THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR
Author: Catherine E. Grant
Dislaimer: Any characters mentioned belong to J.K. Rowling. The plot, what there is of it, is mine. If the title sound a little sarcastic, what of it?
The girl struggled gamely through the snow, making slow progress along the built up banks. The thin coat she wore over her unnaturally thin, starved eight-year-old body was nowhere near sufficient against the chill in the air, and she shivered as she panted. The cords from the heavy packs she carried cut deeply into her hands and shoulders.
Mockingly, the icy flakes strike her skin. Her nose and lips are blue, and she cannot feel her fingers. Her feet in her light leather boots, worn patches clinging bravely to frayed holes, drag heavily like lumps of lead. No longer does she feel the familiar biting sensation of shoes two sizes too small.
Hard rocks scuff her feet; fallen branches lay in tangles that scar and scratch those bony legs. Purply yellowish bruises cover her tender skin, but they too are coated with ice and snow and give off little more than a faint tingling.
She sees a house before her. Cheery golden light sparkles in the windows; the glitter of a fire reflects against the glass. A wreath of holly and mistletoe hangs above the door.
The girl puts down her bundles and grasps the heavy metal knocker. She brings it down sharply. Inside the window she can see people clustered, laughing, talking, and the fire seems to beckon to her. The scent of hot Christmas roast almost dances in the air.
"What do you think you're doing, you stupid girl!?" Door swings inward and girl is roughly pushed aside. "Haven't we told you never to use the front door?"
Tired eyes meet angry ones. She flinches even before the hand cuffs her fiercely across the face. Falls, slips. Lands in snow across her forgotten packages.
"Get up, you hear me? Get up! Bring the firewood." Silently she obeys, picks up the straining snow covered bags. Beneath the watchful gaze, she packs the wood shed at the end of the driveway.
She finishes and raises hopeful eyes to the glaring ones at the open doorway. Thin lips slacken, narrow further. Eyes like angry, beady slits in padded face. "Please…"
The girl ventures, staring past the figure to the crowded room. Flames reflect in the shiny tinsel of the Christmas tree. Presents sparkle cheerfully and logs crackle in the fireplace.
Snort.
"You're lucky I didn't beat you, stupid girl, taking all that time to get a few measly bags of wood. Ugh. Too cold to be out in this weather, mark my words."
She takes a hesitant step forward.
"What, you think that just because I didn't beat you you're good enough to come inside? Don't be ridiculous!" The pug-like face shoves itself against the girl's. "We have guests, you moron. What do you do when we have guests?"
"Stay outside and out of the way." Her voice is low and trembling.
"And what else do you do?"
"Don't let them see me. Don't let them know that I'm related to you."
"That's right! We aren't related, you silly little freak. You're nothing to do with us. You're nothing but a worthless little idiot. Should have left you to die, we should have, but we were generous, we gave you a home. We feed and clothe you and look after you and you repay us by expecting MORE? Next you'll have your little begging bowl out and be begging for Christmas pudding like the little dog you are."
The man leaves the shelter of the doorway and slams the door behind him. The girl backs away, hesitantly. Slowly she draws her coat around herself.
"Are we going somewhere?" The voice is laden with sarcasm.
She drops her eyes, stares at the snow. "No, sir."
"Good. We wouldn't want you to go anywhere, now would we?" Laughter. Cruel, mocking laughter. He grabs her by the collar and pulls her into the solid wood shelter. Throws her against the floor. Bolt slams home in door as gnarled hands lift the whip from its rack.
Well-oiled leather finds its mark in half frozen flesh. Very quickly the girl learns that it is possible to know pain when you are frostbitten. She cries, and she tries to scream, and she would, if it weren't for the dirty rag stuffed early on into her mouth. The coat is dragged off skinny shoulders, tossed up onto the woodpile. Her dress is torn; her bruises double. She grieves more for the loss of the precious clothing than for herself.
Physically, she will heal.
Her cries mutate into whimpers and her head cracks roughly on the floor. As always, she tries to struggle, but she is never strong enough. Firm fingers crawl beneath the flimsy material, plucking and pinching at her flesh. The pain skyrockets, and then it lessens, drops away as the weight on top of her draws itself away and brushes down its clothing.
Can't have snow and filth on good Christmas clothes.
Plodding footsteps cross the flagstones and she hears the bolt being shot back. Voices echo out from the house as they welcome back in their companion. The sounds fade as the great door slams home again with finality, marking the end of a ritual that has occurred every Christmas in the girl's short life.
She huddles in her coat and the fragments of her dress; huddles against the piles of wood and cries pitiful little sobs that are swallowed by the cold and by the fading evening light. She cries, and the tears turn into ice upon her bruised and swollen cheeks.
Eventually she sleeps and her body is wracked in a nightmare that repeats itself every Christmas night for years to come.
Years later the bruises healed and the scars were nothing more than nasty memories just like the frostbite and the terror and the pervading cold that got in every bone and made her shiver yet took away some of the pain of the swelling and the fear.
All the same, Minerva McGonagall had never really been the festive sort.