Eglantine woke up Christmas morning with her heart hammering, as if she had risen with the sudden epiphany that she had a job interview, O.W.L.s, and a large public speaking engagement all in the same day. What had she agreed to? Why hadn't she refused to allow him to kiss her? It was madness. He'd kissed her, made her agree to give him a chance—whatever that meant—and then disappeared into the night like some kind of less-deadly Dracula. It was as if she'd been mesmerized. Or drunk.
Nothing she'd said had convinced him. He said that her actions said otherwise. What did she have to do, snog somebody right in front of him? Actually, that sounded plausible: whom could she snog? Not Michael Sherlock—he was done with her, ironically enough, after he'd caught her in a broom closet with one Brutus Macnair, whose older brother Walden had been out on one date with Mel. (Walden always spoke of that date as the worst day of his life, and his brother couldn't say he'd had better luck with Mel's cousin.) Michael had hit Brutus with some kind of hex involving butterflies coming out of his nose. Benvolio Jones, similar scenario, only it had been him kissing Elizabeth Roy, who still wore pigtails, in a sad attempt to make her jealous: she had merely told him that she thought he could do better than Elizabeth, and that she imagined that Portia Davis was single now after she'd hit her previous boyfriend by accident with a Beating bat.
There was always old horse-face, Shingleton; or Wenceslas Abbott, who wasn't remotely attractive, but who had the particular virtue of being as stupid as a bag of Puffskeins.
But he'd never believe she was interested in Abbott. The only person he could conceivably be jealous of in the world was Remus—and she doubted that that would ever happen.
She didn't want this. That was the bottom line. She didn't want this pervasive feeling of obligation, of having somebody whose supposed affection meant a kind of surveillance, a desire to restrict her freedom. Freedom was all she had: she wasn't about to give that up in exchange for a few faltering kisses.
Every Christmas, after the gifts were opened and the house-elves had cleared all the wrapping paper away, it had long been Ethelinda's and Osbert's custom to outline their assignments for the rest of the year. Osbert's job in sports meant a fairly predictable gamut of travel arrangements: the World Cup in the summertime, recruiting season, pre-season matches, some international games, England's tournament. Even when he was in England, he usually stayed on-site in order to get the best on-the-ground reports of players' antics and managers' plots. Ethelinda's schedule was less predictable, but her features were often planned a fair amount in advance, and almost always took her around the world: she wrote for the Prophet but also freelanced for various North American and European papers.
This year was that they would be together again at the World Cup, which would be held in Albania. Osbert always went, but Ethelinda—prior to the World Cup in Peru—had only intermittently been assigned to World Cup duty.
"I've an announcement as well," said Carlisle, wrapping his new cashmere Puddlemere United scarf around his arm and unravelling it again. "I'll be at the Cup, too. Only for the first game, though, I'm afraid; I've been asked to release the Snitch as a sort of honor. I'll also be doing a small piece for the Demosthenes Daily about who I think might win. Of course, Cloakham doesn't want to focus too much on sports," he added, rolling his eyes, as if he plainly thought that not spending all one's waking hours on sports was pure madness. "He's much too busy running paranoia-inducing features on how You Know Who could be lurking in every household appliance."
"What are they so nervous about?" said Cam with a tiny snort. "He's here, not in America."
"Actually, he's got a lot of support in America," said Carlisle. "If anything, the whole blood thing is a lot worse in America. But all the same, he's not there. And it's the World Cup, for Merlin's sake! I told them I'd stay through the whole tournament, and they actually refused!"
"That was mainly because we can't afford to have him stay the whole time and he wanted Cloakham to pay his way," Linda put in.
"That's not true! I happen to believe that Quidditch is an important socioeconomic indicator and a bellwether for new wizarding marketing techniques—"
"Well! As long as we're making announcements," said Cam, cutting her brother off—he made the same speech every holiday, usually after a few stiff drinks. "I—"
"You're pregnant!" gasped Ethelinda.
"No," Camilla said testily, "after—"
"You're adopting!"
"No! Mum, honestly—"
"You're breaking it off with Amos!"
"MUM! No! My news is that after we're married, I'm leaving the Ministry."
"No! You can't!"
Eglantine was the only naysayer; everyone else's approval ranged from mild (Linda) to rabid (Ethelinda) to just plain not listening (Osbert, who was looking out the window as avidly as a dog watching squirrels).
"Oh? Why can't I?"
"I—er—because. I mean, it's useful, isn't it?" said Eglantine. "You're—you know—in the know. About…politics. And things. And what about being a modern woman?"
Cam smiled indulgently. "You're modern enough for the whole family, Tina. I told you what I want, and I'm doing it."
"Well. Congratulations," muttered Eglantine.
"Amos and I have decided that we want four children," Cam said, holding Amos's hands. He looked a bit shell-shocked by the number "four."
"Yeah," he said. "Four. Er—we'll, ah, add on to the house."
"The house! Yes. We've found a house right near the Weasleys', in Ottery St. Catchpole. It's a bit small and shabby, of course, but with what I've saved from the Ministry and what Amos's got from his research on unicorns, we should be able to do quite nicely!"
"And do you intend to keep…researching unicorns?" Ethelinda said politely, fixing Amos with a stare full of disapproval.
"Well…no. I ran into a school chum of mine the other day—taught me nearly all I know about Defense Against the Dark Arts, he did, since our professors were hopeless the whole time I was at Hogwarts—and he mentioned there was an opening in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He said they'd be quite impressed by all my research, and that I was quite well-thought-of as a researcher," he added defensively.
"Splendid! I'm sure you'd be happy to get a real job," said Ethelinda. "I'm sure Melusina would put in a good word for you, as well. And Arthur."
"Er—yes, well. Don't want to come off as if I'm only getting the job because of who I know, eh?" Amos chuckled. "Still, I think it's a pretty sure thing. I'm rather excited about it, actually."
Cam squeezed her as-good-as-husband's hand and kissed him on the cheek as her sister watched on, vaguely disgusted. Who was this person? Her sister was acting like one of those Stepford Wives. From the outside, she looked like the same dowdy, wet girl she'd always been, with an Alice band holding back all-one-length hair. But the old Cam had had a healthy self-interest. She'd never allowed herself to get too wrapped up in romance, preferring instead a string of boring, well-mannered suitors who called themselves "suitors" and wrote her respectful notes about what a "sweet girl" she was. But they had to resort to writing her those notes because old Cam was too busy studying and thinking of her own, personal future, rather than filling her head with redecorating and thoughts about babies.
Life was too short, thought Eglantine. She returned to thoughts of how she might induce Sirius to leave her alone forever.