ACT ONE: Of Dark Lords and Orphans
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Santa Claus, the Soul Brothers Need You
"You're about as fatale as an after-dinner mint."
Cabaret, Brian Roberts (Michael York)
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Thursday 26th December, 1991
"See you soon!"
"Happy New Year, Harry!"
"Have fun," Harry replied as he left his friends at the side of the train. They'd arrived in London, and Harry's eyes were seeking out the faces of his aunt and uncle amidst the crowd. Now he had bid his goodbyes, he would spend the remaining holidays at Privet Drive.
He lowered his trunk to the ground and looked around, only to be swept up in an enormous bear hug by his godfather.
"Can't... breathe... Siriusly..."
Sirius finally let him go and grinned at his godson. "Have a nice time at Hogwarts?"
"It was f-BLARG!"
Vernon let go of his nephew after a short yet vigorous hug and glanced around the platform. "Despite what I might always say about... magic... this is pretty impressive. How does it work? Does the archway act as a portal to a separate platform, or does this whole platform fit as a sort of pocket dimension inside the archway itself?"
Sirius shrugged as Harry checked if his ribs were still intact, "I don't actually know. I'd think that a portal would be easier to set up, because there's the complication of the train itself. But if Platform 9 and ¾ isn't in King's Cross station, then where is it?" he wondered aloud as he and Vernon headed to said archway at a calm pace.
"Thanks for the help with my trunk," Harry added sardonically as he hauled it after his guardians.
Vernon had parked his uninspiring car just outside the station, Sirius' presence allowing the Muggle to park in a place he wouldn't have noticed otherwise, thanks to a Muggle-Repelling Ward. They got in and were quickly heading through the surprisingly sparse traffic. In fact, there were so few cars on the road that Harry wondered if they were still in London. Meanwhile, Vernon and Sirius were still having their discussion.
"... I was always told it was concealed in a fold in space, but that implies that the tracks lead to an exit from the fold," his godfather argued.
Harry could see Vernon's pensive frown in the central mirror, and his uncle took the last exit on the roundabout they'd been slowly approaching, so they headed back towards the station. Harry sighed heavily as the two adults abandoned him in the car to discuss the theory behind the platform's existence.
The evening found Harry and Dudley in the living room. Vernon, Petunia and Sirius were talking about some guy called "Michael Gorbychoff", and Boxing Day was gently slowing in festivities. The two eleven year-olds were discussing schools whilst Harry idly fiddled around with Lego and Dudley flicked through Duelling: a History and Guide, Sirius' Christmas present to Harry.
Harry was pleased by Sirius' gift, though he had been expecting it. His godfather had also dropped hints as to a Seventh-year Ravenclaw who was the daughter of a friend of a friend of a friend who apparently would happily help give Harry some duelling lessons. His aunt and uncle had given him a stack of fiction to read: he was now the proud owner of a collection stretching from True Grit to The Hobbit. He grinned in recollection of the pile of strangely book-shaped presents, each individually wrapped.
"... so you know how at Stonewall High the so-called tradition is to shove peoples' heads down the loos? They tried that on me and Mark on my second day there," Harry's cousin sniggered.
"I presume they succeeded?" the young wizard replied.
"If you call waking up a few hours later in the infirmary success, then yes. Full marks."
Harry laughed. "Isn't that... a little over the top?"
"You ever had your head shoved down a toilet?"
"No, but..."
"Me neither, but if you want to know what it feels like, it can be arranged."
"... oh, look, a distraction!"
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They'd been at Cy's Muggle grandparents' house little over twenty minutes and Xan had already let slip exactly five pieces of Quidditch jargon, and three metaphors. She'd been counting.
They four of them were sat around the dining table, in the kitchen where Cy had spent a good portion of her youth playing with toys of some form or other. With her parents both working in the Ministry of Magic's Department of Alliances and Foreign Issues – colloquially and affectionately known as "Daffy" – they were very rarely in the UK, and as such her grandparents looked after her more than would be expected.
And Xan was about to break the International Wizarding Statute of Secrecy.
Cyan was hoping to get through the Christmas meal of honeyed gammon and roasted vegetables without having to take Xan aside. And she did, as they were about to tuck in, pretending that she needed her friend's help to reach something from a high shelf.
"Xan, seriously, stop mentioning Quidditch."
"Yeah, go ahead and ask me to stop being me why don't you," Xan replied with a wide grin.
"At least try..."
And Xan was true to her word. There was no further mention of Quidditch. There were a couple of close calls involving wands and magic, but the meal passed with little to no incidents.
The pudding was going to be rhubarb crumble with custard, but as Mary Swift's scrunched-up face would testify, the homegrown rhubarb needed a little sugar, and they'd run out, so Cyan was dispatched to the greengrocer's just down the road. As she made her way down the suburban lane, the young witch pondered whether or not she would have to use a Silencing Charm on Xan later, when her granddad would inevitably start talking about football, by extension tempting Xan into comparing it to Quidditch. She handed 46p over the counter and left the small shop carrying a kilo bag of sugar.
As she walked up the path to the house she thought she heard singing, but she shook her head to clear her imagination and opened the door to be confronted by what was indeed singing.
"-dlemere United,
Pass round a flagon with Firewhiskey inside it,
Sing a toast to our good 'ol boys,
And let them watch as we win it!
Beat back those Bludgers, boys,
And chuck that Quaffle here,
Beat back those Bludgers, boys,
And chuck that Quaffle here!
Pour their Seeker a pint or two,
Get him nice and plastered!
Watch 'im twirl and swirl and stagger,
And land right on his arse!
Beat back those Bludgers, boys,
And chuck that Quaffle here,
Beat back those Bludgers, boys,
And chuck that Quaffle here!
Beat back those Bludgers, boys,
And chuck that Quaffle here,
Beat back those Bludgers, boys,
And chuck that Quaffle here!"
Cyan stumbled into the kitchen as her grandparents and best friend finished off the second round of the chorus, the sugar long forgotten where it had fallen next to Cy's dropped jaw.
"Bu... Th... What ab... eh?"
Philip Swift grinned, "You've chosen your friend well, Cy!"
Mary added, "Xan told me she knew all the lyrics to the Chudley Cannons anthem, the one with twenty verses and two choruses! I've been looking for the words to it for the past fifteen years!"
"Well, Mrs Swift, it goes something like this," Xan began, "Chudley, oh Chudley, Chudley you ol' codger, Chu-"
"That still doesn't answer my question," Cy interrupted.
"You really thought that we didn't know about magic?" Mary raised an eyebrow.
"You thought we sent your dad to Hogwarts without knowing where we were sending him?!" Phillip sniggered, before collapsing with laughter, "This is priceless! The look on your face!"
By then the occupants of the room were all doubled up except Cyan, as the image of her best friend singing Quidditch songs with her grandparents still hadn't sunk in.
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On a normal day, Longbottom Manor would be empty, a deserted and oppressive building that would give you the impression of an ancient ruin were it not for the house elves making sure that the manor remain in perfect state.
However, Madam Augusta Longbottom had decided to hold a Boxing Day party at the family manor, to which she had invited a good portion of the upper-class wizarding population of Great Britain. Augusta liked being the centre of attention, though she would never admit it. The magically-enlarged second dining hall struggled to fit the several dozen guests, and they'd had to spill into what was once the servants' quarters. She scanned the crowd of well-dressed guests, searching for her grandson, Neville, but he was nowhere to be seen.
"My, Augusta, where is that Squib grandson of yours?"
Augusta turned to see that Josanna de Tolbert had snuck up behind her. Josanna was of a relatively poor background until she had married the well-known and wealthy Lord Alphonse de Tolbert, a noble of French descent. They were so snooty that even Augusta thought that they were stuck up noble pricks. Not that she would say as such, since direct confrontations were frowned upon in the world of nobility. Unless you were a man, and could therefore challenge someone's honour in a duel.
Augusta wished in that moment that she were a man, and could make Josanna swallow her insult with a healthy dose of pain; even if sometimes Augusta was sure that her grandson was a Squib, a wizard incapable of magic, if anyone other than her dared describe him as such it felt like a stake driven straight into her heart. She quickly regained her composure and stared at the other woman, before replying in a calm and measured manner, hiding the rage deep inside.
"Neville? I fear that he has found our company tiring, and is probably in his greenhouse. He has a green thumb, that boy."
"Well, if he is good in the garden then at least he is good for something. My daughter Portia is already taking on the role that she should as the offspring of a high-born family, and I do not see why your pet Squib should not."
Augusta sighed internally, and began daydreaming of a reality in which she Transfigured Josanna de Tolbert into a teacup whilst wishing she hadn't organised the party.
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"So, Hermione, what did you get up to at school this term?"
"This term? Well, I got attacked by a troll which we – myself and my friends – managed to knock out without too many injuries. There was that time we smuggled a baby dragon out of the school so that it didn't burn down the resident half-giant's house, which we got detention for; said detention being a walk through werewolf-filled woods on the hunt for a creature of pure evil capable both morally and physically of killing unicorns. Oh, and then there was the time where one of my friends was playing a high-speed, ridiculously dangerous sport in the air and someone tried to kill him, so we had to distract the would-be killer. Oh, and I'm learning to blatantly ignore the laws of physics."
Mark Granger sighed, "Yes dumpling. That's what happened. And we definitely believe you. I'm sure you and your friends had loads of fun fighting pretend trolls."
Needless to say, Hermione was slowly going nuts.
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Friday 27th December, 1991
Ron Weasley woke with a start. Windswept snow battered at the window of his bedroom, and it was the morning, of that much he was sure. But the day had begun with strange portent. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up.
His mother Molly had decided to hold the full Christmas celebrations on the day after her boys came back from Hogwarts, so that the whole day could be enjoyed as a family. The disadvantage, which was to be expected, was that it gave Fred and George time to prepare their usual pranks. But this year felt different, for Ron. He didn't expect a lack of pranks, quite the opposite – this was to be a new record. He quivered in foreboding, his Weasley senses tingling. He got out of bed and began to change into his clothes for the day when he found the note atop his folded jumper.
Brother of ours,
We thought of getting you a pranked present, then changed our minds as we had a better idea.
Welcome to Fred and George's 1991 Christmas Bonanza!
The rules are simple: follow the clues and perform predefined tasks in order to earn your present!
Cheating is not only discouraged but FORBIDDEN, as is uncreative thinking. We'll be watching you.
Task 1: Reach the back garden.
Just thought we'd give you a clue – the door is locked.
Good game!
Ron cussed loudly and tried the door handle, and they were quite correct. A note fluttered down from the ceiling informing him that he was a moron for even trying, despite their clue.
He frowned as he pulled his jumper on and looked at the other possible escape route. He stepped towards his wellies – thankfully still in his room from last time he used them. He jumped as they hopped away from him, then sighed in resignation as he rugby tackled them and forced them onto his feet. A note shot out, informing him that he had done very well.
"They will pay," Ron growled under his breath as he rummaged in his cupboard to find his emergency rope ("I knew I had it for something"), and tied one end to his bed. He opened the window, gasping at the cold, before jumping out and beginning to abseil down the side of the house, pushing the window to as he went. The rope was too short so he dropped the rest of the way to the snow-covered ground, snowflakes still swirling around him.
The Burrow was a built a little... slapdashily, to say the least. In the snow, it looked like five Swiss chalets plonked one on top of the other, with no regard as to style. Ugly? No. Inelegant was more the word, for the Burrow was not only Ron's home but was truly a home to him, bringing that feeling of I'm supposed to be here every time he even so much as caught a glimpse of it.
He trudged through the snow towards the back garden, seeing three Garden Gnomes sitting on the snowy floor, shivering in the biting cold. There was something attached to the wooden gate, and he grabbed it, unfolding the parchment.
Task 1 Succeeded!
Task 2: Get the package.
P.S.: You always boast about being better at Gnome hurling than any of us. It'll take a Gnome to dislodge that package. Let's see if you've got it.
Ron glanced around, looking for the package. He then looked up at the Weasley family's Yardditch hoops near the house. There was a bright red package, there in the highest of the hoops, held in place with what looked like string. He sighed and stooped to grab a Gnome by the leg, the small creature squealing in protest; Ron twirled and lobbed it bang on target, soaring straight through the considerably small gap in the hoop, the garden pest squealing again, this time in excitement, as it soared away from the garden. The package dropped to the floor below the hoops.
Task 2 Succeeded!
Task 3: Duck!
P.S.: That was a hint.
Ron had spent enough of his life with the twins to know to comply. A huge snowball soared over his head, and he spun around to find the thrower, but in the spiralling snow he couldn't see a thing. A second snowball smashed apart on the hooppole, and a third caught him right in the face.
At least he knew where it was coming from. A vaguely humanoid-looking snowman was the culprit, and was currently pelting Ron with snowballs. He dove behind the hedge and prepared a ball, throwing it at the animated pile of frozen water. He facepalmed, realising that the snowman wouldn't be stopped by snow.
In a desperate charge, he ran through the gateway under heavy fire and pushed the snowman to the ground, taking advantage of the distraction to grab the two other Gnomes sat on the snow and speed back into cover. He took a snowball to the arm, but he was now armed with his weapon of choice.
The first Gnome was dodged by the surprisingly agile construct, but the second blew the snowman into a powdery explosion of snowflakes. Clearly the snowman had been containing the next package. He took a moment to wonder how on earth they'd managed to animate a snowman, before unfolding the note.
Task 3 Succeeded!
Task 4: Get the next note!
Here's an indiscreet hint: it's in the mince pie with a slit in the top.
Bugger.
Ron headed around to the front door, and entered the Burrow. He hadn't realised just how cold it had been outside, and sighed in relief. He pulled his wellington boots off his feet and shuffled around in his socks, heading for the kitchen. There, on the table: freshly baked mince pies. Molly Weasley was stood at the sink, peeling Brussels sprouts, back to him. He thought of grabbing the mince pie, but as he remembered his mother's omniscience an easier route occurred to him.
"Hey Mum, can I have a mince pie?"
"No Ron, they're for later."
Damn. Worth a try.
He glanced around the room briefly, looking for an idea, then it came to him.
"I heard that the twins are going to prank Ginny's present, by the way, Mum. They said it was going to be bril-"
"THEY WOULDN'T DARE!" Molly dropped the knife and sprout and rushed out of the room.
Score one for thinking out of the box. Ron quickly dug through the mountain of mince pies and found the note, pulling it from the pie without damaging it, and quickly reassembling the pile, and darting away before he was caught.
"They told me not to worry," Molly came back into the kitchen, "False alarm."
"Heh," Ron shrugged, and discreetly unfolded the note.
Task 4 Succeeded!
Final Task: Get the present!
P.S.: guess where it is. Hehehehehehe.
Ron almost cursed their names to eternal damnation and torture in the deepest darkest pits of hell out loud, then remembered that his mother was in the same room as him. His present was in his bedroom, probably hidden under his bed or even just sitting on his bedside table. He sighed loudly.
He couldn't get his parents to unlock his door, because that would be classed as cheating. And the rope was too short for him to climb back into his room. He frowned as he donned his wellies and headed back outside to the rope dangling from his bedroom, struggling with the problem. Logic said to try the broom shed, but that would be counted as uncreative and cheating. Then came the idea.
Quidditch hoopposts can be as high as 20 metres or so, but Yardditch posts tend to reach only about 6 metres. It was surprisingly easy to climb the two lower hoops and find himself hanging from the lower part of the top hoop. The things that Fred and George get me into, he thought as he swung himself to get momentum and let go of the hoop, grabbing onto the rope as he fell.
He stayed on, with a few rope burns, but he was still on. Ron wasn't particularly strong but it wasn't too difficult to haul himself up the rope – experience, he guessed – and he eventually reached his bedroom.
The package was, of course, under his bed. He tore the wrapper open to reveal another note, along with a key that presumably opened his bedroom door.
Final Task Succeeded!
You have won Fred and George's 1991 Christmas Bonanza!
Your true present is under the tree with the rest.
Well done! We will of course debrief you on the matter of bonus points.
It turned out he gained five bonus points for style, and as such got a box of Chocolate Frogs as well as his original present of a pair of socks. A normal person would murder them for it. Ron just sighed.
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AN: Poor Ronniekins :)
I can't deny that I love getting into Gred and Forge's minds.