The Second One Said, "There Are Witches in the Air." Characters: Death Eaters & their victims Setting: The Wizarding Village of Hogsmeade, late on Halloween night (Monday, 31 Oct., 1977) Content: Guess.
Have you ever seen Hogsmeade on Hallowe'en? The lights of the shacks and shops glow a warm, but eerie yellow, as the blackness of the night presses down from everywhere. Pumpkins with smiling faces float above the single strip of street that runs through the small town. Bats screech and swoop above, invisible in the dark. Children, in all shapes, scamper from door-to-door in groups, giggling. The line of ghosts, ghouls, goblins, werewolves, and Quidditch players (from every team, it seems) is especially long at the door to Zonko's. The children wait impatiently. They wave sticks as wands at each other and laugh.
One might even spy a vampire hovering on the edge of the square shadows that fall from the bright windows. The adults wear their best robes and their nicest hats at jaunty angles. They push their mugs of Butterbeer (and stronger) together and laugh. This is a night of fun - to be finished, in part, on Guy Fawkes' Day, with bonfires, crackers, and bursts of radiant light from every wand. - The Shrieking Shack stands alone and spookily silent. Older children stand at its dilapidated front gate, daring each other to knock on the door.
This year, however, was to be different.
There were those who thought, very fervently indeed, that the night called for some tricking - for something that was long past due. For the only entirely Wizarding community in Britain, Hogsmeade sure was crawling with those of polluted blood. Something had to be done about that.
Sometime past 10 o'clock, the jack o' lanterns' smiles vanished into thin wisps of smoke and the bats screamed away into the surrounding forest. For a moment, the village was silent. Then came the screams. Bright blares of light in every color sprouted from wandtips in every direction and incantations came flying. The Unforgivables. Hogsmeade wasn't large enough for there to be anywhere to run or hide, anywhere where the sounds of torture wouldn't reach your ears. You could hear it all through the walls. The cries of children, lost and confused, and suffering.
A man ran out of the Hog's Head, dizzy. Several patrons had suddenly stood, all in unison; their robes falling to reveal masks. They blasted aside the tables. Chairs were broken on the floor. Glasses and whiskey painted the walls. The man - he'd managed to hide under the bar, before dashing out the front door. His voice was raised in alarm. He had to let someone know! But he stumbled outside into the disarray and chaos of the attack, slowly realizing that this was no isolated incident. This was nothing caused by alcohol.
Before he had a chance to decide what to do next, there was ice down the back of his neck, and no light in his eyes. Darkness, he was told, would win. He'd left everyone to die, after all. He'd been looking out for only himself - as cowards do. There was no hope left. And then a spray of green hit him in the chest and he fell.
Five or six others ran over him with little care, screaming.
A hand shot high, wand up, shouting a slithering word. A green skull, with a snake looping through its eyes, exploded into place, giving the ruins below a dull, sickly glow. The screams continued. Bodies lay strewn here and there, broken, bleeding. Death Eaters were knocking on doors.