Hey! I'm very glad that I got positive reviews for that last chapter. I had though it to be a bit…over the top (for lack of a better phrase), but I guess not. I'm really glad that you all like Landon. He's my favorite little creation. I really hadn't intended on his personality being like this, but it just developed, and I'm very pleased with the way he's turned out. I think that he's a pretty good (if I do say so myself) combination of his parents, exuding both of their good traits and bad alike.
Cheers!
Life slipped back into the typical lull after Charlotte and I came out of the closet (not like it sounds) except for the typical Fiona and Jessie joke. Hogwarts was seriously considering banning Weasley Wizard Wheezes from the school, but my uncles were fighting it in meetings that, we'd heard, often erupted in series of laughing fits. Professor Dumbledore fought the rather overbearing school board, claiming that laughter was necessary to the form of learning that Hogwarts subscribed to.
What form was that and why didn't Mum know about it?
On this particular morning, Professor Dumbledore was looking rather sallow-faced. I figured, hey, he's an old guy, but it seemed to be more than that. He was very tired, so it seemed. Every one of the teachers seemed to be paying careful attention, while he appeared stubbornly avoiding his being treated as 'an old man'. I can understand it, I suppose. If I was once the most powerful wizard in the world (we all know that he could have kicked Voldemort's arse) and I was nearly as old as…well, dirt, then I would be in denial, too.
I wonder what my parents will be like when they're old. I don't consider my parents old at all. Why, I think that they're as young as they've ever been. I mean white-hair-nursing-home-senile-wearing-name-tags-in-order-to-remember-each-other old. Now that's old. I can't picture my parents…well, helpless like that. I don't think that I want to.
Anyway, Dumbledore's old. I think that he's on the brink of retirement, or so it seems as if he is. I wonder if that would be a good thing. Mum would be headmistress, then, but then I would probably get in more trouble for even the slightest thing. Even more so than I had been. But then, we might be able to move back to our old house since Mum would have to be at work more often. It's not like I don't like our new house with monsters and all, but I enjoyed our old house in which there were no large reptiles or the threat of dismemberment.
Charlotte was surprisingly chatty. In fact, she was…over-chatty in that cordial kind of way. Since we were friends now, I guess, she decided that everything should be peachy-keen. Peachy keen, fine. But as if she were talking to her Great Uncle Herbert that she hadn't seen since she was two? I don't think so.
James seemed rather slighted that he was left out of our strikingly interesting conversation about the weather, but I had to deal with it being the back-seated one for nearly four months, if the glass is half-empty. With me the glass is almost always half-empty…at least in my head.
I wonder if I'm too cynical?
Fiona and Jessie came down to breakfast then. Perfect opportunity, perfect opportunity. There was only on problem: Charlotte was sitting next to me.
"So, Landon," Charlotte said, as I looked over her shoulder at Fiona…she was so pretty, "I was looking through this book. It's- oh, where'd it go? Hold on."
She ducked out of sight to pick up the book from the ground and I took the opportunity to give her a little shove, clearly vacating the seat. I gave James one of those meaningful glances while Charlotte was still on the floor, and he moved down two seats, pulling Charlotte off the ground and into the seat next to him. Perfect.
"Fiona! Jessie! Would you girls like to sit down?" I asked. No, Landon, they'd like to stand while eating. It helps the digestive process, didn't you know? Honestly, what was my problem? I pity Fiona, sometimes, that she had to put up with me like that. I pity James that he had to hear my mindless chatter about her, and I pity Charlotte having to watch me making a fool out of myself and knowing that I would kill her if she made even the slightest interjection.
Charlotte looked about to object, but James clamped his hand over her mouth and switched her plate (she eats scrambled eggs with catsup and marmalade!) with the clean place setting for Fiona.
Jessie looked rather wary, but Fiona's face lit up (or at least I like to think it did). I love Fiona's smile. It reaches to her eyes in that way that you can't express in words. It's more of a warm and fuzzy feeling that you get, like when you come inside from playing in the snow and your mum has chocolate chip cookies that are still warm and hot chocolate ready when you come inside to warm up by the fire (Mum used to do that for Emily and I. Surprisingly, her chocolate chip cookies were very good. I say surprisingly, because the majority of Mum's culinary experiments tended to end in disaster in which stomachs required pumping.). Suddenly not so hot when your Mum is used in the analogy.
Note to self: Never talk about mother while thinking of girls in any way, shape, or form.
"Sure, Landon," Fiona said, sitting down next to me. Jessie looked rather put out, because if she had any say in it, she'd be sitting with Tim and Chris (in their second year, although often conspirators in the Thomas/Finnigan Prank Scheme). Jessie reluctantly sat down with a sneaky glance, making me wish that I'd brought a Sneakoscope to breakfast.
"So…" I said lamely.
She just looked at me expectantly, waiting to hear what I had to say. If I had anything to say then maybe her expectancy would be warranted.
"Read any good books lately?" I heard someone that sounded like me saying. Certainly Landon Weasley would not say something dumb like that. Most definitely not, in fact, I'm sure that Landon Weasley didn't say a thing about books, reading, or anything of the like. In fact, Landon Weasley doesn't even read.
All right, so maybe he does.
Apparently, Fiona doesn't.
"Erm…not really. I'd say that the only thing I've read this year has been textbooks, but I haven't even read those," she said with a laugh. "I'd ask you the same thing, but I don't think that breakfast lasts that long."
What's that supposed to mean? Oh, I'm sorry that I read too much for you. I'm sorry that I'm freakishly smart due to my overlarge reading capacity!
"Guess not," I said with a small chuckle. She spread marmalade on her toast, not saying anything. Until…
"Landon?"
"Yes?" I asked expectantly, sitting on the edge of my seat, just dying to hear what she would say.
"Could you pass me the milk please?"
*
The pre-Christmas jitters were in the air. Teachers were piling on homework over the holidays, which was rather stupid if you ask me. What's the point of calling it a holiday if you're not really on holiday? It doesn't even count as a mini-break if homework is involved!
Charlotte was very excited to meet all of our family; I didn't know why, she knew most of them anyway. I think that she had some preconceived idea that we Weasleys were a rowdy, uncontrollable, unimpressionable lot who were opinionated about everything. Don't know where she got that idea. Rowdy? Yes. Uncontrollable? No…well, not really. Unimpressionable? No. Opinionated about everything? Mostly everything.
We climbed on the Hogwarts Express on December 23rd, and would be going directly to our new house in Italy. Dad was going to pick the three of us in his signature Porsche, and we were going to get settled before everyone else came.
The train ride back to King's Cross was entirely uneventful. Charlotte and I worked on our "mystery", getting very frustrated indeed at our lack of motives or substance. James persuaded us to a game of Exploding Snap, and we snacked on Every Flavor Beans until arriving at King's Cross (Hahaha, James got rancid cheddar!).
The first thing that I noticed (besides the pouring rain) when we'd reached the station was my sister and Rachel trying to stick a Weasley's Wet Start Firework down our Uncle Fred's pants. He was pretending not to notice, and I was sure that he'd have some trick up his sleeve for his nieces.
As we were collecting our things from our car, I heard fireworks. The three of us looked out the window to see crackers of every different colour and shape going off around Emily and Rachel as they spun around, giggling while pixies darted to and fro, dashing in and out of the fireworks.
We got off the train, and Dad met us. He put our trunks on a cart, and laughed out loud at the sight of mine. It was strapped with rope, trying to keep the lid from flying off due to the excessive amount of books inside. Emily and Rachel (after failing the attempt to light Uncle Fred's arse on fire) hopped on the cart and sat royally on our trunks, pretending that they were queens of the world. They would wave to people as they passed, sending random little exclamations their way.
"I'll meet you at the palace for tea time, my dear!" Emily called to one particularly disgruntled postal worker. Dad shushed her, but only so Rachel could take over.
"My private carriage will pick you up! Wear something blue!" she called shrilly. Dad fought back laughter as the postman shook his head at the two giggling little girls.
We all loaded in the Porsche (really, don't ask me how- to this day I still marvel at that thing) and drove off into the English countryside. When we were far away from what seemed like all forms of civilization besides sheep, if they count, Dad looked around.
"Don't tell your mother about this," he told us, and we laughed. He pressed a button on the steering wheel where the horn would usually be, and the car became invisible as we rose above the clouds.
"Uncle Ron?" James asked.
"Yes, James," Dad said, readjusting his rearview mirror to look at us.
"Didn't you and my dad run this thing into the Whomping Willow?" James asked him in all sincerity. Bronte thought that it was hilarious, though. The Whomping Willow had long since been dug up, and the tunnel caved in.
The corners of Dad's eyes crinkled up like they did when he was grinning, laughing, or remembering something from his school days.
He said, "Who's asking? The Ministry of Magic or my nephew?"
"The Ministry of Magic!" chirped Rachel, giggling so hard that her messy black pigtails were nearly coming out.
"Well, if the Ministry is asking, then no, I have never seen a flying car in my life!" Dad exclaimed, looking shocked that someone would even suggest the idea of a flying car. Emily giggled from the front seat with her hand over her mouth. Dad reached over and tickled her side, causing her to squeal as she squirmed to get out of his grasp. He winked at me and I sent a half-hearted smile back.
We landed much later in the Italian countryside, seeing nothing but vineyards all around us. We drove (visible, now) to our new house. Dad held up a hand to silence us as his cell phone rang and he flipped it open. Why did Dad have a Muggle cell phone?
"Weasley," he barked into it, taking his other hand off of the wheel to yank the antenna. "Negative…negative…no, sir…affirmative, sir…0600 hours, sir…negative, sir…yes, sir." He closed the phone with a snap, and put it back in his pocket. Talking between Charlotte and James commenced, and Emily and Rachel went about making faces at Italian farmers as we passed them. I didn't join in the conversation …or face making. Instead, my mind was focused on what had just happened with Dad. He was the co-founder of his study. He didn't have a boss in the Ministry, save Grandpa (he had been given the position of Minister of Magic ten years ago), and he would never call his own father 'sir'.
I didn't even notice that we were driving down a huge cobblestone driveway, or that we had arrived at our new huge house. Dad told us to go inside and that he would have the house elves take care of our trunks. I ran inside, and found myself face to face with Christiana. She shook her finger at me and spoke in rapid Italian.
Emily marched up next to me and said, "She's telling you to take your shoes off, Landon." She displayed by leaving her mary janes by the front door as the woman clasped her hands together in delight and gave Emily a pinch on the cheek. Sure, my sister was sweet if you didn't know any English. I followed suit and left my sneakers by the door, as well. Charlotte and James did the same as Dad came in from the garage, nearly tripping over our shoes.
We laughed and Dad showed us our rooms. James would be staying in my room, and Charlotte would take the guest room across the hall and share with one of my cousins who would be arriving later. James plopped his backpack down, and immediately climbed to the top bunk.
"Don't mind, do you, mate?" he asked me, as he was already kicking off his socks and getting comfortable.
"Not at all," I lied. I always slept in the top bunk, and whenever James slept over, he always took it from me. We knocked on Charlotte's door and the three of us walked down the stairs into the living room.
Mum popped in downstairs. She spoke in rapid Italian to Christiana as she took her coat and briefcase from her. Dad smiled from his seat on the couch with the paper, and came over to kiss Mum. And life was normal again.
"Aw, Uncle Ron! Aunt Mione! Why do you have to do that in front of us?" James whined with a grin. "We're at a very impressionable age, you know."
"Why didn't Evie come home with us?" I asked.
"She went to her boyfriend's house," James told me. Evie had a boyfriend? I didn't know that. But then again, I was pent up in the library most every day.
Emily and Rachel came running in from outside, tracking mud all over the carpet, but squealing with delight.
"Mummy!" Emily yelled as she jumped into Mum's arms.
"What, sweetheart?" Mum asked her.
"Can we make Christmas cookies tonight? Please, please, pretty please?" she whined.
"Please, Aunt Mione?" asked Rachel from her position around Mum's legs. "Oh, pretty please? We'll be very good."
"I don't see why not," Mum said. "Why don't you two clean up while I get changed and then we'll make cookies." Emily and Rachel detached themselves from Mum and ran from the room as Christiana came in clucking in Italian over the muddy parlour. Mum turned to us. "Would you three like to help?
We were about to respond when Emily and Rachel came running in, no longer muddy. I have to give Emily credit. When she wanted to do something, she could get it done rather fast. Likewise, when she was dead set against doing something, i.e. chores, she could be as slow as molasses.
Mum smiled at them. "Sorry, girls!" she said. "I still have to change. Give me five minutes, all right?"
Fifteen minutes later, we were all in the spacious kitchen. Emily and Rachel were standing on kitchen chairs over the counter, rolling cookies into shapes and cutting them out with Mum's wand. Their too- large aprons were nearly covered in flour. They giggled as Mum showed them how they could bewitch the red and green sprinkles that they were throwing about to move around the cookies in little circles.
Usually, Mum's kitchen endeavors proved less than fruitful, and rather a disaster. Not her cookies, though, I would give her that. They could rival Grandmum's that was for sure. It was the only time that Dad or the house elves would allow her in the kitchen.
Charlotte was taken-back seeing Mum in her present state, I think. Rather than the ever-professional Professor Granger-Weasley in a business suit, she was seeing Landon's Mum in a pair of blue jeans and black t-shirt with MADD (Magical Attack and Defense Department) stamped across the front in white letters while her thick, wavy brown hair spilling haphazardly around her shoulders. This was the Mum that I knew, but I don't think that Bronte could handle seeing one of her precious professors in the position of a mother.
Mum handed us a bowl from one of the other counters, saying with a wink, "I figured that I should save you some before your dad got to it."
Speaking of the devil, the smell of cookies brought Dad into the kitchen, and he helped himself to a liberal scoop of chocolate chip cookie batter. Mum swatted him on the arm, and he kissed her, cookie dough and all ("Ew!" from Emily and Rachel, and "That's twice today! What are you trying to do to us?" from James).
"Just wait until you get a boyfriend," Charlotte said, pointedly to the little girls.
"How would you know, Bronte?" I asked her.
Before she could answer with her sure-fire spiteful remark, Dad turned on the radio onto full blast, a Weird Sisters oldie (that he and Mum loved) spilling into the kitchen as he danced around like a wild-man, singing (off-key, mind you) and making a mess of everything in general. I was definitely surprised when he threw handfuls of flour at us and Mum didn't even bother to scold him. My parents seemed to be as giddy as we were around Christmas, and even Mum didn't care about a mess.
We decided that we had better leave the kitchen before an all-out flour war broke out, so we took our bowl of batter to the living room. Charlotte marveled as James turned on the television (both of her parents were magical, not like Mum and Uncle Harry who had grown up in Muggle homes), and an old episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus had us doubled over in laughter and fighting the urge not to throw up all over the furniture due to excessive amounts of cookie mix.
I heard Mum shoo the girls from the kitchen, and up to bed. It was the first time I realized exactly how late it was, and saw that James and Bronte were both in pajamas. I left them to the cookies and John Cleese, and walked upstairs to go to bed. They followed me a few minutes later, and came into my room. Charlotte made herself comfortable in my bed, telling me that I had to take the window seat because she was a guest and the girl.
Girls use their femininity as pawns in their cruel game to gain dominance over the universe. Go figure.
Believe it or not, by midnight we wanted a midnight snack. Being respectable "troublemakers"' that we were, we "snuck" down to the kitchen for crisps, sandwiches, anything edible. I went down the stairs first, but I saw the shadows of Mum and Dad still there, and (much to my disgust) heard Mum giggling. I lost my appetite, but since they weren't his parents, James marched right into the kitchen, told them to get a room and brought a bag of crisps upstairs. Mum and Dad would have killed me if I ever did that, or they would have said (or worse- done) something schmaltzy and romantic to get me to leave the room. James just had that charm about him, though. He could get people to do anything.
The next morning was Christmas Eve (don't try to make sense out of it; yes I know that it's an oxymoron), and Mum was at her wit's end trying to get the house ready for all of our relatives. Dad, of course, was completely laid back about the whole thing. He took the little girls flying, and let the three of us use some of his old brooms.
Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny arrived at noon, and Mum and Dad took a break to sit and visit with their old friends. We came inside in the midst of a rather interesting conversation:
Dad was saying, "My goal for this holiday is to get Mione drunk."
Uncle Harry laughed a bit, and Aunt Ginny said, "I love drunk Hermione!"
"Do you-do you remember that time in-in Majorca?" Uncle Harry was saying, barely comprehensible through laughter.
Mum was blushing furiously as the other three adults laughed at her. "Not now," she said, "My son is standing right behind you."
Uncle Harry said, "Well, he should know what his mother is like when she's drunk, shouldn't he?"
"No!" Mum and Dad said at the same time.
House elves passed carrying a load of clean and folded laundry over their heads. Mum stopped them, telling them that I could carry my own clothes. Of course, I consented and removed the wicker laundry basket from the little elves, which were walking away, bowing like I was some Greek god.
We walked upstairs, and Bronte said, "I never knew that your mother was so…wild, Landon."
James and I laughed. "Wild?" I said. "My Mum has got to be the most responsible person in the northern hemisphere, all right? In no way is she wild."
We heard voices downstairs grow louder. Someone must have just arrived. We walked down the stairs to find Uncle Bill and Aunt Victoria, with David (Daniel also went home with his steady, Ebony Miller).
By six o'clock that night, everyone had arrived. We all sat at a very long table in the very large dining room. Christiana fussed over everything, and Mum talked to her copiously in Italian (I could understand enough to know that Mum was thanking her profusely for…well, everything).
It struck me then that I hadn't seen Jack since I'd been at home. A little boy who is barely two years old wouldn't just get up and leave without telling anybody. All right, so maybe he might, but I doubt that Mum and Dad would have let that happen.
"Where's Jack?" I asked. Everyone seemed then to realize that the youngest grandchild was missing and began asking the same question.
Dad cleared his throat. "Jack," he said, "Is undergoing some tests at St. Mungo's with the Ministry. I'm going to fetch him later tonight."
"Why aren't you two there?" asked Aunt Vicky.
Mum said, "We're not allowed to be." She was clearly agitated by this. "They won't even let parents stay." The adults seemed to understand what she meant, but I was at a loss. I could tell that James and Charlotte were as well, but didn't think any more of it.
It was Christmas. No thinking during Christmas (unless you're my mum).
We all had problems getting to sleep that night. James and I were too excited to even sit still during dinner, how were we expected to sleep through the night? We ended up talking until one in the morning, and by then we managed to fall asleep only because we were dead tired and our adrenaline had crashed after multiple "second-winds".
*
"GET UP!!! IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!"
I sat up, bleary-eyed, as James said, "What the hell is that?" from the top bunk.
"GET UP GET UP GET UP GET UP!!!" Emily and Rachel threw open our door and continued shouting in our ears before running on to the next room. Jack toddled after them, trying to keep up, saying, "Up! Up! Wakey! Wakey!"
Slowly, the realization that it was Christmas hit, and we all began slowly coming out of our rooms. Rachel and Emily were now in Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny's room, jumping on their bed while shouting. We then heard Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny yelling at them, so the went on to my parents' room, Jack following after in a very cute manner. They jumped on Mum and Dad's bed, too, as gradually, aunts and uncles began clambering out of their rooms, too.
"STOP!!" we heard from my parents' room. I poked my head in to see Jack near tears, with his hands up in the air. Mum and Dad were still cozily in bed with pillows over their heads, trying to drown out the noise and go back to sleep.
"Stop!" Jack said again. "No hurt Mama!" He tried very hard to climb up onto their very tall bed, but it wasn't working. Dad reached his arm down and scooped him up, muttering something that was incoherent as Jack snuggled in with Mum and Dad.
Uncle Harry poked his head in the room. "All right, if we have to get up, then so do you two. Come on." He threw open the shades, causing Mum to groan as the light hit her.
I saw from out the window that there was no snow on the ground. This was horrible; it was my first Christmas without snow on the ground. It always snowed in England, but apparently not in Italy. Bloody Italy.
James, Charlotte and I walked downstairs to where many of our cousins were already rifling through the huge pile of presents under the tree to find those with their names on the tags. We joined in the heap as my parents came downstairs with Uncle Harry and Jack.
Grandfather lit a fire in the hearth and Christiana was coming in, bearing hot chocolate and tea for everyone who wasn't busy in the full-scale attack that was going on under the tree.
Jack seemed to be teetering on the edge, unsure of how to get into the pile of presents.
"Jack! Come here, Jack!" Emily called from her place near the fire. Jack walked over to her, tripping now and then on wrapping paper, and sat down with a plop next to Emily as she handed him a present.
"Don't let him too close to the fire, Emily!" Mum told her.
"All right, Mum!" Emily called back. I wondered if she was even listening; she was too busy tearing Quidditch wrapping paper to shreds.
I was unwrapping a book that I had mentioned a couple hundred times to Mum and Dad. It was the next in a series that I had been reading (about a wizard who loses his powers and gets trapped in the Muggle world). Naturally, I shouted showers of thanks to Mum and Dad before starting to read. I was almost finished the first chapter when I remembered that there were still other presents under the tree, just dying to be opened. I set my book in the neat pile and was about to dive in when Jack ran across the room screaming and attaching himself around Mum's knees.
"Jack, sweetheart, what's wrong?" she asked, stroking his hair and trying not to fall over. He had a death grip around her leg.
"It's all right, Mum," Emily said, coming up with her smug big sister look on. "Professor McGonagall just popped up in the fire; she needs to speak with you. It just scared him, that's all."
Mum laughed a bit, before attempting to walk to the fire, dragging Jack with her on her leg. It really was quite funny watching her attempt to sit down while Jack was still holding on for dear life. I made it a point to listen to their conversation.
"What's wrong, Minerva?" Mum asked.
"We need you here, Hermione," McGonagall said.
Mum sighed. "It's Christmas. I'm not leaving my family on Christmas. Besides, can't Albus handle it?"
McGonagall's eyes darted from us kids to Mum. "If he was in any condition to…" she said pointedly and cautiously, "Then he would."
Mum looked at her for a moment, before understanding seemed to wash over her face. "Give me fifteen minutes," she said before McGonagall's head disappeared with a pop!. Mum tried to get up, although Jack was still clamped around her leg. "Ron, could you…?"
Dad came over, and pried him off of her leg, and the little boy immediately fastened himself around Dad's neck. Mum and Dad walked out of the room, talking in hushed tones about what had just happened. I don't think that any of the other kids noticed it.
I didn't think that I was supposed to.
This would be the sort of thing that I would be going to therapy for in later life (not really, though, but for the sake of humour):
"Hello, my name's Landon Weasley."
"Hi, Landon!"
"And my mum's…a workaholic."
Applause.
"She was so much of a crazed workaholic that…she abandoned us when I was eleven years old. On Christmas day! I never got over it. It traumatized me."
Dad whispered the reason of Mum's absence to his brothers and sisters-in-law, and they all seemed to understand quite well the predicament that she was put in, and didn't question anything. I bloody well would have, but that's just me.
I wondered if this had anything to do with our mystery. Considering that everything was related somehow, this must have a string in the web that was spinning. Oh, spiders analogy. I hate spiders. A lot.