Ever,
We've found out how to get into the passageway with the humpbacked witch!
Happy Christmas, by the way. Mum and Dad didn't really know what you'd like, but we told them you were a bookworm and you really liked learning about more magic stuff, since you're not really from around our side o' the woods, so Mum stuck in a book or two and Dad put in a few of the Ministry of Magic pamphlets, 'cause we're not even sure if you know about the Ministry, now that we think on it. And if this gets to you late, well, it's 'cause our owl is a bloody idiot and old as dirt to boot.
Anyway, we were mucking about with the map the other night, and we were just watching people go around the school, the ones who stayed on holiday—Star especially, we know you're worried about him so we've been looking him up and he spends a lot of time in the kitchens with the house elves, and it's funny, they show up on the map too, so whoever made it had to've known about them, we reckon—and Freddie was tracing the path to the witch with his wand and when he tapped the picture of the statue, this little word bubble came out of her mouth. We'll tell you the password when we see you, 'cause we don't want to risk this falling into the wrong hands—at that, Ever couldn't help but snort; who's hands would it have fallen into in her little neighborhood, other than Merit? And what would Merit care?—and we know that sounds a bit daft but Dad says it all the time and we think it sounds cool, all undercover agent and stuff.
Anyway, Ginny's yelling upstairs for us to come down to dinner, so we'll send this off in a bit and hopefully you'll get it on Christmas, or Boxing Day at least.
Gred and Forge
Ever giggled as she put down the letter, casting her eyes to the box that they'd sent along with a poor owl who looked like he was on his last leg. She wondered, idly, as she fed him a few treats she'd picked up from the post office—it turned out they not only sent letters, but sold owls and everything one needed to take care of them as well—what his name was, and resolved to ask the twins as soon as she saw him, but...for now the box was calling her name, and she pulled it over.
As was always her way with presents, she opened it slowly, untying the ribbon somebody had attached—probably Mrs. Weasley—and laying it to the side, and then pulling off the tape. Inside were a couple of books—old, well-worn novels, ones that made her heart skip a beat in her chest and touched her in a way that she couldn't put into words; Mrs. Weasley had clearly sent her two of her favorites—and a few pamphlets, just like the twins had said. Beneath that there was more chocolate than she thought she could ever eat, but she flopped down on her bed beside the box and immediately popped a piece into her mouth, grabbing the first book.
"Break With A Banshee," Ever whispered, turning it over to look at the back cover. Instead of a little blurb, as was the norm for muggles, she was faced with a portrait of a good-looking blond man winking up at her. She jumped, dropping the book on the bed beside her. She had barely gotten used to the portraits on the walls at school moving, let alone one on a cover of a book. Slowly, with deliberate care—there was something she didn't like in his face, and she was half convinced that he was going to jump up and bite her if she got too close him—she reached over the first book and into the box to grab the second. What she pulled out of the box took her breath away.
The book was old and clearly loved by many little hands; there was a stain here, a rip there, and little fingerprints all along the metal embellishments along the cover. It was leather-bound, and when she opened it, the print looked as though it was handwritten. In the center of the page, in ink that changed colors—from gold to red, black to yellow, green to silver, and violet to bronze—and in a beautiful script, was The Tales of Beedle The Bard. Beneath that, in a neat, flowery script, Mrs. Weasley had written her own little note.
Ever,
My children have enjoyed this book as long as I think they're going to, and I think it's time it got passed on to someone who may still appreciate it. I've heard you get on well with Charlie, and if you're anything like him you'll particularly love these little fairytales. Happy Christmas, dear.
Molly Weasley
For a moment, Ever just stared at the words on the page. She read them once, twice, a third time, and closed the little book, holding it tight to her chest and staring at her bedside table, where a picture of her mum made its home. All at once, she forgot about how the moving pictures had bothered her, had seemed so unnatural, and wished that this one would move, the the woman in profile smiling up at the child she held above her head would turn and smile at Ever as she was now, eleven years old and missing her more than she ever had. The first year had heard that getting over the death of someone you loved took time, and that it would get better, but it had been nearly six months and every time she was reminded of her she still wanted to break down and cry... Slowly, she put the book with Gilderoy Lockheart's moving face—it didn't even phase her now—into the box, placed the box on the floor, and curled up on her side, staring at that picture. She didn't cry; she supposed she might have been cried out, with all that she had done over the past two weeks, since she'd met Star and been reminded of how she'd been just a few months before, leaning against a wall away from anyone and not caring who may pass and see the tears rolling down her face... But she wanted to.
After a moment of fighting to get her breath back, Ever sat up and opened the book. Carefully flipping past the title page—if she saw the note again, she knew she would break down—she began to read.