SPOILERS: Two Households V: Mortal Flesh.

CONTENT: Gen-ish (Harry/Ron and Sirius/Remus slash in main story)

CATEGORY: AU, domestic … and, regrettably, a songfic.

WARNING(S): Singing!

RATING: PG13

SUMMARY: Harry dispenses a little good will.

DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter series and all the characters associated with it are the property solely of J. K. Rowling, her agents and publishers.  No infringement of any rights is intended from the creation of this story.  Nor is any money being made from it.  This flashfic is written solely for the entertainment of the author and her friends, and is not intended for distribution in any shape or form.

NOTES: This occurs directly after the closing scene of Two Households V: Mortal Flesh - as in, less than an hour later *grin* 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Credit for the adapted lyrics to "The Holly And The Ivy" goes to Hilda Marshal and www.brighterblessings.co.uk.  The lyrics to "The Gloucestershire Wassail" were borrowed from www.carols.org.uk and adapted by me for my own nefarious purposes.

Comments would be welcome, as always.

The Holly And The Ivy

by Mad Martha

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Remus said, as they were eating scones by the fire.  He pulled an envelope out of his pocket.  "We had an owl from Hegwytha Applebrook earlier.  She wants to know if the coven can come up to the house and bless it later.  Harry, are you up for it?"

"Um ... what do I have to do?" Harry asked, looking at the others blankly.

"Well, it's usually considered friendly to lay on some mince pies and mulled wine," Sirius said.  "Did she say how many of them'll be coming, Moony?"

"Fifteen this year, although I doubt Hegwytha herself will come - she usually leads the bigger celebration at Avebury."

"But who are they and why do they want to bless the house?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Of course - you don't know, do you?" Remus said.  "There's a sacred grove somewhere on the property that your family have traditionally maintained as a friendly gesture to the local White Goddess Pagans.  Keeping the groves safe and hidden from Muggles has always been a bit of a problem for the Pagan Brethren, so some of the more broad-minded First Families help by keeping a grove inside their boundaries."

"Not stuck-up idiots like my family or the Malfoys, of course," Sirius added, making a face, "but the Potters have always been on good terms with the Pagans, especially the local coven, and at Yule - which is tonight - they dress the grove and come up to the house afterwards to bless it.  They came the year you were born, just after your grandfather died, and brought a Yule log and whatnot.  It's a nice tradition.  Everyone sings "The Holly And The Ivy" and has a drink and mince pie to Wassail the solstice, and they hand out wreaths of holly, ivy and mistletoe for the house."

"All part of the Season, really," Remus said, smiling reminiscently.  "Marks the run up to Christmas nicely."

"I don't mind," Harry said.  "So long as they don't expect me to dress up fancy.  I don't reckon I could handle a cravat today."

"No, it's pretty informal," Sirius assured him.  "Ron, will you stay?"

"'Course I will!"  Ron looked quite eager.

"I'd better ask Drooby if it's okay with the house-elves," Harry decided.  "They do all the work, after all."

But Drooby was delighted - and had, in fact, already made plans for it.  Apparently keeping an eye on the sacred grove was one of Looby the garden-elf's duties and he'd spoken to one of the members of the coven the day before.  The elves were traditionally invited to join in with the Wassail, but it hadn't happened in the sixteen years that the family had been absent.  They were all clearly looking forward to it, so Harry gave them the go-ahead and tried to summon some seasonal goodwill in himself.

There were an awful lot of traditions involved in being part of a First Family, he decided as he made his way slowly to his room to change into a clean sweater and jeans, and a significant proportion of them risked causing ridiculous levels of hurt feelings and disappointment if they weren't adhered to.  Even tiny details like who used which bedroom in the house risked upsetting the established order of things and Harry had no heart for upsetting the house-elves.  Maffy fussed over him happily now as he sat on the edge of his grandfather's huge bed - it had been simpler for him to stay in the master bedroom since his illness.  It would be his room when he fully came of age anyway; another family tradition.

Harry didn't mind the idea of the coven visiting though.  It would be a set of new faces after a long period of limited company, and he was interested to see what a coven looked like.  He had been less enthusiastic that morning when Father Alasdair, the priest from St. Ronald's Church in Hogsmeade, arrived to hold a private communion service for them all, but the Church of the Holy Bones was hadn't yet been re-consecrated and Sirius and Remus wouldn't leave Harry to attend a church further away, so Father Alasdair was coming to them on Sundays instead.  Harry joined in very reluctantly - it was yet another tradition - but his lack of enthusiasm had less to do with a lack of faith and more to do with an instinctive revulsion of the cassock at present.

Walking back down to the entrance hall took some time.  Harry generally used the magic cupboard in the study to go to his bedroom, as climbing the stairs took more energy than he could afford, but he liked to try and walk downstairs if he could.  If he had to rest, he sat down on the stairs and waited until his strength came back; there was no risk of collapsing and not being found, as the hallways were full of paintings and portraits and he generally had an audience of his most recent relatives when he walked around the house.

He still hadn't decided whether to talk to them or not.  They didn't talk to him much, although on occasion one of the portraits - usually his father or mother - would ask him if he wanted them to summon someone to help him.  And they did try to get his attention, not overtly but by doing something that would catch his eye; Harry wasn't quite sure why they didn't simply speak, but he wasn't unappreciative of their efforts.  He just didn't know quite how to react to it - they were portraits at the end of the day, not real people.  He liked to watch them though.

Today he had to take a rest on the little set of stairs leading off the main landing.  There was a portrait of his parents on this corner and Harry watched for a while, entertained, as his father made a terrific performance of winding a string of fairy lights around Lily Potter's chair.  She was watching with an expression of exaggerated long-suffering, but every so often she would look sideways at Harry and wink mischievously.

Then Sirius came down the stairs behind him and paused.  "You all right, sunshine?"

"I'm fine," Harry said automatically.  "Just - you know - a bit puffed."

"All right then."  Sirius sat down next to him and looked at the picture.  "Oy Prongs, you prat, what the devil are you doing?"  James flipped a finger at him.  "That's nice!"

Harry grinned.  "Nothing changes, right?"

"Not a damn thing," Sirius said, and the corner of his mouth was twitching with amusement.  "Reassuring in way.  All right there, Lily?"  Harry's mother waggled her fingers in acknowledgement.  "Fair enough.  Are you ready to move yet, Harry?  I think the coven'll be here soon, it's past sunset."

"I hope they're not expecting me to jig about," Harry said, slowly levering himself to his feet and steadying himself with his cane.

"Drooby's set out a chair for you.  You can make yourself comfortable and let them jig about if they want to."

"Are they likely to?" he asked, interested, as they made somewhat stately progress down the final flight of stairs.

Sirius chuckled.  "I don't think so!  It's not Midsummer.  They'll probably look a damn sight more normal to you than most of the patresfamilia do at the Opening Session of the Wizengamot."

"I haven't seen that yet."

"Don't worry, you'll have plenty of opportunities to see us all looking like a bunch of giant plums in those bloody stupid Wizengamot robes."  Sirius snorted derisively.  "I bless whoever decided we could stick to our usual formal robes for the rest of the year.  Purple's not my colour."

The house-elves had been at work in the drawing room; the chairs had all been moved out of the way, bar one large comfy-looking one with curved arms that had been put near the Christmas tree with a small table close to hand.  Another bigger table had been set up on the other side of the tree and as Harry watched a lacy cloth appeared on top of it, followed by several elegant china serving dishes full of mince pies and other little pastry tidbits, a fragrantly steaming cauldron of mulled cider with a dipper, and a silver tree of punch glasses.  (Harry noticed that the eight glasses at the top of the tree were barely the size of eggcups - elf-sized.)

"The cider smells good," Remus said, walking into the room with Ron.  "By the way, our guests are on their way - "  He pointed to one of the long windows, where the curtains were still open, and they could see bobbing lights approaching along the driveway.

Harry ran a hand over his hair, trying to flatten it - ever since his illness it seemed to stand up even more than usual - and decided he'd better sit down before he had to ask for help to reach his chair.  He'd lost any sense of embarrassment about being unable to stand up to greet people, mainly because falling in a pile at their feet was more humiliating still.

"I feel like somebody's grandfather sitting next to the tree like this," he remarked.  Another thought occurred.  "Or like one of those Father Christmasses in Muggle shops who hand out toys to kids."

"Do you want to hand out toys to kids?" Sirius asked him, teasing, and he grinned at Harry's vehement denial.

"Be my luck to get a bunch of kids like my cousin Dudley," he grumbled.

He would have said more, but then the bell outside the front door was rung with some emphasis - he'd never even heard the front door bell before - and moments later a beaming Drooby was ushering the Rose House Grove Coven into the drawing room.

Considering that it was quite a big space and there were only fifteen of them, the room suddenly seemed incredibly full and hectic.  Harry hadn't been sure what to expect, but they were all normally dressed wizards and witches (or as normal as magical folk usually dressed), although most of them wore wreaths of some kind on their hair or sprigs of holly and other evergreen leaves in their hats, and they seemed very cheerful and boisterous.

Harry had tried to think up a welcome speech of some kind before they arrived - it seemed like something he ought to do as a semi-gracious host - but he didn't get a chance to say it.  As soon as they were all inside the room, the coven broke into an energetic Wassailing song which, to Harry's initial dismay and then suppressed hilarity, Sirius, Remus and (after a moment or two of undecided twitching) Ron all joined in with.

They weren't bad singers as a group, especially the coven who were all happily harmonising as though they'd practiced this for weeks.  Although the realisation that he was actually thinking this made Harry realise just how unwell he must still be, because under any other circumstances nothing short of a full body-bind hex would make him sit and listen to a carol concert, let alone enjoy it.

Then the house-elves joined in, with a weird mixture of high-pitched and croaky voices, and Harry had a fight on his hands to keep a straight face.  Later he would be surprised at himself, for he'd been desperately depressed up until teatime, but for now little bubbles of laughter kept surging up in his chest and having to be shoved down again.  He could probably get away with laughing at family and guests, but not at the house-elves who were innocently enjoying themselves.

Harry was so busy trying to keep an appropriate expression on his face that it took a verse or two before he could take proper notice of the mediaeval carol they were all singing; it wasn't one he'd heard before and he suspected it was probably unknown to the Salvation Army he'd heard carolling in shopping centres as a child, and likewise in the church he'd attended on the two previous Christmasses. 

Wassail! wassail! all over the town,

Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown;

Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree;

With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.

So here's to the one in the lily white smock

Who tripped to the door and slipped back the lock

Who tripped to the door and pulled back the pin

For to let these jolly wassailers in.

Then here's to the cherry and to his right cheek

Pray gods send you, master, a good piece of beef

And a good piece of beef that may we all see

With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.

Here's to our mare, and to her right eye,

Gods send you, good master, a good Yule pie;

A good a Yule pie as e'er we did see,

With our wassailing bowl we drink to thee.

So here's to our heifer and to her broad horn

May gods send you, master, a good crop of corn

And a good crop of corn that may we all see

With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.

And here's to your kindred and all you hold dear

Pray gods send them, master, a happy New Year

And a happy New Year as e'er you did see

With the wassailing bowl, we'll drink to thee.

It seemed harmless and cheerful enough, although Harry was willing to bet it wouldn't have escaped his Aunt Petunia's suspicious ears - which was enough to make him like it in any case.  Anyway, the last verse had been sung and the coven were finishing up with boisterous cries of "Blessed be!" and wringing everyone's hands.  While he coped with multiple hearty handshakes and was presented with a stack of handmade Yule wreaths, Sirius went over to the table and began to fill glasses with the hot mulled cider which he passed around to everyone, including the house-elves.  The final glass he gave to Harry, bending close to murmur "The toast is "Waes hael"."

What on earth did waes hael mean?  Never mind.  Harry raised his glass, cleared his throat self-consciously, and said "Waes hael!"  There was a noisy chorus of "Drinc hael!" in return and everyone slurped their cider appreciatively.

"Mince pie, anyone?" Remus asked.

In the bustle and chatter that followed Harry discreetly set his barely-tasted glass of cider on the table at his elbow - his dulled tastebuds only registered it as sharp and sour, and he felt pretty sure that his healer wouldn't approve of it anyway.  Maffy was watching him and she whisked the glass away, replacing it with an identical one filled with warm milk instead.  Harry heaved a purely internal sigh of regret, but warm milk was preferable to an upset stomach in the night he supposed.

"You all right, mate?" Ron plopped himself down on the arm of Harry's chair and offered him a plate of pastry stars.  "I reckon you'll be all right with these, they're pretty plain."

"Keppy is making them specially for the Little Master," one of the elves whispered from somewhere behind Harry.  "Butter pastry and powdered sugar and nothing spicy, as Little Master's healer is telling him!"

"Thanks Keppy," Harry said, peering around his chair.  But the elves were effacing themselves as usual.  He accepted a star from Ron's plate.  "I'm okay," he said, in response to the raised brow Ron was giving him.  "Knackered again, but what's new?"

"This bunch'd knacker anyone," Ron said in an undertone, and he grinned.

"Hey, you were singing, Weasley.  Don't think I'm going to forget - that's pretty good blackmail material."

"Spoilsport!"

Harry grinned.

"I notice you didn't join in," Ron said, amused.

"Nah, I can't sing for toffee," Harry said.  "Besides, it was a bigger laugh watching you lot."

"So long as it gave you a giggle!"

"So what do you reckon happens next?" Harry asked, watching the mingling throng as they finished their cider and mince pies.

"Dunno - didn't Remus say something about them blessing the house?"

"Right.  How does that work anyway?  I mean, if we're supposedly Christians, isn't it blasphemy or something?"

"Nah.  Well, not unless you're some kind of religious nut," Ron said with a shrug.  "I reckon you wouldn't get Neville's gran to go along with it, but your family have been doing this for years."

Harry frowned.  "Yeah, that's what I don't get.  From what I heard, my family were pretty religious - friends with bishops and stuff like that.  So how does it work?"

"Maybe they saw it as just a nice tradition and ignored the religious bit.  I mean, it's not that different to what everyone does, is it?  We all hang up wreaths and kissing boughs, burn Yule logs, and sing carols, right?"  Ron gave him a sidelong look.  "What's it matter to you anyway?  You don't believe in any of it!"

"It just seems weird," Harry said, with a shrug.  "Everyone expects me to do stuff like this, because my family always have.  I don't get it, but Father Ma - "  He shut up quickly, feeling a sudden twinge of nausea.

"What did he say?" Ron asked, watching him warily.

Harry shook his head.  "Nothing.  A load of lying shit."

The curate's name was never mentioned; Harry's sense of betrayal was so great that he knew he was quite irrational about him, and he found it hard to encounter anyone wearing priest's vestments without reacting badly.  Intellectually he knew, because he had seen it in his own memories in the Wizengamot Pensieve, that he had witnessed Father Ignatius's murder, but his conscious memory of the night of his vigil was very patchy and all that came back to him were bits and pieces and a sense of horror connected somehow to Father Marius.  He hadn't told his godparents or Ron this, but he was dreaming about it and suspected they could guess.

It didn't help that the Aurors hadn't caught Father Marius yet.  Harry wasn't stupid; he knew that they visited when he was out of the way, to talk to Sirius and Remus about the ongoing hunt for escaped Death Eaters.  The official position was that they were "hopeful of finding the priest any day now", but Kingsley Shacklebolt had privately confided that they were almost certain he had fled the country.

Harry had mixed feelings about this, for while he wanted the curate to be caught, it would inevitably mean a trial and more testimony and he was in no way fit, mentally or physically, to deal with that at the moment.  He preferred not to think about it.

"Forget about it, mate," Ron advised, as though he could read Harry's mind.  "Are you up for blessing the house?"

"They can bless it," Harry said, levering himself out of his chair slowly with the aid of his cane.  "I'll watch."

The blessing of the house involved brushing the old oak front door with a cinnamon broom and a speech enlisting the support of the gods to protect the house and its occupants.  After the couple of months he'd just had, Harry couldn't help feeling just a little bit twitchy about this, but everyone else seemed to view it as a happy sort of thing to do, so he kept his twitches to himself.  It was harder not to flinch when the coven's elderly priestess suddenly turned and patted him all over with the broom too, though, and something of what he was feeling must have shown in his face for her expression was motherly and compassionate even as she intoned the blessings.

The house-elves had already swept up the wreaths and kissing boughs brought by the coven and hung them on the doors and windows off the entrance hall.  The group launched into a second energetic hymn, this "The Holly and the Ivy" albeit a version Harry thought the Salvation Army definitely wouldn't recognise.

The holly and the ivy

When they are both full grown

Of all the trees that are in the wood

The holly bears the crown.

Oh, the rising of the sun

And the running of the deer

The shining of the winter stars

As the longer days draw near.

The holly bears a blossom

As white as any flower

As our Mother bears the infant Sun

In the winter's darkest hour.

The holly bears a berry

As red as any blood

As our Father bears the hunter's spear

for His hungry children's good.

The holly bears a prickle

As sharp as any thorn

As we shall bear our song of hope

On triumphant Yuletide morn.

Which led Harry to wonder which had come first - the Christian or the pagan version?  Not knowing much about either religion's musical heritage, he wasn't prepared to speculate, and in any case the last verse had been sung and the coven were finishing up with boisterous cries of "Blessed be!" and wringing everyone's hands again as they made their exit.

The house was remarkably quiet when they were gone.  Harry sagged a little where he stood, aware of a familiar weakness seeping into his muscles and joints.  Everyone was drifting back to the drawing room but he paused to look at the wreaths first; they were obviously hand-made, but with a degree of skill and an eye for colour and composition that was very effective.  He liked that most were not in the traditional circular shape at all, but formed into swags, sprays or ball shapes.  Some included fragrant clove oranges; one was decorated with small dried crab apples.  And the kissing bough hanging in the drawing room doorway apparently included mistletoe - at least, Harry assumed that was why Remus stopped to kiss Sirius underneath it.  It was unlike them to be quite so obvious otherwise.

"Are you all right?" Ron asked him, still loitering by the door when Harry slowly made his way there.

"Yeah, I reckon."  Harry sighed.  "Mind if I grab your arm?  I'm just a bit … you know."

"Grab anything you like," Ron told him, with a grin, and he offered an elbow for Harry to hold onto.  "You can grab my arse if you want."

It was hard to be miserable with Ron around, Harry thought gratefully.  Especially when he said things like that.

"Going to kiss me under the mistletoe for good luck?"

Harry raised a brow at him.  "Superstitious much?"

"Just hedging my bets!"

Harry grinned and looked up; the kissing bough did indeed have a cluster of mistletoe hanging from the bottom loop of greenery, and also a startled-looking gingerbread man suspended at the centre of it.  Perhaps it hadn't expected to officiate over gay kissing.  The idea made the little bubble of hilarity surge up in Harry's chest again.  He glanced at Ron sideways.

"You're going to have to stoop a bit," he told him.  "I'm not up to climbing you yet!"

Ron rolled his eyes and huffed a little, but leaned into Harry with a smirk.  "Pucker up!"

"Maybe later," Harry said, straight-faced.

"Grr!"  Ron pressed warm lips to his.  "For luck, Harry mate," he murmured.  "Things'll get better now, you see."

Harry blinked a little and leaned against Ron's shoulder for a moment.  "Thanks mate," he mumbled.

They paused there in the doorway for a moment until Harry felt quite steady again, then Ron said in a more normal tone, "I dunno about you, but I could eat another mince pie."

"'Course you could," Harry said, amused by his friend's unstoppable appetite, and they went to join Sirius and Remus in picking over the remains of the snacks.

- The End -