Flammiferum Acanthus

However they spent their days, dinner was always taken exactly seven at The Southern Cross, a Caribbean, Indian and Chinese restaurant run by itinerant Aussies. As the management changed daily, they never knew just what they'd be served, and that was enough variation in the routine for anyone to absorb. At precisely eight thirty, they would adjourn to Coffea Arabica, where they would stay, huddled over their brew of choice, arguing until wands were drawn, or someone left for bed.

They weren't quite as anal as this schedule might suggest, just very attached to each other as life-long friends often are, and the Cross and Arabica happened to be central to all six of their day jobs - so they had discovered while pouring over maps of Magical London after a night of champagne and murder. They'd taken it for an indication that fate was at work and gone with it.

So rather than be irritated, as was their wont, when five of them noticed that their sixth was late, they were worried for the first time in years. None of them were really the sort that worried. Oh they occasionally became concerned, they often wondered and sometimes they even became apprehensive. But never worried. They were more likely to take to vexation quickly upon disappointment or uncertainty, and then fan the flames of that into a comfortably chill rage. This, though, was a rather unusual situation. Wilkes, who was always beastly about punctuality - had been since childhood - was late.

Avery rhythmically drummed his fingers on the glass tabletop, as he'd been doing for the last twenty or so minutes, and stared absently at a leggy, pale, black girl in fishnet stockings and a scandalously short robe. She had stunningly bright hazel eyes, cute freckles speckling the bridge of her nose, unnaturally long dreds and a wide, toothy smile. After watching her bend over to collect some errant cutlery, he concluded she was perfect. "Where is Wilkes? I want to order now."

"So you can catch that one before her shift is up?" drawled the male half of the newly married Lestranges.

"Fine way to show concern for your best friend," chimed in his female counterpart.

A sheepish Avery turned back to his companions. "I'm concerned. Very concerned. In fact-"

"He's afraid that should he actually show it, Wilkes will suddenly appear from beneath the table and mock him for the next decade." Snape's cold tone would have offended most others, but knowing that he'd been unable to sleep without his enchanted, stuffed rabbit as a child, somewhat allayed his ability to intimidate his friends. And having known him as long as they had, it had come to a point were his icy whisper sounded almost sweet at times.

Avery scowled at the three and turned back to the vision in black and chocolate. The woman blended into the décor of the room so well she seemed a part of it. She glided past him, her arms loaded up with dishes, as if trapped in slow time. The suggestion of her hips rolling unhurriedly and sensually under her robes became the sole point of reality in an unreal world. The slight sheen on her lush lips was the dew of all mornings-

His contemplation cut off when a balled napkin suddenly bounced off his head. He whipped his head around to glare at the culprit to find his friends all occupied with the table, ceiling or their own hands. Rosier caught his eye briefly before turning to peer out the window again, whistling under his breath. He surveed them with narrowed eyes - innocence didn't become them - and turned to the goddess in fishnets, who was disappearing into the kitchen.

"Someone pass him a quill so he can start on the ode to her legs right away," quipped a smirking Rosier.

"I think not," said Snape. "After 'honey-dripping lips' and 'dewy dimples', I've decided that we shouldn't allow him to write again. Ever." He sneered at his friend in disgust.

"Now I'm doubly glad I ran when he asked for a second opinion," muttered Mrs. Lestrange.

"I only wish I'd been as smart as you, darling. It was... horrible." Mr. Lestrange visibly shivered and stared into the distance, a look of ineffable horror written in his eyes. "Horrible..."

"There, there dear." His wife petted him lovingly and slid her chair closer to his. "Boys, make the bad poet go away."

Snape drew his wand from an overlong black sleeve. "With pleasure," he said, a wicked smirk lighting up his sombre features.

Rosier shrugged and pulled out his own wand. "I was starting to get bored."

"Oh fine, turn on me just like that." Avery slumped in his chair and glared at the others. "Well, what are you going to do about it then?" Snape and Rosier turned to each other and began conferring. They argued back and forth for several minutes while Avery glared at them and the Lestranges ignored the world in favour of each other's mouths.

Finally they nodded and turned back to their sulking friend. "Right," said Rosier. "We've got it."

"Oh do tell." Avery slumped further into his seat and waved at the other man to continue.

"We're going to generously allow you to continue speaking and writing everyday prose. We're even going to allow you to compose your vile, so-called poetry. However, should you attempt to communicate said, er... crap, in any way, you'll experience such pain as you never have before. But we're not telling what kind of pain it'll be," he finished lamely.

"You know," sneered Avery. "You really should leave the ominous declarations to Snape." They lifted their wands. "What, are you going to curse me right in the middle of the restaurant?" Rosier grinned and Snape sneered at this feeble protestation. The location of The Cross and the particular bent of the owners meant that curses though always cast politely and precisely, were not unknown within the premises. "Come on lads... you don't want to do this... give a mate a second chance?"

Just as Snape and Rosier began to chant an incantation in unison, the front door burst open and slammed against the wall. The five friends, along with every other patron jumped and swung their wands at the figure standing in the doorway. A few people, perhaps a bit more paranoid than the others flipped over their tables and ducked behind them, ready to fire off curses from behind cover. Not one person made any noise though, beyond the odd smash of furniture or dishes. The ninety-nine customers and seven waitresses, with wands levelled, waited for an explanation.

Usually such an explanation would involve a sonorous-enhanced voice declaring a raid by the Aurors or the Health Department, and the subsequent apparition, port keying and running away of a good portion of the customers and staff. The stragglers were inevitably rounded up for a night of interrogation and fines.

"Happy fucking Christmas." The words were spat out, enunciated to perfection through a deeply hostile sneer. The woman swung off a cloak threw it at the coat rack and stalked inside, kicking the door shut behind her with a heavy boot. Wands were returned to sleeves and an assortment of other resting places and conversations resumed. The staff resolved to keep an eye on the overly dramatic witch and went on with business.

Wilkes, elbowing her way past other patrons and tripping an unlucky waitress, made her way through the crowded hole-in-the-wall quickly and efficiently. She sneered and spat at anyone who got within half a meter of her - generally acting like everyone else in the establishment and thereby reassuring everyone of her motivations in being there. Finally reaching their usual table, she hooked a boot around a leg of her usual chair, pulled it out and collapsed into it, dropping her head in her hands. The frayed elbows of her robe began soaking up the fire whisky that'd been spilled and never cleaned up, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Happy fucking Christmas," she muttered.

"Christmas isn't for two days," Rosier offered helpfully.

"Shut the hell up," she replied cheerfully and let her head slide slowly onto the table, whereupon she covered it with her hands, still encased in green mittens. The mittens matched her green and red robe, trimmed with gold stars, twinkling at the cuffs and collar, and her bright red scarf.

Mrs. Lestrange disentangled herself from her husband and leaned over her friend, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry dear, it will all be over soon." Wilkes only whimpered in response. "What was that?" A mumble followed. "You really will have to speak up."

Wilkes turned her head slightly, just enough that her face wasn't resting in fire whiskey. "I said," she coughed out. "That I've lost my will to live and I hate the colour red." She coughed again. "Oi, who was drinking the really cheap stuff?"

"Avery of course." He glared at everyone again, though secretly elated that they seemed distracted enough not to continue with the cursing. The sight of Rosier's manic grin and Snape's sinister smirk convinced him otherwise and he sank further still into his chair, muttering about traitorous so-called friends.

"Didn't you know," whispered Wilkes, her voice failing under the power of the whiskey, it's the holiday season. Time to blow all your galleons on over-priced garbage, sing inane songs and pretend to be jolly."

"Thank you no," said a sneering Snape.

"I hate my job," hissed Wilkes. Snape blinked lazily and continued to sneer.

Rosier leaned forward. "You've only yourself to blame, mate. Who told you to work for the Ministry's public relations department?" For a moment it looked as though Wilkes might attempt an excuse, but then she sighed and rolled her face back against the table. With a look that bespoke infinite disgust, Mrs. Lestrange pulled the woman's hair out of the whiskey and tucked it into her scarf, wiping her soiled hands on the hideous robe.

"Actually," ventured Avery, "I think it was you mate. Something about taking the system down from within, if I remember correctly."

"Yes but it was actually his idea," he replied, waving carelessly at Lestrange.

"True, but you're the one that told her to take the job offer."

"Well it's not like she actually had to listen to me," he sniffed.

"You did ask-"

"Shut up the both of you," Wilkes burbled. At this point her scarf and face were completely soaked in whiskey. It really was a disgusting sight. Mrs. Lestrange shuddered and hit her friend with a covert cheering charm. Wilkes sat up and absently wiped off her face with the soggy red scarf. Pulling it away from her face she sneered at it and tossed it off behind her. A muffled shriek was the only response. She leaned her elbows on the table again and let her chin fall into cupped hands. Clearly she was more than a little depressed. On the other hand, it could have been that Mrs. Lestrange's cheering charm was faulty - she'd always put more effort into learning charms that skinned people alive than charms that caused people to giggle.

A hungry Mr. Lestrange flagged down a waitress. "They do have a point Wilkes. If you'd taken the Sakarabi offer, then none of this would be an issue. You wouldn't even have to celebrate Christmas."

"Yes," she replied absently. "But then I'd have to wear a kimono." At Mr. Lestrange's bewildered look she said, "The collar is terribly unflattering for me, wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Lestrange?" Mrs. Lestrange nodded and happily drew her friend into a discussion of the latest robes coming out of Milan.

The men leaned together, towards the other side of the table. "What do you think is really wrong with her?" whispered Mr. Lestrange.

"Maybe it's all the red and gold?" ventured Rosier.

"Are you really as stupid as you pretend?" snapped Snape. "If so, I'm beginning to wonder how I've managed to put up with you this long."

"I think it's because he gives really good head." Two pairs of angry eyes fixed themselves on Avery, who was ecstatic at having had such an easy setup. When two sparking wands began to edge out from beneath two black sleeves, his happiness quickly abated to be replaced by annoyance. "Oh come on!" he shouted. "Do you always have to curse me? Couldn't you just glare at me like normal people?"

Rosier blinked and turned to Snape, who shrugged. "Well, maybe just his once."

"You've... tell me you're joking?" Avery asked, a hint of nervous desperation in his voice. This time they both shrugged. "All I ever had to do was ask you to stop?"

"Don't worry Ave, they're just getting into the holiday spirit you know, won't last more'n a day. Maybe not even that." Avery found himself oddly reassured by Lestrange's observation. Snape and Rosier not randomly hexing everyone in sight? It just wasn't natural he decided.

"Holiday spirit," spat an incensed Wilkes. "What the hell does that mean anyway? I don't know, do you?" She stared wildly at her companions.

Lestrange leaned over to his wife and muttered, his mouth fixed in a dull grin. "I thought you hit her with a cheering charm?"

She muttered back at him, her mouth similarly stuck. "I don't know what went wrong. Best to do it again."

"Maybe Avery should do it this time?" Lestrange signalled across the table to Avery, who was pretending to listen to Wilkes' ravings with complete interest. He acknowledged the waving finger and surreptitiously allowed his wand to drop into his hand. An enraged Wilkes stuttered to a halt, then stared dully into the distance. Lestrange blinked. "Well, this really isn't good."

"Perhaps," hissed Snape. "If you'd just let her continue with her inane ravings, we wouldn't be having this problem."

"You having a problem?" A mere step behind Avery was his African Goddess. Apparently shift change wasn't for a while yet. He managed to mumble out something in the region of a negative response and she smiled down at him, with her wide, full lips. It looked as though he might faint. "You ready to order?"

"Gods yes," drawled Mr. Lestrange. "I'll have the usual. The name is Lestrange, Mr." The African-Goddess-cum-itinerant-Australian-waitress drew her wand out of its resting place in her hair, flipped over her pad and absently tapped. She quickly perused the list of names and standard orders listed and nodded at finding his.

"And for the rest of you?" A chorus of "The usual"s had her nodding confidently, spinning on a high, spike heel and stalking into the kitchen. To have a 'usual' at the Cross didn't so much mean any specific dish as it did a recorded predilection for certain flavours. Mr. Lestrange favoured fruit salsa's, fish and cumin, while his loving wife was partial to various nuts and citrus fruits. After weeks of nauseatingly bad meal choices, the group had elected, like many regulars of the Cross, to have at least their basic leanings noted - it reduced the need for anti-indigestion and nausea charms. Occasionally they'd try something different but on the whole they had found that adventure just wasn't all that great a thing and to be indulged in as infrequently as possible.

Mrs. Lestrange patted her newly grime-encrusted and dazed friend, after having searched carefully for a clean patch. "Wilkes, dear, we've ordered your usual." Wilkes continued to stare fixedly at a cracked ceiling tile and muttered something about Christmas tree requisition forms and triplicate. Mrs. Lestrange leaned in close. "What was that about Christmas tree requisitions?"

"Three trees to the Bones residence... paper clips... fully decorated... bastards diverting funds from my department... hot clerk in Department of Mysteries..." Wilkes replied.

"What?" Mrs. Lestrange was puzzled but intrigued by the mention of the annoying Bones'. She remembered Mrs. Bones from Hogwarts with the special hatred that one reserves for backstabbing cunts who steal one's boyfriends. She wouldn't say that she was still bitter over The Incident - she was perfectly content with her darling Mr. Lestrange - but she did have principles. Chief among them was that no slight, offence or betrayal was ever forgotten.

"Dark hair... red eyes... possibly a vampire and I've always wanted to try that..."

"Someone fix her," Snape hissed.

"Well why don't you go ahead and do it?" asked Avery. Snape glared murderously and attempted to communicate that Avery knew damn well that Snape had never bothered to actually reverse a curse in all the years he'd been capable, not even a botched curse. He'd once allowed a first year Hufflepuff to agonize under a mis-thrown jelly legs that had resulted in her bones actually turning into jelly. He'd even refused the order of their Head of House and accepted three months detention, rather than reverse the curse. He wasn't about to set a new precedent now, even if Wilkes was one of his best friends.

"Well I was just saying. If you're going to complain about it-"

Snape leaned across the table and glared. "Do not make me regret my decision not to hex you."

"Yes," added Rosier. "Don't make him regret it, because while he may be a man of his word - which itself is debatable - I am most certainly not and I don't like to see him displeased."

Avery sneered at the two of them and raised a suggestive eyebrow. "So you like to keep him pleased?"

Rosier deigned only to snort at the more than platonic suggestion of Avery's eyebrow. "A displeased Snape is a Snape who throws teapots at me in the morning. You don't have to share a flat with him."

Mr. Lestrange broke into the argument by slamming down his wine glass in the centre of the table with enough force to shatter a lesser vessel. Luckily the Cross purchased such resilient glassware that it was more likely to survive a fire fight unscathed than many a witch or wizard. "Ave," he said pleasantly, once he had received their full attention. "It was your bungled curse, you shall correct the problem."

"With all undue respect," Avery sneered, "my cheering charms are flawless. It was more likely your wife who..." Faced with two incensed Lestranges, he trailed of uncertainly, certain only that criticizing Mrs. Lestrange had probably been a bad idea. He really should have learned his lesson after the last time. "And regardless," he rallied, "why can't we just leave her like this for a stretch? She's probably happier like this, not having to worry about triplicate and all."

Mrs. Lestrange muttered at him. "I want to know why the Bones' have requisitioned three Christmas trees and how they're getting away with it. A blatant abuse of Mr. Bones's position, that is."

"Disgusting," Mr. Lestrange agreed. "Just the kind of thing that those decadent, Muggle-loving Ministry flunkies would do."

Avery responded to his comrades' fervour in the only manner available to him. "Ah, I see. Agree completely. Despicable, that is. I'll get right on the reversal." He decided to keep to himself all mutterings about the absurdity of carrying a school grudge to the point of murder, as this was surely heading there, Christmas trees and triplicate aside. Once the Lestranges got that particular glint in their eyes, it was impossible to stop them. Not that Avery would have wanted to, per se, but he was of the general opinion that more than fashionably affected pettiness should justify murder. He conveniently and quite happily rationalized the time he'd killed a particular Muggle for having terribly bad chin hair. He was a Death Eater, after all and exterminating Muggles was all part of the mandate.

He studied his bemused friend carefully and quickly identified the problem. It was a simple matter to reverse the two linked, but contradictory charms. He smugly noted that his cheering charm had been entirely effective and just as he'd predicted, Mrs. Lestrange's charm was the root of the dilemma. He considered telling her that her sad attempt at a cheering charm had resulted in an astonishing new and potentially lethal curse but decided the potential for future amusement was too great.

A last flick of his wand restored Wilkes to her self-pitying, bureaucratic torment. She immediately groaned about the evils of Christmas and the corporate agenda, and began to sink back towards the table. It was only Mrs. Lestrange's insistent pull at her sleeve - she'd pinched a tiny oasis of unsoiled fabric between two fingertips, clearly wary of contamination - that kept her from collapsing utterly.

Wilkes turned her bleary gaze on her friend, her eyes full of weary puzzlement at the cosmic injustice of it all.

"About the Bones' and those Christmas trees."

"Disgusting, isn't it?" she exclaimed with renewed zeal. She quickly informed her friends, in excruciating detail, of the process that was Christmas tree requisitions and how the Bones', Establishment shills that they were, had abused the system to an astonishing degree.

From there it was a swift transition to plotting their deaths. They'd been on the list for months anyway.

All agreed that the food was particularly good that night, as well as the service. The encouragement from the African-Goddess-cum-itinerant-Australian-waitress was most welcome, for one, as was the champagne to celebrate their resolution.