A/N: Merry Christmas and happy holidays! Before we start, if you ever forget who's who in the Weasley family tree, here's a reference:
Grandpapa Leon I (80s) and Great Aunt Cleo (80s) head the family. Leon's children are Matilda, Eric and Geraint "Gerry".
Matilda (mid 50s) has no partner nor children;
Eric (early 50s) is married to Jane Selwyn (early 50s) and has five children: Elisabeth "Beth" (29), Leon II (27), Hector (24), Lance (17), and Tristan (14);
Gerry (late 40s) is married to Antoinette Bonaccord (late 30s) and has two children: Garreth (16) and Clara (11);
Beth is married to Alfred Abioye (29), has one child, Eddie (1), and is imminently expecting the second.
· ꕥ ·
The next morning is almost like a normal Christmas Eve. There's clattering downstairs, the wind howls outside, and it's roasting hot – his papa has a habit of setting the fire going when he goes to feed and walk the horses, and because of insulation charms the house keeps heat like a stove. Garreth never sleeps in a shirt, so he stomps down the stairs in only pyjama bottoms.
He didn't even remember the fact that you, a girl, distinctly not his family, and more likely to wake up before him, would probably not appreciate this.
Wrapped in a woollen dressing gown, you're at the dining table nursing a cup of tea when he enters the kitchen. "Good morning, Garreth—" Your eyes pop, your face goes red, you instantly turn away. "Wha— you're naked!"
"I— oh dragon dung, sorry!"
Burning red, he hurries back into his bedroom to grab his shirt, left abandoned over the headboard. Quickly he looks down. Merlin, did you see that belly roll? He pokes at it when he returns downstairs. His mother is puttering about the cupboards in her own dressing gown, donning the most obnoxious grin.
"Morning, chou!" she sing-songs. "Decent now, are you?"
"Yeah, thanks." He manages to look at you after much internal wrestling. "Sleep okay?"
You, however, can't meet his eye. "Your sister spent forty minutes barraging me with 'best friend' questions and demanded I sing her a lullaby until she fell asleep, but aside from that, no issues."
"Good. Great."
Antoinette chuckles, glancing at between you and Garreth. "Mon fils est très beau, n'est-ce pas? Je ne pense pas qu'il soit entré à moitié nu accidentellement!"
You suddenly go red from ear-to-ear. "O-Oh, er..."
"What was that?" he asks, glaring at his mother. "What did you say?"
"Nothing!" she chants. "Nothing at all!"
Judging by your face, it was absolutely not nothing, but you stubbornly don't tell him either. Stupid French. As Antoinette fusses in the kitchen, he settles into pouring himself tea and coming to sit next to you. There's a newspaper open – the Daily Prophet.
"Anything interesting?"
You shake your head. No poacher news, then. No news about your parents.
Gerry pushes into the kitchen, his glasses steamed. "Meryl, Beryl and Polly are fed." His nose wrinkles. "Nettie, are you cooking?"
"I thought since we have a guest I'd splurge this morning," says Antoinette, "so I'm making bacon!"
"... Did you flip it?"
"Why would I flip it?"
"So it doesn't burn?"
"Oh." She flips the bacon. "It appears to be black."
Gerry sighs. "Yes, darling, that's burnt."
She almost seems offended. "Honestly, I only put it on the heat for one minute!"
"How much wood is in the stove?"
She opens the stove door. The fire rages.
"Just a little!"
Garreth groans. You giggle.
By the time Gerry has manhandled her away from the kitchen and seen to a simpler breakfast of beans on toast, Clara has come downstairs. Conversation flows as easily as the tea, no matter how determined his sister is to derail it with inane questions about Muggle chess, and after everyone is washed and dressed, Gerry sets everyone to cleaning – dusting, sweeping, moving furniture. You, as the guest, aren't required to help, but you insist on drying the crockery that Garreth washes and entertaining him with conversation as he wipes the countertops. By early afternoon, the only thing left to prepare is the beds in the living room, which will be done tomorrow, and the food. The turkey is already marinating in fresh herbs and garlic.
"Oh no," Antoinette says, rifling through the kitchen pantry. "I forgot the raisins. How can I make a Christmas pudding without raisins?"
"Can't we go get some?" asks Garreth.
She shakes her head. "Nowhere will be open. I shall have to make something else..."
"Ah, er," he gently steers her away from the kitchen, "maybe let Papa do it? You don't exactly have a great track record if you don't know the recipe..."
She ignores the jab. "Papa is clearing the garden for tomorrow. Oh, and I must finish wrapping the presents..."
"I could make something," you say shyly.
He forgot you like to bake. "Hey, that's a good idea! You're not going to explode anything either."
His mama glares at him. "You are very welcome to make something, Prim! Please, feel free to go through the cupboards and have a look."
When she disappears, you're both left in the kitchen alone – and it froths a strange emotion in his chest, like he's been waiting for this moment all day.
"Any ideas?"
"Hmm." You poke around in the pantry cupboards, moving tins and jars around. "You have a lot of flour and sugar... do you have any double cream?"
He finds a carton in the cool box. "Yep."
"And there's some dark chocolate here, too... how about a chocolate cake?"
"Prim," he declares, "you might just be my favourite person ever."
He helps you prepare the ingredients you need – flour, eggs, two different types of sugar, cocoa powder and bicarbonate of soda, and chocolate – and grabs the mixing bowls from the higher shelves. This is a recipe, apparently, you know by heart, which is totally wild considering you're practically married to potion instructions.
"How about we make it more interesting?" he asks, once you've melted the chocolate in a pan. "Let's pretend we're making a potion instead of a cake."
You scoff. "And you gave me grief for forcing you to do revision on the train."
Still, as you sieve the flour, he asks potions questions vaguely related to your baking process that, he hopes, will help you remember them.
"Which potion can't have sugar added to it because it makes it ineffective?"
You add all the different sugar types to the flour, lips pinched. "I assume something that tastes disgusting."
"Yep."
"Skele-Gro?"
"Nope, though side note: put Bone-Regrowth potion. Skele-Gro is the brand name." He flicks a speck of sugar your way. "It's Wolfsbane."
Your nod, like you should've known that. Once you combine the sugars and the flour, he plucks the eggs from the carton. "What's the magical equivalent of this? You should know this one."
You smile. "Standard ingredient."
He hands them to you, and you crack them into another bowl before adding them in.
"How many stirs does Polyjuice potion need in total?"
You add buttermilk, then you're whisking the mixture like no one's business. "In total? Erm... eight?"
"Seven."
You combine the chocolate with the wet mixture and stir until everything homogenises.
"Smells good," he says. "Just like what potion should to everyone?"
"... Amortentia?"
"That's right."
"You smell chocolate in Amortentia?"
"Nah. Professor Sharp brewed one at the beginning of the year, and I smelt new cauldrons and algae." He grins. "What d'you think you'd smell?"
"I don't know. Pass the tin?"
He pushes it over and holds the bowl steady as you scrape everything inside. The mixture is sticky and thick and smells utterly divine. He goes to swipe his pinkie finger in for a taste but you swat him away, and slide the tin into the stove.
"No fair," he says with an exaggerated frown.
"The mixing bowl's right there, steal from that. I have to make the ganache."
You gather the ingredients as he tastes the cake mix. His eyes bulge. Merlin's beard, it's so good. "I think I understand the concept of heaven."
"I'm glad. It... it's my mama's recipe..."
He softens. "It'll be fine."
"I know I came here to get away from all that, but... I just feel horrible having fun when her and Papa..."
"She wouldn't want you to be miserable." A devilish smile overcomes him. He dips his finger into the mix, says, "I bet she'd want you to have fun. Like... this!" and swipes your nose.
You gasp. "Hey!" Then you take a pinch of flour and flick it at him.
"Oh, Prim," he grins maliciously, "you're going to regret that."
He grabs a massive handful of the stuff, and you squeal and scarper to the other side of the kitchen.
"Garreth— don't you— don't you dare—!"
He tosses the ball, but you dodge, and it smacks into the wall instead. He goes to grab another handful, but you get to the counter first, hand dipping into the mixing bowl, and when he makes to grab the flour you wipe your sticky fingers all over his cheeks.
"Oi! You—!"
Before you can scamper away again, he seizes your hand and pushes you against the countertop.
"No escape now!"
You're giggling so hard. "You cheat, let me go— no, don't put all that flour on my—!"
He slaps it against your face. It explodes outwards, onto your ears, hair, neck. You let you a strangled noise so offended he bursts out laughing.
"Don't laugh! It's all in my hair!"
"It's in mine too, or did you forget who started it?"
"You put cake on my nose!"
"You put flour on my face!"
Suddenly you laugh, and you laugh hard. It's so bright, so effervescent, that it completely catches Garreth off-guard. His own delight stutters as he inhales the details of you, and the sound – Merlin, it's so loud and warm and sincere that it immediately sets pleasant fireworks off in his chest.
You are really attractive when you laugh.
The thought reminds him how close he is, how he's pinned you to the counter, how little space there is between you. You try to stifle your laughter with a hand, sweeping across your chin, and his focus goes to the lips that absolutely should not captivate his attentions.
"Your smile is beautiful."
You freeze suddenly, and he realises he said that out loud.
Oh Merlin.
"Especially since you scowl all the time," he says quickly, wiggling his eyebrows. "Didn't know you were capable of smiling."
Something prickles between his ribs once the words leave his lips, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it – your laughter smothers, your natural disdain reappears, you pull your hand out of his grip.
"Perhaps you haven't been funny enough for it."
"I'm hilarious, Prim."
"Not if you're the only one that laughs at your jokes."
"What's going on here?"
Garreth jumps back. His father stands at the door's threshold with his arms crossed, looking like someone pissed in his tea.
You stammer immediately. "Mr Weasley, I-I'm so sorry—"
"No, I suspect it wasn't your fault," his eyes land on Garreth, "was it?"
Garreth chastens. "Okay, yeah, I started it, but—"
"But nothing." Gerry takes out his wand. "Scourgify."
The single spell manages to removes all the flour and cake mix from you, him, the floor and the walls.
"Stop fooling around, Garreth. We don't have time."
His hackles rise, his fists clench. "It was only a little fun."
Gerry only glares at him before he leaves, taking all the tension with him. Ugh. What an absolute bore.
"Sorry about that," he mumbles to you.
"No, it's all right," you say. "I'm sorry I got you in trouble."
"Not your fault. Told you, he's got a rod permanently up his arse these days."
He means well. He can see it's on the tip of your tongue, but this time, you can't say it.
"Has it... always been like this between you?"
"With my papa?" He blows out a grunt. "No. He used to be a blast. Tested my potions, did Chocolate Frog hunts with me, threw gnomes into the neighbour's garden down the hill... Then, last summer, something changed. I don't know why. He got all pernickety and irritating, doesn't like me doing anything he deems disorderly now. Rod, meet arse."
You tilt your head in thought, but if you have something to say, you don't offer it.
"Let's make the ganache."
Clara comes bounding inside halfway, furious when she discovers you baked something without her ("Betrayal! From my own best friend!"), but she instantly forgives you when you let her stir the ganache and lick the remains of the cake mix. He lets his sister have the fun; his mind is distracted now, and he can't stop thinking about your laugh and smile, about that moment between you, about your lips...
It doesn't matter. Any joy you had was ruined by his papa.
Didn't know you were capable of smiling.
Or maybe... by himself.
· ꕥ ·
When night falls, and the house is almost entirely prepared, Gerry warms up an old stew for dinner. You eat by candlelight and, at Antoinette's insistence, play Exploding Snap. Then, claiming that you're too tired to chinwag, you retire to Clara's bedroom early, and Garreth never gets the chance to sort out his thoughts.
The next morning, his bedroom doors slams open, and Clara throws herself onto his bed, jolting him awake.
"WAKE UP, GARRETH! IT'S CHRISTMAS!"
He pushes her sloppily, turning to stuff his face into his pillow. "Get off, you lump."
But she bounces on the mattress. "We've got presents from Father Christmas!"
"They're not going anywhere, are they?"
"They will if I open yours!"
"What?" He spins around, but she leaps out of his room. "Clara, don't you dare!"
He nearly runs into you in the hallway, wrapped in your dressing gown again. The neckline is lower today, and the slice of flesh down your breastbone makes his attentions perilously wander for half a second.
"Merry Christmas, Garreth," you greet politely, drawing his eye back. You avert your gaze. "You've forgotten your... ahem..."
The pyjama shirt. "Oh, sorry." He retrieves it and tugs it on, trying not to blush. "Merry Christmas."
Downstairs, Clara is tearing into her presents. There's only a handful under the tree.
"SOCKS!" Clara screams. "I LOVE SOCKS!"
She also gets a new travelling cloak and some Fizzing Whizzbees (which makes you wince). He gets a new ladle, a bunch of new potions ingredients, and a new set of pyjamas ("I can dispose of the shirt, if you like?" "Very funny, Maman.").
"And— here." Antoinette hands a squishy package to you. "Merry Christmas, Prim!"
You immediately jerk back. "Oh no, Mrs Weasley, you didn't have to—"
"Nonsense! It's Christmas! I didn't know your size so I made it big, but we can always shrink it. Go on, open it!"
Tentatively you peel back the wrapping, and out falls a dark blue cable knit jumper. You pinch it by the shoulders to marvel at the design.
Garreth frowns.
"Maman. That's a D."
"No, no, that's a P. For Prim."
"Where's the tail bit then?"
"Hiding, it's shy."
"The neckline's uneven."
"Has character."
"And the arms are different lengths..."
She huffs. "I had less than two days to knit this, you know."
"It's— lovely," you say, completely arrested, awed. "I... thank you very much, Mrs Weasley. I-I really appreciate it."
"Anytime, chou," she croons.
You go and put it on – yep, it looks awful, but you seem so delighted he can't bring himself to criticise anything else.
· ꕥ ·
Whilst Gerry goes to collect Grandpapa Leon and Great Aunt Cleo, the other Weasleys start to arrive by late morning. Just after all the beds have been stripped for their new occupants, the flames in the living room fireplace turn a ferocious green, and a body strides out of the fireplace.
"Auntie Matilda!" Garreth wasn't expecting her to be the first, but then, she was always too punctual for his own good. He gives her a big hug. "Merry Christmas!"
She hugs his parents too, and then his sister. "Oh, so you'll give me a hug now, Clara?"
"It's not cool to hug a professor, Auntie," says Clara knowingly.
"And so nice to have you join us for Christmas, young lady," Matilda says to you, smiling cordially. "I'm glad to see you and Garreth getting along so well."
"Nice to be here, Professor," you say politely.
"No need for that. You may call me Matilda today."
But you chuckle good-naturedly. "I don't think I'll be able to unlearn that."
She's not staying over this holiday – she's going back to Hogwarts at the end of the day, which is a relief to him as well as you, because there's nothing weirder than a teacher hanging around her students. His uncle's family starts to arrive next – his dad's older brother Eric, his wife Jane, and then their children, Garreth's wayward cousins.
"Gar!" Hector, the third-eldest, slaps his back with a grin. He's got the longest, straightest ginger hair Garreth's ever seen, down to his waist – Lance swears he's going for a world record. "Stop growing, it's illegal to be taller than me."
"Maybe you should get longer shins."
"Maybe I'll just take yours."
"That doesn't make sense."
"You don't make sense."
Beth rolls her eyes. Heavily pregnant, she's the eldest of Garreth's cousins at twenty-nine, her red hair cropped sharply to her shoulder. Her husband, Alfred Abioye, his skin dark brown and hair cut close to his skull, keeps one hand around her for support, and the other around his one-year-old son, Edward.
"Don't strain yourself, love."
She snorts. "I'm pregnant, not an invalid, and I guarantee, if I'm about to pop, you'll be the first to know." She smiles. "It's good to see you, Garreth, Clara."
Garreth tickles Eddie's nose. "And how's my favourite Abioye doing?"
Eddie gurgles.
Lance appears through the fire next, looking like he stepped off a bloody catwalk. He yanks Garreth in for a hug he doesn't want.
"I've been excited for Christmas for weeks," he says. "I'm gunning for you in Mop Quidditch this year."
"You'll try... and you'll fail miserably."
"I'm a Seeker, Gar." His eyes turn sinister. "I always catch the win."
"Shame Leon's not here, he'd love to settle the Mop Quidditch score." Hector then sweeps a hand towards you. "So, er, I know our family's big but I feel like I would remember you."
"This is my tutor, Prim," Garreth introduces. "She's staying with us for the holidays."
"Lovely to meet you, Prim," says Beth. "Is it short for Primrose?"
"Short for Prim," he says, wiggling his eyebrows at you.
You glare at him and say, "It's a nickname. My real name—"
"— is not important," Lance cuts in smoothly, and he makes eyes at Garreth like being in on the same joke is sooooo funny. "Glad you're here, Prim. Looking forward to getting to know you better."
Like hell you will, Garreth thinks, teeth grinding. You nod your head in mutual agreement.
"Wait," says Alfred, "where's Tristan?"
Green fire explodes outwards, and Garreth's youngest cousin steps out of the fireplace. Fourteen-year-old Tristan might not have the longest hair, but it's still a dark red curtain that obscures half his face. He's wearing all black robes that drown his petite figure, hands stuck in pockets.
Lance sighs. "Speak of the devil. What happened to your Christmas jumper? You're supposed to match with us!"
"I'm not wearing that, it's ghastly," says Tristan, voice rough and low. "And I would rather perish than promote commercialised propaganda."
"... Merlin, you are so dramatic."
The Weasley kids, and you, gather in the living room to wait for Gerry to return. You hover at Garreth's side, frowning.
"It's a lot of introductions."
"Don't worry, if you forget anyone's name, I'll remind you." His cousins are so strange and individually distinctive, though, he isn't worried in the slightest. "My papa's just grabbing Grandpapa Leon and Great Aunt Cleo now."
"Leon. I thought that was your cousin's name?"
"It is, they share it. Cousin Leon was named after him – he's in Peru this year." He grins at your expression. "Relax, you'll be fine."
Gerry appears not long after with an elderly witch and wizard. Both in their late eighties, and both blinder than a pair of moles, they shuffle their way into the living room to a chorus of surprised cheers.
"Grandpapa!" calls Hector. "Still alive, are you?"
"Watch it, boy." Leon jabs out his walking stick. "Or I'll see to it this thing ends up somewhere uncomfortable!"
"I don't think you'll be seeing anything, Grandpapa."
Leon grumbles; Hector laughs.
Cleo, meanwhile, is totally silent, but she smiles sweetly as everyone comes to give her hugs and kisses. After her Muggle husband died a decade ago, she doesn't talk much – but as a seer, she's known to blurt out a premonition once in a while. Learning this makes you terribly skittish, so Garreth has to drag you over to introduce you.
"Prim, eh?" Leon shakes your hand eagerly, then frowns. "Geraint, you didn't tell me you and Ant popped out another daughter?"
"No, Papa," says Gerry, sighing. "They're friends at school."
"Oh?" He grins. "Garreth's girl, are you?"
Merlin, not this again. "Grandpapa, please..."
"N-No, sir," you say politely. "I'm his tutor—"
"Bah, how disappointing!" He waves you away. "Only one of you married. When am I going to get my third great-grandchild? Leon's out in Peru, Hector's about as reliable as a Chapuza-Fallido broom in a rainstorm—"
"Oi!" chimes Hector.
"— and now Garreth's disappointed me—"
"I'm sixteen!" Garreth bleats.
"— so I guess that leaves me with Lance!"
Lance grins. "I won't let you down, Grandpapa."
"Yeah, you better not. Now, Prim, if you're not interested in Garreth, Lance is also available—"
"Okay!" Garreth yells. "Who wants tea?"
You mercifully extract yourself when he goes to set out the teacups.
"Your Grandpapa is intimidating," you say, relieved to be out of the spotlight. "Is he always that forward?"
He scoffs, stuffing about six teabags into the teapot. "Every bloody day. You'd think having seven grandchildren was enough to satisfy the man."
"Seven of you. That's a lot."
"Too many, if you ask me." Though his cousins are certainly as close as siblings, which he can't complain about. Strange and annoying as they are, they're family. "Don't suppose you'll tell me if you have any cousins?"
"No. My grandmother only had my father, and my mother was an only child."
"Well then," he grins, "for the next two weeks, consider yourself an honorary Weasley."
You smile. "I'd love that."
· ꕥ ·
With the family settled, Gerry and Antoinette enlist Garreth's help to move luggage around into the right rooms. Since there's three bedrooms and a guest room, Leon and Cleo will have their own, Uncle Eric and Aunt Jane will take his, his parents will take Clara's, and the kids will stay in the living room in one massive sleepover – with the exception of Beth, Alfred and Eddie, who will hunker down in the converted barn in the back lawn. If Eddie has a screaming fit in the middle of the night, no one will hear a peep.
When Garreth appears back downstairs, the family has split into groups to chat. You're quite popular, as the shiny, new addition to the holiday crew. He sits next to you after Beth and Alfred get themselves tea, Eddie on your lap.
"Is tutoring how you met Garreth, Prim?" asks Beth.
"That's right," you say, somehow managing to sound professional despite bouncing a baby. "I'm tutoring him in Transfiguration, Astronomy, Divination and History of Magic, and he's tutoring me in Potions."
"Potions?" Alfred laughs. "Thank goodness, that must mean he's made you his new guinea pig."
"I have been extremely restrained this term, I'll have you know," says Garreth moodily.
"Remember your first Christmas with us?" Beth says, nudging her husband. "Garreth convinced you he made a Wit-Sharpening Potion in his bedroom."
"Please don't remind me," whines Alfred.
Beth has already doubled-over with giggles. "All you talked about for three hours was beans."
"Last time I ever fall for your lies, Garreth," he mutters with a smile.
"Your fault for trusting me in the first place," Garreth sing-songs. "Speaking of which, I have a great idea for a self-scourging nappy..."
"You keep your madness away from Eddie, please."
"And the second baby," Beth says, cradling her bump.
"When are you due?" you ask.
"In a few weeks, actually." Beth laughs nervously. "Really hoping it rolls over to January so I can stuff myself on the turkey."
Edward coos and looks up at you with adoring eyes. He's quite attached to you – probably because you're one of the only non-Weasleys here, and your face is so distinctive. You're as cute as him, too, especially when you coo and tickle his feet.
"Can I borrow you, Garreth?" asks Alfred.
Garreth blinks. Nope, nope, nope. Only the baby is cute. Not you.
"Oh, er, yeah, 'course," he says, grateful for the distraction.
Alfred steers him into the privacy of the kitchen – and turns around with the most annoying grin.
"So? What's the strategy?"
"What strategy?"
"To winning her heart."
Garreth splutters. "I don't want to date Prim. We're friends."
"That's what Beth and I kept telling ourselves in school. Turns out we fancied each other for years. Now, Clara insists you two were goggling each other..."
Sodding Clara. He massages his head. "You know Clara. She blows everything out of proportion."
"All right, well, you know I'm in your corner." Alfred gives him a thumbs-up. "So if you want me to engineer a moment alone between you two..."
He winks and leaves the kitchen, and Garreth, with the thought.
· ꕥ ·
Later, you and Garreth are accosted by Tristan.
His vacant one-eyed gaze scours you up and down. "Clara told me you're a couple."
Merlin, how many people has his damn sister told this lie? As you flush, Garreth says tersely, "No, Prim is my tutor."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"Shut up."
The corner of Tristan's lip curls up. "I wanted to ask, how did the mistletoe go?"
Ah. On Tristan's recommendation, he brought some prank mistletoe to Missy's Christmas party – one which chooses its own victims by jingling loudly until they kiss. He winces. "I had to kiss Imelda Reyes and Everett Clopton." Two people he very much didn't want to kiss.
You snort. "Everett?"
"It's a moment I want to Obliviate from my brain."
Tristan's wand is suddenly in his hand. "I can do that for you."
"No, Tristan."
Disappointment pinches his cheeks, and he slowly slides his wand back into his pocket. "Did the mistletoe catch you two?"
"She wasn't there."
Tristan smiles in what can only be described as evilly before he glides away, and you laugh nervously.
"Should we be worried?"
"Nah. Tristan's all bark and no bite."
He hopes.
· ꕥ ·
When the clock hits two, Hector calls for everyone's attention.
"Finish your tea! At half-past, we play our annual game of Mop Quidditch!"
The Weasleys cheer. Mop Quidditch is Garreth's favourite family tradition – and it's exactly as it sounds, they play Quidditch with a bunch of shoddy, enchanted mops. As an expert, he's well-acquainted with the game and the rules, but you'll probably need a little adjustment period, so he decides it's better to get you outside now and used to play.
You, however, are not so willing.
"Oh, no," you tell him, when he comes over, "I don't want to play. I'm having fun with Eddie."
"You should play, Prim!" says Beth. "It's really fun. Would do myself, but, you know. Bloated with child."
"Pla!" says Eddie.
"Yes, that's right, baby! Play." Beth takes Eddie from your arms – your face falls. "Go on, Garreth will show you the ropes."
Without an excuse, he grabs your arm and drags you to the back garden. It's a generous size but funny shape, settled on the crest of a light incline – the dirigible plums of their neighbours are visible over the fence. Beyond the stable and converted barn, the actual garden is mostly flat, a blanket of grass that extends fifteen-ish metres south. There's a gentle dip that leads into a pond, wearing a membrane of algae and scum.
Garreth leads you to the middle, where lies a pile of mops, buckets, and a Muggle football. To anyone else, the collection looks entirely random – to Garreth, it promises a good time of ridiculous, charming fun.
"I—" Your face falls. "You really want me to play?"
"'Course. We always play a match of Mop Quidditch on Christmas day." He mock-pouts, watching as despair creeps into your expression. "You would scoff in the face of tradition, would you? Spit in my face after I so graciously offered you my home in your time of need?"
"Don't use that against me. I'm terrible at Quidditch! I don't know Bludger from bat."
"Yeah, neither does Clara. And Tristan. And Maman and Papa. No one will mind if you miss a goal or two, trust me."
You rub your temple. "I trust you less each time you say that."
He picks the football from the ground, giving it a few tosses in the air – it floats down slowly. "It's pretty easy once you get into it. You'll be a Chaser, so just avoid Alfred and throw this ball through the hoop. Think fast!"
He tosses it at you. You shriek and flail your hands – the ball hits the ground.
"You'll have to be quicker than that!"
"But this— this isn't a proper Quaffle," you say, picking it up.
"Yeah. Real Quidditch sets are sort of expensive, so we improvised with a few charms."
"And the buckets?"
"Come on, putting a bucket on someone's head is hilarious! And less, er, violent than a Bludger." He grins. "Go on. Ask about the Snitch."
You sigh. "Where's the Snitch?"
"Grandpapa does the Bubble charm. Whoever pops it first catches the Snitch, ending the game. That'll be me this year, versus Lance. Now." He points to a thin mop with a large grip. "See that one? It's the best we have, stays airborne the longest, and I think everyone will agree to let you have it this year."
You stare at it, grimacing.
"Well, go on then. Call it up."
Reluctantly you hold out your hand. "Up."
It doesn't move.
"With feeling, Prim."
You inject some force into your voice. "Up."
This time it responds, wobbling into your grasp. Then you stare at him, like you're waiting for his next instruction.
"... Sit on it."
Your grimace deepens when you slide the handle between your thighs. He takes in your posture, your weak grip, the funny angle...
"Please tell me," he says, face pinching, "you've been on a broom since first year."
Your face heats. "No..."
"Merlin's saggy Y-fronts, Prim."
"What would I need to learn broom-flying for?"
"To help you in life! Like fleeing from dastardly poachers!"
Your embarrassment immediately turns into a scowl. "I look ridiculous."
"We all look ridiculous, that's the point! Last year I pushed Lance off his mop and the wet end slapped him in the face when he landed. Nearly pissed myself laughing." He takes a step closer, raising his hands. "Can I just—? Your stance is all wrong."
You nod, and he gently takes your waist and pivots you. "Mop straight, and keep your back loose, but don't slouch." Then he clasps your hands in his, encouraging you to grip the handle tighter, more confidently. "You're in control, not the other way around."
"It doesn't feel like it."
"Then pretend the mop is me, and you're wrangling me into doing some homework."
He hears, rather than sees, you swallow. It takes him a second to register that your face is so close to his – he can mark every pore, and the delicate shine of your skin. He glances up to meet your eyes, and they're huge, the pupil dilated so big it engulfs the iris. Your minty breath clouds on his face. If he leant just a little closer, he could ever so simply... touch your lips...
He wrenches back at the same time you do. Merlin, what is wrong with him? He's not some sappy first year, swooning over the first girl to breathe in his general direction. He's much more mature, and you— well, you're you, with faculties far beyond such silliness. Together you are tutors, and friends.
Nothing else.
The others start to file out of the house, dressed in winter cloaks and old Gryffindor Quidditch jumpers. Lance has the full gear on, shin-pads, goggles and all. Garreth turns away from you, willing his blood to settle.
"You'll be fine. Just— have fun. That's the point."
"Yes," you reply stiffly. "Okay."
Lance comes over. "Up to speed, Prim?"
"I think so."
"If you're nice, I'll go easy on you." He smirks at Garreth. "You, on the other hand, are getting no mercy from me."
Fine. Garreth's been preparing for this moment for weeks – and he's got a surprise up his sleeve.
They draw sticks for mops – Garreth gets the worst, the head made of raw cotton that takes Cushioning charms about as well as he takes a Brussel sprout (seriously, who the heck thought those devil plants were tasty?). Lance gets the third-best, but since the second-best has a great crack down the shaft, courtesy of a transfiguration gone wrong from Hector in the summer, his mop gets a promotion on the Official Mop Ranking. Lucky git.
Everyone is assigned teams: Hector, Clara, Antoinette, Alfred and Lance get a red scrap of fabric tied around their arms. Meanwhile you, Uncle Eric, Tristan, Gerry and himself get blue. He mounts his mop – it wheezes as it rises five feet into the air – and glances over at you. You're clutching the mop handle with utter terror.
"Remember, have fun!" he calls.
You let out a low whine.
From the other side of the pitch, Hector yells, "One last reminder of the rules, in case Auntie Ant— ahem, sorry, no one in particular forgets them again. Chasers, toss the ball through the goal to score points." The goal being two repurposed planks attached to a wooden hoop, situated at both ends of the pitch. "Beaters, try to put buckets on your opponent's heads. Seekers," he eyes Lance, then Garreth, "pop the bubble!"
Grandpapa Leon ruffles on the ground with pride. "And just because I can't see, don't mean I'll make it easy!"
Beth yells, "Go!" and tosses the football.
Immediately there's a crash – Hector and Eric slam into each other, going down onto the wet grass, cursing. Clara snatches the football in the confusion and passes it to Antoinette, who arcs wide, dangerously close to the goal.
"Garreth," calls Gerry, "protect the goal! I've got Maman!"
With no Keeper position, blocking goals is fair for everyone – usually the Seeker until Leon blows the bubble. Garreth jets forward... then lurches, his mop spinning erratically—
Antoinette shoots. Garreth flails his arm out – he just hits the ball out of the way and into Tristan's arms.
"No!" cries Antoinette. "I was so—"
A bucket gets slammed over her head. She shrills, and Gerry laughs, a deep timbre.
"Ten second time-out! You should know that rule, darling!"
She yanks the bucket off, pouting. "You will pay for that!"
He grins – it looks a little like Garreth's own.
The ball in Tristan's hand, he totters back towards centre pitch and spins violently, the end of his mop near-missing Clara's face. Antoinette and Hector flank him, reaching out.
"Prim!" He tosses.
You haven't even moved, but you jerk your mop forwards – and catch the football. Shock lifts your face.
"I— I caught it—!"
Alfred dunks a bucket on your head. Garreth bursts out laughing.
"Maybe move next time you catch it!"
Alfred removes the bucket, wiggling his eyebrows. "Sorry."
The ball gets given to Antoinette, but Eric intercepts the pass – as a Chaser in his Hogwarts days, he expertly avoids Clara, Hector and Alfred and tosses the ball at the goal.
Lance swan-dives. The ball hits his elbow and lands neatly in Hector's hands.
"Nice try, Papa!"
Eric laughs. "Don't get cocky, son!"
Play gets more aggressive, more competitive. Hector sabotages Tristan's mop by kicking the head, sending Tristan spiralling. Alfred and Gerry try to put buckets on each other's heads and only succeed in knocking each other over. Goals get scored on both sides, keeping it even, but when Hector casts the Leg-Locker curse on Eric, all bets of fairness and no magic come off.
Garreth grins. Excellent.
On the ground, Leon makes a loud, "HYAAAAAH!" and points his wand skywards; the bubble appears neatly in the middle of the pitch. Garreth shoots for it at the same time as Lance, but then it dances out of reach – Beth giggles, having way too much fun moving it around with a Levitation charm.
"Cheek!" calls Lance. "You're my sister! Whose side are you on?"
It's time. In the moment of distraction, Garreth snakes a hand into his pocket. The phial contains a potion he brewed before he left Hogwarts – a delightful homemade Slippery potion that makes any surface too slick to grip. He tips it over Lance's handle before Lance notices – his hands immediately slide off, he butts his chin against the shaft and swings upside-down, screeching and clinging for purchase.
"Garreth, you little— what did you do?"
Despite how deliciously satisfying it is to watch him suffer, Garreth shoots ahead to chase the bubble. With Beth's guidance it moves in erratic directions, weaving between the players and posts. He slaloms around Clara batting away Gerry's bucket, and Eric stealing the football from Antoinette.
A body slams into him. Lance, the stubborn bastard, is clinging to the back end of the mop for dear life, but by his furious expression he's not out yet.
"You cheater!"
"Nothing you don't deserve, cousin!"
Lance shoves into him again, and Garreth bucks the mop forwards, but then Lance's wand is out, pointing at him. "Carpus Wibbly!"
The spell collides – Garreth's fingers immediately lose their grip. He shrieks, veering almost into the fence, and wraps his arms around the shaft to get back some control.
"Oi, you— bastard!"
Lance laughs. "Nothing you don't deserve, cousin!"
Garreth grits his teeth, and bodily yanks his mop back onto the pitch. The bubble does a full loop-de-loop before it finally settles... right above your head.
Lance is coming at it from your back, Garreth your front. A plan cobbles together, fast as lightning.
"Prim," he yells, "duck!"
You drop. He jerks his mop left, whacking the end into Lance's hand, and reaches up for the bubble.
It pops.
"Yes!"
But the momentum carries through, gyrating Garreth around. He sees your head rise and your eyes widen right before his mop slams into your face. By the time he's spun back around, you've toppled towards the ground, and you hit the grass at an angle and bounce, screaming, into the pond. The splash is massive.
"Prim!" he yells, horrified, at the same time Lance shouts, "Prim!"
Garreth drives the mop to the ground, but it skitters sideways, refusing to co-operate. He curses when Lance slides off easily because of the potion. By the time Garreth's feet touch the ground, his cousin is bent in the pond, hauling you out, gasping for breath, covered in duck weed, your skin an unhealthy shade paler.
"I-I'm so sorry," Lance cries, and he sounds genuinely contrite. "Are you hurt?"
"N-No."
"Thank Merlin for Cushioning charms. Here." He readies his wand. "Calida Ventus."
The spell doesn't completely clean your clothes, but some colour returns to your cheeks. You can't suppress a late shudder, and Lance, ever the dapper gentleman, loops his arm around you. The gesture makes Garreth completely falter.
"Let's get you inside."
"R-Right."
All too late, fumbling with his mop because of the Jelly-Fingers jinx, Garreth speaks. "I'm so sorry, Prim."
"It's okay." You manage a chattering smile. "At l-least we won."
If that's true, Garreth thinks, as Lance guides you inside the house, then why does it feel like I lost?
· ꕥ ·
Your team did win, a small consolation if Garreth's ever seen it. With three of their players out, the game couldn't continue – though Hector, Tristan and Clara continued to play piggy in the middle with the enchanted football. Garreth, meanwhile, hurried inside after you, but once you washed and changed, Lance insisted on taking care of you. Wrapping you in a woollen blanket, sitting you by the fire with Great Aunt Cleo, getting you eggnog. You get talking, and he breaks out the new chess set he got for Christmas, a pretty marble board with ivory and wine-red pieces, which of course you awe over, and then you're playing games together, like Garreth doesn't even exist.
It stings more than when you were standoffish.
He finally seizes the chance to talk when Lance goes to use the privy. The lambent glow of the fireplace dances upon your cheeks like ribbons, and your hair frizzes at the ends.
"I'm really sorry I hit you in the face," he says earnestly, taking Lance's seat.
You seem content, but tired. "It's fine."
"Sure you're not hurt?"
"I'm cold and wet, but that's it. I don't blame you for losing control of the mop. That's part of the game, right?"
In a few years you'll both be able to laugh about it, but right now the moment just brings a lot of guilt. He should've stopped faster, should've been more mindful of where you were, shouldn't have let his stupid rivalry with Lance get the better of him.
"Yeah, but I forced you to play, so..."
"If I really didn't want to play, I wouldn't have. I had fun."
"But—"
You take his arm – the touch makes his skin sing. "Stop fussing over me, Garreth. I just need to warm up."
He's glad, at least, there's no hard feelings. Still, he can't help but feel sulky and irritable when you don't scold his cousin for fussing.
He grins suddenly, an idea forming.
"I know how to make you warm."
You deadpan. "Please don't throw me into the fire."
"Better. I'll make you... a Garreth sandwich!"
And he pulls you suddenly into his embrace. You shriek, but he squishes your head to his collarbone, rocking you tightly.
"Warm yet?"
"Mmph!"
"Waiting for a nod!"
You nod, and he releases you a smidgen, enough that you can scowl up at him.
"This was your idea? I'd rather have been thrown into the fire!"
"But it's working, isn't it?"
Your cheeks puff up, which only makes him chuckle. You said you were cold, but to him, right now, you're anything but. Warm and soft and easy to hold. A sudden urge to cuddle you propels into him full-force, and his traitorous gaze dips to your lips, to the prominent Cupid's bow, and the waxy shine of lip balm.
What do your lips taste like?
Your throat bobs. "Y-You can let me go now."
His eyes meet yours, and his last thought, about how he would like to run his mouth over yours, leaps to the forefront of his mind. He recoils and lets you go at once – the thought so strong he suddenly fears you'll hear it.
"Right, sorry." He clears his throat. "Feel better now?"
"Y-Yes, erm, thank you—" You go cross suddenly. "I-I mean, you didn't have to do that. I'm warming up here just fine!"
"Garreth sandwich is more fun."
"More annoying, too."
"It's okay to admit you enjoyed it."
"No."
From behind, Lance clears his throat.
"Sorry, Gar, mind if I...?"
Right, the chess game. Garreth stands up, lets his cousin sit back down. Your gaze lingers on him as he makes for the kitchen.
"I'm just gonna'... get tea."
It's a merciful excuse to escape, to gather himself, to stop his entire face from betraying any of his scandalous thoughts. He should absolutely not wonder what your lips taste like. He should absolutely not want to cuddle you. He should absolutely not, never in a million years, find you as attractive as he has in the last few weeks. He should absolutely not wish it was him playing chess with you, rather than his insufferably perfect cousin.
Yet he does nonetheless.
He buries the feelings deep.
· ꕥ ·
"Collect the dishes, Garreth," says Gerry.
After dinner, everyone sated on turkey, parsnips and roast potatoes, Garreth gets up – surprised he doesn't need to be rolled – and takes the empty plates to the kitchen. His mama is there, setting her wand to clean everything he brings inside.
"Thanks, chou. Oh, and here –" she flicks her wand, and your chocolate cake hovers over to him "– set this on the table! Someone might want some!"
"Everyone's stuffed, Maman."
"Best be safe. You know your uncle Eric will suddenly remember he has a dessert stomach."
Garreth takes the cake into the living room – Uncle Eric will probably not remember he has dessert stomach... because he's fast asleep on the armchair. Clara and Tristan are drawing on his face, sniggering.
"Cake, anyone?" he calls. "Prim made it."
Cleo raises her hand, smiling. He goes to take the knife.
His papa comes up to him. "I can do it."
Garreth's brow furrows. "I know how to use a knife, Papa."
Gerry takes it from his hand anyway. "I can do it," he repeats, then flutters a hand dismissively. "Go ask around if anyone wants some."
"I just did."
"You called out, that's not the same. Ask everyone individually."
Garreth's temper flares. "What are you on about? If anyone wants a bit, they'd have said. Cleo heard me and she's got the worst hearing out of all of us."
Gerry turns to him, face drawn. "Don't talk back to me, Garreth."
"I'm not talking back. I'm just saying, I've already done it."
"You haven't."
"Merlin's beard, you ask around, then."
Gerry's nostrils flare. "I have already told you to do it, Garreth. So do it."
What is this man's problem? He goes to retort, but a voice calls out.
"Can I have everyone's attention? Sorry, Tris, can you wake Pa?"
Tristan does as Lance asks, reluctantly shaking his papa awake. Eric grunts, blinking blearily ("Why does my face feel strange?"). Gerry shoots Garreth a sharp look before facing Lance, and Garreth can't help but roll his eyes – at his papa, at the interruption, at everything. On instinct his gaze goes to you, bundled under more blankets and sitting with Beth, but your attention is on Lance.
Lance doesn't seem to shrink under the attention – he shines. "Thanks all. Will make this quick so you can go back to napping. I just have an announcement to make that I've been holding onto." He grins. "A few months ago I applied for a junior curse-breaker position at the Ministry of Magic, and last week, I found out I got the role. I start next August, after I graduate."
As cheers and applause rise, Garreth's mouth drops open. The Curse-Breaking division is one of the most competitive roles at the Ministry. Everyone wants to get into it, less dangerous than Law Enforcement but still glamourous enough to boast about.
"Good on you, boy!" Leon calls. "Who's your boss? Is that Liko Satoshi still kicking around?"
"No," Lance says, "my boss will be Grilco Wuthering."
"How wonderful, Lance!" says Matilda. "He used to be Head Curse-Breaker at Gringotts!"
Of bloody course.
Garreth's happy for his cousin, somewhere, deep, waaaaay deep down, but he can't help but grind his jaw and glare at his father. Lance is out there getting fancy career roles... and he isn't even trusted to cut a cake.
In celebration everyone wants a slice now, so Garreth reluctantly passes the plates around. The cake goes down well, everyone acclaiming your baking skills – which you politely deflect. Mood strange and untethered, Garreth gets himself a slice and loiters by the windowsill. This Christmas has been full of ups and downs – mostly ups, he realises, when he looks at you. He loves his family dearly, but having you here makes the colours of the world seem brighter somehow. It's mushy, he'll be first to admit... so it's strange that he can't stop thinking about earlier, about accidentally hurting you and watching his illustrious cousin pick up the pieces.
Clara comes over with Lance's chess set and demands a game, and you acquiesce, settling by the low table. His family adore you, but he can't stomach the seething mass in his chest, nothing to do with all the food he ate. It swells uncomfortably when he thinks about all the attention you're receiving from Lance...
"Clara seems to like her a lot."
Garreth straightens as the boy of the hour sidles over, glass of Firewhisky in hand. Ice clinks at the bottom – doesn't matter that it's winter, Lance will only ever have the drink on the rocks. He says it mulls the heat a bit, makes it more pleasant to drink. Garreth just thinks he has a weak palate.
Garreth watches you choose your moves carefully. You could destroy his sister at wizard's chess, no doubt about it – but when your lips move, your bishop slides one square off check, giving Clara the satisfaction of watching her queen crush the piece in half. She cheers, and you clap, savouring her joy.
"Yeah," he mumbles, and it's a sight he wants to commit to memory. "Beth and Al and Eddie too."
"You really whacked her good in Mop Quidditch." He laughs, like this isn't a sore spot for him. "She took it well. She's... quite extraordinary."
His entire body seizes up, and he dares to glance at his cousin, but Lance isn't looking at him – his focus is entirely wrapped up in you. His gaze flicks to Garreth's, and they meet for a split second before Lance clears his throat and looks down.
"You knew that though, 'course."
"'Course," says Garreth. "She's tutoring me. She has to be extraordinary."
"Don't sell yourself short. She told me you're a great Potions tutor."
Heat dusts his cheeks, and he shrugs, finding he can't quite let the compliment fuel him as much as it should. "She's being modest."
"She is kind." He pauses. "And quite pretty, too."
Garreth almost chokes.
"I wanted to ask you, actually," Lance powers on, before Garreth gets the chance to even process. "She's your friend, so I thought— well, I figured it was simply polite to ask first."
"Ask what?"
Lance meets his eyes.
"If you had any intentions of courting her."
Garreth's stomach drops into his shoes.
"Courting— Prim?" he says, totally dumbfounded.
Lance swirls his drink. "She's easy on the eye and we get along. I'd like to see where it goes. All respectful, of course." And it will be, because it's Lance. "But you know I wouldn't want to do anything to get in between you and me, especially if you were wanting to court her yourself. Wouldn't blame you. If you are, I'll back off, but if you're not, well..." He smiles properly now. "Maybe she'll give me a chance."
That mass of emotions he can't identify roils to unbearable levels. Of course, of course he should've seen this coming. All those times Lance tried to talk to you, at school and now today, were laden with ulterior motives. You always smile and titter when he's around – maybe the feelings are mutual? Maybe you fancy him just as much as he fancies you?
Though it shouldn't, the thought breaks him.
He glances back to you, having conceded to an early checkmate, happily cheering on Clara as she dances on the sofa in victory. Sincere delight radiates from you like a lit bonfire. Lance, in that respect, is wrong – you're not quite pretty. You are exceptionally pretty, as breath-taking in your joy and laughter as you are every other time of your life. From the face you make when you're concentrating to your protectiveness when you fight poachers, there's no moment in your existence where you're not utterly captivating.
But you've never shown signs of interest before. You share less hobbies with Garreth than you do Lance. Lance is also exceptional in many ways – in looks, academics, athletics and now career. Anyone would be lucky to have him. Together you'd make the most unfairly incredible power couple.
Now Lance wants you. Garreth's brilliant cousin... wants you.
"So?" Lance asks hesitantly, looking at him with uncharacteristic bashfulness. "Can I take your silence as a blessing?"
There's only one Weasley who could deserve you.
And it's not the one who's a failure at everything.
"Yeah," he says quietly, dousing the thought, and all the feelings that come with it. "Yeah, no, you go ahead. You have my blessing."
"Great." Relief spills from Lance's voice as he claps Garreth on the shoulder. "Thank you. I'll... well, I'll let you know how it goes, but if she says anything during your tutoring sessions... tell me, please."
"Yeah," Garreth croaks again. "Sure."
He gives Garreth one more reassuring wink before he heads over, chest puffing as he demands Clara's round two. When Clara punches the air, foretelling his embarrassing defeat, you laugh again, bright and brilliant.
Your smile is beautiful.
Garreth watches on the side, watches you, your beautiful smile and radiant laughter... and realises far too late he's just made the biggest mistake of his life.
· ꕥ ·
A/N: French Translation:
Antoinette: Mon fils est très beau, n'est-ce pas? Je ne pense pas qu'il soit entré à moitié nu accidentellement! ("My son is very handsome, isn't he? I don't think he walked in half-naked by accident!")