CHAPTER FOUR: Christmas Day
In the morning of Christmas, Harry and Draco wake up to the sounds of (hushed) shouting, clanging, and boxes crashing to the floor. It goes on for a minute and Harry, not able to make sense of the arguments going on between his sons, waits for it to abate. After a lot of angry shhhhs!, there is silence.
Draco, who is spooned comfortably by Harry, grips the arm around his waist and groans. "Tell me how on earth I was able to produce such uncouth and rambunctious sons? Potter, it is your entire fault."
Harry chuckles and nuzzles into platinum blonde hair. "Don't deny how much you like it, my dear love. Happy Christmas."
Draco turns around in his arms to press his face against his bare chest and hums contentedly. "What time's it?"
Harry presses his lips against his forehead and casts a Tempus Charm. "It's half-past five, love."
Suddenly, his husband squirms out of his arms and sits up, glaring at the window. The sun is not even up yet. "Harry, what, in the sweet name of Circe, do you think the boys are up to in this unholy hour?"
He moves to get out of the bed when the banging and arguments start again, but Harry catches him around the waist and pulls him between his legs. He rests his chin on Draco's shoulder, chuckling. "Calm down, Dray. The worst they can do is wake up Dobby, Winky, and Kreacher. It's an early Christmas and you haven't indulged me yet." He presses small kisses and kittenish licks along the column of his blonde's throat.
"Do save your seduction for later, love," Draco replies in a strained whisper. "We have to check on the boys."
Harry, however, cannot stop himself from tasting his husband's soft, pale skin. Instead of letting go, he pulls Draco much closer against his chest and rains loud kisses on the exposed shoulder. He chuckles when the blonde he's trapped in his arms squirms, reminiscent of their youngest son when asking to be put down.
"Potter, unhand me right now," Draco whines, a sound that he will heavily deny when Harry teases him about it later. Harry tightens his arms around waist and breathes his scent in.
"Mmm. I love you," he whispers, pressing a chaste kiss on a pale cheek and letting him go.
Draco turns around so he is kneeling between Harry's legs and he's holding on his strong shoulders. Harry looks up at him with bright emerald eyes, warm like grass during the summer. He holds moments like this very dear to himself—mornings when it's just Draco and him and he can smother the once-cold Slytherin with touches, kisses, and sweet nothings without the fear of rejection.
"I really, really, really love you, you know that, yeah?" he says once again, just because he thinks the declaration can ease the intense emotion in his chest.
His husband's mercurial eyes soften and a small smile grazes his lips. "Who would have thought that the Gryffindor Golden Boy will be wrapped around an ex-Death Eater's little finger?" He affectionately brushes raven-black hair from slightly tanned skin and presses a small kiss on a lightning bolt-shaped scar. Harry hums his contentment and gently holds Draco's hips.
"You're more than an ex-Death Eater, sweetheart. You're an excellent Potions Master, an amazing husband, a handsome male specimen, and a perfect Papa to four talented boys," he mutters, nuzzling Draco's jaw.
"It's a good thing then that I love you, because otherwise, I would have run off and exercised my excellent traits somewhere outside Britain," Draco replies before briefly kissing Harry's lips. "Happy Christmas."
Harry tries to chase more kisses with his lips, but Draco climbs off the bed. The house is surprisingly quiet once more, and he wonders if their sons are done with whatever racket they're up to. Merlin knows and would shudder to the feats their sons can achieve, especially when all four of them put their heads together into something.
The wards set on their door shimmers before it opens to reveal Jamie wearing a royal blue sleeping gown. Harry barely notices the smirk in his eldest sons lips before he is tackled by a blonde ball dressed in red and green cotton pajamas.
"Daddy," Percy pouts, a frown in his slightly flushed face. "It's Christmas and Dobby won't let me cook in the kitchen." Percy's bedhead is still prominent; he clearly hasn't bothered fixing it in his excitement to get his Christmas plans into action early. Harry holds back a chuckle; the family's sweet, little boy is honestly upset.
"Is this the reason for the ruckus a few moments ago?" Draco drawls, arching an eyebrow at Jamie, who walks into the room and sits at the edge of their bed.
Jamie grins and musses Percy's hair further. "Yup. Little Lil here almost threw a tantrum when Dobby refused to let 'Little Master Percy cook and hurt himself.'" He does a good imitation of the house-elf's high-pitched and squeaky voice.
"Care to enlighten?" Harry asks, holding the snuffling Percy against his chest. The latter has clung to him—arms and legs—like a very upset octopus.
"Well, Lil clearly overheard the twins' plans to wake up early, prepare Christmas breakfast, and fill the stockings with last-minute gifts. When he comes down to the kitchen with Al and Score preparing a feast, he got very excited. He gets ingredients from the cupboards, saying he'll also do his favorite pancakes into something special for Papa, Daddy, Score, Al, Jamie." Jamie gestures apostrophes with his fingers, looking at Percy very fondly.
Harry is surprised when Percy chokes back a sob and pushes away from him. Two little hands hold his face and he's staring at teary green and silver eyes. Percy's bottom lip is jutted out and trembling. Oh Merlin, Harry thinks, briefly catching Draco's eyes over their son's shoulder, he really is upset.
"I wanted to make pancakes and waffles for all of you, Daddy!" Percy says emotionally. He briefly closes his eyes and tears leak down his cheeks. "I knew how to op'rate the suitcase that makes waffles and the pan because I'd been watching you and Papa use them! I was excited to put strawberries, bananas, blueberries, chocolate chips, and my favorite fruits into the batter! But Dobby appeared and said that I– I– I s-shouldn't—"
Percy starts crying openly, tears freely flowing down his cheeks. He tries to stem them with his knuckles, but he is just so upset and he gives up. Harry hears Draco sigh resignedly and watches as he gathers Percy into his arms and shushes him. He reaches out a hand starts rubbing soothing circles against their son's trembling back.
"And I wasn't even planning to hold the knives, Papa! I was thinking of planning to ask Al or Score to chop them for me! But Dobby said no. He didn't stop saying n-no! It's so unfair!" Percy sobs, fisting against Draco's silver button down shirt. "Al and Score and Jamie can cook for you all for Christmas and I want to too, Papa! I want to," he whines, still crying. Something in Harry seems to break while listening to his youngest son's disappointment.
"Hush now, love. Hush now," Draco soothes, trying to get Percy to look at him. "We'll make it better, okay? Daddy will talk to Dobby. Hush now, baby. We'll fix this."
"But Albus Sev'rus and Scorpius Hyrpion and James Sirius are d-done doing breakfast," Percy cries softly. "What is there left for me t-to do?"
"Pancakes, you little muffin," Scorpius, whom Harry has not noticed come in with Albus, says, lifting Percy from Draco's arms. He wipes snot and tears from the little blonde's face with the sleeve of his black pajamas. Albus sits beside Harry and rests his head on his shoulder.
"B-but… b-but, didn't it fall down when I dropped it?" Percy asks doubtfully. Harry, however, can see hope flickering in his eyes.
"Nope," Al says, and Percy quickly twists in Score's arms to look at him. "I put a Stasis Spell on the batter before Dobby appeared and when you weren't looking. So nothing spilled."
Draco smiles and reaches up to rub the soles of Percy's bare foot. "See? Daddy and I give you express permission to use the kitchen to make your special breakfast for us. Right, Daddy?"
"Right," Harry says, smiling when Score rubs his nose against Percy's cheek to make the latter squirm and giggle. "No one will be stopping you, little fruitcake."
Percy, clearly no longer upset, giggles and mutters 'fruitcake.' He reaches his arms down, asking to be carried by Draco. The latter stands up and takes him in his arms. Percy kisses Draco on the nose and innocently asks, "Papa, if I'm Daddy's little fruitcake, then are you Daddy's fruitcake, then?"
Jamie and the twins snicker. "Of course, Papa is Daddy's fruitcake, Lil," Jamie says mischievously.
"You don't have to ask anymore, Percy," Score snickers.
"Don't be mad, Papa. You know it's true."
"Besides, it's Christmas."
"And you love us."
The glass double doors of the Phantasma Project main office swing open, and Christopher Ashford walks in. His gait is straight as always, his steps are sure, and his eyes are trained forward to the panel sitting around a round, granite-topped table. Three members of the Council, his daughter, and another student, Hunter, are present. He apologizes for his lateness and takes his seat, placing his wand on the table in front of him.
The Chair for the today's council acknowledges him with a nod and turns to Hunter Robinson. "Now that we are in session, can the rapporteur state the Council's agenda for this morning?"
"Certainly, Chair." The svelte teen rises up from his seat gracefully and flicks his wand downward in front of him. A rectangular sheet of white light appears in front of him, and he starts to read. "There is only one agendum for the 25th of December's emergency meeting. Mr. Ashford is expected to report about the turnabout two days ago."
He sits down beside Cal and delicately arranges his black, rectangular glasses in his straight nose. The Chair nods and shifts his stare at Calliope. "Clandestine Ashford, are we supposed to be in code in this meeting?"
"Yes, Chair. Since this will be a discussion about Ambiguous, everyone is mandated to talk in code. However," she raises her wand hand as high as it would go and twirls it, resulting in a momentary hum being felt by the occupants of the room, "we are also in record. Reports and data will be accessible through the Chair and President Ashford two days from now." In the dim light of the room, her amethyst eyes seem to glow; Christopher is sure that he's not the only one who sees how they flicked annoyingly at the remaining empty chair in the room.
"Order, Clandestine," the Chair says, annoyance clear in his face. "Fifth of this Council has not been notified about this meeting." For a brief moment, Christopher sees curiosity flashes across the young Clandestine's face, but she schools it back to indifference. The Chair continues, "I implore the Council to not interrupt President Ashford's report."
The President waits for a couple seconds of silence before he speaks softly, "There is no turnaround."
"What-?" Third rises in his chair indignantly, but Chair stops him with a raised palm.
"Let President Ashford finish, Third. Your time to speak will come later," he says then looks levelly at the President. "Why has there been no turnaround, President? What has happened?"
"Ambiguous does not want to cooperate. I have already implored the help and presence of the British wizarding government's first couple, but to no avail. He will not change his decision. Ambiguous does not want to have anything to do with us,"
"Has he set conditions?"
Christopher shakes his heads. If only. He could have made Harry Potter's decision if he's been in the latter's position eleven years ago, but he knows better now. "No. No conditions, Chair. He seems resolute. Ambiguous is firm that he will not take part in removing bugs in the Project."
"His reasons?" Chair scratches his chin thoughtfully, a sign that he is calculating.
Christopher steels and prepares himself from the laughter and mockery his answer will cause. "His family."
The chuckles come from the Chair and Third. The latter sneers, "How naïve of him. This must be the famed Gryffindor foolishness I've been hearing so much about, no?" His drumming his fingers on the table top excitedly; his eyes are gleaming in a manic way. Anything about Ambiguous has always kindled something disturbing in the man.
Christopher flashes his daughter a look when he sees her glaring at the Third distastefully. Her expression blanks but the fire hasn't left her eyes. He clears his throat. "Ambiguous is quite the family man, as you might as well see."
"He is of no use, then; he will only burden the Project's progress if he chooses not to cooperate," Fourth mutters, but everyone hears him over Third's giggles.
Chair hums contemplatively. "Are you sure that there's nothing that can be done, President Ashford?"
He shakes his head. "We do not know yet. The British Minister appealed for us to give Ambiguous some time." He takes a deep breath. "I suggest that we let Ambiguous know the Project—with Clandestine's permission and supervision, of course—and ask him what he wants to do, then." There, he thinks scathingly, that should make it sound less manipulative of Potter.
Cal's and Hunter's eyes widen at his proclamation. "D…" she stops herself and clears her throat. "President Ashford, you're kidding, right? Not just anyone is let in on the Project. What happens when he decides that he does not want anything to do with it? Eliminate him?"
"Clandestine! You're being quite the aggressive officer! Surely, you're not serious about killing the Ambiguous?" the Chair chuckles. He is not affronted; rather, he is amused. Clearly, with how his face is alight, Christmas has gotten ten times better.
"I'm just speaking of the truth, Chair," the young Clandestine replies hotly. "I will not be surprised if Ambiguous' mind can cast off a Memory Charm; he's also become a formidable Occlumens after he bonded with the Phoenix. In the same vein, a soul bond will permit the Phoenix to know that someone or something has meddled with Ambiguous' mind."
"And the Bodies close to the Ambiguous will do their best to break any Memory Charm, mind obstruction spell, or any method that we will use," Hunter adds, looking as annoyed as his seatmate. "Clandestine here is dissuading everyone from voting into letting Ambiguous know about the Project."
"No matter how limited the knowledge," hisses Cal with unmistakable vexation. "Intel will definitely not cooperate."
"But we can't leave him alone," Fourth says exasperatedly.
"And we cannot take him down, that is clear," Christopher sighs. He does not really want to kill Ambiguous, even if this talk about him is keeping him from celebrating Christmas with his children. Harry Potter is not expendable.
"Fine, then. Clandestine, our data and movements for the next month are fixed, yes? Is our Shadow ready?" Chair asks.
If the question confused the young officer, she does not show it. "Yes, Chair. I believe that I have presented those to you last week. And Shadow is in Britain right now. He is ready."
"Great. I propose that we cancel all operations for next week," Chair says excitedly. There's silence in the room, as everyone processes what has been said. Finally, Cal stands up, her hands balled into fists.
"But there is only one intervention next week—" she starts but stops when Chair grins like the Cheshire cat. Christopher does not know what they are talking about; data are always presented to the Chair first before the whole Council. He gets worried, however, when Cal's eyes widen, understanding grazing her features. "You're serious? You are willing to do that?"
Chair smiles coldly. "Yes, I can. I suggest that you do that immediately after this, officer." He claps his hands twice. "Council is dismissed. A very Merry Christmas everyone."
Christopher watches as his daughter, pale and in shock, drops in her chair. Honour for the Phantasma Project or not, he will know what exactly Chair has ordered his daughter to do. However, before he can come over to the Clandestine, a hand clamps down on his shoulder.
He turns. "Chair."
"President Ashford," the head of the Council says silkily. The man is leering at him. "You'll be staying here in New York for the rest of the next two weeks, yes? Your work with Ambiguous and Hogwarts immersion has taken priority over your other duties. I send my early congratulations to the government."
He sees what the Chair has been talking about, though. "Does this have anything to do with your order to the Clandestine?"
The Chair shrugs and, as he walks away, calls back at him, "Why do you sound so suspicious? We all have work to do."
Oh yes, Cal is swearing now. She rarely does it, but in her mind, she's already spewing every expletive she's ever encountered in her sixteen years. Beside her, Hunter is waving his wand, renewing the privacy wards and coding spells, and transforming the minutes of the meeting into a small sphere of white light. His other hand is on her upper back; an inconspicuous gesture that is meant to keep her from losing control.
"Breathe, Cal," he murmurs, ending his ministrations with a downward flourish of his wand. He pulls her up from her seat and Cal feels a twisting in her gut. They have apparated to her office at Intercept.
Cal sinks down into her leather swivel chair, feeling lightheaded, nervous, and angry. She waits for Hunter to activate the strongest privacy wards in her office before letting out a shout of frustration. Her best friend leans against the wall beside her desk and whistles softly. "Are you gonna do it?"
"Of course I have to do it. It's an order, Hunter," she replies through gritted teeth. Mind whirring and getting ahead of her, she starts opening files and databases in her computer, showing her the schedules of the British operations for the Project. She's gonna cancel, screw it, but that does not mean she's not gonna do anything.
"It's in the New Year, isn't it?" Hunter asks; he's already moved around the desk and is standing behind Cal's chair, watching her scroll through pages and pages of data.
"Yes. One week from now. They aren't aware that we've known for quite some time." She reads the list of the people involved in Tripping, a code for the operation.
"Do you think they'll change their plans?"
Cal shakes her head, summoning her warded magically modified phone from the far side of her black desk. "Probably not. They've invested a lot for this first attack. The only way they'll balk is if they had any inkling they are anticipated. But it's just me, you, and Chair who know about this." She sighs exasperatedly and taps on her phone. She puts it against her ear. "Amber."
The smooth, silky voice of a woman answers, "Clandestine."
Here we go. "Halt Operation Tripping. Everyone must be home within the next ten hours."
There is a pause and Cal can feel the bewilderment from the other end of the line. However, an order is an order. "Crystal, Clandestine. The base will be cleared by fourteen o'clock."
She nods then glares at Hunter's raised eyebrow. She holds up a hand at him. "And Amber? I need a drive in your Audi to the University. Make sure it's here by fifteen o'clock." She hangs up and arches her eyebrow at her best friend. "You coming with me?"
Hunter rakes his hand through his long, strawberry blonde hair. "You're really getting involved in this, aren't you, Calliope Athena?"
"Of course, I am. We still need to plan, but… we can't just let what Chair wants to happen, happen, right?" She has never met the Malfoy-Potters, and she still does not understand why Ambiguous will refuse to cooperate with the Project, but she's not heartless. She's sixteen years old, the youngest head of Intercept—the intelligence division and the mind of the Phantasma Project. There's a reason why she, with the help of Hunter and other Interceptors and Coders have built their lives and energies in the job. She's absolutely certain it's not letting people die.
"You'll be disobeying the Chair?" Hunter mutters. "We're really doing this, huh?"
"Hunter, love, we're not really disobeying the Chair; I, in fact, did what he demanded, right?" Cal starts putting up data in her computer. "This is our own decision. We're protecting—or helping?—that family, even if Phantasma will not. Chair thinks that Ambiguous will probably change his mind after being attacked, but that's not what the Project is all about. He's playing Ambiguous like a dog and I… I've never felt comfortable with that kind of thing. Besides, his family doesn't have to suffer for this, Hunter."
"Suffer so early?" her best friend smirks. He waves his wand over the printer and it starts spewing pages; these were charmed to turn into gasoline when taken beyond a fifteen meter-radius from the Clandestine.
"If you say so," Cal mutters, no longer focused on the banter with her right-hand man. She's busy making an itinerary in her mind, trying to make a ten-man intervention strategy work for three to five people. She's not worried about Christmas; if everything goes well after her talk with her father after this, he'll be distracting the rest of the Council for the rest of the week. And they can proceed well.
"If the Project hasn't been paying me well and you are not as capable as you are rebellious, I will not be in on this. You're a distress to my talents, Ashford," Hunter grumbles the last words under his breath, but Cal only ignores him. She knows the truth, of course. Hunter's reasons for going with this are as deep as hers.
A few hours before the twenty-fifth of December ends, with a burst of green flames, the Fifth of the council emerges from the fireplace. He steps into a luxuriously furnished suite in a Muggle hotel in Rome, the city of lovers. He looks around with satisfaction, immediately pleased with the heavy, red velvet curtains around the large, circular bed in the middle of the room.
However, there is only one kind of red that he is hungry for. As he sits on a high-backed couch near the bed, waiting for someone, he thinks about how fortunate it is that the Project has halted all operations for this holiday. He's pretty sure that for this, he'll abandon anything.
The one he is waiting for emerges from the bathroom, soft skin wrapped in a fluffy white towel. Flowing, red hair fall in one shoulders and brown eyes flutter at him seductively. "Miss Weasley," he breathes.
With cat-like grace, Ginny Weasley walks over the Fifth and straddles him, one hand fluttering over the twist that secures the towel around her body. "You have what I need?" she purrs.
"Of course, I do. I have it right here," Fifth replies weakly, his fingers running through the sweet-smelling, damp red hair, down flawlessly smooth shoulders.
"I do trust you," Ginny says. She delicately wraps her arms around his neck, drawing him closer to her. "But before that…"
The Fifth's defenses are down and he feels like his blood is singing in his veins. His heart thrums in tune with the melody of Harry Potter's ex-girlfriend's seduction. As Ginny makes him forget for a while, reason leaves him, and he is foolish enough to assume that a small amount of information, few pulls of strings here and there, are a worthy price to pay for this Yuletide indulgence.