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On the first day of Christmas…
Hermione Granger did not expect to enter her living room on Christmas Day to the sight of a strangely docile partridge nestled in the middle branches of her Christmas tree. Her first ever Christmas tree as a working, independent adult who did not live with her best friends in a house share. It had been selected for its straight trunk, thick needles and even branch distribution. It had been her very carefully and neatly decorated Christmas tree, but now it had somehow begun sprouting pears. She glared accusingly at Crookshanks, who slept obliviously on.
Hermione crept nervously to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and nibble on one of Mrs Weasley’s mince pies left over from the Christmas party thrown at the Burrow the night before.
Thus fortified, she approached the tree and tentatively prodded one of the pears with her wand. The partridge squawked, but neither it nor the pears exploded in trademark Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes purple sparks. Steeling herself, she tugged a pear free of its branch and, when it continued to not explode, took it to the kitchen for dissection.
“You’re next,” she warned the partridge. Nevertheless, she opened the nearby window hopefully.
The pear proved to be an entirely ordinary pear.
The partridge did not take advantage of the open window to remove itself from Hermione’s festive décor.
“Partridges are ground-nesting birds, you know,” she told it severely as she picked all the pears, gaining only the occasional sleepy squawk in response. Absently munching on the fruits of her labour, she went to floo Harry and Ron.
***
“But Harry, you’re the saviour of the wizarding world!” Hermione wheedled.
“It’s also Christmas Day, and weren’t you just saying last week that I’ve done enough for the world and I should be allowed to rest on my laurels for a while?” he said, sitting back on his heels in front of the fire.
“Yes, but –”
“Plus I said I’d make Ron breakfast in bed and the tea’s getting cold. Bye, Hermione!”
The floo connection closed on Hermione’s protests. She sighed. Harry and Ron did deserve to have a nice, quiet Christmas morning together after all they’d been through. But… “Harry you’re a wizard,” she muttered to herself, dusting soot off her pyjama trousers as she stood. “You’ve known the warming charm for years, ugh. And you,” she added to Crookshanks, who was eyeing her judgmentally, “you are supposed to be a guard cat.”
Crookshanks yawned, and deigned to descend from the sofa to inspect the box of pears Hermione had gathered. Hermione huffed.
Who else could she call? Ginny? Ginny was outdoorsy, surely she’d be able to help Hermione humanely remove the partridge from her tree.
***
“I’m sorry, you what?”
Hermione winced. “There’s a partridge in my Christmas tree and I don’t want to hurt it but I also don’t particularly want it in my tree or in my living room or, well, in my house at all, really, and I was wondering if you could help?”
Ginny cackled. “Brilliant! Whose idea was that then? The twins?”
“It hasn’t exploded yet,” Hermione said, “so I don’t think so.”
“Hmm, yeah, also, why a partridge? They’d be more likely to do one of their Fake Fwoopers. Is there something special about partridges for muggles?”
“Erm,” said Hermione, blushing furiously and eyeing the nearby box of pears upon which Crookshanks was now sleeping. “Oh will you look at that, it’s gone!”
The partridge chose that moment to squawk.
“Hermione Granger, you lying liar,” Ginny said slowly, a smirk growing on her face, “what is the deal with partridges?”
“Happy Christmas, Ginny! Lovely to chat! Bye!” Hermione closed the connection abruptly, regretting ever thinking that having friends would be nice and a good idea.
Taking a deep breath and forcing her blush to recede through sheer force of will, Hermione went to change into slightly nicer pyjamas before she flooed the one person who would definitely be able to help her.
***
“Good morning, Hermione,” said Mr Lovegood. “What a lovely partridge!”
The partridge had taken one look at Hermione’s ‘nice’ pyjamas and decided at last to leave her Christmas tree in favour of nestling between her crossed legs as she sat beside the fire, steeling herself for her next floo call. It was apparently utterly unphased by Crookshanks, who had merely sniffed it desultorily before returning to his hard earned nap atop the pears. She stopped petting it abruptly, blushing again. “Er… thank you. Is – is Luna in?”
“Why yes, indeed she is,” Mr Lovegood said agreeably. “We were originally planning to spend the holidays in Greenland – I received an excellent tip about Pucker-Cusped Wheezeclefts from an associate of mine – but my dear moonbeam was insistent we celebrate at home this year. Something about a nefarious plot, I believe.”
“Oh… how nice,” said Hermione, when Mr Lovegood paused and clearly expected a response.
“Quite! Quite! I didn’t enquire further, of course – my sweet pumpkin is entitled to her privacy, particularly if she is planning criminal endeavours which it is, of course, better for me not to know about. It’s a pity that we shall miss out on observing the Wheezeclefts’ breeding season, but there’s always next year! They use the snow as part of their mating dance, you know, really rather ingenious as an attraction technique –”
It became clear to Hermione that Mr Lovegood had not quite picked up on her hint and would be perfectly happy to give Hermione a thorough education in the habits, habitats, and humours of the Pucker-Cusped Wheezecleft if she did not intervene. “Mr Lovegood, may I speak with Luna, please?” she interrupted.
“Oh, certainly, certainly!” he said, not seeming at all put out. He rose to his feet and Hermione heard him clear his throat. “Lulu-Lulabell-Lullaby-Luna-Ladle-Lilypad! Your friend Hermione is on the floo!”
There was a distant thud, a pause, and a swish of fabric that gradually grew to a rustle, until Luna Lovegood finally appeared in front of the fireplace. She was wearing a nightgown that, despite being apparently made entirely of clashing strings of tinsel, swooshed pleasingly around her bare calves. Which Hermione was definitely not staring at.
“Hello, Hermione. That’s a very nice partridge.”
Hermione blinked, realised she was stroking the partridge again, and blurted, “Isn’t that uncomfortable?”
Luna regarded her with an intent gaze. “I am a witch, Hermione.” She ran her hands over the myriad strings of tinsel making up her nightgown, as usual understanding what Hermione meant without elaboration. “I use softening charms.”
“Oh.” Hermione felt rather foolish.
After a short pause, Luna asked, “Did you call for any particular reason?” She sounded oddly… hopeful?
“Oh, yes,” said Hermione, grateful for the conversational nudge. “It’s this partridge, you see. I need your help to –” she had been intending to say ‘get rid of it’, but… looking into Luna’s large, silvery eyes, she found herself saying, “– build an enclosure for it. In the garden.”
Luna beamed. “Of course, Hermione!”
And so Hermione Granger spent her Christmas morning building an enclosure for a partridge with Luna Lovegood. The partridge himself – it was a boy partridge, Luna revealed upon her arrival (“unless it’s a girl partridge that happens to look like a boy partridge, of course,” added Luna serenely, “but he has a very masculine expression in his eyes.”) – sat with Crookshanks on the living room windowsill while they worked, and Hermione tried very hard not to blush every time her hand brushed Luna’s – which, really, was a surprising number of times for two witches who were building a partridge enclosure entirely using magic.
***
“There you are, Dragoljub,” Luna cooed, settling the partridge – now called Dragoljub, apparently – into his new enclosure. “Isn’t that nice, hmm?”
Dragoljub squawked peaceably. Hermione tore her eyes away from Luna’s shapely bottom.
“Thanks for your help,” she said, fidgeting with her hands and trying to think of a legitimate excuse for Luna to stay. Fortunately, being British, one was close at hand. “Tea?”
“Ooh, yes please.”
***
“…Would you like a pear?”
“That would be lovely, Hermione, thank you.”
***
Eventually Hermione was obligated to allow Luna to return to her father, and Hermione was going to be desperately late to help with dinner at the Burrow. As Luna disappeared through the floo, Hermione realised that she had never asked why Hermione had a partridge or a large box full of pears in her living room. “Typical Luna,” she muttered fondly, heading upstairs with a smile. Luna could always be counted on to take the unusual with nary a blink.
***
On the second day of Christmas…
Hermione had successfully avoided talking about the significance of partridges and pear trees over Christmas dinner with the Weasleys, though Ginny had spent an unconscionable amount of time winking at her and snorting whenever Hermione tried to look quelling and regal like McGonagall (Ginny was very insistent that Hermione instead looked like she was squinting, and did she need reading glasses?). Harry, though undoubtedly more educated on the subject than any of the other people present, was very quick to busy himself talking to Mrs Weasley about the best way to braise cabbage whenever the topic of conversation veered too closely to birds or fruit.
Hermione, feeling benevolent, let him. She wasn’t keen to discuss her apparent admirer with her adoptive family all present, ready to tease, and Harry could be cornered another day. She returned home unenlightened, but with her secret kept and an avenue of investigation open to her.
On Boxing Day morning Hermione woke late and stumbled downstairs to brew her customary morning tea, which she had half a mind to take back to bed with her. Except that she abruptly felt very much more awake when she realised her Christmas tree was once again bearing pears, Dragoljub had somehow made his way indoors from his enclosure and back up into the tree’s branches, and there were two additional birds perched sleeping near the top of the tree. Hermione didn’t even need to look to be sure they were turtle doves, despite the fact that it was entirely the wrong time of year for them to be in England.
“Well,” she said to Crookshanks, who did not seem even slightly apologetic for his lack of guard catting. Again. “I suppose I should have expected that.”
***
Hermione stared at Harry.
Harry stared at Hermione.
Ron looked between Harry and Hermione, obviously confused and slightly worried.
“Well?” she demanded at last.
Harry looked away. “I have no idea why you have turtle doves in your house, Hermione,” he said, unconvincingly. He took Ron’s hand and began to play with his fingers.
“Wait, someone’s filling your house with birds… as a declaration of love?” Ron said, bemused. He seemed completely fine with Harry commandeering his hand, which, Hermione supposed, was the sort of thing one got used to when living with one’s partner.
Hermione huffed. “Yes.”
“And… you’re asking us for help?” he continued.
“Yes.”
“…Why aren’t you asking Luna? She knows loads of stuff about animals.”
Hermione blushed. “Actually, Luna helped with Dragoljub – that’s the partridge’s name, by the way – yesterday, so I was hoping…”
Ron snorted. “You were hoping not to invite Luna over? That’s a new one.” He took his hand back from Harry so that he could array himself more comfortably with his legs across Harry’s lap.
Harry still wouldn’t meet Hermione’s eyes, but he was smiling a little. Whether that was at the grounding feeling of Ron draped over him or at Hermione’s misfortune was unclear. “I think you should ask Luna,” he said, addressing Ron’s knees.
Hermione sighed. “Fine,” she said. “But you’re helping me with the geese if my ‘admirer’ doesn’t give up before then.”
The boys looked appropriately terrified at the prospect.
***
When Hermione returned home after her deeply unsatisfying visit to 12 Grimmauld Place, the turtle doves were still asleep in the top branches of her Christmas pear tree. Thankfully, Dragoljub had taken advantage of the open window and was back in his enclosure (Hermione suspected Crookshanks of opening the latch for the bird, as she was fairly certain Dragoljub was incapable of thinking that far ahead).
This time, Hermione decided against taking the pears down. It wasn’t as though they wouldn’t be back tomorrow.
She put on a nice jumper, and flooed Luna.
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr Lovegood, upon answering the floo. “Hermione, how nice of you to call. I was just working on my monograph on the Umgubular Slashkilter – would you be willing to proof read it? I hear from my darling horklump that you are quite the whizz with words!”
Reluctantly pleased (pleased that Luna had been praising her, reluctant to commit her time to Mr Lovegood’s undoubtedly hefty magizoological endeavour when she had a house full of birds), Hermione said, “Perhaps in the New Year, Mr Lovegood?”
“Oh yes, yes,” said Mr Lovegood, somewhat sheepishly. “I forget that not everyone shares my academic dedication.” His eyes twinkled.
Hermione briefly wondered if she was having her leg pulled by a master… but, if that was so, then the joke was on the whole wixen world, and even they couldn’t possibly be that foolish. “May I speak with Luna, please?” she asked.
“Of course, of course.” Mr Lovegood stood and yodelled, “Lulu-Lethifold-Lobalug-Lalaland-Luna-pie! Hermione is on the floo again!”
This morning Luna had apparently had time to dress before Hermione’s call. She was wearing a jumper that had clearly once been a quilt, thick, fluffy purple leggings, and Morris bells. Hermione heard her jingling some time before she arrived in front of the fire. Hermione beamed helplessly. “Good morning, Luna.”
“Good morning, Hermione,” said Luna, doing a little hop-step so that her bells sounded again. “How are you this tintannabulous morning?”
“Besieged by birds once again, I’m afraid,” Hermione said. “Would you mind?”
Luna smiled. “Not at all!”
***
The turtle doves – Priti and Prem, apparently – settled into their new enclosure with little fuss. The layered warming charms and transplantation of one of Hermione’s rose bushes took the most time, and Hermione was thankful for magic. She remembered the dread and embarrassment of being eight years old and planting roses with her mother – the thorns always got tangled in her hair, and her mum had always been highly entertained by Hermione’s refusal to tie it back.
Hermione fidgeted with her braids, self-consciously. It had been Luna who’d suggested going to a wixen hairdresser who specialised in black hair. Hermione hadn’t even known there was such a thing.
“Tea?” she asked hopefully, once Luna had coaxed Priti and Prem out of her house and into their new home.
“Of course,” said Luna.
***
Tea turned into a lunch made up of Mrs Weasley’s leftovers. Then, of course, Luna felt obliged to stay and help tidy up. Hermione wasn’t going to complain; it was nice to bustle about her kitchen together, listening to Luna’s instructions on how best to care for turtle doves.
Not once did Luna mention the pears on the Christmas tree. Hermione supposed they didn’t seem that unusual to someone like Luna; she probably thought it was a decorative statement.
She was about to invite Luna to stay for dinner when Mr Lovegood called. It was strange – he had seemed as if he’d been about to invite Hermione to dinner with him and Luna, but Luna had jumped in before he could do so and reminded him very firmly about “the Streeler infestation”, whilst nodding and blinking in what Hermione could only assume was Morse code. Hermione had of course assured Luna that she didn’t mind her running off to deal with something so urgent, but she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed when Luna vanished into the floo with an oddly flustered-sounding, “Terribly sorry, Hermione, goodbye!”
“…Bye,” said Hermione, to the empty fireplace.
***
On the third day of Christmas…
Hermione awoke on the 27th of December feeling resignedly prepared for what she would find in her living room. She had attempted to brood over Luna’s abrupt departure in order to stay awake long enough to catch her ‘true love’ (Hermione was still fairly certain this was some kind of joke. Though… would Harry stay quiet about the perpetrator if that were so?).
Fortunately for her admirer, Hermione had utterly failed to brood dramatically enough to stay awake. Honestly, she’d always been excellent at sleeping – even in her third year, she’d only managed to stay conscious due to her stubborn insistence on completing just the next lesson or just the next piece of homework until the time-lag caught up with her. Even caffeine had little effect on Hermione’s ability to fall asleep. She probably shouldn’t have dressed in her snug Christmas pyjamas with little snitches on them (a hand-me-down from Harry) and cuddled up under her duvet if she’d wanted to brood properly, she admitted to herself.
And so, be-slippered and armed with the grabber stick Ginny had got her as a joke present last birthday (“You’ll be able to pick things up without looking away from your book, just think!” “That’s not how sightlines work, Ginny.”), Hermione ventured downstairs to confront the inevitable:
Three large, speckled hens were dozing on her hearth rug.
“Of course,” she sighed, spying Dragoljub, Priti, and Prem once again all settled in her Christmas pear tree. Crookshanks was trying in vain to look innocent on the sofa. “You could at least give me a clue as to who it is,” she complained quietly.
Crookshanks purred smugly.
At least none of them are illegal animagi, Hermione reasoned. And Crookshanks would certainly alert her if her ‘true love’ meant her harm. Now… how to floo Luna when there were three sleeping hens in front of the fireplace?
***
The hens were moved through the expedient of levitating the hearth rug into the kitchen, through which process they remained blessedly asleep, and Hermione knelt on the cold flagstones with a resentful shiver.
“Good morning, Hermione!” said Mr Lovegood, seemingly delighted to see her for the third day in a row.
“Good morning, Mr Lovegood. How’s the Streeler infestation?” she asked politely.
Mr Lovegood hesitated for a moment too long. “Oh! Er…” He seemed to search for words. “Very… er… poorly? Poison trails all over the walls, you know,” he confided. He sat extraordinarily calmly at his kitchen table for someone with a houseful of toxic and venomous snails. And none of the walls Hermione could see had a hint of discolouration.
Hermione, who was starting to doubt that the Lovegoods had a Streeler infestation at all, frowned. “I… see.” Had Luna wanted so desperately to get away from Hermione yesterday? Had Hermione been horribly gullible to believe her?
There was an uncomfortable pause. Mr Lovegood broke the silence. “Should I fetch my sweet celestial for you then, Hermione?”
Hermione felt rather deflated. “…No. No thank you. That’s quite alright. I, er, really must be going actually. Thank you, Mr Lovegood. Have a happy new year.”
“Oh! Alright then, Hermione. And a happy new year to you, too!” Mr Lovegood seemed rather confused, but let Hermione close the connection.
***
Hermione built a hen house and covered run for the French hens by herself. It was overly elaborate, with charmed window boxes and its own shutters, and Hermione acknowledged reluctantly to herself that she must be upset, because not only had she overdone the details but she needed three tries to transfigure the chicken wire. Using a colour changing charm eighteen times to adjust the hen house’s trim to the precise shade of grey-blue she wanted was definitely overkill.
At eleven o’clock, she gave up on the pointless weathercock decoration she was attempting to settle into place on the hen house roof and went to get some tea. Of course, then she came face to face with the hens – now blearily awakening on her misplaced hearth rug – and had to transport them to their new home before they got too clucky. Then she had to encourage Dragoljub, Priti, and Prem to return to their respective enclosures. Then she could have her tea.
She was part-way through boiling the kettle – a proper, non-magical, stovetop whistling kettle, thank you very much – when her floo chimed. Fairly certain it would be Harry or Ron, calling to satisfy their curiosity about her latest acquisitions from her ‘true love’, she flicked her wand at the fireplace to open the connection and called, “I’m just boiling the kettle, come through!”
“Oh good,” came a voice that was decidedly not Harry’s or Ron’s. Luna brushed soot off her Hippogriff-print jodhpurs and smiled at Hermione. “Will you let me duet with the whistle this time?”
“Luna!” Hermione exclaimed, tugging at her braids awkwardly. “I… was expecting someone else.”
Luna’s face fell. “You were?”
“Not that you’re not welcome! I just – Harry, or Ron, or… someone,” Hermione trailed off. “What are you doing here?” I thought you made yourself clear with the fake Streeler infestation, she didn’t say.
Luna looked a little lost all of a sudden. “I came to help with the Coucou des Flandres,” she said forlornly. She gestured at the bird-free living room. “You didn’t call this morning so I thought I’d see if everything was alright…”
Hermione swallowed. “I did call, actually,” she said, turning back to fiddle with her waiting teacup. “But, erm, it seemed as though you were busy. With the Streelers.” She couldn’t prevent a little of her hurt colouring her tone.
“I –“
The kettle chose that moment to let out an ear-splitting whistle, and Hermione spitefully let it go on for a little too long before she turned off the hob and filled the teapot. The silence in the wake of the screeching felt uncertain. Hermione stayed facing the tea fixings as she said, “Well, as you can see, I didn’t need any help today. So you needn’t –”
“There weren’t any Streelers.”
Hermione turned around, surprised at the honesty. Luna looked very small, and very sad. She hovered in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, clearly uncertain of her right to get any closer.
“Daddy was going to invite you for dinner, and you would have seen, so I lied,” Luna explained earnestly.
“Seen what?” Hermione asked, reluctantly curious. She put a cosy on the teapot and leaned against the worktop, watching Luna’s fidgeting fingers.
“…The Coucou des Flandres and the other birds,” whispered Luna, blushing rosy red. Her silvery eyes flicked up to Hermione’s face, then down again.
“The Coucou des –” Hermione stopped. Her brain kept moving.
The Coucou des Flandres, Dutch: Vlaamse Koekoek, is a critically-endangered Belgian breed of domestic chicken. It may have a common origin with the Malines from the area of Mechelen (French: Malines), in the province of Antwerp in Flanders, or may indeed represent the original type of that breed before it was cross-bred in the nineteenth century with various different types of imported Oriental chicken. By the time of the First World War it had disappeared; it was re-created in the years before the Second World War. It is critically endangered in Belgium, but more numerous in Picardy in France. It may also be known as the Poulet de Dendre, for the Dender river in its area of origin.…
Hermione might possibly have spent a little time yesterday evening reading up on breeds of French poultry. Hermione’s subconscious brain obviously retained more of that information than her conscious one, because she’d completely missed that Luna had referred to the French hens by their proper name twice now, supposedly sight unseen.
Supposedly.
“Luna Lovegood,” said Hermione, biting her lip to hide a sudden grin. “Have you been leaving birds in my house and ruining my Christmas tree on purpose every day?”
“…I like pears,” said Luna mournfully, still looking at her hands and blushing.
Hermione approached her tentatively, heart soaring. “Can we put the geese in Harry and Ron’s house?” She took Luna’s hands in her own, very gently.
Luna looked up, eyes wide. “Oh, yes,” she said, a smile breaking out like summer on her face. “I’d hate for them to go to waste.”
Throwing her arms around Luna’s shoulders, Hermione kissed her true love with great enthusiasm. She did not regret at all that Luna hadn’t reached the four calling birds verse. Or would that be four colly birds? She wasn’t sure which version of the song Luna had encountered, and the more common modern versions certainly had calling birds rather than colly, though the wixen world wasn’t known for its modernity, and –
“Hermione, stop thinking,” whispered Luna, drawing her into another kiss.
***
Epilogue…
The hens were named de Beauvoir, de Gouges, and Curie, since I’m sure you all were wondering.