Chapter Thirty-Six: Yes, Virginia, There is A...
For most of that year beforehand, Harry would not have believed what he was to reflect upon in the weeks to come; that the failing days of 1996, from the start of his Christmas holidays until the attack were to become among the happiest in his memory. Yet it was so. On Christmas morning he rose early- albeit some half hour or so after Ron had done so, and hurriedly washed and dressed himself, not wanting to miss the ritual opening of presents that had been so much a part of his and his friends' Christmas over the years. Drawing up the hood of his Invisibility Cloak, Harry slipped along the landing, past Hermione's parents who were caught in rapt discussion with a portrait of a scabrous, yellow buck-toothed member of the Black family who had noticed the presence of Muggles in the ancestral home and decided to tell Susan Granger precisely what he thought of the whole affair, in rather graphic terms, and taking obvious glee in his audience's unfamiliarity with the idea of talking portraits.
The Grangers had drawn back in surprise for a moment, not to mention alarm- Arthur Weasley, bearing in mind everyone's experiences at the hands- or rather, the tongue- of Mrs Black in the early part of the year, not to mention Harry's own accounts of Phineas Nigellus' frequent carpings, had been sure to install his son's friend's Muggle parents in a room with bare walls, and this seemed to be their first encounter with the portraits. Harry, creeping invisible along the corridor, was strongly tempted to wipe the hideous smile off 'Tartarus Black''s face, when Ben Granger, finding a pause in Tartarus' narrative, decided to tell the painting precisely, in turn, what he, a dentist, thought of the former wizard's teeth, and, in rather graphic, not to say medical terms, describe the processes of decay and malformation going on in each tooth, and the decidedly painful methods that would be necessary to correct them. Tartarus was, of course, only a painting of a long-dead and long-toothless wizard, but none the less, when the Muggle began to lovingly describe the feel and sound of a drill boring through enamel and dentine, the painting fell silent.
"There can sometimes be quite a bit of blood involved," Ben added, conversationally, to the portrait, in apparent reply to one of its earlier insults, "I agree. Whether it's muddy or not depends on what you've been eating, really, I suppose. But then, I always thought a dirty mouth had more to do with the rubbish some people choose to speak with it, didn't you, Susan?"
"Quite."
Silently, Harry slid along the corridor. Then, at the top of the stairs, and feeling slightly ashamed of himself after just mentally applauding their efforts, he cleared his throat.
"Merry Christmas." To their credit, neither of Hermione's parents jumped particularly far.
He found his friends in what had once been a parlour. Seldom used since the Order of the Phoenix- who generally preferred to eat in the kitchen, where running water kept some of the more exotic denizens of the property at bay- took over the house, the queer, oval shaped room was none the less among the few on the ground floor large enough to support a Christmas tree of the height that Fred and George had brought home a few days before Harry, Ron, and the others had returned from school. He, and the rest, had carefully arranged their gifts to one another around it last night, and it was here, responding to an automatic reflex of childhood that sixteen years had not yet erased, that they gravitated first on Christmas morning.
Harry slipped quietly through the open door, taking care not to tread on any wrapping paper. Hermione had just presented Ron with his gift- a compact, smart looking pair of omnioculars. Ron was struggling to resist the temptation to fiddle with them long enough to thank his friend properly, and having considerable difficulty.
"Merry Christmas!" Ron- after first giving a sharp glare at his sister until she looked away, amused, leant forward and kissed Hermione on the cheek. The bushy-haired girl half-raised her eyebrows, and returned the kiss in kind, as Ron lifted an odd, irregularly shaped package wrapped in predominantly green wrapping paper into her hands. As she thanked him, and sat back on her knees to unwrap it, Ron watching her anxiously, Ginny paced around the small living room, waiting for her boyfriend to make his appearance. She and Ron had been the first up, each anticipating an early move over to the Burrow for Christmas dinner, only to be promptly scolded by their mother for expecting the Grangers to be up so early on Christmas morning after a tiring journey by "those funny things Muggles move about in." Ginny was half-inclined to suspect that, despite the family having owned a car themselves for a year or so, Molly Weasley still half thought that Mr and Mrs Granger had arrived at Grimmauld Place from High Wycombe by horse and cart.
Hermione lifted a large book from the wrapping, leaving several smaller objects to rustle around inside it.
"People and Creatures: Wizardly Ethics towards Magical Life," she read, "A Study and A Proposition, by E.L.S. Blitzbottle and I.C.C. Chesterfield." Hermione looked up. Ron shifted from foot to foot.
"I still think all this SPEW stuff is nonsense myself," he said apologetically, "But Charlie's worked with this Blitzbottle bloke when they had to go to Hungary, and he managed to sort out getting us an advance copy from the publisher. It won't be out properly till next June." Ron shrugged. "I don't know if it's much of a present." He knelt down next to her, and fished a letter and envelope out of the packaging. "He wrote you a letter- they're trying to set up some sort of enquiry into how magical creatures get treated, changing some of the laws." The boy looked at Hermione, trying to gauge her opinion. "Like I said," he said hastily, "I don't really get it myself- but if you do want to get involved... well, this seems like the way to... well,"
Hermione blinked rapidly for a moment or two, looking down at the letter and book with a thoughtful expression.
"At least you're not the only nutter," Ron finished, and then flinched.
Hermione looked up at him sharply, and then gave him a sudden, impulsive hug.
"That's wonderful, Ron," she told him "Thank you." She took hold of the book, then looked doubtfully at him, and started to set it down, but her eyes followed it hungrily. Ron smirked.
Harry grinned gleefully, and took a few stealthy steps across the room. A quick glance had been enough to assure him that his presents were still unopened. Now... Ginny was walking back and forth, a little impatient- waiting for him to make an entrance, the invisible boy suspected. Careful to make no noise over the rustle of wrapping paper, Harry tried to slip around behind her as Ron teased Hermione.
"Oh, go on," he told her. "I know you. You'll be no use to anyone now till you've read a bit of it, will you?"
"Probably not," Hermione admitted. "I- just a chapter though, I don't want to abandon you all for Christmas Day."
"You're doing better than Harry," Ron observed. "At least you've got up- Ginny, you'll wear out the carpet."
Ginny spun on her heel, flinging out a hand in exasperation. Harry staggered back, narrowly avoiding her.
"Couldn't you have woken him up?" She sighed impatiently at her brother.
"It's Christmas Day, Gin," Ron protested. "Give him a bit of time in bed, won't you?"
Ginny's eyes sparkled.
"Don't... even... say it," Ron groaned. "Some days I just think I should stick my foot in my mouth to start with. It'd save time."
Harry slid back against the wall, and moved stealthily along it.
Ginny folded her arms.
"Well, if he doesn't get up soon, I'm going to open my present anyway," she remarked, with an air of finality, and leant back against the wall- or, at least, that was her intention.
Ron and Hermione both looked up in surprise as Ginny apparently slumped against thin air, and raised her eyebrows slightly. Harry coughed, regained his balance, and, supporting the girl, wished them a Merry Christmas, pushing back the hood of his cloak. As he did so, Ginny turned, her mouth twitching.
"What a surprise, Harry," she purred, calmly. "You made me jump," she added, in a deadpan tone.
"Did I? I'm so sorry, Gin." Harry responded with equal sincerity. "Happy Christmas." He leant closer. Ginny restrained him with a hand held out against his chest, and a severe quirk of one eyebrow.
"One does not kiss severed heads, Mr Potter."
"Sorry?"
"The cloak. You would appear to be missing most of Harry Potter. I'm quite fond of some of him."
"Oh, right!" Harry looked down at the absence of himself, and quickly shed the garment.
"That's better, thank you." Ginny let her hand drop. "If I want to kiss unattached heads, I'll charm one of Mrs Black's lovely little trophies, thanks all the same."
"Will this do?" Harry straightened his clothes. Ginny looked at him appraisingly.
"Let's try a test run, shall we?"
"Isn't the food ready yet?" Dudley scowled around the kitchen.
"Not yet, darling." Petunia Dursley struggled across the kitchen floor, trying to carry a bowl of vegetables in one hand and a large factory farm turkey in the other- her husband Vernon had no intention of wasting his hard earned salary on keeping some small bird in the lap of luxury, as he put it. Dudley elbowed her out of his way and stomped across the kitchen to get hold of the corkscrew.
"Do be careful, poppet," Petunia regained her balance. "You wouldn't want me to drop the dinner, would you?"
"Can't you just cook the thing?" Dudley sulked. He'd managed to get hold of fifteen new videos for Christmas, and six or seven games for his Playstation, and was in a hurry to have his Christmas dinner and go up to his room for a bit of entertainment.
"It takes time, Duddy-kins," his mother patted his cheek.
"You should have bloody got up earlier then. Some Christmas this is," Dudley stomped out. Mrs Dursley hurried over to the oven and turned it on. Dear Dudley did get a little excitable at this time of year- it was only natural, of course, the boy was growing up- Petunia was proud of her strong darling of a young man- and he knew it, so of course he always wanted his Christmas to be as perfect as it had been when he'd been a little boy.
Petunia set to peeling potatoes as Vernon shouted at the television in the next room. In the old days, she would have had the boy to help with some of the jobs at this point. Christmas was better without the boy around, of course- staring with those nasty greedy eyes he must have got from his father at poor Dudley's toys, and always, always when she was beginning to relax seeming to... to look at her in a way that reminded her of her sister. Petunia looked hard at the fairy lights dangling from the guttering around the conservatory, and blinked until she felt better. Her idiot sister. Marrying a vagabond... and a dangerous vagabond. She'd brought it on herself. Her and that... unnatural power of hers. She'd been a fool to think that maybe she'd been too hard on the boy. It was just that... hearing that the... the man that had killed Lily was free again... she'd wanted to understand.
Silly. She had everything that she wanted. The boy was gone. Vernon had cleaned out all the rubbish from his room, burned anything that looked unnatural that had been left behind, and sold anything else. She had her husband, her nice, normal, safe husband, and her darling boy. Dudley would grow up in a world without Dark Lords or magic. The Dursleys of Privet Drive were nice, normal, respectable people, and nothing out of the ordinary happened to them. Ever.
In the distance, as she gazed out of the window, chopped carrots, and wondered if the pale clouds overhead would bring snow (Vernon would curse all the lazy workers who would use it as an excuse to lengthen their Christmas holiday, and Dudley would hate it because it would be too cold to go and sit with his friends in the park), a pale bird caught her eye. A seagull, perhaps. Petunia Dursley tutted. A seagull so far inland would mean a storm to come.
She washed her hands in the sink and started to wash Brussel Sprouts. When she looked up again, the bird was much closer, wings spread wide as it circled down. She peered at its shape in the dim sky. It was not a seagull. Petunia's heart jumped slightly. The bird's head was rounded, wide, and its plumage a brilliant white. She looked around... fearfully. In the living room, Vernon had turned the television up. Clint Eastwood was shooting somebody. Or somebody was shooting Clint Eastwood. Upstairs, Dudley's new sound system was, inch by inch, taking Privet Drive to pieces by vibration alone.
Petunia frowned, for a moment lost. She should have looked outside, surely, made sure that no one outside would see... an owl... flying in the daytime, flying to their house... but the only thing that mattered was that her darling boy and husband ought not see it. Wretched bird. It would only spoil their Christmas.
"Shoo," she hissed, quietly, trying to make sure she wasn't heard, and shook her dishcloth at the owl. It had perched on the dustbin and peered in through the window with implacable golden eyes. "Go away." Petunia snatched up a vase of water from the windowsill. The owl watched her. Someone walked past, peering over the hedge at the bottom of the garden, and Mrs Dursley cringed- but it was only Mrs Figg. The silly old woman was getting dafter in her old age. She raised one hand to wave cheerily to Petunia- or perhaps it was to the owl, you could never tell, really, ridiculous old crone, and moved on. Strangely, it almost seemed as if the boy's white owl ducked its head to her in reply, before swivelling its gaze back to its owner's aunt again.
"Shoo! Go home!" Petunia unlatched the window, meaning to throw the water over the bird- but somehow the window was knocked open, and the snowy owl flew in, perching on the edge of the sink and looking at her, unblinking. Petunia wavered. She started to lift the vase again, and Hedwig- yes, that was the peculiar name the boy had given it- followed the movement with her eyes, calm, almost smug. Petunia put the vase down. Hedwig clicked her beak softly, and held out one leg abruptly. Mrs Dursley flinched, then jumped as, in the next room, whichever one out of Clint Eastwood and his opponent had not been shot the first time shot somebody else. Hedwig's feathers rippled in annoyance, but otherwise she remained, watching, waiting. Something in that stare reminded Petunia of her nephew- and something reminded her through him of her sister.
Fingers shaking, her bony nose twitching nervously at the very sight of the owl's horrible talons, she took hold of the thin piece of card tied to the bird's leg, and untied the string. Once again, Hedwig clicked her beak, this time impatiently. Finally, as Dudley's feet stamped across the floor overhead, she pulled the small card free. Hedwig ruffled her feathers, turned, and, pausing only to peck at the raw bacon Petunia had set to one side to lay over the turkey breast, launched herself out into the December sky.
Mrs Dursley's shoulder's hunched together, and, glancing fearfully over her shoulder, she pulled open the card. It was small, quite plain, and bore no pre-printed message or glitter.
"Dear Aunt,
I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, and thank you for the photograph you sent me this term- it was very welcome. As you know, I'm spending the holidays with my friends, the Weasleys and Grangers, and having a lovely time so far. I hope- I really do hope- that you have a nice Christmas too.
Harry."
Petunia leant against the sink and wept.
Harry lifted two parcels- the one a regular cube, the other a thick, flat bundle, from the now badly diminished pile under the tree. He had given his presents to Ron and Hermione- a small scale set of model Quidditch figures for Ron, intended to help him plan tactics before testing them out on his team- a suggestion from Oliver Wood, whose Captain at Puddlemere United apparently found it helpful, and a hefty book of Myths and Legends of the Ancient Magical World for Hermione. Now he turned to Ginny.
"I... er.." his cheeks coloured slightly. "I hope you don't mind." Harry drew breath. "I hope you don't mind, but I bought you two presents, actually." He shifted from foot to foot. Ginny lifted an eyebrow interestedly. Harry offered her the cube. She took it by one corner, and, pausing to read the gift tag and smile briefly, opened the wrapping paper. "Well, actually, in a way I suppose it's four..." Harry considered, blushing deeper and trying to avoid looking at Ron, for fear of what his friend might think of his spending lavishly on his family. "But really it's two," he finished, a little weakly, as two of the three books half-slid from the parcel. Ginny caught them deftly, and, flicking a quizzical look at her boyfriend, scanned the broad hardbacks spines for a second, and quickly sorted them into the correct order, before studying the cover of the first volume.
"The Fellowship of the Ring?"
Hermione made a soft noise of understanding.
Ginny pursed her lips, thinking, and continued, "Isn't that the..."
Harry nodded.
"I remember you wondered a long time ago about how we fit into the Muggles' world." He caught her gaze. "We can't hide from their imaginations."
Ginny's eyes lit up. Harry felt a certain amount of relief. He hadn't been certain about buying Muggle books as a present, but- even without knowing yet whether she would actually like reading them, the interest that shone in her face told him the decision had been wise. Now...
"Now it's my turn," she lifted up a round parcel of her own, and offered it to him, watching his face nervously. Harry smiled at her, taking it and feeling the spherical shape puzzledly.
"Open it." Ginny licked her lips. Harry, holding the seemingly fragile object carefully, peeled off the wrapping paper.
"You grew up a Muggle, Harry," she smiled. "Here's a new world for you."
Harry drew the globe from its packaging. It was about the size of a football, made from a frosted, glass-like substance, on which the lines of islands and continents were etched in precise, breathtaking detail. He turned it- and sounds whispered, waves broke on the ocean, the wind moved in the trees.
"It's not much really-" Ginny told him anxiously. "They don't have Memory Stranding or anything, and... well, I saw it in Flourish and Blotts, but I just thought that... since you've not been able to travel yet... and..."
Harry looked at her, over the rim of the world.
"It's beautiful."
She subsided, grinning.
"You like it, then? I wasn't quite sure." Ginny paused. "Although I imagine you'd pretend you liked it, even if you didn't."
"And what would you do about that?"
"Oh, Veritaserum isn't as hard to make as some people claim, Mr Potter."
"Well then," Harry scooped up his second parcel once more, and tossed it lightly to Ginny. "Let's hear some more of the truth."
Ginny sat down, putting the soft parcel on one knee and quickly skimming off the tape with one forefinger.
"Fabric?" She felt inside the parcel. "Material... velvet?"
"Not quite." The boy waited. "It used to be, but I had Madam Malkin put quite a few protection spells on it."
Ginny unfolded the coat. It was cut long, in a deep green that brought out the colour of her hair with a precision that almost chimed with Harry's influence, and made from a thick, velvet material. She held it up to examine.
"I took a record of your measurements from your DA uniform," Harry explained.
"It's beautiful, Harry." Ginny repeated his words back to him. "It's just right." Ginny looked at him. The coat was simple- unadorned and, although attractively cut, a practical thing rather than a fashion statement... but it was in a way that which touched her. Not one thing or the other. Certainly not one of Harry's uncle's old socks- she remembered Ron and Harry's tales of Vernon Dursley's insulting efforts with a certain anger... but not an ornament or toy either. The two combined.
"Put it on."
She did so, and Harry's face split into a grin.
"Now it's beautiful."
"Oh," Ginny winced, with a playful smirk. "Nine out of ten for cheese, Mr Potter." She turned her head. "Harry will now apologise, Hermi... oh... ne..." Harry followed her eyes. While he and Ginny had talked, Ron and Hermione had rediscovered one of their former methods of passing the time. Quietly, Harry and Ginny moved towards the door.
It was nearly midday by the time the group had managed to assemble themselves, their assorted parts and pieces and presents and paraphernalia in the kitchen, and waited, shifting from foot to foot as Mad-Eye Moody prodded the gently burning log fire with a (by now also gently burning) walking stick.
"Don't be so hasty," he chided Fred, who had mutinously started forward with his particular bundle of luggage- a box of Weasley's Wizard Christmas Crackers about which Harry would have felt considerably more comfortable if the crackers contained within did not seem to be nudging each other and sniggering in a very twinnish fashion. "A very Merry Christmas you'd have, if He Who Must Not Be Named managed to get his claws into the Floo Network and whisk you off." Moody's eye spun aggressively. "There's a reason the Aurors had the thing shut down after the Ministry Incident, you know, lad. No harm in taking elementary precautions."
Harry caught Ginny's eye. She mouthed two words at him, and he smirked.
"What's so funny then, Mr Potter?" Moody's back was turned. The boy winced. "And here's Lupin saying you're a quick learner," Mad-Eye observed gruffly. Remus, also in the party, gave a tired smile in Harry's direction, and hoisted the turkey in his arms a little more defensively.
Ron and George began tapping their feet- until each received a lethal look from their mother. Arthur, diplomatically, stepped forward.
"I'm sure it's safe now, Alastor." He opened the pot of Floo powder. Moody stood up, shrugging his shoulders with a cracking sound of old bones and leathery skin.
"It's your house, Weasley," he stepped back. "But I daresay we've done enough."
Mr Weasley nodded, and threw the Floo powder into the flames.
"The Burrow!" he shouted, as the flame flashed green, and strode forward, disappearing from sight.
Molly came next, clutching a large basket of potatoes for the roasting, and with Remus holding her elbow they vanished together. By unspoken agreement, after Arthur- who had been in the house several times since the family had left in any case, searching for any sign of traps or ambushes laid by the enemy- the rest of the party- Fred and George, Molly and Remus, Ben and Susan, Bill and Moody, who, like Lupin, claimed nowhere else to go for the festivities and had been pressed to join the Weasleys for Christmas practically at the point of Molly's toasting fork, Ron and Hermione, and finally Harry and Ginny- stepped through pair by pair. Tonks had family of her own to spend the day with, and Mundungus Fletcher had urgent business of one nefarious persuasion or another to attend to. Harry rather suspected that more than one household up and down the country would be receiving an unannounced visitor during the night hours- although probably without reindeer.
Ron hesitated on the edge of the fireplace. A queer, almost incredulous look flashed across his face. For a second, it seemed to Harry that spiders walked in the reflections in his friend's eyes. He looked quickly at Ginny. Her eyes flickered, darting to and fro, distracting herself.
The family home. But the family's not the same any more.
Hermione put a hand on Ron's arm, half comforting, half questioning, and he looked up sharply, angry for a moment. He peered at her, half-seeing, then looked back at Harry and Ginny.
"Right, come on then," Ron nearly pulled the Muggle-born girl into the fire. As Hermione disappeared, a sharp intake of breath drew Harry's attention to her parents. Ben and Susan had both been warned ahead of time- as far as one could- about this somewhat peculiar mode of transport, but had watched the departures of the rest of the family and friends with a certain alarm none the less. The younger couple looked at each other, and let go one another's hands with a smooth, simultaneous grace. Until that moment, Harry hadn't even realised that they had connected.
Ginny buttoned her new coat- and offered her hand to Ben Granger, just as Harry took Susan's wrist.
"It's a lot easier than it looks," Harry told her. "You don't really have to think about it- just say the name of the place you want to go as clearly as you can."
"And don't run words together," Ginny added. "Particularly not directions. 'Diagonally' can be quite embarrassing, can't it, Mr Potter?" She helped Ben over the grate, where he stood for a moment, looking in wonderment at the green flames licking about his legs.
"Yes, thank you, Miss Weasley," Harry gave his girlfriend an old-fashioned look, and led Susan towards the fire. Ginny and Hermione's father disappeared with a flash. Susan gave a faint start, and then chuckled to herself. Harry looked curiously at her.
"I'm sorry, Harry," the woman smiled at herself. "For years I've... well, to be honest I've envied my daughter a little- although you must never tell her that, you realise," she added, with a conspiratorial look. "And now here we are, about to travel by magic, and my knees are knocking. When I think of some of the things she's told me that she's done- that you've all done... well, you must think we're rather wet, I'm afraid."
Harry shook his head.
"Have you ever met Hagrid?" he asked. Susan pursed her lips.
"Big man? Looks a little... well.." she stopped, tactfully, but managed to convey an impression of size and unkemptness with one hand gesture. "I think we saw him at King's Cross once, yes." She nodded. "And Hermione's mentioned him of course. Rather a gentle man, for all he doesn't look it?"
Harry nodded.
"The first time I met him- the first time I met anyone magical that I can remember," he smiled, remembering, "He scared me out of my wits." They stepped into the fire. "The Burrow!" Harry shouted, and, as the flames whirled up around them, a faint mischievous edge caught his smile, and he added, loud enough for Susan to hear over the flames, "He also tried to turn my cousin into a pig."
Albus Dumbledore sat in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and looked down at its lone patient sadly. There was a green party hat perched askew on his head, and his hands idly fiddled with three small Christmas Cracker novelty puzzles at once, combining, resolving, and scrambling them again in an absent-minded fit of movement.
Blaise Zabini's dark hair lay lifelessly around her on the pillow. It had grown an inch or two since she had been laid low, he noticed. Now the bandages had been unwrapped from her head, and it rocked gently back and forth, her lips moving faintly in time with her eyes, rolling slowly beneath their lids.
She was recovering. The fractures in her skull had almost healed, the bone knitted, strengthening again, and Madam Pomfrey and the three neuro-medi-witches she had consulted assured Dumbledore that Blaise should suffer no brain damage- although, of course, they would have to wait until she woke to know for sure.
Gently, his aged fingers brushed against her cheek.
"If it is in my power," Dumbledore whispered quietly, "I shall keep this school and all of you safe for as long as I live." He bowed his head. "If it is in my power."
Harry and Susan staggered out into the kitchen at the Burrow. Susan let go of his hand and quickly looked round, mentally checking that both Hermione and Ben were present and intact.
"Well." Hermione's father kept saying, shaking his head and scratching the back of his neck. "Well." His daughter gave him an amused glance, and went on with helping Ron and Ginny to set various parts and pieces of the Christmas dinner down on the table. While Harry put his bundle somewhere he hoped it wouldn't get away, and Molly scurried around her old kitchen, almost too taken up with the preparations for the meal to allow herself to reflect on the strangeness of being back here again, the Boy Who Lived looked around the largest room of the Weasleys' home.
On one level, the Burrow was unchanged. Still the same somewhat chaotic mishmash of building extensions that had seemed like a good idea at the time- Harry swore the main staircase rose up out of what had once been a pantry- and still the same impression of general madness- except that the life had gone from the place. No knitting twitched in the corner, no pans scrubbed themselves in the sink- although a large washing up bowl quickly flipped itself into it and filled with water in response to a well-aimed spell from Hermione, while Arthur levitated assorted vegetables and vegetable peelers into it with the speed of bullets while he watched. A thought struck him and he looked quickly across at the place on the wooden wall where the family clock had hung- it was no longer there. Harry looked away, guessing the reason why, and met Moody's normal eye for just a second. He could easily imagine the long, slightly curved, ostrich-like hand labelled 'Percy', ticking frantically against the space marked 'Mortal Peril'.
"Oh no you don't." Ginny was facing down the twins. "I know your idea of Christmas decorations, thank you very much." She put her hands on her hips.
"We can't imagine..."
"... What you're talking about?" Fred and George stared at her, scandalised. "We're hurt, Ginny, quite baffled. After all the effort we've gone to in the past." They drew their wands. "Why, think," Fred said to George, "Of that lovely wreath of greenery we made for our dear sister's room for her fifth Christmas?"
"Beautiful," George sniffed, "A triumph."
"Spindelius Bugweed is not festive, idiots!" Ginny drew a wand from her coat sleeve. "Wands away, or there'll be two extra Christmas turkeys roasting this winter."
The first bird in question whipped through the air between them, closely followed by Bill, trying to chase it with the stuffing as Molly summoned it to the table for a preliminary examination. Fred and George, their pride wounded, backed down.
"That's better." Ginny swished the wand through the air in a complicated pattern.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as Harry was about to retrieve his wand, preferably before Ginny could return it to her sleeve again, a faint creak came from the ceiling. The Grangers looked up nervously. A flicker of movement drew Harry's attention to a tiny hole in the plasterwork, just to the side of a great oak beam- and a loop of coloured paper, entwined in another one, slid carefully out, pausing as if sniffing the air and, apparently satisfied, leapt across the ceiling towards the next beam, flinging itself across the gap with wild abandon and pulling a long, multi-coloured chain after it. As Harry's eyes followed it, another crossed it, leaping in another direction. A faint shower of dust and startled spiders- all of ordinary size, although Harry noticed Ron stepped surreptitiously over to the edge of the room- cascaded down from it, and Arthur murmured apologetically to his guests, while bringing his own wand to bear to help Ginny with the decorating.
"Tinselsortia!" he heard Ginny shout, shooting a slightly embarrassed grin at him as she did so, and a sparkling, glittery twist of foil erupted from the wand she now held- George's, he suspected, to judge from how he was patting his pockets in perplexment- and coiled its way across the room, wriggling towards and just missing the doorframe. Ginny started to raise her wand again. The Boy-Who-Lived flicked a glance at her, and, twisting his mouth in a familiar sibilant hiss, spoke.
"Climb."
The tinsel rose up, paused, and leapt, coiling over the doorframe and, in response to the boy's continued instructions, began to wrap itself around it.
Harry coughed. Ron and Hermione gaped at him. The boy shrugged.
"It's got to be some..."
He paused, and kicked his brain into another gear.
"Sorry, it's got to be some use for something," he observed. The other two members of the trio looked hard at him. Harry gestured towards his girlfriend defensively. "Well, she's the one who fiddled about with the spell- I can't help it if it's still snakey tinsel, can I?"
"Snakey tinsel?" Ron muttered witheringly.
"Ignore him, Harry," Hermione sighed. "He's just being jealous again."
"Jealous?" Ron stared at her. "Of the Boy Who Lived and his unique power to control Christmas decorations?" He groaned. "This is a mad house."
"It's not unique. Little Tommy can do it too." Harry protested, ordering the tinsel to twist its way along the beam and avoid dislodging any of the bows of holly that had seemingly grown out along the oak.
"A Dark Art I'm sure he finds so useful," Ginny remarked. "Mind you, it might be a bit complicated for him... gah, sorry!" Two streamers had collided in mid-air. Ginny's curled away at a diagonal and snuggled around the oil lamp for a moment, before attempting to molest a paper chain, while Ron's dropped from the ceiling and fell across the turkey.
Mrs Weasley removed it, with infinite dignity, and turned on her youngest son.
"It was my fault," Ginny admitted, with a wince.
"Never mind, Ginny, darling. Do try to concentrate a little more in future though, won't you?" Molly turned again to Ron. "Now, if you want to make yourself useful, I suggest you go up to the loft and find where we put all the cutlery and crockery, instead of flinging Christmas decorations about like a poltergeist." Molly's lips pressed together. "March!" She looked over Ron's shoulder. "Harry, dear, would you mind giving him a hand? I know you'd like to see a bit more of the house as well- you know we're always happy for this to be a home for you as well, of course."
Harry, with a guilty start, gave up on an attempt to persuade two strands of tinsel to follow Fred and George around the room, and followed Ron to the staircase. Behind him, he heard Mrs Weasley turn back to the throng.
"As for the rest of you- no, Bill, that isn't how you stuff a turkey... for Hecate's sake, no... Fred, put those down this instant, they don't know where you've been... oh, no, no thank you, my dear (this to Ben Granger), you're guests, I wouldn't dream of asking you to... well, yes, perhaps, if you'd like to... George... oh, all right, Fred again, whichever of you it is, leave that alone!"
Ron scuttled up the stairs as fast as he could, Harry close behind.
"I don't know why she gets so worked up about it," the redhead complained. "Mum's the best cook anywhere- she's even better than Dobby, so why she's got to... oh, forget it," Ron grumbled. "I know," he looked back at Harry. "I know. It's like Hermione and homework, isn't it. She's so used to being top of the class that she'll jump through six hoops backwards to make sure she stays top of the class." They passed Ron's room, and his fingers hesitated over the door handle. Then he drew them back. "We'll be sleeping here tonight, anyway," he told Harry. "We can have a proper look round again after dinner."
"I thought we were going back to Grimmauld Place this evening?"
"That was before you went and bought Dad that Fellymission thing. You wait, he'll be down in the garden shed with it before the rest of us have finished the pudding." Ron smirked. "We're staying put for a bit."
Harry climbed the stairs after him, a doubtful cast crossing his features for a moment. He wasn't at all sure of the safety of the Burrow overnight- but he discarded the thought with an effort.
Let them have their Christmas. After all they've been through... no,
Harry corrected himself,
After all we've been through... Let us all have our Christmas. We deserve it.
Ivy and holly crept up the banister, keeping pace with them as they climbed. They passed Ginny's room, the door left open, and several dusty boxes and crates still lying on the bed.
"We packed in a bit of a hurry," Ron told him, apologetically- the same, slightly haunted look on his face as before. He'd lived in the Burrow all his life before Hogwarts, Harry realised. To Harry, Privet Drive had never been a home. For Ron, for most of his life this had been the only home he'd ever known.
"Come on," Harry took the lead, hurrying up past the next landing and keeping the conversation going, hoping to distract his friend from the next door. "We'd better get those things for your Mum- I don't think I've ever been up in the attic- what's it like?"
"Big," Ron told him. "We tried putting up partitions inside once, but the ghoul kept knocking them down."
"Oh, right?" Harry had forgotten the ghoul. He tried to remember what, in actual fact, a ghoul was. Professor Quirrell had covered the different types of undead once in a first year lesson a long time ago, but Harry rather suspected he and Ron had been discussing some Quidditch game or other in the back row at the time.
Ron reached the top landing and jumped up, reaching out towards a small handhold carved into the wooden planks that made up the ceiling on this top floor. He missed by inches and swore.
"Give me a hand, would you?"
Harry reached for his wand, and paused, feeling his empty pockets, rolling his eyes and looking back at Ron.
"The sooner her birthday comes, the happier I'll be," he told Ginny's brother with a sigh. "What do I do?" he asked, changing places with his friend, "Just pull it?"
"Right." Ron lifted Harry into the air with his wand, since Harry's own was missing in action, and the dark-haired boy pulled hard down on the handhold. Several planks pivoted down to form a small flight of makeshift steps up to the attic. As Harry settled back on the ground, he had a fleeting glimpse of a grey shape peering down, followed by a frantic clank of chains. Ron set off up the steps, pausing at the top.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," the red head moaned in disgust, gesturing into one corner of the attic. "Look at that."
"I can't, unless you get off the steps."
Ron climbed up into the loft, allowing Harry to follow him. The rough, l-shaped space at the top of the house was lit only by the copious gaps in the tiles of the roof, and the floor covered in boxes, crates, and trunks of various sizes and shapes. In the corner Ron pointed to, chains clanked rapidly and quietly, as if whoever wore them was shaking, and a hastily dragged piece of canvas quaked in the gap between a heavy black trunk and the angle of the roof.
"Wimp," Ron muttered. "Useless thing. Ghosts aren't supposed to be frightened of visitors," he sighed loudly, before turning away with an irritated grunt. "Come on then, let's have a look through... I think most of the stuff we packed up when we went to London's over here." They clambered over several boxes, moving away from the terrified ghoul. "Peeves would have him for breakfast, wouldn't he?" the boy remarked.
"I wonder if he ever dropped water bombs on Tom Riddle," Harry pondered.
"What, our gh-- oh, right, Peeves." Ron mulled it over, opening a box and looking through it. "Nah, this one's from Dad's study. Load of old junk." He pulled out a computer keyboard which appeared to have had three children's toys- Harry thought he recognised a Transformer whose head Dudley had once eaten in in a fit of rage- glued to it, and passed it to Harry by way of example, before moving on. "Probably," Ron mused, referring to Peeves. "He blew a raspberry at Dumbledore that time, didn't he?"
"Dumbledore blew it straight back," Harry chuckled. "What about this one?" He lifted the lid of a box. "It looks new- oh." A long scroll uncurled, and twitched slightly. Ron shook his head.
"No- oh, that's the family tree. Have a look." He knelt beside another parcel. "Where are the things?"
Harry flattened out the scroll. A beautifully detailed tree had been drawn on the parchment, moving and twisting slightly in some imagined wind- the name 'Weasley' cunningly inscribed in the whorls and grooves of the bark of the trunk, and at each division and twist of the complex architecture of the bows overhead, a name was written. He found Ron and Ginny's names, high up on the edge of the foliage. Below them, picked out in gold, were:
Arthur Weasley-Molly Prewett
He glanced along the line of Ron's aunts and uncles. Bilius, Fortenbras, Eugenia, Hecate (not the goddess, he assumed), Perceval, Robin, and finally Arthur himself. Molly's brothers were not recorded in the Weasley family tree, nor any of her ancestors. He thought of Jonas Prewett and Helena Merienchamps and smiled warmly.
"You want to watch out, or you'll be on there pretty soon," Ron observed, looking up from trying to pry open a crate with his wand. "If I know Mum, she'll be telling Ginny the facts of life while they're stuffing the turkey."
"I don't think Ginny needs to be-" Harry broke off, blushing, as Ron raised his eyebrows. "That's not quite what I meant to... I mean... well, we haven't done anything, all right!" his face flamed. "Well, I mean, obviously, we've... but nothing we wouldn't... "
"I really don't want to know, all right!" Ron said, hurriedly. "As far as I'm concerned, you two just walk through the school holding hands. OK?"
"Well, we've not done much more than--"
"I don't know that." Ron shuddered. "I have never known that, I do not know it, and I never will know it. Harry, the first, and preferably the only thing I ever want to hear about you and Ginny's s... love life is when I get to be uncle and godfather to baby Ron, all right?"
"It's a deal," Harry exclaimed with some relief. Then he frowned. "Who said anything about a baby Ron?" Harry's face coloured again. "Not that there's been any sort of thing that would mean that there might be a baby Ron, or a baby anyone, not with me and Ginny. Or me or anyone else. Or..."
"Lay off, Harry," Ron held his hands up in protest. Then he grinned. "You'd better make sure Mum has had that talk with Ginny sometime, though. Remember what your dad said in Dumbledore's office?" Ron looked sidelong at Harry. "You've seen that family tree... and Ginny's not short on brothers, is she?"
"What are you talking about?" Harry stared at his friend.
"I'm just saying, Potter," Ron smirked, opening another crate and giving a faint pleased grunt as he finally located the cutlery and started to unpack it absent-mindedly. "Whether you stay away from my kid sister or not's up to you," he allowed a faint caricature of a threatening expression to cross his face for a moment, before sliding into a distinctly twin-like grin, "But if you don't, either watch out, or use some of that famous Potter money to buy a house with lots of room for a nursery." He paused. Harry gave him an odd look. "What?" Ron frowned.
"Nothing," Harry observed in a deadpan tone, looking down at Ron's hands. "I was just wondering why you started talking about me getting Ginny pregnant, and how it didn't bother you... and then started sharpening the bread knife. That's all."
"Ah." Ron blinked. "Dunno."
A muffled explosion playfully shook the joists in the roofspace, and an appetising smell of sage and onion stuffing wafted up the flights of stairs. Under its blanket, Harry heard the ghoul take a mighty sniff.
"Come on," Ron passed several bags of knives and forks to his friend. They hurried down the stairs, finding the house veritably alive with decorations and greenery as they descended. Outside Fred and George's room, two vast clumps of mistletoe blocked their path.
"I told you," one muttered to the other. "It's flick then swish, not swish and wriggle."
"All right- but if Bill hadn't put that shield charm up round the roast potatoes..."
"Then Mum would have vapourised you," Bill came up the stairs behind the two bushes, who parted their foliage to reveal the somewhat chastened faces of the twins. He looked over their shoulders at Ron and Harry. "Come on, you two." He steered the two vegetative Weasleys in through their door. "Excuse the herbaceous border, Harry... now, Fred, don't pick at your berries. I found a rather good counter-curse for just this sort of thing in Luxor last year..."
Ron looked at Harry.
"This is..."
"A madhouse." Harry finished for him. "It's brilliant, though, Ron."
With Fred and George temporarily vanquished and fled the field of cuisine, the rest of the cooking proceeded rather more smoothly. While Molly tended to the turkey, Ben- who considered himself a rather accomplished cook- took charge of the vegetables, and fascinated Arthur by insisting on peeling and cooking them without magical assistance. Harry, who had on many occasions been expected to cook for the Dursleys, and spent many a mealtime imagining just what he'd like to add to Dudley's eighth rasher of bacon as additional seasoning, eagerly took over the management of the bread sauce in the latter stages of the campaign- once he had managed to re-acquire his wand with which to control the heat and stir the mixture.
"Thank you," he murmured as Ginny wordlessly passed it to him. The girl raised her eyebrows.
"Don't you like me keeping your wand warm?" she asked, quietly enough for Mrs Weasley, currently draining the turkey dish, not to hear. Harry's cheeks reddened, and Hermione, busily keeping her father's cookery in order, gave a faint snort.
"Be careful, though," Hermione nodded towards the bread sauce, which was beginning to bubble, but looking at Ginny. "It'd be a shame if it boiled over too soon."
Ginny's mouth snapped shut, with a curious keening noise. Harry gave her a puzzled look, then glanced at the elder of the two girls. Hermione smiled innocently at him.
"What?" Harry asked.
"Oh, nothing, Harry," Hermione's lips twitched. "Happy Christmas."
"Speaking of which," Susan sashayed into the room with a glass of wine in hand, and pointed out of the window.
"Well," Harry breathed. "Will you look at that?"
Outside, the snow had begun to fall.
Author's Note:
Ack. Once again, Christmas fluff is a lot easier to write at Christmas than in August. Oh well, I'll say it was a deliberate pause to give everyone a chance to read Half-Blood Prince. Anyway, Chapter 37's already got plot running through it, so that ought to come a little more easily. At least other ideas have matured in the time on hold.
Now then:
Mademoiselle Phantom:
Ah, Gred and Forge. Round the twist, those two. I hope their Christmas antics read all right.
David 305:
Canned Pandemonium? Good one. I may throw in a reference to that next time the story visits their shop, if I may? As for Lupin and rhymes, yep, all those, and "Snoopin'" as well would work.
Wolf's scream:
I wasn't at all sure about that Hyde Park scene beforehand- the tone took a lot of tweaking, and sometimes Ginny felt a bit too insane, but eventually it seemed to come together. Glad you liked it.
XinnLajgin:
Thanks! Updated. :-) More to follow soon, hopefully, although not all in comic vein.