From the Writings of Melinda Potter – August 8, 1964 – You Could Learn a Lot from a Muggle
I want to start this article by wishing you a Merry Christmas. Don't know what that means? Well, you're missing out on a special occasion on the Muggle calendar. Once a year, Christian Muggles and not a few of your fellow wizards and witches come together in a celebration of their faith and family that I can't help but envy. Actually, I'm through envying it. I've cancelled Solstice at my home this year. We're having a Christmas party, and I'll tell you why...
Ten Days Until Christmas:
A young girl with straight brown hair and unremarkable brown eyes sat at a children's play desk, but she wasn't using the enchanted blocks to build anything. She was using a coloured quill to write a letter. Her words slanted down across the unlined parchment creating a lopsided orange missive.
Dear Harry,
It snowed this weekend. Me and Joey made a snowman. Willy and Doug and Amanda tore it down. I said you would hex them forever when you came home. Think of something good.
Are you coming home soon? They give you a break for the solstice, don't they?
Isobel paused and read back over what she'd written so far. She'd already had to start over twice because she didn't like the results. It wasn't a bad letter, she decided, but it didn't yet say what she wanted it to say. When Harry left for school, she hadn't said goodbye. Isobel told him that she hated him for leaving and that she hoped he went to school and never came back. She'd felt justified at the time. He was abandoning her, but now she just wanted her brother to come home and visit her.
Joey is a good friend, but I miss you a little I guess.
Love,
Isobel
Sealing her letter, Isobel tried not to feel pitiful, dejected, and wronged by the world. But nothing was ever fair. Harry was at school having fun, and he probably hadn't even thought of her since he left. He probably thought she was the biggest baby in the whole world. That was what he'd called her when she'd been throwing her tantrum on the day he left, the biggest most annoying baby in the whole world.
One of their carers dropped a pile of blankets in the room, and Isobel scuttled after her. "Wait! I need help." The harried woman stopped long enough for Isobel to present her letter. "My brother's in school. Can you help me send this to him?"
Nine Days Until Christmas:
The Weasley house had been many things that Ron could remember; loud, cluttered, on fire... but it had never been particularly empty. Between Charlie, his parents, and the twins, the house had always seemed one room too small. When he and George stepped through the front door and Mum didn’t envelope them in a series of hugs, when the smell of dinner didn’t fill his nose or set his mouth watering, Ron got a sick feeling in his stomach. Something was wrong.
“We need to talk, boys.” Dad appeared in the archway that led to dining room, and waited for them to follow him. “Now, I want you to sit down and not panic.” Ron felt his heart speeding up as his father nervously wrung his hands. If they weren’t supposed to panic, why was he so scared, and where was Mum? “It seems they’ve enacted some new sterner laws regarding truancy. George, your three-day absence from school was not received well. I don’t want you to blame yourself. Who could have known how serious the empire has become about these things?”
“What happened? Where’s Mum?” George asked. “Did they do something to Mum?”
“Your mother’s fine. She’s just been taken to a prison facility in... Siberia. It’s only for three months, a month for every day you were missing.” Arthur’s gaze seemed unfocused and lost. “I tried to get them to take me instead, but the Imperial Guard was adamant. Mothers are more effective they said. As if you wouldn’t have got their message just as well... Boys love their fathers too.”
“Mum’s in prison? How long has she been there? Why didn’t you write and tell us?” George shouted. “We have to go get her.”
Ron was glad that he’d taken a seat like his dad had wanted. He had the strangest light-headed feeling. George was shouting, and Dad just sat and there listening. “Stop it,” Ron said. When George continued shouting as though he hadn’t heard, Ron screeched as loud as he could. “Stop screaming at him when this is all your fault!”
“My fault?” George said. “It’s... I know it is.” Dropping back into his seat, his anger and strength rapidly draining out of him, he grimaced and buried his face in his hands.
“It isn’t your fault,” Arthur said. He seemed to have broken out of his daze. “It’s no one’s fault. But boys, from now on you’re going to have to stay in school, no more disappearing. Do you understand me?”
So much for his plan to join the rebellion immediately, George couldn’t leave his parents to these kinds of repercussions. He tried not to imagine what the prison his mother was being held in had to be like. Was she alone, cold, scared? “I’m sorry, Dad,” George said.
“Quiet now.” Arthur moved his seat around and squeezed it between his sons. He wrapped his arms around the both of them and held on tight. “It’s all going to be all right. Your mother will be home before you know it.”
Eight Days Until Christmas:
The first snow of the winter season didn't come until after most of the students had left school for their holiday. Harry sat at one of the dorm's windows and stared out over the whitewashed landscape. The group home children didn't go anywhere for the holidays. It was supposed to be a treat for them, getting to spend the break at school with its spacious dorms and plentiful feasts. Unlike most group home children, Harry did have something to miss back at the over-crowded shanties that they’d grown up in. He had a sister, Isobel. They would be spending the holidays apart for the first time ever. She wrote him a letter in her still-childish blocky scrawl asking if he could come visit, and he hated that he wasn't allowed. They’d even closed the passage to London since George’s great escape, so he’d have a hard time staging his own breakout.
“What’s wrong with you?” Hermione asked.
Jumping slightly at the unexpected intrusion, Harry turned. Hermione could be quiet as a mouse when she wanted, sliding through the shadows like a thief. Her father was a trapper, and you had to learn to be quiet when hunting, at least that’s what Hermione claimed. Quickly folding the letter from Isobel, he shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking, I guess."
Hermione stared at him for a long moment, and Harry got the distinct impression that she didn’t believe him. “Right, well, they posted a signup sheet in the great hall. They're having three holiday parties, and you have to pick one: Christmas, Solstice, or Druidic Black Mass. I guess that covers the major religions plus a nice general Solstice party for everyone who doesn't fit in the big two.”
“Your family is Christian, isn't it? I guess you'll be heading to the Christmas celebration,” Harry said. “Can I come? I don’t think I’m up for a Black Mass. Drinking goat’s blood is overrated. We won’t have to sacrifice anything for Christmas, will we?”
“No, we won’t be killing anything,” Hermione said. She glared at Harry, suddenly annoyed. He could be so infuriatingly... agnostic and so middle of the road about everything. He didn’t want to drink goat’s blood, so the Druish Black Mass was out. He’d come to a Christmas celebration as long as there weren’t any sacrificed creatures. Sometimes Hermione wanted Harry to come off it and commit to something, show some passion, prove that he believed in anything. “People call me a savage, but I wonder, is it civilized to have faith in nothing?”
“I see, so I have to convert to hang out with you now?” Harry said. If Hermione didn’t want him at her Christmas, he would find his own diversion. “You know, most everyone celebrates the solstice. I bet it’s... I bet they have a great party here.”
“Harry, I didn’t mean you had to convert. I just wish you’d take some of it seriously. There are at least three hundred reasons not to attend a Black Mass, only one of which involves not drinking goat’s blood.” Hermione pushed Harry into the window seat and settled next to him. “We’re friends, right? You’re the only person in this whole crazy place that I want to spend Christmas with. I know there are things going on in that head of yours even though you refuse to admit it. There’s a reason you’ve been moping around for instance, even if you won’t tell me about it.”
“I’m not faithless,” Harry said. He cast a furtive glance at Hermione. “I’m just undecided about a lot of things. As for my supposed moping, I’ve really been thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” Hermione asked.
Shrugging, Harry unfolded the letter Isobel had sent and handed it over. "Any ideas how we might make it to London before the holiday is over?”
Seven Days Until Christmas:
Dozens of layers of maps covered James's desk. Each map represented hundreds of soldiers and the plans that would determine their immediate safety. They were all depending on his judgement. The magnitude of his responsibility was overwhelming if he let himself think about it. This wasn't a game of wizard chess where you put the pieces back together when it was all over. The pieces had names and faces and families. He touched a red dot on the topmost map and half-smiled. That was Sirius's game piece. He should be back from his current mission soon, assuming everything went well.
A series of gentle taps at his door caused James to look up, and a stocky redhead entered. "What can I do for you, Charlie?" James asked.
After his abrupt promotion James had had to assemble a support staff quickly, but he couldn't just pull his most trusted friends and compatriots from their already important positions. When trying to make his staff work, one of the names that came up was Charlie Weasley, the fearless, fast-thinking curse-breaker he met rather recently on the job. So far, he was making an excellent Executive Officer.
"Afternoon, sir. We need you down at the meeting tent. There's been a complication with the Dog Pack's last mission. They're back, but things didn't go as planned." Charlie held the door open. "It's not pretty."
James felt his stomach lurch as he rose quickly. What could have happened? It was just a simple snatch and grab to fill the commissary. Surely, they hadn't run into Imperial resistance? Surely, they hadn't run into the Reapers again? He was prepared for almost anything behind the tent flap that Charlie pulled open for him. The Dog Pack, with Sirius at their centre were clinking full bottles of champagne. It bubbled out of the bottles in a variety of colours, pink, purple, gold, and green.
James turned to Charlie, a confused frown on his face. "I thought you said that something went wrong?"
"I said that everything didn't go as planned," Charlie clarified. "The shipment they waylaid was headed to a Solstice celebration in Paris. The cooks in the commissary aren't sure what to do with the snails, but the men seem pretty clear on the best use for the champagne. The holiday shift rotations have started, and you're on leave starting today. Your staff has the helm, sir. If you try to come back to the command centre in less than seventy two hours, you will be instantly Apparated to the Swiss Alps every time you try."
"This is insubordination," James said.
"Actually this order came from higher up than you," Charlie replied. "Enjoy the break, sir."
Six Days Until Christmas:
Sitting cross-legged on the large plush rug in front of the study room’s fire, Harry and Hermione listed possible escape routes. “Okay, so brooms are out because you aren’t going to fly something that you’ve never even had a class in.” Harry drew a line through one of the items on the list in front of him. “The enchanted passage was sealed. If we try to walk to London, we’ll probably get lost and freeze on the mountain.” He drew a line through everything on his sheet. “That’s all mine. Do you have anything different?”
Hermione ran a finger down her significantly longer list. “I have a few ideas, but none that I trust enough to use."
Frowning at the exhaustive list she seemed to have compiled, Harry snatched Hermione's parchment away. "Surely one of these is doable. What about this one? A seventh year or greater level who has mastered transportation circles sends us. That's perfect."
"Perfect? I don't know any seventh years who would want to be bothered with sending us anywhere. Besides, how could we trust them not to send us to Tibet on a lark?" Hermione shook her head adamantly. "It's too risky."
"I have two words for you, Hermione: Thatcher Lewis. He owes me. You remember that broken Alert Charm that I did three detentions over back at home? He was sneaking out to see a girl. If he'd been caught over the Alert Charm he wouldn't have been able to rendezvous for weeks. I agreed to take a fall for it, but only because it's good when upperclassmen owe you. He's competent too. We won't end up in Tibet by accident or on purpose."
“You really trust him to transport us? It makes me nervous.” Hermione snatched her parchment back and circled the plan Harry was advocating. “The really hard part comes when you consider that we don’t want to be missed. There aren’t classes, but all it will take is one person in the dorms asking about us and there will be trouble.”
“That won’t be a problem. If we ask them not to say anything, they won’t.” Harry grinned, visibly relaxing now that they had a feasible plan. “This is going to work.”
“If it doesn't it’s all your fault as you are the one who picked it from a long list of very feasible plans,” Hermione said.
"Very feasible?" Harry took the slip of parchment back and started reading. "Break into Headmistress McGonagall's office and steal Floo Powder... Wait that is another good one, and I could save my upperclassman favour."
Hermione rolled her eyes and rose quickly. “We're not breaking in anywhere today. Come on, let’s find Thatcher. If he isn’t game, we’ll have to reconsider.”
Five Days Until Christmas:
The front of the London Group home loomed over the entire street, its peeling grey paint almost blending with the snow-heavy clouds in the sky. Lily stood in front of the building, and stared up at its five stories feeling small and young again. She had spent quite a few Christmases in there, huddling close to the fire and arguing over oranges. There was never much, but some kind soul invariably brought a few presents or a little fruit to share with the parentless and Muggle-born.
Lily hadn't really been back since graduating. She and James had headed to the hills, leaving London, with its perks and problems, behind. Coming back to the city hadn’t been so bad when Remus was around and they were working, but he'd called a temporary halt so that he could visit his family. They were in-hiding exiles the same as their son, living under a death sentence earned for the crime of sheltering their only child.
Left alone in London for a few days with nothing but time, Lily had made quick work of the small obligations that had built up in her and James's absence. Today there weren’t any excuses to keep her away from her childhood home and her last real obligation in the city. She walked up the front steps and used the doorknocker.
The stooped crone who answered the door was unmistakable. Her frizzy grey hair and rather bulging mad brown eyes were an icon of Lily’s childhood. “Madam Hilda,” Lily said. “Do you remember me?”
The old woman squinted up vaguely and snorted. “Remember you? And should I? What do you need? This be a subsidized home. We don’t take no solicitors here, missy.”
“I’m not a solicitor,” Lily said. She smiled and quickly brought the package she had carried with her forward. “These are for the children, for the holidays.”
Hilda accepted the package. She shook it, sniffed it, then peering over the edge she finally asked, “So what is it, anyhow?”
“Some trinkets,” Lily said. “Nothing dangerous or too terribly loud, I promise.”
The old woman’s grim expression cracked into a broad snaggle-toothed grin, and she gestured for Lily to come in. “You’ll be wanting to give the little ones their pretties?”
Hesitating at the doorway, Lily shook her head. There was a lifetime of memories over that threshold. A powerless Muggle-born girl lurked just around the corner and Lily was not prepared to face her today. “Actually, could you give them out at Christmas? I really can’t stay. You understand.”
“Eh? Fine then,” Hilda said. She stepped back and slammed the door.
Rubbing her nose where the door had bumped it, Lily smiled. Some people never changed.
Four Days Until Christmas:
Sequestered inside a cavern, in a hole so deep and dark that a man might think he’d slipped into the underworld, a Muggle named Bert crept forward with his lone torch. Its pitiful glow lit the room just enough that he didn’t stumble over the uneven floors, but the light didn’t reach the unseen walls. Trying desperately to hold onto the shreds of his courage, Bert continued moving steadily forward. Why had the housekeeper sent him to fetch their master when there were house-elves that knew the catacombs well enough that they might not get lost... Because you’re less valuable than a house-elf, Bert told himself.
And it was true.
Muggle servants were a dime a dozen. They were easier to come by and they had to sleep more the house-elves. Who cared if he went into the catacombs and never wandered back out? Jumping at a sound like sandpaper rubbing over stone, Bert whimpered and hurried forward as fast as he dared. It was just a stupid rat, a big rat... a rat that liked to hiss. At first the sound was on his right, then behind him, then...
How had it got in front of him? Skidding to a stop, Bert dropped his torch and it extinguished, blinding him. He could hear his heart thundering in his ears, his gasping breaths choking him instead of replenishing him. He was going to die. That hissing-sliding thing was going to kill him.
“Lumos.”
The steady magical blue glow of a wizard’s wand extinguished the black-blindness with a piercing-light blindness. Squinting and shading his eyes, Bert could just see the form of his Master, highlighted dramatically by the glow of his wand. He blinked for several seconds until his eyes weren’t stinging and useless.
The room was no longer a mysterious black space. It was dirty and wet, gothic and grand, with dramatic stone arches and columns, more like a moulded cathedral than a tomb. And there was a least one feature that Bert could have gone the rest of his life without ever seeing. A glittering black serpent, so long that it could surely half-span London Bridge, coiled like a patient lap dog at his master’s side.
“I assume you have a message,” Riddle said. “You should share it now, lest my friend lose her patience with you. She hasn’t eaten tonight.”
Bert dropped to his knees and stared at the ground, terrified almost beyond the ability to speak. Now that he wasn’t looking at the giant beast, he was able to choke out his message. “Visitor for you, Master Riddle, above in the red sitting room.”
“Very good,” Riddle said.
For a brief moment, Bert felt hope. He had done his job, delivered the message. Now he could just leave. A strange sound, like a man choking or wheezing or hissing, filled the room. Bert dared to look up, and he witnessed what could only be a conversation between the man and his serpent. Then his master and the light of his wand were gone.
Enveloped in the darkness again, he could hear the sound, a sound he now knew was the slithering of a giant serpent - a carnivore.
And it hadn’t eaten tonight...
Strolling through his palatial home, Tom Riddle took little notice of the third tier trappings that were his due. Silks, gold, and ancient pottery weren’t collectables that interested him. If this home hadn’t been a gift from the Emperor, he’d have chosen a dwelling that was more to his taste, something understated with plenty of books and a nice-sized laboratory for experimentation. At least this particular palace had an extensive network of catacombs in which he could escape from the gaudy trappings of his station. It was a place where he could work undisturbed and where Nagini could feel comfortable.
In one of his many sitting rooms, a tall angular man with grey-streaked black hair reclined on one of Tom’s many bits of antique furniture. Tom knew better than to mistake the man’s thinness for frailty. His muscles stretched over his ancient bones like whit leather, and his icy blue eyes gazed forward with keen intelligence. “Salazar, ancestor, to what do I owe this visit?” Riddle asked. “Have you changed your mind already? I don’t see the book.”
“I didn’t bring the book,” Salazar said. “You seem understaffed. Still feeding Nagini your servants? It’s wasteful, you know.”
“She has a taste for human flesh,” Riddle replied absently. “I’ve never been able to deny her anything. You still feed Efra house-elves. I’d say Nagini’s tastes are remarkably less expensive. If you don’t have the book, why are you here?”
“I want a progress report,” Salazar snapped. “Last of my line, fool, have you made any headway undoing the dead end you created in MY family tree?”
Wishing that Salazar had nothing to hold over his head, Tom responded to his ancestor’s scathing comments calmly. “I still don’t understand your obsession with a family bloodline when you’re immortal. If I’d known how eccentric you were about it, I would have fathered a dozen bastards before drinking the elixir of life. As it is, you should move on and give me the Slytherin Bible. As your ancestor and equal, I’m owed a glimpse into that tome.”
“You’re owed nothing,” Salazar hissed. “You should consider carefully before claiming equality with me. I don’t think a duel between us would end well for you.”
“And then what would become of your bloodline?” Riddle asked. “Leave me in peace, ancestor. When I’ve solved your problem, I will contact you for my payment.”
Salazar snorted and rose gracefully. “I trust you will, but if I solve the problem first, you’ll get nothing.”
Now alone in his sitting room with its distasteful crimson silks, Tom conjured a goblet of Firewhiskey and drank it down. Salazar was an eccentric stubborn old fool, but his request wasn’t completely impossible.
Salazar wanted his blood to continue, not just in his own veins, but in the veins of generations to come. Unbeknownst to his annoying ancestor, Tom had already discovered a way to make that happen. Now he just had to find the right child to honour with the gift of Slytherin blood.
Fortunately, he had an entire school of possibilities to choose from.
Three Days Until Christmas:
A full moon shone down on Malfoy Manor and its cadre of ferocious gargoyles. On the roof, lurking near one of those ancient black marble statues, Draco held his cloak close and watched the snow fall. A distant howl reached him, and he squinted at the snowy landscape, though he knew he wouldn’t see anything interesting. The hunt would never come far enough out of the wilderness for him to see a werewolf from here. This year, this month, this moon, it was supposed to be his turn. His father had been regaling him with daring war stories about the monthly werewolf hunt for as long as Draco could remember. He had promised that they would attend the hunt this winter together. As terrifying as that prospect was, Draco had been proud to have his father’s faith. Most sons weren’t allowed on the hunt until they were at least fifteen.
Everything was different since he returned from school. His father hadn’t once acknowledged his presence since the beginning of the winter holiday. Dinner was an awkward affair in which his mother talked to first her husband and then her son, trying to bridge the chasm between them. Sighing, Draco spun and headed back inside. Freezing to death on the roof wasn’t going to get him a glimpse of a werewolf, and it wasn’t going to make his father forgive him for the embarrassment he had caused the family.
Shrugging out of his cloak carelessly, Draco headed for his mother’s favourite sitting room. The expensive fur-lined garment never touched the ground. A house-elf spirited it away without being seen or heard. Draco tapped at the thick mahogany doors blocking his way, and they swung open soundlessly. His mother’s doors had never yet failed to allow him entry. She hadn’t held his mistakes against him.
Narcissa was sitting erect and regal at her writing desk. White-blond hair piled atop her head, she scribbled on, but a half smiled curled on her petite rosebud lips. “Sit down, relax. Your father should be home soon.”
Draco settled onto one of the cream-coloured sofas, facing his mother. “What are you writing?” He couldn’t think of any positive thing to say about his father’s imminent arrival so he avoided the subject.
“An invitation,” Narcissa said. “We’re having a birthday party for you this spring, as if you didn’t know.”
There was no point asking his mother why she was writing invitations for his annual birthday party months in advance. She had always been a little peculiar about small things like that. He could see her wastebasket from here, and there were quite a few wads of paper in it. Draco headed over and pulled one out. It was perfect calligraphy from what he could tell, but he knew why she had thrown it away. There was a flaw, real or imagined that she found impossible to tolerate. Scrutinizing the crumpled paper, Draco couldn’t see the defect. “They don’t have to be perfect, you know.”
“No, but they shouldn’t be illegible either,” Narcissa said. “If you don’t mind, get me a list of your classmates that you’d like to invite.” She rose and embraced her son. “I have to go see about the menu for tomorrow’s dinner.”
For the briefest instant, Narcissa’s hand caressed the scar carved into her son’s cheek, and her eyes rested there anxiously. She turned to leave, but Draco felt like his stomach had shrivelled into a hard, wrinkled knot. Was he like those almost perfect invitations to her now? Was he an intolerable imperfect thing in her eyes? “Mum,” Draco called.
She turned in the doorway, and he couldn’t detect a trace of derision or distaste on her perfectly composed porcelain doll features. “Yes?”
“It’s nothing,” Draco said. “Never mind.”
Two Days Until Christmas:
A fine Veela-haired paintbrush in-hand, Bartholomew leaned close to the nearly complete portrait in his studio. He’d been mixing greens trying to capture the exact living aquamarine to complete the eyes of the young man in the picture. When creating art that you intended to enchant and animate, the artist had to select a focus, a fulcrum, and Bartholomew had known it would be the eyes of this picture from the very beginning. He had finished the toddler first. Her brown eyes were downcast, focused on a plush unicorn doll that her grandparents had given her. The young man was beaming up with an armful of toy Legionaries squirming to escape and fight each other.
When he finally brought the picture to life, Bart fully expected chaos to ensue. The day he was trying to capture had been wild and fun. Daubing at the right eye of the boy in the portrait, Bartholomew stared down his nose through his bifocals critiquing his handiwork. He was close, very close. He wouldn’t be needing the pensive again for this project. Settling the paintbrush into a jar of water, Bartholomew withdrew his wand.
“Animo Vividus.” The still damp oils on the canvas soaked in a fine mist of magic from his wand. “Animo Vividus.” The spell wouldn’t work unless the likeness was near perfect. Was he close enough? “Animo Vividus.”
The boy, a two dimensional memorial to his grandson Harry, smiled broader. He set his Legionaries on the ground and pointed them toward his sister’s unicorn.
“Perfect,” Bart said. It was ready and in time to be his Christmas present for Melinda. The old girl was bound to love it, and she’d have a hard time one-upping him as she tried to do every year. Well, it was almost perfect. The toy Legionaries had seized the unicorn and Isobel had begun to wail. “Quiet now,” Bart said. “You’re going to ruin the surprise. Give your sister her doll back, right now. Hush now.”
“Bartholomew, I’m trying to work!” Melinda called. “Whatever you’re doing please silence your studio. I will never master the rules of Twiddle Ball with your paintings screaming in the background!”
“Yes dear,” Bartholomew replied. “Silencing!”
Christmas Eve:
A Christmas package, so full of magic that it practically glowed, sat on a grey bedspread. Its red foil wrapping paper glimmered in the moonlight shining through the window. Isobel stared at it, trying to decide whether she wanted to open it tonight or tomorrow. Joey already opened her box. It was full of delicate dancing birds. They had flown around the room for hours before the spell on them wore down and they fluttered to the ground, just empty folds of paper. There wasn’t any reason to save her treasure. Except that real treasures were rare enough that the anticipation was hard to let go of.
She needed something to look forward to. Her brother wasn’t coming to visit. Isobel knew it had been too much to ask, but she wrote her stupid letter and mailed it. Harry had better things to do than visit his sister, the annoying baby. He hadn’t even taken the time to write back and tell her he wasn’t coming.
Well, who needed him? Isobel lifted her package to her ear and shook it gently, but whatever was inside didn’t rattle. Paper birds wouldn’t rattle though. It was probably another box of birds just like Joey’s. The packages had been practically the same, but if she was going to stop being a pessimist about it, every package she’d seen opened had released a different surprise. A unique treasure might be waiting for her under the flaps of that box.
A crash from the main hall caught Isobel’s attention. She turned toward the door curiously.
“Shhh...you’re going to wake the whole home up!” someone hissed.
Isobel heard the door to her dorm open, and the shuffling steps of two people creeping across the room in the shadows. At first she was scared, but the silhouette of one of those shadows had rather unruly hair, and his glasses were glinting in the moonlight. Isobel’s heart rose and she smiled broadly. He really came?
“Isobel? Are you awake?” Harry whispered. Isobel closed her eyes and feigned sleep. “Izzy?”
Yawning dramatically, she turned her head languidly as though she were bemused to see her brother and his friend Hermione standing over her bedside. “Harry, I didn’t know you were coming. You should have written ahead and I’d have been ready.”
“Yeah, I should have written ahead so you could tell everyone that I was coming to visit and have you get me into trouble,” Harry whispered. “Roll out twerp, before we wake up all your little friends.”
“Why don’t we want to wake anyone up?” Isobel whispered. “They won’t turn you in.”
“Just come,” Harry hissed.
Isobel didn’t need any other encouragement. She tucked her present under her arm and scrambled after her big brother. They ducked out into the hall and scampered downstairs to the dining hall. It was dusty and ram-shackled and grey, nothing like school – just like home. Harry smiled and climbed onto one of the chairs. He tapped the chair next to him silently inviting Isobel to join him. “We didn’t want to wake anyone up, because we could only fit so many pasties in our pockets.”
Hermione piled two bundles of napkin-wrapped pasties onto the table. Continuing to hold her tongue, she took a seat across from the siblings, far enough removed that she could watch them interact without actually being pulled into the sphere of their family. They weren’t her family. Her father, the only living family she had, was a transient trapper, and she had no idea how to find him. If he hadn’t been a trapper, she’d have been taken from him years earlier, but their lifestyle allowed her to fall through the cracks, avoiding the head-hunters that stole Muggle-born wizarding children from their parents.
Over a year ago, she’d been wandering the woods with her father. Eating in a pub was supposed to be a treat, but it turned into a nightmare. A bored-looking blonde wizard had walked in, taken one look at her, and it was like he could see it on her skin, emblazoned across her forehead – magic-be-here. She remembered that he had smiled at her, a friendly smile. He stunned her father, stunned her, and carried her away like a sack of potatoes. She sometimes wondered if her father had any idea why she’d been taken. Muggle children were conscripted for a lot of things, not just because they were actually witches. She wondered if he worried about her the way she worried about him.
“You’re not forgiven!” Speaking through a mouthful of cake, Isobel glared at her brother. “It was really mean of you to not tell me you were coming. And the pastry isn’t going to make it all better.”
“Really,” Harry said. “If it’s such a hardship to have me here, maybe I should go?”
“You’ve only been here five and a half seconds,” Isobel shrieked. “You can’t leave yet!”
Harry smiled mischievously. They weren’t going to able to stay long and not be discovered, but they could stay the night, and still be back at school in time for another Christmas party. “Where did you get the present?” Harry asked. “Charity?”
“I guess,” Isobel said. She pulled the box forward and her hands trembled over the ribbon. “Madam Hilda gave them out earlier today. Should I open it?”
“It’s your present,” Harry said. “Yeah, open it already.”
Biting her bottom lip, Isobel swept the box into her lap and tore the pretty paper and ribbon away. Her treasure didn’t fly out of the box like Joey’s had. A miniature unicorn pranced inside the shredded package. It tossed its long white mane and nudged her finger. Isobel cooed and scooped the toy into her arms. A horn that should have been razor sharp was blunted and springy, but otherwise Isobel though the reproduction was practically perfect. “It’s so pretty.”
“That’s awfully nice for a charity present,” Harry said. “The nicest things I ever got were those chocolate frogs a couple of years ago.”
Hermione moved closer to look at the toy unicorn. “Wow, that is really nice.” She traced a finger along the toy’s white muzzle and smiled when it whinnied at her.
Frowning up at Hermione, Isobel sniffed. She scooted closer to Harry protectively. “Why did you come with Harry anyway? I don’t remember writing to you.” She glared at Hermione accusingly, and clutched her new toy close. “Are you Harry’s girlfriend, now?”
Heat flooded into her face, and Hermione felt a distinct urge to strangle Harry's little sister. She was a girl and she was Harry's friend. That did not make her his girlfriend, damn it. She had no intention of ever dating a wizard, group home variety or other.
"Absolutely," Harry said. He winked at Hermione so that Isobel couldn't see. "Hermione is my new girlfriend. Give her a hug, now. I expect you to share your unicorn with her too."
Isobel gaped at Hermione and Harry in turn. It felt like her jaw had come unhinged. Hermione was completely mad and scary and ill-mannered. And she had bushy hair! Hermione could not have her brother. Harry deserved way better. Isobel squinted at Hermione maliciously and clutched her unicorn tighter. "You were always getting in trouble here, running away and starting fights. I bet you've been in lots of trouble at school. I wonder if they'd kick you out over a little more?"
Before Hermione or Harry could do anything to stop her, Isobel screamed, a high pitched piercing howl, guaranteed wake everyone including the neighbours.
"That was brilliant, Harry," Hermione growled. "If I get declassified over this, you and your Hell-spawned-Banshee sister will live to regret it."
Christmas:
“We need a house-elf,” Melinda groaned. Splayed across her couch with one arm thrown over her eyes for protection from the sun, she relaxed in her thoroughly rumpled orange dress. “I don’t have a single Scourgify in me.”
“Fine, I’ll take on the next house-elf that comes calling, but you’ll just get in their way when you start cleaning again, and there will be hurt feelings all around,” Bartholomew said. “Remember what happened with Dharma? I’ve never seen a house-elf have a nervous breakdown until that incident with the supper dishes.”
“Ugh, okay, I don’t need a house-elf. I need someone else to host my Christmas party next year.” Melinda finally moved her arm and took a quick look at the devastation of her home. The enchanted lights that spent the evening floating around the room had collapsed to the floor limp and exhausted. Mostly empty trays of hors d’oeuvres were resting on different surfaces, and empty bottles of spirits decorated the mantle. “I thought it was a sane crowd we invited? My political outcast friends and your artist-types, they shouldn’t have been able to party this hard. No one here was under sixty!”
“Face it, love, our friends could party any eighteen-year-old in this country under the table. They’ve had more practice.” Bart offered his wife a hand and helped her to her feet. “We’ll clean tomorrow, after we’ve had a few hours sleep. Agreed?”
“You read my mind.” Melinda linked her arm with Bart’s and she leaned into him, enjoying the physical closeness and companionship. At the top of the stairs, she spotted a change in the house that wasn’t directly related to the wreckage of her party. Where the portrait of Bart’s Great Aunt Francis usually hung a new smaller portrait was hanging, and it was draped in a bespeckled painter's cloth. “Is this my Christmas present?”
“How did you guess?” Bart reached up and gently dislodged the cloth covering.
Melinda’s breath caught in her throat and she walked forward to get a closer look at her new portrait. She traced her fingers over the bronzed label at the base of the picture. In Memoriam. It didn’t say what it was commemorating, at least not in words. The two sleeping subjects said all she needed them to say. Bartholomew had painted her grandchildren for her. “It’s perfect,” Melinda whispered.
Bart was singularly happy that the kids were asleep for his unveiling. The portrait was perfect enough that when they were awake, the two kids fought as much as they played, and they could be rather noisome. “Well, did I finally do well this year, love?”
Nodding her head, Melinda threw her arms around Bartholomew’s neck. Yes, he had had issues with the Christmas present tradition. For the thirty years they’d been exchanging gifts he had given her ill-fitting clothes, ugly hats, strange baubles, and even an odd Muggle-baked spice cake. But she had adored every eccentric offering because she knew he was trying and that they were offered out of his love for her. “You’ve always given me exactly what I wanted.”
A simple breakfast of eggs and toast was Lily's Christmas present to herself. So far it had been a lonely winter. Granted, she could have spent the last evening at a Christmas party, but Lily couldn't face a social event with her in-laws alone. Bartholomew had always been kind, but Melinda never quite approved of Lily. It wasn't her heritage or even her politics that caused them to argue. While Lily wanted to fight tangibly and join the revolution, Melinda had argued passionately against it. She honestly believed that the system could be salvaged, reformed from within. To her way of thinking, the rebels just made Melinda's job harder. They took her views and made them criminal and harder to advocate openly. Well, Lily had chosen not to face her mother in-law's disdain. She would have done it for James, but not for anyone else in the world.
Over the course of her two weeks of down time, several Christmas presents had been created and sent out via owl post, but her masterpiece had been sent to her absentee husband. She wrote James a letter and included a special potion. It was called a Kiss in a Bottle. The brewing hadn't been overly complex. She finished in four days. Mentally, she catalogued the ingredients that had gone into her special Christmas present: moonstone, an ounce of gold dust, aged red wine... a lover's tear.
The end of her letter instructed James to drink the potion at exactly ten on Christmas morning if he had a few hours to spare. Picking at her food, Lily watched the clock and willed the hands to move forward the last clicks to ten o'clock. She dropped her fork and lifted her glass to her lips. The bit of potion she had saved back for herself filled her nose with the smell of roses and cinnamon. The clock chimed a musical score heralding the beginning of the hour, and Lily drank.
For several seconds she savoured the silky texture and comfortingly sweet flavour with her eyes shut. When she next looked at the world, everything had gone hazy, indistinct and impressionistic. She wasn't alone anymore. James was standing in her kitchen holding his empty bottle.
Lily rose in a fluid, dream-indistinct motion and threw herself into James' arms. The spell wasn't going to last forever, and she had missed him so much.
The Day After Christmas:
Inside a normal home, on a regular street a single candle burned in the living room window. No one was waiting up for a husband or child or wife. The entire family was home and settled for the evening. Well almost everyone was settled. A beautiful woman, a creature, the embodiment of Envy, curled tensely on a brocade couch and listened to her fellow Reapers. Avarita and Fastosus, the embodiments of Greed and Pride, occupied the master bedroom. She knew it was decorated in the richest silks and some of the most decadent statuary on three continents. Their vices fed off each other, and they found a union, a man and woman pleasure together. They were a team. Their room was silent tonight, but many nights it wasn't.
The next smallest bedroom nearest the kitchens wasn't silent tonight, but then it never was. Gluto and Irritum took their rest in that room. Gluttony and Lust much like Pride and Greed found comfort together, synchrony, pleasure. From the animal sounds leaking through the bedroom door, tonight was particularly satisfying. Irritum had cause to celebrate. She had a new body, and Lust's new form was powerful, sexy, and so very young. The new body was part-Veela, ridiculously appropriate. The bitch even had the gall to keep the little witch's slutty French accent. Listening to her lisp her way through their conversation all evening had nearly driven Invidia mad.
As much as she envied Irritum's new form, there was something she wanted more... someone she needed. Savio, their leader, the incarnation of Wrath, took his rest in the attic bedroom, and every night, he locked the door against her. She couldn't make him understand the logic that they were meant to be a pair the same way the other vices were. Why couldn't he see? Gathering herself to make her nightly plea, Invidia climbed the steep stairs to the attic bedroom and pounded at the door. "I know you're awake. Open the damn door. Fighting this is ridiculous and futile. Savio? Savio!"
Possessed of a silent cool rage, Savio listened to Invidia plead through his door. She was right, they were meant to be paired the same as any of the other vices, but her very nature condemned them to separation. For Envy to receive her desire was for Envy to lose all interest and connection. Savio could open the door and Invidia would be his for an evening, but he would lose their connection in the same night. He would rather keep her pounding at his door, than lose her because of her nature.
It was better this way, he told himself, but it was infuriating.
Author’s Note
The Halloween chapter came out in August. It’s only natural that the Christmas chapter come out at Halloween, right? This is sort of a snapshot chapter. It goes in a lot of directions, but I was trying to keep a feeling of cohesiveness and momentum, largely with Harry, Hermione, and Isobel’s arc. I’m rather happy with the Riddle subplot as of this chapter. It’s picking up speed.