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chapter nineteen
"TO KILL A SALVATORE, TAKE TWO"
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The men in black stood outside. Colourful fabrics peeped out from the pockets of their jackets. Cars lined the street. Relatives that hadn't been seen outside of a photo album for decades stood around, silently critiquing what they could, smiling as they said, yes, I would love a cup of tea...
Their family was the sort that had had a relative in all continents, the sort that went all-out for any occasion somewhat special. Birthdays were treated like the second coming of Christ. Funerals were celebrations of death and black outfits. Even the current reason of gathering was being treated like it needed a chapter in a history book — it was literally just a nice dinner party to say farewell to one of the younger family members. Like, that was all. And yet, the house-elves were working tirelessly to make the house look spotless, and the food look perfect.
Christmas Eve held events across the globe. Families would visit friends and start the festivities of the following day. People without families would gather and clink their glasses to the holiday. Those that didn't celebrate would celebrate the day off work, and the peacefulness of the streets for the next couple days.
The Salvatores had their traditions, like every family. They'd gather and have a banquet for dinner, from roast chicken to cauliflower cheese, and they'd celebrate Christmas altogether. Great aunts and third cousins would arrive and the house would be chaotic, but that was why they held the event on the twenty-fourth, not the twenty-fifth.
So. The house-elves scurried about to finish the assortment of roast-dinner foods. Everything would be finished by half-two in the afternoon, but until then, the house radiated stress and exhaustion. Those that lived in the house were trying to get ready to greet those already arriving downstairs, whilst the house-elves were being worked to the brim.
Em sat in her bedroom. A yellow hairbrush ran through her hair, floating in the air as she held onto a glass of water. She felt like she had been hollowed out since the start of the holidays — she felt like her spirit had left for the winter, gone south to somewhere with sunshine that made the world a golden colour.
She hated it. She hated every second she spent with her family — and this was the time of year where family-time was pretty much twenty-four-seven. The only time she could escape was by getting up later, taking longer to get dressed, and going to bed earlier, but, the thing was, she could get up later. Breakfast was half-eight on-the-dot and if you missed it — if you dared to fucking pancake time — you'd go without the meal. The house-elves were forbidden to give them breakfast if they weren't at the table with the rest of the family at half-eight.
