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Advent 2010: December 11: Wassailing

Advent 2010: December 11: Wassailing

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sherlock.  not good?
Title: Wassailing
Author: Janus
Rating: G
Characters: Rabastan, Rodolphus, Bella, Bartemius
Word Count: 375
Warnings: A dark day — the darkest day of the year, and the darkest day of a life.
Summary: In the bleak midwinter, Rabastan prepares to go with his kith and kin to call on their schoolmates, the Longbottoms.
Author's notes: Originally posted to the com deatheaterdrabs. I have not posted it to my journal before, but do so now in an attempt to match the story number to the day, and because it is a story that takes place during the time of advent.

It was the winter solstice, almost Christmas. Rabastan sat looking out the window at the sticky snow from his cosy house. His fingers were cradled around his hot tea cup. His faithful dog, Bernard, an Irish Setter, glowing red in the firelight, leaned warm and alive against his leg.

How strange that porcelain was so delicate yet so strong. He sighed and Bernard imitated him, stretching his jaws with a big gasp of friendly air.

"All right."

He buttoned his coat over his scarf and drew his cloak over it, then he set the mask over his face, silver and shining. He polished it by hand as he did the other silver things from his antique shop. It was the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. He apparated to his brother's door.

The house was festive with green velvet and silver garlands and filigree. Bella was almost childlike with excitement, despite the fear and urgency she had displayed earlier when they had laid the plans. Their Marks were fading. She spun, her layered black skirt blowing out in a circle, her shawl, her hair. Her hands extended in a gesture reminiscent of one playing a harp. Her eyes sparkled and her lips smiled. She looked almost fey.

Rodolphus smiled at him, always his brother. Barty was there as well, elegant, slim with his touching self-conscious grace. He offered a heated goblet of rum punch to sip while the others swirled their own cloaks around them and placed their masks over their faces.

They held the portkey Roddy had made, and then... then... It was almost magical. He could almost hear the holy caroling in the air. They might have been going wassailing in old British ritual. It was contagious. They swept up the path, the four of them, beautiful, and best, cloaks billowing black, masks shining, reflecting the snow, reflecting the moon. Bella's hard-heeled shoes tapped and tripped on the frozen stones, a tattoo to herald their entrance.


His brother, voice clear and commanding, easily opened the door of the small house to the startled faces of the Longbottoms, looking up at them from their strings of popcorn, studded with cranberries, red as blood against the puffs of white.

first posted to my dreamwidth account.
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