As the undisputed star of a British Christmas feast, turkey was absolutely essential today.
Just like last year, as soon as breakfast was over, Mrs. Granger poured her heart and soul into preparing the bird, determined to roast it to perfection. Every step—seasoning, timing, technique—came from recipes passed down by her elders, guarded family secrets that made each household's turkey uniquely their own.
It was the inheritance of flavor, the continuation of tradition.
Naturally, Mrs. Granger didn't keep any secrets from Qin Yu. After all, he wasn't an outsider—she'd long since treated him as half her own child. So, just like last year, Qin Yu was drafted as her assistant. This year, though, Hermione insisted on helping too, enthusiastically stirring the bowl of turkey marinade with a wooden spoon, mixing together a symphony of spices.
Meanwhile, Qin Yu had promised to make his signature noodle soup. He'd prepared the meat sauce the day before, so today was all about making the noodles from scratch.
He had some experience, but not much. After a classic round of "too much water, add flour; too much flour, add water," he ended up with a mountain of dough.
When Hermione finished her stirring duties, she bounced over to lend a hand. Before long, her fair cheeks were dusted with flour.
"Come here, let me wipe that off," Qin Yu said, reaching over.
"Is it clean now?" Hermione closed her eyes, letting him fuss over her.
"Uh… there's still a little left. You'd better go wash up," Qin Yu said, realizing he'd only managed to smear the flour around more. He absently rubbed his own nose—now also streaked with flour.
"…"
Seeing his flour-covered nose, Hermione's face fell. She could almost hear the invisible caw of a crow overhead.
Just then, Mr. and Mrs. Granger happened to walk by. The sight of two floury faces—like a pair of mischievous kittens—sent them into peals of laughter, tears streaming down their cheeks.
It wasn't that their sense of humor was lacking; they were simply in excellent spirits. There's nothing quite like the joy of a family celebrating together.
…
A plump turkey, roasted to golden perfection, having absorbed the full spectrum of flavors—salty, sweet, bitter, spicy, and sour—finally made its grand entrance on the dining table.
For the turkey, perhaps, it was a cruel end. But for humans, pondering such cruelty was the sort of idle musing only possible when one's belly was full.
Qin Yu felt no guilt at all. He was human now, and he would stand firmly on the side of humanity.
He devoured the meal with gusto, showering Mrs. Granger with praise for her culinary prowess, making his—no, not mother-in-law, his aunt—beam with delight.
His own noodle soup earned rave reviews as well. Having practiced in Hagrid's hut, he'd refined his recipe with a few personal touches—almost like brewing a potion: precise, ritualistic, nourishing, and delicious.
Really, as long as you didn't go wild with the spices and gave the meat sauce enough time to simmer, it was hard to go wrong. Salty, savory, rich—hit those three notes and you were golden.
With everything else on the table, it was a Christmas feast to remember. Everyone ate until they could barely move.
Afterward, the whole family pitched in to tidy the kitchen and dining room, then collapsed onto the living room sofas in lazy contentment and turned on the TV.
Tonight's entertainment was a special treat: a Poirot mystery, courtesy of a videotape Mr. Granger had rented just for the occasion.
At first, Hermione sat between her parents on the main sofa, while Qin Yu took a single-seater nearby. But as the plot thickened, Hermione—eager to discuss clues—gradually edged closer to Qin Yu, until she'd squeezed herself onto his seat.
The armchair was roomy for one adult, and just about snug enough for two—if they didn't mind sitting close.
"Remember that character—and what she's holding…" Hermione whispered solemnly in Qin Yu's ear.
It was warmer this way, and much easier to share commentary without craning her neck.
Meanwhile, her parents, freed from her presence, sprawled comfortably on the big couch—cuddling, with her mother sometimes nestled in her father's arms, and her father sneaking a kiss or two.
Ugh—watching her parents show off their affection was almost too much!
Hermione could just imagine: if she and Qin weren't here, her parents would probably be even more outrageous—maybe even kissing for ages!
Then her mind wandered—if it were just her and Qin watching TV, what would he do?
Her brown eyes sparkled, blinking rapidly as her imagination ran wild.
Well, whatever it was, it would definitely be something her parents must never see. Hermione Granger was a girl who knew where the line was, after all.
The key was not letting her parents find out—like sneaking up to the attic at night to chat under Qin's covers.
"…Hermione?" Qin Yu's voice sounded beside her, snapping her out of her daydream.
"Huh?" Hermione blinked, startled.
"What's up with you? I just asked you something and you didn't answer," Qin Yu said, puzzled.
"Oh…" Hermione's cheeks flushed. She quickly changed the subject, "Sorry, what did you ask? I didn't hear you just now."
"I was just wondering—do you think that man in the black bowler hat is the murderer?" Qin Yu repeated.
"That guy…" Hermione tapped her chin, pretending to ponder.
Truth was, she'd been so lost in thought she'd missed that part of the episode. But based on the books she'd read, she could guess who Qin Yu meant—and whether he was the culprit.
Her eyes sparkled mischievously. She cleared her throat and replied, with deliberate slowness:
"As for that person, I can't say he's the murderer, but I can't say he's not the murderer, either. And as for whether your guess is right, I can't say you're correct, but I can't say you're wrong! In short, the plot is what it is, and the story is what it is. If I told you too much, it wouldn't be any fun. You have to watch for yourself!"
Qin Yu stared at her, momentarily stunned by the familiar phrasing.
Wait a second—wasn't that exactly what he'd said to Harry and the others in Hagrid's hut when they'd asked about Nicolas Flamel?
Merlin's beard! He never expected a boomerang from ten chapters ago would come back to hit him now.
He gritted his teeth, shooting Hermione a look as she arched her brows at him, smug and triumphant.
"Alright, alright, you win!" Qin Yu whispered in her ear, mock-angry.
Watching him gnash his teeth in frustration, yet powerless to retaliate, Hermione felt a surge of satisfaction. Having her parents present had its perks—she could play the fox borrowing the tiger's might, intimidating Qin with their authority.
Of course, Qin Yu wasn't really upset—just a little flustered at being outplayed by his own words.
And, honestly, Hermione was right. Spoilers would only ruin the fun.
As he turned his attention back to the mystery, he felt a small hand creeping over, squeezing between them until it found his. Her fingers traced gentle patterns across his palm—part comfort, part mischief, part invitation.
He caught her hand, squeezing it twice in playful reprimand—a warning not to get too bold. But now that he had it, he didn't want to let go.
…
To steal half a day of leisure is to live better than an immortal.
They watched episode after episode, from afternoon into night, never once venturing out to the Christmas market as they had last year. When hunger struck, Qin Yu reheated leftover noodles and Christmas dishes for a makeshift supper.
By the time the great detective cracked another case and the night grew deep, Mrs. Granger announced that the family festivities had to end—it was far too late.
Reluctantly, everyone turned off the TV and got ready for bed.
Hermione remembered her morning promise and made her way up to Qin Yu's attic to check whether his new pajamas fit.
After a thorough inspection, she declared the fabric wonderfully soft—so much so that she pressed her cheek against it for a moment—but the size was a bit large, the sleeves covering Qin's hands entirely.
This time, she said good night before leaving—no need for a midnight return.
—Dimensional Wall—
Happy Mid-Autumn Festival, everyone! Don't forget to eat an extra mooncake or two. By the way, I never understood why so many people dislike five-nut mooncakes—I actually really like them.
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