If there's one thing the Yates love, it's a party.
Heralds stand by gilded gates, announcing invitees dressed to the nines. Elegant silk slip dresses showcasing scandalous patches of skin, enriched velveteen gowns reserved for swirling waltzes in ballrooms. Black-tie suits and gelled coiffures with high-spun mustaches. Marble atriums are enlivened by velvet valances and polished marble masonry. The corps d'elite of society mingle in grandeur with flutes of champagne, necks emblazoned with strings of pearls and broaches of exquisite jewels. Such is royalty.
For the Yates, not so much. Humble, much smaller, yet just as festooned. Shindigs, beach blowouts if it's budgeted, and, infamously, cookouts. Food eases the soul, so does company. The Yates' backyard is vast. They've not bothered with lavish gardens or pools, only a lush, green landscape and a swaying willow to mark the land. What better way to fill the expanse than with picnic tables, food, and family? There isn't anything better, not in their eyes.
Ole Barry's a proud owner of multiple storage units. Well, begrudged might be the better word. If he had his way, not a penny would be spent. Aside from one stocked of diner materials, the rest are full to the brim with party equipment. In one, the bare-boned essentials: foldable chairs, spare tables, catering utensils. The other two, boxes upon boxes of decorations. The quandary is, can one have too many?
Simply, no.
Different occasions call for entirely different decorations. Moreover, it would be derelict to reuse garniture, and the Yates are anything but lazy. Soft-hued balloons in muted pinks and blues, cool toned streamers and matching checkered tablecloths are not suitable for Christmas get-togethers. Reversed, it is the same (Tubs of ugly jumpers don't fit summer weather).
So, twice a year, the Yates throw the Biannual Barbecue Bonanza (Jo added the last bit). Before certain forthcomings, the event used to be held annually. The Yates persevere; it's a relative to stubbornness, this time positive. Still, the event retained its rollicking status. They have proved the phrase 'money doesn't buy happiness.' Because the Yates are better together. As a whole.
Except, this year isn't strictly exclusive to family. See, after the World Cup fiasco, morale was suffering. Days before the new semester, misery fronted. Lorelei wouldn't allow it. Diligently, she took invites into her own hands, although Barry did have to narrow down the rather expansive list. All the Weasley's (The bigger the better!), Hermione, Cadence, Carmine, Remus, and, of course, the Potters. In some ways, Lorelei's heading wizard-muggle relations.
Then disaster struck. Cadence couldn't attend. Something about being trapped in Switzerland skiing. Remus politely declined as well. His letter was incredibly formal in supernal penmanship—she loves the way he writes her name. Desperately, Lorelei wanted her godfather to come. After . . . it all, Remus sort of vanished. Gone like the wind. She feels guilty, and it's been bothering her all summer. Remorseful for her awful behavior, she needs to assure him that she'd never view him differently. Ever.
Among those issues, there is another, a glaring problem: Lonnie.
Lorelei's aware of the feud between her uncle and James Potter. Towards the end of the semester, they'd gone from civil greetings to withers of disdain. Rip-roaring heat blooming into conflagrations at only mentions. What had happened? The answer is sealed. At any moment, the two could erupt into spiteful quarrels. They stand at the cliff's edge, one fruitful logomachy will send them barreling to the end.
Forgiveness is tricky, Lorelei understands this. Her own path is laden by gnarly bushels of thorns, sopping puddles of mud, and murky skies. It isn't clear; it's not supposed to be easy. Yet, there is a beauty in it. Long embraces after hurtful words provide more healing than any magical remedy. Why does she need to suffer someone else's qualms? Lonnie and James, for one day, can set aside their feud, or they can accept amnesty. And really, Lorelei wants to see Harry (Where one Potter goes . . .).
