Chapter Text
Dear Mr. Potter,
It is with the highest regard that you are cordially invited to attend a Halloween Feast at Godric’s Manor on the evening of October 31st. The festivities shall commence promptly at half past seven and continue well into the night, bringing together honoured guests for a celebration of this most haunted season.
Kindly confirm your attendance at your earliest convenience. Protective wards have been placed upon the grounds of the Manor to ensure the safety and discretion of all in attendance. Your presence has been both planned for and most eagerly anticipated.
With the sincerest expectation,
Your Host
James Potter stood at the edge of the neatly kept dirt road, staring up at the massive silhouette of the manor at the far end. Beside him, Sirius let out a long, low whistle.
“Now this,” Sirius said, shoving his hands into his robe pockets and rocking on his heels, “is a very fancy place to get murdered.”
“Sirius,” Lily cut in, her tone sharp. “For the last time, this is a fun Halloween party, not a trap. Stop being paranoid.”
“Just saying, Evans. Everyone gets an invitation, no one knows who sent it, and it’s Halloween? Smells like a trap to me.”
“Look, Padfoot.” James pointed toward two familiar figures making their way over the hill toward the manor. “It’s Frank and Alice. Can’t be a trap if the best Aurors in the country are here.”
Sirius shrugged. “Fine. But if murder isn’t on the agenda, I hope there is something interesting planned. Parties are insufferably dull without a bit of entertainment.”
“We can always get Wormtail drunk and make him do his impressions of the Hogwarts staff,” James suggested as they approached the front steps.
“I’d rather the party was invaded by Death Eaters than sit through his Sprout again,” Sirius muttered, rapping loudly on the enormous front door.
The hinges gave a long, theatrical creak as the door swung open, revealing a grand entrance hall—and no host.
“Oh!” Lily exclaimed, her gaze dropping to the floor. James followed her eyes and found himself looking at a tiny house-elf with an enormous grin.
“Welcome!” the elf squeaked. “Mister Black, Mister Potter, Mistress Evans, welcome to Godric’s Manor! On behalf of our most gracious host, I bid you enter. Please follow me to the parlor—the other guests are awaiting you.”
They trailed after the elf into a richly decorated parlor where members of the Order of the Phoenix lounged about, sipping from floating glasses and nibbling hors d’oeuvres off enchanted trays.
“Looks like the party’s already started,” James said brightly. “Oh, look—Pete and Moony are here!” He waved them over.
Remus lifted his glass in greeting. “Some party,” he said dryly. “Quite the grand death trap, don’t you think?”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Sirius agreed, plucking a drink off a tray. He turned a suspicious frown on the house-elf. “And who are you?”
“I’m Wobbles, sir!” the elf chirped. “I’ve been instructed by the host to ensure you have a grand time.”
“And our mysterious host is…?” Sirius pressed.
“Don’t bother,” Peter said, already looking flushed from drink. “Edgar and Marlene tried to interrogate him the moment they walked in. Wobbles isn’t spilling a thing.”
“Quite right!” Wobbles squeaked, bobbing his head furiously. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—another guest has just arrived! Please, mingle, drink, and enjoy. Dinner will be served once all are present!” With a quick snap of his fingers, he vanished.
The parlor buzzed with chatter and clinking glasses. Nearly every member of the Order of the Phoenix had received a similar anonymous invitation, and though no one knew their mysterious host, curiosity had outweighed suspicion. Laughter mingled with the strains of a charmed gramophone, but beneath it ran an undercurrent of unease, each guest stealing glances toward the curtained windows and heavily warded doors.
The sudden groan of the parlor door silenced the room. A gust of cold autumn air swept in as Severus Snape stepped across the threshold, his black cloak billowing like spilled ink. His expression was colder than the wind that followed him, his eyes scanning the gathering with palpable disdain.
A ripple of shock passed through the guests—every face tightening, every whisper rising—save one. Dumbledore entered just behind Snape and he alone seemed unsurprised, his smile serene as he raised his glass that he accepted from Wobbles in greeting.
“Welcome all to my little party! Severus joins us tonight as a new ally,” Dumbledore announced, his voice cutting through the mistrusting murmurs. “He has pledged himself to our cause—as a spy.”
If the news was meant to calm the room, James thought, it failed spectacularly.
Fabian leaned across the back of a chair, his voice sharp as broken glass. “I saw him in Knockturn Alley last week—browsing cursed grimoires. Doesn’t look much like loyalty to me.”
Marlene’s face flushed, her wand hand twitching toward her pocket. “He murdered my brother in a duel. You expect me to drink wine beside him?”
“He’s been helping Lucius Malfoy lobby against the Muggle Protection Bill!” Doge barked, his usually mild face hardened in outrage.
“And I say he’s a git,” Sirius added flatly, arms crossed as if the final word had been spoken.
“Peace, all of you,” Dumbledore said firmly, a quiet authority in his tone. “Tonight is for unity—and for celebration. Halloween is a holiday to bring people together, to reunite souls. In that spirit, I ask all of you to welcome Severus as one of us.”
The uneasy silence that followed was broken only by the crackle of the fire. James, stiff at Dumbledore’s words, noticed Snape drifting toward Lily with a predatory sort of focus. Before James could step forward, one of Mrs. Figg’s cats trotted across Snape’s path, tail high. Snape sneered down at it, muttering an insult under his breath.
Mrs. Figg swept up her beloved pet with a glare sharp enough to cut stone. “Say one more word about Mr. Whiskers, and I’ll box your ears straight off.”
At that moment, Wobbles reappeared with a sharp pop, clapping his tiny hands. His ears bounced as he beamed at the crowd.
“Dinner is served!” the elf chirped. “This way, this way—plenty for all!”
The guests filed into a grand dining hall, where a long oak table gleamed beneath floating jack-o’-lanterns and charmed candles that dripped wax but never burned out. Silver platters shimmered with steam, the feast already laid out as though awaiting royalty. Roast pheasant glistened with butter, bowls of candied apples sparkled with sugar, and pumpkin pasties exhaled warm, spiced aromas.
Snape once again tried to get close to Lily. James could see his intention to sit beside her from the way he pushed Dorcas aside to get to Lily, but she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye and briskly called very pointedly with a hard stare, “James—Sirius— let us sit together here.”
Snape’s jaw tightened, and he settled several places down the table instead, robes flaring as though to announce his displeasure.
Sirius leaned toward James, muttering, “Can’t even sit properly without looking like he’s plotting murder.”
James smirked into his goblet. “You just don’t like competition for the dramatic entrances.”
“Please,” Sirius scoffed.
Conversation bubbled up again, though nearly every thread of it circled back to Snape.
“I arrested him once,” Dorcas was saying, stabbing her fork into a pheasant wing. “Him and a pack of smugglers running wolfsbane out of Knockturn. Slipped away before trial, though. Fancy that.”
Caradoc leaned across the table, voice carrying. “Oh, I’ve got a better one—he deliberately fed Prophet reporters false tips about a raid. Sent them all to the wrong borough while his pals cleared out the real shop. Nearly tanked the whole case.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Dorcas muttered darkly.
Mrs. Figg, meanwhile, fussed over her cat beneath the table, sneaking it scraps of pheasant and shooting Snape glares sharp enough to cut stone whenever his gaze flicked her way.
Only Dumbledore seemed perfectly at ease, eating as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Pumpkin juice, Severus?” he asked cheerfully, passing the jug down the table. Snape accepted it with a curt nod, though his knuckles whitened around the handle.
By dessert, the air was calmer as everyone was filled with too much roast to argue too much. Candied apples cracked beneath teeth, cider flowed, and laughter tried and failed to mask unease.
Afterward, the party dissolved into wandering through the manor and its grounds. Some sought quiet corners for whispered conversations; others gathered around fireplaces with fresh bottles of mead, or strolled the candlelit gardens under the autumn moon.
James, grabbing a bottle of mead in one hand and Lily in the other, attempted to steal a private moment away from the others.
“Library?” James suggested, sliding an arm around her waist after a failed attempt to go to the conservatory.
“Occupied,” Lily replied after peeking in, where Fabian and Edgar were mid-argument over a chessboard.
“The study?”
“Full of Doge and Sirius, drunk and shouting about laws.”
James groaned. “Merlin’s beard, it’s like Hogwarts all over again. Can’t get a private moment at all.”
“Except with more alcohol,” Lily said, giggling, tugging him down a different corridor. They grew progressively drunker, slipping through hallways that never seemed to empty of people.
It was just as James had pressed her against a doorframe for a broom closet, whispering something about finally escaping when a sudden commotion echoed through the manor. Shouts carried down the hall—panicked, urgent. Guests rushed past them, wands drawn, the sound of footsteps thundering toward the entrance hall.
James and Lily hurried after the others.
There, sprawled upon the cold stone floor, lay Severus Snape. His black cloak pooled like a shadow beneath him, his face pale as parchment. His chest was still, his eyes wide but sightless.
The hall, which only an hour before had rung with chatter and music, now fell into a stunned silence. Only the flicker of the jack-o’-lantern flames overhead broke the stillness.
“He’s—dead,” Marlene whispered, her voice trembling between shock and grim satisfaction.
Alastor Moody had received the same invitation as every other member of the Order of the Phoenix. But unlike the rest of them, the ever-cautious, ever-vigilant hunter of dark wizards had taken one look at the anonymous letter, incinerated it, and muttered that the rest of the Order were fools for even considering such a gathering.
Which was why he was still in his office—alone, unbothered, and correct in his suspicions—when Dumbledore’s patronus shimmered into the room, summoning him to the manor.
“Just like you, Dumbledore,” Moody grumbled, brushing flecks of ash and floo powder off his robes as he stepped out of the fireplace. “Only you could turn a holiday party into a possible murder investigation.”
“Good of you to come, Alastor,” Dumbledore replied smoothly. “As you can imagine, this is a… delicate situation.”
Moody’s magical eye whirred. “Delicate, because everyone here had a reason to want Snape dead?”
“Yes, well…” Dumbledore didn’t disagree.
After being filled in as best he could, Moody called in James and Lily.
“Alright, you two,” he growled, planting himself in front of them. “According to Dumbledore, you mingled the most, talked to the most people. I’d like to hear your account of the evening.”
“Certainly, sir,” James said—except he wasn’t speaking to Moody at all. His gaze was locked on a suit of armor, and he addressed it as though it were giving testimony.
Lily burst into giggles, then interrupted with an unhelpful hiccup.
Moody pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much did you two drink?”
A crack echoed, and Wobbles the house-elf appeared, clutching an empty bottle. His ears drooped as he bowed.
“I am afraid it is not how much, sir,” Wobbles said gravely. “But what. The wine was laced with a Confounding Draught. I do not think anyone will be telling a very coherent story tonight.”
Moody groaned, long and low. Over the next few hours, he tried—and failed—to wring a straight answer not just from James or Lily, but the rest of the party attendees. Their tales shifted wildly with each retelling.
Somewhere in their tangled stories lay the truth. Moody knew it. He just had to scrape away the potion-fogged nonsense, piece by piece, until it surfaced.