‘tis the damn season Solo Fin.

𝒩ow I'm all yours, I'm not afraid And you're all mine, say what they may. ❞

──────────────────────────────────────────────────dec. 24, 2023────────

Ordinarily, Christmas was spent with a mug of hot cocoa in front of a tree, the lights burning bright and colorful. A little dance they did around the evergreen pine needles, reflecting their pinpoints of light off of ceramic ornaments that clinked together when little children ran by. Though Maggie was far too old for Santa Claus, thanks very much, she could never outgrow Christmas.

This year, however, carried the weight of the world. A profound sadness like a blanket of snow shrouded the season with fog, adamant on ensuring the holiday season was tainted by Grinches and spiteful reindeer.

The novelty of Christmas at Hogwarts had worn off. Rather than spend it with the friends she knew so well, giggling as they ducked out of the way of mistletoe clusters and doorways stuck with holly, she’d opted to return to Wexford. Why in the world she’d left the most magical place on earth for the least she’d no idea.

“Tessa, cut it out,” Maggie muttered, arms darting out to take hold of her little sister, who was flying by with hands full of chocolate. Give it seconds and the teardrop-shaped candies wrapped in their foil would be melted and smeared along the wall. “Tessa! Mom, Tessa’s gonna knock something off the tree!”

The five-year-old squealed and wriggled her way from Maggie’s arms, careening towards the tree. From behind her, poised on the plush armchair fixed in the corner of the room, Albert scoffed. ”Margie, she’s fine. Don’t be a buzzkill, it’s Christmas.”

Margie. Where’d he get off, calling her that? Maggie resented it. If she said as much, Saoirse would be on her ass about being rude. Maggie bit her tongue.

Tessa fell into the tree with a giggle, surrounded by pine needles. One of the ornaments, a small felt-bound book on a green ribbon, filled with small photographs, fell from the tree with a soft ‘thud’.

“Tessa! Jesus Christ!” Maggie groaned, reaching out again to pull her sister from the tree. Her hand folded around the ornament, thumb worrying the felt christmas tree that had been needled into the front. The edges had begun to curl with age.

Saoirse peeked into the room, brow furrowed. ”Hey, Maggie, why are we yelling at our sister? She’s four, babe,” she pointed out, ”you need a break?”

No, Maggie didn’t need a goddamn break. What she needed was to be an only child again. If Tessa weren’t here, there’d be no need for Saoirse to hide the holiday cards from the Hawkins family. It was as if she were blind (and didn’t have a proclivity for snooping), couldn’t see the way every card was addressed specifically to Saoirse, Albert, and Theresa. You’d never know Margaret lived there.

With an exasperated huff, Maggie pushed from her knees to come to a stand, ornament clutched in the palm of her hand. She turned on her heel for her bedroom.

”Geez, Margie, it’s not a big deal—“

Maggie stood in the doorway. “And don’t call me Margie!”

The frame shook slightly with the force with which the door was slammed, and Maggie slid unceremoniously down the slab of wood. Her knees pressed incessantly at her chin, and gently, her fingers uncurled from around the ornament.

The spine was cracked from years of use on the tree. As a result, the front and back covers both hung open, forming an accordion of photographs. Fingers more gentle than they’d been handling anything in months (and that included the potions ingredients she should’ve been handling with care), Maggie pulled the front cover open wider to examine the photograph.

She sat front and center, aged five. Buck-toothed and big-haired, little Maggie smiled like a cherub, those rosy cheeks plump enough to rival ripe peaches in summertime. To her left, Saoirse, demure smile painted on her face like a portrait.

On the right was Vernon. From looking, you wouldn’t be able to guess how poorly things had ended. He held Maggie on his lap, smile shining like a million suns, her little hand clasped around his index finger like a vice. They had the same eyes. Sometimes, when Maggie smiled in the mirror, it looked just like his.

Her thumb gently caressed the photo, its waxy exterior, trying to read her father’s expression. He’d never call her Margie.

Maggie could recall that he’d called her Little Bird. Magpie, sometimes. Almost always his Little Bird. Never Margaret, hardly Maggie, never Mags. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be a little bird now, chirping on a windowsill somewhere. Unconcerned with the happenings of the human beings it watched from outside. Little birds didn’t ache everywhere, from head to heart to toe, when thinking about pretty girls who braved the McDonald’s drive-thru.

“Merry Christmas, dad,” Maggie muttered, nose scrunched as she stared down at the photograph. It didn’t move. Not like the photos she’d grown used to. Something so muggle, so simple, so nostalgic. She yearned for it, the simplicity. Now she was somewhere in between. Not muggle enough for her father, not witch enough for her family.

“Wherever you are.”

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@N/A.

WEXFORD, IRELAND.