Possessiveness and Other Such Oddities

Facetious pt 2

a/n: so first off, i wanna say writers block is a bitch, and just because i have it all planned out, apparently it doesn't mean i'll be able to actually write it out T-T (i ended updating my other fics and publishing a new one to try and get out of my rut with this fic and it finally worked!

all this to say, i'm really sorry for how late this chapter is, but i hope you enjoy it! (c/w for ritual-based self-harm).

Once the fire had been sufficiently fed with the offerings for Lily, James, as her widower slit his palm and squeezed out enough blood to make someone woozy, it was supposedly representative of his pain and loss and was coupled with loud indistinct canting (Harry could have easily been yelling gibberish for all the old Gregorian chants sounded like).  It was Harry's turn next, and this was tricky.  He couldn't spill equal or more blood than what James had, but if he did too little, then James would be unfairly angry.  There was no winning: he would offend James either way, so he decided to follow Lady Magic and sacrifice exactly what he felt. 

Ah, James had a lovely expression: one of constipated anger attempting to masquerade as politeness.  The others ignored it with a practiced ease -- though Uncle Sirius' face was twisted in barely concealed anger towards James and the man he no longer knew.  After Harry had slit his palm, Uncle Moony, Uncle Sirius, and finally Cousin Rhodesia did so as well.

The rest of the mourning ritual passed in a blur, and to be perfectly honest, Harry didn't care much to pay attention.  It was over soon enough, though, and Harry bid Uncle Moony and Uncle Sirius farewells.  With only the blood family left, the ancestral rites would begin.  Harry flexed his magic along with Cousin Rhodesia, preparing for the exertion that rituals needed to be completed to their full.  If Harry were feeling more charitable, he would have understood how much Father was really grieving, but he wasn't, so the way Father stood off to the side and refused to engage with a disappointed Cousin Rhodesia just seemed standoffish and cruel.  As was how James often acted, though, so Harry didn't understand why Cousin Rhodesia thought he would be any different this Samhain.

As soon as she felt properly stretched, Cousin Rhodesia cast a gleaming topaz tempus, checking how long they had till midnight.  The muggles called it witching hour as a sort of fairytale or superstition, but it was true: magic was strongest at the weak points of the day (midday, midnight, dawn, and dusk), and Samhain rituals worked best bathed in only starlight and the glow of the moon.  There were Arithmetic and Astrological reasonings, midnight worked best with the sacrificial nature of Samhain, but even to a Ravenclaw like Harry, it was superfluous knowledge to have.  Cousin Rhodesia broke Harry out of his rumination with a tap on the shoulder and softly murmured, "It's a quarter till midnight, Harry."

Harry nodded and admired how her coppery skin looked near ethereal when dotted with moonbeams and the light glow of the fire.  If Harry were a poet, like Padma, he would have said she looked like autumn foliage or a statuette of opal and terracotta clay -- perhaps she looked like the desert sand alight with stars and embers -- but he wasn't, so he just smiled at her and walked over to Father to inform him of the time.  Father nodded tersely without breaking eye contact with the flickering fire.  Harry's smile turned a little brittle at the dismissal, but a soft, fluttering touch fixing up his hair and robes from Rhodesia brought it back in its entirety.

As the fifteen minutes drained away like sand in an hourglass (hah, that was an apt metaphor, Harry thought), Father began to take charge of the preparations.  The flames were doused, and the ashes gathered into pinewood buckets.  They were kept warm through only the coals and embers, and it hadn't hit below freezing, so they would still hurt to toss around.  Father also pulled the petals of deep blue chrysanthemum flowers off into little pinewood bowls.  It almost reminded Harry of the little nursery rhyme taught to little kiddies: