Disclaimer: I'm just playing in the Harry Potter sandbox. If you recognize it from elsewhere, I don't own it.
Upon A Midnight Clear
A pile of clothes lay helter-skelter across the unmade bed. Masses of skirts, wads of sweaters, and hastily discarded shoes were strewn from the pillows to the footboard and not an inch of the yellow comforter was visible. The floor was not much better. The gray carpet was dotted with bits of Christmas wrapping paper, homework on parchment, opened and abandoned textbooks, and dirty socks.
Many posters hung on the wall, some of them still pictures and some of the occupants moving within their borders. A calendar hung beside the bed, a picture of a grinning wizard in yellow and black striped robes smiling dashingly from his place on a hovering broomstick. The caption read: Lugo Bagman, Beater for the Winbourne Wasps, Mr. December. The dates were marked off with a thick black marker. It was 1976 and December twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve.
A solitary voice floated through the house from the record turning slowly on the needle. Roxy Music wasn't the Christmas ballads Mrs. Knight had in mind when she left the selection up to her oldest daughter, Annabel. She was so glad to have her daughter home for the holidays that she overlooked the garish style of the glam band and tried to make herself believe there was no such thing in the wizarding world, where her daughter spent ten months of the year.
A small figure emerged from the bathroom. She was wearing a jean mini skirt, Bohemian blue top, and high heels that Roxy Music's model girlfriends would be envious of—actually, the band members themselves would probably have worn the same shoes. The effect wasn't entirely successful, as the blonde teenager had rather stubby legs and not much practice in platforms.
Annabel Knight surveyed herself in the full length mirror. Yeah, this would do. She had spent hours trying to force her limp blonde hair to curl, but had finally given it up as a bad job. Instead she ironed it stick straight, which was much easier. The all pink make-up she had bought with her sister's help looked good on her pale face, but made her almost too cherubic.
"Pete won't care," she told her reflection. "He loves me without heels and make-up, he'll love me with them."
Whether Peter Pettigrew loved her or not was no longer in question. He had said so on the Hogwarts Express while they were coming home for Christmas. He was so nervous when he said the words, but he got them out eventually and was well rewarded for his bravery. Annabel touched her lips subconsciously and giggled at the memory.
The minute hand of the clock on the wall showed it was seven-thirty, high time for Annabel to be out the door. She was meeting Pete at the Dirty Shamrock in Diagon Alley at eight o'clock. It would take her at least twenty minutes to find a suitable place for Apparation. She had only just passed her test and had never Apparated from her home to London. Still, she thought she could do it.
"Pete was sure I could," Annabel mumbled to herself.
With her self-confidence settled, Annabel grabbed her black cloak and left her room. Brian May's voice continued to serenade the Knight family. Down the hall, Shaylee Knight was swaying to the rhythm and mouthing the words. In the family room, Mr. and Mrs. Knight were trying desperately not to notice the sexual innuendo in the lyrics.
"Meeting your boyfriend?" Mrs. Knight asked, positively beaming.
She was of the belief that her daughters were the most beautiful creatures on earth. She had met Dorcas Meadowes and noted her stunning Grecian beauty, but Mrs. Knight had never much liked tall, thin, exotic-looking women. She had also met Lily Evans and saw her fiery hair and stunning eyes, but she looked a bit too Irish for an English girl. Her appearance and her voice were at an odd juxtaposition.
But her darling Annabel, with her blonde hair, blue eyes, and small frame was as angelic as any human could be. Her soft voice and gentle lilt sounded as sweet as chiming bells. She was delighted that Annabel had found a young man worthy of her beauty and magical talent.
When Professor Minerva McGonagall had arrived on their doorstep six years earlier and explained that Annabel was a witch, Mrs. Knight had been convinced that there was definitely fairy blood in their family and Annabel had inherited their abilities. No amount of nay saying from her daughter could change her mind. Annabel Knight was truly a special girl.
"In that?" Mr. Knight demanded, eyeing the miniskirt.
"He's right, Anna, you'll freeze."
"I'm of age now, mum. I can use a charm to warm my legs. I promise I'll be fine."
Mr. Knight didn't look convinced that his daughter should be allowed out of the house in a mini skirt and heels—snow or no snow, Charm or no Charm.
And he wanted to meet this Peter Pettigrew. He didn't trust any young man who didn't come meet his girlfriend's father. True, they had started dating at their school, but he could have at least come over during summer holiday.
Annabel slung the great cloak with the Hufflepuff crest over her shoulders and headed out the door. The sounds of Christmas carolers and Church bells carried on the nippy air, bringing another wave of Christmas cheer to Annabel. This was her favorite time of the year, when her family reunited for a feast of epic proportions, when she met with her old friends from St. Mary's Primary School, and when she played an angel in the Nativity Play on Christmas Day.
Belfast was washed in peace this evening. Even the Muggles had stopped fighting—for the moment. Only three days ago more English soldiers had been killed, and a week before that, bombs had been detonated in Belfast and many English cities. She had no fears for her part, she was a witch and could protect herself, but all her family were Muggles and lived in Northern Ireland without magic to keep them safe. She was glad for Hogwarts and her wand—gladder than she had ever been before.
She reached the Apparation point that most wizards living in the area used, a small grove planted as a tribute to some priest long dead, and disappeared into the trees. Once shielded from Muggle eyes, she turned sharply and with a small pop arrived in Diagon Alley.
The weather was terrible in London. It was sleeting without relent and the wind was howling through Diagon Alley whipping sign posts and kiosks around dangerously. Annabel ducked her head and made for the Dirty Shamrock. Last minute shoppers were struggling to hold on to their purchases and couples out celebrating the holiday were Apparating home all around her.
The bell above the door jangled and the barman looked up, apparently surprised that anyone would be out in this gale. Daniel McCullough was an old friend of Annabel's. Through many branches, he was somehow on the Meadowes's and Potter's family trees. He and Dorcas claimed to be cousins, but Annabel doubted it was that straightforward. He welcomed her warmly and slid her a bottle of butterbeer.
"I've got a message for you, Anna. Your boyfriend's head popped into the fire ten minutes ago. He had this in his mouth."
Daniel passed her a folded sheet of parchment. She moved towards the back of the pub and took a seat at a table for two while she read Pete's note.
Christmas Eve dinner ran late. I'll be there before eight-thirty. Love, Pete.
Annabel slid the note into her pocket and took out the box she had wrapped earlier that day. She fiddled with it for a moment before remembering what it was and leaving it alone. She had got it in the post only yesterday and had been on pins and needles worried that it wouldn't arrive on time.
Really, she owned Dorcas and Lily the thanks. Both of her friends had written a note to Jameson DeWitt and Marshall Fieldman, the Beaters for the Chudley Cannons and Slug Club alum, asking them for autographs. Inside the box was a Bludger, just waiting for its latch to release so it could destroy the pub and knock the patrons unconscious. Pete was going to love the present.
The Dirty Shamrock was unusually subdued this evening. Normally, the crowd was a gaggle of Irish and half-Irish wizards who wanted nothing more than to throw back a few pints and a few hexes. But tonight, on Christmas Eve, they had settled down for a quiet drink with the friends and family they might not see the next day.
Daniel had turned the WWN to a Christmas broadcast. Celestina Warbeck's classical voice warbled out of the wireless. Not many people Annabel's age cared for the singer. She belonged to the previous generation, but there was something soothing about her soulful crescendos. With Celestina's tunes in her ears and warm butterbeer in her stomach, Annabel had trouble believing that she had ever been unhappy.
The howling wind through Diagon Alley seemed to increase in volume disproportionate to the amount of snow swirling through the air. It was only when several of the patrons leapt from their seats that Annabel realized something was amiss. The wind wasn't blowing harder—those were screams added to the wind decibel.
"Annabel, get down!" Daniel cried.
"What? Why?"
Then she saw what had caused the other patrons to retreat hastily from the window and Daniel to dive under the bar. A figure cloaked in black had Apparated in front of the Dirty Shamrock. Annabel did not need him to turn around to know that his face would be covered by a white skull-like mask.
She stood frozen, as if transfixed, by the billowing black robes. The world seemed to fall away from her. There were no screams, no snow, no old songs issuing from the wireless. There was only Annabel and the Death Eater separated by a single pane of glass—glass that would shatter with the simplest spell.
Suddenly, Annabel felt herself knocked over and her head connected with the wooden floor. She gasped in pain as stars danced in front of her eyes. She was alert enough to understand that she had not been hit with any spell. There was a hand gripping her ankle. One of the patrons, a young woman with a sweet, round face, had seen her standing there stupidly and had pulled her legs out from under her.
"Stay down," the girl mouthed.
With a gesture, she beckoned Annabel to crawl under the table. The other person with her, a young man with distinguished features, moved over to give her room. She recognized them from somewhere. If only her head would stop throbbing from pain and fear, she might have been able to place them.
"Look, we're sitting ducks here," the man whispered. "We can't just stay here and wait for him to spot us."
His voice was calming and reassuring and yet strong and decisive. Annabel knew the moment he said the first word that his man would protect them with every fiber of his being. She would do whatever this man told her to. If he ordered her to stand still while the Death Eater shot a Killing Curse at her, she would do it without question.
"No, Frank," the woman hissed, grasping the man's arm. "There are too many civilians here. We have to get them somewhere safe first."
Civilians? They must be Aurors! Thank, Merlin, they were Aurors! Luck was with the patrons of the Dirty Shamrock this evening.
"All right. Annabel, right?" She nodded dumbly at the man called Frank. How did he know her? "Alice will lead you and the others somewhere safer. Come back when they're hidden." He directed the last statement at the young woman.
Frank and Alice. What was so familiar about hearing those names together? Annabel cursed her sluggish mind. Pete would say that I'm brave. But I'm not. He's the Gryffindor.
Annabel followed Alice and the other patrons behind the bar. She and Daniel were whispering so low it sounded like nothing more than a rustling cloak. Odd, Annabel thought, how the world seemed to be swaying and growing dim.
Only when a girl her own age grabbed her hand did Annabel realize that she was shaking. Her head seemed miraculously free of pain despite the nasty fall only minutes before. She was trembling so violently that it seemed to her eyes the Dirty Shamrock was swaying to and fro. And the fading light was not thunderclouds, but hundreds upon hundreds of figures—some Death Eaters, some denizens—running wildly between the street lanterns and the pub's glass window.
"We'll be all right, Anna," the girl whispered.
Sun Kim. Almost too late, Annabel recognized the Ravenclaw prefect. She wondered what the Asian girl was doing in the Dirty Shamrock and felt a deep sense of guilt that she had never bothered to find out more about the perpetually sweet girl. Was she half-Irish? Or did she just prefer Irish butterbeer? Was she dating an Irish boy? Or meeting some friends?
Dorcas didn't like Ravenclaws, so Annabel hadn't ever bothered to get to know any of them. Dorcas's explanation that Ravenclaws were know-it-alls was entirely insufficient, mainly because Dorcas herself was a know-it-all. But it had been enough for Annabel—at one point. Now that she was trembling with fright and being comforted by Sun, who must have been just as terrified, she felt a surge of adoration for the girl.
If we make it out of this alive, I'm telling Dorcas that she's wrong about Sun.
Thoughts of her best friend brought new waves of torment to Annabel. Dorcas would make it out of this just fine. Not because she was a pure-blood (because she was also a blood traitor) and not because of her abilities, but because she was Dorcas Meadowes. Nothing short of the Devil himself could scare her into surrendering to her fear.
"Anna," Sun whispered, "Are you … Muggle-born?"
Annabel nodded frightfully. Sun gripped her hand tighter. The Death Eaters would let Sun live, thought Annabel. She was a pureblood, and her parents held highly respectable positions in the Ministry. But if she's holding my hand—a Mudblood hand—they'll think she's not worth saving. She'll die too.
Most of the patrons elected to stay with Frank and Alice to fight. They were the rough and tumble young men who equated brawling with masculinity and for that reason had taken positions as security wizards and troll trainers rather than Aurors. Any chance to cast a good jinx was grounds for celebration. There were many of those kinds of men who frequented the Dirty Shamrock—Daniel among them.
"But someone's got to get the girls to safety, and I'm the most qualified dueler here," Alice protested.
"We can fight too," Sun insisted.
Annabel gapped at her classmate. There wasn't a chance that she would be able to face a Death Eater. She had given up her goal of becoming an Auror long ago. No longer did she feel the desire to prove herself as capable as Lily and Dorcas. She would leave the heroic last stands to the Gryffindors.
"Absolutely not," Daniel hissed. "You know Dumbledore—"
But what Dumbledore would have wanted was never said. Witches and wizards from across Diagon Alley had begun resisting the Death Eaters, and Aurors and Hit Wizards had Apparated into the street. Street lanterns had been busted and blackened, but the light of dozens of Dark Marks and hundreds of curses, counterjinxes, and Unforgivables made Diagon Alley look like a kaleidoscope of color.
Like Christmas lights on an evergreen, Annabel thought.
And then a stray hex soared towards the Dirty Shamrock and the glass window exploded with the force. Shards of glass streaked through the air, slicing tablecloths, robes, and skin. Blood spurted, and before anyone realized what had just happened, Sun was lying dead on the floor.
It seemed that minutes stretched into hours and hours into days while Alice dragged Annabel through Diagon Alley. Sticky blood had matted Annabel's hair and its coppery taste clogged her throat. She knew instinctively she wasn't injured. The blood wasn't her own—it was Sun's.
The street blurred to Annabel's eyes. If it hadn't been for Alice's firm grasp, she wouldn't have made it three steps. The Dirty Shamrock was abandoned. Without the glass, it wasn't a defensible position. Somehow, three people had been left behind. Annabel saw them over her shoulder. Sun, Daniel, and a white-haired grandfather were just lying there, bathed in a growing pool of redness.
"Funny how duels are never so messy in Defense class," Annabel mumbled.
But no one heard her. They were crouching … crawling … clawing their way to safety, if there was such a thing anymore. Muggle or wizard, it didn't matter. Catholic or Protestant, Pureblood or Mudblood, bombs or curses, it was all the same. War is Hell.
Annabel heard the people around her shouting. She recognized individual words, but they didn't string together in any meaningful way. Dumbledore … Duck … Down … Phoenix … Run … Children … Dead … All … Dead … Hide ….
"Well, isn't this quite a sight?" a cold voice said. "A Mudblood, covered in blood is crawling through the mud."
Annabel felt a foot on her back. Several of her vertebrae cracked painfully as the boot connected with her spine. Her companions—and it seemed suddenly that only Alice and Frank were left—reeled back in terror. The boot lashed out at Annabel's stomach and she flopped over helplessly.
For a moment, the world became exceedingly clear to her. The sounds of screaming, acrid smell of burning buildings, and terror of attack vanished utterly from her mind. She was suspended in a place without attachment. None of the goings on in the world seemed to affect her in the slightest. She was simply an observer outside of time and space.
She saw a day when the wizarding world was at peace again, and she knew that the price in blood would be so great that "peace" would never again be truly attainable. And she could foresee her part in the story was not really over, though she was certain she would be dead in a few moments.
She would live on through her friends and they would be forever changed by the events of this Christmas Eve. Peter would never again be as brave as he had been on the day he'd said he loved her, Lily would grow stronger in her hatred of Voldemort, and Dorcas would be completely undone by her emotions.
And Annabel saw clearly in that instant the price of victory would be nothing less than the life of every one of her dearest friends. Though they might not all die a physical death, their lives would surely become the property of Lord Voldemort through service or opposition.
Dorcas … Lily … Peter … Remus … Sirius … James.
Never again would the world be a lovely place for these six people.
A moment later, she had returned to her body. She stared into the gleaming red eyes of the thing standing before her. Without ceremony, without another word—a death suitable to the lowest of the low—the spell was cast.
Annabel saw the green light and heard the rushing sound of death, but she felt no fear. She heard the melodious voices of Christmas carolers inside her head and imagined the twinkling lights of Christmas trees.
Christmas was her favorite time of the year.
The End