Christmas morning was everything I expected it to be and then some. No longer feeling sullen over the events of the last two days, I was happier than I could imagine. Last year's Christmas was nothing compared to the Black Holiday Celebration. The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked Sirius's family tree from view; and even the stuffed elf heads on the hall wall wore Father Christmas hats and beards.
I woke up on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of my bed. I woke Hermione up and ran to Harry and Ron, who were already halfway through opening their own large piles.
"Whoa," I gasped.
"Good haul this year," Ron said sifting through broken paper. "Thanks for the Good Luck Charm for my broom, beats Hermione's– she's got me a homework planner—" Harry held one up as well.
In my pile, I had found the one with Hermione's loopy handwriting on it. Instead of a homework planner, like the boys, I was given a book– 101 Different Potions and their Antidotes.
"Nope, I got a cool Potions book," I laughed.
Harry had gotten me a few loose charms— a snitch, potions vial, and wand— to add to the new charm bracelet Ron chose.
"Well done, boys," I smiled, "I love them. Truly."
Back in the girls' room, my pile consisted of presents from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley— another lovely burgundy sweater and added some pastries this year; Sirius's present was a small bag, charmed with an infinity spell, allowing me to stuff as many items I need; Hagrid sent me a wallet that matched Harry's, who propose it was most likely an anti-theft wallet being it prevented me from putting in any money; Fred and George gave me a sample of their Skiving Snack Box. The last few presents were from Dumbledore, who not only sent me a load of sweets, but also sent along Dobby's gift: a weirdly drawn present. I had just turned it towards Harry, Ron, and Hermione to see when there was a loud crack, Fred and George Apparate at the foot of Harry's bed.
"Merry Christmas," said George. "Don't go downstairs for a bit."
"Why not?" said Ron.
"Mum's crying again," said Fred heavily. "Percy sent back his Christmas jumper."
"Without a note," added George. "Hasn't asked how Dad is or visited him or anything..."
"No," I gasped, "he's such a prat."
"That he is," agreed Fred. "We tried to comfort her... Told her Percy's nothing more than a humungous pile of rat droppings—"
"— didn't work," finished George. "So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go."
Once we had our Christmas lunch, the Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, and I planned to pay Mr. Weasley another visit; especially on Christmas. Our journey to St. Mungo's was quite quick, as there was very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of witches and wizards were creeping furtively up the otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. I and the others got out of the car, and Mundungus drove off around the corner to wait for us; we strolled casually toward the window where the dummy in green nylon stood, then, one by one, stepped through the glass.
The reception area looked pleasantly festive: The crystal orbs that illuminated St. Mungo's had been turned to red and gold so that they became gigantic, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every doorway, and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner, each topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less crowded than the last time we had been here, although halfway across the room I found myself shunted aside by a witch with a walnut jammed up her left nostril.
In Mr. Weasley's room, Mrs. Weasley was very upset with him after finding out why he was acting so suspicious.
"Arthur," she said, with a snap in her voice like a mousetrap, "you've had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow."
"What?" said Mr. Weasley, looking rather frightened and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. "No, no— it's nothing— it's— I—"
He seemed to deflate under Mrs. Weasley's piercing gaze.
"Well— now don't get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea... He's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in— um— complementary medicine. I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies— well, they're called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on— on Muggle wounds—"
"Do you mean to tell me," said Mrs. Weasley, her voice growing louder with every word and apparently unaware that her fellow visitors were scurrying for cover, "that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?"
"Not messing about, Molly, dear," said Mr. Weasley imploringly. "It was just— just something Pye and I thought we'd try— only, most unfortunately— well, with these particular kinds of wounds— it doesn't seem to work as well as we'd hoped—"
"Meaning?"
"Well... well, I don't know whether you know what— what stitches are?"
"It sounds as though you've been trying to sew your skin back together," said Mrs. Weasley with a snort of mirthless laughter, "but even you, Arthur, wouldn't be that stupid—"
"I fancy a cup of tea," said Harry, jumping to his feet and dragging me out of the room.
Hermione, Ron, and Ginny almost sprinted to the door with us. As it swung closed behind us, I heard Mrs. Weasley shriek, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?"
"Typical Dad," said Ginny, shaking her head as we set off up the corridor. "Stitches... I ask you..."
"Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds," said Hermione fairly. "I suppose something in that snake's venom dissolves them or something... I wonder where the tearoom is?"
Harry mumbled a response and led us to the fifth floor. On our walk there, I saw the multitude of people in different wards for different problems. Passing by one of the wards, Spell damage, I noticed someone familiar. In one of the rooms, the curtains had been drawn back from the two beds at the end of the ward and two visitors were walking back down the aisle between the beds: a formidable-looking old witch wearing a long green dress, a moth-eaten fox fur, and a pointed hat decorated with what was unmistakably a stuffed vulture and, trailing behind her looking thoroughly depressed — Neville.
"Neville?" I asked.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron stopped walking and turned around, trying to see why I had said Neville's name. Neville, on the other hand, jumped and cowered as though a bully had narrowly missed him.
"It's us, Neville!" said Ron brightly, walking passed me. "Who've you been visiting?"
"Friends of yours, Neville, dear?" said Neville's grandmother graciously, bearing down upon us all.
Neville looked as though he would rather be anywhere in the world but here. A dull purple flush was creeping up his plump face and he was not making eye contact with any of us.
"Ah, yes," said his grandmother, looking closely at Harry and sticking out a shriveled, clawlike hand for him to shake. "Yes, yes, I know who you are, of course. Neville speaks most highly of you."
"Er— thanks," said Harry, shaking hands. Neville did not look at us, but stared at his own feet, the color deepening in his face all the while.
"You must be Maisey Potter," Mrs. Longbottom kept her hand out for me to shake. "Spitting image of your mother I dare say, may she rest in peace."
"Y-Yes, ma'am," I said, shaking her hand as Harry did.
"And you two are clearly Weasleys," she continued, proffering her hand regally to Ron and Ginny in turn. "Yes, I know your parents— not well, of course— but fine people, fine people... and you must be Hermione Granger?"
Hermione looked rather startled that Mrs. Longbottom knew her name, but shook hands all the same.
"Yes, Neville's told me all about you. Helped him out of a few sticky spots, haven't you? He's a good boy," she nodded, casting a sternly appraising look down her rather bony nose at Neville, "but he hasn't got his father's talent, I'm afraid to say..." And she jerked her head in the direction of the two beds at the end of the ward, so that the stuffed vulture on her hat trembled alarmingly.
"What?" said Ron, looking amazed. "Is that your dad down the end, Neville?"
"What's this?" said Mrs. Longbottom sharply. "Haven't you told your friends about your parents, Neville? Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of! You should be proud, Neville, proud! They didn't give their health and their sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them, you know!"
"I'm not ashamed," said Neville very faintly, still looking anywhere but at us.
"Well, you've got a funny way of showing it!" said Mrs. Longbottom. "My son and his wife," she said, turning haughtily to the five of us, "were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who's followers."
Hermione and Ginny both clapped their hands over their mouths. Ron stopped craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Neville's parents and looked mortified. Harry and I just blinked at her, not showing much surprise— we already knew.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Longbottom," I frowned slightly.
"Quite alright, dear. They were Aurors, you know, and very well respected within the Wizarding community," Mrs. Longbottom went on. "Highly gifted, the pair of them. I— yes, Alice dear, what is it?"
Neville's mother had come edging down the ward in her nightdress. The poor woman was thin and worn, her eyes seemed overlarge, and her hair was full of white wisps— looking dead. She didn't speak, whether she wouldn't or didn't want to was unknown to me, but she made a timid motion toward Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand.
"Again?" said Mrs. Longbottom, sounding slightly weary. "Very well, Alice dear, very well— Neville, take it, whatever it is..."
But Neville had already stretched out his hand, into which his mother dropped an empty Drooble's Blowing Gum wrapper.
"Very nice, dear," said Neville's grandmother in a falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the shoulder. But Neville said quietly, "Thanks, Mum."
"Well, we'd better get back," sighed Mrs. Longbottom, drawing on long green gloves. "Very nice to have met you all. Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now..."
"I never knew," said Hermione, who looked tearful.
"Nor did I," said Ron rather hoarsely.
"Nor me," whispered Ginny.
"I did," Harry and I chorused.
"Dumbledore told us but we promised we wouldn't mention it," Harry explained. "That's what Bellatrix Lestrange got sent to Azkaban for, using the Cruciatus Curse on Neville's parents until they lost their minds."