hh_mirror | Luscious Pumpkin Jam (dated to Halloween night)

The party was not intended to celebrate Halloween, actually, but to celebrate the existence of pumpkins. It just seemed Halloween would be a good time for that kind of a celebration.

Wizarding culture had a special regard for the pumpkin, making it into tarts and juice and savories, forcing it down the gullets of every magic-user from such a tender age as to form a lifelong habit. The Sorting Hat, being steeped in magic, had also steeped itself in many a vessel of pumpkin juice over the centuries of its storied existence. Pumpkin juice, pumpkin ale, pumpkin hooch. Gooey pumpkin-gut strings, luxurious nutrient-rich slime studded with pale seeds. Oh pumpkins, glorious gourd of wizard's delight!

The Hat had dubbed this party after one of its favorite recipes: the LUSCIOUS PUMPKIN JAM.

The huge doors of the Great Hall were open. While magic kept the chill seasonal drafts from the Great Hall itself, party-goers who wished to enjoy the crisp autumn air could do so from the luxury of a pumpkin carriage. These were quite literally hollowed pumpkins that the Hat's magic had transfigured into full-size carriages, capable of carrying several occupants. Each was lit from within by enchanted candles, and studded with gleaming black jewels, with carved faces in lieu of windows. Several of the enchanted wonders were lined up outside the doors, with their house-elf coachmen ready to whisk students around the school grounds in slightly-gooey, pumpkin-scented comfort.

Indoors, all was warm and merry, and candlelit, and mostly orange. Instead of bobbing for apples, guests could bob for miniature pumpkins, the sort Martha Stewart might have used to decorate a mantelpiece, their tub filled with pumpkin juice in lieu of water. A pumpkin-carving station took prominent position near the doors, with paints and yarn to bedeck uncarved gourds for those students uninterested in pulling out pumpkin pulp. Tables had been moved to accommodate a dance floor, with a karaoke machine placed nearby. Golems inspired by Arcimboldo, wholly composed of autumnal fruits, did duty as waiters and DJs.

From the vantage of the head table, elevated above the main body of the hall, the Hat could take in all at once the entire spectacle. Satisfied, it rapped a self-congratulatory pastiche/homage:

"There ain't no party like a Sorting Hat party 'cause a Sorting Hat party don't STOP!"

The Hat felt most coolio itself, extending a strap to caress languidly the sequined sombrero that lay beside its place at the Great Hall's head table. The sombrero did not respond, of course. It was rather like the hat-equivalent of a RealDoll. Inert though it might be, the sombrero was velvety AND blingy, and that was what mattered.

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He shrugged. "I haven't gotten any angry messages. Something tells me our viridian barmaid is rather forgiving of bad behavior, as long as intoxicants are involved."

"...she would be, wouldn't she. And round here that's hardly going to be the worst thing anyone's done to her bar."

"you almosty make it sound like a challenge." The Master smirked. "If trashing bars wasn't beneath me, of course."

Rory raised his eyebrows. "...all right, for the record? Nothing I say like that is ever going to be a challenge. Just so we're clear."

"Oh, but I could use a good challenge." His smile was manic, with a not-quite-concealed frantic undertone. "They make such good distractions."

"...yeah." Rory looked away, voice growing quiet. "But I know the kind of thing it'd take to challenge you."

"That's not fair," he protested. "I've been shockingly good my whole time here, to very little benefit."

He nodded, slowly. "...You really have, haven't you."

"It's not at all satisfying, he complained, crossing his arms.

"...I don't know if you're actually expecting me to be sympathetic, here."

"It's been a long time since I expected sympathy from anyone."

There was an awkward pause.

"...you want to talk about it?"

He did owe the Master one, really. Which was... worrying.

The Master raised an eyebrow and bit back a snicker. "I don't think you'd like that," he said finally. "I tend to lose my temper when I'm 'venting'."

Rory sighed again. "Yeah. I don't think I'd like it either. But..." Okay, don't actually say that you owe him one. That's a bad move.

He gave Rory a skeptical glance. "You're not related to a Jo Grant, are you?"

"Not that I know of...?"

"You reminded me of her for a moment."

"...Is that good?"

"You'd probably think so." He smiled a little wistfully; that had been a very long time ago in his subjective timeline. "She was what they called a 'plucky young thing' at the time."

"How did you... know her?" This seemed like a safer thing to talk about than whatever would have resulted from venting. Possibly.

"She was his assistant... oh, lifetimes ago, for me." No point in asking who 'he' was; there was only one as far as the Master was concerned. "In your chronology, it would have been the early 70s."