A/N: Forever unfinished, but it exists and it is here now for all to read.
Christmas traditions were fairly non-existent within the Scriven household. His mother threw herself into the arms of whatever man she was dating at the moment, whilst his father threw himself in lascivious parties and business. It was obvious that neither had plans to spend Christmas with their son. It was the result of the stubborn marriage that they refused to let go of, believing that they were tormenting the other more than that they terrorised themselves by staying married.
Before Hogwarts Garaile would have spend his Christmas with his grandmother. He would be packed and shipped over to his granny’s place. Usually he made the travel alone but when he was still at the age on which such would be heavily frowned down upon, his parents would convince the old woman to come and pick up her grandson. As soon as he hit the age where he understood to ask for directions and could dream his way around that stopped, however. When Garaile hit the age where he got his Hogwarts letter, a fancy boarding school for gifted children his parents believed, he wasn’t expected to come home at all anymore until the summer.
The wicked result was that Garaile had never really experienced a proper Christmas in his life. No Christmas songs, no sniffing out the house for presents. Surely, his grandmother made something special in her kitchen for Christmas, but overall she had called it all nonsensical and unnecessarily commercial. His parents in the meanwhile sent their obligatory ‘I’m sorry, next time, darling’ presents to him, like they did every time they failed to uphold a promise, which was often. The packages would wait for him underneath, neatly packed underneath the christmas tree.
That he found himself in an actual house with a family at the dining table in his sixth year of Hogwarts was beyond strange indeed. For some reason he had managed to snag himself a place at a properly decked Christmas table with a proper family that consisted of a father, a mother, and their dearly beloved child that had invited the misfit that was Garaile Scriven. Except Garaile wasn’t Scriven right now. He was Garaile Shamalamadingdong the third, or something along the lines. Not the muggleborn from York whose parents hated their marriage more than they loved their son, but a half-Indonesian pureblood from South Africa. His pasty skin and blonde hair were explained as colonial and a ‘complicated thing with genes’, while the lack of knowledge about his pureblood background and name was done away with because of the great distance and the little interaction between both societies.
“So, why are you at Hogwarts again?” mr. Runeswell asked once more, still wrapping his head around the elaborate story his daughter had frantically told him.
Garaile smiled widely, his wild hair pointing in all directions as he side-eyed the Slytherin prefect. “Transfer student,” he replied, waving around his fork and feeling how his peer pinched him in the leg for it. The boy ignored it, kicking back the girl. “I transferred, momsie thought that the school was inappropriate.”
“And why don’t you have an accent?” mr. Runeswell narrowed his eyes, suspicion clear in his voice as his wife hit him on the arm.
“Don’t,” she tried to hiss at him, but she alike went ignored. Another wolf-like grin spread across Garaile’s face.
“Next you are going to ask me why I’m white!” he jeered, enjoying the shocked faces at the table. Even in the wizarding world dining table they knew what topics to avoid. “I’m just kidding,” the blond exclaimed, taking another bite of his christmas meal.
“This turkey is good, but to answer your question, mr. Runeswell,” the weasel spoke with his mouthful as he mischievously eyed the man. “Private tutoring, specially imported!” he recited the lies that Anice and he had agreed upon, enjoying the sight of the Slytherin girl sliding farther and farther down into her seat, wishing to disappear.
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