𝐀 𝐖 𝐎 𝐍 𝐃 𝐄 𝐑 𝐅 𝐔 𝐋 𝐏 𝐔 𝐃 𝐃 𝐈 𝐍 𝐆
"𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘, Melody — you both look terrible."
Melody's eyes were tired pools of charcoal, and they raised with great effort. After the previous afternoon's revelations, her memory was hazy as to how she'd ended up back in the castle, and failing to fall asleep until daybreak certainly hadn't helped.
She felt a pair of virescent eyes embrace hers, and she suddenly remembered, the circumstances folding her in with barbed limbs — those eyes were Harry's, and they had both just wandered into the completely empty common room.
"Where is everyone?" she wondered, after a hefty yawn.
"Gone! It's the first day of the holidays, remember?" replied Ron, watching her closely. "It's nearly lunchtime; we were going to come and wake you up in a minute."
Melody heaved a sigh, and slumped into a familiar chair next to the fire. For reasons beyond her control, she felt the weight of a thousand white hot stars resting on her shoulders, each one eons away from death. It was almost Christmas, a season usually alight with laughter and cheer, but she felt completely and utterly awful.
"You really don't look well, you know," Hermione said, peering anxiously into her face.
"I'm fine," she lied.
Hermione gave her another inquisitive look, but returned to a nearby seat anyway.
Melody flickered her eyelids shut, and curled into a pajama-clad ball. Of course she wasn't fine — her grandma, Dumbledore, Cornelius Fudge . . . why hadn't anyone ever happened to mention that her mother and Sirius Black had been in love? Why hadn't anyone ever thought it wise to tell her how Dolohov found her parents in the first place?
As soon as they'd returned from Hogsmeade, Melody had gone up to her childhood bedroom and thrown Petar's Christmas present aside. She headed straight for her smallest bookshelf, immediately pushed the books aside, and found what she was looking for — a leather-bound photo album Aunt Molly had given her.
She sat down on the bed, and started turning the pages, searching, prying, hunting until . . . A picture of her parents' wedding day, dated January 1979: about nine months before her birth.
There was her mother waving up at her, beaming, the chocolate hair Melody had inherited neatly pulled back. There was her redheaded father, alight with happiness, arm in arm with her. Melody couldn't help but notice the absence of similar qualities between herself and her father — there was no identical nose nor matching smile; no similar posture nor indistinguishable eyes. She frowned in thought, and moved on.
There were Lily and James, Harry's beloved parents, Lily on Cocoa's other arm. She must have been the matron of honor, because she wore a crown of blossoming flowers around her scarlet head.
There . . . that must be him. Standing a few people down. Melody had never given him a thought before.
If she hadn't known it was the same person, she would never have guessed it was Sirius Black in this old photograph — his face wasn't sunken and waxy, but handsome, smiling. His eyes were bright grey, a wretched ocean of heartbreak and moondust.
Melody let out a sigh, but something came to her in a shadowed, racing flight, rattling its prison bars and begging to be let free:
Grey as ash.
That's what Peeves had said about Black's eyes, all those weeks ago at Halloween. Melody hadn't fully understood it then, but it had sounded familiar, and Peeves had known it — then, her grandmother had repeated it at the Three Broomsticks.
Now, here she sat, provided with what was becoming the full story, seething at the recollection of all the details she had failed to piece together.
But she slumped back on the bed, still disoriented: if that had been her mother's description of Black's eyes, why did she remember it, as though it was stitched into the ravines of her very ribcage? Her mother and Black hadn't been in love whilst Melody had been alive, of course, so why did the phrase still sound well-known?
Grey as ash, Melody repeated to herself, frowning furiously in thought. There's still a piece missing.
She stared at the photo before her again, this time glaring at the man who'd ruined her life — had he already been working for Voldemort when this picture had been taken? Was he already planning the deaths of the people around him? Did he realize he was facing twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years that would make him unrecognizable?
Before she knew it, she had hurled the photo album across the room, and thrown herself onto her back, staring at her constellation-ridden ceiling and cursing Canis Major.
Was it all true?
She blinked herself back into the present, where she was still curled into a ball in the Gryffindor common. Here, at least, she wouldn't have to feign ignorance about her most life-changing truths.
"Listen," Hermione was saying, exchanging a look with Ron, "We know you both must be really upset about what we heard yesterday. But the thing is, you mustn't go doing anything stupid."
"Like what?" asked Harry.
"Like trying to go after Black," said Ron sharply.
Melody could tell they had rehearsed this conversation while she had been asleep, but she was feeling inclined to throw them off-script — she didn't respond.
"You won't, will you?" pressed Hermione.
"Because Black's not worth dying for," Ron added.
Silence, again. Melody looked around the room, and her eyes, as they so often did, found their way to Harry — his hair was askew, like always, but somehow, he still looked picturesque. She only realized she was staring when Hermione drew a desperate breath from nearby.
"Please," she said, "Please be sensible. Black did a terrible, terrible thing, but d-don't put yourself in danger, it's what Black wants . . . You'd be playing right into Black's hands if you went looking for him. Your parents wouldn't want you to get hurt, would they? They'd never want you to go looking for Black!"
"We'll never know what they'd have wanted, Hermione," Harry responded quietly, holding his cold gaze on the floor. "Thanks to Black, we've never spoken to them."
In spite of herself, Melody choked back a snort. Upon the accusatory eyes of the other three, she sprung herself into a sprawling slouch, and said acutely, "Humor is my coping mechanism for dealing with the macabre."
"Look," proclaimed Ron, after exchanging a concerned look with Hermione, "it's the holidays! It's nearly Christmas! Let's — let's go down and see Hagrid. We haven't visited him for ages!"
"No!" cried Hermione quickly. "Harry isn't supposed to leave the castle, Ron—"
"Yes, let's go," insisted Melody, standing up. "I can ask him why he never mentioned Black's endless unrequited love for my mother!"
Further discussion of Sirius Black plainly wasn't what Ron had in mind. "Or we could have a game of chess," he said hastily, "or Gobstones. Percy left a set—"
"No, let's visit Hagrid," agreed Harry firmly, looking to Melody.
She guessed he was searching for some kind of validation, some kind of assurance that their demons would collapse into nonentity, but she couldn't give it to him. Those demons were catching up, tiring themselves in the process, but still clawing and snarling and racing forwards, armed with the newborn truth of the past. She didn't want to bemoan her life's story, but it seemed inevitable — she couldn't offer Harry a lopsided smile, only turn away, and start towards her dormitory, focusing on the present and nothing more.
Besides, when the orange sun stretches into the sky, casting opaline flickers of amber and amethyst across even the highest mountains, who could recall the shadow of night? It was an altered piece of history, not to be meddled with again.
( But alas, the sun always falls, and the darkness always rises, closing in through the caliginous dusk of non-permanence. Nobody ever stays. )
Like usual, Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed her: they got their cloaks, then set off through the portrait hole, down the empty castle, and out the oak front doors.
The hems of their cloaks were soon soaked and freezing after they slowly traversed the powdery white lawn, looking to the forest for captivation. It seemed as though it had been enchanted, each tree smattered with the silvery dust of fallen comets and meteorites — Hagrid's cabin, seated before the woods, looked like an iced cake.
Ron knocked, but there was no answer.
"He's not out, is he?" said Hermione, who was shivering under her cloak.
Ron had his ear to the door. "There's a weird noise," he muttered. "Listen — is that Fang?"
Melody squeezed her head next to his, and concentrated — from inside the cabin came a series of low, throbbing moans. "Think we'd better go and get someone?" she said, both concerned and amused against her better judgment.
"Hagrid!" called Harry, thumping the door. "Hagrid, are you in there?"
There was a sound of heavy footsteps, then the door creaked open. Hagrid stood before them, his eyes red and swollen, tears splashing down the front of his leather vest. With a heavy hand, he gestured for them to come inside.
Hermione went in first, frowning. "Hagrid, what is it?"
Melody's gaze found the table before them, but she narrowed in on an official-looking letter lying open on its surface. "What's this, Hagrid?"
Hagrid's sobs redoubled, but he shoved the letter closer towards them. Harry, after swallowing awkwardly, picked it up and read aloud:
"Dear Mr. Hagrid, further to our inquiry into the attack by a hippogriff on a student in your class, we have accepted the assurances of Professor Dumbledore that you bear no responsibility for the regrettable incident."
"Well, that's okay then, Hagrid!" Ron exclaimed at once, his face lighting up.
But Hagrid, ever-emotional, continued to sob, and waved one of his gigantic hands, inviting Harry to read on.
"However, we must register our concern about the hippogriff in question. We have decided to uphold the official complaint of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and this matter will therefore be taken to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. The hearing will take place on April 20th, and we ask you to present yourself and your hippogriff at the Committee's offices in London on that date. In the meantime, the hippogriff should be kept tethered and isolated."
"Oh," Melody said, heart dropping into her stomach at the thought. Buckbeak had been there for her the entire summer, offering his pointed gaze and sturdy wingspan towards the sight of any conflict, from the absence of waffles at breakfast to the presence of Severus Snape. "But—But Buckbeak isn't a bad hippogriff, Hagrid. I bet he'll get off—"
"Yeh don' know them gargoyles at the Committee fer the Disposal o' Dangerous Creatures!" choked Hagrid, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "They've got it in fer interestin' creatures!"
"What about Dumbledore, Hagrid?" wondered Harry.
"He's done more'n enough fer me already," groaned Hagrid. "Got enough on his plate what with keepin' them dementors outta the castle, an' Sirius Black lurkin' around —"
Ron and Hermione looked quickly at Melody and Harry, as though expecting them to start berating Hagrid for not telling them anything about the miserable honesty of their pasts.
Melody couldn't bring herself to do it, despite the severity of her sentiments towards the subject, and neither, it seemed, could Harry — not, at least, whilst Hagrid was so woeful and terrified.
"Er — shall I make a cup of tea?" said Ron.
Melody stared at him.
"It's what my mum does whenever someone's upset," he mumbled, with a sheepish shrug.
At last, after many more assurances of help, a steaming mug of tea before him, and a great deal more sobs, Hagrid blew his nose on a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth and said, "Yer right. I can' afford to go ter pieces. Gotta pull meself together. . . . I've not bin meself lately. Them dementors make me feel ruddy terrible an' all . . . Gotta walk past 'em ev'ry time I want a drink in the Three Broomsticks. 'S like bein' back in Azkaban —"
He fell silent, gulping his tea, but Melody found herself staring again, this time at him — she'd never heard Hagrid talk about his brief spell in Azkaban before, and for some reason, the topic suddenly fascinated her. She told herself silently that it wasn't because of Black, but perhaps she was just humiliated to admit it. After all, he was the man who'd uprooted her life, woven himself into her kin, and transformed her thoughts of the very skies above her.
After a pause, she said timidly, "Is it awful in there, Hagrid?"
"Yeh've no idea," he answered softly. "Never bin anywhere like it. Thought I was goin' mad. Kep' goin' over horrible stuff in me mind . . . the day I got expelled from Hogwarts . . . day me dad died . . .
"Yeh can' really remember who yeh are after a while. An' yeh can' see the point o' livin' at all. I used ter hope I'd jus' die in me sleep. . . . When they let me out, it was like bein' born again, ev'rythin' came floodin' back, it was the bes' feelin' in the world. Mind, the dementors weren't keen on lettin' me go."
"But you were innocent!" cried Hermione, wearing the familiar expression of focus that Melody saw so often during class.
Hagrid snorted.
"Think that matters to them? They don' care. Long as they've got a couple o' hundred humans stuck there with 'em, so they can leech all the happiness out of 'em, they don' give a damn who's guilty an' who's not."
He went quiet for a moment, staring into his tea. Then, he said quietly, in a raspy, scratched-up voice, "Thought o' jus' letting Buckbeak go . . . tryin' ter make him fly away . . . but how d'yeh explain ter a hippogriff it's gotta go inter hidin'? An' — an' I'm scared o' breakin' the law. . . ." He looked up at them, tears leaking down his face again. "I don' ever want ter go back ter Azkaban."
And Melody felt herself take his hand, a beautiful thread of compassion entwining their fingers, for better or for worse — Hagrid wouldn't go back to Azkaban, not if she had any say in it.
𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐒 came in bits and pieces, strung between streamers of holly and mistletoe, the usual glittering trees of the Great Hall, and Harry's interrupted yearning for revenge.
The trip to Hagrid's, though far from fun, had overall brought about the effect Ron and Hermione had hoped for — as much as he wanted to constantly brood on Black, Harry couldn't if he wanted to help Hagrid win his case against the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.
He, Melody, Ron, and Hermione spent several days seated before the glowing fire, slowly turning the pages of dusty volumes about famous cases of marauding beasts, speaking occasionally when they ran across something relevant.
"Here's something . . . there was a case in 1722 . . . but the hippogriff was convicted — ugh, look what they did to it, that's disgusting —"
"This might help, look — a manticore savaged someone in 1296, and they let the manticore off — oh — no, that was only because everyone was too scared to go near it. . . ."
Harry found himself wondering how Melody was coping with the newest stories of Black, but although she tried her best to search for cases to help Buckbeak, more often than not, her nose was buried in a Christmas classic.
( He worried, feeling the familiar weight of an asteroid settling into his chest — she never voluntarily read, after all, unless something was wrong. )
"Did you know Charles Dickens was a Victorian ghostbuster?" she suddenly peeped, gazing over the edge of her book.
Harry marked his place in the dusty old library volume regarding medieval creature trials, and turned to look at her. "No," he said, furrowing his brows. "Where'd you hear that?"
Melody rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, it's common knowledge," she grinned, laying the book beside her, face down. "Along with Arthur Conan Doyle and William Butler Yeats, he was a member of the Ghost Club. The group basically attempted to investigate supposed supernatural encounters and hauntings, and exposed a load of frauds in the process."
Harry felt himself smile, quiet and intrigued. He didn't press for more information, merely opened his library book again and settled back into his seat.
I like these moments, he thought, however, taking a peak over the binding at Melody. She looked peaceful, and that was all he could ask for.
A powerful and delicious smell of cooking soon pervaded the corridors, and by Christmas Eve, it had grown so strong that even Scabbers poked his nose out of the shelter of Ron's pocket to sniff hopefully at the air. The sky was clear, cloudless, and blindingly bright — one could only hope a snowfall was on the horizon.
To Harry's delight, the stratosphere thickened in a matter of late-night hours, and on Christmas morning, after being awoken by Ron's sharply thrown pillow, he found the ground coated in a fresh layer of sparkling snow.
He was torn away from the window, however, when Melody's voice screeched up the staircase: "Harold! Ronald! Presents!"
Harry clambered down the stairs after Ron, and joined her under the tree in the common room. A small heap of parcels had appeared beneath it, each one garishly wrapped with ribbons and bows.
Ron wasted no time — "Another sweater from Mum . . . maroon again . . . see if you've got one."
Harry had: Mrs. Weasley had sent him a scarlet sweater with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front; also a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of nut brittle.
Likewise, she'd sent Melody an orange jumper with a twinkling golden snitch design. Melody had also gathered a small heap of other presents — Professor McGonagall had gifted her a small pair of gold hoop earrings and a few packages of Liquorice Wands, while Petar had sent her a bag full of sweets with a bright red Christmas card.
She didn't hesitate to voice her displeasure, though, frowning as she declared, "I'm utterly underwhelmed by him. This is a complete downgrade from the gold bracelet."
Harry glanced to her wrist, which was, indeed, still sporting the golden bracelet Petar had sent for her birthday. But Melody didn't dwell on her annoyance — she moved all her gifts aside, and revealed a pair of long, thin packages lying underneath the tree.
"What're those?" said Ron, looking over, a freshly unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand.
"Dunno . . . but they've got our names on them," Harry replied. He handed one to Melody, and kept one in his lap.
Both ripped their parcels open, and reacted with identical gasps — gleaming broomsticks tumbled out before them.
"There's absolutely no way," Melody murmured hoarsely, reaching for the handle of her broom. Harry did the same.
It was a Firebolt, the same broom they had gone to see in Diagon Alley. The handles glittered as they touched them — Harry let his go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved from the golden registration number at the top of the handle, right down to the perfectly smooth, streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.
"Who sent them to us?" he asked in a hushed voice, plastered with shock.
"I'll see if there's a card," suggested Melody. She ripped apart her Firebolt's wrappings. "Nothing! Merlin, who'd spend that much on us?"
"Well," said Harry, looking stunned, "I'm betting it wasn't the Dursleys."
"Maybe it was Dumbledore," Melody realized. "He sent you the Invisibility Cloak anonymously . . ."
"That was my dad's, though," said Harry. "Dumbledore was just passing it on to me. He wouldn't spend hundreds of Galleons on me. He can't go giving students stuff like this."
"Or maybe it was grandma!" exclaimed Melody. "She got you the Nimbus 2000 in first year! I'm still mad about that, honestly—"
"I know," said Ron suddenly, his face contorted with an equal amount of shock, interest, and stupefaction. "I know who it could've been — Lupin!"
"What?" said Harry, starting to laugh. "Lupin? Listen, if he had this much gold, he'd be able to buy himself some new robes."
"Yeah, but he does like us," murmured Melody thoughtfully.
"And he was away when your brooms got smashed!" Ron continued eagerly. "He might've heard about it and decided to visit Diagon Alley and get these for you—"
"What d'you mean, he was away?" said Melody. "He was ill when we were playing in that match."
"Well, he wasn't in the hospital wing," said Ron. "I was there, cleaning out the bedpans on that detention from Snape, remember?"
Harry frowned at Ron. "I can't see Lupin affording something like this."
"Bloody hell," Ron gave a great whoop of laughter, already putting the issue to rest, whether he'd meant to or not. "Malfoy! Wait until he sees us on these!"
All three of them burst into a fit of chortles.
"What're you laughing about?" Hermione had just come in, wearing her dressing gown and a frown. She squinted at them, and her jaw dropped — she'd caught sight of the Firebolts. "Who sent you those?"
"No idea," responded Melody, glancing at her new broomstick proudly. "No card."
To Harry's surprise, Hermione did not appear either excited or interested by the news. On the contrary, her face fell, and she didn't say anything, entirely out of character for her.
"What's the matter with you?" questioned Ron at once, his voice sharp.
"I don't know," said Hermione slowly, "But . . . it's a bit odd, isn't it? I mean, these are supposed to be quite good brooms, aren't they? So they must've been really expensive—"
"Probably cost more than all the Slytherins' brooms put together," boasted Melody, grinning at Harry.
He grinned back, but Hermione hadn't finished —
"Well, who'd send you something as expensive as that, and not even say they'd sent it?" she asked, genuine concern creasing her forehead.
"Who cares?" snapped Ron impatiently. "Listen, can I have a go on one? Can I?"
"I don't think anyone should ride those brooms just yet!" cried Hermione shrilly, leaping forward to prevent him from approaching the Firebolts.
"'Mione, what do you think we're going to do with them, sweep the floor?" said Melody dryly. She gave her broom a look of adoration, as if swearing to protect it, then took a seat beside it and placed it in her arms like a newborn.
Harry's gaze lingered over Hermione, who still looked as though she knew something he didn't, but he couldn't resist — he joined Melody on the ground, and began the first of many hours spent examining his new broom.
𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 meant traversing down to the Great Hall, which the four of them did willingly; lollygagging across corridors and ogling out windows at the snow.
In the Great Hall, the House tables were folded up against the walls, and instead, there lay a single table, set for twelve, standing in the middle of the room. Professors Dumbledore, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick were already seated, alongside Melody's grandma. There were only three other students: two extremely nervous-looking first years and a sullen-faced Slytherin fifth year.
"Merry Christmas!" said Dumbledore as Melody, Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached the table. "As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables . . . Sit down, sit down!"
Melody grinned, gave Harry a devious glance, then skipped over to sit right beside Snape.
"Happy Christmas, Snippy-Snappy-Snapey!" she singsonged, pulling out her chair and plopping into it. "How's your day been?"
Snape's forehead sunk into a bitter frown. "Tolerable," he responded, "until now."
Melody grimaced. "No fun," she muttered, as Harry sat down next to her. "Where did I go wrong?"
Hermione and Ron took their seats on the other side of Harry, and once they'd all situated themselves, Dumbledore's enthusiastic voice rang:
"Crackers!"
He offered the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch's hat topped with a stuffed vulture.
Melody, remembering the boggart, caught Harry's eye and they both grinned; Snape's mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard's hat at once.
"Dig in!" he advised the table, beaming around.
They did — the meal was a showcase of the Hogwarts kitchens' talent, consisting of roasts, trimmings, and all manner of other dishes. As Melody was helping herself to a scoop of mashed potatoes, the doors of the Great Hall opened again: it was Professor Trelawney, gliding toward them.
"Sybill, this is a pleasant surprise!" said Dumbledore.
"I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster," replied Professor Trelawney in her mistiest, most faraway voice. "To my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary dinner and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness . . ."
"Certainly, certainly," pacified Dumbledore, but his eyes twinkled. "Let me draw you up a chair—"
And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Professor Flitwick and Melody's grandma.
Melody watched as Professor Trelawney's already-enormous eyes widened significantly. She drew a deep, upset breath before uttering, "I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"
Melody coughed up her bite of brussel sprouts.
"We'll risk it, Sybill," said her grandma, casting a knowing look of agreement to her granddaughter. "Do sit down, the turkey's getting stone cold."
Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself into the empty chair. She looked around once more and asked, "But where is dear Professor Lupin?"
"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again," responded Dumbledore. "Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day."
"But surely you already knew that, Sybill?" Melody's grandma queried, her eyebrows raised.
Professor Trelawney gave her a very cold look — Melody set her fork down to properly observe.
"Certainly I knew, Minerva," Professor Trelawney retorted. "But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous."
"Oh, really?" said Melody's grandma tartly. "That would explain quite a bit."
Melody's insides shook with laughter, and beside her, Harry poorly disguised a snort as a cough. Times in which her grandmother acted so bold were few and far between, but perhaps that's what made them so enjoyable; the rarity of a shooting star contributing to its beauty.
Professor Trelawney's voice, though, had suddenly become a good deal less misty. "If you must know, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him—"
"Imagine that," said Melody's grandma dryly.
"I doubt," interrupted Dumbledore, in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, which put an end to their conversation, "That Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. He should be up and about in no time . . . Derek, have you had any of this pudding? It's excellent."
The first-year boy went furiously red on being addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the platter of steamed fruit, bread, and brandy with trembling hands.
Melody, though, exceptionally comfortable and aware of her now-prideful expression, beamed around the table. She took a large, theatrical breath, then recited, "Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding!"
Nobody besides Dumbledore seemed to recognize the source of her excerpt, although Melody's grandmother and Harry both raised their eyebrows in amusement. With his usual glimmery gaze, the Headmaster said, "A Christmas Carol, was that not?"
"Correct," nodded Melody, picking her fork back up. "Derek, please send the pudding my way."
When the platter had reached Melody's side and the murmur of conversation had picked back up again, Harry said, "That's what you've been reading?"
"Among other things," Melody answered. She took a large helping of pudding, and piled it onto her plate — although it wasn't Mrs. Cratchit's recipe, Hogwarts could certainly cook. "But yes."
Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally until the very end of the dinner, two hours later. Bursting with food, Melody and Harry got up first from the table and she shrieked loudly.
"My dears! Which of you left your seat first? Which?"
"I don't know," said Melody. She looked, of course, at Harry, but he just shrugged absentmindedly.
"I doubt it will make much difference," said her grandmother, "Unless a mad axe-man is waiting outside the doors to slaughter the first in the entrance hall."
All the students tried not to laugh, while once again, Professor Trelawney looked highly affronted.
Melody, although thoroughly entertained, was beginning to crave the warmth and comfort of the Gryffindor common room — she turned back to Hermione and Ron, but only the latter was moving to join her.
"I want a quick word with Professor McGonagall," explained Hermione, and Melody didn't question her.
"Probably trying to see if she can take any more classes," yawned Ron as they slowly made their way into the entrance hall. ( It was completely devoid of mad axe-men. )
The three sat in the common room, and while Harry and Ron admired the new Firebolts from every angle, Melody was strewn across a couch, rereading A Christmas Carol, the joyful ending in particular — she couldn't help but compare the Crachit's family dinner to the meal she'd just enjoyed.
"'Oh, a wonderful pudding!' Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage," she read aloud, and Harry looked up at her from his seat on the floor.
"I'd say today was quite a wonderful pudding," he said.
Melody beamed at him — it certainly had been, from the fresh layer of snow to the beautiful new broomsticks; from her grandmother's sass to the comforting Christmas meal. The day had been a peaceful interlude, safe from the stresses of previous sleepless nights and men who shared names with bright stars.
It had been — until the portrait hole opened, and Hermione came in, accompanied by Melody's grandmother.
"These?" said her grandma, walking over to the fireside and staring at the Firebolts. She looked back at Harry and Melody, her eyebrows raised. "Miss Granger has just informed me that you two have been sent broomsticks."
Harry and Ron scrambled to their feet, but Melody looked at Hermione: her cheeks reddened, and she hastened to pick up the first book she could find, proceeding to bury her face behind it. Melody whipped back around to the fireside, her eyes wide, but it was too late.
Her grandmother had seized both brooms, one in each hand, and she examined them carefully from handle to twig-ends. "And there was no note at all? No card? No message of any kind?"
"No," answered Harry, his voice dull.
"I see," Melody's grandma went on, tucking the broomsticks under her arms. "Well, I'm afraid I will have to take these."
"What?!" exclaimed Melody. Her book was slammed onto the coffee table, and she sprung to her feet. "Why?"
"They will need to be checked for jinxes," answered her grandma. "Of course, I'm no expert, but I daresay Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick will strip them down—"
"Strip them down?" repeated Ron, as though she was mad.
"It shouldn't take more than a few weeks. You will have them back if we are sure they are jinx-free."
This can't be happening, Melody decided, starting towards the fireside. "There's nothing wrong with them!" she cried, and her voice shook slightly. "Honestly, grandma—"
But her grandmother merely backed away and said, "You can't know that, Melody. Not until you've flown them, at any rate, and I'm afraid that is out of the question until we are certain they haven't been tampered with. I will keep you informed."
She turned on her heel and carried the Firebolts out of the portrait hole, which closed behind her.
Melody and Harry stood staring after her, hearts in their throats. Dark, ominous clouds seemed to have unfurled over their heads, dampening any festive spirit that had remained.
Ron, however, rounded on Hermione. "What did you go running to McGonagall for?"
Melody didn't care about Hermione's reasoning, not now — now, all that mattered was the deep, unsettling frustration that came from yet another positive thing being turned to approximate ash. "Y'know, you've really ruined the metaphorical pudding," she remarked. "Not even Scrooge would do such a thing."
Hermione threw her book aside. She was still pink in the face, but stood up and faced them defiantly.
"Well, I thought —and Professor McGonagall agrees with me— that those brooms were probably sent by Sirius Black!"
Silence after her words, drilling into their chests like thick, frigid icicles.
But Melody turned to Harry — she didn't say anything, just looked at him, and they both knew: this was the first realization of their fears, of their past, coming to fruition in the strangest of ways.
Harry took her hand. His skin was warm against hers, and he gazed at her; a silent agreement that they'd fill in the blanks. He gave her palm two firm squeezes, then let it drop again.
"The pudding was wonderful while it lasted."