December 24
"Pucey—hey, Adrian Pucey, turn around would you?" Kim Sheringham was holding up a book which Adrian recognized as his own. "You left this in the library—I told Pince I could bring it to you."
"And she let you do it?"
"She likes me," Kim answered, her voice nonchalant.
"What are your secrets? I've done nothing to her in six and a half years and she wrinkles her nose at me every time I so much as touch one of her books!" Kim only laughed in response, refusing to answer even when pushed, holding that:
"If everyone knows how to get on her good side, I lose my advantage."
"I'll get it out of you."
"You won't. But enough about that. It's just you and Fawley who're still around, right?"
"Yeah, just us," Adrian confirmed. He'd been surprised at Andrew's choice to stay for the holidays, and more than a little nervous for what would happen. They hadn't spoken for a few days after the fight, and even with their friends to act as a buffer between them, the past few weeks had been uncomfortable. The idea of days spent without that buffer…well, it wasn't exactly a recipe for a restful holiday. So far, though, apart from an awkward first night where neither of them had been quite sure what to say to the other things were good, if still a bit tense.
"Excellent—no having to worry about meeting new people." Adrian raised an eyebrow at that—he didn't think Kim Sheringham had worried about meeting new people once in her life. "You and Fawley, then. Me and Susanna are all that are here from Ravenclaw, and we decided we don't fancy having Christmas dinner with Umbridge the toad, so we've asked the house elves if they can bring the food to us separately and they've said yes. We've already asked Eldon—Hufflepuff beater, you know him?—to join and he's said he would, and I don't think there's a soul left in Gryffindor House."
"There's not," Adrian confirmed absently, considering the idea—not questioning whether to accept, because he would, of course. There was no way that he would turn down a chance for a Christmas that didn't include Umbridge. Instead, he was thinking about how much had changed, that Kim would seek him and Andrew out to invite them. It was the same feeling he'd had last year, when they'd been invited to Patty Stimpson's party—when he and Cassius had talked about blood and taking sides and a war that hadn't started yet.
"Adrian?" Adrian's eyes snapped to focus, letting him read the concern on Kim's face.
"Sorry—just remembered something." Realizing Kim was still holding his book, he reached out and took it from her hand, shoving it into his bag. "Listen, I've got to get this reading done—I got behind the last few weeks of term and I'm trying to get it done as soon as I can."
"Yeah, no worries—just remember, six tomorrow—and bring Fawley."
"I'll let him know when I get back," Adrian promised, breathing a silent thank you that Kim was tactful enough not to push him about what he'd been thinking about. "It's a good plan, and…well, thanks for thinking of us." She looked surprised, but after a moment a bit of the concern and confusion she'd been watching him with cleared from her eyes, as though she'd suddenly understood a bit of what he'd been thinking about.
"Well, it's us against Umbridge, isn't it? We've got to stick together."
/
December 25
"Sirius, can I—could I ask you about something?" Even after four and a half mostly Dursley-free years, and even though Sirius Black was just about the most un-Dursley-ish person he could imagine, Harry couldn't easily ignore the voice in his head snapping don't ask questions every time he thought of one.
Sirius looked a little surprised at the request, but quickly broke into a smile, looking pleased at the idea.
"Of course, Harry—is something the matter?"
Not like the Dursleys at all, Harry thought, grinning as he imagined Uncle Vernon's face if Sirius ever showed up at the porch of Number 4.
"Not the matter exactly…I just wondered about this." Harry held out the mirror he'd been carrying in his pocket. "Remember, we told you that someone had gone through our things? This got knocked out and, well…"
"You didn't use it," Sirius said, sounding sad—and, if Harry wasn't wrong, a bit hurt.
"I just…well, I thought I knew what it was, but I wasn't sure. Is it—er, sorry, I don't know what they're called, actually."
"Two way mirrors—James got them from your grandpa. We'd use them to talk when we were in separate detentions, and over the summers, when I was back here all alone." A disgusted look tore through Sirius' face, the thought of 12 Grimmauld Place disrupting the fond remembrance.
"So I could talk to you with it? About anything?"
"Absolutely," Sirius answered, so quickly that Harry wondered if the mirror had been a gift Sirius had given himself as well, a connection with the world outside of this house. He was stuck, Harry realized, just like he'd been all those Hogwarts summers—just like Harry himself was each time he got sent back to Privet Drive. Harry thought of his summer, of Warrington's death being replayed over and over in his sleep with no one but the Dursleys to turn to for comfort…and his mind turned, next, to the dream he'd been having again and again since returning to Hogwarts, the long corridor and the door that wouldn't open.
"Sirius? Did you—have you—do you ever have nightmares?"
/
Malfoy Manor was resplendent, enchanted silver lights gleaming against the black-blue night sky. Inside, the manor's largest drawing room had been transformed to a ballroom, an enormous Christmas tree with real fairy lights at the center of the room. Everything was perfectly organized and decorated according to the tastes of Narcissa Malfoy, which even those in attendance who jeered at the opulence of the Malfoy had to admit were lovely. The party, and the night as a whole, had been engineered to be a shining memory for all the guests.
Miles Bletchley was having a horrible time.
Every year, the Hogwarts-aged guests of the Malfoys were placed at tables together, and until this year that had always been acceptable—preferable even. It wasn't that Miles considered himself particularly good friends with Draco Malfoy, but sitting anywhere else would have meant dreadfully dull conversations about his future and lessons on how proper pureblood estates were run. Yet here he was, vaguely hearing Marcus Flint receiving one of those lectures and on the verge of begging him to switch places.
"The thing is, the Mudbloods actually think they're the same as us. That they can just ignore generations of tradition and knowledge and be as good as we are."
"No, Holden, they think they're better than we are," Liam Urquhart responded, to general agreement.
"That Granger cow certainly does—all because she's friends with Potter," Pansy Parkinson agreed, looking disgusted.
Miles caught Zabini's eye, the other boy grimacing almost imperceptibly. His face was for the most part unreadable—a well-practiced neutrality, Miles knew—but a term of near-daily interactions with him told Miles that he was physically restraining himself from rolling his eyes at some of the more absurd statements being thrown around. Attempting to match Zabini's seeming lack of care, Miles forced himself to look unconcerned and pay attention, zoning back into the conversation just in time to hear Xander Lofthouse say:
"Some people believe that Mudbloods steal their magic." Lofthouse's tone was lightly amused—he clearly didn't believe it, but had some other intention behind saying it.
"Wouldn't that require magic?" Someone broke in—Jake Urquhart.
"Of course it would—it's not true, Jacob. It doesn't need to be." Jake opened his mouth, but closed it as he realized the implications of the statement.
"Oh—you lot won't believe this. My Uncle has Muggle neighbours—we keep telling him he's got to get rid of them—" Miles didn't catch what had happened to Holden's Uncle's Muggle neighborus—nothing good, he could guess—instead focusing on Jake Urquhart, who was still staring at the table, jaw clenched. The only other person who seemed to have noticed so far was Daphne Greengrass—who, now Miles thought of it, had been unusually quiet all night. Sudden movement, however, proved his observation wrong.
"Anyone for drinks and fresh air?" Zabini asked the table.
"I'll come—Miles? Jake? Your drinks haven't been topped in a while, you must be thirsty too." Daphne had clearly noticed Miles watching Jake as clearly as he had her.
"Sounds good to me—anyone else?" Jake stood as well, and Holden waved them off, resuming his story. It had been brilliant timing by Zabini: leaving during a break in Ledbury's story didn't seem rude, but also ensured no one else wanted to join.
"You didn't want to hear about Thaddeus Ledbury cursing an innocent Muggle's clocks either, then, Daphne?" Blaise asked airily once they reached the patio with their drinks, relaxing against a pillar out of view of the ballroom doors. Daphne's lips pressed together in annoyance, but it was Jake Urquhart who responded.
"They're terrible—that's—has it always been like this?" He looked around at them desperately, silently pleading for someone to tell him that his friends—his brother—had only recently gained these views, started speaking in hatred.
"It's never been quite this upfront, but…" Miles paused, trying to offer Jake some form of reassurance, but couldn't. "I wouldn't have thought that much of it last year," he admitted, shame creeping around in his stomach. "I didn't even say anything this year, after—" he cut off, not sure what he was saying. After Warrington died and his parents didn't seem to care? After the DA? Or not an event at all, but after I actually took a moment to think about the things I'd been taught my whole life and realized it was founded on nothing, and I was so, so terribly wrong about everything.
"I never want Astoria to sit at that table," Daphne said, her voice quiet, but Miles thought he understood so much that she didn't say, because it was what he wanted to say to Kevin every time he saw his brother: I don't want you to believe the lies I believed. I don't want you to learn superiority and cruelty and hatred. I don't want it to be normal for you to hear people talk about the horrible things they've done with pride, and even if you do I don't want you to learn to listen to it passively. I want you to believe in what is right and true and beautiful.
From the silence, Miles thought maybe the others understood what Daphne said too.
"A toast then," Blaise said after a moment, raising his glass. "To making our own table."
Their words merged together as they tapped glasses and drank, Jake pausing to add "Even if we have to chop the damn trees for it down by hand."
"Well," said Blaise, in mock horror, looking at his perfectly manicured hands, "let's hope it doesn't come to that."
"And if it does?" Jake challenged him, and Blaise paused, looking at the older boy with an inscrutable gaze.
"Then I'll be there next to you."
/
The starry ceiling of the Ravenclaw Common Room shone on the faces of the five seventh years, empty dishes of food long since swept away by house elves and replaced with two now-empty bottles of Ogden's Finest. The pillows from the couches and chairs had been pulled onto the floor, in addition to blankets from Susanna's and Kim's beds, and they'd settled in to a game of exploding snap.
"Snap!" Eldon cried in triumph, and the others threw their cards away with varying levels of success—Adrian set Andrew's eyebrows straight while Kim prepared to do the same for Susanna, pausing to laugh at Andrew's rueful expression.
"Seven years—you'd think I'd be better by now," he moaned.
"Only one way to improve," Adrian told him. "Round ten, anyone?"
/
Christmas passed into Boxing Day at Grimmauld Place, and Harry Potter slept soundly on the drawing room floor, his head resting on the back of a large black dog.
/
"Happy Christmas, everyone," Miles said to the group on the patio, though by now Christmas must have been left behind.
"Happy Christmas," they responded in turn.
/
And somehow, in spite of Voldemort and the war and all of the horrible things they knew were still ahead of them, it was.