Coiled (Book 1 of 2)

Rhubarb

Early Summer, 1973.

The expression of complete shock on my father's face when Professor McGonagall and I apparate into the yard cannot be properly expressed -

My father Liam, standing by an impressively large buckthorn bush, newly flowering, drops the large sack of mulch out of his hands and to the ground, "Y/N!"

And then, eyes still fixed on Professor McGonagall and I, he calls into the house, "Elliot! Elliot darling!"

When no reply comes from within, he shouts more eagerly, louder, "ELLIOT!"

Grinning, I break into a forward run, closing the rest of the distance between us as I leap through the air and into my father's waiting arms.

The two of us, shaking with laughter against one another as he twirls me around once, twice, three times. Holding me close, we hug as he whispers affectionately in my ear, "Welcome home, Pumpkin."

Setting me back down to the waiting earth, he gives Professor McGonagall, now approaching, a nod and a smile. As she nears, he extends his hand to her, bowing deferentially at the waist, "... Professor McGonagall, such a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

From my place at my father's side, my eyes widen as I consider his garden-soaked hand, covered from fingertips to elbow in rich, black soil.

But Professor McGonagall, if she thinks a thing of it, doesn't show it for a second. Instead, she smiles back equally amiably, her hand extending to meet his for a firm, friendly handshake, "Mr. Y/L/N. A mutual pleasure, I assure you."

My father's cheeks pinken perceptibly at this. And then, grinning, he nods proudly, "... Just like the pictures."

I watch as Professor McGonagall's face twists with polite confusion, her eyes tipping from my father to me, "Oh?"

My mortification, instant.

The pictures!

He's talking about the portraits I've drawn of her!

I've made illustrations of all my friends and professors. An artistic fugue I went into during my first holiday back from Hogwarts. The result? At least hundreds of drawings, some of them hanging in the hall of our house. And of course, my fathers's favourite: a watercolour painting I made of Hogwarts Castle, now framed and hanging in their bedroom.

I draw everything for them while home -

Home, a place where, as a young witch still in my early training, I'm not allowed any magic.

Home, a place I love as much as I love Hogwarts.

... But those are meant to be private drawings - and I'd be so embarrassed - mortified - if anyone other than my parents ever laid eyes on them.

Glaring at my father, I shake my head.

FOR GOODNESS SAKE, NO!

He stares back at me for a beat before seeming to realise what I'm trying to communicate. Then, bringing his eyes back to Professor McGonagall, he opens his mouth, "Ah, right - well -"

Just then, the back door flies open -

"Sweetheart!"

My father Elliot, long legs striding forward as he runs to us, to me, "What a delightful surprise!"

Throwing my arms up and around him, barely able to reach around his neck even on my tiptoes, he lifts me and hugs me tightly, "We missed you so much!"

Guiding me back down, he whispers into my ear, "But you look so well!"