Llamas for Christmas.

Once upon a time, Christmas had been Alistair’s favourite time of year. As a child he’d adored the way the house in Knockturn Alley would warm with the scent of beef and pork and turkey as Asteria prepared for the feast they would have. It was all for Hyperion, she’d remind him. Azkaban hadn’t been good to her son and nothing was too much for him anymore. Alistair could remember that first Christmas, the way Hyperion had torn apart everything he could get at. Alistair had to crawl around under the tables and pull pieces of turkey off of the plate and eat it underneath by the legs of Asteria, one of his hands fisted in the skirt of her dress as he listened to the muffled Christmas songs in the background underneath the clang of cutlery and plates as Hyperion had his fill. He certainly bulked up more at Christmas. Alistair, if at all possible, ate less. Now especially, he preferred not to indulge at Christmas. Azkaban hadn’t treated Alistair particularly well either, mind you, and he bore the physical results of his confinement there. He hadn’t, however, developed the apatite his surrogate father had after his imprisonment. Still, when the young man did indulge, he ensured it was in his favourites; strawberries, chocolate, ice cream - anything sweet.

This year was a sombre one. He was free from Azkaban but he felt more alone amongst people than he had with only Dementors for company. He missed the woman in the cell opposite, her mind addled by disease and the presence of the Dementors. Alistair had found himself yearning for the company of his wife, to the point where he travelled to the cemetery where her parents had buried her. Snow was thick on the ground and Alistair pasted warming charms onto the bottoms of his shoes, making the frozen water melt away into its original form as he walked through the rows of headstones in search of his wife’s. It didn’t take long to find it in the end. It was grand, a show of Parkinson wealth and power. Flowers were absent though, Alistair noted. He paused before it, his eyes drinking in the statue of the woman he’d loved so dearly. Even in the stone they’d depicted her swollen with child. The sight of her left Alistair feeling hollower than he had felt in a long, long time. He’d adored her, it was true. To see her name scratched into stone along with that of their unnamed child and the absence of flowers, it was all too much for him. All he could do was exhale slowly and turn his back on her.

He wasn’t ready for the conversation that was brewing between them. He did leave flowers, though. He left a bouquet of red tulips - her favourite - which would later be discovered by her aged mother who, draped in a travelling cloak, would dislodge the flowers from where they had frozen to the stone. Of course, that is a tale for another time. After the cemetery, Alistair had no place else to go bar back to Hogwarts. Though, one invitation had stuck in his mind. It was an invitation from his father, requesting his presence at home for Christmas if Alistair so wished to grace them with his company. He didn’t but at this point in time, he doubted he had little choice otherwise.

Alistair Apparated with a crack, appearing on the path that led to the house his father had purchased years prior. Alistair straightened his robes and wrapped them tighter around himself as he stepped carefully down the path, trying to find the safest route that didn’t seem himself falling over. Something to the left of the house caught his attention though and with his interest piqued, Alistair strode through the snow and over towards an out building surrounded by a fence that kept contained...Llamas? Alistair stopped on the path towards the out building and cocked his head to the side, peering at the llama nearest him that was staring intently back at him. It was brown and fluffy and adorable but that didn’t make it less strange. What on earth was his father doing with llamas? Was Lorcan attempting to eat something other than humans? Alistair was amazed.

Stepping forward, the young man placed himself in front of the llama. The llama then took a step forward and met Alistair’s hard gaze. If Alistair didn’t know better, he would have said the llama was smirking at him but of course, he knew better. The llama cocked his head to the side and Alistair did the same. The llama then turned it to the other side and Alistair mirrored the action. The llama held Alistair’s gaze for a long moment before his ‘smirk’ widened and he straightened up, bleated and threw his head forward, connecting it with Alistair’s and sending the dark-haired man onto his back in the snow. The llama bleated with joy and trotted away, endlessly pleased with himself, and returned to the out building where he expected his mate to be ready with his food.

Disorientated. Merry, Merry, Muddly Christmas. Damien wasn't really sure where he was invited to be at, at where was his presence required, and where it was that he really wanted to be at. It was so much easier when he was too young to comprehend most of the ins and outs of family politics. All that mattered was to be with mummy, and mummy always brought them both back to Christmas with the Knights. Christmas, then, was always a happy occasion of returning back to the excessive attention of grandmother and the odd questions from grandfather, not to mention sitting at a corner and watching the older cousins play while they left him out of every game. Not that he liked every part of Christmas then, but there was a kind of complacent assurance waiting for him every end of the year. What really mattered was that he knew where he was wanted at, and it was also where he wanted to be at, strung along to still be in that bubble with his mother.

Presently, though, Christmas had become a rather puzzling affair. The bubble with mother had cease to exist for a couple of years now. The strained relations she forged with her own family had led to a mild sort of estrangement between him and them too. There were certainly attempts to upkeep appearances for his sake, but he could feel the space between that and detachment from him that the Knights were straddling. As much as grandmother wanted her baby grandson at hers, Damien didn't want to have to endure the awkward spaces and people in that house now for Christmas, not to mention the absence of his mother, who had unofficially been exiled from the house. The thought of his mother still brought pain and shame to Damien. His fragile teenage ego looked helplessly unable to be healed. The invitation to spend Christmas with her and that horrible muggle man was really out of the question. It was disgusting, how cheery and merry the letter was from her. Damien could never understand the hold that man had over his mother. His dreams were really repetitions of him murdering the former. In reality, though, Damien was not really the sort of person anyone would expect to do that. One day, though, he could make that happen, preferably by getting someone else to do it, though.

The two people he would rather be with for Christmas just had to come as a package with the very people he would never choose to be around at any time of the year. So really, that left him with the remaining option of Christmas with the D'Eaths. It had all been one big confusion, though, because even Lorcan had told Damien that Christmas for him was going to be with the Knights this year. Just a week ago, grandmother had written to say he should be with his mother over the holidays. And then mother had written to say he was to stay with his father. Only last night did he receive another letter from his mother to go to the Knights. The day's events, or event, had then left Damien in a foul mood. The arrival at the Knights was hardly the kind of Christmas welcome he expected, even when the expectation had been lowered in his mind, way below the bar. The house elves had come together at such speed to tell him he was not to be seen. The insistence to have his grandmother speak with him resulted in her too assuming the same hurried and hushed position, telling him to go back to Lorcan. Even the verbal assurances of her love for him did nothing to quell the rage that Damien had to keep inside him.

As if Damien did not already usually wear a scowl as a face, he found himself sat in his room, nursing what could be said to be a non-existent ego (for the millions of times it felt like it was bruised) already. He did not belong. There was a clear message this Christmas, alright. The angst mounted inside him as he sat at the end of his bed, brooding. Too much. Damien exhaled an air of frustration before he stood up and made his way out of the house. The sounds of the house elves preparing for the dinner, the intolerable sounds of his half-siblings all around the house, and the absence of his father (always basking in the company of strange women from strange places and only appearing the very minute his presence was required) only served as catalysts to his foul mood. He actually knew where he could indulge with some sort of amusement before the dreaded dinner - the new "imports" to the residence. Damien smirked in puzzled amusement even at the thought of his first reaction to the llamas. What was his father really thinking?! Lorcan had merely chuckled, smirked in amusement at his son's reaction, and left hurriedly to meet whoever ... Damien didn't care about the last part.

While he was still at a fair distance away from the animals, the sudden appearance of a man nearer to them jolted Damien out of his thoughts. Quickly enough, he recognised the figure. Quickly, too, Christmas didn't look like it was going to be as bad as he thought. One doesn't usually find the oldest son of Lorcan on the grounds of the residence. In fact, it was rather obvious that Alistair had never been pleased to find himself on these grounds either. His appearance, then, was a pleasant surprise to Damien. Sure, he could hardly be counted to share even a decent relationship with his older half-brother, but the latter's existence has been something that Damien had been rather proud of. Pity that Alistair never really paid attention to him; Damien had always been itching for even the least bit of attention from Alistair. His attitude was of no surprise, though. Damien had always been craving for attention from the older Slytherins at school too -- anyone who had, or who looked like they had, enough power and influence. Still, Alistair's history was far more interesting to Damien than even the seniors from his House, who were really just children a couple of years ago.

Damien watched Alistair silently, at first. That was, until the hilarious attack of a llama on the latter. For the first time in awhile, Damien broke into peals of uncontrollable laughter, not really thinking about the possible responses from his half-brother. He stopped, soon enough, realising how laughing might not have been the best way to introduce his presence, especially given the current circumstances. Damien flicked the almost unnoticeable dirt at his sleeve in an awkward manner, before attempting a smile, wondering what type of it was really required now while addressing Alistair. He gave up soon enough, before offering a quiet "hello". And then, as if he felt like too little was being said, Damien continued. "Christmas. Great, isn't it? Always a fantastic reminder of family, and all the insufferable associations and politics that go with it."