The morning of Christmas Eve — the twenty-fourth of December — began in the household with the proper, logical kind of bustle: exercise, washing up, cooking breakfast, eating it, and preparing for the trip into London. A long and demanding day lay ahead: shopping, walking, cafés, perhaps a restaurant. In short, it was to be family time.
The first stop, perhaps surprisingly, was Dad driving us all to the Leaky Cauldron. He couldn't see the pub himself, but knowing the address was sufficient to drop Hermione and me off.
"Are you coming?" I asked my sister, adjusting my scarf and preparing to get out.
"No, I'll wait here with Mum and Dad."
"Fine. I won't be long."
The thing was, Hedwig — Crookshanks — no, Hedwig — I paused. Scops. Scops had chosen to remain at Hogwarts with the other owls. Partly my fault — before leaving I'd looked in on the owlery, had a word with him, and persuaded him that his services wouldn't be needed for the first few days. Which meant I now had to either use the public owlery or simply go into St Mungo's and ask at reception about Smethwyck's hours. I was fairly certain that medicine here, in the wizarding world, no more recognised the concept of holiday than it did in the ordinary one, and ran to its usual schedule.
Passing through the Leaky Cauldron onto Diagon Alley, I found myself appreciating the festive decorations again — the street was neatly dressed for Christmas, the snow arranged as though by a skilled set designer rather than nature. Though this was the main magical street in London; it would have been strange if they hadn't made some effort to match the season.
Not lingering at the entrance, I made my way through the crowd of witches and wizards — many hurrying to pick up something for the holidays, since even the wizarding world, it turned out, was not immune to merchants pushing more product over the festive period, complete with modest discounts.
Wanted notices caught my eye on a few walls — animated portraits of the Azkaban escapees — but the witches and wizards around them paid little attention. There was no panic in the general mood, no real fear, though a faint unease was visible in the faces of those who'd stepped to one side and were talking quietly amongst themselves.
St Mungo's Hospital showed absolutely no concession to the season. Not a single decoration inside — the same pale colour scheme, the same witch in the lime-green robes at the reception desk, her expression no warmer than usual, the same scattering of patients in no hurry to move anywhere, the occasional one making for a relevant office or taking the wide staircase up or down.
I approached the desk and cleared my throat to get the mediwitch's attention.
"Excuse me," I said, with a touch of an easy smile. "Could you tell me which days Healer Smethwyck is available, and at what times?"
"The next available day is the day after tomorrow. Morning through evening."
So he had two days off — poorly timed on my part. Not a disaster. The matter wasn't urgent.
"Thank you. Good day."
"Mhm," said the disgruntled witch, and returned to sorting through what appeared to be patient files stacked before her on the desk.
Nothing for it but to head back to the family.
Almost at the passage back to the Leaky Cauldron, I noticed a young wizard in rather worn clothes, lugging a crate of newspapers before him, holding one up and calling out:
"Daily Prophet! Latest edition! Exclusive! Minister Fudge resigns — what does the future hold for Wizarding Britain?.. Fresh Prophet, sir?"
Walking past was simply not an option. I went over — the lad was genuinely young.
"Two, please."
"Of course, sir," he said, handing them over immediately. I gave him a couple of Sickles. Yes, considerably too much, but I was in a good mood — one could afford a little excess.
He wanted to protest the overpayment but couldn't quite bring himself to. Evidently his financial situation had applied a moderate check on the spirit of fairness in his heart. And there I went — thinking in the register of a cheap novel.
Back in the ordinary world, I crossed the road and settled into the Range Rover.
"Well?" Dad said immediately, finding me in the rear-view mirror.
"First available day is the day after tomorrow. Morning to evening."
"Lucky man. Days off over the holidays — that's a fine thing."
"What about you two?"
"We have our own practice. We take holidays when we decide to. Though in an emergency, we're always available for patients."
"Fair enough. Here," I said, passing one copy of the Prophet to Hermione. "Apparently Fudge has resigned."
"Oh..."
And so began a genuinely long day. Journeys, walks, purchases. Trying on new clothes — Mum and my sister went at it with full enthusiasm, and even Dad offered sympathetic nods. Right up until he himself became the model for trying on rather a lot of various items. I'd always thought of Hermione as someone largely unbothered by fashion. Apparently not. The Gryffindor girls had clearly had an effect — Lavender Brown, if I had to guess, though I couldn't be certain.
I was also looking for presents, but quietly, without drawing attention to it. In the end I came to my usual conclusion — buying wasn't practical; I'd make things myself. Simpler, more useful, and I could present them however I liked. The only difficulty I'd always had with gifts was precisely this: my approach to such things had been far too pragmatic in my previous life. That I remembered clearly.
Sooner or later, the shopping had to give way — bags into the boot, and onward to a café. As it happened, that particular moment was chosen by an owl I didn't recognise to land on my arm without ceremony, in full public view, right at the entrance to the restaurant. No doubt this was precisely why wizards disliked living among ordinary people — the sense that every magical occurrence had to be concealed, which was fundamentally wrong. I recalled a conversation with the Headmaster on exactly that point.
"She's tame," I said, quietly, palming the small letter — reduced by magic — and stroking the owl's beak. She didn't flinch or recoil; instead she gave my finger a rather energetic peck, ruffled her feathers to indicate she was a large and formidable predator, and flew off entirely satisfied with herself.
The passers-by looked on with mild surprise. A tame owl, so what? People had seen odder things. Crows dropped nuts under car tyres to crack them open — why be astonished by an owl landing on someone's arm? Perhaps it was simply confused.
"Right there in the street?" Hermione murmured, pulling off her hat as we stepped inside.
"So it would seem."
"Says a lot," Dad said, with some amusement, "about conspirators with years of experience — centuries, one might even say."
We found a free table without much difficulty. While the others looked over the menu, I read the letter.
"Anything important?" Hermione asked, glancing over for a moment.
"You could say that. Daphne says we need to meet, talk. In about an hour. Something actually important, by the sound of it."
"Could it be connected to... You-Know-Who?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, he's back, and the Greengrasses are one of the oldest pureblood families. They reportedly supported him."
"Possibly. But that's what I'm about to find out."
I picked up the menu and found the meat dishes without much trouble.
"Aren't you in a hurry?" Hermione said, surprised.
"I can Apparate, don't forget."
"Right... Who taught you, anyway?"
"Cedric."
I'd order a steak and something simple alongside — quick, good. Then to the meeting. I was curious what could have come up; it was hardly long enough for her to have missed me.
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