The Forbidden Forest was clear cut and crystal clear; the cold autumn air perfectly still, and the trees so tightly packed stood as shields against prying eyes from the castle. The creatures were all silent for the night; even the nocturnal roamers; and magic hung thick in hazy mist. It spiralled inwards, getting denser and denser, until it reached the eye of the storm. It was a small clearing, with a pentagram dragged into the dirt- blood was soaked into the ridges and the spirals. In the centre of it all, a small boy kneeled, hunched over.
Raven hair flopped across his face, hanging limp and damp, despite the lack of rain, present or recently passed. Hands gripped the soil before him- the tendons strained and the bones sticking out beneath the translucent skin, that almost glowed in the single silvery light shining through the canopy of leaves. Sharp pants brought forth and took back, puffs of water vapor, that shimmered slightly in the slowly fading glow of Avada-Kedavra eyes.
Something had happened, something that would send an addictive thrill through the senses and a chill down the spine. Something that would make some of the Lightest, turn Dark, if only to experience the crackle of magic strike them down and make them feel alive for just one more moment.
Not all rituals were like this. Some were more soothing, less of an adrenaline rush. But this was one to throw off the limitations of the Trace, a weaving of spells and enchantments so old that it was solid in its foundations. It was a basic ritual, admittedly, but the amount of blood from the caster needed was enough to throw those that did know of it off. Alongside its Dark label and the illegality of performing it.
A smirk curled the corner of the boy's mouth, his eyes now a penetrating blue though the presence of green remained. A sense of self-satisfaction was present, as well as the knowledge of freedom. He couldn't be traced by the simple matter of being underage any longer, and he was hypersensitive to the idea of spells being cast his way, and his food and drink being laced. There was little chance they would trace him at all. Forced to do it the hard way. The muggle way. Just the thought sent a smile dancing across his eyes.
Slowly he stood, brushing down his robes as he did so, absently using the gesture to also spend the time of freeing himself of all the dirt and blood that grimed him. He then turned to the evidence of what had just taken place, his eyes narrowed in thought. He could not dissipate the magical residue- that was one thing he had not been able to uncover in the time- but he could remove the more visual evidence. He took out his wand for this, though he would not usually need it having grown far too used to not having one, but the ritual had exhausted him somewhat and wands helped to refrain from depleting his magic too rapidly.
Then he was walking, weaving in and out of the trees- paying no mind to what was around him. He knew the way, and he had his senses reached out to detect disturbance, so he was free to wander in his mind. There was much to do still, he knew, but he could not force himself to bring forth the plans for what happened next. The matter of Professor Quirrel still weighed to heavily on his mind- and an instinctual part of him knew that Quirrel was an important piece in the puzzle that was the missing Dark Lord. For he was missing- the ever present Dark Marks on his friends' arms proved Lord Voldemort's continued survival.
Golden light burst through the windows of the castle, though not all of them. There were a few that were darkened by the lack of candles or torches or lit fireplaces, but not all that many. He wasn't afraid of being seen by anyone happening to look out of the window- he knew that they would all be at the feast. He sneered slightly at the thought- it was a mockery of true tradition. Of what Samhain was really about. The feast was filled with sweets and sugar, along with muggle ideals. But it also was an obstruction to those few, those select few, that continued to practice what had so long ago been outlawed.
The corridors were quiet, and his footsteps echoed against the stone walls and floors. And he walked undisturbed and unnoticed, in peace and silence. That was, until he heard the shriek from a bathroom he was just about to pass. He paused, mulling over the idea, but curiosity won out his self-preservation, and he entered.
A mountain troll, for that was what he was sure it was, towered among the line of sinks and the line of wooden cubicles. Dust and debris scattered the floor, being sprayed by a broke sink and decorated by the splintered wood of the collision between the large gnarled club and a cubicle. A familiar Gryffindor was huddled in the corner, under a sink. Her black robes were dirtied grey and her frizzy hair flattened down by the arms brought over her head as she panicked and worried.
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