A Communist Christmas

"Communism," said my father, "is for idiots."

I suppose he thought he had to say this for the fifteenth time that evening so that I would not entertain for a moment the thought of becoming a Communist. After all, I had been fool enough to be sorted into Hufflepuff. I could not be trusted in matters intellectual.

Or romantic either, it seemed. He had received an owl from Professor Sprout two weeks before detailing that incident with the Astronomy tower. We were not allowed to go up there except for Astronomy lessons, but that didn't stop me from climbing up there when I had a sudden urge to do so. Evan Rosier was with me, and we were both caught. Owls were dispatched to the Rosier and Rookwood households.

It wasn't the flagrant flouting of rules that bothered my father. It was the mention of my associate in crime: Evan Rosier. "One of those Slytherins who is always in trouble?" he asked sharply, when I came home for Christmas.

That seemed to be an accurate description of Evan, so I assented and tried to explain that he wasn't that bad, really, and you had to understand the whole Gryffindor/Slytherin rivalry before writing off all the Slytherin and Gryffindor sixth years as a menace to society.

Not according to Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries. Evan Rosier was declared forbidden company.

Not so the evangelist of Communism, Walter Jorkins himself. Bad influence though he might have been, he and my father had went to Hogwarts together, Ravenclaws the both of them. So, my father accepted his invitation to dinner on the feast day of St. Thomas a Becket of Canterbury. Walter Jorkins was, of course, not marking the martyrdom of St. Thomas.

His pantheon of saints were very different people indeed. After he and my father had went into the parlour, his daughter Florence pointed out the patrons of the Jorkins household in their portraits in the entry hall. Joseph Stalin. Vladimir Lenin. Karl Marx. Engels. Mao. Che Guevara. Pray for us.

"Welcome to Utopia," said Alison Howard, as I entered the dining room, where she and Bertha Jorkins were busily putting up decorations.

"Very funny, Alison," said Florence.

Beautiful was not a word sufficient to describe Alison Howard. Her long thick shining dark hair was tied with a green ribbon, she was wearing a stunning dark green dress, and, as usual, generally disproving the idea that strong women can't be lovely. I had always admired her from afar, I think, from the moment she showed up everyone in our first flying class. She fell off her broom, bruised her face, got back on, and was quickly outflying anyone, Muggleborn though she was. When Evan intruded himself into my life, I got to know her, and the rest of the Slytherins, a lot better, and to admire her from a nearer distance.

"Who's coming to dinner?" I asked, looking about the room. Alison was decking the walls with boughs of holly, and a large red flag with a hammer and sickle overshadowed everything else.

"There's us and Moody, the Auror, has been invited. Old friend of my father's," said Florence distastefully.

"He always brings very nice Christmas presents," said Bertha, who unlike her younger sister Florence, generally liked the world.

"Not the happiest celebration of Christmas in England," said Alison.

"We're not technically celebrating Christmas either," said Florence. "New Year's."

Later that evening, sitting around the table, we heard a lot about the dawning of the new era.

"I don't understand," my father said, "Won't the proletarians want to string me up on a lamppost?"

Walter Jorkins looked pained, "Augustus," he said, "Just because you insist on ... If you became one with the people like I have..."

"This house is becoming one with the people, Walter?" asked Alastor Moody curiously. "Last I heard, Chinese Muggle peasants were not living anywhere like this."

Walter Jorkins looked flustered. "England is not China," he said acidly. "We have a longer industrialized history, and we have not, unfortunately, undergone the Revolution yet. When the Revolution happens, the standard of living of all people, magical and Muggle, will be extremely high. Right now, a few people like Augustus Rookwood are holding us all back."

My father spluttered. "Excuse me, Walter, how am I holding the great mass of the proletariat back?"

"I have some idea of what you get up to in the Department of Mysteries," said Walter Jorkins lightly.

"I should certainly hope not," said my father indignantly.

"You're connected with the C.I.A!"

Alison choked on her soup. The C.I.A. must be something Muggle.

"Oh, I see," said my father, "for your information, I haven't been involved in the assassination of any of the great Communist leaders of wizarding Britain, if only because there aren't any."

That was a low-blow, since Walter Jorkins considered himself the great Communist leader of wizarding Britain, the only Communist wizard of Britain, I think he was.

But it didn't seem to bother Walter Jorkins. He was incredibly thick-skinned. His eyes lit up, and he began to talk about a future in which the working class and the Muggles were no longer oppressed.

I sometimes wondered what his wife, Marika, whom he had met and married in Albania, that happy land of Marxian equality, thought of his rants. She was talking comfortably with Bertha and Alison about Quidditch, ignoring her husband.

"Time for presents?" asked Moody, after my father and Walter Jorkins had finished fighting. (Enjoying every minute of it, I may add. They weren't Ravenclaws for nothing.) "I had Florence put the presents under the Christmas tree."

"It's not a Christmas tree," said Walter Jorkins. "It's a New Year's tree."

"Then how come we put it up on Christmas Eve?" asked Alison, a mocking look in her dark eyes.

"Because you and Bertha insisted on putting it up on Christmas Eve," said Florence.

"We're so traditional, aren't we, Bertha?" asked Alison.

"It depends how you define traditional, Howard," said Moody coolly. Alison flushed. He knew something about her, even then, I think.

The tree was done up beautifully, and when all the lamps were blown out, and the candles on the boughs lit, it looked lovely.

"Here you are, Cynthia," said Walter Jorkins, handing out the presents.

I opened the present to find a copy of Hogwarts A History

"Thank you, Mr. Jorkins," I said, wondering why he would think I would enjoy that present. Just because I was a Rookwood, and that meant I should be intellectual?

"Cynthia, give me a look at the book," said my father. He flipped through the pages. "Walter, this is a new low. Trying to sneak Communist propaganda into my household."

Moody snorted. "Communist propaganda?"

"Look, the pages have been subtly and not-too-subtly altered. Did you know Salazar Slytherin was a capitalist reactionary?"

"Well, it was worth a shot," said Walter Jorkins, without a bit of embarassment. "Cynthia, you'd better take this box of sugar quills."

"Can I have Hogwarts a History?" asked Alison, who had just finished opening the Collected Works of Karl Marx. Her father, a Muggle Conservative MP, would have objected to Walter Jorkins's political leanings as strongly as mine, but Alison did not pay any heed to her father. She had stayed here for Christmas rather than go back to her Muggle family.

"Yes, take it," said Walter Jorkins with a broad smile.

Florence and Alison crept out of the room after awhile, off to discuss things by themselves. I was only on the outer fringes of their circle, of course. I didn't dare to follow, though I wished I could. Then, after half an hour of more debate over Communism, Florence suddenly came back into the room, and beckoned me out. She was smiling roguishly.

"Someone to see you," she said. "In the garden."

"How did you get in here?" I heard Alison saying.

And then a voice that could only be Evan Rosier's replied, "Climbed over the wall. Easy enough. Can I come in?"

"With Augustus 'Reactionary' Rookwood about? I don't think so," said Alison. "Though I wish you could see the decorations. Red, red, red, without relief."

"That sounds nice. There's nothing but green and silver at home. I'm sick of green and silver. I..." he stopped short, seeing me standing there, wearing my dress, green and silver.

"Very good, Evan," said Florence sarcastically, and winking at Alison, they left the scene.

"Well, you look nice in green and silver," said Evan, his face almost as red as his hair. And then, "I was hoping you would be here. I brought you something. Here."

"Another book?"

He looked hurt, "I thought you liked books," he said.

"I do. But it'd better not promote Communism."

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Nevermind," I looked at the book. Hélas, j'ai Transfiguré mes Pieds by Malecrit. The new Obscurus edition.

"It seemed like something you might do," said Evan.

"Evan, if you're going to rub my Transfiguration woes in my face, I don't know why I would put up with you."

"Because I tutor you in Transfiguration?" he asked. He had a point there.

"And why do you do that?" I asked.

"Because you were pathetic. Broke down crying in the library, if I recall correctly."

"Evan, I'm going in," I said. It was cold and I really didn't appreciate being reminded of my academic weaknesses. My father did that enough.

As I stepped over the threshold, Evan suddenly grabbed hold of my shoulders and kissed me.

"Mistletoe," he said apologetically, motioning to the spray over the door.

"Isn't that a Muggle custom?" I asked.

"We'll steal it then," he said, unconcerned, and kissing me again, was off into the night.

He never did think about the implications of that. If we were always stealing ideas and customs from the Muggles, didn't that mean that the Muggles were worth as much as us? But he didn't think about it. Not then, anyway.

Later, he might have. Perhaps, growing older he would have seen more, and we could have discussed it, and talked it out like any Transfiguration problem.