“Here, we’ll have to pull them one at a time, unless I use my teeth.”

The bright red, green and gold wizard cracker extended over the table for two. Two paper plates, adorned with holly wreath borders, had not long arrived, with a generous slice of turkey, stuffing, diced carrot, peas, a parsnip and two soggy roast potatoes each. The food was ordinary, if drowned in St Mungo’s finest brown gravy, but the cutlery had caught Lawrence’s eye. It was enough to marvel to his guest. 'They’ve trusted me with a dinner knife!’ Shiny, metal cutlery, and two pieces of it. For a wizard with one hand, it hadn’t happened in weeks.

He was of course wearing the outrageous Christmas jumper[1] gifted to him earlier that day. When else could one wear such a thing if they weren’t Yavin Morgenthau? Lawrence had been keeping mental note of the Department Head’s choices what with the regular visits, and it had not got past the legilimens. Not that Lawrence had particularly tried to hide it. It was his equivalent of the changing British weather.

He’d quite expected Christmas Day to go by as unremarkably as his 49th birthday had a fortnight before. Marked by some select senders in the vetted owl post. Maybe a verbal greeting from the St Mungo’s staff to mark the occasion. He’d saved a new book to read, placed it on the bedside table atop of the well-thumbed The Barrier Within and Important Modern Magical Discoveries and Extraordinary Trials in History. He’d found Kaleidoscopic Nunneries a break from the extensive romance series St Mungo’s had to read in the patient library (which Fenny was voraciously reading in the meantime.)

Holding tight to his end of the wizard cracker, he pulled and the bang was as loud as a cannon blast, sending Lawrence rocking back on his seat as a cloud of blue smoke enveloped them both. Out flopped a ridiculous hat, and a small army of chocolate frogs who leapt from the table as soon as they were free. Lawrence scooped up the hat and held it out to his guest with a lopsided grin.

“Oh go on, it’ll really suit you!”

1.	Selected by Nuri

There’d been other offers. Knox had sent her multiple owls, insisting that it wasn’t right to be alone at this time of year. Hannah hadn’t ignored them, she’d sent a polite refusal the first time. The second time, her response had been somewhat shorter. By the sixth response, she’d simply ignored him. Johann had made a polite offer too, replied to with a polite refusal. These offers all came with strings attached. These people hoping to enjoy jolly Christmas holidays with overcooked turkey, party hats and an uncharacteristically jolly Hannah Bombay. She wasn’t a jolly person, and she wasn’t a person that took a holiday invite sent out of pity.

She had other plans, anyway.

“I’d like to see that.” Hannah commented in response to her uncle pulling a cracker with his teeth. He was in good spirits. Better spirits than she’d seen since his release from Azkaban. It was rather like looking at a different wizard. Clean, shaven, tidy, better fed, smiling. Probably only smiling because he had a visitor on Christmas day, but he was still smiling. He no longer looked like her had the weight of the world and a world full of souls crushing him. His choice of jumper held a lot to be desired, but it was better than the grubby oversized coat he’d been in every time she’d seen him before his surrender.

The hat that fell from the cracker was hideous. Purple with stars covered the brim, but that wasn’t the problem. Atop the atrocious item of clothing was a miniature Christmas tree, flashing baubles and all. Hannah stared from the hat to her uncle who had the audacity to joke about it suiting her. she wanted to refuse, but he was her uncle and he’d saved her life. Begrudgingly, the witch lifted the hat and placed it atop her messy hair.

“Did you get the jumper out of the lost property bin in the foyer?” There really was no other explanation.

“My sanity for a camera right now,” Lawrence proclaimed and let his head tip back as he laughed. Proper belly laughs. The sort he’d not done in months… years… not that this statistic crossed his mind. “Ah, that’s wonderful. These crackers are better than expected.”

“Did you get the jumper out of the lost property bin the foyer?”

“What this?” Lawrence wiped an eye and looked down at his jumper, pulling the hem as if Hannah wanted to inspect the lurid pattern with any more detail. She didn’t, she probably wanted him to take it off. “It’s a present! Don’t you like it?” He was joking of course. Yes it was hideous, but it meant something.

“Yavin Morgenthau,” Lawrence continued, letting go of the hem to gesticulate with his remaining hand and the end of his left arm. “He’s never without one, practically his uniform. I’ve seen quite a number since I got here, so he decided to initiate me to the ugly jumper club - or as he’d say - sweater club.” Americans!

“Come on, let’s see if I get a hat to match.” He proffered the other cracker to Hannah to pull.

Well, at least someone found her excuse for a hat amusing. Habitually, Hannah may have refused to wear the horrible creation, and certainly wouldn’t have been cleaned at being laughed at, but Lawrence was actually laughing. After everything they’d been through together and separately, he was laughing and smiling. It made Hannah, despite herself, smile.

“It’s a present! Don’t you like it?”

“No.”

“Yavin Morgenthau…sweater club.”

“There is a club?” Hannah Bombay, literal as ever, furrowed her eyebrows as she glanced over the jumper with distaste. That was certainly a club that she would never be queuing up to sign up for. Who even came up with these clubs? Was Mr Mogenthau, Lawrence’s brain healer, the chairman of the ugly jumper club? Or simply a member that enjoyed wearing its uniform?

The second cracked was pulled, another hat appearing to rival the first in ugliness. Hannah sat back and studied it for a moment. She should have taken Greyfriar up on his invite.

“You know, Lawrence, Greyfriar wouldn’t have made me wear an ugly hat at dinner.” At dinner, which would have been vegetarian, because Knox Greyfriar was the worlds stupidest werewolf. What werewolf didn’t crave meat? It was yet another of Greyfriar’s odd traits. “I’m not joining your ugly jumper club.”

The turkey hat flopped out on the little table, and Hannah’s reaction only maintained the smile on her uncle’s face.
“Oh, fantastic,” he remarked, setting down the end of the cracker he’d pulled. “Look, it’s perfect, two feet so I can…” with the dexterity one acquired with living with one hand and no magic for prolonged periods, he sat the turkey upon his curls and pulled down on the feet beneath his chin. “There we go, suitably attired for Christmas.”

If this was to be his last Christmas, or at the very least his last outside of an Azkaban high security cell, he wanted it to be as ridiculous and memorable as possible.
“Greyfriar wouldn’t have made me wear an ugly hat at dinner.” Hannah protested.
“His loss.” Lawrence replied, pushing the turkey’s head up just a little so it didn’t risk diving beak first into his dinner. He reached for his fork and began the hospital’s attempt at Christmas dinner before it went cold.

“Did he invite you then?” Lawrence asked, as the hat turkey’s head bobbed side to side above them. “To his homely little cottage?” Greyfriar had taken charge of Hannah’s care after they had escaped the Birmingham swimming baths. He’d been so fiercely protective of Hannah, he’d thrown Lawrence out within half an hour of discovering them. Eighteen months ago felt like a small eternity, the start of a significant journey.

“Maybe next year. You can forewarn him, no hats, no seasonal jumpers.” He slid a chunk of roast potato off his fork and chewed. As he had company, he consciously reminded himself of his manners, to eat with closed mouth, not to talk with his mouth full.

“So, only five more days for you then,” Lawrence redirected the conversation, “until the end of your sentence[1]. How do you plan to spend your new year of freedom?”

1.	23 August 2011 Hold my Hand. “Seven months and fourteen days from May 16th. 228 days.” Hannah was quick to reply. Her eyes shot up to the right as she considered. “4 months and 7 days now. 129 days. 30th December.”

“He did.” Hannah, too, picked up her cutlery and started to slice through the turkey that had been pre-soaked in gravy. “It was only out of obligation, he doesn’t actually want to spend Christmas with me.” The relationship between Hannah and Knox Greyfriar was not one easy to describe. They’d once shared an intense dislike, but circumstances and hardships had brought them close. Now, besides her uncle that was locked up here in St Mungo’s, Greyfriar was the only person she truly trusted. He was more than a friend, but that didn’t mean that she wished to spend Christmas with him.

Lawrence brought up next year, and considering it, Hannah found herself frowning. He planned on not being available next year. The likelihood was that he would then be in Azkaban. By then, the treatments these healers were giving him would have ended, and he’d no longer be welcome here.

“Out of trouble.” A small smirk twisted Hannah’s pale lips as she glanced down at her dinner. It wasn’t exactly true. She and Knox had been illegally helping unregistered wolves, and they would continue to do so until they were caught or forced to stop. “They’ve offered me to stay on at Azkaban. I think I will. No one bothers me there.” She looked up, coming face to face with the hat and her smile grew. Difficult to talk seriously when her uncle was wearing that. “I could still see you next Christmas, then. Just...get conveniently ill.”

Lawrence grinned at the quick response. He’d toast to that, a year out of trouble for Hannah. She was too clever to have a boring, straight-forward life, but she definitely needed some luck in 2012. Especially if she was on the outside of the Azkaban walls.

“Stay on?” He queried, but saw she was elaborating and hastily shut up.

“I could still see you next Christmas, then…”

Bless Hannah. Beneath that cold, efficient, analytical exterior of the adult healer was still the bushy-haired girl who would rather live with her uncle in his bachelor’s basement flat than share a home with Cynthia. The girl who would prefer to spend Christmas, locked in her former workplace, with him than anyone else in her life, despite invitations from kind friends. Touched but also, just a little worried for her.

“Yeah,” he agreed, for it was the easier path to navigate emotionally. Like telling someone you wouldn’t see for years, or maybe never again, ‘see you later’ just to save the pain. “Good thinking.” Maybe this time next year they’d be midway through an escape from Azkaban.

“I, er, saw your - Cynthia spewed into the Daily Prophet the other day.” He corrected himself before he referred to his sister as ‘your mother’ with respect to Hannah. Cynthia had never really been a ‘mother’ in the truest sense. “Put her right in a letter[1]. I imagined her hair went white at its arrival.” He grinned at the mental image of his image-obsessed sibling. “You two been keeping out of each other’s way, I take it?”

1.	23rd December Worst Sister Ever

Hungrily, Hannah shovelled St Mungo’s excuse for Christmas dinner stuffing and turkey into her mouth. Lawrence caused it to have a mildly unpleasant taste in her mouth when he mentioned her so-called mother and the letter in the Daily Prophet. She’d seen it. She read the paper cover to cover every day. Bias as it clearly was, it was one of the only ways to get wizarding news if one didn’t tend to listen to the wireless.

Lawrence admitted to having written back to his sister, and Hannah chewed thoughtfully. She waited to swallow her mouthful before finally speaking. “I’ve been disowned.” The knife slid easily through the turkey slide. She’d told him back in August how only her Grandpa had come to Azkaban[1]. “Mum’s convinced I’m some evil spawn and Dad just does what she says, doesn’t he?”

More turkey and Yorkshire pudding was shoved in her mouth and she chew chew chewed gratefully. “She’s just mad that I didn’t become a younger version of her.” Hannah had never been anything like her mother, for that she was glad. It was why she’d always been drawn to Lawrence. They were cut from a much more similar cloth. “What did you say in your letter? Did you get a reply? I’ve not even had a Christmas card.”

1.	Hold My Hand

“I’ve been disowned.” Of course she had.

At Hannah’s description of Cynthia’s beliefs and Fred Bombay’s ability to obey he laughed out loud. It was exactly as he remembered it from Hannah’s childhood. To think Fred had left his first wife to take up Cynthia Musgrave. He’d signed up for a life sentence.

“She’s just mad that I didn’t become a younger version of her…” Hannah remarked.

“Like she’s the carbon copy of your grandmother. Gosh you’d have been hideous if you had.” Lawrence exclaimed. Perish the thought! They’d never have survived past childhood relationship of uncle and niece.

“What did you say in your letter, did you get a reply? Hannah asked.

“No reply yet… and I say yet because your mother does like to try and have the last word.” As he tried to recall, he automatically looked up at the ceiling, the turkey hat’s head bobbing forward and back above the crown of his hair. “Well, it was about the Grants business…” He began, fork hanging in midair from his remaining hand.

“… We share the same brief as it happens…” Lawrence frowned a little, still staring upwards until he finished picturing himself writing the letter. “…While she opened with a somewhat reasonable point, I disagreed with her point on Ministry control of the kid. Oh, and the second half of her letter was utter rubbish. May have called her brainless… if the Ministry let that bit get through…?”

Lawrence shrugged, lowering his empty fork back to the plate. “That might be why I haven’t had a reply, because the Ministry won’t let it through. I’ll never get to write my memoirs…” He was joking of course, though someone had offered to help him write them. He was pretty certain it was Josie Flint, but the letter had been in a code.

“Was hoping for a howler for Christmas, but hey, I got you, much better.” He shot her a proper smile.

“You, er, seen grandad lately?” He asked more tentatively.

Mention of the Grant’s trial got a small nod from Hannah. She’d seen her mother’s tactless letter in the Prophet about the matter. It would have been hard to believe that she’d been brought up by the person that had written that letter had she not been victim to so many of her mother’s harsh comments during her youth. Cynthia Bombay had always been the slim vain witch with peroxide blonde hair and perfect makeup. Hannah Bombay had been her mousy haired, glasses wearing little daughter who didn’t take her head out of books for fear of being expected to socialise.

“The stuff about the new werewolf wing head?” she’d heard of her, seen mentions in the paper about her. Iona Ballentyne was the witch cited to change werewolf legislation. Hannah’s mother had named her an equal opportunity hire on a Ministry diversity agenda. ‘Disabled monster’ had been the words her mother used to describe Ballentyne. What did Cynthia call her own daughter?

“Was hoping for a howler for Christmas, but hey, I got you, much better.” Lawrence smiled at Hannah.
She didn’t miss a beat before commenting “I can howl,” with a wry smile. She held a monthly howling session, after all.

But Lawrence brought up his own father, her granddad. Anthony Musgrave was a lovely and gentle man. He, however, had more guts that her own father because he’d done whatever the hell he liked and actually stayed in touch with both her and Lawrence.

“He’s come around a couple of times.” She shrugged. Her grandpa had been to her flat for tea twice since she’d been released. Apparently, it was difficult to get away from her grandma. Hannah saw the feebly excuse for what it was. “His sight’s really bad. Has he come here? Or has Nan decided that she’s done with you, too?”

“Your nan decided I wasn’t part of the family when I was tried at the end of the war.” Lawrence explained. “Along with Cynthia.” If he’d been them, he probably would have reacted in a similar way. “I don’t blame them, I understand it was a horrible shock, and inexcusable.”

Lawrence set down his fork a moment and rested his chin in his remaining hand. He looked away from Hannah, towards the door. “I went to see him when I got out. I might have told you, though I’ve had quite the reorganisation in my mind of late. He saved a photo of me when I got my crimson robes.” He smiled to himself, “keeps it in the shed because your grandmother won’t go in there.”

He straightened suddenly, and gestured to a biscuit tin on the shelf. “Actually, Healer Misslethorpe managed to persuade him to give up some of the things he had to help me remember the good times. You’ll need to have a look through after dinner. See if you recognise anyone.” It was always funny to see family with their old fashions. Cynthia and her mother had both sported some horrific hairstyles in decades past, claiming it was fashion.

“I think it’s a bit hard to organise him to get here, what with him almost blind as a bat. Maybe I can ask them to try again in the new year, before they set a date for the trial.” It’d be good to put a few things to rest. Put his dad’s mind at ease before he inevitably passed while Lawrence was inside until he too perished. Gah! He shuddered away the thoughts and fixed a smile back to his face, remembering he was wearing a ridiculous hat and a Morgenthau special.

“When you’ve finished that, I think they’ve allowed us some Christmas pudding. Which means I might have two spoons to tunnel out of here with once we’ve finished eating.”

To Hannah, her Uncle Lawrence had always deserved a second chance. He’d broken the law during the war, and he’d paid the price for his acts and his weakness. Azkaban was surely punishment enough without losing his family over it as well. It was why she’d offered him her sofa immediately after his release. Her mother, however, had been far less forgiving; and they all knew where Cynthia got many of her traits from.

Quite content to let Lawrence talk about his father and suggest the photos, Hannah stabbed and bit into a few more pieces of potato and turkey. Mid bite, she stopped at the mention of Lawrence’s trial. It was surprising, but Hannah had rather forgotten that her uncle would still have to sit a trial when he was done here. He wouldn’t remain in St Mungo’s forever. They’d finish doing what they needed to inside his mind, and he’d return to Azkaban. Would this time be for life?

The thought made the turkey sit heavy in her stomach, and Hannah deposited her cutlery on the unfinished place of Christmas dinner.

With a frown, the witch pulled her hat off her head, eyes dancing over Lawrence’s face. He’d saved her life, freeing her from Almasy. Now, thanks to her and all of this drama, he might never see the outside world again.
“Can’t you plead temporary insanity?” She muttered, clearly distracted now, “When they’ve fixed you, well, you didn’t do those things with a sane mind, did you?” Hannah Bombay, not one to clutch at straws, was clutching at straws.

“Who’s to say it’s temporary?” Hannah’s uncle countered, in a tone that suggested he understood her desperation, but had to calm it, using his usual arsenal of sarcasm and humour.

“Trouble is, Hannah, I did things through free will in that time too. Best of it all, freeing you from Almasy.” A genuine smile lifted his cheeks with closed lips. “I mean, the outcome was best. The actual process nowhere near.” It had been a necessary evil, with added complications. Sadly it hadn’t been possible to saunter into St Mungo’s and ask someone to kill Hannah and revive her, they’d had to get more creative.

“I appreciate your desire to see my freedom, but I …” he stopped himself and reconsidered his words. The truth being that he suspected he might become a sitting duck again once they released him back to the Ministry. “The best I can hope for,” he rephrased, “is Morgenthau wishes to keep me as a lab rat for dementor research.” Another honest answer.

He slid his empty dinner plate away, and reached to the second shelf of the trolley for the Christmas pudding, placing Hannah’s before her, and then his own.
“Now, show me your tunnelling technique with the spoon. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”