Chapter 89: A Double Booking
"Oh, dear Mr. Throne! Do make yourself comfortable. We weren't expecting you quite so soon!" Xenophilius Lovegood fluttered, accepting the bottle of fine elf-made wine Elian offered with a mixture of delight and flustered apology.
"The fault is mine, Mr. Lovegood," Elian said, genuinely contrite as he took in their formal attire. "I misjudged the travel time. I hope I'm not intruding."
He felt slightly underdressed in his simple suit, facing Xenophilius in his explosively colourful, flower-embroidered robes and artfully curled hair, and Luna, who looked like a woodland fairy-princess in a silver-sequined gown. Her radish earrings and Butterbeer cork necklace were the perfect, whimsical counterpoints to the elegant dress. On anyone else, it might have seemed odd, but on Luna, it was simply her—ethereal and utterly charming.
"You are an hour and a half early," Luna stated dreamily, though a small, pleased smile played on her lips. She didn't move to hug him, but her silvery eyes shone. "Father's turkey is still enchanted to sleep, the soup is arguing with the ladle, and the pies are hiding from the oven."
Elian chuckled, accustomed to her unique way of seeing the world. He reached out and gently ruffled her perfectly smoothed, pale blonde hair. "Well, they'd better hurry up. I'm famished." He moved to sit on a squashy, mismatched sofa.
Luna touched her now slightly mussed hair, a faint pout on her lips that didn't reach her eyes. "Father used a very tricky charm for that... now it's all messy again." But she was smiling as she closed the front door, the smile of a friend who was genuinely happy to see him, chaos and all.
444 Lily Street, Stone District, Manchester
"Hermione, dear, are you sure you told your friend what time to come?" Mr. Granger asked, carefully arranging crackers on the dining table.
From the kitchen, Mrs. Granger peered out. "Where is she? She was in the living room a moment ago."
Mr. Granger glanced up the stairs towards Hermione's dark room and shook his head. "Not up there."
Mrs. Granger sighed, a tiny crease of disappointment between her brows. They exchanged a look that spoke volumes. When their brilliant, fiercely independent daughter had shyly announced she wanted to invite a male classmate for Christmas dinner, they had been cautiously thrilled. In their understanding, bringing someone home on Christmas Day… it meant something. It was a quiet, significant introduction.
Now, with the table set for four and the guest conspicuously absent, that thrill had dampened into a quiet, parental worry and a touch of hurt. The boy was apparently giving an interview to some wizarding magazine. It sounded important, impressive even, but on Christmas? It felt like a rejection, not of them, but of the gesture Hermione had made.
They returned to their preparations, the festive mood in the house now tinged with a subtle melancholy.
Outside, in the frosty back garden, Hermione was punishing a snowman. Wrapped in her coat, she sat on the swing, kicking listlessly at the ground. The rational part of her brain understood—Elian had a prior, public commitment. The Quibbler article had seen to that. But the other part, the part that had written her address on a piece of parchment with a racing heart, felt foolish and a little hurt.
"Stupid," she muttered to the snowman, which bore a vague, lumpy resemblance to no one in particular. "I hope Mr. Lovegood serves you pickled dirigible plum stew. Or bogey-flavoured beans." The imagined culinary horrors of the Lovegood pantry did little to improve her mood.
With a frustrated sigh, she stood up and gave the snowman a solid kick, sending its head (a slightly lopsided rock) rolling into a rose bush. "And don't expect any more help with your stupid, show-offy magic when term starts!" she declared to the headless snow torso, feeling both better and more childish.
She turned to go back inside, her shoulders slumped.
A familiar, lightly teasing voice cut through the cold evening air. "Trouble with the local snow-golem population? Want me to have a word with them?"
Hermione froze. Her heart did a complicated, joyful somersault. She turned slowly.
Elian Throne was stepping through a fading circle of golden-red sparks, brushing imaginary lint from his suit jacket. He looked at her, a slightly crooked, apologetic smile on his face. "I'm not late, am I?"
For a second, Hermione's face threatened to break into a beaming, ridiculous grin. She sternly wrestled it back into a scowl, folding her arms. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral. "Don't you have a dinner appointment with the Lovegoods?"
Elian stretched, rolling his neck as if it were stiff. "Hmm? What appointment?" he said, his tone all innocence. "I distinctly remember promising a certain someone's parents I'd be here for Christmas dinner." He raised a hand and, with a fluid motion, drew another shimmering portal in the air beside him. He reached through it, into what looked like the interior of the Lovegood's odd house, and pulled out two identical bottles of elf-wine.
He held them up, the smile turning genuine and warm. "Now," he said, his grey eyes meeting her brown ones. "Shall we go in? I've been told I need to try your mum's roast potatoes. Apparently, they're legendary."
The last of Hermione's pretend annoyance melted away, replaced by a glowing, disbelieving happiness. He'd come. He'd used his impossible magic to be in two places at once, or at least to make a spectacularly timely exit from one and entrance to the other. It was outrageous. It was showy. It was perfect.
She finally allowed the smile to break free, shaking her head in fond exasperation. "You're impossible," she said, but she was already walking towards him, taking one of the bottles. "And you'd better like the potatoes. Mum's been nervous about them all day."
Together, they turned towards the warm, glowing windows of the Granger house, where a Christmas dinner—and a surprised, delighted pair of dentists—awaited.
(End of Chapter)
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