the matter Harry…” but he had already taken off running, straight for the portrait. She looked questioningly at Ron, who just ran by in hot pursuit, flushed a turnip red.

Once they were in the corridor, however, it became not a search for Hermione, but for a race to reach her first. Still broken over in laughter, Harry was nearly doubled over as he ran, laughing for what felt the first time in ages, while Ron ran after him, shouting out profanity—causing many seventh years to blush and Professors to yell off house points.

At one point or another, the smashed past Snape—who let his face flicker somewhat in surprise, before concealing it quickly—and went on their merry way, Ron’s words coming out in a mix that sounded slightly like he might’ve—to the trained ear mind—included Snape in his insults.

Especially the words ‘greasy’, ‘git’, and ‘pansy’ seemed to be directed at him—if he had indeed included the Potions Master in his stream of profanity as he chased down his best mate.

However, as quickly as that came, it went, and just as quickly as they ran into the Library, that went too. Obviously making too much noise to be accepted into the library by Madame Pince, Harry and Ron were in and just as quickly pounced out, sprawling painfully on their bottoms.

The woman glared at them waspishly before disappearing with her nose held high, leaving two momentarily dumbfounded boys in her wake.

“Mate, did we just get kicked out of the library before even sitting down?” Ron whispered and Harry nodded, awed. “Broken a bloody record we have, that’s for sure.”

Hermione came to the door, having followed the ruckus, and frowned at them, disapprovingly. “What might I ask are you two doing?”

“Oy, Hermione, it’s happened,” Harry grinned toothily. “Ron’s told me his heart’s desire.”

“I did no such thing!” Ron protested, confused.

Hermione sighed in exasperation. “What?”

“He wants to be Captain Hooker,” Harry declared proudly causing Hermione to flush yet start forward with a very uncharacteristic snort and Ron to flush.

“Do not!” he thundered angrily. “I just wanted to be that Captain from that muggle book for kids. Captain Hooker…” he crossed his arms stubbornly, but his eyes flickered unsurely.

“Suure,” Harry laughed, causing his friend to swat at him. “We know the truth.”

“Hooker,” Hermione shook her head, unable to hid the smile that crossed her face. “Ron, it’s Captain Hook.”

“Kill joy,” Harry muttered sourly while Ron made an ‘oh’.

“What are you two doing talking about pirates anyway?”

“We’re going to be pirates for Halloween,” the freckled, red-headed boy declared triumphantly, smiling grandly at his ‘superb’ idea.

“Well, you have good timing,” Hermione informed them. “I just found a spell to turn our robes to look like our costumes, instead of having to buy things. We’ll try it out with your Pirate costumes. Now get off your bottoms.”

Sheepishly the two boys climbed off their arses and brushed themselves off. Turning, Hermione gestured them down the corridor to an empty classroom.

“I wonder,” Harry wondered aloud. “What Ron’s Captain Hooker costume will look like.”

888

They stood in a bored gaggle in Dumbledore’s office, plucking and messing with their costumes while they waited for the old wizard. Neville and Ginny were discussing something of utmost importance it seemed, yet when Harry stepped closer he found it was of flowers.

Blinking, he hurriedly backed away.

Hermione choose not to be a Pirate with Harry and Ron, who were finding their costumes so amusing that they had taken to talking so much like a ‘Pirate’ that Hermione threatened to curse them into talking like girls if they hadn’t stopped. Instead she had chosen to be a Carnival Master.

A Wizard Carnival Master that is, and even though Harry had never been to a Wizard Carnival, it was assured that she looked very much the part. She wore a set of black robes that was striped with silver lines that looked more like a suit then a robe. With a crooked top hat on her bushy brown hair, she wore a bird-beaked mask that shifted between smiling and frowning.

She even had a whip in her hand, and a large, silver loop earring in her left ear.

It was a surprising choice of costume, though Harry really thought Ginny took the cake on who was most surprising. She had come as no one other then Death himself. The blackest robe imaginable, with a hood that shielded her face and fiery red hair, and a scythe in hand.

Seriously, Harry mused. Strange girl.

Neville was a simple vampire, flushing the whole time that he hadn’t too sure, while Luna had decided to be a Medieval Queen that had been beheaded. Mind, no one had ever heard of the Queen that she was, but that was that. She carried a basket in hand, saying that when she got tired of propping her head on her red neck she could put it there.

And well…it was Luna.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Dumbledore walked in, smiling grandly, eyes sparking at the sight of their costumes. “Lovely, lovely,” he said aloud in what could’ve been a wondering voice.

Then he stepped into the middle of the office, and bunched them together. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, bowing his head. “But I feel I must have a Colin Creevy moment, and take a picture of this.”

Snorting at the statement, they all bunched together, making faces or in Harry and Ginny’s case, pretending to try and scare the other, they allowed themselves to be taken hold of in a picture. Once two flashes subsided, leaving them blinking and dazzled somewhat, they all turned expectantly to the old wizard.

“Now, in ten minutes, you shall be joined by Tonks and Moody, and twenty minutes after that Kingsley and Arthur,” he smiled at them. “Must have your security as inconspicuous as possible. Now, I’m sure you six can stay out of trouble for ten minutes, hmm?”

Somewhere, deep within the castle, there was a resounding snort from a certain Potions Master.

“Of course sir,” Hermione instantly piped up and Dumbledore beamed.

“Good, good,” he smiled at them again, his eyes twinkling. “Do enjoy yourself, very much, please.”

“How are we getting there?” Ron asked, curious.

“Portkey, of course,” in response to his own words he pulled an old boot from his back pocket—seriously arousing suspicion in Harry—and held it forward. “Touch it,” he requested and obeying they all attached fingers onto the muddy rim of the boot. “Now,” he drew back. “Enjoy yourself.”

And the familiar tug behind his navel jerked Harry away and the others away from the office in a whirling rush.

They all landed with a thump outside a large, wooden house that seemed to gleam with…well, nothing. It was empty.

Having all collapsed due to Neville’s uneasy balance, they barely had time to acknowledge where they were, when Steward Stuffy dropped before them—like he had just fallen from the sky.

“Oh sorry,” he breathed, all awkwardness gone and a malicious glint in his eye. “I gave dear ol’ Dumbledore the wrong address. Here, let me correct that.”

Instinctively, the six attempted to recoil, but it was too late, the man had replaced the boot they were all still attached to with another portkey, and they were jerked off again, whisked painfully into the nighttime sky—yowling in rage.

888

Severus Snape looked up from his shimmering potion, the laughter and ruckus from the Great Hall washing over him like silence, but his eyes were looking off somewhere else.

Somewhere distant.

It was like he was gazing down a tunnel and there was a light at the end.

And he knew. He knew what it meant the moment he saw the light. The moment he felt the sting on his arm, growing and screaming, calling to him thirstily.

He knew.

He knew like Harry Potter had known the moment the Portkey had been changed by Stewart Stuffy, and he was jerked off once again to something inevitable.

Like Dumbledore knew the moment that his spells for the six teenagers’ safe arrival at Stuffy’s Manor went haywire before completely canceling out.

And the three that knew beforehand what was going to happen would soon be joined by millions of others who knew afterward what happened.

Yet, it was only those three, who knew, that really realized that as they set to perpetrations—one last minute and desperate, one walking through the hoards of Hogwarts students, and the other sitting behind a large desk, whispering to his Phoenix—that their future wasn’t set.

Whatever was going to happen would happen…

No one the wiser until it happened…

And then everyone would know…

888

They landed in an ungraceful heap before Riddle Manor, sprawled out over each other, chilled by the sight over them.

Faceless, taunting and gathering Death Eaters, deathly silent, standing over them, watching with no emotion—and if there was emotion, it was bloodlust.

And as they untangled, gripping their wands so tightly at their knuckles turned white, the Death Eaters parted like the Red Sea, giving them perfect view of a demon.

A clapping demon.

“My, my, those costumes are quite splendid,” Voldemort’s smile wasn’t a smile; nonetheless the tilted lips of a monster rose gracefully and highly into his pointed cheekbones.

Dumbledore ‘enjoy yourself’ echoed dully and ironically in their ears.