Chapter 29
Days until Christmas: 3
When Harry arrived in King's Cross station, he saw his parents waiting for him. His mother hugged him fiercely, while he squirmed his left pocket away from contact. He had a nice dinner, then went upstairs and ransacked his trunk in search of the light bomb. He spent all of that night on this mission, as well as much of the next day, until his mother dragged him downstairs for family time.
After a fairly predictable adventure about what happens when you leave children home alone, his mother tried to wrangle personal information about of Harry. "You never tell me what happens to you anymore," she complained. "Your letters have been so few and far between."
"That's because my daily life is fascinatingly average for a wizard, and not worth discussing on a regular basis," said Harry, staring at the movie credits. "I'll summarize by saying my classes are going well, no one's died yet this semester, and socially I remain as antisocial as ever."
"Well, but…what about Hermione? And the Tri-Wizard tournament! Tell me about that."
"The Tri-Wizard tournament is going so slowly that half the time our school forgets it's happening." Harry was silent for a moment as the cassette ran out, the screen flickering to black fuzz. "As for Hermione, she's…" He shrugged, the words sticking in his mouth. "She's fine."
"Harry," She sighed in exasperation, rubbing a hand through her hair. "I swear, it's like pulling teeth, for both of you."
His dad left during the movie to answer a phone call, so he wasn't here, but Harry could put two and two together.
"Umm…" Harry brushed his foot against the carpet. "How about this? I'll tell you about school later, Mum, when I'm feeling up to it. Meanwhile, why don't you tell me how you've been?"
Days until Christmas: 2
On Saturday morning, Harry wandered downstairs, hoping for a chance to use his computer. He was expecting messages from a few physics professors, who he'd contacted about questions he couldn't find the answers for in books.
Unfortunately, his mother was talking with his aunt over the phone, so he couldn't use the Internet. His father was already using the TV, so Harry decided to play some games.
He still had a lot downloaded from when he first started playing with his computer, and his mother had bought a few more. Harry's favorite was SkyRoads, a game where he made a ship jump around on landing pads until it reached the goal. He'd never beaten the last level, though, which rankled him enough that he decided to load it up.
A few minutes into the game, however, he lost interest. It wasn't that the game wasn't fun, he just kept comparing it to the Hogwarts quests. And that reminded him—for the thousandth time—of what he'd done to lose them.
He was just turning the game off when his father entered the room with his car keys. "Want to take the car for a spin?"
Harry jumped out of the seat and grabbed his coat. Hermione had told him that she was going to study the Highway Code over summer vacation so she could take the written test. And while Harry couldn't do anything about being younger, he had decided that, the day he turned 17, he was going to ace his driving test on the first try, despite the 50% pass rate.
But when Harry got in the passenger side of the car, he noticed something was wrong. "Dad, why aren't we going towards the parking lot?"
"We've got to do something else first," said his dad, hands tense on the steering wheel.
Harry had a terrible sinking feeling. "No."
"Yes," replied his father grimly. "Tomorrow your Aunt Milly is coming to visit."
Harry groaned. Aunt Milly—who was really his cousin, but about a decade older than him—lived in a nice house with her husband in Northumberland. And ever since she'd gotten married, every visit between the two families came with Expectations.
When Harry and his parents visited Aunt Milly, they had to be the Perfect Family. It was one time where Harry was not allowed to be annoying in any way whatsoever. Once, he'd made the mistake of sighing loudly, and his mother gave him a look sharp enough to cut Adamantium. He'd decided from that point on he was better off not breathing.
But now, they were coming to his house, which was the embodiment of a nightmare.
His father fished a note pad from the center console, passing it to Harry. "We've got to get flowers, ingredients for pot roast, glass cleaner and shoe polish. Also, I've got to get boxes for all the books. Harry, start writing things down."
"Dad!" Harry was beyond irritated. "This is mum's feud, so why can't she be doing these things?"
"She's cleaning the house," said his father bitterly.
Harry shut up immediately. He did not like being around when his mum was cleaning. She became the task master, and he the slave. Nothing he did was right or quick enough for her standards, and heaven help him if he even dared to stand still.
"I believe," said Harry. "That tomorrow I shall be very sick, and I won't be able to leave my room all day."
"No, you shall not," said his father. "That's very disrespectful to your mother." He was quiet a few moments. "But we will go get some ice cream afterwards."
When the man and the boy emerged from the store, they felt like they'd stepped out of a warzone.
They'd had to travel to six different stores in their exhausting search for all the required items. Each place was packed with last minute shoppers, pushing and shoving each other in the aisles and holding up the line to count out pennies. Babies screamed in shopping carts, department displays had been knocked over and stepped on, and everyone looked as stressed and desperate to get out of there as Harry felt.
But finally, they had completed their harrowing journey, the trunk laden with supplies. Harry's father had asked him if he still wanted to practice driving, but Harry shook his head. He felt too stressed out to be in control of a giant metal machine.
They were now at the gas station, and Harry was standing beside the magazine rack. He was supposed to pick up an ice cream, but he would wait until his dad got back inside, in case it melted. So, he had been wandering, looking at this and that, when he spied a magazine cover with Hermione on it.
As he turned to look at it, he realized it couldn't be Hermione, because it was a Muggle store. And a few seconds after that, he realized the Hermione look-alike barely wore anything at all.
His face went hot. He felt like he should place his hands over the photo, cover her up. Harry didn't want to look, but it was hard not to out of sheer shock. It was in his efforts not to stare at the cover that he realized how many other dirty magazines this store was selling. Apparently, this store served a lot of lonely people, or perhaps college students.
Harry had never bought one, but his dorm mates looked at dirty magazines all the time. Harry had peeked at a few, just on curiosity...and decided he should stay away from it.
He wasn't sure about the morality of it, but his observations of how it turned normal males into slobbering idiots was not encouraging. It seemed like a huge time sink. Moreover, he knew he had sort of an…obsessive personality when it came to certain things, and he didn't want that addiction to be the one that stuck.
His father called from the sales register, "Harry, let's go."
He jerked, turning aside and trying to pretend he'd been looking at the window the entire time. "Coming, Dad," said Harry, and ran off to get his ice cream.
They bought the ice cream, and then went back to the car. It was still a bit too cold for ice cream, but it had been their way of bonding since he was in primary school. Also, neither of them were in a hurry to get home. So, Harry wasn't surprised when his dad kept the car in park and said, "How's school?"
Harry knew he couldn't pull the same act he'd done before—for one thing, his dad wouldn't buy it.
"Academically, it's going very well," said Harry. "I'm going to start studying for the OWLs soon."
His father scraped at his cup of fudge swirl. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"Umm…no."
"I see. Do you fancy someone?"
"No! Dad, okay, if this is about the magazines, I swear I wasn't looking at them, I was just contemplating while staring in the general direction…"
His father quirked one eyebrow and smiled, which was his version of a laugh. "I only asked because I wanted to know more about your personal life. What are your plans for after graduation, for example?"
Harry wondered if this was his father's real goal—talk about the girlfriend first to make it easier to ease into this question, which seemed benign in comparison. But, in reality, he knew his father worried a lot about his future."
"Will you attend university?" asked his father. "Does the wizarding world have one of those yet?"
Harry shook his head. His one attempt to start one had been a failure. Firstly, because he was twelve and had no real life experience about starting schools. And secondly, because the wizarding community was so small that it was more feasible for companies to hire apprentices and train them on the job.
"Will you be working in a magical profession?" asked his father. "Because if not, we will need to start considering other options for your higher education, besides self-study."
"I know, Dad," said Harry. "I'm still working out the details, but by the time I graduate Hogwarts, I plan to have a career in a field that utilizes both science and magic."
(Though, now that he wasn't collaborating with the Weasleys, he would have to find another way to fund his project. Maybe he could use his fame, get involved in advertising or a book deal? Or maybe he should go to university and study, it would be difficult to get scholarships if he waited…)
Harry felt a pang of fear. As confident as he was in his abilities, he hadn't made much progress in achieving any of his goals yet. He wanted to explore the stars, needed to discover immortality, and both were incredibly daunting tasks. His research plan felt less like an uphill climb, and more like a long, winding road off an unseen cliff. If he wasn't extremely careful, then he could waste his time and achieve nothing. He needed to consider which of his alternative options would be most likely to bring him short term success, in case his ultimate goal took a great deal longer than expected.
He saw his father giving him a knowing look.
"It's a difficult decision," he said. "I'm sure magic complicates things even more, and with so many choices, it's not easy to decide what you want to do. You don't need to figure it out alone. If you need my advice, please ask me."
Harry nodded. "Thanks, Dad." He thought for a moment. "Can I…ask you for advice on one thing? It's non-academic."
"Sure," said his father.
Harry took a deep breath, stared out the window. His father waited.
"I...kind of messed up. With Hermione." A bit of his ice cream cone dripped onto his hand. "I…uhh…I got mad, beat someone up, and said some mean things to her."
"You beat someone up?"
Harry winced at his father's disapproving glance. "Not my proudest moment."
His father didn't respond for a few seconds. "Did you apologize?"
"Yes," said Harry. "To both parties. Hermione forgave me, but I still feel awful about it." He sighed. "I read that guilt is useful for preventing recidivism, so this might be a good thing, but it's still extremely confusing. I don't know why I said those things to Hermione, or how my rational judgment became clouded to that extent." Harry frowned. "Then again, Hermione confuses me on a regular basis, and I still have no idea what to do about that."
His father smiled. "Well, that's normal, and I'm sorry to say the confusion doesn't ever go away completely. Just try your best to be understanding."
"What do you mean?" asked Harry.
"When Hermione does something that makes you feel upset or confused, try to understand your own feelings, then try to understand hers. It's difficult at first, but it's worth the effort."
Harry thought back, realizing there were times he had done that and gotten it right.
"What did you buy her for Christmas?" asked his father.
"A book," said Harry.
His father turned on the car. "Well, this is just a suggestion, but sometimes, you need to buy her something besides literature."
"Yeah," sighed Harry. "I was thinking that too. A physics book doesn't quite say, 'I'm sorry for being a jerk' like chocolate does." Harry watched the road as they headed home, feeling apprehensive. "I've decided maybe I would like to practice driving after all."
His father raised an eyebrow again. "No matter how long we take, your mother will still make you clean, you know. And we do have frozens."
Harry groaned. "Fine, but this dinner better taste like ambrosia for all the work we're putting into it."
Christmas Eve
"Twenty carats! It's the most beautiful necklace I've ever worn, and Karen said…"
"He says that the tailor won't be free until February, but his brother might have an opening…"
"Did you grow them yourself? My husband does the weeding, but I do everything else…"
Harry was sitting up straight on the couch, stuffed in a suit he hadn't worn in two years, struggling to sip tea. He had long since checked out of the conversation, only catching snippets as his mind wandered. When his father excused himself to prepare more drinks, Harry's eyes followed him, feeling betrayed.
After tea time was finished, Harry was forced to sit through the meal, which was just as stiff and annoying. He didn't say anything, just quietly ate his pot roast as the conversation droned on around him.
"Milly, you won't have any wine?" asked his mother.
"Oh, well actually," said Aunt Milly, smiling at her husband. "We have some news."
Moments later, the whole table erupted into a flurry of excitement over the future member of Aunt Milly's family.
"She's due in June," his aunt said, holding her husband's hand on the table. "We didn't want to tell anyone until we knew for sure."
"How wonderful! Do you have a name yet?" asked his mother.
"Rose," she said, then nudged her husband's shoulder. "He wanted something like Mabel, can you believe it? It sounds like a cow!"
A cow? Ahahhahah you're so funny, Aunt Milky!
Harry's leg bounced under the table, his knife tapping the plate. He would have been happier for his aunt if he hadn't been keeping his temper in check for the last two hours. He decided it was a very good thing his mother had forced him to be silent. He really didn't know how else he could keep his promise to Not be a Complete Jerk.
The meal ended, and his relatives went home, leaving the three of them to clean the dishes. Harry and his father were both silent as his mother chattered on about the dinner, chiding his father about washing the dishes properly. Then, abruptly, she flung her towel on the sink, "Michael, why were you so quiet all the time?" she said, tears in her eyes. "Don't just stand there! Say something!"
"Mum?" said Harry.
Wiping her eyes, she fled the room and darted upstairs. His father dried his hands on his shirt and followed, his step slower. The only sound in the kitchen was the hum of the refrigerator, and it wasn't loud enough to cover the argument upstairs. Harry couldn't hear much, but he knew his father was being blamed for something.
Harry often saw his parents in disagreements, but he rarely saw them fight. Before things could escalate, his father would leave the room, and his mother would keep herself busy. Harry didn't know what happened after that, if they argued in private or swept it under the rug. All he knew was, his father would not let his mother scream at him unless it was something more serious than a mistake at dinner.
His father came downstairs after a few minutes, walked to the sink, and said, "I'll wash, you dry."
"Dad," said Harry. "I want you to tell me what's wrong with Mum."
"She'll be fine," said his Dad.
"Listen," Harry tried to be patient. His dad would understand logic. "It's Christmas Eve, and we've spent most of today miserable with each other. It's not normal, and I think I deserve an answer."
His father didn't speak for a moment, pouring in detergent to re-sud the hot water. When he spoke, it was in a soft, monotone voice. "Your mother can't have children."
Harry frowned, but he wasn't exactly surprised. He had always wondered why his mother stayed at home all these years, when Harry would have been fine without a constant caretaker. She'd never given up hope…until now. "Why is she mad at you?" asked Harry.
"She thinks we waited too long."
"But Mum is only 37. That's not too old, biologically." Harry tried to connect the dots. "She took a magic potion to change her appearance, and it could have caused side effects."
His father shook his head. "It would hurt her more to believe that."
"So, you'll just let her blame you? Even though there's any number of plausible explanations? It's not fair, you should at least do some testing, and then maybe you can find a-"
"Harry," said his father, in a warning tone. "That's not how this works. And you will not speak of it to your mother."
Harry had never seen his father make a decision that wasn't based in logic, and it shocked him. Yet, in all his life, this was the first time his father had told him anything so deeply personal. Harry wasn't about to ruin his trust by fighting back.
His father scrubbed a plate, his brow furrowed and lost in unhappy thoughts.
"Are you getting a divorce?" Harry asked quietly.
"We don't have plans for it," said his father.
Harry felt sick. He knew enough about his father to know that really meant, 'I don't know.'
His father went back to scrubbing, harder and longer than necessary.
"I'll take care of it," said Harry. "You can go help Mum."
His father nodded, and left Harry in the kitchen.
Christmas Eve
10:10 pm
Harry was trying to be strong. He knew that, in the grand scheme of things, his problems weren't really that bad.
But it was Christmas Eve, and his parents weren't talking, and he was alone watching the Christmas tree lights fade in and out. He could see the presents underneath that they'd be opening later. His parents may or may not be getting a divorce. His mother was crying, and his father was in his study, not with her.
He was hugging his knees, trying to decide if he wanted to listen to Christmas music, read a book, or just sit there in silence. So far, silence was winning.
He'd gone to see his mother earlier. She'd hugged him, rubbed his hair, and said she was sorry. Then she'd told him to go to sleep so Santa could come, even though she knew he'd never really believed in him.
He thought she probably would have liked having a child that did.
Harry got some Christmas cookies that his mother had baked from the kitchen. The lights blinked against the ornaments that he'd helped put on the tree since he was 5 years old. Harry was thinking of sleeping here, instead of in his trunk. Not because he was waiting for Santa, but because it was so much prettier and warmer here than anywhere he could think of.
The telephone rang. Harry glanced uncertainly at the clock before picking up the cordless phone in the kitchen. "Hello?"
"Harry! You'll never guess what happened!"
"Hermione?" Harry said. "What is it?"
"I got a cat!" she burst out excitedly, like she did when she drank too much coffee. "My mum bought it for me. It's orange colored, and-and it's cute, and I wish I could show you a picture! It's so intelligent too, it's already caught a mouse! I know you said you would call tomorrow, but I just couldn't wait to tell you. I hope you aren't busy?"
"No," Harry slumped back down on the couch, phone held to his ear.
"Oh, good. Argh, hold on, my cousin is being a pest." Somewhat distantly, Harry heard her yelling at her cousin about not pulling the cat's tail. "Sorry, he's been driving me crazy all day. I think Grandma gave him too many sweets. Earlier, he almost broke my wand, and I only had it out for two seconds. I used to say I wanted to have a younger sibling, but I'm a little relieved that I don't now."
She laughed, and Harry felt a tightness in his chest.
"I'm talking your ear off, aren't I? How was your day?"
"It was…strange," said Harry.
"Strange? How?"
"I'll tell you later maybe," said Harry, pulling a blanket over him. "Why don't you tell me more about your day? What else did your cousin do?"
She chatted on for about another thirty minutes, and the topics ranged to different things, from Christmas activities to almost backing the car into a pole, and even planning to study for their exams.
"Mum says I have to get off the phone," said Hermione with a sigh. "If you want to call tomorrow, I'll be free around 1:00 pm."
"Hmm," said Harry. "Yes, I'll call you then."
"Okay," said Hermione. "I…" she paused for a moment. "It was nice talking to you. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," replied Harry, listening to the sound of the phone line clicking dead.
He set the phone into the receiver and walked back to the couch. He lay down and put his hands behind his head.
Talking to her hadn't made him forget his problems—if anything, it should have reminded him of what his Christmas was missing. And yet, there was something calming about her voice. It soothed him, even when she was rambling, in stops and starts, as if her mouth couldn't quite figure out what her brain wanted to say. He closed his eyes, feeling calmer, the pain stilled to a dull ache he could handle.
And at least now, he knew what he was getting Hermione for Christmas.
Christmas Eve
11:45 pm
All Harold wanted was to go home.
He shivered at his desk, bending over a cup of hot tea. For some reason, it was always cold in the Department of Mysteries, but it was downright freezing in the Customs section. For some reason, they were forbidden to bring their wands, so he couldn't even cast Thermos. Harold had bought a heated blanket, his own water boiler, and a bulky jacket, but it was still too cold. He didn't understand why they didn't just invest in heating charms for the entire building—if he was in charge, that was one of the things he'd change.
Of course, imagining being in charge was just a pastime for his bored mind. He hated working here, and his goal in life was to win the lottery and go live on an island in the Majorcas. If that didn't happen, then he might just run off to join a cult, as long as they believed in central heating.
Even compared to other ministry positions, his job was exceptionally monotonous. Every day, he would examine the log books, cross check them for accuracy, and then update the backup copy. He also had a pile of requests for customs clearance and port keys that he had to send to the appropriate officials for approval. He usually had a partner to joke about how mind-numbingly boring their work was, but tonight was Christmas Eve, and his supervisor had left him to work alone.
His excuse was that everyone else had families, but Harold knew they were just chummy with the supervisor and got whatever they wanted. His supervisor was technically on the schedule with him, but he hadn't been back in the room since the start of shift. Harold assumed he was sleeping somewhere, or that he'd left the building entirely.
Harold had thought plenty of times about leaving in the middle of shift, just walking right out the door and never looking back. He couldn't, though, because somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispered, What if this day was your moment, and you failed? What if this is your chance to finally make a difference?
That was another reason why he probably wouldn't quit working entirely. His mom hadn't worked three jobs to raise him and his brother so he could be a bum.
So, he kept at the logs, which were dreadfully slow this time of night, and worked on the backup copy. As he was writing, he saw an alert for an illegal import. He looked at the customs log, but whatever had just passed through didn't show up clearly. The letters were blurred, like someone had spilled water on the ink.
He frowned. This was very odd, and like nothing he'd seen in two years. He was supposed to write up an incident report and immediately contact his supervisor, but he wasn't sure he would respond. He tried anyway, twice, and received no reply. He must be out of range for the mirror.
He was so busy with this that he almost missed the second illegal import before it was too late.
Panicking, he decided to hell with the chain of command and contacted Madam Bones.
Christmas Eve
11:58 pm
Draco sat in front of the fire, sipping his warm apple cider. Every so often, he glanced at the clock.
He could see the snow piling up outside the cabin, drifting down softly. He thought of his last happy Christmas Eve in his father's house, opening an early present while his father watched contentedly from beside the fire. The pair of soft leather gloves he'd given Draco still kept him warm, four years later.
Draco heard a creak behind him, and saw Boris coming down the stairs. He was heading for the kitchen, but came to join Draco instead. "You are not asleep?"
"No," said Draco. "I'm waiting for midnight. It's a tradition in my family."
"Ahh, I see," said Boris, taking a seat by the fire. "I am happy you could join us. I have not seen you in a long time." There was a pause, and then Boris said, hesitantly, "Did you talk to your mother?"
"Yes," said Draco, staring off into the fire. "She's doing a bit better."
This was a lie, but he did not want to say something too somber on Christmas Eve. A grieving leader would appear vulnerable, and that was not what he needed tonight, of all nights.
Boris nodded, relaxing into the sofa. "That is good to hear."
They were quiet for some moments. Draco glanced at the clock again, the hands coming close to their meeting.
He kept trying to think if there was anything he'd forgotten, anything else he needed to do. Not that there was much he could do from here, but he couldn't help thinking of it.
"Boris," said Draco eventually. "I will bring your request to the Priestess, but I have been wondering. Why did you change your mind?"
Boris rubbed his hands together by the fire, his face thoughtful. "I will try to explain as best I can in English," said Boris. "When I first heard the Priestess's teachings, I did not believe. It seemed too much like the evil words of a mad prophet. I did not see how our world could be in danger from children. Now, I do."
Draco nodded. "Fair enough. And you realize the risk you will be taking on?"
"Yes," said Boris. "I will be careful."
"You must be more than careful," said Draco. "And if you are not an Occlumens, then you must begin your lessons now."
The clock struck the hour, and Draco rose from his seat. He flicked his wand, and a flash of bright yellow light sprung from it and coalesced into the form of a Blue Krait. His Patronus vanished out the window, and returned about thirty seconds later, delivering its return message.
Draco smiled. "Well, Boris," he said. "It looks like you might have something to do for us at Hogwarts after all." Draco glanced once more at the clock. "Oh, and before I forget. Merry Christmas."
