Serpentarium

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU
Christmas morning, Lucy stays in her bed as her roommates bustle around. Parcels had arrived in droves, piling in front of bedroom doors all throughout Gryffindor tower. She feigns sleep as the girls tear open packages, squealing over every bit and bauble that they were gifted. Lucy’s nose twitches at the smell of mince pies and treacle fudge, but still she stays in bed, not wanting to sour their Christmas morning fun with the acknowledgement of her existence.

No one had miraculously appeared the night before with gifts for her 17th birthday, not that she had expected anyone to. A small part of her had hoped, though, for at least her legal guardian to send her some little trinket or sweet. Alas, she hadn’t even seen Snape the day before. She hadn’t told any of her new Slytherin friends about her birthday, so naturally, she spent her first birthday since being born without a single word of congratulations. She tried not to let it bother her, tried not to fret over something so trivial, but she misses her mother’s birthday tikvenik [Bulgarian pumpkin pastry dessert] and her father’s annual gift of a muggle book.

Last year, she was gifted Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. The year before had been The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. What she wouldn’t give to have those books with her now, to breathe in the pages and trace the muggle receipts that rested in them as bookmarks. But they still reside along with the other cherished mementos, still packed in trunks at Snape’s home.

She briefly wonders how her life could have possibly come to this, spending her birthday completely alone without a single gift or “happy birthday.” She thought that she wouldn’t miss it, that it would be just another day, but she does miss it. Greatly. She moves her thoughts quickly to her plans for the night, distracting herself with her mission, as per usual.

Lucy had her eyes on a few Slytherin date options, but she hadn’t needed to ask any of them to be her date once Rupert asked a few days after the dance lessons. She has the sneaking suspicion that he only asked so that he wouldn’t be dateless and because she was his least precarious option. Her acceptance did not stop the numerous Durmstrang students that asked her, though. They seemed to flock to her in the last couple of weeks, nearly all stating that it would be an honor to escort “The Vulchanova Heir” to the Yule Ball. She turned them all down as politely but sternly as possible, managing to not hex a single one of them in the process.

At least Rupert helped her check one thing off her long to do list. As she lay in bed, Lucy ticks off all that she had accomplished since the last Tournament task: she ordered a dress for the Yule Ball and had it delivered by owl, she nearly was given the Slytherin common room location and password by Pansy and would have if it weren’t for Draco, she had squirmed her way in to Draco’s personal circle after helping Goyle with Arithmancy lessons, and, most importantly, she hadn’t had another run in with George Weasley.

Knowing Goyle could be a bit dim, she expected that he would have the common room password written down somewhere on his person, and one sly swipe later she had lifted a bit of parchment from his robe pocket. Unfortunately, the password sloppily
scrawled on it was a few weeks old and not likely to still be useable.

Eventually, Lucy’s roommates scuttle off to enjoy a special holiday breakfast in the Great Hall. She rises from bed then and dresses in navy corduroy trousers, a pinstripe gray jumper, and her coat. She avoids her reflection in the mirror, which has become a daily occurrence as of late. She doesn’t want to see herself without a cheery Christmas jumper like the ones she would wear with her mother every year. She also knows that dark circles stain her under eyes, proof of her poor sleep recently. Her eyes flit over to where her Yule Ball dress hangs from the top of her bed’s partition, just as her roommates’ dresses do.

Not for the first time, she is struck by how ‘not her taste’ it is with its body-hugging shape, its velvet fabric clinging to just below her knees. The only part she does like is the ballooning, wispy, sheer black sleeves, speckled with sewn in black beads, sleeves that tie with a black satin bow at her wrist. While she had considered that its dark emerald shade is a bit obviously Slytherin, she had decided that any moment of obviousness could only help her support the new image she is building for herself.

Deciding to skip breakfast in favor of a nice, centering walk across the bridge, she pulls open the door, only to find George on the other side, fist raised to knock. She stumbles back a step before speaking.

“What are you doing here? And how do you keep...I mean, how did you get into the girls’ dorm?!” she asks, her eyes darting into the hall to check for onlookers.

Charming as ever, he brushes aside her rude tone and makes his way into her room, a grin gracing his face all the while.

“George, you aren’t supposed to be in here,” she huffs as he drops a stuffed burlap bag onto her bed.

“I had to come in through the door. I don’t see a chimney. Afterall, today, I am Father Christmas,” he smiles again, flicking the white, fluffy yarn bauble atop his red beanie.

“I’m serious, George. You aren’t meant to be in the girls’ dorms,” she chides, even as her gaze flicks back and forth between his face and the bag he deposited on her bed.

He doesn’t answer her scolding, instead reaching into the bag and withdrawing a small lump wrapped haphazardly in crinkled brown paper and no small amount of tape. She stares at it as he holds it out to her, not moving to accept it.

“Happy Birthday, Pocket. And Merry Christmas,” he grins, taking her wrist and gently pushing the gift into her hand.

“George.”

All protests or exclamations become stuck in her throat. She can only say his name as emotions battle inside of her. Her hand closes around the box as she keeps her eyes on his. He doesn’t stop grinning, doesn’t waver in how he casually leans against the bed frame and urges her to open her gift.

“I...I can’t accept this, George,” she manages to say, trying to shove the gift back at him.

He only skips back playfully and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Now, now, Pocket. Imagine how hurt Dad will be to learn that you rejected his present. After all the trouble he went through to get it,” George tisks.

“This is from Arthur?” she asks in a quiet voice, subconsciously hugging the weighty lump to her chest.

Being that Molly was Kate’s best friend, Lucy had spent her entire childhood around the Weasley family, well before beginning Hogwarts. Arthur and Molly hold special places in her heart, as much family as her own parents were. A memory plays in her mind of the summer before her first year at Hogwarts.

FLASHBACK

“You see, Lucy, the muggles have these places called ‘Car Wash.’ They drive their vehicles into tiny buildings with one corridor. Right on the side of the road! Then, they turn off their car and tiny people push it along. Machines spray soap and water, and
tentacles from some unknown creature scrub the doors and windows spic and span,” Arthur explained while tinkering with a metal, whirring contraption that Lucy recognized as an electric hand mixer.

“I’ve been through one myself, Arthur. Maxen and I will have to drive you through one day,” Kate offers, sending an amused wink in her daughter’s direction.

“That’s quite enough of that. Dinner’s on the table,” Molly fussed about, pausing to wipe a bit of dust from her husband’s nose.

“Wash up first, dear,” Molly smiled and patted his face. He only nodded and turned his head to kiss her palm before she bustled back into the house.

Making the short trek from Arthur’s workshop to the main house, Lucy skipped along, hand in hand with her mother.

“Mummy, I want to go through the car wash, too. I want to see the tentacles!” she exclaimed as Arthur continued fiddling with his contraption as he walked.

“Alright, little one. We’ll see.”

END OF FLASHBACK

George doesn’t speak for a moment, recognizing that Lucy’s far off look as one of reminiscence.

“No, that one is from me. These,” he says, holding up the burlap sack, “are from Mum and Dad.”

Lucy’s eyes widen at the sight of the bulging bag.

“I don’t deserve,” she begins to explain how she could never accept such kindness after spending the last two months doing everything in her power to speak out against families like the Weasleys.

“Hush,” he says quickly, stopping her words with a gentle finger on her lips. The soft touch reminds her of his lips against hers and she swallows in response.

“Sit. Open your presents,” he orders, his voice so soft and coaxing that she finds herself following his instruction.

She inhales a long breath as she peels back the crinkled paper and sets it aside. What she sees resting in her palm brings a slow smile of wonder to her face.

“It’s a muggle snow globe. Dad helped me find it. Just turn it over and,” he starts to explain, only to stop as she holds up her free hand.

“I know how they work. It’s beautiful, George,” she grins without realizing it, cupping the globe’s silver gilded base as if someone might rip it from her grasp.

Inside of the small snow globe rests a miniature carousel of brightly painted ponies, saddled giraffes, and prancing zebras. Lucy swirls the globe, entranced as the fake snow dances around the creatures, transporting her into an alternate world where she is
free, where she and George spin round and round and round and no one can catch them.

“Now on to the rest!” He cheers, dumping the bag’s contents onto the bed.

“This is too much,” she murmurs, in shock at the sight of the packages.

“Well they are your birthday and your Christmas presents,” he offers with a shrug, still smiling.

“George, honestly,” she begins to protest again, but he stops her.

“Imagine how hurt Mum would be to know that you won’t even open the gifts she sent for you!”

“Stop it. Stop using them to get me to accept these,” she tries to push animosity into her voice but fails, too touched and too warm hearted to muster up a harsh tone.

“Pocket, please. If not for my Mum, then for yours,” he says softly, sitting next to her on the bed and placing a brown-paper-wrapped lump in her lap.

“That’s a dirty trick, George,” she mumbles under her breath and clears her throat against the emotions threatening to make her cry.

“We just wanted to make the holiday a little less glum for you,” he scoots even closer still, reaching to cup her face and trace her cheekbone with his thumb.

For the briefest of moments, she leans into the touch, only to quickly jerk away. Pretending that she isn’t about to crack under the pressure of his kindness, she squares her shoulders and begins tearing into her gifts.

A few minutes later, all sorts of homemade treats and well-loved muggle dime novels litter Lucy’s bed. George shamelessly opens one of the tins of nut brittle, treacle fudge, and mince pies and steals out a mince pie for himself while Lucy shirks off her coat and pulls on a knitted jumper over her outfit. For the briefest of moments, she lets herself imagine her and George enjoying the holidays together. She can easily picture them in their matching navy-blue jumpers, his baring a light green G, hers an L, snuggling up by the fireplace at The Burrow. She can almost taste the mugs of hot chocolate, can almost hear Molly’s fussing at Fred’s mischief.

“It’s a bit big, but I’ll tell Mum that it fits perfectly,” George smiles, having eaten the entirety of the pie, effectively jolting her from dream land. “Or you could write her and let her know. She’d be chuffed to hear from you. Oh, and don’t worry about the treats. Fred and I didn’t sneak in any of our inventions.”

The pair had been incredibly successful in the selling of their Canary Creams, and Lucy is sure that they are working on more trickery treats, even though neither of them had told her. She rubs a hand down the length of the jumper’s soft arm and wishes that she never put it on. It feels too cozy, too much like home, so she whips it off and starts gathering the small collection of books with yellowed pages, frayed edges, and tiny orange stickers labeled “10¢.” She avoids looking at them too closely, barely resisting the urge to thumb through the pages and shriek with excitement. She can’t help but notice that they are romance novels, though, and of course she simply must know if Arthur realized the contents of the pages before sending them as gifts for her.

Still, saying that she is extremely touched by his trying to continue her father’s tradition is a supreme understatement. She notices a thick, wax sealed letter, decorated with a bit of red twine, but doesn’t even pick it up for fear that she will give in to the need to read the surely loving, supportive, and kind words on the pages. She can feel the need to cry creeping up her throat, but she fights it and steals her will.

“I don’t want these,” she holds out the books to him, inwardly cursing the tremor in her hands as his smile fades.

“Come off it, Lucy. It’s Christmas,” he half pleads, half chastises as he stands from the bed.

“And take the treats, too. I don’t want them, and I don’t need them,” she lies.

She slinks back slightly as he prowls towards her, his face pinched with hurt.

“Lucy, please. No one has to even know about the gifts,” he speaks softly as he gently pushes her outstretched hands down.

“I don’t have a place for these useless things,” she lies again, tossing them back onto her bed and crossing her arms over her chest.

All the while, she repeats what she knows she can’t say aloud over and over in her mind.

All I want for Christmas is you. Just...you.

“You know how much this will hurt Mum and Dad.”

“Honestly George, don’t you know now that I have moved on?” she is beginning to feel nauseated, actually physically sick, as she verbally denounces the people that she adores so greatly.

Tense silence spreads between them, both of their faces flushed with emotion, neither of them knowing what to say or do next.

George slowly begins placing the gifts back into the sack and ties it shut with an aggressive jerk.

“You won’t always be like this. One day, you’ll be Pocket again. Until then, I’ll keep these for you. When you’re ready, let me know,” he states in a voice so cold that she barely recognizes it.

Flinging the bag over his shoulder, he leaves her behind without another word.

Lucy stands there in the quiet for a long while, trying to scrape together some sort of calm. It is then that she realizes that he left behind the snow globe. She collapses back onto her mattress and holds it above her face, swirling it over and over until she feels calm enough to leave the room. Even as she hates that she had to push him away, again, she is overwhelmed with thankfulness. Her birthday was not forgotten, after all. She was not forgotten. She wraps the snow globe in her favorite but no longer worn light gray jumper and carefully buries it and her toiling emotions in the very bottom of their prospective trunks.

Those not in the Great Hall for breakfast crowd the common room, belting out Christmas songs and showing off their gifts. The young Gryffindor boy with the camera, who Lucy now knows as Colin Creevey, snaps pictures of groups of friends, posing together in their pajamas. Soon after managing to wriggle through the crowds in Gryffindor tower, Lucy regrets her route as she passes by Ron, Harry, Fred, Hermoine, and George in the courtyard. Harry, Fred, and George sport their knitted jumpers from Molly, but all of them are bundled up in layers as they flit around the courtyard. From underneath Harry’s open coat, she can see his jumper, sporting a skillfully knitted image of a Hungarian Horntail, identical to the one he had battled in the last Tournament Task. The way he wears his jumper so proudly, leaving his coat open for the world to see it, stabs familiar pain through her.

Hermoine huffs in disapproval as a stray snowball knocks the book from her hand and Ron quickly apologizes, picking it up from the snow and brushing it dry. A rare air of glee surrounds Harry as he pelts an unexpecting Ron in the back of his head with a snowball. Ron quickly rejoins the fray, his outcry of protest nowhere near angry. Harry is laughing, full out, and it brings a hidden smile to Lucy’s face. She takes comfort in seeing him have a moment of holiday cheer among all of the trials and hard times that he has had to and will later go through.

She lingers for a moment, watching George as he cheers loudly with upstretched arms, apparently having won their mock war.

He has always been the most athletic.

Her musing is interrupted by George catching her staring. His smile brightens for a moment, only to fall again as she abruptly turns and crunches through the snow.

Lucy spends the rest of her morning avoiding anyone and everyone, readying herself mentally for the Yule Ball. She had offered to meet her date, Rupert, at his common room, but he insisted they meet outside the Great Hall instead. Yet another failed attempt to gain access to the common room. Lucy takes a deep breath of icy air, letting it revive her as she vows to never forget the beauty that is Hogwarts in the winter. Not that she could ever forget, but still. Everything is coated in white, sparkling in the sun. Even though, as a witch, her life is full of magic daily, she sees it all the more in the way that snow and ice transforms the stone of the castle, the Beauxbatons carriage, the Durmstrang ship, the courtyard, and the lake. Nearby, a 3rd year stirs the snowflakes in the air with a gesture of her wand and her friends cheer her on as the snow takes the shape of a pouncing cat.

Oh to be able to just...enjoy.

As Lucy walks slowly over the bridge, she mentally sifts through the talking points that she had rehearsed, talking points designed to pry information from Rupert without him noticing.

She had surmised a great deal of information from her Slytherin friends in the past couple of months. While she is certain that Jess, Suz, and Mary have no ties to Death Eaters or dark arts, she came upon the information that Rupert’s father fought alongside Voldemort’s forces in the First Wizarding War. He had been killed sometime during the war, leaving Rupert in his mother’s care. While Lucy is not sure of Mrs. Mancer’s allegiances, she has watched Rupert stick closely to Malfoy. That along with his family ties gives her enough reason to believe that tonight, she will have to get him to confess. If he does admit to being a junior Death Eater, she will have to either get him to turn or turn him in to Dumbledore. While she itches for a chance to yield a concrete result from her hard work, she still hopes against hope that she is wrong and the sullen boy has nothing to do with his father’s legacy.

So wrapped up in thought, Lucy almost doesn’t notice an approaching Viktor Krum, a gaggle of Beauxbatons students following behind him. He stomps right past her, irritation obvious on his face. Lucy turns slightly to watch the Beauxbatons skid to a stop when Viktor does. He murmurs something unintelligible and the girls scurry off, still giggling and whispering. And then he advances towards her.

Lucy waits for him to speak, but he only stands in front of her, decked in his furs and looking fully to be the Quidditch champion that he is.

“Dragana Vulchanova, yes?” he asks, his tone completely deadpan.

“Yes, but it’s actually Lucy. Lucy Shafiq,” she answers, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

Not this again.

“My Headmaster want me to ask you to ball. I do not. I go with Hermy-own. I like Hermy-own.”

“I’ve had a date for a while, anyway, which I explained to your classmates at length.”

“I think maybe they not good enough. That is why you say no.”

“I said no because I am more than just The Vulchanova Heir. And, as I already said, I have a date.”

“Well. Still. My Headmaster want me dance with you. I do not want upset Her...Herm...My date,” he explains and Lucy hears the question in his statement.

“You can ask me to dance and I’ll say no. Don’t worry.”

“I thank you, Loose-sea.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and makes his way back towards the castle.

Lucy later feigns excitement at lunch with Mary, Suz, and Jess as the trio chatter excitedly about their dates and outfit choices. She doesn’t, however, have to fake her awe at the castle’s Christmas decorations. Each table in the Great Hall hosts a fresh Christmas tree decked in the corresponding house’s colors. She gazes lovingly once again at the Slytherin tree, appreciating the sparkling silver snakes slithering through the branches, the green velvet bows, and the enchanted candles that flicker in gleaming silver holders, floating around the tree from top to bottom.

She had taken the long route to the Great Hall for lunch, basking in the flickering candles and banners adorning the halls. Enchanted knights had sung cheerfully a variety of holiday songs that they managed about half of the lyrics of. The winter chill of the castle corridors is no longer blustering, giving way to warmth and the scent of roasting chestnuts and Christmas pudding.

Rupert stays relatively silent as the girls talk, as per usual, but Lucy notices his quick glances and following blushes that he sends in her direction. Lucy finds her mind wandering as she half listens to Mary. She considers how Rupert is actually a handsome boy, with his tousled brown hair and elegant hands. He has a calm gracefulness about him that is so rare in teenage boys. She finds herself wondering what it will be like that night when he takes her hand in his to dance. She doesn’t want him, doesn’t dream about being held by him, but she notices still.

What a shame that I have a thing for gingers. Well, a specific ginger.

After weeks of procrastinating, Rob had managed to blurt out an invitation to Mary, which she gleefully accepted. The poor boy still gazes at her like she is made of stardust and Lucy can’t help but wonder how he will manage any conversation or even placing his hands anywhere on Mary to dance. Suz waited until the last moment before sending a note to Dougal, asking if he would like to go with her as a friend. Lucy had watched his ears turn pink as he read the note and sent a very enthusiastic bobble-yes of his head in Suz’s direction across the Great Hall. Lucy had heard that Fred would be going with Angelina, but no one had whispered yet who George would be going with. Her mind wanders to thoughts of him in dress robes with his wide-dimple-grin on his face as he sweeps her across the dance floor.

But I won’t have that with George. Tonight, it is all about Rupert.

Lucy glances at her date for the night and finds him pushing around the rich stew in his bowl as Rob whispers frantically about how the Yule Ball is destined to ignite the fire of true love between him and Mary. She, at least, can muster up an honest smile at that, a smile that fades with the approach of Draco Malfoy.

“I need to speak with you, Mancer. Privately,” Draco orders in a voice dripping with malcontent.

Surprising everyone at the table, Rupert glares up at Draco, crossing his arms and staying rooted in his seat.

“Did my words not break through that thick skull of yours?” Draco sneers, knocking his fist on top of Rupert’s head as if knocking on a door.

Rupert doesn’t say a word of reply, nor does he move to stand. The fair skin on his neck and face slowly start to pinken, though.

“We have business to discuss, Mancer. And you owe me an explanation,” Draco bends, leaning one hand on the table and meeting Rupert’s stare head on.

“Explanation?” Rupert asks through gritted teeth as Lucy watches his fists clench under the table.

“Yes. As to why you are going to the Yule Ball with that Gryffindor. Did you think I wouldn’t say anything? She isn’t on my approved list and you know it,” Draco sneers again, shooting a hateful glare over to Lucy.

“As I made clear to you last week, the only person that controls my life from now on, is me,” Rupert stands then, so abruptly that it causes Draco to stumble backwards.

The angry blush is on Draco’s face now as he picks invisible lint from his cashmere jumper’s sleeve.

“You’ll come to regret that, Mancer. But you already know that, don’t you?”

With a menacing smile and a jerking gesture for his shadows, Crabbe and Goyle, to follow, he swaggers off, leaving the table in silence.

Rob reaches to offer a comforting hand on Rupert’s shoulder, but he shakes him off and slumps back into his chair.

“Gecko, what’s going on with…” Rob asks softly, only to be stopped by Rupert holding up his hand.

“Leave it, Rob,” he orders.

“Just tell…” Rob starts again, only to be interrupted again.

“I said, LEAVE IT,” Rupert near yells, shooting up from the dead quiet table. “Lucy, I’ll see you at the Great Hall tonight. Everybody else, please have the decency not to whisper about me after I’m gone.”

And with that, he leaves his friends behind. And they certainly do not have the decency not to whisper.