Jane's quill scratched steadily across the parchment, its metal nib pressing deep enough to leave faint grooves in the thick paper.
The morning room was quiet, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the distant clatter of the kitchen, where Tilly was vigorously scrubbing copper pots.
Morwenna was in the library with Seraphina, learning to count the painted sunflowers on a page that stayed perfectly still beneath her small fingers.
Jane finished the list and read it over, her eyes moving down the twelve neatly written lines. Three items were for the Evans ritual solution, specific ingredients Grand-mère had confirmed they could obtain locally rather than risk shipping them from France.
Two were for the Samhain altar. The rest were for the holiday offerings: salt, crusty bread, red wine, the pungent dried herbs Seraphina used every year, and a length of black silk ribbon, smooth and cool to the touch, for the ancestor candles.
She folded the parchment twice and slipped it into her pocket.
Jack was in the study, bent over a heavy desk as he signed a thick stack of papers that appeared to be a formal contract with the Greengrass family. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old vellum. When Jane knocked, he looked up and placed his quill on a silver rest.
"The list." She handed him the folded parchment. "Tilly said we have most of the basics in the larder, but these specific items still need to be bought. You will need to visit the apothecary on Diagon Alley for the herbs, and..." She leaned over and tapped the first two lines. "These are only available in Knockturn Alley."
Jack unfolded the paper and scanned the ingredients. His expression remained as steady as the stone walls around them.
"Borgin and Burkes for the nightshade extract?"
"Grand-mère's recipe specifies their stock. She said the quality hasn't changed in two hundred years, and we can't afford even the slightest impurity."
He folded the list and slipped it into his pocket. "I will go now. I will be back before lunch."
. . .
The Apparition point tucked behind the Leaky Cauldron was slick with the remnants of an October rain. Jack brushed the lingering moisture from his wool sleeves and walked through the brick archway into Diagon Alley.
The street was bustling, though it lacked the frantic energy of the summer crowds. Instead, shoppers in heavy wool cloaks moved at a steady pace, their heads bowed against the persistent drizzle.
A woman with a toddler balanced on her hip was arguing loudly with a greengrocer over the price of pumpkins, the orange gourds piled high in damp wooden crates.
Jack bought the dried herbs first. The apothecary smelled of pungent cinnamon and a sharp medicinal tang he couldn't quite identify. The shopkeeper wrapped the brittle bundles in thick brown paper, tied them securely with coarse string, and asked whether he wanted valerian as well. It was going to be a long, cold winter, he explained, and everyone slept better with valerian.
Jack politely declined, paid in silver coins, and left the shop.
He paused on the rain-slicked stones, watching a cart venting steam as its vendor sold roasted chestnuts. The man had a perpetually red face and called out his prices in a gravelly voice.
Children darted between shoppers, laughing as they chased a stray calico cat that had found a warm spot near Gringotts' heavy doors. A group of witches around his mother's age stood outside Madam Malkin's, their voices blending into a low, steady hum of gossip that Jack couldn't make out.
In October, Diagon Alley smelled of warm wool, roasted nuts, and rain on ancient stone. Children laughed, and shopkeepers called out their morning greetings. Everything felt comfortably ordinary.
Jack turned toward the entrance to Knockturn Alley.
It was a narrow, shadow-filled gap between a dusty bookshop and a tea house that had been shuttered for years. Jack had passed through it countless times, yet the change in atmosphere always came just as suddenly.
First came the cold, damp air, carrying a heavy smell like old bone meal and a cloying sweetness that might have come from funerary incense or creeping rot.
The cobblestones were slick with a greasy film. Streetlamp light barely reached into the gloom, and the few illuminated windows glowed with the unsteady light of candles burning in unsettling shades of green and purple.
A man in tattered gray robes hurried past, his collar turned up and his eyes fixed firmly on the ground to avoid meeting Jack's gaze. In a nearby shop window, a row of silver knives had been arranged in a gleaming fan, their polished blades catching the strange, dim light.
Borgin and Burkes stood at the end of the row like a brooding crow. Its heavy door creaked on rusted hinges when Jack pushed it open.
Inside, the air was unnaturally dry and still, as though the shop itself were holding its breath. Glass cases displayed curiosities Jack had seen before: a necklace said to bring seven years of luck, a withered hand that twitched rhythmically on its velvet cushion, and a collection of small bones arranged in a perfect, unbroken circle.
Behind the counter, a man with meticulously oiled hair and a thin mustache looked up from a heavy leather ledger.
"Mr. Keith."
Jack didn't remember giving the man his name, but he knew it wasn't necessary. Borgin and Burkes always knew their customers.
"I need nightshade extract. Evans family specification."
The man's eyebrows rose slightly, a brief flicker of interest crossing his face. He disappeared behind a heavy velvet curtain and returned moments later with a small glass bottle. A dark, viscous liquid swirled inside, and thick black wax sealed the neck.
"Three Galleons."
Jack paid, pocketed the bottle, and left without another word.
Outside, he passed through the narrow gap between the two worlds and returned to Diagon Alley. The street remained as ordinary as before, still smelling of rain and roasted chestnuts. He let the bright sound of children laughing wash over him, and the tension that had lingered in his shoulders finally eased. Then he continued toward the Apparition point.
. . .
The ancient wards of Keith Manor welcomed him with the familiar, humming warmth of magic recognizing his blood. The entrance hall smelled of beeswax polish and comforting woodsmoke from the great hearth.
Morwenna's high voice echoed from somewhere down the corridor as she asked a question, which Seraphina answered in her usual low, patient tone.
Jack found Jane in the kitchen. She stood at the stone counter, carefully unwrapping the dried herbs and arranging them across the cool surface with the same focused attention she devoted to her research journals.
"I have it." He set the small bottle on the counter between them.
Jane picked it up and turned it in her hands to inspect the contents. The black wax seal caught the gray light filtering through the window.
"Good. Grand-mère said the extract needs to settle for at least six weeks before we begin mixing the ingredients. That puts the start date in December."
"There's plenty of time."
She opened the cupboard Tilly had cleared specifically for ritual ingredients. It had a small silver latch and was kept separate from the ordinary cooking spices. Jane placed the bottle inside.
"Plenty of time," she repeated softly.
An hour later, Jack had returned to the study when Morwenna appeared in the doorway. She had been in the corridor with Cinder, watching Tilly carry things from room to room, and had finally worked up the courage to ask what was happening.
"Dada."
Jack immediately set down his quill.
Morwenna stood in the doorway with one hand resting on Cinder's head. Her white hair was slightly tangled, probably from running through the halls.
"What is happening?" she asked, tilting her head.
"What do you mean, little bird?"
She waved a small hand toward the corridor. "Tilly is moving things. Gran-ma was lighting candles. And you went to get things." She stopped, her brow furrowing as she thought it over. "Last year we did Yule. This isn't Yule."
Jack leaned back in his leather chair. She watched him the way she watched everything, quietly and patiently, waiting for his answer to fit into her understanding of the world.
"It's a different celebration," he explained. "Samhain. It happens at the end of October, and it's older than Yule."
"What is it for?"
He paused, considering how to explain the weight of the tradition to a three-year-old.
"It's a time when the veil between worlds grows thin. Thinner than it does during Yule. It's the boundary between the living and the dead."
Morwenna's fingers tightened instinctively in Cinder's soft fur.
"The dead?"
"People we have lost. Family, and the people who came before us." His voice softened. "At Samhain, we remember them. We light candles so they can find their way back to visit us for one night."
She fell quiet for a moment, thinking about his answer.
"Like the portraits?"
"It's different. The portraits are only memories. This is..." He paused again, searching for the right words. "It's about the people who don't have portraits. The ones who lived long before we could preserve their faces that way. The ones we still want to remember and honor."
Morwenna glanced back toward the corridor, where Tilly had been carrying boxes of supplies.
"Is that why Tilly is moving things?"
"Some of it. We set out food and wine for them, along with salt and bread. Things that show them they are welcome here."
Morwenna stepped fully into the study, with Cinder following close behind her.
"Can I help?"
"You want to?"
She nodded solemnly.
Tilly gave her a specific task. There were candles to place along the long, dark table in the great hall, one for every ancestor whose name the family still remembered.
The house-elves had already arranged the heavy silver holders. Morwenna's job was to carry the white candles to their places.
She walked between the box and the table, carrying only one candle at a time. Her trainers made soft, padded sounds against the cold stone floor.
Cinder sat beside the hearth and watched her, his ears following her movements as she went back and forth, back and forth, until the table gradually filled with white candles.
Jane lit them later, after the autumn light outside had faded to a bruised gray. Carrying a burning taper, she moved steadily along the table, touching its flame to each wick. One by one, the candles caught and stayed alight, casting a flickering golden glow across the dark wood.
Morwenna stood close beside her mother, near enough to feel the warmth radiating from the growing line of flames.
"That's a lot of names," she whispered.
Jane nodded, her eyes fixed on the candles. "It is."
"Do we remember all of them?"
Jane reached down and gently touched her daughter's hair, letting her fingers linger.
"We try, sweetheart."
At the very end of the table, where the candles looked newest, Jane lit one more. She didn't speak the name aloud, and Morwenna didn't ask. But as she watched the steady flame, the little girl thought of eyes the same vibrant green as her mother's.
After dinner, Morwenna helped Seraphina arrange the ritual offerings. They prepared a small plate of fresh bread, a silver cup of wine, and a ceramic bowl of salt, then placed everything on a low table near the entrance hall, where anyone entering through the front doors would see it first.
Morwenna carried the bowl of salt herself, holding it with both hands to keep it steady. She set it down with the same intense care she used when arranging her wooden blocks.
Seraphina watched her, a small, sad smile touching her lips.
"That's good, Morwenna."
"Will they come tonight?"
"Maybe." Seraphina knelt beside her on the stone floor. "Samhain is the night when they can return. Some of them will visit, and some won't. We leave the offerings for them all the same."
Morwenna looked at the bread, the wine, and the salt.
"What if they are hungry?"
Seraphina rested a warm, reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"Then they will eat."
. . .
The cemetery was dark when they walked outside. Lanterns lined the path from the manor, their glass panes glowing with soft amber light. The grass beneath their feet was damp with evening dew.
Morwenna held Jane's hand tightly. Her other hand was buried deep in Cinder's thick fur. The fox stayed close to her side, his ears swiveling at every rustle and snap from the darkness around them.
The heavy iron gate stood open, its metal cold to the touch. Beyond it, the graves stretched away in long, silent rows. Centuries of rain had worn the older headstones smooth, while the newer ones stood sharp and clean against the earth.
White candles had been placed along the low stone wall bordering the path. Their flames burned with an unnatural steadiness, refusing to flicker even in the breeze.
Aldric led the procession. He walked with the same unhurried stride he used for his daily tasks, but tonight his head was bowed, and his shoulders carried a solemn weight. Seraphina walked beside him, her gray robes pale and almost ghostly in the darkness.
Jack carried a bundle securely wrapped in white cloth. Jane held a small wicker basket containing the offerings they had prepared earlier that day.
At the center of the cemetery stood the main altar, a massive slab of dark stone older than any grave in the grounds. Its surface was bare except for a shallow hollow in the middle, where the ritual fire would be lit.
Aldric lit the wood. The flames caught slowly at first, then spread across the timber with a steady crackle. As the fire grew, its orange light washed over the stone altar, which seemed to absorb its glow.
"We begin," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the crisp night air.
He began reciting names, one after another, in a steady rhythm. Some were short and sharp, while others flowed into long titles in languages Morwenna didn't recognize. With each name, the darkness around them seemed to draw closer, as though something unseen were answering the call.
Seraphina laid the offerings at the base of the altar: crusty bread, coarse salt, and a silver cup of red wine that steamed in the cold air. Jack added his bundle to the pile, unwrapping the white cloth to reveal dried herbs bound tightly with silver thread.
Morwenna watched the fire. It behaved differently from the ordinary flames in the nursery hearth. These flames moved more slowly, their weight somehow greater. When Aldric spoke a name that reached back to a time before the manor had been built, the flames leaned toward him as though listening.
At last, the names came to an end.
Silence stretched around them, deep and unbroken. The fire crackled softly, while the candles on the graves burned steadily in the darkness.
Aldric stepped back from the stone.
"For our blood. For our dead. We remember."
The words settled into the night like falling leaves. The ritual fire quieted, its heat pulsing gently beneath the steady flames.
Jane rested a hand on Morwenna's shoulder, grounding her with the familiar touch.
"Come. There's something else we must do."
They turned left, moving away from the main altar and passing graves Morwenna didn't recognize. The grass grew longer in this section, and the headstones were smaller and more modest. At the far edge of the cemetery, where the iron fence met a gnarled old yew tree, stood a low stone table.
There were no candles around it and no formal arrangement of offerings. It was simply a piece of gray stone, worn smooth by years of wind and weather.
"This is for guests," Jane explained softly. She knelt on the damp grass, and Jack knelt beside her. "It's for people who aren't Keiths. People we want to remember anyway."
She placed a small ceramic plate on the table. It held a slice of bread, a cup of wine, and a pinch of salt.
Jack added a small object that Morwenna couldn't make out clearly in the shadows.
Jane gazed at the stone for a long moment before whispering, "Lily."
Jack followed, his voice low. "James."
Morwenna stood between them, with Cinder pressed against her legs to keep her warm. She watched her mother's face. Jane kept her eyes fixed on the stone, her hands resting flat and motionless on her knees.
"Who is Lily?" Morwenna asked. Her voice sounded tiny in the vast darkness.
Jane's breath came slowly, visible in the cold air.
"She was my cousin, from a long-lost branch of the Evans family in Britain. Her name was Lily Evans. Then she married and became Lily Potter."
Morwenna knew that name. It appeared in the stories her father read to her, the ones about the hidden world and the war that had ended so recently.
"She died."
"She did." Jane's voice remained steady, though it lacked its usual warmth. "In the war, when Harry was just a baby."
Morwenna looked at the stone table. The bread, wine, and salt seemed like such small offerings for someone she would never meet.
"Harry's mother," she said.
"Yes."
She thought about the boy with the same vibrant green eyes as her mother, the one who didn't know about the magic running through his own blood.
"He is alone."
"He has family," Jack said. "It isn't the family he should have, but he isn't alone."
Morwenna looked at the table again, at the bread, the wine, and the salt.
Then she reached into her pocket. Her fingers found the smooth gray stone Elara had given her, the one that held feelings rather than images. She had placed something inside it weeks ago, after her mother first told her about Harry, the cousin who was alone.
She didn't know whether the stone could hold anything for the dead.
She placed it on the table anyway, setting it carefully between the bread and the wine.
Jane noticed the small addition. Her breath caught for just a moment, a slight hitch that Morwenna could hear. She said nothing.
Jack put an arm around Jane's shoulders, and she leaned against him.
The ritual fire flickered in the distance. The candles along the path remained steady, and the darkness seemed to hold its breath around them.
Morwenna kept one hand on the stone table a little longer, feeling the cold surface beneath her palm. Then she drew back.
They walked to the manor in complete silence. The lanterns along the path had burned low, their light softer now, more golden than amber. The grass was wetter than before, whether from the evening dew or the first hint of frost beginning to settle.
In the great hall, the candles still burned with their steady, unwavering light. The table remained laid with offerings for any ancestors who might visit. While the family had been away, Tilly had added fresh bread, still steaming from the oven, and refilled the wine cups to the brim.
Morwenna stopped beside the table. She looked along the rows of candles, each one representing a name she didn't know. Each flame belonged to someone who had once lived in this house, walked these stone halls, and watched the same moon rise over the lake.
"Do they see us?" she asked.
Jack stood behind her, his shadow stretching across the floor.
"Some of them, I think."
"How do you know?"
He fell silent for a moment before answering.
"I don't. But we leave the offerings anyway. We light the candles and speak their names. That's what remembering means. You do it whether you are certain they can hear you or not."
Morwenna touched the nearest candle holder. The flame remained steady beneath her gaze.
"Lily," she whispered. "James."
The names sounded small and fragile in the great hall. For a moment, they lingered between the candles and the surrounding darkness.
Then one flame flickered.
It happened only once, and so briefly that she might have missed it if she hadn't been watching so carefully.
Morwenna pulled her hand back, her eyes wide.
Jack rested his hand lightly on her head, his touch warm and comforting.
"Come. It's time for bed."
She went with him without another word.
In the nursery, Cinder curled into a ball at her feet. The fire had burned low, its embers glowing deep orange behind the iron grate. Morwenna held her locket and watched the shadows move across the ceiling, rising and falling with the shifting light.
She thought about the gray stone she had left on the altar. She thought about the feeling she had placed inside it, a memory of a sunny afternoon in the conservatory, when her mother had played the piano and the notes had filled the glass room like light.
It was the happiest feeling she had.
She had wanted Lily to have it.
Morwenna didn't know whether the dead could accept offerings from the table for guests. She didn't know if they could take feelings, or if feelings could count as food for a soul.
She hoped they could.
Cinder's ear twitched in his sleep, and his tail thumped once against the blankets.
Morwenna closed her eyes.
The next morning, Tilly cleared the table. The candles had gone cold. The bread was gone, and the wine cups were empty.
Jane found the gray stone on the altar. She picked it up and held it in her palm.
It was warm. Warmer than stone should have been, warmer than the morning air.
She closed her fingers around it, slipped it into her pocket, and went to wake her daughter.
===
There's image below
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Hey, happy Eid to everyone celebrating! ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜
✶⋆.˚ Minal aidin wal faizin, mohon maaf lahir dan batin ✶⋆.˚
So Islam is the majority religion here, and my family celebrates Eid too—but nope, I'm not Muslim. Honestly, if I think about it too hard, I feel a little rebellious, lol.
Anyway, during Eid, we usually go back to our grandparents' home, the hometown. We wear new, fancy clothes, and there are so many snacks at every house. We also visit the neighbors to saling bermaaf-maafan—basically asking for forgiveness from each other, whether we have done something wrong on purpose or by accident. So Eid is also kind of like a "reset" button.
The kids get envelopes with money, which is kinda similar to the Chinese red pocket tradition.
As for me? I still counted as a kid, obviously. Lol. How could I possibly be in the "adult" category? Hahaha. >𐃷<⭑.ᐟ
So… big brothers, big sisters, uncles, aunties… will you give me a red pocket? ( - ᴗ •́ )
You can send them via Ko-fi or Patreon—both are under "rikhi":
https://patreon.com/rikhi
https://ko-fi.com/rikhi
Oh right, if you're reading this on AO3, the links won't show fully, so you can head to my carrd and find them there: rikhi.carrd.co
Also, in case you didn't know, I have a Discord server: 75sprU6DdD
It's basically a ghost town, lol. I mostly just use it for updates and announcements—it makes things easier since my projects are spread across 3 or 4 platforms now.
Anyway, thanks so much for the red envelopes! Hope your year brings you good luck, happiness, and health
₍₍⚞(˶>ᗜ<˶)⚟⁾⁾
If you're not able to send one, maybe drop a kudos or bookmark on AO3, or leave a review on my Webnovel side. I have posted 50 chapters already but the story still doesn't have a rating… huff I'm so sad ಥ﹏ಥ
So, happy Eid and see you later~
Buh-bye!
— Reiya (ฅ'ω'ฅ)