The grand double doors of the Great Hall creaked open with a groan that echoed through the vast, empty space. Echo stepped inside, his black hair absorbing the faint light filtering through the high windows. The four long house tables, usually overflowing with students and laden with food, stood stark and bare, polished wood reflecting the solemn quiet. The teachers' table at the far end was equally deserted. Not a single ghost floated through the air, and there was no nearly headless Nick attempting to entertain, and no Peeves causing his usual havoc. The silence was profound, almost oppressive, broken only by the faint rustle of Echo's robes as he walked. Thanksgiving Day. A strange holiday that was all about being thankful, eating way too much, and sometimes, awkward family time. He thought about just skipping it, figuring it was a silly thing anyway, since the ones he was supposed to celebrate with weren't allowed to bring him. But a faint, almost imperceptible tug in his chest – a new feeling, maybe – made him stop. He was alone. Really alone.
His mind immediately went to what he usually did: Thanksgiving. Being thankful. Doing things together. The obvious answer, the most illogical but increasingly appealing one, popped into his head: Skate. He could go to the Black Lake. But how did merpeople celebrate Thanksgiving? Did they even have it? His notes on merfolk were great for biology and how they lived, but totally blank on holidays. He imagined himself trying to explain roasted turkey and pumpkin pie underwater – even to him, that sounded ridiculous. He didn't want to explain Thanksgiving; he just wanted to share it.
Okay, plan: bring Thanksgiving to Skate. Or, at least, to the shore of Black Lake. This was a middle ground, a place where land and water met, where their two worlds could briefly mix for this weird human ritual. His black hair pulsed with a determined, focused blue.
With his decision made, Echo then considered the food. While his own cooking was good enough to eat, it was, as he admitted with a rare hint of a smile, "slow as hell." Making a whole Thanksgiving meal, even a small one, would take forever and probably end up tasting terrible. There was only one smart choice.
He walked through the empty hallways, his footsteps echoing strangely in the quiet, until he reached the fruit bowl painting that led to the Hogwarts kitchens. He tickled the pear, and the painting swung open. The sudden warmth, the clatter of pots and pans, and the sweet smell of baking bread were a nice change after the empty Great Hall. Dozens of tiny, busy house-elves scurried around, making the few meals needed for the handful of students and staff left in the castle.
Echo paused, watching the busy but organized scene. His blue hair softened to a calm, polite green. He spotted a particular house-elf, easily identifiable by their large, earnest eyes and mismatched socks, carefully polishing silver platters.
"House-elf," Echo said, his voice clear but unusually gentle.
The house-elf jumped, squeaking, and nearly dropped the platter. They spun around, eyes wide. "Master Echo, sir! The house-elf apologizes for not seeing you, sir! What can the house-elf do for Master Echo, sir?"
Echo gave a small, barely noticeable nod. "House-elf, I need some help with a… holiday meal. A small one. For two people." His green hair pulsed with a hint of awkwardness. "It's a human holiday, called Thanksgiving. And one of the people is… a mermaid." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "She likes fish. And sometimes, good plants. Not so much… regular roasted bird."
The house-elf's eyes, already wide, widened further, then twinkled with an almost frantic delight. "A meal for Master Echo and a… a mermaid, sir? Oh, the house-elves would be honored, sir! A Thanksgiving feast! The house-elves shall make it the finest feast ever!" With a flurry of enthusiastic squeaks, the house-elf scurried away, shouting orders to their compatriots.
In a dizzying display of culinary magic, dozens of house-elves zipped and bustled, a whirlwind of tiny hands and focused intent. Ingredients appeared as if from thin air, pans clattered with a rhythmic symphony, and the air filled with the most incredible aromas. A small, perfectly roasted turkey, somehow designed for just two, began to brown. Alongside it, a delicate, flaky fish, seasoned with what smelled like sea herbs, sizzled gently. Tiny bowls of glistening, sweet-smelling berries, crisp, green underwater plants, and fluffy, golden bread appeared as if by spontaneous generation. Within what felt like mere minutes, a magnificent, if miniature, feast was arrayed on a beautifully carved wooden tray. With another excited squeak, the house-elves enchanted the tray to float, hovering gently at Echo's eye level.
"Here it is, Master Echo, sir!" the lead house-elf announced, beaming with pride. "A Thanksgiving feast for Master Echo and his… mermaid friend!"
Echo's green hair shimmered with genuine gratitude. He reached out and gently steadied the floating tray. "Thanks, guys," he said, his voice soft, a rare, heartfelt warmth in his tone. "This looks… amazing. Seriously, thank you for all this." He paused, a new thought occurring to him, his green hair flickering with a curious yellow. "Hey, just wondering," he began, "do you guys make all the food for Hogwarts? Like, every meal, every feast?"
The house-elves collectively puffed out their chests, their ears drooping slightly with modesty, but their eyes shining with pride. "Oh yes, Master Echo, sir!" chirped one. "Every meal, every crumb, all by the house-elves' hands, sir!" another added, bobbing excitedly.
Echo's eyes widened slightly, and his yellow hair pulsed with genuine astonishment. "Whoa," he murmured, a faint, almost embarrassed blush creeping up his pale cheeks. "I always thought the food just… magically appeared. I never really thought about all the work. That's really… cool. I'm seriously impressed."
He looked at the sea of tiny, eager faces surrounding him. "And… do you all have names?" he asked, his voice softer, imbued with a newfound respect. "I don't want just to call you 'House-elf.' That feels kind of impersonal, given everything you do."
The house-elves exchanged delighted glances, their eyes sparkling. "Oh yes, Master Echo, sir!" they chorused. "We all have names!"
Echo nodded, a small, genuine smile gracing his lips. His yellow hair softened to a warm, appreciative orange. He walked slowly through the bustling kitchen, stopping at each house-elf. He looked each one directly in the eye, and as they shyly offered their names—Freckle, Dimple, Hokey, Topsy, Fipsy, Bopsy, and many more—he repeated it softly, a sound of gentle acknowledgment. Then, with a gesture that stunned even himself, he leaned down and, for each house-elf, he planted a soft, chaste kiss on their forehead.
"Thanks, Freckle," he murmured, kissing the first elf. "Thanks, Dimple," he said to the next. Each kiss was a small, tender act, a profound expression of gratitude that went beyond words. The house-elves, utterly flabbergasted but radiating pure joy, wiggled and giggled, their small faces glowing with happiness. Echo's orange hair pulsed with a deep, abiding warmth, a feeling that was undeniably, beautifully, human.
He finally finished, his own face feeling surprisingly warm, a pleasant, unfamiliar flush. He turned back to the lead house-elf, whose name, he now remembered, was Pip. "Thanks, Pip," Echo said, his voice soft, his orange hair glowing with genuine affection. "You guys are seriously the best. I appreciate this more than you know." He gave one last, grateful nod, then, carefully balancing the floating tray, he made his way back out of the kitchens and into the quiet of the castle.
Echo walked through the quiet, torch-lit corridors, the enchanted tray floating steadily beside him, a warm and delicious beacon in the silent castle. His orange hair shimmered, a soft, happy glow radiating from him. The appreciative smiles of the house-elves, the genuine warmth he felt after saying their names, still stuck with him, a nice, new feeling in his chest. This was different from just feeling good about solving a tough magic problem; this was… a real connection.
He reached the big oak doors leading outside and pushed them open with a lot of effort. The crisp night air, usually refreshing, now felt softer and less cold. The moon, almost full, cast a silver glow across the big lawn, lighting up the path down to Tackle Lake. The water itself was a huge, dark, sparkling mystery, with ripples and splashes from its hidden creatures.
As he got to the shore, he saw her. Skate. She was sitting on a large, smooth rock at the water's edge, her shiny green tail in the water, her long, dark hair flowing around her like seaweed. Her eyes, usually watchful and distant, were looking at the castle, a bit sad. Seeing her there, alone in the late afternoon light, sent a fresh wave of warmth through Echo.
"Hey," he called out softly, not wanting to scare her.
Skate's head shot up, her eyes wide as she saw him. A slow, bright smile spread across her face, lighting her up. "Echo!" she exclaimed, her voice a pretty whisper that easily carried across the water. She slid gracefully from the rock, her tail pushing her through the shallow water until she got to the sandy bank.
Echo, his orange hair pulsing with quiet happiness, gently put the floating tray on the sand. The rich smells of the feast immediately drifted towards Skate, whose eyes, wide with surprise, darted from the roasted turkey to the shimmering fish.
"What… what's all this?" she asked, a wondering tone in her voice as she looked at the food.
"Thanksgiving," Echo explained, waving vaguely at the food. "It's a human holiday. You're supposed to be… thankful. And eat a lot. So, I figured, since you couldn't come to me, I'd bring it to you." His orange hair flickered with a shy blue. "And I had the house-elves make you some… fish and sea plants. I remembered you liked those."
Skate looked at him, her smile getting bigger, her eyes shining with an emotion Echo knew was real affection. "You… you did all this? For me?"
Echo shrugged, a faint, almost invisible blush on his pale cheeks. "It made sense. And… I wanted to. I didn't want to spend the holiday alone."
Skate reached out, her fingers lightly touching his hand, a surprisingly gentle move. "You're not alone, Echo," she murmured, her voice soft and warm. "Never alone."
They sat side by side on the cold sand, the warmth of the food between them. Echo, with a small, self-conscious smile, started serving the meal. He carefully put some of the delicate, herb-crusted fish and a selection of underwater greens onto a plate for Skate. For himself, he took a slice of the small turkey, a spoonful of cranberry sauce, and a piece of the golden bread.
Skate tasted the fish first, her eyes closing in pure joy. "Oh, Echo," she sighed, a sound of deep happiness. "This is… amazing. The house-elves really know what they're doing." She then tried the sea plants, nodding approvingly. "And these! They taste like… like the deepest, purest parts of the lake. Incredible."
Echo watched her, a quiet, deep satisfaction settling in his chest. His blue hair pulsed softly, showing the peaceful vibe. He took a bite of his own meal, finding that even the familiar taste of turkey seemed more flavorful, more special, shared with her.
"So," Skate said, after a few moments of happy eating, "what exactly are you 'thankful' for, Echo? On this… Thanksgiving?"
Echo paused, thinking. His blue hair deepened to a thoughtful indigo. "Well," he began, his voice surprisingly gentle, "I'm thankful for new information. For chances to learn more about… everything. For getting new creatures for my vivarium." He glanced at her, a faint, real smile touching his lips. "But also… I'm thankful for friends. For moments that don't make sense, but feel really good. For pie. And for you, Skate."
Skate's eyes sparkled, a low, pleased chuckle rumbling in her chest. "I'm thankful for you, too, Echo," she admitted, her voice warm. "And for the house-elves' awesome cooking. And for your… weird but totally charming ways of celebrating human holidays." She leaned closer, her long hair brushing his shoulder. "Tell me about the new creatures, Echo. And about this 'pie' you mentioned."
And so, under the silent gaze of the full moon, Echo began to tell his adventures in the Forbidden Forest, his voice losing its usual flat tone, replaced by a lively, excited one as he described each creature, his rescue of the Graphorn and the Bugbear, and the growing collection in his vivarium. He spoke of Shimmer, the Demiguise, and its wise, watchful eyes. Skate listened, totally hooked, her own eyes bright with interest and amusement, occasionally asking questions about merfolk legends or the magic of certain plants.
As the hours passed, and the last of the small feast was eaten, a deep sense of peace settled over them. The initial awkwardness had long since disappeared, replaced by a comfortable closeness. Echo's indigo hair softened to a happy, shimmering silver, reflecting the sun's gentle glow as it sank below the horizon. He felt light and free, the lingering sadness from earlier in the day completely gone, replaced by the warmth of Skate's presence and the simple joy of being together.
Finally, as the first hint of twilight began to color the eastern sky, Skate sighed, a soft, longing sound. "I should go," she murmured, reluctantly pulling her gaze from his. "My mother will be wondering where I am."
Echo nodded, a pang of reluctance in his own chest. "I get it," he said, his voice quiet. He watched as she gracefully slid back into the water, her shiny tail shimmering beneath the surface.
"Thank you, Echo," she called out, her voice a final, pretty whisper as she began to swim away. "For everything." She kissed him on the cheek.
Echo stood there for a long moment, watching her until her shape vanished beneath the dark waves. The air felt colder now, the silence deeper, but the lingering warmth in his chest stayed. He picked up the empty tray, the remains of their shared meal, and slowly began the walk back to the castle. His silver hair pulsed with a quiet, deep contentment. He was still alone physically, but he didn't feel lonely. Not anymore. The connection, the weird but deeply human bond he shared with his friends, was a warmth that would keep him going, a purpose that would guide him, even in the quietest, emptiest moments.