TWENTYTWO

The sea air was cold enough to leave the entire beach alone with Eve and her thoughts. Maybe it was her magical blood or the mere distractions of her miseries, but the freeze of December seemed to have little effect on her limbs as she sat on the beach shore.

Eve had been taking this exact spot in the sand the past three days, hoping that she would gain some semblance of peace with each visit. Eve longed for the past peace she would feel when she visited the Brighton shore when she was younger, or what would only have been a year or so younger. And yet, it seemed ages ago to think she felt that way once. She tried desperately to cling on to those memories, to bring back that immediate, almost instinctive, sense of harmony that would possess her the moment her eyes would shut and the sound of the waves would consume her. But now, it was all hopeless attempts, each time leaving her feeling more dreadful than before.

It was Christmas Eve. One week since the holiday break had started. One week of being away from the dark cobblestone walls of Hogwarts. And one week since George had not shown up to meet Eve.

His disappearance was given no explanation, but she had still felt the remnants of his lips on hers as she stood alone outside the Great Hall that morning. She waited and waited, watching the crowds of students disperse with knitted sweaters and holiday goodbyes until Lucie peeled her away in an effort to get a good spot on the train.

Even now, with her frozen blue lips, Eve thought she could feel the residue of the kiss they had shared. But the memory presently was tinted with the confusion of George's absence and the slight cut of painful rejection she felt from it. Maybe he had good reason not to show up. Eve had already devoted many hours on the beach to form every possible explanation for his lack of appearance. He could have gotten held up packing or pranking, or maybe the Gryffindors were doing last-minute holiday festivities. There were so many things that could have gotten in the way, but still, Eve couldn't help but feel like he still would have shown up if he wanted to. Which could only then mean, perhaps he hadn't wanted to show up at all.

This explanation was already laid deep within her, with no possible way of digging out. Eve couldn't even send an owl if she had the pride to do so; she didn't even know where exactly George lived. Perhaps he could discover a way to find her, to get her address from a friend. It was an easy venture for the magical world, but a week had gone by, and no correspondence came. In fact, nothing had come for Eve in the week she had been home. No letters from friends, or someone more than a friend, or even, a once was friend. Deep down, Eve knew seven days amounted to hardly any time worthy of discussing in a letter from anyone. But still, every time a flash of wings distracted her vision in the sky, Eve hoped they were heading to her house. They were always just seagulls, though.

Eve thought of heading back now, to distract herself once again with cooking and innocent conversation with her parents, who were so happy she was home but so naïve to the world she had just returned from.

They asked her how classes were going, how Lucie and Douglas were doing, and why she barely sent any letters during the term. She answered every question with careful and desperate grace, hoping they wouldn't notice her vague descriptions of schoolwork or the way her voice cracked when she uttered Douglas's name. If they had noticed, they hadn't said anything about it.

Eve gave one last longing stare into the misty sea and turned away. She realized now that she was cold and slightly hungry, and perhaps that was fueling her teenage melancholy more than anything else.

She treaded back up the beach, brushing sand off of her legs as she went, though she knew it would be impossible to get all of it off. She decided at once that she wouldn't go to the beach anymore.

The walk back to her house was short, but she savored it with a slow pace. There was hardly anyone on the streets now. Eve figured her neighbors were already cozied up in their decorated homes or faithful pubs. The faint sound of Christmas music was in the air, mixed with the gray smoke of every lit chimney on the street. Eve felt as a stranger as she passed each familiar house, and she wondered how that could be. It was as if, as her magic grew, the divide between her worlds widened. Eve could always recognize the faces she passed by, although, in the past few years, she had lost the sense to tell if they could recognize her back.

Eve's home grew into view as she climbed up the hill of her street. It was a terraced house, one amongst dozens, but painted a soft pastel yellow, the color it always had been since she was a child. Her father said yellow was the happiest of the colors, so yellow their house must be.

The moment Eve opened her front door, she was greeted with the sound of soft jazz playing from the living room and the smell of cinnamon and roast escaping from the kitchen. When she followed the scent, she found both her parents huddled in front of the stove, her mother's hands turning a wooden spoon inside a boiling silver pot, and her father hunched over, peeking a glance inside the oven.

"How was the sea, any new philosophical theories or epiphanies?" Her father asked, his face still observing the depths of the oven.

"Yes. Sand is awful," Eve murmured, slipping off her coat and tossing it over the stairwell railing, tiny flecks of golden sand leaving a trail behind as it hung.

Her family had never been one for neat and orderly. There was no possible way they could be, with every inch of their walls and hallways covered in painted canvases and half-finished masses of clay. Untidiness was a form of expression, and a little left-over beach sand was just a remanent of a happy memory. For Eve though, presently, it was more of a reminder of another day spent pensively alone.

"Oh, I absolutely adore sand," Her mother remarked, turning the soup one last time and tossing a glance over her shoulder at her daughter, "Make yourself useful, my love. Pop some champagne."

Eve grinned and followed her mother's instructions, slipping off her boots beside her abandoned coat and making her way into the kitchen. She found her way to the fridge, where she already knew a bottle of champagne was patiently waiting in the freezer for her.

Bottle in hand, she grabbed the crystal flutes that had already been set out on the counter by her mother, and Eve placed the glasses carefully on their kitchen table. She popped the champagne bottle effortlessly, a skill her parents deemed just as necessary as their artistic endeavors.

"Shall I give the toast?" Her mother grinned, abandoning the stove now and grabbing a filled glass from Eve's side. Eve took a seat at the kitchen table, holding her drink and awaiting her mother's sentimentalities.

"Victor, stop pestering the meat," Eve's mother scolded, turning to her husband, who had taken another glance and poke inside the oven. He turned and sent his wife a guilty glance.

"The Christmas holiday is always meant for celebrations, but we celebrate every time our Eve comes home to us," Her mother began, her eyes settling on her only child that sat across from her, "Your father and I are so proud of the gifted and shining young woman you have become."

Eve smiled at her mother's words, although she thought how little she felt like a woman, there, in her childhood home, with sand still in her socks. She glanced between her parents' faces, each with their reflective stare of complicated nostalgia, a mixture of both sadness and admiration only a parent could truly understand. Eve wondered now if they could see how different she felt.

"We know you've had a difficult past year. Growing up can be so painful, and I'm sure you must feel like we don't understand it because you have different abilities than us…" Her mother trailed off. Eve could see her mother's face was more of sadness now.

"But we love you and want you to know, if not understand, we can at least listen," Her mother finished.

Eve dropped her eyes to her glass, watching the bubbles dance to the surface and dissipate. She recalled how she was sitting in that same spot in the kitchen when she told her parents Cedric had died. She remembered tea in her hand instead of champagne. Had it really been this same year?

"Happy Christmas," Eve found herself saying, a weak smile forming on her lips as she raised her eyes with her glass.

Her parents followed her motions, and the three of them 'cheersed' their glasses, the sound of the crystal clanging together somehow lightening the mood considerably. Eve finished her glass in one sweeping motion, feeling the instant comforting haze of the champagne bubbles now within her. She thought of the Hufflepuff game, the last time she had alcohol to her lips, drunk on teenage cocktails, and romantic misconduct. She thought of George helping her out of the kitchen tunnel, their hands brushing together in what had become their usual tender and entirely frustrating form of communication. She wondered what he was doing now. Perhaps he was in his own kitchen, with his family, taking turns giving Christmas Eve toasts and exchanging early presents. Eve imagined he was thinking of her too.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the fruit of my unwavering labor."

Eve's thoughts were broken by her father's words, followed by the motion of a heavy pot momentarily shaking the table under it. Eve watched her parents fall into their usual etiquettes, moving dishes around and bickering over which knife to use for the meat. The scene, and perhaps the mixture of champagne, at once faltered the disrupted memories from Eve's mind. She was home with the two people who knew her the most. Even as she grew older and the origins of her trouble grew far more distant for her parents to recognize, they still noticed every frown and crinkled brow and the way she would stare into the distance when she thought she was alone. Eve wondered if she could tell her parents the troubles that had plagued her mind this last year, even if they couldn't quite grasp the separate world that originated so much of it.

"This is what artistic perfection looks like," Her father said, his hands occupied by a large fork and knife now as he made himself busy cutting the meat. Her mother scoffed amusingly at his comment but said nothing.

"What did you make?" Eve asked, her eyes peeking curiously over the pot just as her father laid a delicate slice of the meat on her plate.

"The best cut of lamb you will ever try," Her father remarked, his face resembling the universal look of proud fatherhood, reserved almost entirely to his child and cooking accomplishments.

Lamb.

The word began to spin in Eve's mind, and immediately she thought of the dancing configuration of her Patronus, small and soft white, pouring from her arm and into tangible formation in front of her. Her lamb. Her own proud accomplishment.

Eve's eyes fell to her plate, and she felt a sharp pain rise in the pit of her stomach. She thought of telling her parents but didn't exactly know how to begin. A strange connection of two unfamiliar worlds, and there, at her kitchen table, she seemed to fall into the murky bylines. She took a bite of the lamb and remained quiet.


Author's Note: Yikes, I took forever to update. Life man.