WHO: Imogen Montague + mentions of Graham and a sleeping Gilbert. WHAT: Imogen thinks about her ex-brother. WHEN: 24 December. WHERE: Imogen’s flat. WARNINGS: Sad. Do not read if you wanted Christmas joy.
3:08am. That’s what Imogen’s phone said it was, blue light illuminating her face in the dark room. There was some small comfort in Gilbert’s arm laying across her waist — only small. She tried to squeeze her eyes shut, but the date was imprinted on her mind.
Sunday, 24 December.
She feels so grown up, a second year now, with an extended curfew, so she shows it off, walking down the warmly lit hallway with a glass in hand, bare feet padding across the floorboards past his room. Yellow light spills through the wide crack between the door and it’s frame and she sees two tiny eyes quickly squeeze shut.
“Santa will be here any minute,” she promises him, entering to double check that he really is closing his eyes this time. All she sees is a mop of his dark hair. “But not until you sleep.”
The kitchen was much tidier now that it was just Imogen and Gilbert left standing. The living room was silent. No more sounds of his breathing, no soft snores, no feet poking out hilariously from the ends of his sofa bed tempting Imogen to tickle his soles to wake him up in the mornings.
He was gone. And they had tidied up so well, it was almost like he was never there at all.
A phone buzzes. Graham glances down—
“Put it away, son. It’s family time ,” their father snaps before shoveling another spoonful of roast lamb in his mouth and turning a page. “Kids these days. Can’t focus on anything but their bleeding little whatjamacallits.”
“Devices, dad,” Imogen supplies, catching Graham’s eyes and rolling her own before smiling conspiratorially. “Question, is him getting a text worse or equal to you reading a manuscript at the table?”
She hadn’t thrown out her tree after all. It stood, lonely in the corner, without any real presents beneath it sans the gift hamper a patient’s husband had given her at work.
She’d thought about it — gotten drunk with Adrestia and considered throwing all of the spray-painted gold toy dinosaur ornaments into the fire. But then they’d looked so cute and so perfect for her as they hung from the tree, caught between the branches and the twinkling Christmas lights. A larger T-Rex balanced on the top where the angel was supposed to be.
Accept.
“Mum.”
“You sent Gilbert to tell us he’s a Death Eater? Is this some kind of joke?!”
“I know it’s a lot to—”
“You have some nerve young lady. But using your boyfriend to lie to us without having the decency to— I can’t fathom it. I didn’t raise you to be like this.”
“What did you raise me to be, Mum? Someone you didn’t have to deal with? Well, congrats, turns out your hands off approach worked super well. Your son kills people. Deal with it.”
End call.
Imogen sat on the sofa where he used to sleep, and pulled a throw blanket around her, nestling into the pillows.
She was going to forget him. She was going to forget them all.