Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" and all characters belong to other people. I'm not making any profit from this story other than warm, squidgy feelings, and everyone knows you can't pay the bills with warm, squidgy feelings.
On the Twelfth Hour of Christmas...
(Hour 1)
The jail cell was not exactly awful – the nice policewoman had offered them both tea, which they had accepted eagerly, fingers wrapping around warm ceramic and noses plunged into the steam – but it was not where either had wanted to be on Christmas Eve. Ginny was pouring over her notes now, with her mug perched on one knee and a pad of paper on the other. Remus peered over and blinked, not able to decipher her scrawl, especially upside down.
He had thought her completely absorbed in the scribble until she said, "How had you planned to spend Christmas Eve anyway, Remus?'
The man jumped in surprise, making hot tea splash on to his lap. Dabbing ineffectually with a handkerchief, he said, "Oh, I suppose I would have wrapped myself up in a blanket and a book – most probably A Christmas Carol – and fallen asleep by the fire."
Ginny made a sound and drew a line with her scratchy ballpoint pen. "So really, you can't blame me for ruining your Christmas Eve since you were going to waste it anyway."
"I was not going to 'waste' it!"
"You were going to sit by the fire, probably with a glass of brandy, and sleep until Christmas morning. That's wasting Christmas Eve. I gave you the chance for a Christmas Adventure."
"We're in jail."
Ginny gave up on her papers, and shoved them back into her jacket, to the crinkling protests of the sheets. "Cheer up! At least I'm your cellmate and not that rather frightful looking Mr. Bingles, who looked at you like he was eyeing up a steak."
"Ginny, that's not helping."
"Drink your tea."
Remus let the mug swallow his grumbles, but moments later had opened his mouth to complain some more.
Ginny sighed in an exasperated manner. "I'm sure Bill will be down soon to spring us, so in the mean time, try to get some sleep. Or, just try not to excite Mr. Bingles."
12:00PM
Twelve hours prior to the arrest
Ginny's finger hovered over the typewriter which, much like the hand of God, was about to decide fate. The fate in this instance was not of much importance (though Ginny herself would argue until blue that it was important and that you should maybe shut up), but was still one that had caused her angst. To use a colon, or not? Grammatically, it was superfluous – incorrect, even. However, the stylistic needs of the piece just screamed "colon". With a sharp, jabbing movement, she pressed down the key and sighed, satisfied.
It was Christmas Eve, and, through the many layers of purloined clothing, Ginny was cold. Her Writing Room was perched atop the Victorian house she called home, much like a crotchety old lady's hat, or a hawk with one leg. Being a writer, she had decided one day (in an unbalanced mood) meant suffering for her art. Consequently, she had not installed heating, so as to create the proper environment. Now it just meant she was bloody freezing.
Rubbing her eyes, Ginny turned away from the typewriter to look at her plastic, white Muggle phone. It was supposed to be ringing. Remus had left several messages with increasing urgency about the state of their co-authored book, none of which she had bothered to respond to. And yet, there had been no messages today, no plaintive ringing from the moulded plastic. How peculiar!
Just as she was about to pick up the phone to see if her phone line was still intact and had not been cut by intrepid kidnappers, her doorbell sounded. Thinking it was very strange for anyone to be visiting her at all – especially since so few actually knew her address – Ginny wrapped her scarf once more around her neck and walked down the two flights of stairs. There was an impatient air to the front door, as if the person behind it was projecting their emotions through wood and stained glass. Bracing herself for a desperate salesman with knives, she opened the door.
Standing there in the lazy snow was Remus Lupin. Under one arm was tucked the battered briefcase, faded lettering glinting wearily in the snowy light. The other arm was holding a newspaper above his head to stop the falling snow landing in his hair, but it only served to make the paper soggy and the picture of Harry pout.
"Ah, Ginny! I wasn't sure if you were home!" He glanced at her nervously. "I wasn't sure if you were alive, actually. Not after all those missed calls. Have you been getting them? The calls, I mean."
"Yes, Remus. I've been getting the calls. Now, come in before you're frozen solid and I have to get the bloke next door to scrape you off the step." She took a hold of his forearm and dragged him inside, closing the door afterwards.
If Ginny's Writing Room was a meat locker, her parlour was a balmy beach resort. Remus allowed her to deprive him of his coat, newspaper and, after a brief scuffle, his briefcase. As they were damp from snow, she placed them near the open window to let them dry out, and to stop a musty smell infecting her house. "My word, do you have to have the temperature so high?" He asked, loosening the collar to his shirt.
"I like it hot down here. It's good for the constitution, this contrast of temperatures." Ginny put her hands on her hips and looked at him squarely. "Now what are you doing here, Remus? I thought we had a deal. I'd help you write your romantic novels, and you'd let me lead the life of an eccentric shut-in."
Remus was too polite to roll his eyes, though he secretly was not impressed with Ginny's lifestyle, nor how she tried to glamorise it. She had a way of speaking and acting that was flashy and impulsive, but had the habit of dying out quickly, like sparks from a burning branch. So, instead of rolling his eyes, he simply produced a handful of thick envelopes that he had retrieved from her mailbox. "Our editor is concerned."
"Oh." Said Ginny, accepting the letters reluctantly and sinking into the couch. She opened the topmost envelope and quickly skimmed the neatly typed missive. "You know, for an editor, he isn't very loquacious."
"I've made that observation myself."
After a few moments, Ginny appeared to gather all the information she needed from the letters and so she stuffed them into her jacket pockets and turned her attention back to Remus. "Well, I guess we'll just knuckle down and finish the book over the weekend. Did I tell you what I think should happen to Erin when she goes into the brothel with Yasmine? It's really going to --,"
"It's Christmas Eve, Ginny! I'm not going to spend it writing a cheesy romance novel."
She paused, hands frozen mid-air from their wild gesticulations, and then frowned. "Well, I was only offering! What do you think would be the best plan of action, then, Mr. Responsible?"
"That's Professor Responsible to you." Remus muttered with his arms crossed against his chest. He was a reasonable man; in fact, he was well known for his evenness and logic and common sense. And yet, Ginny could tap into that part of him that wanted to do irresponsible things like cramming for an exam, or eating a whole chocolate cake. "I guess we should write to Jerry – and that blank look you're giving me indicates you never noticed the return address on those letters – and tell him that we'll have the book done by the New Year."
Ginny shrugged languidly. "Okay. Sounds like a plan to me. You go get some paper and I'll start some tea. Should I call an ambulance in case you lapse into a diabetic coma?"
"I don't have my tea that sweet, Ginny," Remus said wearily.
"I'll leave some insulin on the saucer, even if only for the worst-case-scenario."
Remus decided to leave it and looked for his briefcase, which, he knew, held a packet of loose leaf paper and half a dozen pens – not to mention the only draft for his side of the novel. He had seen Ginny put his items on a table near a window, but a cursory look yielded no results. Remus blinked and shook his head, moving closer to the only window with a table in the room and not believing his eyes until he touched the smooth wood rather than the soft leather of his briefcase.
"Ginny…!"
"Fine, I won't put any insulin on the saucer, but I don't want you passing out on my floorboards. I only just had them polished."
"Forget the insulin! I can't seem to find my briefcase! Please tell me you put it somewhere safe!"
Ginny reappeared with two cups of tea and a confused expression. "I put your stuff on the table near the window because they were soggy from the snow. Maybe they fell down?"
The two writers wandered out of her parlour, and around the side of the house. A quick reconnaissance of the area directly below Ginny's window proved to show only that the briefcase, coat and paper had not fallen as the snow had no indents in the shape of cheap clothing and battered luggage. There was, however, a set of tracks that looked promising and made Ginny feel rather excited at the prospect of solving a mystery.
"Can we please follow them, Remus?" She asked, giving him a pleading look full of big, brown eyes. "I've always wanted to have a mystery to solve, like I was one of the kids in the Famous Five. I get to be George. You can be Julian. Or Dick. Do you want to be Dick?"
"Ginny! There are slightly more pressing matters than who gets to pretend to be what fictional character from the 1940's! My draft was in my briefcase."
"Well! That was silly! Julian wouldn't have done that! You'll have to be Dick."
Author's Note: And so ends chapter one. There are twelve parts to this fic, and I will be updating it (hopefully) every day until Boxing Day (when I will, in fact, be on a plane to New Zealand). Please don't take Harry Potter too seriously and write me a review saying "Why aren't they doing magic, or in magical settingz?" because I've quite exhausted that avenue of fanfic and prefer to set my stories in a world closer to our own. They do magic, but only when they have to. Thank you to Hannah and Colette for being my super awesome ladiez.
Remember: A fanfic author isn't just for Christmas - they're for all year. (Plz can I have candy canes or reviews? Peppermint flavoured reviews? Mmm.)