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The letters would always pop in and out of her computer screen, typed by her anger and longing, deleted by her wrath and pride. For what was likely the hundredth time that week, Hermione Granger drafted a new email, wondering if that would be the one he would finally reply to, pushing her crafting ability as a wordsmith to the edge of its limits.
The ache in her chest throbbed so very viciously, and if only she could translate it into writing, could use her keyboard as a means of transporting her anguish, then he would certainly come for her. He had to.
But– you know what? No. She had already revealed to him that she was sorry, she had made herself available, she had lost her father and yet found a way to search for him amidst London’s chaotic maze on the single worst day of her life. She didn’t owe him a damn thing anymore.
Which was why she had told her roommate earlier that week that yes, actually, she did want to go to Alpha Beta Gamma Sigma Kappa Whatever’s major halloween rager. She had spent most of her days in UCI so far wallowing in sorrow and regret, but she deserved to enjoy herself. She had made good choices, sensible picks, and she was a decent person.
Plus, maybe alcohol would help her forget those missing replies, an absence that cut to the core of her soul.
She opened her inbox again, hovering over the SEND option with the mousepad. How tormenting that it was so easy to message him, so simple. Had she lived in the 1970s, she would have had to send him a letter or postcard, or–God forbid– call. But it was theoretically effortless to use the internet to communicate.
So why couldn’t he, in all his intelligence, talk back?
Whatever. She logged off, stomping her way back to her dorm, ready to allow Lavender to doll her up and shapeshift her into a proper, reckless young adult.
She would have fun tonight even if it killed her.
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The old bridal dress she had thrifted worked perfectly as the main component of the costume she envisioned, even if Lavender didn’t recognize the reference or appreciated its uncanny accuracy.
“Let me trim it a bit, Hermione,” she held a pointy scissor in her right hand, doing a cutting motion in the air. “It is halloween! People expect you to whore it up a bit. That’s how you snag the yummy rowing crew members, anyway.”
“I like my costume just fine, thank you very much. Christine Daaé from Phantom of the Opera. I’m sure the theater majors will eat it up.”
“You say that like it isn’t part of the problem!” Lavender exclaimed, her free hand curling into a fist to emphasize her bewilderment.
Hermione snorted.
Lavender had helped her tuck her hair inside a long curly wig, as well as lent some of her makeup for Hermione to put on. Hermione was grateful to have someone she could rely on for such matters, especially considering how she hadn’t had a cacophony of female friends growing up.
She twirled around, feeling overjoyed with her artistic transformation.
“You look lovely,” Her roommate told her, clapping her hands and interlacing her fingers. “Just a bit too old fashioned for my taste.”
Hermione glanced at herself in the mirror. “It’s France in the 1880’s, Lav. Anything shorter than that and you would be deemed a harlot and thrown on the street.”
Lavender sighed. “Cause that is what halloween is all about– time period accuracy!”
The girls exchanged an amused look and then giggled.
“Oh Hermione, I’m so excited for you to experience your first halloween in America. You’re gonna love it, I just know it.”
Halloween used to mean Disney movie marathons with her parents, and the one night a year her dad would dare to bake a chocolate cake. It was fun, and warm, and gone.
It hurt.
“I think I’m ready to get hammered,” Hermione confessed, bleeding from the pressure in her heart.
“Now that is what halloween is all about!”
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Hermione could sense the beats of the music pulsating along her body before she even saw the house. It was alive with flickering lights, tacky decorations and an onslaught of people circling its edges, wild and carefree.
She was Mrs Pacman, avoiding any of the frenzied ghosts around her, yet somehow she knew she could make them run from her just as easily if she tried.
“Happy halloween!” A boy wearing nothing but jeans and angel wings deposited a tray with tiny cups in front of them. Lavender took hers and made a pointing motion to her mouth, as if Hermione needed assistance to grasp the concept of what a beverage was.
Though, to be fair, it was her first time doing shots at college.
Hermione shut her eyes before the liquid had even swirled around her tongue, and when she swallowed it down she involuntarily grimaced. It tasted awful and made her throat contract.
‘Hey, Lav–” Hermione reached for her roommate, but she was already gone, off to peruse the perimeter in search of a new target to pursue.
Now she was alone, at a frat party. A truly spooky, macabre, terrifying halloween, indeed.
They had rented a Street Fighter game machine, which caught her interest at first, but those brutes kept smashing all the buttons at the same time and chugging beer down as they won or lost, violating a perfectly constructed instrument with their unnecessary force and the drips of their cheap booze.
Frustrated, she didn’t notice when some giant bloke in a wolf costume approached her from the back, enveloping her stomach with his arm and breathing down her neck. He smelt of mold and sweat.
“Hey, princess,” he squinted his eyes, “you have too much on, no? I’m sure you’ll look twice as pretty after you lose some of it.” He reached for her cheek with his dirty nails, but she slapped his hand away, catching him by surprise, and using the momentum to run away from his predatory gaze.
What had she been thinking, agreeing to this nonsense? He, oh he thoroughly enjoyed toying with her, didn’t he, even from a distance. Honestly, he had to know his silence would drive her mad, the storm before the tempest. Hermione knew him, she knew him so damn well. He was gonna come for her, and when he did, she was beyond screwed. He would tear her apart, limb from limb, and he would revel in her agonized cries.
So why couldn’t he come now?
She gulped down more liquor, making her insides scorch. The flashing colors and impossibly loud music added to her buzz, and suddenly she was overwhelmed by a surreal mist in her head, having a hard time believing she was an actual person and not a figment of someone’s imagination.
“I believe societal norms indicate we must converse,” said a voice next to her, eliciting a delayed gasp from her chest.
When she turned, however– she had to suppress a giggle.
For in front of her stood a boy dressed as the Phantom. From head to toe he was cladded in theatrics, an exact replica of the Opera Ghost’s costume– hat, cape, mask.
It was, well to be perfectly honest, it was hot. Perhaps lust was an inconsequential part of the college experience. Or maybe it was just the spike of alcohol mixed with the rush of adrenaline after being chased by that disgusting wolf creep.
“We can talk,” she started, hands stretching out the fabric in her skirt. “Just don’t make me sing for you.”
He chuckled. “Ah, but where is the fun in that?”
Hermione couldn’t detect where his accent was from– maybe Colorado? It was a standard American drawl, with no discernible speech inflections, similar to the ones she would hear on TV. His posture was familiar, though.
“What’s your major?” She tried, using this unique window of opportunity to improve on her small talk skills.
“Business. But only because law would take too much of my time.” A chuckle from him, rich and inviting. It made her mouth water.
“There are a million other possibilities besides those two, you know…” She reminded him, though there was a fond flicker of recognition in his smugness, one that made her heart accelerate.
His face was impenetrable through the darkness of the mask, and all she could get from him was his voice. Velvety, soft, mysterious. Much like Christine, she found herself lured to it, a trance of curiosity, a sliver of seduction.
“Not when you factor in financial return and the effort required to reach a reasonable position. Plus, I’ve got… Personal plans. It limits my options.”
He played with the long sleeve of her dress, testing the fabric against his digits. It felt intimate, invading. But not entirely uncomfortable.
She allowed herself to devour it, this brief reprieve from her restrictions, and even slid her eyelids close for a few minutes, completely and utterly at ease.
“Do you feel a little foolish with all this on?” She asked in the form of a confession, tugging on a chunk of her wig, coiling the artificial strands along her index finger. “My friend tried to warn me against it, but I’m too headstrong, I suppose.”
A few heartbeats of music and frenzied hormone-fueled background yells.
“Maybe you are,” he finally whispered, placing his gloved hand on her shoulder, slowly, reverently, as if he could break her were he not careful enough. “But what’s the alternative? To be another slutty bunny? That doesn’t sound like you.” A gentle stroke to her chin, “Neither does this lovely ambiance, naughty girl.”
She savored his leathery touch, the familiarity of his clothed fingertips as they slowly trailed over her collarbone. It was odd, how deafening the party sounds were and yet how she could easily discern his every word, feel his every brush.
“Are the drama geeks giving you much trouble?” Hermione pondered as she tilted her chin forward, neck bare, gladly leaning into his ministrations. “I swear I almost prefer the people who don’t recognize who I’m dressed as. At least they don’t throw strained soprano notes my way.”
“I haven’t paid much attention to anyone else.” He brought his masked face closer to the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. “Not ever.”
They felt each other as their bodies folded, merging, desperately wanting to become one.
She hadn’t felt this sort of exhilaration in such a long time. After her father’s accident, she didn’t think she would again. Yet her blood rushed to her head, and her stomach shrunk with the birth of a million butterflies.
The Phantom gripped the back of her neck, forcefully, and it gave her that sadistic relief of a tension knot being undone.
“I’ve been so afraid of living my life,” she uttered, hands trembling.
“That is good.” He licked her earlobe, making her toes curl, making her chest explode.
Oh, only one person had ever truly made her feel that way. A single person, and she didn’t want to speak his name, because it held too much power. You-know-who had only ever wanted to use her. He-who-must-not-be-named had tried his best to control her, to tame her, to best her.
Well, she thought decisively, let him. I’m done resisting.
“Tom–” she unleashed the full might of acknowledging his existence, of calling for his claustrophobic embrace, but the Phantom was already gone, the soft gush of air left by his cape her sole companion, until even that dissipated into nothing.
Days, weeks, months later, she would convince herself that encounter was the consequence of a frightful drunk mind that desperately craved some company. Years later she would forget about it altogether.
But not about him. Not Lord Voldemort. Not Tom.
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UCI SENIOR STILL MISSING
Nov 7th 1994
Family and friends are still searching for Fenrir Greyback, a Sociology student last seen on Halloween night. He wore a werewolf costume, and was last spotted at around 11:23 pm, near his dorm.
If you have any information, please contact 555 43216.