fic for lazy_neutrino: Amor Vitae (Flitwick, McGonagall, Snape, Moody, Lupin, PG-13)
Welcome, all, to the 2009 round of hp_holidaygen! We've got a fantastic batch of genfic (and some art!) with which to celebrate the upcoming holiday season, and we hope that, as readers, you'll leave plenty of lovely feedback for the authors and artists that ultimately make a fic exchange like this possible. With that, I will cease rambling and present to you our inaugural fic:
Title: Amor Vitae
Author: tetleythesecond.
Recipient: lazy_neutrino
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Flitwick, McGonagall, Snape, Moody, Lupin
Warnings: none
Summary: Some people wonder why Filius Flitwick is always so cheerful at Christmas.
Author's Notes: Dear Mystery Recipient, I hope that I didn't take too much liberty with your prompt, and that you'll enjoy this. My passionate gratitude goes to kellychambliss and therealsnape for being such fabulous betas!
--
Filius Flitwick believed that love and life were essentially the same thing.
He had always been that way. Which was quite remarkable, really, given the fact that he had spent most of his childhood days hidden away from the neighbours' curious glances in the dark, gloomy manor of Dr. and Mrs Flitwick's, with its music room and library and brightly-polished antique furniture that was always a tad too big for him. Little Filius's playground was the well-tended garden with its tall stone walls and close-cropped lawn; his only company - apart from his private teacher, his starched-bloused mother and his distant father - was Uncle Albie, who lived in an ancient, rickety caravan near the edge of the estate where shrubs and birch trees hid it from the easily offended eye. And yet, Filius always had a smile for everyone and a kind word about everything and a love for life and all things living that made his parents sometimes wonder if there wasn't perhaps more wrong with him than just his size, for which they could at least blame Grandmother Erda and her taste in men.
Little Filius became especially cheerful when Christmastime arrived.
For one, Christmas meant secret snowball fights with Uncle Albie, and practicing cleaning and drying charms, as well as perfecting the Hit-Uncle-Albie charm. Christmas also meant new books and magical gadgets to play with in front of the fireplace while his father, for once not buried in his study, sat down in the uncomfortable, straight-backed armchair by the bay window and read him stories of small men who did great things.
But the best thing about Christmas was being allowed to go down to the kitchens on Saturdays, when a scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted through the corridors, right into his room on the far end of the upper floor. Then he would venture down the stairs in his sailor suit and felt slippers, and if he was lucky, Cook's daughter Xenia would be there. Now, there was a perfect girl, one who knew how to bake miniature cakes and flew a wicked kite to boot. What more could one possibly ask for?
Each year on the first Saturday in December, Cook would make the Christmas pudding, and Filius and Xenia would help her. Stir once, twice, three times to the left (sneak a raisin), then once, twice, three times to the right (sneak a walnut). Then they would sit down as nicely as they could (perhaps sneak an almond if the opportunity arose) and sing Christmas carols while watching the mixture for at least half an hour. That gives it its distinct flavour, said Cook, who had to be considered an authority on such matters. Years later, Filius would be quite sure that it was during those half-an-hours that he fell in love with Xenia and that Xenia fell in love with him.
Oh, when it came to that, his parents wouldn't hear of him marrying the Cook's daughter, and a girl of her stature at that. Because what he considered one of her advantages, namely that she was about his size, was a flaw in their eyes - although in her case it didn't even have anything remotely to do with grandmotherly Goblin liaisons. His mother had said so; according to one of his father's Muggle textbooks, Xenia had a Jean that wasn't quite right. Filius didn't know who Jean was, neither did he care much, but his mother seemed to be quite adamant about keeping her out of the family.
Yet if Filius Flitwick was anything besides amiable, he was stubborn, and so he and Xenia eloped one cold December night in a brightly-painted caravan that they had built themselves, with friendly help from Uncle Albie.
Filius never forgot their first Christmas together. That they made Christmas pudding, with a tiny wishbone hidden inside. That it cracked right down the middle when they broke it, and that they laughed because they knew that it really didn't matter because they had both made the same wish. The wishbone had turned out to be a reliable widget, and so they celebrated the Christmas after that with little Nordri, and the Christmas after that with little Nordri and even littler Austri. And as the boys grew and a job offer from Hogwarts allowed Filius to trade in the caravan for a proper little house on the outskirts of Godric's Hollow, so grew the number of people around the Flitwick family table, and so grew the Christmas puddings.
***
Those were his memories as he knelt beside Xenia's grave in Godric's Hollow on Christmas morning in 1980, planting white flowers into the muddy soil. Hellebores, they were called, or Christmas roses. His wife used to love them.
"There. Pretty, aren't they?"
He picked a flower and tickled the cheek of the girl in the wheelchair next to him. She laughed and reached out for the flower, but her fingers wouldn't grasp it. Filius smiled as he rearranged the thick layer of blankets that was supposed to protect the girl from the damp December cold. It hadn't been easy to get the permission to take her out of St Mungo's for Christmas. Your great-granddaughter doesn't even know what Christmas is, the Healers had said. Well, that might be. But he knew that she wouldn't have forgotten the fairies that danced and fluttered around the big pine tree. Joy loved the fairies, and the fairies loved Joy.
He opened the bag he had brought with him. There were presents in it, bought earlier that day on his trip to Diagon Alley, just before he went to pick up Joy. Small gifts, chosen with care. The Moonstone had been particularly difficult to get. 'Playing hobgoblin' was what they called giving anonymous gifts in Switzerland, where his son now lived. He liked that.
Gingerly, Filius took a small Christmas pudding out of his bag and placed it on Xenia's grave.
***
Alastor Moody didn't do Christmas.
But the creases in his weather-worn face twitched almost visibly as he opened the door on Christmas morning and found a blue-and-silver-wrapped Christmas pudding with a Sneakoscope, the new kind, with stress hormone detector. He knew who had sent it.
And he marvelled at the fact that he still celebrated Christmas.
***
Septima Vector hated Christmas.
But she was deeply moved as she opened the door on Christmas morning and found a white-wrapped Christmas pudding and a beautifully-framed picture of her brother and his loved one. She knew who had sent it.
And she admired him for still celebrating Christmas.
***
Minerva McGonagall never particularly cared for Christmas.
But she smiled as she opened the door on Christmas morning and found a red-gold-and-tartan-wrapped Christmas pudding and a gramophone record by that young Polish violinist she so adored. She knew who had sent it.
And she knew why he still celebrated Christmas.
Even after what had happened the year before.
Perhaps especially after that.
***//***
Godric's Hollow, Christmas 1979
If you asked Minerva McGonagall, Christmas clearly had its downsides.
Among the more prominent of them was undoubtedly the brightly-illuminated Father Christmas that kept climbing up and down the façade of the house across the street from the dilapidated cottage in Godric's Hollow that served as the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. She tried to ignore the thing, but young Remus Lupin seemed rather intrigued by it.
"I always think he looks like Albus," he said.
"I always think he is Albus."
Minerva got up from her armchair by the fireplace, pulled the curtain closed, and sat down again. Given the condition of the tattered piece of fabric, that action did rather little to abate the unnerving flashing of the lights. It really made reading quite impossible.
"Anyone else for tea?" Minerva snapped her book shut and got up from her armchair by the fireplace.
"Not me, thanks," Remus said as he slumped down on the lumpy sofa.
"What you call tea should be a Class A tradable substance," Alastor Moody growled. "But I'll have some if you're making it anyway. And how often have I told you to take your wand with you, even if you go to the kitchen?"
Minerva pursed her lips and shoved her wand between the folds of her robes.
"TIP DOWN! You wouldn't be the first witch to lose a..."
He was reduced to silence by the arched eyebrow that every British witch or wizard under the age of thirty-eight knew to interpret as a danger sign. "Thank you for your concern, Alastor, but not everybody handles their wand with such brute force that they blow off their..."
"I think I may have some tea after all," Remus said and got up from the sofa. He was still rather new to the Order of the Phoenix.
The three of them had volunteered for holiday duty at the Order headquarters in Godric's Hollow. Everyone else had families, some of them even rather young families, so the Order had convened that it was only logical for the three non-married members to sit guard on this family holiday.
There was a tacit agreement. No carols. No turkey. Absolutely. No. Plumpudding. And some of them took the agreement rather more seriously than others: When Molly appeared on the well-worn doorstep with a Christmas cake and a cheerful smile on her red cheeks, "just a little thank-you for doing duty here on this wonderful day instead of...well, as I said, just a little thank-you, and merry, merry Christmas! Well, I should get back...family, you know...", it took a good prod of Minerva's wand into Alastor's better buttock to make him say thanks, or something resembling that, as Molly sighed, a bit too heavily for their tastes, and left with a swish of her heavy, home-knitted shawl.
Remus, always hungry, took a knife and cut off a slice.
"Anyone?"
"NO!" Minerva and Alastor barked in perfect synchrony.
Yes, it was a pleasantly normal Order evening, all things considered.
Minerva sat down with her book again while Remus continued to work on the cake and Alastor buried himself in a catalogue of a new variety of extra-light chain mail made of supposedly curse-proof, Norn-spun Thread-O-Life, registration with the Ludicrous Patents Office pending. Minerva made a mental note. It obviously was an advertising gimmick, but from what she knew about Alastor Moody, he could probably do with a new set of undershirts, Norn-made or otherwise. She then filed said mental note under P for poppycock and resumed her reading.
The call came at dinnertime.
A chilly draft swept in from the fireplace, and as Remus, Minerva, and Alastor turned, wands drawn, out of a cloud of soot emerged a small, silvery Puffskein, trying to catch its breath, terror in its eyes, as a familiar voice croaked:
"THEY'RE HERE! THREE OF THEM! PLEASE-COME FAST!"
***
All the Flitwicks loved Christmas.
And if love was countable, that meant much love, since there were a great many of them. For the purpose of holidays, or any purpose for that matter, the Flitwicks defined "family" as including anyone who set foot into their home to share their food and drink, or just to sit there and exist if that was what they fancied. That year, their number had increased by yet another two. Nordri's and Rosie's daughter Hilda and her husband Jim had given them their second great-grandchild (number three was on the way), and Austri had just arrived with his new love, an Auror like Austri himself. A Vector, Filius knew, but he forgot if it was Sixtus or Octavian. He would make sure to check discreetly with Xenia when she came back from the wine cellar.
Truth be told, they had discussed whether it was wise to celebrate Christmas at all that year. The Ministry now strongly cautioned against large gatherings, particularly of families that were considered at risk. Too many incidents had been reported of mixed-heritage wizards and witches being taunted, harrassed, scared, even hurt in recent weeks. And the Flitwicks had complied, though reluctantly. They had largely given up their Sunday teas and no longer threw birthday parties for those over fourteen.
But Christmas...
No. They had given up so much already in the name of safety. Depriving themselves of even more would be too much like conceding victory. If the men in their black cloaks wanted to rid the world of everything that made life worth living, like laughter, song and conviviality, well, they would ruddy well have to fight for it. The Flitwicks would not do that job for them voluntarily.
And so Filius had set up protective charms, Austri had got his contacts at the Ministry to set up clandestine Portkeys, and Xenia had busied herself with the Christmas pudding, her great-granddaughter helping it obtain its distinct flavour by sitting down as nicely as she could and watching.
"Joy! Put that away and sit down, love!"
The freckled, curly-haired ten-year-old wrinkled her nose, clearly unhappy to trade her new Nimbulus 750 for a seat at the dinner table. Judging by the amount of Chocolate Reindeer wrappings by the empty broomstick box, Filius strongly suspected his favourite great-granddaughter of acute lack of hunger. Yet there was a time for dinner and a time for broomsticks, and even young Joy would have to learn that. Especially because-
"Over here now, Joy. There'll be plenty of flying for you at Hogwarts next summer!"
The mention of the school she would finally be attending come September made Joy drop her Nimbulus 750 at once and scurry over to the dinner table. Filius beamed. The girl was as full of Magic as she was of mischief. How proud Filius had been of her when she had pointed her father's wand at the hip-shaking, eyelash-batting fashion doll her grandmother Rosie had given her for Christmas and tried to Transfigure it into a Quaffle. The result had merely been that the fashion doll became rather voluptuous and turned a violent shade of eggplant, but for a girl her age, the Magic was quite impressive. Although he had to admit that Rosie had topped the achievement by turning an even more violent shade of eggplant herself. Yes, his little Joy would do well. And if she just practiced a bit on that Nimbulus, well, Ravenclaw might even have a prayer at winning the Quidditch Cup again some day...
Joy sat down between him and Quintus Vector ("So you're my new co-uncle then? Pleased to meet you. What's your team?"), and they tucked in. Jim, who had recently obtained a job as a chef at the Oat Cuisine and was quite proud of it, had put the family table to a serious test with three gigantic, stuffed turkeys, six varieties of cranberry sauce, mountains of chipolatas (including a dozen tofu ones for Hilda), bowls of mashed potato, cabbage, beans, a smoked ham, a large tureen of pumpkin soup, and gallons and gallons of sweet, red punch. Soon the room was humming with chatter and laughter, accompanied by the clinking of glasses and cutlery, the Oooohs and Aaaahs and Mmmmhs that were the cook's greatest praise, and the occasional noise from Uncle Albie, who found table manners greatly overrated.
A stone through the window was the first sign that something was wrong.
"Oi, halflings!"
Filius knew the voice. "All women take the children and Disapparate to Albie's," he whispered. Then, louder: "Have you got nothing better to do on a day like this, Evan Rosier?"
The answer smashed the other window and left a crack in the tiled floor.
"We can't Disapparate!" Rosie boomed behind him, clutching her granddaughter in her arms. "They must've set up shields!"
"Well-spotted!" shouted another voice, this one unfamiliar. "And for your information, we've also blocked your back door, your chimney, and every bloody mousehole."
"What do you want?" Filius was finding it difficult to keep his voice firm.
"Oh, just give us the Aurors and we'll leave you in peace!"
Austri and Vector looked at each other. Around the room, then at each other again. A nod. Two steps toward the door, followed by two violent slaps, one on a cheek, one on a buttock, from Xenia. "Don't you dare!"
"If you want them, come and get them!" she shouted. Filius couldn't help a sigh. As much as he loved his wife, her confidence in his magical abilities sometimes bordered on the reckless.
"Careful what you ask for, woman!" sneered the first voice again. "Show'em what we do to midgets that think they can stand in our way, boy! Go ahead, show'em! Got top marks for your spellwork, didn't you?"
Filius knew exactly whose wand it was that cast the next curse. The loud, sizzling noise spoke of a gifted wizard, a wizard who could do great good if only he wanted to. If only they - his teachers - hadn't failed at making him find it worth the effort. A purple jet hit the small rabbit hutch and set it ablaze in a violent explosion of rainbow-coloured sparks. A scream from Joy: "Binky!" The smell of burning flesh mixed with that of the flames.
"AGUAMENTI!"
Filius brandished his wand at the shack, but the spray of water evaporated with a hiss even before it hit the flames. He should have known. They knew their spells, Death Eaters did. This one in particular.
"THE AURORS, WE SAID!"
Austri and Vector shook off the women who had been holding them back and got up. So did Uncle Albie, drawing his wand. Then Filius. Xenia. Nordri. Jim. Rosie. Hilda, immediately shoved back into her seat by a stern glance from Rosie who flicked her wand at Joy, the baby, and Hilda's stomach by way of an explanation.
One by one, the Flitwicks filed out of the cottage and into the garden.
That was when Filius cast the Patronus.
***
Minerva saw the battlefield as soon as their broomsticks were up in the air. The billowing flames in the garden of the cottage near the forest were visible from afar, and as they swooped down, she heard the growing cacophony of screams and explosions, curses hitting, missing, smashing windows, sending stones and beams crashing on the ground wherever they struck. It was a mess.
There by the greenhouse was Evan Rosier, battling Mrs Flitwick, her younger son Austri, and an ancient, willowy man who was brandishing his wand like Minerva's own grandfather would brandish his walking stick when the neighbour's kids had got into his cherry trees. It was surprisingly effective but couldn't stop Rosier noticing Austri's brother, who had just stumbled over the rim of a flower patch, furiously grasping for his wand.
"AVADA KEDRAVRA!"
"MY FATHER!" Minerva saw Jim Flitwick hurl a helpless curse at Rosier. Didn't he see or care that his back was turned to Dolohov? Before Minerva could react, Dolohov had struck him down with no more than a flick of his wrist, then screamed in pain as a tall man - wasn't he one of Septima's brothers? - fired a severing curse at his shoulder that sent his defensive spell into the greenhouse. A round, elderly witch stormed to the scene and aimed a bone-breaking hex at Dolohov's right leg. Judging by the dry, cracking sound, it was a full hit in the femur.
And there was Filius. Frowning as he held off a lanky boy who hardly filled his robes. A lanky boy Minerva knew all too well. They had taught him. Had hoped to bring out the good in him, and had failed dismally. She remembered the long, often heated discussions with Filius, who had always refused to believe that the boy was like the rest of those whose company he had sought in his later years at Hogwarts. Minerva wasn't so sure. True, she had seen the furtive looks he used to shoot at the Evans girl, the shy, boyish, vulnerable ones, but she had also seen the cold glares he reserved for those he detested, and that was mostly everyone but Lily Evans. Albus had always thought he would come round, but Albus didn't exactly have a spotless record when it came to the early detection of psychopathic traits in young men.
Had he been wrong this time, too?
"SECTUMSEMPRA!"
Filius looked at his bleeding arm, his mouth half open. Then more looks. From the boy at Filius. Filius at the boy. The boy at her. An awkward movement: a green flash hitting a birch tree, far away from any possible human target. A threat? Or an accident? From that exceptionally talented boy? That pointless waving of the wand, unlike anything ever taught, the gap in his defence, a lapse?
Or was he saying something?
Or was she imagining something?
"STUPEFY!"
A deep crimson flash from Minerva's wand thrust Severus Snape's body against the well, where it collapsed into a heap of black fabric like a curtain taken down for washing. Not a heartbeat later she saw two curses coming at her. She transformed and jumped just to see two green jets meet where her stomach had been a split second ago.
CRACK!
Two more of them materialised. Bellatrix Lestrange and Nancy Payne, one laughing, one scowling, drew their wands and joined Rosier and Dolohov in the fight. The Death Eaters were still outnumbered, but Minerva knew how little that meant: none of the Flitwicks, save Filius and Austri, had any combat experience. They fought hard, resolve and bravery making up for some lack of skill, but every hole in the defence, every lowering of the guard to cast a glance at a brother or wife to see if they were holding up, every attempt to discern a breath if they weren't, was preyed upon and taken advantage of with no mercy.
At last, though late, far too late for Nordri and his son and the two Flitwicks who were hopefully only knocked out, Minerva spotted a weakness in Rosier's defence. "STUPEFY!" Down he went. Then Payne collapsed, distracted by Austri, Petrified, bound, tied up, gagged and otherwise secured by Alastor.
Dolohov took a last swipe at the woman who had broken his leg and Disapparated.
And Bellatrix Lestrange blew a goodbye kiss at them as she hurled a purple flash at the cottage and followed her fellow combatant.
"NO!"
Filius's voice was swallowed by a detonation of sparks and the roaring sound of a sudden eruption of fire. The charmed icicles that had hung from the eaves exploded into a million pieces; the remaining windowpanes were shattered. No sooner had the thatched roof and framed walls gone up in fire like tinder on a hot day than the flames began to take shape, seemed to come alive as daemons and serpents and chimaeras that liked to play with their prey before they fed on it. Filius ran, Minerva held him back. "How many?" - "Three!" As she started to run, she felt a shove as Remus darted past her - "Make a passage!" - and tore toward the burning cottage, Vector close behind him.
Make a passage.
There was no weapon against Fiendfyre. No weapon, no counter-curse, only sheer determination and hope and willpower, for all that that could possibly be worth. She had no other option. No chance, realistically, but no choice, either. Her wand clasped in two white-knuckled hands, eyes narrowed to tiny slits, she concentrated. Forced herself to make the ogres give in, recede just enough for Remus and Vector to pass and get out the three Flitwicks caught in the searing flames and suffocating smoke.
For a moment it seemed that all her efforts did was anger the monsters, tickle them furious, make them toss and lash out even harder in response to the unexpected attack. Yet she kept her focus, observing closely. Could it be that even flames had their weak spots? There were two smaller ones, two serpents by the doorframe, locking heads over the carved crossbeam. She targeted them, and indeed they withdrew, just a little, as if taken by surprise. And there was Remus, coughing as he stumbled out holding a pregnant woman with a baby in her arms.
"WHERE'S MY DAUGHTER?"
No sign of Vector and the girl. The purple- and orange-coloured monsters raged on, throwing furniture and debris up into the grey afternoon sky before they lept up to swallow it whole or take bites off it and let the remains crash on the ground. Minerva tried to shut out the noise of the roaring flames, the crackling straw, the coughs and screams behind and in front of her as she kept her mind fixed on the door. Sweat trickled into her eyes; her vision blurred. The serpents began putting up resistance; the hole narrowed, was now no more than a halo around Vector's grimy face in the depth of the sitting room. She pushed herself, managed to force them back a bit, but it wasn't enough for so big a man. A beam fell, then another. "Catch!" they heard, and Filius charged forward as his great-granddaughter Joy was propelled through the tiny hole in the flames.
Then the walls gave in.
***
The sun was setting over Godric's Hollow. Traces of faded violet crept up the western rim of the overcast sky, smudged by plumes of black smoke rising from the pitiful remains of the cottage. Fiendfyre was as fast as it was thorough.
Minerva sat on a rock by the edge of the forest, resting her aching head on her fingertips. She felt stiff. Her cheeks still glowed from the heat of the smouldering pile of rubble and ashes, and cold crept up her back where the embers had singed her robes as she and Alastor had recovered Vector's body from the debris. They had wrapped it into Alastor's travelling cloak and laid it next to Nordri's and Jim's. Filius was sitting there with Austri, holding his son's hand and looking over at his wife. Two Healers of St Mungo's were bending over Xenia's unconscious body, murmuring long incantations. Aunt Rosie had survived Dolohov's last blow with a gash in her arm and a bruise on her forehead and was holding on tightly to her daughter, who was shaken alternately by fits of sobbing, trembling and laughter. Uncle Albie tickled the baby and let white and pink sparks fly from his wand.
The Healers were preparing Xenia and Joy for transport. When Filius got up to talk to them, his and Minerva's glances met over the heap of black cloth that was still lying motionless by the well.
He walked over to her rock sat down next to her.
"You Stunned him well."
Minerva nodded. Yes. It really had been one of her better ones.
"I wonder, Minerva," he said after a pause. "That Stunner...whom did it spare? Me? Or him?"
Minerva levitated a small pebble and deposited it gently on a stone.
"I don't know. Do you?"
"No."
A Healer caught sight of the boy and approached him tentatively, but a hearty growl from Alastor stopped him dead. Minerva noted it with relief. A growling Alastor was a healthy Alastor. No need to risk asking how he felt.
"What to do with him?"
Indeed. What to do? Severus hadn't done much harm, by comparison; Minerva had seen to that. They could turn him in for the sake of justice, but what would that do to him? What would it do to a disillusioned boy with no ties who was determined to fight the Establishment, whatever that was to him? What would it do to him to receive a sentence that could be trusted to be harsh, considering that the last spell that had come from his wand had been an Unforgivable - even though it had perhaps, maybe not, but perhaps been a sham? Then again, what would it do to him if they let him go back to those with whom he had come?
"I think it's for you to say," Minerva said.
They sat there. Quietly, not touching, not looking, the way people sit together who need no outward signs that they understand one another.
After a while, Filius nodded. He drew his wand and got up to pass by the boy before he joined the Healers who were ready to take his wife and great-granddaughter to St Mungo's.
He had made his decision.
***//***
Godric's Hollow, Christmas 1980
Filius Flitwick knew what it was like to have one's love tested.
He knew what it was like to feel rage. At injustice, at violence, at those who took his family, his house, everything he had lived for and worked for and believed in. At those who had killed. And at the one in whose eyes he had seen that he hadn't been out there to kill. That he could have switched sides, perhaps even saved a life. Yet he hadn't. Because he had made a choice. Or because he was a coward. Or simply because he didn't find the Flitwicks worth his efforts.
After the rage came the emptiness. When he buried those who had died that Christmas, and later those whose bodies and minds had suffered greater wounds than a human being could endure. Like Xenia. Like Hilda's baby. Like Hilda herself, who wrote a note one February morning and left her cottage to take a boat out on the lake. When his son moved to another country to make a fresh start, somewhere where not every day at work, every evening at home, every weekend spent alone or in quest of something to replace the void would remind him of the men in black cloaks who had wanted to get him and instead destroyed his family. When the Healers said, at last, that Joy would live, but that there was no spell, no cure, no Muggle trick even that could heal the damage that the smoke of the Fiendfyre had done to her brain.
When Filius stood by the pier to wave Austri goodbye, when he stood by the graves of his loved ones, when he saw his great-granddaughter in her room at St Mungo's with its brightly-coloured pictures of animals and flowers, and Joy's small broomstick and her Glynnis Griffiths Chocolate Frog Card and a golden Snitch dangling from the ceiling above the bed, he thought he had felt every feeling that was in him.
Then, one night, when he sat in the darkness of his rooms at Hogwarts, Xenia's portrait spoke. She had never been fond of speaking portraits, always felt that they should shut up and let the living get on with their lives. And she didn't say much. She didn't have to.
"Remember the man I married," was what she said.
So Filius did.
It took him an effort, but he did.
He grabbed his old shopping basket and went to Diagon Alley and the Forbidden Forest. He decorated the halls of the castle, knowing that the teenagers who giggled and the teachers who smiled at his endeavours loved his fairies and charmed icicles and conveniently placed mistletoes every bit as much as Joy did. He left presents for the house-elves and bought nectar for the fairies. He even regaled Mrs Norris with catnip and Fang with rumen he cooked in the kitchen of Hogwarts (thereby driving even the most devoted house-elves to taking the afternoon off), and he didn't forget to give Lady Violet's portrait a few deft strokes of the paintbrush to replenish her stock of wine for the year, with warm regards to the lady friend from Gryffindor Tower.
Then he went home and made Christmas pudding.
One for himself and Joy, and Uncle Albie, who could be trusted to show up on Christmas morning despite his protestations that he was really getting too old for rich food and that awfully good wine that would be his downfall, and those shameless, half-naked fairies.
One for Xenia.
One for Minerva.
One for Alastor, one for Remus, one for Septima.
And one for what this holiday was about.
He whispered a kind wish as he wrapped the Sri Lankan Moonstone and the small Christmas pudding in forest green paper and tied a silvery ribbon around them. He didn't attach a return address.
"Do find him," he said to Barney, his faithful owl.
***//***
Title: Amor Vitae
Author: tetleythesecond.
Recipient: lazy_neutrino
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Flitwick, McGonagall, Snape, Moody, Lupin
Warnings: none
Summary: Some people wonder why Filius Flitwick is always so cheerful at Christmas.
Author's Notes: Dear Mystery Recipient, I hope that I didn't take too much liberty with your prompt, and that you'll enjoy this. My passionate gratitude goes to kellychambliss and therealsnape for being such fabulous betas!
--
Filius Flitwick believed that love and life were essentially the same thing.
He had always been that way. Which was quite remarkable, really, given the fact that he had spent most of his childhood days hidden away from the neighbours' curious glances in the dark, gloomy manor of Dr. and Mrs Flitwick's, with its music room and library and brightly-polished antique furniture that was always a tad too big for him. Little Filius's playground was the well-tended garden with its tall stone walls and close-cropped lawn; his only company - apart from his private teacher, his starched-bloused mother and his distant father - was Uncle Albie, who lived in an ancient, rickety caravan near the edge of the estate where shrubs and birch trees hid it from the easily offended eye. And yet, Filius always had a smile for everyone and a kind word about everything and a love for life and all things living that made his parents sometimes wonder if there wasn't perhaps more wrong with him than just his size, for which they could at least blame Grandmother Erda and her taste in men.
Little Filius became especially cheerful when Christmastime arrived.
For one, Christmas meant secret snowball fights with Uncle Albie, and practicing cleaning and drying charms, as well as perfecting the Hit-Uncle-Albie charm. Christmas also meant new books and magical gadgets to play with in front of the fireplace while his father, for once not buried in his study, sat down in the uncomfortable, straight-backed armchair by the bay window and read him stories of small men who did great things.
But the best thing about Christmas was being allowed to go down to the kitchens on Saturdays, when a scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted through the corridors, right into his room on the far end of the upper floor. Then he would venture down the stairs in his sailor suit and felt slippers, and if he was lucky, Cook's daughter Xenia would be there. Now, there was a perfect girl, one who knew how to bake miniature cakes and flew a wicked kite to boot. What more could one possibly ask for?
Each year on the first Saturday in December, Cook would make the Christmas pudding, and Filius and Xenia would help her. Stir once, twice, three times to the left (sneak a raisin), then once, twice, three times to the right (sneak a walnut). Then they would sit down as nicely as they could (perhaps sneak an almond if the opportunity arose) and sing Christmas carols while watching the mixture for at least half an hour. That gives it its distinct flavour, said Cook, who had to be considered an authority on such matters. Years later, Filius would be quite sure that it was during those half-an-hours that he fell in love with Xenia and that Xenia fell in love with him.
Oh, when it came to that, his parents wouldn't hear of him marrying the Cook's daughter, and a girl of her stature at that. Because what he considered one of her advantages, namely that she was about his size, was a flaw in their eyes - although in her case it didn't even have anything remotely to do with grandmotherly Goblin liaisons. His mother had said so; according to one of his father's Muggle textbooks, Xenia had a Jean that wasn't quite right. Filius didn't know who Jean was, neither did he care much, but his mother seemed to be quite adamant about keeping her out of the family.
Yet if Filius Flitwick was anything besides amiable, he was stubborn, and so he and Xenia eloped one cold December night in a brightly-painted caravan that they had built themselves, with friendly help from Uncle Albie.
Filius never forgot their first Christmas together. That they made Christmas pudding, with a tiny wishbone hidden inside. That it cracked right down the middle when they broke it, and that they laughed because they knew that it really didn't matter because they had both made the same wish. The wishbone had turned out to be a reliable widget, and so they celebrated the Christmas after that with little Nordri, and the Christmas after that with little Nordri and even littler Austri. And as the boys grew and a job offer from Hogwarts allowed Filius to trade in the caravan for a proper little house on the outskirts of Godric's Hollow, so grew the number of people around the Flitwick family table, and so grew the Christmas puddings.
***
Those were his memories as he knelt beside Xenia's grave in Godric's Hollow on Christmas morning in 1980, planting white flowers into the muddy soil. Hellebores, they were called, or Christmas roses. His wife used to love them.
"There. Pretty, aren't they?"
He picked a flower and tickled the cheek of the girl in the wheelchair next to him. She laughed and reached out for the flower, but her fingers wouldn't grasp it. Filius smiled as he rearranged the thick layer of blankets that was supposed to protect the girl from the damp December cold. It hadn't been easy to get the permission to take her out of St Mungo's for Christmas. Your great-granddaughter doesn't even know what Christmas is, the Healers had said. Well, that might be. But he knew that she wouldn't have forgotten the fairies that danced and fluttered around the big pine tree. Joy loved the fairies, and the fairies loved Joy.
He opened the bag he had brought with him. There were presents in it, bought earlier that day on his trip to Diagon Alley, just before he went to pick up Joy. Small gifts, chosen with care. The Moonstone had been particularly difficult to get. 'Playing hobgoblin' was what they called giving anonymous gifts in Switzerland, where his son now lived. He liked that.
Gingerly, Filius took a small Christmas pudding out of his bag and placed it on Xenia's grave.
***
Alastor Moody didn't do Christmas.
But the creases in his weather-worn face twitched almost visibly as he opened the door on Christmas morning and found a blue-and-silver-wrapped Christmas pudding with a Sneakoscope, the new kind, with stress hormone detector. He knew who had sent it.
And he marvelled at the fact that he still celebrated Christmas.
***
Septima Vector hated Christmas.
But she was deeply moved as she opened the door on Christmas morning and found a white-wrapped Christmas pudding and a beautifully-framed picture of her brother and his loved one. She knew who had sent it.
And she admired him for still celebrating Christmas.
***
Minerva McGonagall never particularly cared for Christmas.
But she smiled as she opened the door on Christmas morning and found a red-gold-and-tartan-wrapped Christmas pudding and a gramophone record by that young Polish violinist she so adored. She knew who had sent it.
And she knew why he still celebrated Christmas.
Even after what had happened the year before.
Perhaps especially after that.
***//***
Godric's Hollow, Christmas 1979
If you asked Minerva McGonagall, Christmas clearly had its downsides.
Among the more prominent of them was undoubtedly the brightly-illuminated Father Christmas that kept climbing up and down the façade of the house across the street from the dilapidated cottage in Godric's Hollow that served as the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. She tried to ignore the thing, but young Remus Lupin seemed rather intrigued by it.
"I always think he looks like Albus," he said.
"I always think he is Albus."
Minerva got up from her armchair by the fireplace, pulled the curtain closed, and sat down again. Given the condition of the tattered piece of fabric, that action did rather little to abate the unnerving flashing of the lights. It really made reading quite impossible.
"Anyone else for tea?" Minerva snapped her book shut and got up from her armchair by the fireplace.
"Not me, thanks," Remus said as he slumped down on the lumpy sofa.
"What you call tea should be a Class A tradable substance," Alastor Moody growled. "But I'll have some if you're making it anyway. And how often have I told you to take your wand with you, even if you go to the kitchen?"
Minerva pursed her lips and shoved her wand between the folds of her robes.
"TIP DOWN! You wouldn't be the first witch to lose a..."
He was reduced to silence by the arched eyebrow that every British witch or wizard under the age of thirty-eight knew to interpret as a danger sign. "Thank you for your concern, Alastor, but not everybody handles their wand with such brute force that they blow off their..."
"I think I may have some tea after all," Remus said and got up from the sofa. He was still rather new to the Order of the Phoenix.
The three of them had volunteered for holiday duty at the Order headquarters in Godric's Hollow. Everyone else had families, some of them even rather young families, so the Order had convened that it was only logical for the three non-married members to sit guard on this family holiday.
There was a tacit agreement. No carols. No turkey. Absolutely. No. Plumpudding. And some of them took the agreement rather more seriously than others: When Molly appeared on the well-worn doorstep with a Christmas cake and a cheerful smile on her red cheeks, "just a little thank-you for doing duty here on this wonderful day instead of...well, as I said, just a little thank-you, and merry, merry Christmas! Well, I should get back...family, you know...", it took a good prod of Minerva's wand into Alastor's better buttock to make him say thanks, or something resembling that, as Molly sighed, a bit too heavily for their tastes, and left with a swish of her heavy, home-knitted shawl.
Remus, always hungry, took a knife and cut off a slice.
"Anyone?"
"NO!" Minerva and Alastor barked in perfect synchrony.
Yes, it was a pleasantly normal Order evening, all things considered.
Minerva sat down with her book again while Remus continued to work on the cake and Alastor buried himself in a catalogue of a new variety of extra-light chain mail made of supposedly curse-proof, Norn-spun Thread-O-Life, registration with the Ludicrous Patents Office pending. Minerva made a mental note. It obviously was an advertising gimmick, but from what she knew about Alastor Moody, he could probably do with a new set of undershirts, Norn-made or otherwise. She then filed said mental note under P for poppycock and resumed her reading.
The call came at dinnertime.
A chilly draft swept in from the fireplace, and as Remus, Minerva, and Alastor turned, wands drawn, out of a cloud of soot emerged a small, silvery Puffskein, trying to catch its breath, terror in its eyes, as a familiar voice croaked:
"THEY'RE HERE! THREE OF THEM! PLEASE-COME FAST!"
***
All the Flitwicks loved Christmas.
And if love was countable, that meant much love, since there were a great many of them. For the purpose of holidays, or any purpose for that matter, the Flitwicks defined "family" as including anyone who set foot into their home to share their food and drink, or just to sit there and exist if that was what they fancied. That year, their number had increased by yet another two. Nordri's and Rosie's daughter Hilda and her husband Jim had given them their second great-grandchild (number three was on the way), and Austri had just arrived with his new love, an Auror like Austri himself. A Vector, Filius knew, but he forgot if it was Sixtus or Octavian. He would make sure to check discreetly with Xenia when she came back from the wine cellar.
Truth be told, they had discussed whether it was wise to celebrate Christmas at all that year. The Ministry now strongly cautioned against large gatherings, particularly of families that were considered at risk. Too many incidents had been reported of mixed-heritage wizards and witches being taunted, harrassed, scared, even hurt in recent weeks. And the Flitwicks had complied, though reluctantly. They had largely given up their Sunday teas and no longer threw birthday parties for those over fourteen.
But Christmas...
No. They had given up so much already in the name of safety. Depriving themselves of even more would be too much like conceding victory. If the men in their black cloaks wanted to rid the world of everything that made life worth living, like laughter, song and conviviality, well, they would ruddy well have to fight for it. The Flitwicks would not do that job for them voluntarily.
And so Filius had set up protective charms, Austri had got his contacts at the Ministry to set up clandestine Portkeys, and Xenia had busied herself with the Christmas pudding, her great-granddaughter helping it obtain its distinct flavour by sitting down as nicely as she could and watching.
"Joy! Put that away and sit down, love!"
The freckled, curly-haired ten-year-old wrinkled her nose, clearly unhappy to trade her new Nimbulus 750 for a seat at the dinner table. Judging by the amount of Chocolate Reindeer wrappings by the empty broomstick box, Filius strongly suspected his favourite great-granddaughter of acute lack of hunger. Yet there was a time for dinner and a time for broomsticks, and even young Joy would have to learn that. Especially because-
"Over here now, Joy. There'll be plenty of flying for you at Hogwarts next summer!"
The mention of the school she would finally be attending come September made Joy drop her Nimbulus 750 at once and scurry over to the dinner table. Filius beamed. The girl was as full of Magic as she was of mischief. How proud Filius had been of her when she had pointed her father's wand at the hip-shaking, eyelash-batting fashion doll her grandmother Rosie had given her for Christmas and tried to Transfigure it into a Quaffle. The result had merely been that the fashion doll became rather voluptuous and turned a violent shade of eggplant, but for a girl her age, the Magic was quite impressive. Although he had to admit that Rosie had topped the achievement by turning an even more violent shade of eggplant herself. Yes, his little Joy would do well. And if she just practiced a bit on that Nimbulus, well, Ravenclaw might even have a prayer at winning the Quidditch Cup again some day...
Joy sat down between him and Quintus Vector ("So you're my new co-uncle then? Pleased to meet you. What's your team?"), and they tucked in. Jim, who had recently obtained a job as a chef at the Oat Cuisine and was quite proud of it, had put the family table to a serious test with three gigantic, stuffed turkeys, six varieties of cranberry sauce, mountains of chipolatas (including a dozen tofu ones for Hilda), bowls of mashed potato, cabbage, beans, a smoked ham, a large tureen of pumpkin soup, and gallons and gallons of sweet, red punch. Soon the room was humming with chatter and laughter, accompanied by the clinking of glasses and cutlery, the Oooohs and Aaaahs and Mmmmhs that were the cook's greatest praise, and the occasional noise from Uncle Albie, who found table manners greatly overrated.
A stone through the window was the first sign that something was wrong.
"Oi, halflings!"
Filius knew the voice. "All women take the children and Disapparate to Albie's," he whispered. Then, louder: "Have you got nothing better to do on a day like this, Evan Rosier?"
The answer smashed the other window and left a crack in the tiled floor.
"We can't Disapparate!" Rosie boomed behind him, clutching her granddaughter in her arms. "They must've set up shields!"
"Well-spotted!" shouted another voice, this one unfamiliar. "And for your information, we've also blocked your back door, your chimney, and every bloody mousehole."
"What do you want?" Filius was finding it difficult to keep his voice firm.
"Oh, just give us the Aurors and we'll leave you in peace!"
Austri and Vector looked at each other. Around the room, then at each other again. A nod. Two steps toward the door, followed by two violent slaps, one on a cheek, one on a buttock, from Xenia. "Don't you dare!"
"If you want them, come and get them!" she shouted. Filius couldn't help a sigh. As much as he loved his wife, her confidence in his magical abilities sometimes bordered on the reckless.
"Careful what you ask for, woman!" sneered the first voice again. "Show'em what we do to midgets that think they can stand in our way, boy! Go ahead, show'em! Got top marks for your spellwork, didn't you?"
Filius knew exactly whose wand it was that cast the next curse. The loud, sizzling noise spoke of a gifted wizard, a wizard who could do great good if only he wanted to. If only they - his teachers - hadn't failed at making him find it worth the effort. A purple jet hit the small rabbit hutch and set it ablaze in a violent explosion of rainbow-coloured sparks. A scream from Joy: "Binky!" The smell of burning flesh mixed with that of the flames.
"AGUAMENTI!"
Filius brandished his wand at the shack, but the spray of water evaporated with a hiss even before it hit the flames. He should have known. They knew their spells, Death Eaters did. This one in particular.
"THE AURORS, WE SAID!"
Austri and Vector shook off the women who had been holding them back and got up. So did Uncle Albie, drawing his wand. Then Filius. Xenia. Nordri. Jim. Rosie. Hilda, immediately shoved back into her seat by a stern glance from Rosie who flicked her wand at Joy, the baby, and Hilda's stomach by way of an explanation.
One by one, the Flitwicks filed out of the cottage and into the garden.
That was when Filius cast the Patronus.
***
Minerva saw the battlefield as soon as their broomsticks were up in the air. The billowing flames in the garden of the cottage near the forest were visible from afar, and as they swooped down, she heard the growing cacophony of screams and explosions, curses hitting, missing, smashing windows, sending stones and beams crashing on the ground wherever they struck. It was a mess.
There by the greenhouse was Evan Rosier, battling Mrs Flitwick, her younger son Austri, and an ancient, willowy man who was brandishing his wand like Minerva's own grandfather would brandish his walking stick when the neighbour's kids had got into his cherry trees. It was surprisingly effective but couldn't stop Rosier noticing Austri's brother, who had just stumbled over the rim of a flower patch, furiously grasping for his wand.
"AVADA KEDRAVRA!"
"MY FATHER!" Minerva saw Jim Flitwick hurl a helpless curse at Rosier. Didn't he see or care that his back was turned to Dolohov? Before Minerva could react, Dolohov had struck him down with no more than a flick of his wrist, then screamed in pain as a tall man - wasn't he one of Septima's brothers? - fired a severing curse at his shoulder that sent his defensive spell into the greenhouse. A round, elderly witch stormed to the scene and aimed a bone-breaking hex at Dolohov's right leg. Judging by the dry, cracking sound, it was a full hit in the femur.
And there was Filius. Frowning as he held off a lanky boy who hardly filled his robes. A lanky boy Minerva knew all too well. They had taught him. Had hoped to bring out the good in him, and had failed dismally. She remembered the long, often heated discussions with Filius, who had always refused to believe that the boy was like the rest of those whose company he had sought in his later years at Hogwarts. Minerva wasn't so sure. True, she had seen the furtive looks he used to shoot at the Evans girl, the shy, boyish, vulnerable ones, but she had also seen the cold glares he reserved for those he detested, and that was mostly everyone but Lily Evans. Albus had always thought he would come round, but Albus didn't exactly have a spotless record when it came to the early detection of psychopathic traits in young men.
Had he been wrong this time, too?
"SECTUMSEMPRA!"
Filius looked at his bleeding arm, his mouth half open. Then more looks. From the boy at Filius. Filius at the boy. The boy at her. An awkward movement: a green flash hitting a birch tree, far away from any possible human target. A threat? Or an accident? From that exceptionally talented boy? That pointless waving of the wand, unlike anything ever taught, the gap in his defence, a lapse?
Or was he saying something?
Or was she imagining something?
"STUPEFY!"
A deep crimson flash from Minerva's wand thrust Severus Snape's body against the well, where it collapsed into a heap of black fabric like a curtain taken down for washing. Not a heartbeat later she saw two curses coming at her. She transformed and jumped just to see two green jets meet where her stomach had been a split second ago.
CRACK!
Two more of them materialised. Bellatrix Lestrange and Nancy Payne, one laughing, one scowling, drew their wands and joined Rosier and Dolohov in the fight. The Death Eaters were still outnumbered, but Minerva knew how little that meant: none of the Flitwicks, save Filius and Austri, had any combat experience. They fought hard, resolve and bravery making up for some lack of skill, but every hole in the defence, every lowering of the guard to cast a glance at a brother or wife to see if they were holding up, every attempt to discern a breath if they weren't, was preyed upon and taken advantage of with no mercy.
At last, though late, far too late for Nordri and his son and the two Flitwicks who were hopefully only knocked out, Minerva spotted a weakness in Rosier's defence. "STUPEFY!" Down he went. Then Payne collapsed, distracted by Austri, Petrified, bound, tied up, gagged and otherwise secured by Alastor.
Dolohov took a last swipe at the woman who had broken his leg and Disapparated.
And Bellatrix Lestrange blew a goodbye kiss at them as she hurled a purple flash at the cottage and followed her fellow combatant.
"NO!"
Filius's voice was swallowed by a detonation of sparks and the roaring sound of a sudden eruption of fire. The charmed icicles that had hung from the eaves exploded into a million pieces; the remaining windowpanes were shattered. No sooner had the thatched roof and framed walls gone up in fire like tinder on a hot day than the flames began to take shape, seemed to come alive as daemons and serpents and chimaeras that liked to play with their prey before they fed on it. Filius ran, Minerva held him back. "How many?" - "Three!" As she started to run, she felt a shove as Remus darted past her - "Make a passage!" - and tore toward the burning cottage, Vector close behind him.
Make a passage.
There was no weapon against Fiendfyre. No weapon, no counter-curse, only sheer determination and hope and willpower, for all that that could possibly be worth. She had no other option. No chance, realistically, but no choice, either. Her wand clasped in two white-knuckled hands, eyes narrowed to tiny slits, she concentrated. Forced herself to make the ogres give in, recede just enough for Remus and Vector to pass and get out the three Flitwicks caught in the searing flames and suffocating smoke.
For a moment it seemed that all her efforts did was anger the monsters, tickle them furious, make them toss and lash out even harder in response to the unexpected attack. Yet she kept her focus, observing closely. Could it be that even flames had their weak spots? There were two smaller ones, two serpents by the doorframe, locking heads over the carved crossbeam. She targeted them, and indeed they withdrew, just a little, as if taken by surprise. And there was Remus, coughing as he stumbled out holding a pregnant woman with a baby in her arms.
"WHERE'S MY DAUGHTER?"
No sign of Vector and the girl. The purple- and orange-coloured monsters raged on, throwing furniture and debris up into the grey afternoon sky before they lept up to swallow it whole or take bites off it and let the remains crash on the ground. Minerva tried to shut out the noise of the roaring flames, the crackling straw, the coughs and screams behind and in front of her as she kept her mind fixed on the door. Sweat trickled into her eyes; her vision blurred. The serpents began putting up resistance; the hole narrowed, was now no more than a halo around Vector's grimy face in the depth of the sitting room. She pushed herself, managed to force them back a bit, but it wasn't enough for so big a man. A beam fell, then another. "Catch!" they heard, and Filius charged forward as his great-granddaughter Joy was propelled through the tiny hole in the flames.
Then the walls gave in.
***
The sun was setting over Godric's Hollow. Traces of faded violet crept up the western rim of the overcast sky, smudged by plumes of black smoke rising from the pitiful remains of the cottage. Fiendfyre was as fast as it was thorough.
Minerva sat on a rock by the edge of the forest, resting her aching head on her fingertips. She felt stiff. Her cheeks still glowed from the heat of the smouldering pile of rubble and ashes, and cold crept up her back where the embers had singed her robes as she and Alastor had recovered Vector's body from the debris. They had wrapped it into Alastor's travelling cloak and laid it next to Nordri's and Jim's. Filius was sitting there with Austri, holding his son's hand and looking over at his wife. Two Healers of St Mungo's were bending over Xenia's unconscious body, murmuring long incantations. Aunt Rosie had survived Dolohov's last blow with a gash in her arm and a bruise on her forehead and was holding on tightly to her daughter, who was shaken alternately by fits of sobbing, trembling and laughter. Uncle Albie tickled the baby and let white and pink sparks fly from his wand.
The Healers were preparing Xenia and Joy for transport. When Filius got up to talk to them, his and Minerva's glances met over the heap of black cloth that was still lying motionless by the well.
He walked over to her rock sat down next to her.
"You Stunned him well."
Minerva nodded. Yes. It really had been one of her better ones.
"I wonder, Minerva," he said after a pause. "That Stunner...whom did it spare? Me? Or him?"
Minerva levitated a small pebble and deposited it gently on a stone.
"I don't know. Do you?"
"No."
A Healer caught sight of the boy and approached him tentatively, but a hearty growl from Alastor stopped him dead. Minerva noted it with relief. A growling Alastor was a healthy Alastor. No need to risk asking how he felt.
"What to do with him?"
Indeed. What to do? Severus hadn't done much harm, by comparison; Minerva had seen to that. They could turn him in for the sake of justice, but what would that do to him? What would it do to a disillusioned boy with no ties who was determined to fight the Establishment, whatever that was to him? What would it do to him to receive a sentence that could be trusted to be harsh, considering that the last spell that had come from his wand had been an Unforgivable - even though it had perhaps, maybe not, but perhaps been a sham? Then again, what would it do to him if they let him go back to those with whom he had come?
"I think it's for you to say," Minerva said.
They sat there. Quietly, not touching, not looking, the way people sit together who need no outward signs that they understand one another.
After a while, Filius nodded. He drew his wand and got up to pass by the boy before he joined the Healers who were ready to take his wife and great-granddaughter to St Mungo's.
He had made his decision.
***//***
Godric's Hollow, Christmas 1980
Filius Flitwick knew what it was like to have one's love tested.
He knew what it was like to feel rage. At injustice, at violence, at those who took his family, his house, everything he had lived for and worked for and believed in. At those who had killed. And at the one in whose eyes he had seen that he hadn't been out there to kill. That he could have switched sides, perhaps even saved a life. Yet he hadn't. Because he had made a choice. Or because he was a coward. Or simply because he didn't find the Flitwicks worth his efforts.
After the rage came the emptiness. When he buried those who had died that Christmas, and later those whose bodies and minds had suffered greater wounds than a human being could endure. Like Xenia. Like Hilda's baby. Like Hilda herself, who wrote a note one February morning and left her cottage to take a boat out on the lake. When his son moved to another country to make a fresh start, somewhere where not every day at work, every evening at home, every weekend spent alone or in quest of something to replace the void would remind him of the men in black cloaks who had wanted to get him and instead destroyed his family. When the Healers said, at last, that Joy would live, but that there was no spell, no cure, no Muggle trick even that could heal the damage that the smoke of the Fiendfyre had done to her brain.
When Filius stood by the pier to wave Austri goodbye, when he stood by the graves of his loved ones, when he saw his great-granddaughter in her room at St Mungo's with its brightly-coloured pictures of animals and flowers, and Joy's small broomstick and her Glynnis Griffiths Chocolate Frog Card and a golden Snitch dangling from the ceiling above the bed, he thought he had felt every feeling that was in him.
Then, one night, when he sat in the darkness of his rooms at Hogwarts, Xenia's portrait spoke. She had never been fond of speaking portraits, always felt that they should shut up and let the living get on with their lives. And she didn't say much. She didn't have to.
"Remember the man I married," was what she said.
So Filius did.
It took him an effort, but he did.
He grabbed his old shopping basket and went to Diagon Alley and the Forbidden Forest. He decorated the halls of the castle, knowing that the teenagers who giggled and the teachers who smiled at his endeavours loved his fairies and charmed icicles and conveniently placed mistletoes every bit as much as Joy did. He left presents for the house-elves and bought nectar for the fairies. He even regaled Mrs Norris with catnip and Fang with rumen he cooked in the kitchen of Hogwarts (thereby driving even the most devoted house-elves to taking the afternoon off), and he didn't forget to give Lady Violet's portrait a few deft strokes of the paintbrush to replenish her stock of wine for the year, with warm regards to the lady friend from Gryffindor Tower.
Then he went home and made Christmas pudding.
One for himself and Joy, and Uncle Albie, who could be trusted to show up on Christmas morning despite his protestations that he was really getting too old for rich food and that awfully good wine that would be his downfall, and those shameless, half-naked fairies.
One for Xenia.
One for Minerva.
One for Alastor, one for Remus, one for Septima.
And one for what this holiday was about.
He whispered a kind wish as he wrapped the Sri Lankan Moonstone and the small Christmas pudding in forest green paper and tied a silvery ribbon around them. He didn't attach a return address.
"Do find him," he said to Barney, his faithful owl.
***//***