Last Christmas
She sat at her desk, shuffling files absentmindedly. There really was no purpose whatsoever for her to be there. She had no paperwork to finish, and she certainly wasn't still at the Ministry for the enlightening and festive company, as brightly coloured as Dolores Umbridge's wardrobe had been.
No, she was sitting in her small, cramped office on Christmas Eve because she had nowhere else to go. In fact, she had brought her pillow and blanket from home. They sat neatly on the small leather couch tucked in the corner. The thought of being home for the holiday was repulsive.
In Christmas Eves past it had always been her and her brother and her parents. Then her brother was put in St. Mungo's, which had been kept a very secret and private affair. And then her mother had died, though she figured it was due to a broken heart more than anything else. And now, well... It had been a little over four months since her father had been murdered.
Four months since she had narrowly escaped a similar fate, though she was kept under close watch these days, being the "suspiciously ambitious and quiet" Auror that she was. Through much of the Ministry hand-over to the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort, she had kept her head down.
Veritaserum had easily proved that she had no idea where Harry Potter was, nor did she have any knowledge of her father's dealings with him and the Order of the Phoenix. If anything, the painful torture of the Cruciatus Curse followed by the truth serum forced down her throat revealed she had absolutely no ties to the Order and seemed a rather neutral pure-blood in every respect. And despite her outrage at such maltreatment, she said nothing, didn't ask for sympathy from coworkers, and only missed one day of work to recover afterwards.
She had only caused a scene when she had been assigned an atrocious job from higher ups. In essence, she was to keep tabs on Snatchers. She was charged with one group in particular which included a man she had disliked since her school years.
And it was at that particular moment that the same man, the very one who she and her father had managed to put away all those years ago, swaggered through her open door and into her office.
She didn't look up from her papers, "Can I help you with something?"
"Well, aren't we cheerful?" he said, plopping down in the wooden chair in front of her desk and crossing his legs.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be? Bristol?"
"Love, it's Christmas. Couldn't be bov'red to work, could I?"
"Then why, may I ask, are you in my office?"
"Figured I might pay a visit to my fav'rite Auror," he said cheekily.
She rolled her eyes.
"An' what're you doin' 'ere in yer office then?"
"Working."
He raised his eyebrows as his dark lined eyes scanned the neat stacks of files and papers arranged on her desk.
"Right, well then I've come to offer you some comp'ny."
She groaned, "Scabior, please go away."
"Tsk, tsk, now we both know that ain't what you really want."
Her long nose scrunched in disgust, "You repulse me."
He smirked.
"Hows about," he began, leaning forward, "you an' me get dinner."
"No," she said firmly, sitting back in her chair. "Definitely not."
"Raoghnailt, love, it'll be fun. You, me, some drinks, see where the ev'ning goes an'-"
"Look, as lovely as I'm sure your company is," she interrupted, "I would rather not."
He didn't say anything for awhile, and she started rifling through papers once again to distract herself from her growing agitation at his presence.
He clicked his tongue and stood suddenly. "C'mon, then," he said, "I'll pay an' ev'ryfing."
When she didn't move, he placed his hands on her desk, preventing her from moving any more papers. "I'm not lettin' you spend Christmas Eve in yer office, because I figure yer used to havin' comp'ny 'round the holidays, so you have an option: dinner wiv me, or dinner wiv me."
She regarded him warily. She was hungry...
"Yeah, up you are, then," he said as she pulled her robes over her shoulders.
It was a short walk to The Leaky Cauldron, not exactly Raoghnailt's first choice, but it would do. They sat at a table tucked away in a dark corner near the fireplace. Apparently, Scabior had wanted some privacy, though she was sure that they could have sat in the middle of the restaurant and, on mere reputation, could have cleared the tables around them in minutes. No one would want to sit too close to a Snatcher and an Auror, especially so close to a holiday that people generally wanted to share with their families.
She was completely silent as Scabior placed their orders. She had refused to talk since leaving her office, quite bothered with her decision to join him. Honestly, what would he have done if she had refused?
She was surprised when two glasses of mead, two shots of Schletter's Fine Whisky, and a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey were placed on the table. Scabior immediately downed a shot before turning to his mead.
He noticed her stare. "You," he said, pointing at the array of alcoholic beverages before them, "drink."
"I don't usually get drunk on Christmas Eve."
"Look at you, all prim an' proper. I don't care what yer used to," he said, sliding the shot to rest in front of her clasped hands on the tabletop.
"I won't tell anyone," he said with a wink.
Oh, what the hell, she thought. She had already agreed to come, and she wasn't paying for anything.
"Look away," she said as she raised the shot glass to her lips.
He smiled into his drink, shaking his head. He shifted in his seat so that he faced the fireplace, looking away from her. Raoghnailt quickly tossed it back, the warm liquid burning the back of her throat. She loudly set it down, signaling it was alright for him to turn around.
"You know, I think you've gotten stranger since school."
"Yeah, well, could say the very same about you. Except I wouldn't say you were strange," she said, pushing a lock of light brown hair behind her ear.
"Ah, this is int'resting," he said, leaning his elbows on the table. "What would you call me then?"
She cocked an eyebrow, "'Fouler' would be suitable, I think."
He let out a bark of laughter. "I'd drink to that," he said before taking another swig.
The meals were easily forgotten as both Raoghnailt and Scabior slid more and more into drunkenness. Scabior wasn't even sure how much the tab had been, but he did remember handing a handful of galleons to Tom.
The two sat in their corner long after their plates were cleared and only a few remaining customers remained.
"Don't you hate me?" Raoghnailt asked finally, clumsily setting down an empty glass.
"What for?" he asked, leaning forward.
He had moved his chair so that he sat right next to her, their elbows touching.
She motioned for him to move closer.
"Because my father and I, we put you in Azkaban," she said in a low voice, her lips close to Scabior's ear.
"Yeah, I s'pose I should hate you fer that," he said as she pulled away, turning to face her.
Her hazel eyes widened in fear, and for a moment he wondered how this woman was considered one of the Ministry's best.
"But I don't think I do," he said with a smirk.
She tilted her head. "No? Well, I hate you," she stated matter-of-factly.
He laughed, "You tell me that ev'ry time I'm in yer office."
Both were silent, slowly leaning inward to close the distance between themselves.
Upon realising this, Raoghnailt's eyes widened as she took in his appearance. "You need a haircut," she blurted, quickly sitting back in her seat. "And I think your plaid trousers are silly," she added without a second thought. He chuckled.
She reached for the Ogden bottle and brought it to her lips, swallowing the last few drops.
"I think you've had enough to drink, eh?" he asked, raising himself from his seat.
Raoghnailt quickly followed suit, but the spinning in her head led her to clutch the edge of the table to stable herself.
Scabior reached for her, but she pressed a finger to his chest and looked up at him sternly, "No."
She straightened herself and, after a deep breath, took a slow step forward, her hand not leaving the table.
Scabior watched, amused, for a few moments.
"Alright, you've 'ad yer fun. We'll be here all night if you keep on like this," he said, approaching her again as she leaned against a column.
She looked up at him indignantly. "Ministry only," she instructed.
He nodded before he tugged her upright, placing her arm around his middle and resting his own over her shoulders to guide her back to the Ministry of Magic.
She almost stumbled down the stairs to the public toilets, but her free hand grabbed onto Scabior's lapel to steady herself. "That was embarrassing," she commented. He only shook his head.
He pushed the door to the Gentlemen's entrance open and led her to a stall, opening it with a coin.
"I can go to my own toilet, thanks," she said, only to find herself being tugged into the stall after him.
It was an awkwardly quiet lift ride to the second floor, and Scabior refused to let an increasingly independent Raoghnailt go to her office alone.
He pushed the door open and finally released her. She turned to look at him suspiciously before walking to her desk.
"Look, you can walk in a straight line again," he commented.
She shot him a glare. "Ha, ha," she said sarcastically, once again moving the files on her desk. She stopped suddenly, as if realising something when she looked down at a small picture frame.
She tenderly lifted it, emotions contorting her usually calm and indifferent features. It took Scabior a moment before he quickly concluded what the picture must have been of. He crossed the room and came behind her desk, pulling it from her hands and setting it back on the desk before roughly grabbing her chin. She was forced to look up at him.
Before she even knew it, Scabior's lips pressed firmly against hers in a kiss that was clearly desperate to erase the painful memories that tortured her. It quickly turned hungry, though, as one of his hands slid further down her back, dangerously close to her bum, and she held tightly to his shoulders, pressing her body against his.
Only when the two needed air did they part.
"Happy Christmas," Scabior murmured against her lips before turning on his heel and retreating from her office.
Raoghnailt collapsed back into her chair after he disappeared, her fingers on her lips as she swiveled to face her desk.
"Happy Christmas," she whispered back, her eyes flicking to the clock before settling on the moving photograph at the corner of her desk.
There, her father, Rufus Scrimgeour, beamed proudly, his arm around her shoulders, after she had graduated from her Auror training. That had been precisely seventeen years ago that very day.
And her first Christmas without him she had spent getting drunk and snogging the one man she despised above all others.
Happy bloody Christmas indeed.
Inspired by "Last Christmas" by Wham!
This serves as a little preview for a ScabiorOC fic in the works. Please let me know your thoughts in a review! Yours.
