**
She looked up at the clock - six AM.
The turkey was done (had been done since yesterday) and the pies as well. She had apple, pumpkin, pecan and chocolate pudding. Apple was her best -- the apples sliced thinly and evenly, placed carefully on the floor of the raw crust, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon…a layer of red apple, a layer of green, a layer of red, covered with a crumb topping, rich with dark brown sugar and more cinnamon. The spice she got from a specialty supplier, it was not the variety any old fool could pick up at the grocers but stronger: hotter and more fragrant. Yes, the apple was her best, but the others were good too. She had managed to restrain herself, keep the number to four, but only because she couldn’t get real key lime juice and did not want to compromise.
The rest of the food was fine but did not compare to the apple pie. The green bean casserole was in the fridge “ she didn’t care if it was a joke by now, she loved it. She loved yams, too, although she never put marshmallows on them, and you really couldn’t ruin frozen corn, or celery sticks, buttered carrots or lightly braised parsnips, all of which were done and merely waiting to be reheated “ except for the corn. It was frozen and would just take a few minutes in the pan.
She did still have to boil the potatoes and mash them, but the table was set, and her vases were out, waiting for the flowers she was about to pick up at the little gathering of shops close by, the ones clustered around the Post Office.
She counted again. Eleanor, who cut Elizabeth’s hair in the shop with the old pink chairs; Marie from the bakery; Mrs. Dillingham and her widowed sister, Mrs. Westerview, who were collectively known as the Dillinghams (who knew why) and whom she knew from church; Adele, who led the congregation in song, and Adele’s very close personal friend, Marjorie made six, and it was seven when she counted herself.
Of course, it was two days late. I couldn’t do it Thursday. I was working, and anyway I couldn’t have gotten anyone else. Everyone from work turned me down, but half a dozen people, that’s not bad!
She’d almost asked Mr. Moody a dozen times. Almost. If it had been a British holiday I could, or if he was still just the man next door, but he’s been a bit odd since he slept in that chair in the living room. Quite careful to keep a little distance. He hadn’t seemed to be around as much this summer as last, either.
Probably afraid I’m offended, she had finally decided, or else embarrassed, all because he fell asleep in the armchair, or wanted a toasting fork, or some other silly old man thing. People of older generations had their ways, and he was always a touch formal.
Besides, what man would want to go to dinner with seven women, several of whom might get him in their cross hairs? He was a bachelor, and happy to be as far as she could see. No, it was all right that she hadn’t invited him.
She moved the crocheted dishcloth over the ancient linoleum surface of the counter. She would give him some leftovers later, in plastic containers she’d gotten specifically for that purpose, and she had a face-saving speech all rehearsed. ”Mr. Moody,” I’ll say, “Please, would you help me? This food will rot “ I can’t eat it fast enough, and I need the freezer for my Christmas baking.” Let’s hope he has no idea how much I can fit in that freezer.
It was a careful little fib, of course. She had no baking to do. She had her doubts how well it would survive a plane ride and customs if she sent it home, and there was a rule at the school about not exchanging gifts among the staff. She knew some of the teachers got around it, went for tea or a drink and gave each other little gifts, but she had no fears of being invited to participate. She might, if she felt in an especially festive mood, make some cookies for the postman and perhaps a plate for her neighbor himself. That was an afternoon’s work, at most, and she would not need the freezer for that. Maybe it wasn’t such a lie, though “ she hated lying. Maybe if dinner went well, she’d be exchanging plates of cookies with one or two of today’s guests.
She threw on her coat “ the one that was either retro and chic or old and moth-eaten, depending upon one’s perspective -- and picked up her purse. Off to the bakery for rolls and the corner shop for flowers. Her feet caught a little on the pavement outside her front gate as she almost skipped along.
Of all the holidays, she missed Thanksgiving most. The little chocolate turkeys wrapped in printed aluminum foil; the little glass of tomato juice she had never gotten at any other time of year; the cut glass tray of pickles and olives, gherkins, not just kosher dills; the bowl of walnuts with the nut cracker “ nothing special just a jointed steel nutcracker - and having two flavors of ice cream and cake for dessert had represented holidays at her aunt’s house for so many years. The insane version of the Alleycat she would dance with her uncle after dinner, the people she got to see only at her aunt’s house “ like Tish, and Andrew, and Tish’s friend Elana whose daughter Chloe had gotten to the age where she refused to come to dinner “ were seasonal joys. These people she saw then were not close friends, but she liked seeing them once a year.
She would not even think about her cousins and how much she missed them, or her mother, or her father. She would not think at all of how it came about that a woman men used to send flowers to was living in a foreign country slowly turning into Miss Jean Brodie, Except that Mussolini is dead and I’ll have to settle for some ridiculous pop star who doesn’t even sing his own songs, or worse, as an object for my fixation. She resolutely turned her mind away from that thought when it came and found she was at her first port of call.
The bell tingled on the bakery door, and she went in, surprised to see Marie, who she was expecting in only a few hours, at her usual station.
“Hello! I’ll need a dozen rolls, for later.” She smiled at the clerk in friendly anticipation of dinner later, only to be breezily answered by a Marie with her head in the bin with the rolls.
“Oh, don’t get any for me. I’m stuck here till two, and then my mum wants me to run her over to Marks and Sparks. Oh, and the Dillinghams were in. They’re visiting their niece today, to do a spot of baby-sitting. Asked me to tell you they couldn’t make it.”
“Oh, well, half a dozen, then. No, eight, in case people want two.” She smiled stiffly through her burning face, attempting to appear unconcerned, “Enjoy shopping with your mum.” She waved lightly, a smile still pasted to her face as she backed out the door, and turned to continue down the street, humiliation warring with shame in her heart. What was I thinking? They don’t consider me a friend. A friend you would at least call. She swallowed over a little lump in her throat. I hope Eleanor is going to be all right with Adele and Marjorie. I don’t think they know each other. Eleanor, who was in her seventies and a little dotty quite probably didn’t run in the same crowd with Adele, who was in her twenties and aggressively hip. Elizabeth had never met Marjorie “ hadn’t known she existed until, when inviting the leader of song, she had been asked defensively, “Well, can I bring a date?”
“Of course,” she’d said, immediately, “another person would be lovely. What’s his name?”
“Marjorie,” Adele had shot back, gunning, it seemed, for an argument she did not get.
“Ah, stupid me! Of course, she’s perfectly welcome. Any allergies for you two?”
“We’re vegan,” Adele had shot forth, very slightly less forcefully.
“Eggplant Parmigiana made with soy cheese all right?” she’d countered. It was annoying to have to make another entrée, but you had to feed guests things they could eat.
Adele had seemed taken aback at this ready accommodation. “That would be fine.”
“Two o-clock starters, three o’clock the main course.” She had smiled, and Adele had smiled back in confusion. And what is there to be confused about? I don’t care who she brings, as long as it’s not an ax murderer, and she’s hardly the first vegetarian I’ve met in my life, Elizabeth had thought at the time. Well, a young couple with chips on their shoulders and a dotty woman older than their mothers “ it’ll at least be funny in a week or two, she thought, trudging back to her little oatmeal box shaped house, her bunch of flowers wrapped up in a bit of cellophane.
**
Alastor Moody, just in from a night of surveillance and breakfast at Grimmauld place had turned his head to the sound of her gate squeaking open just in time to see her shoulders sag as she crossed from the public walkway into her own space, just beyond the lilac that shielded her from Mrs. Albright’s view.
It seemed reason enough to train his magical eye on her as she walked dispiritedly into the house and tossed the flowers on the table. He looked at the table itself, set for seven with fancy plates he hadn’t known she owned. There was something off.
She sank limply into the chair in her living room, the one he’d slept in, but her shoulders weren’t heaving. She seemed listless.. Makes no sense. Is she having a party? Unhappy about the party? He wasn’t sure when her birthday was. Could her family be due for a visit? Was that why she looked so sad?
Maybe she feels she hasn’t got much to show them. Little they know. There’d have been hell to pay if those fish had died. He did not even think out loud to himself about her kindness to him that night “ bringing him into her home, feeding him, never asking a single question. And he might have screamed that night “ probably had. He knew he’d woken himself up with it since and kept a Muffliato on his bedroom now, when he slept.
Guesses became fact in his mind, and he formulated a plan of attack. Well, if they’re coming, I’ll go over there. I’ll show them she’s got friends here. Lovely girl! They can’t see the roses, but I’ll tell them. And how well my fish did with her, too. Although they seem to have shrunk back to the size they were. Funny, that. He stomped up the stairs in search of suitable Muggle clothing but kept his eye turned her way.
**
She was almost relieved when the call came, Adele in the foreground, an angry voice in the back.
“I’m afraid something has come up,” Adele was saying. Elizabeth could almost see her wince as, “Not ruining my whole effing Saturday!” came floating out of the background.
“Yes, of course, these things…” Elizabeth was about to say “happen,” but was cut off by the loud, angry voice.
“The nerve of you, saying we could go, like I’ve got the least interest in spending the afternoon with a bunch of…”
Adele coughed, mercifully drowning out whatever the voice, presumably Marjorie, thought they were.
“…happen. They happen. Don’t even think about it. I’ll see you at church. Enjoy your day.”
So it was just her and Eleanor. She started to reset the table. What a waste of money these paper plates Mommy sent are. I can’t tell her I only had one guest to eat off them. I’ll just have to use them on my birthday every year ‘till they’re gone. I shouldn’t be much past fifty by then. Her lip trembled (her whole face trembled), but still she went into the kitchen, put eight potatoes on to boil “ she would have extra for the week “ and tried not to think about it.
I don’t think I’ll go to church tomorrow “ not my usual church, anyway. Maybe I’ll take a drive. A long, long drive. Go see some Museum or some ruins or something else like that. Research. It’s why I’m here teaching obnoxious British children instead of at home teaching obnoxious American children, after all.
No one cared about her theory on staveless runes anyway “ no one ever would. It was pointless, like the rest of her life. If she disappeared off the face of the earth, she wouldn’t even notice herself missing. A 23 pound Turkey for herself and a 70 year old woman who weighed all of 80 pounds soaking wet “ it was ridiculous.
Several hours later, an hour past the time appointed for starters, she realized Eleanor had entirely forgotten, and her misery boiled over.
“I’ve learned my lesson,” she said aloud, looking up at the corner of her ceiling. “I’ve learned, ok? No holidays, no celebrations, no other people. If I get lonely for Christmas, I’ll go straight to work in a soup kitchen, all right? All right?”
The shaking in her hands extended up her arms, now matter how she fought it, and before she knew it, she had collapsed against the side of her ancient refrigerator, sobbing messily, her rib cage heaving.
Moody, on the other side of the door, saw her crumple to the floor. Respect for her privacy warred with concern for her safety, and concern very swiftly won over. He very quickly and silently spelled the door open and walked in. Setting the cake in his hand on the table, he stomped swiftly to her and leaned over.
“Miss Stewart! Are you all right, Miss Stewart?” he asked aloud. Damn my leg, and damn not being able to use my wand. He reached his hand down to her, and she grabbed it.
“Up you come, now, up you come.” He’d helped up victims of Dark Attacks who’d looked better than this. “Did something happen to your family?”
“What?” she asked, totally confused.
“Here.” He stomped over to the sink, ran some water on a tea towel he saw there, and stomped back with it in his hand.
She buried her face in it, wiping it off and blowing her nose. She held out another hand and he handed her a dry towel, this one from the stove. Finally, she looked up.
“I’m s...” she coughed. “I’m sorry. I’m just a mess today. It’s silly, really. What did you say about my family?”
“I… just…aren’t your family coming in? I-- you seem to be preparing for a crowd.”
“Oh no, they’ll be together, it’s the holiday weekend. I was just going to have a little party here, you know, but well, people are busy. I’m just “ it was all women, but…”
That explained why she hadn’t mentioned it. “A ladies party. Well, my mother had those, but?” His rough old voice was lower even than usual, and kindly soft, somehow.
“But no one is coming. They’re all busy with other things, even though they said they would come. I was being selfish. I invited them because I wanted them to come, not because they wanted to be here. What do they care about my holidays anyway? Still, I do think that if they said they would come, they should have “ well, some of them did call or send messages.”
He was surprised that a lump rose in his throat. Very old memories “ so old that he hadn’t any idea they were there -- surfaced, and a rift of hardness moved across his face, but she was looking out over his shoulder.
“Was the door open? I thought I had locked it. I have to be more careful.”
He cleared his throat. “I’ll have a look at it if you like, after we’ve eaten. That is, if you don’t mind my helping you with that huge goose you’ve got there.”
“Turkey. And I would be eternally grateful.” She led him through the swinging door and into the dining area.
“Nice little decorations,” he said, nodding towards the little favors at each place setting. “Did you spin those?”
The hint of a smile crossed her face. “Not exactly. You make them out of wool, but you use a special thing to poke it with “ sort of like a straightened out fishhook. It’s called needle felting. We had chocolate turkeys at home when I was a child, but I couldn’t find them here, so I made those instead.” She sniffed, determined not to cry any more “ didn’t she have a guest, after all? “ and told him, “Sit wherever you’d like. I’ll get the turkey.”
Watching her neighbor eat was fascinating. When he thought her back was turned, he had sniffed everything. Turning back, she noticed a few small depressions on the turkey breast. Lord, he’s been POKING it with something! She turned her head to hide a smile and noticed similar dents on the yams and carrots. Like a little boy, poking them with a stick! It was only with great difficulty that she restrained her laughter.
**
“I’ll check your window locks, if you don’t mind,” he said as they sat, replete, after the meal. “If the door is being dodgy, it stands to reason they might be weak, too.”
She had relaxed enough to laugh aloud. “Oh, they’re probably all useless, except for keeping the casements from flying open. Those are notoriously easy to break into. I’d be better off getting a nice huge dog except I’d have to feed it and walk it and kennel it whenever I was out of town, and with all that a determined burglar will just throw it some drugged meat and be done with it anyway. We’re a bit isolated down this block, aren’t we? And Mrs. Albright would probably be too busy taking inventory of everything they were getting away with to call the police.” She smiled wryly and picked up her glass.
“Does the isolation worry you?” he asked.
“Yes and no,” she replied thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mind an alarm, but I can’t afford it. I say my prayers and try not to think about it, mostly.”
She eyed him warily, thought of the dents in the turkey and decided she could tell him. “You can laugh if you want, but nights when I am feeling really nervous, I pile pots and pans and even old cans up in places a burglar could trip over.” She watched him carefully, trying to gauge a reaction, and was surprised to see first shock, then amusement.
“I do rather similar things, myself,” he admitted, ruefully. And they laughed together then, as the dark came early around them on a November night.
Muggle Matters by ProfPosky
Chapter Notes: Huge thanks to my brit-picker, Equinoxtonks, and my beta, Ravensgryff. Hope I've got all their suggestions straight!
And you do, of course, realize that J.K.Rowling owns this world and most of the folks in the story. I certainly do...
Chapter Endnotes: I beg you to review. Even "I got this far," would be gratifying - has it gotten over 300 reads, or were most of them "oops, I don't want to read this"...?