Baked potatoes.

The warm spuds (properly cooked and not “speared and thrust into a macrowave oven, you git”), along with Bram’s presence, were the only things that Ivy had requested of him for this... party thing. However, she never said that he also had to be on time – thus, as was per usual of the Irishman when his job wasn’t on the line, he was, as he preferred to call it, fashionably late. Whether or not this would spark an argument really didn’t concern him, as he was sure Ivy, being the Ballantine that she was, was practically drowning in friends and family – barely treading the waving waters of relatives. What a dreadful thought, though he had to admit to being slightly jealous despite himself, as he didn’t exactly have any family members left anymore. He didn’t really think about it much, or tried not to, but holidays always brought it out of him.

Stepping out of his car – no apparating for this wizard – Bram scrambled to the door of Ivy’s flat, precariously balancing the quickly cooling potahtoes. He wondered for a moment if any of the other guests actually drove (gasp) cars, or if they just popped in on the party magically. Knocking on the door with his feet, he shrugged off the thought and waited patiently to be allowed entrance into the humble abode. Grinning a little, he couldn’t help but think that he was kind of like a vampire waiting to be invited in, as the door was probably unlocked and ready for entrance. Still, he wasn’t the type to just waltz into someone else’s home unannounced… that was Ivy’s job.

So much had happened in such a short period of time. Receiving an invitation to Lucinda’s wedding, learning Ivy was alive, and subsequently finding out that his patient – Kendra – was her daughter with Edward Garrow. It was like some twisted soap opera that only became more complicated when Ivy’s stubbornness got involved. Now that everything seemed to be over and Ivy was reunited with Kendra, maybe all of their lives could get back to something resembling normal… though really, when were their lives ever normal to begin with?

With a sigh of tiredness and a bit of impatience, Bram kicked the door with his foot again – these potatoes weren’t getting any fresher and Bram wasn’t getting any younger. “Ballantiiiiiiiiiine,” Bram whined as loudly as possible while kicking the door once again. “I’ve got your bloody spuds out here, you know – opening this blasted wooden threshold to your godforsaken abode of alleged fun and frolicking family members would probably be appropriate before the taters decay and wither in the fecking elements!”

Okay, so perhaps he was being a bit harsh, but he felt entirely justified considering he had just finished an emergency appointment with a surprisingly tame, yet schizophrenic mountain troll who believed he was really some English boy named Harry who was destined to save the bloody world and live happily ever after with some strange lass named Ginny. He’d made no progress with the troll, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to make all that much… most mountain trolls were hardly pleasant, as he had learned in his later years at Dissendium Academy. Pesky buggers.

Ugh, the things one does to make a living.

Bram could only imagine the shenanigans keeping Ivy from the door – if she, or at least some random guest, didn’t answer soon, he might just leave. It seemed the appropriate thing to do. At least he tried to attend the party, right? It wasn’t his fault that the door wasn’t opened in a timely manner. “Meddlesome Misneach,” Bram grizzled.

(Yes, I took the coward’s way out when it comes to imagination by making Bram late so I didn’t have to describe the ongoing party – forgive me! x-x)

Baked potatoes.

In theory, they weren't that difficult to make, they were just potatoes baked and any decent Irishman could bake a few potatoes--but writing or flying or waving a wand weren't technically difficult either, and not just anyone could write a great novel, break a Quidditch record, or vanquish a Dark Lord. Jayden had always been very good at squandering his few gifts in favor of utter mediocrity. She shouldn't have high expectations of him.

But still. If he brought the potatoes to her party, Ivy Ballantine's Christmas party after her liberation from Voldemort incarnate, all speared and killed after a terrible death in a macrowave "I'm too lazy to light a Maevin' fire" oven, she was going to give him the same treatment as the spuds. That Seirbhe should know better than to be lazy after all she'd done for him!

As she contemplated Bram and his baked potatoes, she finished removing the last spot from Kendra's dress with a wave of her wand. The little girl was so excited to have so many people in the same place, and so many of them doting upon her, that every time she approached a food or drink item it instantaneously spilled on her. Kendra's dress, like her mother's, was made of a crinkly, slightly reflective fabric that shifted through a dozen shades of red depending on how the light hit it. In most lights it was an uncompromising fiery red that hurt the eyes, but there were also shades of burgundy and rust and maroon in the shadows. The girl's dress was trimmed with festive green ribbons, and the mother's dress had a simple black velvet band around the waist and neckline. They were gifts from Gran Graham.

At the moment Gran Graham was talking gently to her daughter Viv about the extra bedroom she had at home, that Viv was welcome to use any time she felt like staying at home. Viv just shook her head, sighed, and sipped her tea. "No thank you. No thank you. I think I'd rather stay in America with Harry and the children. They've quite a bit of room, Harry is doing well for himself. No, no thank you." Her silvery hair wisped across her shoulders as she shook her head.

"Well ain't this a picture," declared Aunt Justice as she marched into the kitchen. Gran, Viv, Ivy, and Kendra all glanced up at the same time. "Four generations and not a one of them looks satisfied with the state of the universe. Give me the girl niece, I think your Seirbhe friend is here."

"He is?" She straightened up and smoothed the front of her dress. "Where is--"

"Oh I left him outside. You were right, he knocked. Only a Seirbhe would have the gall to knock before entering. Thought he deserved to stay out there."

She could hear him faintly over the voices of her relatives.

“Ballantiiiiiiiiiine. I’ve got your bloody spuds out here, you know – opening this blasted wooden threshold to your godforsaken abode of alleged fun and frolicking family members would probably be appropriate before the taters decay and wither in the fecking elements!”

Her eyes lit up and a wicked smile crossed her face. Finally, someone that would challenge her.

"Bloody hell, Jayden, there are children in this house! Don't be such an arse!" she exclaimed as she stormed out of the kitchen. "Watch your tongue when you enter my godforsaken abode, and if you brought those potatoes macrowaved, I'm going to put them somewhere else to cook a while--"

She breezed past Derry, who stood with a drink in one hand and his arm wrapped around Lucy. He blinked.

"Jayden, eh? Isn't that the boy that hexed her hair in school?"

"--And if you think you're going to get special treatment just because of that little incident with the government a few weeks ago, well I can assure you Mr. Jayden, that I will do no--such--thing!"

The door opened. But it wasn't Ivy who opened it. A man opened the door, an old man with fluffy coppery hair, blue eyes, and a cane which he leaned on heavily. He stared at Bram with a strange expression on his face, utterly silent.

As the two men faced each other there was no mistaking the family resemblance. Bram's father was aged and broken, but he was there, alive, and as grateful to be liberated from his prison as his rescuer had been only a short time before.

"Nollaig Shona Duit, Bram," Ivy said from around elder Jayden's shoulder. She looked up--up, it was still unnatural--at Bram and grinned, in the way she used to when she had pulled a prank on someone and they hadn't quite realized it yet.

There was nothing like getting even with Jayden.