Duncan hummed a Christmas tune to himself while he worked in the kitchen. His brother had placed some decorations around the cottage a few weeks ago to try and make the time feel more festive. Despite the attempt, every day just felt like nothing special until now. Company was expected, and that was much better than simple decorations.

Quite a few years had passed - he couldn't recall exactly how many - since he'd been able to cook for more than three people. They very rarely had leftovers. This time there was a chance. If he did end up making too much he would just send it all off with Donnan. McBoid leftovers were better than the old man's neighbor's from what he had heard.

Boxing Day had been chosen for this particular holiday get together because of plans with other families and Iona McBoid's second death four days prior. Duncan knew they all needed a few days to process but he also believed them being together now was more important than ever.

The Scotsman had also extended an invitation to his reacquainted friend. That alone would add an interesting element to the evening. In the past he had never mixed family and business matters. His friends had all been related to work so the two worlds had been kept separate. Duncan still lived by that rule but with his other job being a well kept secret anyway that didn't much matter.

The clock on the wall chimed the arrival of 5 p.m. Moira wouldn't be home for at least another hour and Angus was out working with some of the young horses. The gathering had been set to loosely start late afternoon to evening.

Dinner was done for the most part, ready to eat whenever the family (and guest) wanted to. The pies would be ready a while later.

Duncan checked the fireplace, the house got pretty cold without it in the winter, then opened a beer. Taking a drink he wondered if there would be any lingering tensions from the past month but then decided everything would work itself out. It was going to be a good night.

The Ministry had been mostly quiet that day, with the majority of employees still off enjoying their holiday.  Kurby tended to like those kinds of days best — not because he was stuck at his desk when everyone else was off spending time with family, but because the peaceful office meant that he could get everything he wanted to done without being interrupted.

The next full moon was rapidly approaching, and the beginning of the Werewolf Capture Unit’s sixty-hour watch was less than two weeks away.  Even so, the werewolf hunter had ducked out of the office abnormally early, giving himself time to duck back to his flat and pick up a bottle of good whiskey before apparating to a small farm in Scotland for the second time in three months.

The last time he’d come here, he’d been looking for clues related to the mysterious death of a former Azkaban inmate.  That had led to his second run-in with the wolf girl, Moira McBoid.  This time, though, he was visiting as an invited guest, the result of his rekindled friendship with the girl’s uncle.

Kurby glanced carefully across the darkened yard as he stepped up to the small farm house’s front stoop.  Two weeks until the full moon or not, there had still been a likely direwolf attack not too far from the McBoid farm back in September.  Even if he was here on a social visit, it always paid to watch his own back.

He’d knocked twice, and then waited for the front door to open, revealing the familiar face of Duncan McBoid.

“Evenin’,” Kurby greeted his friend cheerfully.  There was a fireplace crackling behind him, and the tall wizard had a beer already in hand — McBoid had clearly not waited for the party to get started on his holiday celebration.  The werewolf hunter flashed him a quick, lopsided grin.  “Reckon I’m too late for the first round, then?”

Two solid knocks sounded on the door almost immediately after Duncan took his first drink. Curious to who was the first to arrive, the Scotsman crossed the floor and opened the door. Seeing his friend, Kurby Bagnold, standing on the doorstep he gave a boisterous, “Good evening!” greeting in return.

At Bagnold’s quip he offered the hunter a responding grin, "You’re just in time, actually. Please, come in. Make yourself at home." Duncan stepped back to give Bagnold room for entry before shutting the door again. The entryway wasn't very big for two people as it was, regardless of his own size.

"It’s just the two of us at the moment. Angus is still working with some of the horses, Uncle Donnan hasn't arrived yet, and Moira's still at work. I’m hoping she doesn't work late tonight." If she did, though, he honestly wouldn't be too surprised. His niece seemed to be almost addicted to her job at the ranch.

Walking the short distance to the kitchen through the living room to fetch Kurby a beer as well he glanced back to ask, “How have the holidays been treating you so far? Not too terrible?”

Kurby stepped easily into his friend’s home, taking a moment to look about.  The McBoid cottage was simple but cozy; it had a lived-in, comfortable look that suited what he knew of the family.

“Reckon the worst of it’s behind us,” he retorted, flashing a fierce grin at McBoid’s departing back. 

Saturday hadn’t been too terrible.  Leaving early with Rosh and her boyfriend to visit the Sellaphixes was probably the smartest decision he’d made in years.  Even if the hours spent mingling with his extended family had been as awkward as ever, at least they’d been able to make a timely escape.  If nothing else, it had given him a chance to complain about something that wasn’t work, to focus on some other matter besides the fact that the next full moon was still barreling down on them.

He followed Duncan to the edge of the kitchen, still curiously examining the details of his friend’s house. 

“How’s Moira been?” he asked, leaning one arm against the wall.  He hadn’t seen the wolf girl since he’d questioned her at the Ministry, but judging from his encounter with Figaro on Sunday, he doubted that the two were on speaking terms.  “She ever talk to you about what happened with the werewolf?”

Between Duncan and his brother there were times when the house felt overly alive, between their drunken arguments and tussles. Bagnold's entrance caused a different kind of lively atmosphere to ripple through. In some ways it gave a hint of nostalgia, for the nights of camaraderie spent around a campfire.

Kurby kindly asked after his niece and Duncan focused for a moment on fetching his friend a beer. The Scotsman wanted to keep the mood up, especially as the evening had just started. However, it was just the two of them and after all he’d done Kurby deserved the answers.

"Well, you know. She’s been quiet. Keeping herself busy with work.” Facts that probably weren't much of a such a surprise to the hunter. Even before the events of the full moon, those were Moira’s natural tendencies. “Though she does seem to be doing better than she was two weeks ago.”

Taking the top off the bottle Duncan passed Kurby the cold beer and gave a half shrug. “I tried talking to her about it but all she said was ‘I screwed up. That's all there is to it.' Couldn’t get much else out of her. She’s a bit like you, in that regard."

Duncan chuckled and took a swallow of his beer. “Won’t talk about her emotions or anything until she’s damn good and ready. Sometimes she never does.”

Out in the brisk winter air of Scotland, Donnan took a deep breath. He glanced over the McBoid land, judging it well tended from what he could see in the fading light. He nodded in approval.

His nephews had been kind enough to invite him over this holiday, and it was the first time he'd ever been here. Normally Duncan came around his house sometime in late December and they spent a quiet evening in. Donnan had resented the invitation to come over here at first. Didn't they know that he'd rather stew alone? He didn't want to ruin their holiday with his unhappiness and grief.

He couldn't really talk about it even if he wanted to. Not the truth. He'd told his neighbors that Iona's body had been found, that she'd been confirmed dead. Her body hadn't been found yet, so even that much wasn't true. He couldn't say that her soul had come back and lived inside another person for a few months. He couldn't say that she'd reached out to him in November and that he hadn't recognized her. He couldn't say that he'd wasted so much precious time until the day he'd seen her at the Ministry, and then they'd only had a few visits, a few long talks, explanations and apologies and she was gone again. He'd waited in the Ministry atrium on the day of the solstice. He'd watched his daughter walk from the floo and into the lifts to Level Nine. He'd waited. What felt like hours later, she'd emerged, not his daughter anymore.

That girl's sister, Aileen, had spotted him and looked like she'd wanted to say something. They'd locked thousand-yard stares across the atrium, her expression grim but relieved, his full of pain and resentment. When Abby had almost glimpsed him too, the sister had put an arm around her shoulders and ushered her out.

He got that. Family came first. He couldn't hate the squib or the Reids for living. He could hate the Hunts. He could hate the Ministry. He could hate himself, a little, for being so blind.

His neighbor, Norma, had been the one to suggest running a blurb in the paper, honoring Iona in a belated obituary notice. It had appealed to him more than he'd thought it would. He'd asked his ex-wife if she'd wanted to add anything, and surprisingly, she hadn't. She'd told him to be careful, there was other family to consider.

He'd assumed she meant he should run it by his nephews. He planned to ask them tonight. He'd try to bring it up, anyway. Donnan didn't want anything fussy or elaborate. He just wanted something in writing. Something in the paper that said she had lived and was loved. Something in ink like the books he'd loved.

If anyone would understand and relate, they would. They'd known her. They were family. Duncan had always been there. Angus had welcomed him after so many years of drifting apart. Moira had listened in the Ministry's meeting room. That was no small thing.

Donnan showed up later than he'd meant, after burning the first pie and grumbling at Norma that he didn't need her 'help' with the cooking. He carried a new, nicely covered pie in his hands, though he dreaded, truly dreaded, the teasing he'd endure from Duncan. He could hear it now. The old man knew how to cook! The old man hadn't burnt down the house! Merlin's balls, he couldn't show up with a bag of crisps now could he?

He knocked, and after a moment let himself in, judging by Angus and Duncan's invite to do just that. The cottage was warm and smelled like good food already.

"I'm here," he grumbled not too loudly, wiping his boots on the mat and removing his cloak.

He took a few steps in, then paused, pie in hand. There was something in the air.

Pie. Other pies on the kitchen counter, already cooling.

"Aw hell," he sighed, and glanced around, as if for a place to bin his food offering.

Duncan's description of his niece left the werewolf hunter feeling the tiniest twinge of guilt.  Moira McBoid was stoic and controlled enough that it was easy to forget that she was just a kid.  He'd gone at her hard over her report of the werewolf in London when he might have gotten the same results by asking a little more nicely.

That was really the trick with all of the youth he was having to deal with lately:  Moira McBoid and Figaro Sellaphix, Nemo, Fauna Blake on Level Two, even all of the kids in the Werewolf Capture Unit.  However much they might act like full-fledged adult wixes, it was smarter to use kid gloves when dealing with them.  It made him uneasy, thinking of what likely lay ahead of them all at the next full moon.  If everything went wrong, hopefully the young people proved to be made of sterner stuff than he currently suspected.

Duncan, per usual, hadn't stopped talking, and it took Kurby a moment to catch up with the conversation.  He blinked, and then gave the older wizard a sour look.  Moira was like him in what regard?

"I talk about things," he grumbled loudly, crossing his arms in protest.

Luckily, he was saved from having to support his argument with evidence by the door swinging open.

Kurby paused, glancing over to regard the new arrival.  The wizard looked to be much older -- far too old to be Duncan's brother, unless there were more years between the two than Kurby had realized.  Still, there was a distinct McBoidish look to him, with dark eyebrows and a familiar stubbornness to his chin.  Perhaps the Uncle Donnan that Duncan had mentioned earlier.

Shifting uncomfortably, he kept his mouth shut, letting his host greet the newest guest.

The Scotsman flashed Kurby a wolfish grin at his protest, but decided not to chase that particular rabbit. Some fights were beat left unpicked as he had eventually learned. They both knew he was right, regardless, and now something, or rather someone, else required attention.

Catching sight of his uncle’s expression Duncan couldn’t help but laugh. “Donnan, please, no. Anything made by you is more than welcome. I just overdid things like you did at Christmas when I was ten.” Taking the time to place the old man’s pie - which was bound to be the best of all - with the others he continued, “This is what happens when I’m left alone to prepare for a dinner party.” A party for only five people.

Once the pie was safely on the counter Duncan returned to wrap his uncle in a warm hug, packed full of support and care. “Now, I’d like you to meet an old friend and colleague of mine. Kurby Bagnold.” He nodded to Kurby, drawing the older wizard closer. “And this is my uncle, Donnan.”

Having these two in the same room together was bound to be interesting and Duncan was looking forward to every minute of it.

The pie was taken out of Donnan's hands before he could bin it, and Duncan was far too old to fall for the magic trick of levitating the pies around and mixing up their order so no one knew who had contributed what. It might have worked when he'd been ten.

"Overdoing it in the kitchen? No such thing in the McBoid family," he stuck his hands in his pockets and gave his nephew the slightest of smiles. With two growing nephews he'd learned early on to cook enough for an army.

He accepted the hug with a gruff pat on Duncan's back. Alright, alright, that was enough now. Though he appreciated it more than he could show, no need to make this season sappier than it was.

They had company, after all.

"Kurby Bagnold," he assessed him, nodding in recognition of his name. The bloke had a stern face, looked like he didn't miss much, and definitely wouldn't fall for the levitating pie trick. Damn.

When Duncan had told him he was inviting a friend, he'd also let him know that they'd worked together at the Ministry, joined the resistance together, and had caught up with each other recently. Donnan had simply accepted the news with a grunt. Though he wasn't completely comfortable being around not-family so soon after Iona's death, it wasn't his place to say anything against it.

"The Ministry let you get away for the holidays, huh?" He greeted Bagnold with dry humor as he offered a hand to shake.

"Good to have you. I'll tell you stories about when he was ten if you tell me where you got that drink," he shot an expectant glance at Duncan.

The McBoid relatives' banter made it difficult to feel awkward for long.  The werewolf hunter's posture relaxed, and he flashed the new arrival a lopsided grin as he extended his right hand and gripped the older man's hand firmly. 

"Afraid you'll have to appeal to Duncan," he said cheerfully.  "But I reckon he'll be willing to pour you one as long as you don't tell 'im you've come prepared with the stories."

He'd yet to see Duncan and Moira in the same place, but even considering his old comrade's gregarious nature, there was a clear family resemblance between the two, a sort of down-to-earth sensibleness that labeled them as kin as much as their Scottish accents and similar looks.  Donnan McBoid had the same no-nonsense air about him.  Such directness was a seemingly rare trait among pureblooded families, but one that he welcomed after having to spend most of a day with his own relatives.  There would be no wordplay or talking in circles here at the McBoid household.

"So what's this about you being ten, then?" he asked nicely, leaning back against the wall.  He hadn't missed Duncan's grin a moment ago, and he was perfectly eager to retaliate by digging in to an easy target.  "What year was that?  1941, '42?"

Duncan smiled at Donnan’s expectant look, it hadn’t taken him long to want what the healers claimed he shouldn’t have, and chuckled at Kurby’s jab. “Shhh, Bagnold. No one’s supposed to know that.” Passing Donnan a beer he added to his younger friend, “1976, so you should still feel plenty young regardless.”

Leading them to the more comfortable living area he took a drink of his beer and sat down in one of the chairs. “We had leftovers for three days. First and only time such a thing has happened in my recollection. It was a while before I could eat a turkey or ham sandwich again.” While he had eaten other things (different leftovers), as a child he felt that was all he had eaten because wasting food is a crime.

“Granted, a lot of things happened when I was ten. It was a busy year full of mischief.” Duncan grinned, "The old man's better at telling stories than me, though."

Duncan wouldn’t admit it, but he had always loved listening to Donnan read or tell stories. His uncle had always had a gift for telling stories, whether it be to adults or children like him who tried to pretend they weren’t hanging off of every word.

With a grateful nod, he took a sip of the beer that Duncan offered. Thank Merlin. How else did anyone get through the holidays?

So Duncan was passing him the storytelling baton. Dangerous move. Donnan sat in the armchair across from him and raised his dark eyebrows at his nephew. Settle in, it was time for a tale of embellished adventure and slapstick jokes.

"You know why I cooked so much that Christmas, Duncan? To slow you down. Put you in a food coma."

He had not been successful.

"That was the year he wanted to go to Hogwarts early with his brother Angus," Donnan told Bagnold, his beer resting comfortably in his hand. He seemed a good sort, Bagnold, friendlier than his stern face had implied.

"First he forged a Hogwarts letter to himself over the summer. From Headmaster - what was it? Headmaster Dippledore had sensed his magical talent from afar and was inviting him to join Hogwarts at the age of ten. Dear Duncan, don't worry about your books. You may bring a-" he smiled, "A horse, a dragon, a baby dragon - much better - a firedrake, a niffler - better let Moira know - or a chicken."

Duncan's parents had put it up on the icebox. A work of art.

"He quieted down for the rest of the summer, until we all went shopping in Diagon for supplies. We turned around and he was gone. We finally found him at Ollivander's, with Angus' wand, attempting to return it so he could get one for himself."

Donnan shook his head slowly, amused.

"And lastly but most memorably - Duncan at the train station in September. He was standing there on the platform, wearing an old Gryffindor tie under his shirt. Everyone saw it. We thought he was going to try to follow Angus on the train, but he didn't."

He paused to take a sip.

"He waited until they'd boarded, and then started running at the train window which was open just a crack," Donnan gestured with his thumb and forefinger. "Angus was sitting in the window looking horrified."

He paused and chuckled for a moment, remembering another face in the train window - his daughter's. Iona had taken one look at Duncan running and had slowly slid the window shut.

His chuckle faded. He couldn't say that out loud, the memory hurt too much.

"I don't remember how his parents stopped him from leaping, but they must have. You're here today," he nodded at his nephew, a hint of a smile still on his face as he glanced at Bagnold. Embarrassing story time over! For now.

The werewolf hunter had settled back against the wall, comfortable in the company and place.  He grinned broadly at the younger McBoid when he proclaimed the year he'd first attended Hogwarts; Kurby hadn't been born for a year later.

Then Duncan's elder relative launched into a story, and Kurby settled back to listen.

He realized quickly that he shouldn't be drinking at the same time that the older wizard was talking, because he almost choked on his beer after an ill-timed sip that unfortunately coincided with the mention of Headmaster Dippledore.  After managing to clear his air passage by coughing repeatedly, Kurby settled for simply listening, grinning from ear to ear as Donnan's tale continued. 

At the final conclusion of the story, he let out a raucous burst of laughter, completely missing the change in tone.

"Can't reckon I ever heard of anybody tryin' to break into Hogwarts," he said, grinning at the younger McBoid.  "You get to finally bring that dragon once Headmaster Dippledore invited you back again the next year, then?"

Duncan sat quiet, listening to the whole story with a grin. Of course parts of it were over exaggerated, the fake letter in particular, but he didn't call the old man out on any of it. Overall he was pleased with how the story turned out. Besides, Kurby laughing so freely was a rare occurrence.

“I’m afraid there is one part you forgot, Donnan.” He took a drink of his beer and paused for affect. “I also tried getting to Hogwarts by crawling inside Angus’ trunk. I was caught after he dragged it down the stairs and I fell against the casing a few too many times.” His ten year old self hadn't counted on sound escaping from inside the luggage bag.

With a laugh, the Scotsman glanced at his friend. “I hated the thought of being left behind again, you ken. And no, they didn’t think too kindly on me wanting to bring a dragon, even a baby one.”

What a headache he had been for his parents the rest of the year. "Naturally, in my youthful disappointment and frustration, I got in at least double the amount of scraps as I had in the summer."

The intense young man had a good sense of humor! Smile not yet faded, Donnan sat back in his chair, letting his nephew protest and grin and add to it while the guest relaxed. See, Donnan hadn't lost all social skills and decency. He'd have to tell Norma.

"McBoids don't change much over the years, Kurby. We might be less likely to get into scraps in our old age," Donnan focused on Kurby, taking care not to look at Duncan lest he lose his composure, "But the fighting spark is always there," he shook his finger knowingly.

Donnan took a sip of his beer. This month had taken a toll on the whole family. The timing fit, didn't it? Duncan had reunited with an old comrade as he'd faced a very personal loss.

"You two meet up again to keep yourselves out of trouble, or get back into it?" He asked not too seriously, with a curious raise of his bushy brows.