Rabbit: December 1969
Title: Rabbit
Chapter Number/Title: December 1969: Independence (34/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: G-PG
Word Count: 2341
Workshop?: Always. It sort of meanders, and I feel like it accomplishes what it sets out to, but I'm not sure if reading it would feel like there are loose ends left loose. So.
December 18, 1969
Independence
Rabastan stood outside the doors to Gringotts, reading over the list that his mother had given him. “Now,” she was saying, holding one gloved finger up, “remember, that gold will not buy a princely gift for everyone on that list. You must think, and place priority. When you make decisions for yourself, you must make them in the constraints of your situation.”
“Oui, Maman.”
“And you are not to leave Diagon. Keep with Sirius, as he knows the city, but you, mon petit lapin, keep yourselves out of trouble.” Angelique Lestrange lowered her hand, and cupped her son’s cheek in it for the briefest of seconds.
“Oui, Maman.”
“Oh, and it would be wise for you to also pick up something for Jack.”
“Who?” Rabastan looked up from his list. Everyone else was family, and he certainly had no one in his family named Jack.
“The Travers boy, Rabbit.” Her deep blue eyes cut in disappointment.
“Mais non, Maman,” he whined. “We aren’t even friends!”
Angelique adjusted her gloves and shook her head. “That may be, but our family looks out for his, and he’ll appreciate it. Part of having money is spending it on connections.”
Rabastan’s brows furrowed. He let his arms drop, feeling the weight - though not much of a weight - of the purse. “I don’t have money. You have money. I have forty Galleons.”
“Oh, darling. You’re from money. Look. Sirius is here. I shall find you in this spot at four o’clock.”
“Oui, Maman,” Rabastan mumbled.
At once, Rabastan’s mother turned her back and his friend ran into his back and threw arms around Rabastan’s shoulders. “Aboogaboo!” Sirius shouted, flailing his fingers around his friend’s face. “Ready for adventure?”
“Quite,” clipped Rabastan. “Maman says that if I want to shop on my own, I have to buy gifts for everyone. I’m only ten. I don’t even have my own gold.”
“Will you ever?”
Rabastan elbowed his friend in the gut and turned to face him. “Low blow, Black. But honestly, I’m supposed to get something for Olivier? I’m not even sure he knows my name.”
“Course he does. Your family is small. It’s not like you have three fussy girl cousins like I do. Who’s on the list? I’ll help.” Sirius wasted no time, and took the list from Rabastan’s hand. “Father, Maman, Rodolphus, Uncle Chilperic and Aunt Sophie, Olivier, Aunt Simone, Grandmere Bouvier, Uncle Liam and Aunt Viola, Darren, Grandmother and Grandfather.”
“And Jack Travers.”
“Jack…” Sirius contorted his face. “Travers? Aren’t they a little…”
“Yeah. A lot. My parents can’t understand why I have no interest in making him my little pet project, just because they have with his parents.”
Sirius shrugged. “Politics. Adults. Just get him something small. I’m sure it’ll still be more than he’s used to. And adults like boring things, usually. Like quills, or fancy plates. There’s that antique shop...”
“Greeley’s? The one run by that Muggle-lover?” Rabastan stuck out his tongue. “I don’t think anyone wants something from there.”
“They don’t have to know where you got it. It’s not like Greeley makes the things. They’re antiques! I’m sure it won’t kill anyone to own a perfectly decent magical artifact touched by a Muggle’s husband.”
Rabastan raised an exaggerated eyebrow. “Won’t it, though? Won’t it? He-ey!” He laughed as a shove from Sirius knocked him off balance.
“Still, let’s go to Quality Quidditch first. Who knows, maybe they will have things for the old people, too. Plus there’s a new racing model out.”
Rabastan did not need telling twice.
-
“Did you see the Cleansweep Six prototype? Sign says it’ll be sold starting in October of ‘seventy. You know what that means?”
“What does that mean, Sirius?”
“That means I can get one for my birthday.”
“Ha.” Rabastan rocked onto the balls of his feet and peeked over a shelf of Quidditch paraphernalia to see Sirius. “First, I’d rather wait until my second year to bother with a new broom, or you’ll be separated from it nearly as soon as it’s bought. Second, Cleansweep’s finished. Nimbus is here now, and there’s no better racing broom.”
“It’ll be newer than the Nimbus 1000.”
“And slower. Say, do you think Dolph would like this?” Rabastan squatted to inspect a transparent box with tiny hovering figures instead. “Master Strategiser, Travel Size,” he read. “It’s just like the kind professional teams use, but sma-Sirius?”
The other boy had wandered a few steps off, his attention clearly caught elsewhere. Rabastan picked up a Master Strategiser (travel size: five Galleons, two Sickles) and shuffled it into his arms along with an Inigo ‘Injury-Prone’ Proctor figurine (with accurately detachable limbs!: two Galleons, eight Sickles, and sixteen Knuts) and a book called Ten Tours of Britain from the Air (two Galleons, fifteen Sickles). He made his way around to Sirius, whose nudge almost toppled the precarious stack.
“Look, Rabbit, Kevin and Karl Broadmoor cards.”
Rabastan peered over and saw the cards on a counter, where a witch in outdated robes was haggling with a clerk.
“You love them!” Sirius declared. “Remember when we saw them send that one fellow flying off his broom, clear into the stands?”
“Ha! That was brilliant,” he agreed.
“Well, it’ll be your Christmas present!”
“No,” Rabastan protested. As much as he liked Sirius, he had enough people to buy gifts for already. “I already have their cards.”
“Sure.” Sirius nodded knowingly. “But you don’t have them signed and from their last year before retirement. Come on.” The basket full of Quidditch accessories knocked Rabastan’s leg impatiently.
The logic was strong enough, Rabastan figured, and so he followed Sirius over to the counter.
“Excuse me,” Sirius began, “I would like to buy these cards.”
The clerk looked up with surprised eyes. “Well, young sir, I’m sorry to say that this young woman has beat you to it. These are the last I have. They’re already a rare commodity.”
Rabastan braced for impact. Sirius Black was not accustomed to being told no, especially not by strangers. Even more especially, not by those menial workers. “Well, I haven’t seen any gold change hands, so they aren’t bought yet. What’s she offering? Ten Galleons? I can give you double that.”
“Please, sir,” the witch leaned over to cut the meddling boy out of the clerk’s view. She shook slightly, and her voice did too. “I’ve saved this up for two years for my son. I-I can give you fifteen, if you’ll just let me buy them.”
“Thirty,” countered Sirius. “And unlike her, I have a full basket here that I can buy or leave. And my pal over there, too. We can take our business elsewhere, if this is how you treat your noblest customers.”
The clerk’s moustache quivered, and he looked back and forth between Sirius’s load and the woman’s eyes. “Very sorry, Master Black, but this isn’t an auction house, and Missus Kent was here first.”
“Fine then!” Sirius dropped his basket and spun dramatically. “Let’s go, Rabastan. This place has its priorities.” Rabastan felt the items from his arms being pushed out, onto a nearby table, and watched his best friend’s swift exit.
“I hope your son is happy he ruined my Christmas,” he shot back at the witch, and then followed in Sirius’ footsteps, out the door.
--
Greeley’s Antiques had a surprisingly fun collection. Both boys fully expected to only find the usual chairs and concealing cupboards and old plates with dancing kittens on them. Greeley had those, of course, but he also had old chess sets, boxes of unclaimed photographs, and a hat worn by the adventurer-wizard Gareth Glenmorgan.
Mister Greeley was very nice, for a blood-traitor and all that, and he was happy to help point the boys to the more interesting items. “I have sons, you know. At Hogwarts now, but they were young once,” he explained.
Rabastan and Sirius exchanged a glance. Rabastan felt his stomach turn at the thought of the mother of Greeley’s sons, and it turned to a brief mourning for the continuation of a bloodline that could have been. There were more important matters at hand. Christmas gifts. Gareth Glenmorgan. Forty Galleons. Keeping Sirius from throwing another righteous fit -- though at the moment, he seemed well entertained by an set of never-ending rockets.
“Anyone in your family a world trav’ler? We have loads of maps, too. This way.”
Rabastan nodded and reached over to tap Sirius on the shoulder, but dropped the hat in the process. “Oh!”
“Quite a’right,” cooed Mister Greeley, who swooped in to pick it up. “Why don’t we leave these in the front, here, and I’ll set to havin’ those parcels wrapped for you nice and pretty.”
“Yes,” said Rabastan, handing off his things and brushing off his robes. The one bad thing about shopping without an adult or Elf was having to carry things like some Muggle peasant. “That would be much better.”
“Right, then. Paul-aaaaaaaaaaaaa!” A mousy woman popped her head into the storeroom, and Mister Greeley cut off his call. “Ah. Paula. Wrap these up for Master Lestrange, and for Master Black if he has things as well.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Paula agreed. Sweetheart. Rabastan grimaced. Gifts. Glenmorgan. Galleons. He shook it off and followed Greeley towards the display of maps.
As he stepped between a stack of suitcases and a tall mirror, one of the rockets whizzed by his face and crashed by the front counter. Rabastan saw Sirius chase it down, and inspect the parcel-wrapping operation. Paula had five gifts fly into appropriately sized boxes, and then swept a wand fluidly to wrap them in tandem.
“Huh. You wrap boxes fairly well for a Muggle,” complimented the rocketeer.
Apparently Paula Greeley missed the compliment, because her face turned rotten first, until Mister Greeley coughed and she readjusted. “Well, thank you. But I’m not a Muggle. Hence the wand, see?”
“Rii-iiight,” Sirius played along. “Are you from London? I’ve only really met Muggles from London, before.”
“No,” she replied calmly. “I’m from Brighton.”
“Keen.” The rocket began popping and fizzling. “Er. Miss Greeley?”
“It’s Missus Greeley. What is it?”
“I think your rocket’s broken.”
Rabastan turned away from the illustrated map of the Falklands to see Paula drop the wand and scurry over to the rocket. “Cecil! Cecil, the rocket!”
Cecil Greeley slid the map in hand back into its place, drew his wand, and with a flash of light, the rocket was still and silent. “I’ll fix it up tonight. Not to worry. Say, Paula, do we still have those biscuits? I bet these boys would love a biscuit, aren’t I right? Long day of shopping will wear a boy right out.”
Rabastan grinned, and met his friend back by the counter as Cecil went to the back to fetch the promised baked goods. “Wish we got pastries every time you broke something.”
“I didn’t break it,” Sirius insisted. “It was defective.”
“Rii-iiight.” Rabastan leaned back against the counter. “Well. Who would have thought it? An antique store. I’d call this a success.”
“And all thanks to me!”
“Yeah, for storming out of Quality Quidditch,” Rabastan scoffed.
“Pish, you weren’t even going to walk into this place because--” Sirius Black lacked tact, considerably, but not entirely. He was a Black, after all, and how could Blacks be Blacks if they had no perception or adaptation? “You know, old people. Moth balls.”
“Ah. Thank you, oh wise Sirius Black, for --”
“Biscuits!” Cecil returned with a pan full of gingerbread biscuits. The boys greedily snatched one apiece and began to devour them.
“Wow,” Sirius praised. “I wish we had your Elf.”
“Oh,” Cecil blushed. “No Elves here, I’m afraid. This is all Paula’s cooking. Family recipe.”
Rabastan stopped in the middle of his chewing, covered his mouth, and spat out the gingerbread in a fit of coughs.
“Oh, dear, is something the matter? Is he going to be sick?”
“I should say so,” Sirius spoke up, slamming the rest of the biscuit on the counter while he swallowed the (delicious) bites he had already chewed. “Rabbit,” he whispered, “don’t get sick on my boots. They’re new.”
Cecil leaned over to check for vital signs. “Master Lestrange, is there a problem with the gingerbread?”
“It’s muddy.” For a boy of ten, Rabastan could give an icy glare. Paula stared straight back.
“What do you mean?” Cecil bumbled.
“Oh hush, Cecil,” snapped Paula. “He means me. Don’t you?” Rabastan just glared. “Listen, I don’t know what ignorant fools raised you goblins, but--”
“Hey!” shouted Sirius. “No one insults my family. No one calls a Black and Lestrange goblins, and certainly not some Mudblood shopgirl!”
“Why, you!”
“Paula,” snapped Cecil. “They’re just boys. They don’t know better.”
“Oh, please. Grow a spine and stick up for me, won’t you?”
Rabastan wiped his hands on the counter. “Mister Greeley, control your wife,” he ordered, in his best imitation of Father’s voice.
“Like hell,” Paula replied. “Sorry, Cecil, but that’s it.” She pointed the wand and the door flew open. “Out! Both of you!” Before Rabastan could process what was happening, he saw warning sparks, and the wand turning toward his face. Sirius grabbed his arm.
“Run, Rabbit!” barked Sirius. “If Mother hears I got hexed by a Muggle, I’ll never live it down.”
“And don’t come back until you learn some decency!”
The boys leapt through the door and it slammed behind them. They pulled around to the wall and caught their breath - at least until Rabastan leaned over and emptied his stomach onto the cobblestones.
“Eurgh.” Sirius pulled away. “Watch my boots, will you?”
“Two shops,” muttered Rabastan, still in shock. “No gifts.” He was not sure what lesson Maman had been trying to teach, but he was fairly sure he learned it. He had tried to be independent, and he had failed.
Sirius shook his shoulders and huffed. “Real-ly. The quality of this place has clearly plummeted.”
“Clearly. Let’s just go to Malkin’s. I think everyone’s getting socks for Christmas.”
“Socks it is.”
Chapter Number/Title: December 1969: Independence (34/100) [[ Previous | Next]]
Rating: G-PG
Word Count: 2341
Workshop?: Always. It sort of meanders, and I feel like it accomplishes what it sets out to, but I'm not sure if reading it would feel like there are loose ends left loose. So.
December 18, 1969
Independence
Rabastan stood outside the doors to Gringotts, reading over the list that his mother had given him. “Now,” she was saying, holding one gloved finger up, “remember, that gold will not buy a princely gift for everyone on that list. You must think, and place priority. When you make decisions for yourself, you must make them in the constraints of your situation.”
“Oui, Maman.”
“And you are not to leave Diagon. Keep with Sirius, as he knows the city, but you, mon petit lapin, keep yourselves out of trouble.” Angelique Lestrange lowered her hand, and cupped her son’s cheek in it for the briefest of seconds.
“Oui, Maman.”
“Oh, and it would be wise for you to also pick up something for Jack.”
“Who?” Rabastan looked up from his list. Everyone else was family, and he certainly had no one in his family named Jack.
“The Travers boy, Rabbit.” Her deep blue eyes cut in disappointment.
“Mais non, Maman,” he whined. “We aren’t even friends!”
Angelique adjusted her gloves and shook her head. “That may be, but our family looks out for his, and he’ll appreciate it. Part of having money is spending it on connections.”
Rabastan’s brows furrowed. He let his arms drop, feeling the weight - though not much of a weight - of the purse. “I don’t have money. You have money. I have forty Galleons.”
“Oh, darling. You’re from money. Look. Sirius is here. I shall find you in this spot at four o’clock.”
“Oui, Maman,” Rabastan mumbled.
At once, Rabastan’s mother turned her back and his friend ran into his back and threw arms around Rabastan’s shoulders. “Aboogaboo!” Sirius shouted, flailing his fingers around his friend’s face. “Ready for adventure?”
“Quite,” clipped Rabastan. “Maman says that if I want to shop on my own, I have to buy gifts for everyone. I’m only ten. I don’t even have my own gold.”
“Will you ever?”
Rabastan elbowed his friend in the gut and turned to face him. “Low blow, Black. But honestly, I’m supposed to get something for Olivier? I’m not even sure he knows my name.”
“Course he does. Your family is small. It’s not like you have three fussy girl cousins like I do. Who’s on the list? I’ll help.” Sirius wasted no time, and took the list from Rabastan’s hand. “Father, Maman, Rodolphus, Uncle Chilperic and Aunt Sophie, Olivier, Aunt Simone, Grandmere Bouvier, Uncle Liam and Aunt Viola, Darren, Grandmother and Grandfather.”
“And Jack Travers.”
“Jack…” Sirius contorted his face. “Travers? Aren’t they a little…”
“Yeah. A lot. My parents can’t understand why I have no interest in making him my little pet project, just because they have with his parents.”
Sirius shrugged. “Politics. Adults. Just get him something small. I’m sure it’ll still be more than he’s used to. And adults like boring things, usually. Like quills, or fancy plates. There’s that antique shop...”
“Greeley’s? The one run by that Muggle-lover?” Rabastan stuck out his tongue. “I don’t think anyone wants something from there.”
“They don’t have to know where you got it. It’s not like Greeley makes the things. They’re antiques! I’m sure it won’t kill anyone to own a perfectly decent magical artifact touched by a Muggle’s husband.”
Rabastan raised an exaggerated eyebrow. “Won’t it, though? Won’t it? He-ey!” He laughed as a shove from Sirius knocked him off balance.
“Still, let’s go to Quality Quidditch first. Who knows, maybe they will have things for the old people, too. Plus there’s a new racing model out.”
Rabastan did not need telling twice.
-
“Did you see the Cleansweep Six prototype? Sign says it’ll be sold starting in October of ‘seventy. You know what that means?”
“What does that mean, Sirius?”
“That means I can get one for my birthday.”
“Ha.” Rabastan rocked onto the balls of his feet and peeked over a shelf of Quidditch paraphernalia to see Sirius. “First, I’d rather wait until my second year to bother with a new broom, or you’ll be separated from it nearly as soon as it’s bought. Second, Cleansweep’s finished. Nimbus is here now, and there’s no better racing broom.”
“It’ll be newer than the Nimbus 1000.”
“And slower. Say, do you think Dolph would like this?” Rabastan squatted to inspect a transparent box with tiny hovering figures instead. “Master Strategiser, Travel Size,” he read. “It’s just like the kind professional teams use, but sma-Sirius?”
The other boy had wandered a few steps off, his attention clearly caught elsewhere. Rabastan picked up a Master Strategiser (travel size: five Galleons, two Sickles) and shuffled it into his arms along with an Inigo ‘Injury-Prone’ Proctor figurine (with accurately detachable limbs!: two Galleons, eight Sickles, and sixteen Knuts) and a book called Ten Tours of Britain from the Air (two Galleons, fifteen Sickles). He made his way around to Sirius, whose nudge almost toppled the precarious stack.
“Look, Rabbit, Kevin and Karl Broadmoor cards.”
Rabastan peered over and saw the cards on a counter, where a witch in outdated robes was haggling with a clerk.
“You love them!” Sirius declared. “Remember when we saw them send that one fellow flying off his broom, clear into the stands?”
“Ha! That was brilliant,” he agreed.
“Well, it’ll be your Christmas present!”
“No,” Rabastan protested. As much as he liked Sirius, he had enough people to buy gifts for already. “I already have their cards.”
“Sure.” Sirius nodded knowingly. “But you don’t have them signed and from their last year before retirement. Come on.” The basket full of Quidditch accessories knocked Rabastan’s leg impatiently.
The logic was strong enough, Rabastan figured, and so he followed Sirius over to the counter.
“Excuse me,” Sirius began, “I would like to buy these cards.”
The clerk looked up with surprised eyes. “Well, young sir, I’m sorry to say that this young woman has beat you to it. These are the last I have. They’re already a rare commodity.”
Rabastan braced for impact. Sirius Black was not accustomed to being told no, especially not by strangers. Even more especially, not by those menial workers. “Well, I haven’t seen any gold change hands, so they aren’t bought yet. What’s she offering? Ten Galleons? I can give you double that.”
“Please, sir,” the witch leaned over to cut the meddling boy out of the clerk’s view. She shook slightly, and her voice did too. “I’ve saved this up for two years for my son. I-I can give you fifteen, if you’ll just let me buy them.”
“Thirty,” countered Sirius. “And unlike her, I have a full basket here that I can buy or leave. And my pal over there, too. We can take our business elsewhere, if this is how you treat your noblest customers.”
The clerk’s moustache quivered, and he looked back and forth between Sirius’s load and the woman’s eyes. “Very sorry, Master Black, but this isn’t an auction house, and Missus Kent was here first.”
“Fine then!” Sirius dropped his basket and spun dramatically. “Let’s go, Rabastan. This place has its priorities.” Rabastan felt the items from his arms being pushed out, onto a nearby table, and watched his best friend’s swift exit.
“I hope your son is happy he ruined my Christmas,” he shot back at the witch, and then followed in Sirius’ footsteps, out the door.
--
Greeley’s Antiques had a surprisingly fun collection. Both boys fully expected to only find the usual chairs and concealing cupboards and old plates with dancing kittens on them. Greeley had those, of course, but he also had old chess sets, boxes of unclaimed photographs, and a hat worn by the adventurer-wizard Gareth Glenmorgan.
Mister Greeley was very nice, for a blood-traitor and all that, and he was happy to help point the boys to the more interesting items. “I have sons, you know. At Hogwarts now, but they were young once,” he explained.
Rabastan and Sirius exchanged a glance. Rabastan felt his stomach turn at the thought of the mother of Greeley’s sons, and it turned to a brief mourning for the continuation of a bloodline that could have been. There were more important matters at hand. Christmas gifts. Gareth Glenmorgan. Forty Galleons. Keeping Sirius from throwing another righteous fit -- though at the moment, he seemed well entertained by an set of never-ending rockets.
“Anyone in your family a world trav’ler? We have loads of maps, too. This way.”
Rabastan nodded and reached over to tap Sirius on the shoulder, but dropped the hat in the process. “Oh!”
“Quite a’right,” cooed Mister Greeley, who swooped in to pick it up. “Why don’t we leave these in the front, here, and I’ll set to havin’ those parcels wrapped for you nice and pretty.”
“Yes,” said Rabastan, handing off his things and brushing off his robes. The one bad thing about shopping without an adult or Elf was having to carry things like some Muggle peasant. “That would be much better.”
“Right, then. Paul-aaaaaaaaaaaaa!” A mousy woman popped her head into the storeroom, and Mister Greeley cut off his call. “Ah. Paula. Wrap these up for Master Lestrange, and for Master Black if he has things as well.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Paula agreed. Sweetheart. Rabastan grimaced. Gifts. Glenmorgan. Galleons. He shook it off and followed Greeley towards the display of maps.
As he stepped between a stack of suitcases and a tall mirror, one of the rockets whizzed by his face and crashed by the front counter. Rabastan saw Sirius chase it down, and inspect the parcel-wrapping operation. Paula had five gifts fly into appropriately sized boxes, and then swept a wand fluidly to wrap them in tandem.
“Huh. You wrap boxes fairly well for a Muggle,” complimented the rocketeer.
Apparently Paula Greeley missed the compliment, because her face turned rotten first, until Mister Greeley coughed and she readjusted. “Well, thank you. But I’m not a Muggle. Hence the wand, see?”
“Rii-iiight,” Sirius played along. “Are you from London? I’ve only really met Muggles from London, before.”
“No,” she replied calmly. “I’m from Brighton.”
“Keen.” The rocket began popping and fizzling. “Er. Miss Greeley?”
“It’s Missus Greeley. What is it?”
“I think your rocket’s broken.”
Rabastan turned away from the illustrated map of the Falklands to see Paula drop the wand and scurry over to the rocket. “Cecil! Cecil, the rocket!”
Cecil Greeley slid the map in hand back into its place, drew his wand, and with a flash of light, the rocket was still and silent. “I’ll fix it up tonight. Not to worry. Say, Paula, do we still have those biscuits? I bet these boys would love a biscuit, aren’t I right? Long day of shopping will wear a boy right out.”
Rabastan grinned, and met his friend back by the counter as Cecil went to the back to fetch the promised baked goods. “Wish we got pastries every time you broke something.”
“I didn’t break it,” Sirius insisted. “It was defective.”
“Rii-iiight.” Rabastan leaned back against the counter. “Well. Who would have thought it? An antique store. I’d call this a success.”
“And all thanks to me!”
“Yeah, for storming out of Quality Quidditch,” Rabastan scoffed.
“Pish, you weren’t even going to walk into this place because--” Sirius Black lacked tact, considerably, but not entirely. He was a Black, after all, and how could Blacks be Blacks if they had no perception or adaptation? “You know, old people. Moth balls.”
“Ah. Thank you, oh wise Sirius Black, for --”
“Biscuits!” Cecil returned with a pan full of gingerbread biscuits. The boys greedily snatched one apiece and began to devour them.
“Wow,” Sirius praised. “I wish we had your Elf.”
“Oh,” Cecil blushed. “No Elves here, I’m afraid. This is all Paula’s cooking. Family recipe.”
Rabastan stopped in the middle of his chewing, covered his mouth, and spat out the gingerbread in a fit of coughs.
“Oh, dear, is something the matter? Is he going to be sick?”
“I should say so,” Sirius spoke up, slamming the rest of the biscuit on the counter while he swallowed the (delicious) bites he had already chewed. “Rabbit,” he whispered, “don’t get sick on my boots. They’re new.”
Cecil leaned over to check for vital signs. “Master Lestrange, is there a problem with the gingerbread?”
“It’s muddy.” For a boy of ten, Rabastan could give an icy glare. Paula stared straight back.
“What do you mean?” Cecil bumbled.
“Oh hush, Cecil,” snapped Paula. “He means me. Don’t you?” Rabastan just glared. “Listen, I don’t know what ignorant fools raised you goblins, but--”
“Hey!” shouted Sirius. “No one insults my family. No one calls a Black and Lestrange goblins, and certainly not some Mudblood shopgirl!”
“Why, you!”
“Paula,” snapped Cecil. “They’re just boys. They don’t know better.”
“Oh, please. Grow a spine and stick up for me, won’t you?”
Rabastan wiped his hands on the counter. “Mister Greeley, control your wife,” he ordered, in his best imitation of Father’s voice.
“Like hell,” Paula replied. “Sorry, Cecil, but that’s it.” She pointed the wand and the door flew open. “Out! Both of you!” Before Rabastan could process what was happening, he saw warning sparks, and the wand turning toward his face. Sirius grabbed his arm.
“Run, Rabbit!” barked Sirius. “If Mother hears I got hexed by a Muggle, I’ll never live it down.”
“And don’t come back until you learn some decency!”
The boys leapt through the door and it slammed behind them. They pulled around to the wall and caught their breath - at least until Rabastan leaned over and emptied his stomach onto the cobblestones.
“Eurgh.” Sirius pulled away. “Watch my boots, will you?”
“Two shops,” muttered Rabastan, still in shock. “No gifts.” He was not sure what lesson Maman had been trying to teach, but he was fairly sure he learned it. He had tried to be independent, and he had failed.
Sirius shook his shoulders and huffed. “Real-ly. The quality of this place has clearly plummeted.”
“Clearly. Let’s just go to Malkin’s. I think everyone’s getting socks for Christmas.”
“Socks it is.”