Night of the Dead

Night of the Dead

By Messiah

Prologue

The Night of the Dead.

Ten years had passed, and no longer was this day a day of liberty, a day to rejoice that the world was now free of the machinations of Voldemort. The day had devolved from joy, into a jostling wave of thankless creatures, a steady stream filtering its way through London, trailing like a snake through unseen alleys - over rooftops - and through the Underground.

The only warning was a red glow in the shadows of a dilapidated building before The Fool flicked away his cigarette and pressed his way into that snake. Only a few drunkards were willing to insult him for his insolence - most everyone else was far too happy to take it (or anything else) personally on this day.

The Fool was jostled every which way, the crowd that surrounded him too intent on reaching their destination to care about one tiny man being crushed between them, no matter that he was dressed as the very one they honoured.

A pixie landed on his shoulder, clenching tiny claws into the lobe of his ear while screeching up into the sky at another. It pointed sharply forward at the trail of magical beings before pushing off back into the air. Scowling, The Fool spat at the pixie, but only managed to hack into a hag's hair.

They reached a crossroads. With jeers and a few cheers they surged around the corner, the muggles only knowing the compulsion to drive away, their minds forced to deny what they had just seen. At every intersection the snake grew thicker and faster, all but running, and more and more odd beings joined. The Fool watched as a centaur carefully placed his hooves so as not to break a foot, only getting rips at his tail for his effort.

The creatures gave no thought to law, and the sound of shattering glass from a shop front and squeals were followed by a bottle shoved into The Fool's hands. He peered closely and found that it was the cheapest of wines before it was pulled out of fingers. He had no idea where it had gone, and could only see the greedy grins of those surrounding him, their mouths stained with wine and blood and masked white as bone, for on the Night of the Dead it was acceptable to dress as a Death Eater, as long as one was willing to sacrifice something for it.

They clambered into one last alley, their screams echoing hollowly but still hidden from the ears and eyes of those who believed magic to be nothing but a faerie tale. Two by two they disappeared through an arch, spelled to look as if they walked through a blank brick wall.

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Deep beneath London is the Underground. Within that labyrinth, are rooms that are lost, and only known by those who can See them. The network of rooms was found during the War, and was converted for use once a year for the festival named in honour of those who had died. In the first room, a long foyer of guttering torches and dripping sewage pipes, there were aisles of men and women, children and ancients selling their wares. Shop keepers from Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley side by side with those from China and France. They sold trinkets and food and swore by Merlin that this was really the hair of the Luna Moth, only 20 Galleons.

"You! You there! I have something you want." An old man peered out from his stained awning.

The Fool paused.

"Come. Come in." The man turned and retreated into the folds, already knowing The Fool would follow. "You're a brave man, if man you are, for dressing The Fool on this grand night. But your costume is missing one thing." He brushed his yellowed beard to the side and pulled something out of the deep sleeves of his shirt before brandishing a bracelet of skulls. "To carry this is The Fool's burden."

"What is it?" The Fool's voice is a croak long past healing. The man reminds The Fool of someone from his past, but who, he knows not. A feeling of once knowing someone with a twinkle in his eye choked blue by his own beard.

"The Fool died for his sins, and for him died the world. This bracelet represents those who died for love of The Fool." The man's eyes were an opaque white, and that was when The Fool realized that the man was blind, and yet the man stared unerringly in his direction.

The Fool stumbled, and gasped. The magic of the skulls roaring in his head ... sucking at his soul. "No -- no!"

He turned and left, finding his way through the crowd of vendors and buyers, stopping at a booth to buy a cup of pumpkin juice, to hide his shaking hands. When reaching in his pocket for a Knut, he was unsurprised to find the bracelet resting there, and even less surprised when it slid eagerly over his bony wrist, since it undoubtedly belonged there. Or, perhaps it really had been there the entire time, and he had simply imagined the old man. The Fool's memory was no longer dependable, not since the - what? He couldn't remember exactly what had happened.

He, his pumpkin juice, and his bracelet were bowled over by running children, their happy cries harsh in his ears. Happiness wasn't something he was used to. He breath caught when he came face to face with a mask of white, flashes of memory refusing to lie dormant. Blood and death and never ending green behind his eyelids, but then the mask was lifted and it was a little boy with a sheepish grin offering a hand to pull him up. The Fool accepted and the child ran after his playmates, shrieking that he was the great Mal-Foi, the Dragon, there to avenge his loved ones and destroy all that was evil. A small girl tugged at her mother's hands as they approached a booth filled with glittering wings. There, the mother carefully wrapped her daughter in a shimmering pair the colour of moonlight, the girl sighing that her favourite was the Luna Moth.

Again the memories of sightless eyes and hair the same hue as the wings. A gaping mouth, screams silent and helpless. The Fool blinked and the memories were gone, nestling in the back of his mind along with everything else he couldn't remember.

As if on queue, a hush developed through the cavern of tradesman as candles appeared above their heads. Excited whispers grew and the crowd began to shift towards the front, booths disappearing into pockets, and those few who weren't previously costumed whispering a few words before melting into new forms.

And then only The Fool remained.

Slowly he made his way, following the flickering candles until he met a room holding thousands. He found a support beam and clambered up to a natural mezzanine, and from there he looked down to watch the story unfold.

A man with hair the colour of flames walked slowly along a plinth that ran the length of the room far above the heads of the revellers. Following him was a woman with hair that formed a heavy halo behind her. The whispers formed words and names. The Fool again felt the stirring of memories. "'Mione. Ronald. The Lovers." Tears ran down the woman's pale cheeks and the man clasped her hand tightly, leading her forward when her feet could no longer find the way. Together they reached the end of the platform, and only then did The Fool see the altar. A monument that was the black of obsidian, but with a gold shimmer as small writing scrolled around, over, and through it. The Dead.

The woman let out a harsh cry that was echoed by the gathered, and together, wands and fingers and wings were raised, released as one power into the air. The obsidian began to glow and words rose off before forming holograms of whom they once were. A pale figment of a man who was four times the size of anyone in the room, floated near to The Fool, who flinched away. The man moaned before flying away and back into the pillar.

"These are the Dead," the man of flames intoned.

"The Dead."

"For us they gave their lives. Because of them, we live."

"Live."

The woman cried out again and collapsed at the foot of the stone, the man falling to his knees to cradle her before lifting his head one last time. "And now, we live for them."

The room burst into cheers and fireworks of dragons and lions scampered through the candle lit arches. The man helped the woman to her feet and slowly they retraced their steps until they were swallowed by the gathering. Unable to resist the urge to follow, The Fool slipped down to the floor and attempted to make his way to them, but then he stopped, unsure of himself. They didn't know him. He didn't know them. Why was he even here?

The room was thick with the sharp scent of sweat and lust, slippery skin slid across his as he attempted to find a wall to collapse on, his feet aching from the long walk from his flat.

A sharp push and he found the wall and an insistent mouth against his, the smell of roses overpowering him. The Fool gasped and licked at the other's lips, somehow knowing that it had been a long time since he had last felt anything like this.

The other man --for that was what he was under his costume of rough black sack cloth and half mask of bone-- pressed hard against him and devoured him. The Fool moaned and the man pulled away, something passing through his hidden eyes. Something akin to shock. Deep and throaty was the man's voice, as he leaned forward to whisper: "I always wanted to do that. It's really too bad that you never knew. And now you're dead. The Fool gave up and left us forever. If only we were so lucky." The man gave a final sweet kiss and took a step back, to be quickly hidden by gnomes and goblins and wizards, rainbows of sequin and feathers hiding in plain sight. For tonight was the night of freedom. A night to play games of love and chance.

A night to live for those who no longer could.