Merry-Not Christmas
Warnings for: depression, mild swearing
Baker Street no. 221B, 25th December 2003
“Harry….”
“Hmm?”
“How long have you stayed in here?”
“Dunno.”
“Do you know what date it is?”
“No.”
“What have you been doing all this time?”
“Studying, Mione, as you can see. Now let me be, all right? I need to finish this before Slughorn comes to test me.”
“Harry….”
“What?”
“It’s not healthy. You told me once.”
“What’s not healthy?”
“This!”
“Ow! Be louder, will you?”
“I shall, if you don’t leave now and greet your people. They’ve been missingn you!”
“Ow! What’s wrong with you, Mione? It’s studying. You never stopped anybody from studying. And this is an important study, you know. – Ow! Don’t hit me!”
“Harry, today is Christmas. Slughorn will be busy with his own parties.”
“Oh? Oh. Oh. Merry Christmas, Mione.”
“Harry!”
“Awww. Don’t shout in my ear!”
“I shall do worse to you if you don’t get your bum off that chair and move it to the fireplace, right now.”
“Bossy.”
“By count of three. One… two… three.”
“Hey! I’m not a balloon! Put me down! – Where did you bannish my book to? It’s a rare volume! What will I tell Slughorn if I lost his prized book?”
I flail about midair, sans the tome about exotic poisons and how to battle them that I’ve been reading, while an incensed Hermione marches me out of my bedroom, which doubles as my lab and study.
And, in the living room of the generously sized flat in London that I rented when I began my potions mastery, our ridiculous procession is met by Zabini, of all people.
Who clearly looks entertained with my plight.
Although, thankfully, they say nothing to me, whether a comment or an insult… or an insulting comment. They just turn round, Insendio the logs in the fireplace, throw what looks like the Floo powder into the healthy blaze, then blandly announce, “The Black Farm,” just before stepping into the now-green fire.
Hermione lets my feet touch the carpeted floor, then. But before I can return to my little slice of… well, little slice of life, she already wraps me in a bear hug.
A strong bear hug.
Which she then uses to drag me towards the fireplace, with its green flame still snapping here and there.
“Whoa! Hey!” I squawk. “Why’re you bringing me there? There’s nothing there. And since when did you become so strong?”
She shoves the two of us into the flame before I can close my mouth, and snaps out the same destination before I manage to get my bearing.
As the result, the spinning vortex of fireplaces hits my elbow repeatedly. And my shoulders, too, and my bum, and the back of my head….
Damned witch.
Grimmauld Place no. 12, 25th December 2003
My “spectacular” exit out of the fireplace – coughing and flailing and failing to stay upright, bringing Hermione down with me – is greeted by utter silence.
It wouldn’t be eerie if there’s indeed nobody to greet us.
But, through my watering eyes, I can see at least a handful of people – humans and house-elves alike – stuffed into the not-so-big room, all gawking at me.
“What?” I protest, then curl up, coughing up all the contents of my lungs, it feels.
“Were you trying to kill them, Granger?” Zabini’s voice sounds above me. They sound just as bland as they looked, but I can detect a hint of steel in it, even through my own coughs and protesting lungs.
“Wha–. Why’d you say that?” she grumps. “It’s his own fault for speaking when we’re Flooing!” She sounds above me, too, so she’s managed to pick herself up after the tumble out of the fireplace.
“And why were they speaking when you were Flooing?” The steel is more apparent, now.
And Hermione seems to pick it up, at last, because she sounds even more exasperated, with a touch of defensiveness thrown in, as she claims that I seemed confused and wouldn’t stop talking.
Great. What a day you have, Potter. Thrown out of your peaceful study only to end up being gawked at by a bunch of people and coughing up your lungs and having to listen to your kidnappers quarrel above your head….
Fortunately for me, a “fresh-faced” potions apprentice that I am, I’ve got quite a few potions ready in my pocket at any time, including presently.
Unfortunately for my kidnappers, one of the potions is my own version of a refined dungbomb, which not only smells bad and creates severe disorientation but also generates a thick oily fog.
A damned hard-to-disperse thick, oily fog, which was the side effect of one of my experiments which I turned into this weapon.
Then, in the cacophonous confusion that follows, I reach out to the wards round the place, make a hole for myself among their wefts, and Apparate through the little thing.
Black Island, 25th December 2003
Black Island is the single most well-kept secret of the House of Black. The portrait of Lord Arcturus Black the Second even claimed that not all Lords of the House were priveleged to know about this secret, which is tied to the sentient signet ring of the House… that not all of the so-called “lords” could actually wear on their respective fingers, too. The ring chooses the bearer of the secret itself, and the said bearer cannot tell anybody else but fellow bearers, living or otherwise.
I found this out at Black Castle just after Teal’c was gone, when I was trying to distract myself from thoughts and worries about him, by bothering the portraits of the Blacks of the past that hung there. Lord Arcturus the Second found out that I was Lord Black but didn’t wear the ring, whether on my finger as it is proper or round my neck on a necklace if I got rejected. His ranting was… of epic proportion.
I then told him that I was terribly leery of a sentient piece of anything, especially one that would remain on my person until I die or pass the lordship to another bearing Black blood. And he retorted that I should be leery of the ring if I meant ill to the House and its members without any good reason.
The debate raged on from that point.
And the old painted codger won it. Embarrassing.
He even rubbed his victory over me by demanding that I claim the ring right before his painted eyes.
And the ring did settle round my left middle finger. – Oh how he crowed….
Thankfully the somebody in the ring isn’t chatty or controlling, the ring itself is the boring type of a smallish black stone – as in sapping all light black – bound by a thin but strong band of silvery metal, and I got this island in the bargain.
It’s not a bad island, at that, although reachable only by Portkey – the ring – and warded seemingly down to every inch of ground and every puff of air, with how saturated with magic it feels. It’s a rich, expansive piece of hidden, unplottable real estate, certainly, which features landscapes such as a small mountain, a huge lake on top of it, hills, three rivers and many more streams and countless brooks, sandy and rocky beaches, lush and wild-looking sections of forest, smaller but equally lush and wild-looking sections of grassy plain, formidable cliffs and interesting caves…. Well, the list goes on and on, it feels, growing more and more each time I visit, and now’s only the third. I’m not really in the mood of exploring, though, so the list mightn’t be added on, this time.
Instead of looking round, I make a beeline to the house – or rather, hut – that serves as shelter for whoever visiting here, which perches on a small grassy hill overlooking a black sandy beach with calm water and, far off to the sea, a thin but long line of jagged and fearsome-looking black, glistening reef.
When I first laid eyes on the hut, which is a tiny, simple affair of thatched roof and rough wooden walls with exotic, earthen-coloured woven cloths as door “panels” and window “panes,” I thought it was an illusion. How not? It looks even humbler and much more mundane than the Burrow! And I bet it’s been like that since the start, judging by the fearsomely strong preservation ward that has saturated every fibre and every milimetre of the little home.
When I first went past the front door “panel,” therefore breaking the illusion if there’s any, I was even more floored. Almost literally. Because the floor’s only packed dirt. The single room in there was filled with very, very simple and sparse furniture, too, and it stays till now. – A large divan woven from rushes and supported by halved logs lies perpendicular to the left of the front door, set beside a large window that overlooks the beach. A rough-hewn multifunction wooden table stands between the super-minimalistic bed and the kitchen corner, with two equally rough-hewn wooden stools stowed underneath it. The kitchen corner itself, which extends beyond the table till the back door that’s in line with the front one, features another large window, a fire pit with a stout chimney above it, a clay stove nearby, a collection of clay pots and pans and wooden utensils, and a small, rough-hewn wooden chest containing wooden eating wares. And… that’s all.
I can’t imagine even Ron staying in this place, let alone Malfoy Jr.
It’s pretty homey, though, and – even more importantly – airy, with two more windows set above the table and opposite it between the back and front doors.
For one who spent his entire childhood in either a small cupboard or a small, heavily locked and barred room, It’s perfect.
It’s peacefully silent, too, but for the endless sounds of the forest and the sea and the occasional wind. Nobody is here unless I personally bring them here. Nothing additional is here unless I bring it myself here.
Undemanding. Uncluttered. Safe. Free.
I shuck off the slippers that I’ve been wearing, then stretch out on the divan facing the window that I open with the flick of a hand.
A stretch of rippling, deep blue water greets me beyond the grass and the black sand, backdropped by a row of sharp, jagged, glistening spikes like the teeth of a massive sea monster, which ironically protects the calm heaven from the huge, vicious waves beyond. Here, the sun is setting, and the yellow-orange-red-purple fire spreading on the horizon beyond the waves, surrounded by the calm, deepening blue of the sky, makes the view even more… wow; just wow.
It’s a surreal view to me, since I never witnessed the sun sinking into the sea before in my life, but definitely wow, and the gusts of cool, damp, saltwater-smelling sea breeze that buffet my face just now make it real.
I wish I could share this view with my friends.
I wish I could share it with Andy and Teddy, even more.
And Teal’c.
Damn you, Teal’c.