Response to the 'birthdays' challenge upon the Review Lounge forum.

Wow.

I feel like I'm actually part of something. Not just a random loser working on ultra-time-consuming fictions.

Okay, standard DISCLAIMER: I'm not just kidding about the fact that I'm not J.K.

And here we go.

Definitely Ambivalent

Irma fancied for all her years that she was definitely ambivalent about her birthday, December 17th. In her earliest days, she eagerly anticipated—like any reasonable child—the distinguished mark of being A Year Older, and thus A Year Closer To Going To Hogwarts. Growing up in a largely wizarding community in Southampton, though not within a large family, her grandparents Merlona and Diophantus stressed the importance of making good with her life through education. Every day closer to her birthday was a step towards gaining the 'golden key of knowledge,' the key that would unlock the world for her private individual understanding.

The key analogy came from Diophantus, who had been a very well-read man in his time, though a simple one. When he administered his frequent tirades on the subject to his young granddaughter, Irma would relish imagining the day she received that figurative key. Only, at the time, she did not understand fully that it was figurative, and the vision in her mind involved her fingers fumbling about in her pocket, feeling the worn metal which somehow would bloat her head with information and insight.

Merlona was supremely more intelligent than her husband, and they both knew it, but the loving camaraderie they shared was too deep for this fact to be a hindrance. Instead of filling little Irma's head with incalculable fantasies, she would instead devote her time to teaching the girl in every subject she knew. Reading came naturally to Irma, as did writing, arithmancy, simple arithmetic, and geometry. Music upon the piano and lute came only slowly, and painfully. Potions concepts were mere common sense to her, as were the processes of caring for plants. Nevertheless, though she was so talented in her own right, Irma found herself almost always ensconced in a book, voracious to read the talents of others. Merlona said this was very humble of her, though her mother Hederna called it lazy.

Hederna was a bad mum, in all respects, though Irma did not know that at the time. While Merlona and Diophantus had made her life beautiful, when she stayed for periods with her mother it was not; it was clearly wretched, to be frank. Hederna drank, smoked, went out in the evening and did not return until the early morn, and almost always was hung over with drugs. On her behalf, she never let her daughter be exposed to any of these vile substances, and when she returned earlier than usual 'with a friend', she turned on the wireless in Irma's room to prevent the girl from hearing the groans and moans. Though she never straight-out said it, Irma was aware that she was an unwanted child, though not a despised one. Hederna did her best, and Irma never bore her mother any grudges; she just could not bring herself to weep at the woman's funeral.

All this said, Merlona and Diophantus took Irma away to their cottage on the estate of Merlona's older brother Sir Elgar Haie, where they attained a fairly docile and peaceful existence. Irma liked Sir Elgar; he had a magnificent huge library. Even though he gave her a shetland pony for her ninth birthday, since Merlona was concerned about the girl's getting enough exercise and sunshine, Irma was definitely ambivalent about it, and only played with the pony as much as was expected of her every day. When an hour or two had passed, depending on the weather outside, she eagerly returned to the dismally-lit hall of tomes. After a while, Merlona did give up on her granddaughter's unhealthily pale complexion and made the girl wear a lot of dark red and crimson, 'to give her color'. It was evident, though, that she was still tickled pink at the fact she had made her daughter's daughter a scholar where she had failed in this respect for her own daughter.

Irma's birthdays at home were pleasant, and, since the date almost consistently coincided with the first day or two of winter holiday, she never had to spend a birthday at Hogwarts. Although, of course, her birthday was more of an afterthought to the almighty Christmas Holiday, which she liked well enough for the good spirits floating about but disliked for the outmoded religious symbols. The only aspect of her mother that she carried was a profound disillusionment concerning Christianity. Other than this cynical shell, she was definitely ambivalent about the fact that she had to share a birthday so close in proximity to baby Jesus. Especially because of the fact that all of the best sweets were created in the season—German springerle and auchdekerle, Viennese crescents, Dutch cinnamon crosses, bonbons, chocolate liqueurs . . . and gingerbread.

Hogwarts, she discovered over the years, was a lonely place—not conducive to creative inspiration, save when it felt like it was completely empty. Admitted as a definite Ravenclaw, without a word of hesitation from the Sorting Hat, Irma made her grandmother proud by attaining the among best scores in all her subjects excepting Choir and Chants class. Despite her achievements academically, she remained an outcast for her ambition and keen introversion, and only had the sole friend of Argus Filch. Argus was a nice squib boy that the headmaster kindly kept around, just a year or two older than her. Easily, they became lovers in his last year of schooling, and never parted afterwards. After the deaths of Diophantus and Merlona respectively, and after Irma had attained her satisfying job of librarian in the great wizarding school, they spent every one of her birthdays in the Room of Requirement, so full of mistletoe they had no choice but to kiss each other.

December 17th, 1994.

The Yule Ball was happening upon this date. Irma had dressed herself in a great long and warm burgundy dress, covered by a hood trimmed with fur of mink, and she admired her slender figure in the mirror. If there was nothing else she liked about her appearance—dark brown eyes, a hawklike nose just emulating Snape's, a pointed chin and what she supposed might be the hint of shadow on her upper lip—she stood tall, lean, and proud, like a queen. Argus liked her for her quiet radiating confidence, she knew, and her towering figure it was the most efficient way to keep him from worrying. She felt that she was going to be compared to the very stylish Madame Maxime by the other women—everyone was, actually—and she hoped to keep her social place as one of the most well-dressed female staff members. It was the only place she had in their little society, actually, besides that boring title of knowing the location of any possibly-obtainable information known to the wizarding world, and she fought to keep it.

Argus looked ruddily smart and cheeky as usual, an uncomfortable green plaid bow-tie at his chin and an elegant cream suit. He had a hard time keeping up with her latest wearable transfigurations, but she did help him out here and there. Tenderly, she waved her wand at his bow-tie to make the color match her dress.

"Thank you; you look absolutely stunning, my dear," he commented, grinning enough for her to catch a glimpse of the gold fillings in the back of his molars. He went to Muggle dentists for his teeth, for some unconventional reason that Pince could not remember. Fondly patting his cheek, she went back to the boudoir and poked at her hairpins.

"Is the Oriental flair a bit too much?" she queried aloud, more to herself than the unknowledgeable Argus. "Yes, I would say so. No, true, it does add line to the configuration. Fine, I'll leave the diamond-end pin and take out the parriot."

"It is lovely either way," he suggested, but more due to circumstance than anything else. His opinion in these matters was usually disregarded, and even if she took note of it, she would be definitely ambivalent.

Nodding at her reflection, deciding to leave both pins after all and add a pussy-willow branch for good luck, Pince took her lover's arm and led him down to the Great Hall.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Dinner was even more excellent as usual, though Pince made sure she spent most of the time jabbering away to Filch so that she would not eat too much, and she kept having to train her eyes away from a certain younger potions master that seemed like he wanted to try her under the mistletoe.

The music was loud, not necessarily as heavy as the Muggle rock that Pince listened to when Argus was not about, but not very good either. Irma found herself definitely ambivalent to what the singers considered daring crescendoes. She found herself ready to smack her head on the table when the singers rolled up their sleeves, to which the audience whispered a trained 'ooh!' with the same amount of combined horror and thrill that a Muggle singer would emancipate from the masses by throwing his shirt on the ground. It was really too dreadful to Irma.

After a few attempts at dancing among the students—just enough to show she was not a tired old crone like McGonagall, yet!--she led Argus outside.

"Should we get married, sometime?" he asked her once they were safely perched on a stone bench far from the blaring lights and music.

She looked at him, adoration in her eyes, but she shook her head. "No, Argus. We can't marry. You know that very well; I've never wanted to be married, and I never want to be."

"We would be able to sleep--together!--every night in peace, my dear."

"And that's what destroys a perfectly lovely relationship, Argus. You know my views."

He sighed, a cloud of haze seeping from his nostrils and mouth into the dark of the cold night. "Well, thought I might as well see if you changed your mind. I've only asked you three times in the past six years, after all."

She put her arm around his shoulder and kissed him firmly upon the lips, leaning against his strong, wiry frame for support. If he had any doubts about her love for him, this was her declaration. In response, he wrapped his arms around her trim waist, letting passion take over him as they devoured each others' mouths in a serene silence.

A snapping noise caught their attention, and hastily the lovers reacted. Voices were approaching, and they quickly ducked behind the nearest shrub, Argus yanking his beautiful woman into a mound of snow, their lips still pressed together in harmony. Pince gave a sharp giggle, though muffled it against his chest, and they listened.

The first was definitely Snape talking, probably with that Victor Karakoff, from the sound of it. They were not long in passing, and their voices were too low to discern the actual words they said, but their urgent tones cut through the night. Something was wrong with them.

It spoiled the mood for Argus and Pince, who ended up dodging away stealthily out of the garden, narrowly missing an encounter with one or two other pairs of lovebirds who had ducked away from the dance floor, one of these being Hagrid and Maxime. (For your information.)

Wet, cold, and somewhat disturbed, Pince and Argus went to the librarian's lovely room, hidden behind a secret panel in an alcove in the library. Since Filch's room was so dreary and full of cleaning supplies—plus the fact it lacked a certain aesthetic sense—they typically made love here.

Not really emotionally tuned to the situation as Irma, Argus began to undo his suit buttons and laid his damp jacket on a chair. "You're up for it tonight, I'm sure," he suggested warmly, laying down his clothes as neatly as possible as he discarded them—shoes, socks, shirt, trousers . . .

"Argus, I'm worried."

Not exactly the most inspiring thing to tell a man sitting quite naked on her bed, but Filch was familiar with her idiosyncrasies.

"Because of Snape and that goat Karakoff?"

"Rather. I don't know why we had to have this tournament, Argus. I know it wasn't really in our capability to put an end to it, after all, but we might have persuaded Dumbledore to make it . . . less grandiose. I believe he is pining for the old times; that is the only reason he brought this back, I'm sure of it. But really . . . I think that he's being a bit too self-centered."

"This isn't just fun and games, is what you're trying to say," Filch suggested helpfully, trying to understand it himself. "It's scaring you because of the eerie feeling about the whole thing." He nodded in agreement. "I would say there was. Moody himself thinks there's some unearthly vibe in the air. He might be a bit off his rocker, but I do think he got a point this time."

"Well, what do we do?" Pince had a habit of wanting action taken immediately, and few things could stop her once she had her mind set upon doing something.

One reason she tended to be more definitely ambivalent than usual was because of Argus calm commonsense nature.

"We don't do anything until we have something definite we can do!" He was serious, and Irma saw the truth in the statement.

"That's right," she breathed, "We can't do anything until there is really something that needs doing. The only thing we can do is keep our eyes and ears open." She looked at him. "You really ought to be patrolling the halls tonight, you know."

"I know. But it's your birthday, Irma. You are well aware that I would rather miss a hundred thousand evenings with Mrs. Norris than one as special as tonight with you."

Turning flush with his flattery, Pince began to remove the pins from her hair, laying them beside her glasses and lace cuffs. In a few very quick minutes, she was as nude as a baby in her lover's arms, definitely not ambivalent about the way she felt for Argus.

Wow. This was . . . highly unusual, even for me.

Well, hopefully this won't turn you off the rest of my fanfiction. Um. Yeah. Hope you enjoyed it, though most of the beginning was just character notes predominantly about Pince. (Whom I am absolutely in love with, after Snape.) Please review if you have the time.