Petra’s Getaway

A Petra Morganstern Christmas Story

By G. Norman Lippert

Dedicated to Tom Grey and supportstacie.net

Dear Reader,

This story is a little unusual. It is a side story that takes place during the Christmas
holidays of the book cal ed “James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper”, which is
sequel to “James Potter and the Hal of Elders’ Crossing”. If you have not yet read those
books, this tale wil contain a rather large and important “spoiler”, and furthermore, may
not make as much sense as you’d hope. Therefore, may I be so bold as to suggest you
take a look at the aforementioned stories before reading any further? If you enjoyed Ms.
Rowling’s Harry Potter stories (and why would you be here if you had not?) then there is
a fair chance you wil like these stories as wel . Then, do come back and view “Petra’s
Getaway”. It wil make a lot more sense, and you’l feel quite proud of yourself for
heeding this advice.

If, on the other hand, you have already read the aforementioned stories and know
Petra’s tale thus far, then I do hope you enjoy this extra glimpse into her life.

Onward…
 t’s not supposed to be a contact sport, Albus,” James said, pushing his brother off
of him and onto the floor next to the chair. “You nearly broke my wand, you big oaf.”
“I “Maybe if you’d made the Quidditch team you’d be a little more comfortable
with a rough game,” Albus said sweetly, climbing to his feet. “Besides, if you weren’t so
easy to push over, we’d stil be playing and I’d have scored a point by now.”

James clambered off the chair and brushed himself off. “You’re just mad because
I’m winning. Lily’s right; you are a sore loser. She told me she’l never play Bannisters
and Bedknobs with you again because last time she won you threw the game pieces out
the window.”

“She’s lying,” Albus grumped. “She’s never beat me at that stupid game. Besides,
Mum just used an Accio spel to gather al the pieces back out of the garden.”

James turned in the mostly empty common room, raising his wand. “What’s the
score, Rose?”

Rose sighed from her seat by the fire. “Seven to zero,” she said without lowering
her book.

“And who’s losing?” James prodded, glancing sideways at Albus.

“I am,” Rose replied. “Be quiet and leave me read. This is important, if you don’t
mind.”
 “Just raise the Winkle, already,” Albus said, training his wand on the rather
bruised apple on a nearby chair. “I’m going to auger this thing so hard that you’l be
scrubbing applesauce off the wal s for weeks.”

James grinned and the two boys levitated the apple between them.

From a corner, Petra Morganstern watched silently. The two boys struggled to
overcome the others’
spel work, forcing the apple to rol and bob in the air. Albus sidled between the
furniture, biting his lip in concentration and knocking over a smal table. The apple jigged
over a sofa and very nearly dropped into Petra’s lap. James darted forward, his wand
bobbing wildly in his fist. He stood directly in front of Petra, never breaking his gaze
from the wildly bobbing apple. Petra didn’t move. After a moment, the apple spun back
over the room, swooping toward the fireplace. James leapt to keep under it, preventing
Albus from dropping it onto his target.

After a few moments, Petra stood. Without real y knowing where she was going,
she walked across the room, passing directly between James and Albus. Neither of the
boys looked at her as she passed, even though she moved close enough to James to brush
his knee with the tail of her cloak. Petra wasn’t surprised.
The cloak had come with her father’s package, and it was a remarkably powerful
cloak indeed. She wasn’t hiding, exactly. She’d just gotten used to wearing the garment,
partly because it kept her warm, but mostly because it gave her the freedom she needed
to… explore.
Invisibility was a great asset to someone with so very many secrets.

Petra strode quietly along the empty corridors, trailing her right hand along the
cold stone wal s.
Most of the lanterns had been put out, but the many windows shined with hard
winter light, diffusing the shadows, making the paintings and suits of armor appear flat
and dead. In her left hand, obliviously, she carried a smal object. She never looked down
at that hand, and would have been surprised if she had, shocked to see the item clutched
there, almost as if her left hand had a life of its own. Instead, Petra merely walked, using
only her right hand to open doors and hold onto banisters, leaving her left hand at her
side, always at her side, keeping its own dark secrets.
Headmaster Merlin was here, somewhere. Petra didn’t know where in the castle
he was, but she sensed him, even though he hadn’t been seen in several days. He was stil
looking for something, preoccupied by it. That was good. She had a strong suspicion that,
as powerful as her mysterious cloak was, it would likely not hide her from the headmaster
if he appeared in the corridor. For now, Petra was happy not to be seen, especial y by
Merlinus. She walked on quietly, apparently in no hurry.

At the top of a staircase, Petra turned right. She moved silently into a darker hal ,
heading away from the large window over the landing. It was much colder in this part of
the castle, and it would be colder stil where she was going, but she didn’t mind. She
barely felt it.

She knew there was something wrong with what she was doing, and yet,
somehow, matters of right and wrong were less important to her now than they had been
a few months earlier. So many things were confusing now. So many things were so hard
to think about, like her mother and father, and the box from the Ministry, and even the
cloak she was currently wearing. There was something fundamental y wrong with her
understandings of these things, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to face it. It hurt too
much. Petra’s curse was that she was smart, thus she couldn’t continue to fool herself
forever. The voice in the chamber told her that, soon enough, it would al change. Her
hopes would soon be fulfil ed, balance would be achieved, and then it would al be over.
None of this would matter anymore. The confusions would burn away in the blinding
light of an entirely new reality. Until then, Petra just had to manage the struggle in her
own heart and mind. She thought she could do it. She hoped she could do it.

She stood in front of the door to the girl’s bathroom. Inside was the secret
stairway that led down to the chamber, and then to the strangely flickering pool. She was
vaguely aware that she had become obsessed with the pool and its tantalizing, teasing
secrets. But at the same time, she knew that there was nothing new for here there. Not
yet, at least. She so longed to go down into the darkness and see the faces of those she
loved, but she knew it would mostly just upset and frustrate her. The time was not yet
come. Until it did, al she could do was look and hope. And fear.

Unseen, her left hand squeezed the object it was holding. It was a smal ,
bedraggled dol with button eyes and unruly black yarn hair. Its forehead had been
decorated with a jagged lightning bolt, scribbled on with dark green ink.

(In the Gryffindor common room, James suddenly held a hand to his forehead as a
smal jolt of pain burned through it. The pain passed almost immediately, but it distracted
him long enough for Albus to score his first auger. Albus crowed in delight while James
shook his head, mystified and worried. Rose looked up, her brow knitted, meeting James’
eyes. The book in her hands was burgundy clothbound, ancient and frayed.
On the spine, embossed in faded gold, were the words The Book of Paral el
Histories, Volume III.) In the hal before the girls' bathroom, Petra stood perfectly
motionless, her right hand held out, not quite touching the heavy wooden door. Final y,
she blinked. She turned away from the door. Perhaps she’d been down to the chamber
enough lately. Perhaps it was time for a break. Slowly, fighting some imperative in her
own heart, Petra turned back and retraced her steps. It didn’t make her feel any better, but
it made her feel a bit more in control.

Lately, that was a rare feeling.

 he snow-covered hil side was nearly blinding in the cold afternoon light. Petra
squinted as she walked away from the castle, listening to the crunch of her boots on the
icy path. She didn’t real y T have a plan or a destination, but soon enough the roofs of
Hogsmeade appeared over the hils.
Tendrils of white chimney smoke drew lines into the sky, implying happy hearths
and warm bakeries.
Distantly, Petra could hear the echo of singing carols. She smiled a bit to herself
and angled towards the sound.
As she entered the vil age, Petra was enamoured by the gaily dressed and bundled
crowd that moved about the streets, chattering and laughing. She smiled as she walked,
and having stopped in her dorm long enough to put away her father’s cloak (and the
mysterious dol ), many of the faces in the crowd smiled back at her. A tiny, wizened
wizard bowed to her, doffing his huge woolen cap to reveal a spotlessly bald cranium.

“Happy Christmas, young beauty,” he proclaimed happily. “And may the New
Year bring you great joy.”

Petra smiled at the man a bit cryptical y and walked on.

A large, unruly crowd stood outside Weazley’s Wizard Wheezes, clamoring to get
in for what the signs outside proclaimed to be a “Once in a Lifetime Five Hour Moonlight
Madness George’s Gone Completely Nutters Holiday Sale-To-End-Al -Sales Sale!” Petra
looked but couldn’t see anyone she knew in the amiably shoving throng. She passed by
on the other side of the street, skirting around the two-story news-stand and heading
down a side street toward the Three Broomsticks.

It was very warm inside, packed with jostling witches and wizards. They
crammed around the smal tables, drinking hot butterbeers and peppermint-spiked
firewhiskeys, their mingled voices clanging off the wal s like a chorus of birdsong. Petra
elbowed up to the bar and slid onto the one empty seat between two huge shoulders.

“What can I get for you, dearie?” Madam Rosemerta bawled over the cacophony
of voices, stepping in front of Petra, obviously happy with the booming holiday business.

“Perhaps just a room for a night or two?” Petra answered, placing a Gal eon onto
the polished bartop.

Rosemerta glanced down at the Gal eon quickly, expertly. She was getting rather
old, but she stil had the gorgeous doe eyes and bawdy curves that had made her a fixture
in Hogsmeade for decades. “Having a bit of a girl’s getaway?” she said, leaning toward
Petra. “Are we sure that’s a good idea, my dear? It may be a jol y old time out there right
now, but when the sun goes down things can get a wee bit interesting.”

“I can take care of myself,” Petra said, smiling, and something in her smile made
Rosemerta’s eyes widen slightly. She studied Petra for a moment, and then made the Gal
eon disappear.

“Heaven knows, the world favors a woman who knows what she wants,” she
replied, frowning approvingly. “Thrimple here wil help you with your bags, if you have
any. We don’t serve breakfast, but our lunches more than make up for it. Take your pick
of the last two rooms, dearie, and you’l let us know if you need anything, right?”

Petra nodded, smiling at the older woman.

“And just so I know I’ve said it,” Rosemerta said, leaning over the bar again and
speaking directly into Petra’s ear, “Keep your wand handy once the sun goes down.
Wolves have been seen around here of late, if you know what I mean. Can’t hurt to be too
careful.”

Petra nodded again. This time, she didn’t smile.

mong Petra’s father’s earthly goods had been a meager change of clothes, a hat, a
pair of boots made of leather so worn that they barely stood up, a very cheap wand, a
straight razor, and seven Gal eons, A two Sickles, and a smal jar of Knuts that Petra had
not bothered to count. It wasn’t much, but it apparently represented his entire bank at the
time of his arrest. Petra hadn’t known what to do with the money, but as she stood in her
rented room above the Three Broomsticks, looking out the window over the length of
Guddymutter Avenue as evening gathered it into purple shadow, she decided that a
“girl’s getaway”, as Madam Rosemerta had cal ed it, was the perfect choice. Her father
would probably have approved.

There had been one more thing in the bottom of the box from the Ministry.
Wrapped in a handkerchief, Petra had found a smal opal brooch in a setting of delicate
golden scrol work. There was no way she could have known it, but as she’d held the
brooch in her hand, looking down at it with two solitary tears drawing lines on her
cheeks, she’d known it was to have been a Christmas gift for her mother, bought by her
father mere days before his arrest. He’d never had the opportunity to give it to her. Even
Petra could tel that the brooch was not particularly expensive, but it had an understated
grace and beauty that surprised her.
Modest as it might have been, it had stil probably cost her father more than a few
months’ salary. Looking into the pale, pearlescent face of the stone, Petra could al too
clearly imagine her father standing in the gem shop (somehow, she knew it had been
Ichabod’s Heirlooms and Rarities, at the corner of Diagon and Knockturn Al eys),
wearing his best shirt and tie, tugging at his col ar, trying to look like he knew what he
was doing while the proprietor, Mr. Ichabod himself, sighed and smiled icily. She saw
her father’s eye light upon the opal brooch in a display case, saw him move close to it,
entranced by its mundane beauty, his face lighting up. The price inked onto the little card
next to the brooch was rather more than he’d been prepared to pay, but he’d decided then
and there that it was going to be his, nonetheless. It had taken Petra’s father another
month to work and save the money, during which time Mr. Ichabod had refused to hold
the brooch, refused to dicker over the price, since he (as Petra could clearly see in her
mind’s eye) simply did not believe the simple man in the il -fitting coat and worker’s
derby was ever going to be able to pay for the brooch. In the end, however, he had
produced the money, and Mr. Ichabod had happily boxed the brooch and printed a receipt
in his fussy jeweler’s handwriting. And her father had left, carrying the box in his pocket,
smiling the smile of someone who knew he’d just done something wonderful for
someone he dearly loved.

Petra stared out of the window at the snow covered street, unseeing, holding the
brooch in her hand.
Perhaps it was an entirely made-up story, about Mr. Ichabod and her father and
the brooch in the display case, but she didn’t think so. The memory was encased in the
opal, stored there like a tiny treasure. And now that Petra knew what her father looked
like, having seen his face in the mysterious green reflection of the Chamber pool, the
memory was even clearer. It was a tragic vision, because her father had never gotten to
give the brooch to the woman he’d bought it for, but it was also a sweet vision, because
in it her father was happy. He didn’t know what was about to happen to him. His future
was rather simple and plain, but as far as he was concerned, it was bright.

Without thinking, Petra pinned the brooch to her cape. Having done so, she
peered at her reflection in the window. The brooch glowed in the dimming evening light,
capturing it and turning it magical. Petra sighed.

A moment later, she left the room, closing the door gently behind her. She was
going for a walk.

he High Street was emptying as the sun went down in a blaze of shocking orange
and purple. Cold pushed in from the east, blowing skirls of snow down the street like
sand. Petra stopped at the shop T windows along the street, peering idly in at the goods
on display: decorative Goblin swords and chalices at Wravenbrick Metalworks, fancy
leather portfolios and quil s at Scrivenshafts, colorful dress robes and gowns at Gladrags.
Eventual y, Petra wandered off the High Street and passed in front of the old Shrieking
Shack, its fences abandoned and fal en into disrepair ever since the Shack had stopped its
shrieking.
She pul ed her cape around her as the chil seeped in. By the time she decided to
go back to the Three Broomsticks and possibly get a little something to eat from Madam
Rosemerta, she wasn’t entirely sure where in Hogsmeade she was. Clusters of cottages,
most in various stages of disrepair, crowded the narrow street.
 Over the low roofs, however, Petra could stil see the comforting yel ow glow of
the lamps along the High Street. Not liking some of the characters she was seeing
skulking along the footpath, she turned into an al ey, meaning to cut across to a more
populated street.

The al ey was very narrow and choked with snow. Petra pushed through the drifts,
holding onto nearby railings and posts for support. It was a crooked al ey, snaggling
through a rather seedy district of the vil age. Petra had not known such places existed in
Hogsmeade. Threadbare clothing hung nearly frozen on lines stretched between the
buildings. Trash cans and leaning porches crowded into the al ey, nearly blocking it.
Shadows gathered thickly in the corners as darkness settled, as if the night never ful y
abandoned the al ey, but simply retreated a bit during the brightest part of the day.

There was a flickering glow around the next angle of the al ey. Petra turned the
corner, stumbling out of a particularly heavy drift, and found herself in the midst of a
group of skinny, bedraggled figures. They were so covered in layers of ratty clothing that
it took her a moment to recognize them as Goblins. The smal creatures sat clustered
around a magical Goblin fire that burned brightly in the bowl of a broken cauldron.
The flames of the fire leapt and danced wildly, fed, apparently, by nothing. The
Goblins looked up at Petra, their beady black eyes unreadable.

“Sorry,” Petra said, her breath puffing in the frigid air. “I’m just trying to make
my way back to the High Street. Could you, perhaps, point me in the right direction?”

The Goblins merely stared at her, their faces hard, their large, knuckly hands
curled over their knees.
Petra wondered for a moment if they were homeless, and then decided against it.
Goblins were singularly resourceful and self reliant. A quick glance around the al ey
showed her the truth: nearby was the service entrance to Wravenbrick Metalworks, thus
these were probably the Goblin metalworkers, resting after the day’s toil. It would have
seemed quaint but for the unsettling hard looks in their little eyes as they stared at her.

“Nevermind then,” she said, beginning to skirt around the gathering. “I see that
I’m quite near the street. I’l find my own way.”

It was a moment before Petra realized one of the Goblins was speaking. Its voice
was deep and quiet, menacing but strangely polite. “Is it possible, partners, that the fair
young witch does not know she is trespassing on Goblin property?”

Petra stopped at the sound, her blood chil ing.

Another Goblin spoke, not taking its eyes from her. “It would appear to be so,
aye. And she does so brazenly, with no regard for custom or duty. Shal we enlighten
her?”

“I’m sorry,” Petra said, keeping her voice even. “I thought this was a public al ey.
I didn’t mean to trespass.”

“Disregarded the sign,” the third Goblin said mildly, stil not speaking directly to
Petra despite its icy stare. “Ignorant of the law. Expecting leniency, no doubt. Isn’t that
just like a witch?”

Petra was hemmed in by the three, her back to the cold brick wal . She thought
quickly, remembering her wand in the pocket of her robes. She decided not to pul it out,
fearing it might only escalate the encounter. The Goblins began to get to their feet,
moving to surround her.

“What is, er, the law?” she asked, her teeth beginning to chatter in the cold. “I
don’t expect leniency.
I just didn’t know. I’ll be happy to, er…”

“She must pay a tribute,” the first Goblin said, its black eyes sparkling meanly in
the magical firelight.

Petra patted her pockets. “I don’t have much. Half a dozen Gal eons, I think.”

“Not wizard money, my fair daughter,” the second Goblin purred in its low voice.
“This is not Gringotts. Your currency is worthless to us.”

One of the Goblins raised its bushy eyebrows, moving close. “She wears Goblin
property upon her robes, partners,” it said, becoming animated for the first time. “Moon’s
tear and fine gold scrol . There, below her shoulder.”

The first Goblin looked and nodded slowly. “That wil do, aye. If the fair witch
will be so kind…”
The Goblin held out its cal used hand toward Petra.

“No,” Petra said, as evenly as she could. “This isn’t mine to give away. It
belonged to my father. I can’t—”

“It is not yours at al , my fair daughter,” the Goblin said calmly, moving closer.
“It belongs to Goblinkind. You daresn’t suggest that it is not our handiwork.”

“No,” Petra stammered. “I’m not saying that. It’s just…”

“She insults us, partners,” the third Goblin said, its eyes brightening horribly.
“She intends to disrespect us and withhold our tribute, and with our own property, to
boot.”

Petra pressed back against the wall. “No. It’s just… there must be something
else!”
 “We are not making a request, fair daughter,” the first Goblin replied, raising its
voice. “Hand over the tribute, lest we take it by force. Witch magic is no match for
Goblin law. Or would you prefer to learn that truth the hard way?”

The Goblin reached, its horny hands casting their shadow over the brooch on
Petra’s cape. She cringed, pressing herself against the cold bricks behind her, but there
was nowhere to go. Quickly, almost delicately, the Goblin plucked the brooch from her
cape. Immediately, it turned away, dismissing her and studying the brooch by the light of
the fire. Petra slumped against the wal .

“What wil you do with it?” she asked hol owly.

“She is stil here,” one of the Goblins said.

“She wil leave soon enough, partners,” another replied, returning to the magical
fire.

Petra gathered herself, standing up straight and raising her voice a bit. “I said,
what wil you do with the brooch?”

“It is not your business, witch,” the first Goblin stated without turning. “This is
Goblin property.
Your clumsy hands have held it long enough. It was never yours to begin with.”

“My father worked very hard to pay for that brooch,” Petra said, growing bolder.
“He bought it honestly. Don’t you dare suggest he stole it.”

The first Goblin looked back at her over its humped shoulder, clearly annoyed.
“You humans and your cheat of ‘payment’. If indeed your worthless father possessed this
object, then he is a thief and a liar. It never belonged to him, and it wil likely take a year’s
purging to cleanse it of his filthy touch. Now begone before you make us angry, witch,
and rejoice that your miss-steps this night have returned this object to its rightful
owners.”

“That brooch belonged to my father,” Petra stated, producing her wand.

The Goblin turned once more, slowly, studying Petra with one beady black eye.
“May I take it from that statement that your father, fair witch, is dead?”

A lump swel ed in Petra’s throat. She swal owed past it, her eyes suddenly
glistening with tears. She couldn’t speak. Instead, haltingly, she nodded.

The goblin studied her a moment longer, its gaze unreadable. Final y, it turned
away again. “This is good news, partners,” it said, dismissing Petra. “The filthy thief is
dead. His breath is cold. It wil only take half as long to purge the piece of his dirty
touch.”

Petra raised her wand, looking down its length through a blur of tears. With a
thought, the magical Goblin fire snuffed out. Darkness fel into the al ey like a shroud.

“That was a mistake, fair daughter,” the first Goblin growled from the sudden
shadow.

“I’m not your daughter,” Petra stated, her voice dead and cold.

There was noise. In the impenetrable darkness there were shrieks, cut off by
horrible, crunching thumps. The sounds mingled with the roar of a sudden, icy wind that
rushed through the al ey, lifting the snow and howling in the drainpipes. It lasted less than
fifteen seconds.

Near the mouth of the al ey, where it emptied out onto the High Street, a young
man stopped. He listened, hearing the echoing cries and bone-rattling thumps, his eyes
widening. He gripped his wand and darted into the al ey, his heart leaping up into his
throat.

“Petra!” he cal ed, stopping in the darkness. “Petra is that you? I’ve been trying to
find you! Are you al right?”

A shape appeared in the dark recesses of the al ey, walking slowly through the
drifting snow. The man watched, raising his wand slowly as the figure approached.
Something seemed to glow out of the darkness, a sort of shifting, pearlescent glint
shining on the figure’s cape.

“Petra?” the man said, puzzled and worried.

“Ted,” the figure said, final y stepping into the yel ow light of the nearest
streetlamp. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”

“Petra,” Ted breathed, relieved, moving to put his arm around the girl. “Are you
al right? I saw you pass by the shop a little while ago. I came out to find you as soon as I
could. What were you doing in the al ey?”

Petra shook her head slightly, and her eyes were strangely blank. “Just walking.”

“That’s hardly a good place to walk, Petra,” Ted replied, leading her out of the al
ey. “Especial y after dark. Did you meet anyone in there?”

“Let’s go back, Ted. I’m cold,” Petra said, ignoring his question. She walked next
to him, letting him hold his arm around her, but barely feeling it. “So cold, Ted. So cold
I’m nearly frozen.”
 can’t tel you al of it right now,” Petra said, staring disconsolately into the fire.
“Perhaps soon I wil , but right now, it’s just too big. For now, it’s enough to tel you about
the box from the
“I Ministry. My Father’s things.”

She and Ted sat in matching high-back chairs by the fireplace in the back corner
of the Three Broomsticks. Nearby, a skinny Christmas tree flickered with live candles,
their flames glowing gaily in every conceivable color. It was late, and the bar was nearly
deserted. The elf, Thrimple, moved between the tables magical y operating a large broom
and dustpan with deft flicks of his fingers.

“You’ve told Noah about it, have you?” Ted said, looking at the fire through his
mostly-empty butterbeer glass.

“Please don’t be jealous right now, Ted,” Petra sighed, smiling a little. “Noah and
I are just friends, at least for the moment. Besides, you have Victoire. From what
everyone says, you two are quite the couple.”

Ted nodded enigmatical y, pressing his lips together. “So you haven’t told Noah
about the rest of it yet, right?”

“I haven’t told anyone. It isn’t that kind of a secret.”

“But it’s got you worried,” Ted prodded. “Frightened, even.”

Petra shook her head slightly. “I never knew either of my parents, Ted. They’ve
been gone al of my life. Why now? Why should I care so much? How can you miss
someone you’ve never even known?”

Ted didn’t answer. For a minute, the two of them simply sat and stared into the
crackling fire as it burned low into the hearth. Final y, Ted said, “I don’t think you need
to have lived with your parents to know them. I think you know them just as wel by the
hole their absence leaves inside you. You know them by the shape of the emptiness
where they should have been. At least, that’s how it is for me.”

Petra nodded. “Al I know is that I need them. I need them to tel me what to do.
I’m so confused.”

“Do you think they would have known what to do?” Ted asked.

Petra thought for a moment, and then shrugged.

 “The older I get,” Ted went on, “the more I begin to realize how little anyone real
y knows. I grew up thinking my grandmother knew absolutely everything. And then, a
few years ago, I realized that she gets almost al of her information and worldviews from
The Quibbler. I mean, I’ve got nothing against TheQuibbler, mind you, as far as it goes,
but a wel spring of solid thinking and factual reporting it is not. I love my grandmother,
but that was when I realized that, shocking as it is, she’s just muddling along through life,
making it up more or less as she goes, just like the rest of us. Figuring that out was a bit
frightening, but on the other hand, it was also a bit reassuring. It means that I’m just as
capable of making my way in life as she is.”

Petra looked aside at Ted. “So what does your grandmother mean to you now?”

Ted grinned. “She means the same thing she’s always meant to me. She means
there’s always someone there to tel me that she loves me and that everything is going to
be just fine. That’s what the people who love us are real y there for, I think. They may not
know what they’re talking about, and they may be dead wrong, but it doesn’t mean we
don’t need to hear it more often than not.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Petra stated flatly, turning back to the fire.

“That’s just because you’re looking at it al crooked,” Ted said confidently.

“You’re thinking about it too much. Your problem is that you’re too smart, Petra. You
over-think.”

“Better that than the other way around.”

“Au contraire,” Ted smiled. “Sometimes we’re so sure of what we expect that we
fool ourselves into seeing it, even if it isn’t true, even if it’s pure rubbish. You don’t miss
your parents because you need a map through life, Petra. You miss your parents because
you need someone to sit next to you and tel you that no matter where the map takes you,
it’l al be a grand adventure because they’l be there with you, and they’l love you every
step of the way.”

Petra looked sideways at Ted, unsmiling. “What makes you such an expert,
anyway?”

Ted shrugged. “Age, experience, and four butterbeers. Add a firewhiskey and I
graduate al the way to bloody genius.”

Petra couldn’t help smiling a little.

“See?” Ted said, nudging her shoulder. “I made you laugh. That’s what the people
who love you are good for. We can make you laugh no matter how bleak things look.”

Petra nodded and sighed. “I like your hair long, by the way.”
 “Yeah, I’ve been trying out different styles lately,” Ted replied breezily. “I tried
buzz-cut short,” as he spoke, his hair suddenly shrank away to a military crew cut,
looking remarkably like that sported by Petra’s Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,
Kendrick Debel ows. “And I tried rock star long,” Ted went on, and now his hair sprang
back out of his head and draped over his shoulders in lank black sheets. “And I even tried
the George Weasley special,” he finished, and his hair suddenly coiffed into a wild strew
and turned blazing red. Petra clapped her hands to her mouth and shrieked with laughter.

“Your face changed a little bit, too,” she gasped. “You looked like George for a
second there.”

“It’s a bit hard to control,” Ted admitted, climbing to his feet. “It’s been years
since I used my metamorphmagus abilities. I’m stil remembering how to do it properly.”

Petra settled back in her chair, watching Ted take his coat from the hook by the
fire. “You’re leaving.”

“I’m leaving,” he nodded. “George has me scheduled to open the shop in the
morning. That man has absolutely no regard for the fact that I’m not a morning person.”

Petra was stil smiling a bit as Ted shrugged into his coat. “Thanks, Ted. It was
good to talk.”

“Talking’s what I’m best at,” Ted replied. “Sorry I didn’t get you anything for
Christmas.”

“I won’t hold it against you this time.”

Ted turned toward the door, and then stopped. Half smiling, he turned back to
Petra and leaned toward her. “It’s going to be al right,” he whispered conspiratorial y.
“It’s al a grand adventure. And the people who love you—people like me—wil be along
for the ride, every step of the way.”

Petra smiled, and it was a genuine smile. Ted beamed down at her. There was a
long, nearly awkward moment as they shared that gaze, and then, final y, Ted glanced
down.

“Goodnight, Petra,” he said. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Ted,” she answered.

He crossed to the door, threading between the tables and stepping over Thrimple’s
floating dustpan.
There was a gust of cold air and the whistle of wintry wind, and then he was gone.
 Petra looked into the fire.

After a minute, she leaned over, took her cape onto her lap, and found the opal
brooch pinned there.
She slipped it careful y from the cape and held it in her hands.

“Oh, Papa,” she whispered. “Tel me it’l be al right. Tel me you love me and that
you’l be with me along the way.”

As before, holding the opal in her hand conjured the image of her father in her
mind. She saw him buying the brooch from the somewhat odious Mr. Ichabod, watched
him carry it from the shop and out into the street, where a light snow was fal ing. He was
happy. He had done something wonderful for someone he loved.

Petra suddenly stopped, her breath catching in her chest. Her fingers curled slowly
around the opal brooch, enclosing it. Had she been mistaken? Was it possible? Sometimes
we’re so sure of what we expect, Ted had said only moments ago, that we fool ourselves
into seeing it, even if it isn’t true…

In the vision of her mind, her father walked happily along the snow-dusted
cobbles, moving through the throng of shoppers, humming happily. And then, softly,
slightly off-key, he began to sing:

“Oh, I’ve got a girl, a beautiful girl, the sweetest girl ever could beAnd for that
sweet girl, with raven-dark curls, I’l buy her a diamond and tea,Then we’l dance, we two,
in a big curlicue, by the light of the strawberry moon,And happy we’l be, my Princess
and me, like the dish that run off with the spoon,Like the dish that run off with the
spoon…”

Petra blinked, listening with the ears of her mind. Her father had not, in fact,
bought the brooch for his wife. He’d bought it for the baby daughter that was only then
growing in his wife’s bel y. Of course, he couldn’t have known that their baby was going
to be a girl, but he’d known it nonetheless, or hoped for it so strongly that, for him, it was
as good as knowing. He’d wanted to buy his daughter an heirloom, an inheritance. He’d
loved her even then, before she was even born, before he’d ever known her. He’d known
her just by the shape of the hope that was in his heart.

Happy Christmas, Petra darling, my Princess… Happy Christmas…

Petra sat in the empty bar and cried for her lost father. But she smiled as wel ,
even through her tears. And she held the brooch, her Christmas present. She held it
tightly, rocking in the light of the fire, as if she were a baby being held in strong, soothing
arms, rocking… rocking…
 The End

Document Outline
�No,�Petra stammered. �I�m not saying that. It�s just��
�Oh, I�ve got a girl, a beautiful girl, the sweetest girl ever could be
Happy Christmas, Petra darling, my Princess�Happy Christmas�