Challenge: General Halloween
Team: Death Eaters
Length: 5 X 100
A/N: This is just a little fantasy brought to you courtesy of the series Salem, when I asked myself the question: what would happen to a real witch in 1692 if they were brought to the stockade to be burned for witchcraft? By the way, this is not my circus, not my monkeys, and because it’s un-beta’d, it’s also not as polished as it should be. But Halloween is upon us, soooo……
Dedicated to mywitch, whose company here is gloriously inspiring.
Standing with her parents, Hermione Granger felt a sudden chill race up her spine, making her shudder, and her flesh shiver with goosebumps.
A witch’s finger just slid up your back, her mother would say, then spit through her fingers to ward off the evil eye. The very thought made Hermione feel ill, and not for the first time she wished they had not come today.
From the edge of town came a slow, steady drumbeat. As one, the crowd turned toward the sound. In the far distance, a figure approached. All around, men flanked him, like mourners following him to his own funeral.
The congregation parted as he neared the square, allowing him to pass. “Don’t look in his eyes, boy,” a man hissed to his young son. “That’s Severus Snape, the Witch.”
The one called Severus Snape turned toward the father. He slowed his pace, then smiled at the child. It was a terrible, ungodly thing.
The witchfinger slid down Hermione’s back once more.
Magistrate Rowan stalked up onto the stockade, his chest puffed out importantly. Taking a scroll from his sleeve, he read in a prim, high-pitched voice, “Severus Snape, you are brought to this place on charges of witchcraft! On the thirty-first day of October in the year of our Lord, Sixteen Hundred Ninety Two, our esteemed Reverend Cotton Mather did go forth from the church, and saw you cavorting with spirits in the most lascivious manner!”
Hermione watched the accused man closely; something about him fascinated her. Perhaps because she had never known anyone who cavorted with spirits, lasciviously or otherwise.
From the stockade, Snape turned toward her, and caught her in the fiery gaze of his black eyes. His thin lips curved into a smile. Not the demonic sneer he saved for the puritan whispers, but something vastly different. Hermione felt her world tilt, her vision dim. From deep within, she heard, “Ah, another one. A witch knows his own. Have a care, Hermione Granger, lest you find yourself in my place.”
The voice was low and smooth; cool like an autumn breeze. This, she realised, was a true witchfinger, one that did not point in accusation, but in recognition.
Later, she would remember the fire licking at his feet, his snarl of defiance; the sudden chill that scraped down every spine of every man, woman and child who came that day to witness the witch burning.
She would remember the blinding flash of light, the cry of fear and surprise on every tongue as the witch Severus Snape transformed into a dark wraith of flight. But most of all, she remembered the warmth of his embrace, as he took her away from her certain fate, to a place where no accusing finger ever would dare to point her way.