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The last L.A.R.V.A. meeting before the Christmas holiday Professor MacMillan announced to the class that they would be covering something a bit different than usual. June sat up straighter with her hands in her lap, bright-eyed and eager.
L.A.R.V.A., of course, was the Legendary Arthropodological Research and Visions Association, one of the oldest and most famous magientomology societies in the world. This was only the Hogwarts chapter, but every student who had even the slightest interest in insects and other arthropods had been eager to join. And a few who didn’t have any interest in arthropods—Myrtle Warren was casting moon-eyes at Rostyon Brown, who didn’t seem to notice.
Myrtle was one of June’s very best friends, but she couldn’t understand what Myrtle saw in Royston, who took being obnoxious much more seriously than he took anything else. Her other best friend, Becky Driscoll, kept glancing at Myrtle and shaking her head, a sentiment with which June wholeheartedly agreed.
But at the moment Myrtle’s dreadful taste in boys wasn’t her concern; she was too interested in what MacMillan was about to say.
Professor MacMillan waited until even Myrtle had dragged her attention away from Royston before asking, “How many of you celebrate Christmas?”
The only one whose hand wasn’t in the air was Royston’s best friend, Abdul Hafeez. At the word ‘Christmas’ he had laid his head down on his desk, looking for all the world as if he regretted his decision to attend today’s meeting. MacMillan didn’t so much as acknowledge him before she continued, “And how many of you will be leaving out raspberry jam for the Christmas Wasp?”
This time the students exchanged confused looks—all except Royston, who slapped his desk in mirth. “The Christmas Wasp? You’re having us on,” he said, flashing his usual confident (and infuriating) grin around the room. Abdul lifted his head just long enough to grin back at his friend.
MacMillan gave Royston a quelling look over her pince-nez. “Indeed, I’m not, Mr. Brown. Goodness! I can’t believe nobody here has heard of the King of the Wasps!”
It was this statement that caused June to reluctantly conclude that perhaps Royston was right and their teacher was having a joke at their expense. She shifted awkwardly in her seat for a moment, debating whether she dared contradict a teacher, but the pain of misinformation was greater than her fear of conflict with authority, and after a moment her hand shot into the air.
“Excuse me, professor,” she said apologetically. “But there can’t be any King of the Wasps, because wasps are matriarchal. The males mate and then die. And in any event, the Queen’s job is to lay eggs. That’s it. What sort of job would a wasp KING have? He won’t be her exclusive mate, and he can’t lay eggs, and the males aren’t workers.”
By the time June had finished her speech, she was quite out of breath and more than a little worked up, so it was with annoyance that she realized Professor MacMillan looked amused, when she ought to have been ashamed of getting such a basic insect fact wrong.
“You’re right,” MacMillan said after a moment, and June was slightly mollified. “I believe the Christmas Wasp is known as the King of the Wasps primarily because he’s large and doesn’t die after mating.”
“Oh.” June was still deeply suspicious of the existence of any such creature, but she lowered her hand, willing to listen to whatever explanation her teacher had for this aberration. It simply didn’t make sense—what purpose did a male insect serve once it had mated?
Professor MacMillan cleared her throat and continued as if June hadn’t interrupted. “It is said that you must leave a gift of food for the Christmas Wasp between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. Raspberry jam, or wasp cakes, or something else sweet to placate him so that he won’t sting you to death.”
Royston burst out laughing again. “Now I know you’re having us on,” he wheezed. “I’ve never left any such sweets out and I’m jolly well not stung to death yet.”
The rest of the club murmured in agreement. If there was any such thing as a Christmas Wasp that required sweets, why had none of them heard of it before now?
“I don’t know about any Christmas Wasp, but our family leaves gifts for the Christmas Acromantula,” Achlys said. Her twin, Fausta, bobbed her head in agreement next to her.
June leaned across her desk, torn between curiosity and annoyance. “There’s a Christmas Acromantula? And you never told me?” She had always wanted to see a real live acromantula; she had told Becky and Myrtle this the very first time they’d met.
Achlys shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Scrimgeour. We were on rather poor terms last year, if you’ll remember.”
This was true; Achlys and Fausta Yaxley had spent most of their first year antagonizing June and her friends. But then Fausta had gotten herself nearly lost in a magical tunnel within Hogwarts walls; June had helped rescue her, for which the sisters were both grateful. The only one of her friends who hadn’t forgiven the Yaxley sisters was Myrtle, who even now was glaring at them.
“What’d happen if you didn’t honor the Christmas Acromantula?” asked Becky. “Would she tie you up in her webs and slurp your insides right out?”
Several students grimaced at that, and Achlys looked downright offended. “Of course not! Merlin’s beard, Driscoll! What sort of Christmas cheer is that?”
Becky shrugged. “Being stung to death doesn’t sound cheerful, either,” she pointed out.
“I don’t know anything about any Christmas Wasp,” Achlys repeated obdurately. “But the Christmas Acromantula is benevolent. Her appearance means good luck for the coming year, so we leave presents to show our gratitude.”
“So you’ve actually seen the Christmas Acromantula?” June asked, envious now that she knew there was such a thing. “Why doesn’t it visit everyone’s homes? I want a visit from a Christmas Acromantula.”
“Dunno how she chooses who to visit,” Achlys said, “But she visits every year, doesn’t she, Fausta?”
Fausta nodded fervently. “It hardly felt like Christmas last year, with no visit from the Christmas Acromantula.”
Last year the German bombings had been at their height, so most students had stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays instead of going home. Everyone was hoping there would be no last minute blitzes this year—Hogwarts was a grand place to be, but most of the students looked forward to spending Christmas with family.
“How interesting,” MacMillan said, her eyes glinting. “The Christmas Acromantula doesn’t usually visit those of us in Western Europe. She’s more of an Eastern European creature.”
Fausta and Achlys exchanged uncertain glances. After a moment Achlys said, “Well, our grandmum attended Koldovstoretz. Maybe the Christmas Acromantula followed her.”
“Oh, quite,” Fausta said sarcastically. “Grandmum brought her gingerbread recipe and an acromantula that only shows up one day a year.”
Abdul groaned without lifting his head. “Don’t talk about food. I’m supposed to be fasting next week and you lot are making me jolly well not want to go home.”
Becky turned to him in astonishment.”Fasting, you say? Are your folks already running low on rations?”
“Don’t be daft, Driscoll,” Royston cut in. “Abdul is one of those religious blokes. It's ahh…what do you call it, Dull something or other.”
“Dhul-Hijjah,” Abdul said.
This evidently meant nothing to Becky, who said, “I'm tellin' ya, I can't be keepin' up with all these bleedin' holiday doin's, so I can't.”
Professor MacMillan cleared her throat, recalling their attention to her. They spent the remainder of class making cute little spider and wasp ornaments and learning a charm to make them move—and to make the wasps buzz. (Royston had to be forbidden from charming his wasp ornament to sting people.)
As they filed out of the meeting June sighed wistfully, holding up her silvery tinsel spider ornament. “I wish the Christmas Acromantula would visit me. Acromantulas are ever so adorable.”
“So you’ve said,” Becky replied dryly. “Though what you see in them is beyond me, so it is.”
The following Saturday the students trudged through thick snow to Hogsmeade Station. Most of them carried no luggage with them beyond the occasional owl cage, though a few of the more studious sorts were carrying their satchels full of textbooks.
June was not among them. She loved learning, and devoured her schoolbooks over the summer holidays, but she doubted she would have the time or inclination to study when she could be celebrating Christmas with her family.
Up ahead Sylvia was bobbing along beside her best friend, Vesta. Sylvia’s white cat, Marie, nearly blended in with the snow as she trotted along beside them.
June only had Jitterbug with her this year, but the myrmecoleon was asleep in her pocket. Last year she had made the mistake of smuggling her niffler, Nugget, to Hogwarts with her, which had led to all sorts of adventures. June couldn’t regret this entirely, as she’d come into possession of a magic ring that allowed her ant speech—and, of course, if she hadn’t brought Nugget, then Nugget wouldn’t have had a litter of myrmecoleons—highly intelligent ant-niffler hybrids. Still, there had been too many dangerous parts of adventures for her to wish to relive the experience. So this year she’d left Nugget at home.
She and her friends found an empty compartment and made themselves at home. Myrtle didn’t even leave when Achlys and Fausta joined them, although she did scowl at them so darkly June half-expected her to start a scene.
“So Fausta and Achlys have a Christmas Acromantula,” June said, casting around for a safe topic to distract Myrtle from sulking. “What does everyone else do for Christmas?”
“Cleaning,” Becky said with a grimace. "Me folks'll have me scrubbin' the whole bleedin' house afore they hang up a single feckin' bauble, so they will."
“Our mum is the same way,” Achys said in commiseration. “We’ll have to whitewash the entire place. It’s abominable.”
“But it’s all worth it on Christmas Day,” Fausta added.
“It’d be more worth it if Eumolpos was home,” Achlys muttered.
“You still haven’t heard from him?” June asked, and they shook their heads.
“Of course, we stopped trying to find him after...well. You know,” Fausta said. “Although I wish he’d said goodbye before he left. But I suppose I’m grateful he’s not a P.O.W. Did you know Elisenda still hasn’t heard from her brother?”
There was an uncomfortable silence as they all absorbed that information; Elisenda Albo’s older brother, a squib, had been captured by the Germans last year. They all knew how desperately she wished for him to be safe.
At length June said, “I do hope Eumolpos and…what’s Elisenda’s brother’s name, anyway?”
“Raphell,” Achlys said at once, blushing furiously. “He’s quite good-looking. She showed me a photograph.”
June, who had never fancied anyone before, found this information irrelevant. She gave Achlys a pained smile. “Raphell. I hope the Germans let Raphell come home for Christmas. It’s really very inconsiderate to keep him away from his family for the holidays. Although,” she added reluctantly, “I suppose the blitz hasn’t been very considerate of them, either. Or any of this whole war business.”
"Ah, 'tis a pity we're not allowed to be usin' magic when we're not at school, or else we could be off on a grand rescue mission, so we could,” said Becky. Of all June’s friends, she had the most adventurous spirit.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Myrtle piped up unexpectedly. They all turned to look at her. She hunched her shoulders defensively. “Well, you don’t. Have you learned any spells to deflect guns or bombs? Because I haven’t. And we’d be going up against entire battalions, not just dueling one other person like we do in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
“I’ll bet an acromantula could withstand muggle weapons,” June said. “They’re so tough it takes multiple grown wizards using the same spell on them for them to even notice. They’d probably eat the enemy soldiers.”
“And they’d eat Raphell, too,” Achlys retorted. “Honestly, Scrimgeour. If we could send acromantulas on rescue missions I’m sure the Ministry would’ve done so already.”
“It’d be violating the Statute of Secrecy, anyway,” June said with a sigh. Which was too bad, because she was sure it would have been a brilliant idea.
The landscape changed from snow-covered hills to smoke-blackened buildings as they made their way towards London, and soon they were rolling to a stop in King’s Cross Station. June was greeted by her mother and Peter, who were waiting on the platform. She said goodbye to the Yaxleys and to Becky, then made her way over. Sylvia remained by the train, deep in conversation with Vesta.
“Where’s dad?” she demanded, staring to one side of her mother and then to Peter as if her father might be wearing an invisibility cloak. (That would have been ridiculous, of course. If they’d owned such a thing, it surely would have been requested for war efforts.)
“Work,” her mother said tersely. Mr. Scrimgeour worked in the Department of Transportation at the Ministry of Magic, specifically in the Portkey division, and wartime meant his skills were in high demand, but June had still hoped he would have been there.
“But there’s someone else who came with us to see you!” Peter reached both hands into his pocket and lifted out a squirming golden-furred niffler.
“Nugget!” June squealed at the same time a scent-voice that only June could hear wafted from the area of her pocket. Mum?
Jitterbug poked her antennae out of June’s pocket as June lowered Nugget so mother and daughter could greet one another. “Oh, Peter, thank you,” she said. Peter grinned.
“I don’t see my mum and dad anywhere,” came Myrtle’s forlorn voice behind her. June jumped; she hadn’t realized Myrtle had followed her.
“They got onto the platform all right last year,” June said in some concern. “They couldn’t have forgotten how, could they?”
“We’ll wait with you,” Mrs. Scrimgeour told Myrtle kindly with a quick glance towards Sylvia, who remained ensconced in her conversation with Vesta.
Myrtle sniffled and looked down. June bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling awkward, as she often did where Myrtle was concerned. She considered the other girl a friend, but the fact remained Myrtle required a good deal of reassurance that June never felt qualified to give. But she gave it her best shot: “It’ll be okay, Myrtle,” she said. “They’ll get here.”
Perhaps this would have helped if Olive Hornby hadn’t strolled by at that very moment. Olive had perfect, shiny victory curls, a flawless complexion, and the worst personality known to witch. She’d been horrible to Myrtle since last year, picking on her because she wasn’t pretty.
June caught sight of her approach and knew what was about to happen even as she prayed that Olive would walk past in silence.
“Did your family decide to leave you here, Warren?” Myrtle smirked. “I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t want you around to ruin Christmas for them.”
Myrtle began sobbing even harder. June made an indignant squeak, and sent a tripping jinx at Olive. Unfortunately, her mother noticed.
“June!” She admonished, taking her wand out of her hands. “That isn’t how we behave ourselves. Apologize.”
June fumed wordlessly for several moments before she finally eked out a choked (and deeply insincere) apology. Olive made no indication that she either heard or accepted, but picked herself up with an equally red face and marched off to her own waiting parents and younger brother.
Not long after, the Warrens arrived. They looked disheveled and out of sorts, and barely acknowledged any of the Scrimgeours as they shuffled away with Myrtle.
“Goodbye, Myrtle.” June called out after her friend, “I hope you have a happy Christmas!”
Myrtle said something inaudible over her shoulder. June decided to assume Myrtle was offering well-wishes, too, although she knew in her heart the other girl had probably said something quite gloomy.
On Christmas Eve June placed a jam cake on the front steps for the Christmas Wasp. Then, for good measure, she placed some beneath the Christmas tree just in case the Christmas Acromantula came.
“You told me spiders can’t eat solids,” Sylvia said accusingly when June told her.
“Yes, but they eat people,” June replied before freezing as she realized that she had never actually researched if acromantulas actually ate their victims or if they drank them the way spiders drank their meals. “...you know, I think that’s a rather good point, actually,” she said, and replaced the jam cakes with a mushed up jam soup.
Christmas morning she awoke early. Sylvia was still asleep in the bed beside her, but the stairs were creaking—Peter, no doubt. She jumped out of bed and burst onto the landing just in time to see his blond head disappearing down the stairs.
“Happy Christmas, Peter!” June exclaimed, rushing to catch up with him. Incoherent groans followed her from the bedroom she shared with Sylvia. June didn’t even look back as she shouted, “Get up, Sylvia! It’s Christmas!”
“Stop making such a racket,” Sylvia shouted back, and then the door to their parents’ bedroom slammed open and Mr. Scrimgeour appeared, looking haggard.
“What’s all this shouting about, then? It’s Christmas,” he said, following June and Peter down the stairs.
“It’s Christmas!” Peter repeated with glee, nearly skipping towards the drawing room. “It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas!”
He stopped in the doorway. June stopped just behind him, craning to see. There were their stockings stuffed with presents, and shiny presents beneath the tree. And on the tree were strung silver threads gleaming in the candle light.
The jam soup was gone. In its place was a beautifully woven lace blanket with June’s name stitched into it. Gingerly June held it up. It caught the light, glimmering like silver water beneath the midday sun.
“The Christmas Acromantula came,” she breathed.
There was a strange clicking noise from somewhere deep within the tree. The fir branches rustled, shedding needles and colored baubles, and out of the branches emerged a small acromantula—a common house acromantula, if June wasn’t mistaken. It stared up at her with its eight eyes, clicking furiously—and she realized then that it was speaking.
“I had word from the Queen of Ants that you are a friend to all arthropods,” the acromantula said. “And so I have brought you a gift for your service to our kind. This blanket will help you sleep no matter how alert you may feel, and it will keep you warm no matter how deep the cold.”
June brushed her fingers against the blanket. It felt too light-weight to keep her warm, but when she draped it around her shoulders she found the acromantula had spoken the truth—it was soft and warm and she was filled with a sense of peace greater than any peace draught she’d ever brewed in Potions class.
“Thank you, Christmas Acromantula,” she said.
And then there was a scream as Sylvia entered the room and caught sight of the acromantula.
June winced. “Sylvia! Stop screaming. It’s not going to hurt you.”
“It’s an acromantula! In our house!” Sylvia answered stubbornly, backing away from the door as if she thought the acromantula would leap across the entire length of the room to attack her.
“Most humans fear me,” the Christmas Acromantula said. It didn’t sound terribly upset about this. “But there is no reason to fear. I never dine upon those whose homes I visit for Christmas.”
“Oh, do say you’ll be back next Christmas,” June begged. Behind her she could hear Sylvia still hyperventilating, but she took no notice of this. Sylvia was just being dramatic.
“Perhaps I shall, friend of arthropods,” the acromantula answered. “If you’ll escort me to the door.”
Sylvia fled back upstairs as June led the Christmas Acromantula to the front door. There was no sign of the cake she had left out last night; only crumbs remained.
“It seems the Christmas Wasp was here, as well,” June said, peering about in vain for a glimpse of the mysterious King of Wasps. “Is it really a boy wasp? That doesn’t sound right.”
The acromantula laughed with soft clicks as it scuttled out of the Scrimgeour’s home. “I couldn’t tell you. It was buzzing around your front door in the wee hours of the morning, but it never stays long when it sees me.”
June stood in the doorway, watching as the Christmas Acromantula disappeared down the snow-covered streets, wondering if this really was a sign of luck to come.