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girlyswotMerry Christmas, Berte! Feel free to comment as much as you like on this one... *grins*
T'is The Season
It’s a typical ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose’ kind of evening, which for this part of England means a bitingly cold wind shoving at you like unseen hands in the darkness while golden light spills invitingly from uncurtained windows, beckoning you forward.
In the lee of the first cottage I pause to thicken my blood with a nip from my hip flask. It’s been a long way tonight, repeated Apparitions hauling this tree, and has required several such intervals. Should have gone on the bike. At least the rain I can smell coming in hasn’t arrived. The trees whip to the rush of the wind as I press into it, head down, collar up and senses alert. The sound of my boots is torn away by the wintry roar that stings skin and eyes and yet I know I’m the only human out in the night. A tabby on a nearby fence eyes me with superb disdain, unruffled by the weather.
Can’t have that. I growl and lunge at the fence. Startled by the deep barks that cry the ancient enmity between our kind it dismounts its perch by falling off with a graceless yowl and bolting.
I grin and send a victorious bark into the dark after it as I continue down the street. Had I been in my Animagus form, my tail would now be carried erect, fluttering like some triumphal banner. Lily calls it ‘childish’ and rolls her eyes but I know Prongs gets it.
One last corner and then I can thaw out before their cheery log fire with tea and teacakes. Lily can always be relied on to have teacakes.
Reaching the gate, I pause. They’ll already know I’m approaching but Lily turned into a bit of a griffon when Harry came along. Prongs might assert that she was only kidding that she’d ‘hex them off and hand them back to me in a jar’ but he didn’t see the light in her eyes. All because I forgot to knock. Excitement has that effect. Feel free to imagine a wry smile here.
Ah, there we go. The hall light’s come on. I direct the tree to rest on the step and change.
Pack mates. Meat. Heat.
More light.
“What the—! Oh, Sirius, there you are. Nice tree!”
Pack mate stands back. “Enter in, your Grimness. Wipe your paws.”
I change crossing the threshold. Prongs is grinning at me having leaned the tree against the wall. “Any trouble?” he enquires casually, locking the door.
“Just a cat.” I shrug off my coat. “Thought it was safe on top of a fence.”
Prongs’ grin broadens into genuine merriment. “Now it’s down to lives minus one.”
The kitchen door opens. “Hi, Sirius.”
“Evans.” She’s drooping but she lights up when she spots the tree.
“Oh, brilliant! That’s a whopper, Sirius!” Her smile becomes a little sardonic. “I’m not even going to ask where you found such a magnificent tree on the twenty-second of December.”
That hurts. “I am not Dung Fletcher,” I say with dignity and then spoil the effect by grinning at her as she welcomes me with a hug. “Where d’you want it?” She smells of baby powder, milk and something a little more acidic. Yes. A dribble of something over her shoulder.
“Well, I was going to say on the little table in the lounge—not a word” she orders, wagging a finger at the glint in my eye. “But now I see the size of it--I mean it, Black!”
Prongs is determinedly straight-faced but I can tell what he’s thinking. Know him like the back of my hand.
Evans huffs a sigh. “Oh, grow up, you two! Only you could make innuendo out of placing a Christmas tree! A corner of the lounge will be fine.” She heads towards the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on—and yes, James, before you say it, I know it won’t fit me.”
The kitchen door swings to on her exit. Prongs is staring short-sightedly at it over the top of his frames.
“She sounds tired, mate.”
“I know.”
So does he. Between us we manoeuvre the tree into the small sitting room. The top few inches are bent over along the ceiling. I reduce it down. “Is Harry keeping her up?”
He sighs. “The last few nights he’s only slept for a couple of hours and then he’s crying again. She thinks he’s teething.”
“Teething? He’s what?” I count in my head but Prongs is quicker.
“Four and a half months.” He’s every inch the proud father. “About here, you reckon?”
“Looks good to me. Isn’t he a bit young for that?” One wand swipe severs the bindings I conjured and the branches relax in a resinous waft that takes me back to nights accompanying Moony.
Prongs shrugs. “No idea. I was an only one, remember? Bucket or not?”
“Not.”
Under the force of our bilateral charms, the tree sits as upright as it was doing before I removed it from the Forbidden Forest.
A memory of Christmas in third year comes back to me, raising a grin. ‘Course, back then I was a wobbly soprano and not a lyric tenor. “Dashing through the snow,” I begin.
Prongs snorts a little before supplying, “On a broken pair of skis.”
I offer him a theatrical wince. “You still can’t carry a tune.”
“Harry likes my singing,” he says, with a defensive edge in my opinion, adding quickly, “Your go again.”
“But—” I catch myself. It’s downright weird not to have Peter and Remus here to join in. Like part of the Christmas ritual we grew up with has been broken. “Er, right.” Dashing through the snow on a broken pair of skis.
The door opens and a laden tea tray floats in followed by Lily, a basket of washing, and her huge ginger cat. She beams. “A bit more to the right, please, James and can we have it in something or Crookie will think it’s his new scratching post. Sirius, come and help me toast teacakes.”
“Why can’t I help toast teacakes?” James demands plaintively.
“Because you got yours earlier, that’s why.”
I inhale my tea — Merlin on a Triumph, it’s hot! — and start laughing. “Evans! And you accuse us of relentless innuendo!”
Prongs runs a hand through his hair and mutters something I don’t catch as he glances around before Disapparating with a small ‘pop’.
Lily simply grins and offers me the ‘cup that cheers’, as Mrs Potter used to say. “Will you fork them or will you use your wand?”
“There’s no safe answer to that, Evans, as I’m sure you knew.” I drink some tea and discover she’s laced it with Firewhisky. Good woman.
Her Christmas green eyes dance. “You’re in charge of the teacakes then, Sirius. I’ll see to the washing. Crookie—No!”
The squashed-faced cat sniffs the branches delicately, all innocence injured and trots over to bake beside me. I’m headbutted in greeting and tickle his ears.
Prongs pops back with a stack of cardboard boxes that have seen better days. “Lightly browned, if you please, Padfoot, and I believe it was your turn.”
“Turn for what?” Lily asks, frowning as she untangles a knot of socks.
The heat from the glorious log fire washes over me until the tip of my nose risks spontaneous combustion. “Something we started in third year. We put our own words to various Christmas songs and carols. For instance—” I clear my throat. “Prongsie the red-nosed reindeer—” There’s a ‘thud-jingle’ and then Prongs dives on my back fighting to clap a hand over my mouth. We crash forward and only the speed of my Braking charm stops us landing in the fire. The teacakes go for flying lessons. Crookshanks scarpers, hissing.
“You. Sod!” Prongs yelps, grappling with me. Flaming red is ascending his throat.
“Had a very shiny—” He Silences me but I can’t get it out for laughing anyway. He cuffs the side of my head hard enough that I see stars.
“You swore!”
“Frequently,” Lily interjects, chuckling.
“Your word as a Marauder, you said! Portia Grey still goes into a giggling fit every time she sees me!”
We scuffle on the rug to the accompaniment of Lily’s laughter. She has the dirtiest laugh of any witch I’ve ever heard. “Oh, that!”
Prongs vents a quiet groan and pummels me while I fend him back one-handed countering his charm. So Grey related my version to Lily! Not quite the ‘fainting maiden’ she pretended, then. “Evans? A hand here?”
Lily shakes her head, smiling, and tucks her feet under her. “James, if you’re going to maim the poor sod, do it quietly. If you two wake up Harry, there’ll be trouble!”
“Ah, Merlin, Evans!” Bugger—he’s got my wand. Now I’m stuffed.
“He isn’t poor,” Prongs mutters whipping me over with a well-chosen spell and preventing escape by sitting on my stomach. God, his knees are bony.
“But he is a sod?” Lily is still grinning as she tugs one of Harry’s little vests straight. “So, what did Prongsie the red-nosed reindeer have that was very shiny?”
James’ flat glare means business. I know it of old. I smile up at her even as Prongs jabs both wands into my side and leans over. He’s a little out of breath.
“What d’you call a dog that’s got wings instead of back legs?”
“I don’t know; what do you call a dog that’s got wings instead of back legs?” Lily echoes obligingly.
“Sirius,” James replies, his tone significant, and drops my wand on my chest.
I snort, prod his middle and throw him off. “I think marriage has agreed with you a little too much, Prongs, you’re getting paunchy.”
A thin, hiccupping warble starts upstairs becoming a full-blown fretful cry a second later. Lily flops back into the sofa. “Bugger!” She flicks out with the garment in her hand. “Now see—”
Prongs jumps up. “I’ll go.”
“Let me.” Before he’s moved I’ve transformed and am halfway round the door. Cooler air. Dim shapes. Grumbling cub is up. Paws climb with stealth. Ears prick. Quick snuffle. Forward.
I transform. My godson is flailing his arms and legs in the centre of his cot and there’s definitely nothing wrong with his lungs. In the light of his Gryffin-shaped lamp, his little face is screwed up tighter than any Slytherin’s heart as he vents his displeasure. His gums are very red. Lily could be right. I dip in my pocket for my hip flask and unscrew the top, turning it over to wet the tip of my finger.
“Hey, hey, Harry. What’s up, mate?”
He doesn’t stop crying even when I pick him up, wrigglier than any eel so I rub the drop of whisky on his little jaw and grit my teeth when he bites down. “That’s a good lad.” The shock of black hair he was born with is still fine as gossamer and very silky against my chin. He smells of powder and clean linen. Lily must have bathed him for the night in the hope of settling him. Something unfamiliar —raw— fills my chest as he wriggles there. I kiss the top of his head and gently pat his back the way I’ve seen Lily do. Without knowing why, I sing the first tune in my head. “God rest you, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.”
I resort to humming the remainder but Harry’s cries have quietened to snuffling grumbles punctuated by hiccups. “There you go, Master Snuffles. Is that a bit better?” I lean him back so we can see each other. He burbles at me and fans his fingers as though to say ‘hi’. I smile.
“You don’t care whether Uncle Padfoot sings the right words or not, do you, Harry. No. Quite right, mate. ‘Shepherds washing their socks by night’ produces more giggles than the original version and making girls giggle is hours of innocent amusement.”
Harry blinks lazily and pouts.
“Oh, you don’t believe me?” I grin over certain memories. “It can also be the polar opposite but we can talk about that one when you’re out of nappies.”
He tucks his legs up and gives one of those face-splitting grins that wipe out rational thought. He isn’t ‘flesh of my flesh’ but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep him safe.
Nothing.
“Sirius?”
I start at the soft syllables; Harry grizzles. Lily is leaning around the doorjamb. How long has she been there, watching?
Hearing his mother’s voice, Harry cries and squirms urgently and with a wry smile Lily comes and lifts him to her shoulder, where he settles immediately. “Fusspot,” she murmurs but her eyes are dreamy as she rubs his back.
He expels wind from both ends at once and we chuckle as one.
“Well, since you’re awake, come and see what your Godfather and Daddy have been doing. When they weren’t brawling on the floor, that is.”
She moves with confidence as she carries him through the dark house, humming so that I can follow her progress down the stairs and hear James’s soft, “Where’s Padfoot?”
I Apparate to the bottom stair. “Here. Why are we whispering?”
Prongs grins and pushes the door wide. The tree is a glorious riot of Gryffindor red and gold baubles lit by a myriad of floating candles. A many-rayed star glows from the top and a single miniature phoenix flits from branch to branch, trilling out peace and goodwill.
“Wow!” I blink, awed, despite familiarity with James’s Transfiguration skills. “You were busy, Evans!”
Prongs back-hands my middle. “Pillock! Isn’t he, Harry?” He rubs noses, making Harry gurgle and grab out but Prongs is quick to evade, as usual. “Dashing through the snow,” he sings, very badly. Harry giggles.
“On a broken pair of skis,” I repeat and we both look expectantly at Lily.
“Erm—Crying here we go.” She takes Harry across to see the tree; he grabs out for the nearest golden bauble.
“Prongs? Oi!” I have to prod him. “Doting father aside for a minute.”
“What?” He grins, unabashed. Can’t blame him.
“Your good lady supplied ‘crying here we go’.” I windmill my hand.
“Right. Bashing into trees.”
“The snow is turning red.”
“I think I’m nearly dead.”
“Wake up in a hospital with stitches in my head. Oh! Jingle bells!”
Some days only a dark sense of humour gets you through. That’s how I look at it, anyway as we chant the chorus. We gather around the tree; James perches on the edge of the armchair and pulls Lily to snuggle across his knee, Harry cradled on her arm. I squat at his shoulder, swollen and dizzy with this moment and watch the tiny reflections sparkle in Harry’s wide-eyed wonder. “God rest you, merry hippogriffs.”
James ‘cuh’s. “Hippogriffs? What the devil rhymes with that?”
“Let nothing you dismay,” Lily carols, smiling.
“We Gryffindors are kings again.”
“And Snivellus is gay.”
“Sirius!”
Bugger! I hold my hands up. “Now, Lily.” She doesn’t look appeased; her eyes are so flinty she could strike sparks. “It slipped out, I swear—”
“The puppy eyes won’t save you!”
I back up, eyeing her wand warily. “But I brought you a proper Christmas tree! All the way from Scotland! Prongs?”
Sniggering, he bounces Harry on his knee—even he’s gurgling happily. “No way. Take it like a man, Padfoot.”
“What? Whining every inch of the way?”
That does it. An extraordinary gesture is called for and I know just the thing. “Madam, I never whine. Do your worst.” To Lily’s utter surprise, I surrender my wand and drop to my knees, head up, shoulders back.
Most girls look ridiculous with their mouth hanging open, Lily looks sweet. She blinks, glances at her husband and son and taps her wand against her leg. “My worst, eh?”
Harry grunts.
I toss my head proudly. “Your very worst.” And hurry up because I’m starting to feel bloody stupid.
Lily smirks suddenly and sweat prickles my back. Oh bugger. Looks like I’ll be singing soprano again. She leans over and ruffles my hair. “Harry needs changing. Nappies and wipes are beside the chair.”
Prongs falls back in the chair, laughing his arse off, the sod.
Changing? Nappies? Wipes? I raise my wand. “Can’t I just…”
“I believe your exact words were, ‘Madam, I never whine’?” Lily gives me her sweetest smile and plops my Godson in my arms. How the hell can he grin at me like that when his nappy is emitting such a vile odour?
Change my Godson. How hard can it be? Women do it all the time. I lie him back on the padded mat and wrestle with the snaps on his one-piece sleepsuit. He’s not looking happy. Got to keep him happy. Can’t deal with a crying Harry as well as a dirty nappy. “Prongsie, the red-nosed reindeer had a very shiny—”
A/N: ‘Dashing through the snow’ alternative words written by and appears with kind permission of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mega_megs.
It’s a typical ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose’ kind of evening, which for this part of England means a bitingly cold wind shoving at you like unseen hands in the darkness while golden light spills invitingly from uncurtained windows, beckoning you forward.
In the lee of the first cottage I pause to thicken my blood with a nip from my hip flask. It’s been a long way tonight, repeated Apparitions hauling this tree, and has required several such intervals. Should have gone on the bike. At least the rain I can smell coming in hasn’t arrived. The trees whip to the rush of the wind as I press into it, head down, collar up and senses alert. The sound of my boots is torn away by the wintry roar that stings skin and eyes and yet I know I’m the only human out in the night. A tabby on a nearby fence eyes me with superb disdain, unruffled by the weather.
Can’t have that. I growl and lunge at the fence. Startled by the deep barks that cry the ancient enmity between our kind it dismounts its perch by falling off with a graceless yowl and bolting.
I grin and send a victorious bark into the dark after it as I continue down the street. Had I been in my Animagus form, my tail would now be carried erect, fluttering like some triumphal banner. Lily calls it ‘childish’ and rolls her eyes but I know Prongs gets it.
One last corner and then I can thaw out before their cheery log fire with tea and teacakes. Lily can always be relied on to have teacakes.
Reaching the gate, I pause. They’ll already know I’m approaching but Lily turned into a bit of a griffon when Harry came along. Prongs might assert that she was only kidding that she’d ‘hex them off and hand them back to me in a jar’ but he didn’t see the light in her eyes. All because I forgot to knock. Excitement has that effect. Feel free to imagine a wry smile here.
Ah, there we go. The hall light’s come on. I direct the tree to rest on the step and change.
Pack mates. Meat. Heat.
More light.
“What the—! Oh, Sirius, there you are. Nice tree!”
Pack mate stands back. “Enter in, your Grimness. Wipe your paws.”
I change crossing the threshold. Prongs is grinning at me having leaned the tree against the wall. “Any trouble?” he enquires casually, locking the door.
“Just a cat.” I shrug off my coat. “Thought it was safe on top of a fence.”
Prongs’ grin broadens into genuine merriment. “Now it’s down to lives minus one.”
The kitchen door opens. “Hi, Sirius.”
“Evans.” She’s drooping but she lights up when she spots the tree.
“Oh, brilliant! That’s a whopper, Sirius!” Her smile becomes a little sardonic. “I’m not even going to ask where you found such a magnificent tree on the twenty-second of December.”
That hurts. “I am not Dung Fletcher,” I say with dignity and then spoil the effect by grinning at her as she welcomes me with a hug. “Where d’you want it?” She smells of baby powder, milk and something a little more acidic. Yes. A dribble of something over her shoulder.
“Well, I was going to say on the little table in the lounge—not a word” she orders, wagging a finger at the glint in my eye. “But now I see the size of it--I mean it, Black!”
Prongs is determinedly straight-faced but I can tell what he’s thinking. Know him like the back of my hand.
Evans huffs a sigh. “Oh, grow up, you two! Only you could make innuendo out of placing a Christmas tree! A corner of the lounge will be fine.” She heads towards the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on—and yes, James, before you say it, I know it won’t fit me.”
The kitchen door swings to on her exit. Prongs is staring short-sightedly at it over the top of his frames.
“She sounds tired, mate.”
“I know.”
So does he. Between us we manoeuvre the tree into the small sitting room. The top few inches are bent over along the ceiling. I reduce it down. “Is Harry keeping her up?”
He sighs. “The last few nights he’s only slept for a couple of hours and then he’s crying again. She thinks he’s teething.”
“Teething? He’s what?” I count in my head but Prongs is quicker.
“Four and a half months.” He’s every inch the proud father. “About here, you reckon?”
“Looks good to me. Isn’t he a bit young for that?” One wand swipe severs the bindings I conjured and the branches relax in a resinous waft that takes me back to nights accompanying Moony.
Prongs shrugs. “No idea. I was an only one, remember? Bucket or not?”
“Not.”
Under the force of our bilateral charms, the tree sits as upright as it was doing before I removed it from the Forbidden Forest.
A memory of Christmas in third year comes back to me, raising a grin. ‘Course, back then I was a wobbly soprano and not a lyric tenor. “Dashing through the snow,” I begin.
Prongs snorts a little before supplying, “On a broken pair of skis.”
I offer him a theatrical wince. “You still can’t carry a tune.”
“Harry likes my singing,” he says, with a defensive edge in my opinion, adding quickly, “Your go again.”
“But—” I catch myself. It’s downright weird not to have Peter and Remus here to join in. Like part of the Christmas ritual we grew up with has been broken. “Er, right.” Dashing through the snow on a broken pair of skis.
The door opens and a laden tea tray floats in followed by Lily, a basket of washing, and her huge ginger cat. She beams. “A bit more to the right, please, James and can we have it in something or Crookie will think it’s his new scratching post. Sirius, come and help me toast teacakes.”
“Why can’t I help toast teacakes?” James demands plaintively.
“Because you got yours earlier, that’s why.”
I inhale my tea — Merlin on a Triumph, it’s hot! — and start laughing. “Evans! And you accuse us of relentless innuendo!”
Prongs runs a hand through his hair and mutters something I don’t catch as he glances around before Disapparating with a small ‘pop’.
Lily simply grins and offers me the ‘cup that cheers’, as Mrs Potter used to say. “Will you fork them or will you use your wand?”
“There’s no safe answer to that, Evans, as I’m sure you knew.” I drink some tea and discover she’s laced it with Firewhisky. Good woman.
Her Christmas green eyes dance. “You’re in charge of the teacakes then, Sirius. I’ll see to the washing. Crookie—No!”
The squashed-faced cat sniffs the branches delicately, all innocence injured and trots over to bake beside me. I’m headbutted in greeting and tickle his ears.
Prongs pops back with a stack of cardboard boxes that have seen better days. “Lightly browned, if you please, Padfoot, and I believe it was your turn.”
“Turn for what?” Lily asks, frowning as she untangles a knot of socks.
The heat from the glorious log fire washes over me until the tip of my nose risks spontaneous combustion. “Something we started in third year. We put our own words to various Christmas songs and carols. For instance—” I clear my throat. “Prongsie the red-nosed reindeer—” There’s a ‘thud-jingle’ and then Prongs dives on my back fighting to clap a hand over my mouth. We crash forward and only the speed of my Braking charm stops us landing in the fire. The teacakes go for flying lessons. Crookshanks scarpers, hissing.
“You. Sod!” Prongs yelps, grappling with me. Flaming red is ascending his throat.
“Had a very shiny—” He Silences me but I can’t get it out for laughing anyway. He cuffs the side of my head hard enough that I see stars.
“You swore!”
“Frequently,” Lily interjects, chuckling.
“Your word as a Marauder, you said! Portia Grey still goes into a giggling fit every time she sees me!”
We scuffle on the rug to the accompaniment of Lily’s laughter. She has the dirtiest laugh of any witch I’ve ever heard. “Oh, that!”
Prongs vents a quiet groan and pummels me while I fend him back one-handed countering his charm. So Grey related my version to Lily! Not quite the ‘fainting maiden’ she pretended, then. “Evans? A hand here?”
Lily shakes her head, smiling, and tucks her feet under her. “James, if you’re going to maim the poor sod, do it quietly. If you two wake up Harry, there’ll be trouble!”
“Ah, Merlin, Evans!” Bugger—he’s got my wand. Now I’m stuffed.
“He isn’t poor,” Prongs mutters whipping me over with a well-chosen spell and preventing escape by sitting on my stomach. God, his knees are bony.
“But he is a sod?” Lily is still grinning as she tugs one of Harry’s little vests straight. “So, what did Prongsie the red-nosed reindeer have that was very shiny?”
James’ flat glare means business. I know it of old. I smile up at her even as Prongs jabs both wands into my side and leans over. He’s a little out of breath.
“What d’you call a dog that’s got wings instead of back legs?”
“I don’t know; what do you call a dog that’s got wings instead of back legs?” Lily echoes obligingly.
“Sirius,” James replies, his tone significant, and drops my wand on my chest.
I snort, prod his middle and throw him off. “I think marriage has agreed with you a little too much, Prongs, you’re getting paunchy.”
A thin, hiccupping warble starts upstairs becoming a full-blown fretful cry a second later. Lily flops back into the sofa. “Bugger!” She flicks out with the garment in her hand. “Now see—”
Prongs jumps up. “I’ll go.”
“Let me.” Before he’s moved I’ve transformed and am halfway round the door. Cooler air. Dim shapes. Grumbling cub is up. Paws climb with stealth. Ears prick. Quick snuffle. Forward.
I transform. My godson is flailing his arms and legs in the centre of his cot and there’s definitely nothing wrong with his lungs. In the light of his Gryffin-shaped lamp, his little face is screwed up tighter than any Slytherin’s heart as he vents his displeasure. His gums are very red. Lily could be right. I dip in my pocket for my hip flask and unscrew the top, turning it over to wet the tip of my finger.
“Hey, hey, Harry. What’s up, mate?”
He doesn’t stop crying even when I pick him up, wrigglier than any eel so I rub the drop of whisky on his little jaw and grit my teeth when he bites down. “That’s a good lad.” The shock of black hair he was born with is still fine as gossamer and very silky against my chin. He smells of powder and clean linen. Lily must have bathed him for the night in the hope of settling him. Something unfamiliar —raw— fills my chest as he wriggles there. I kiss the top of his head and gently pat his back the way I’ve seen Lily do. Without knowing why, I sing the first tune in my head. “God rest you, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.”
I resort to humming the remainder but Harry’s cries have quietened to snuffling grumbles punctuated by hiccups. “There you go, Master Snuffles. Is that a bit better?” I lean him back so we can see each other. He burbles at me and fans his fingers as though to say ‘hi’. I smile.
“You don’t care whether Uncle Padfoot sings the right words or not, do you, Harry. No. Quite right, mate. ‘Shepherds washing their socks by night’ produces more giggles than the original version and making girls giggle is hours of innocent amusement.”
Harry blinks lazily and pouts.
“Oh, you don’t believe me?” I grin over certain memories. “It can also be the polar opposite but we can talk about that one when you’re out of nappies.”
He tucks his legs up and gives one of those face-splitting grins that wipe out rational thought. He isn’t ‘flesh of my flesh’ but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep him safe.
Nothing.
“Sirius?”
I start at the soft syllables; Harry grizzles. Lily is leaning around the doorjamb. How long has she been there, watching?
Hearing his mother’s voice, Harry cries and squirms urgently and with a wry smile Lily comes and lifts him to her shoulder, where he settles immediately. “Fusspot,” she murmurs but her eyes are dreamy as she rubs his back.
He expels wind from both ends at once and we chuckle as one.
“Well, since you’re awake, come and see what your Godfather and Daddy have been doing. When they weren’t brawling on the floor, that is.”
She moves with confidence as she carries him through the dark house, humming so that I can follow her progress down the stairs and hear James’s soft, “Where’s Padfoot?”
I Apparate to the bottom stair. “Here. Why are we whispering?”
Prongs grins and pushes the door wide. The tree is a glorious riot of Gryffindor red and gold baubles lit by a myriad of floating candles. A many-rayed star glows from the top and a single miniature phoenix flits from branch to branch, trilling out peace and goodwill.
“Wow!” I blink, awed, despite familiarity with James’s Transfiguration skills. “You were busy, Evans!”
Prongs back-hands my middle. “Pillock! Isn’t he, Harry?” He rubs noses, making Harry gurgle and grab out but Prongs is quick to evade, as usual. “Dashing through the snow,” he sings, very badly. Harry giggles.
“On a broken pair of skis,” I repeat and we both look expectantly at Lily.
“Erm—Crying here we go.” She takes Harry across to see the tree; he grabs out for the nearest golden bauble.
“Prongs? Oi!” I have to prod him. “Doting father aside for a minute.”
“What?” He grins, unabashed. Can’t blame him.
“Your good lady supplied ‘crying here we go’.” I windmill my hand.
“Right. Bashing into trees.”
“The snow is turning red.”
“I think I’m nearly dead.”
“Wake up in a hospital with stitches in my head. Oh! Jingle bells!”
Some days only a dark sense of humour gets you through. That’s how I look at it, anyway as we chant the chorus. We gather around the tree; James perches on the edge of the armchair and pulls Lily to snuggle across his knee, Harry cradled on her arm. I squat at his shoulder, swollen and dizzy with this moment and watch the tiny reflections sparkle in Harry’s wide-eyed wonder. “God rest you, merry hippogriffs.”
James ‘cuh’s. “Hippogriffs? What the devil rhymes with that?”
“Let nothing you dismay,” Lily carols, smiling.
“We Gryffindors are kings again.”
“And Snivellus is gay.”
“Sirius!”
Bugger! I hold my hands up. “Now, Lily.” She doesn’t look appeased; her eyes are so flinty she could strike sparks. “It slipped out, I swear—”
“The puppy eyes won’t save you!”
I back up, eyeing her wand warily. “But I brought you a proper Christmas tree! All the way from Scotland! Prongs?”
Sniggering, he bounces Harry on his knee—even he’s gurgling happily. “No way. Take it like a man, Padfoot.”
“What? Whining every inch of the way?”
That does it. An extraordinary gesture is called for and I know just the thing. “Madam, I never whine. Do your worst.” To Lily’s utter surprise, I surrender my wand and drop to my knees, head up, shoulders back.
Most girls look ridiculous with their mouth hanging open, Lily looks sweet. She blinks, glances at her husband and son and taps her wand against her leg. “My worst, eh?”
Harry grunts.
I toss my head proudly. “Your very worst.” And hurry up because I’m starting to feel bloody stupid.
Lily smirks suddenly and sweat prickles my back. Oh bugger. Looks like I’ll be singing soprano again. She leans over and ruffles my hair. “Harry needs changing. Nappies and wipes are beside the chair.”
Prongs falls back in the chair, laughing his arse off, the sod.
Changing? Nappies? Wipes? I raise my wand. “Can’t I just…”
“I believe your exact words were, ‘Madam, I never whine’?” Lily gives me her sweetest smile and plops my Godson in my arms. How the hell can he grin at me like that when his nappy is emitting such a vile odour?
Change my Godson. How hard can it be? Women do it all the time. I lie him back on the padded mat and wrestle with the snaps on his one-piece sleepsuit. He’s not looking happy. Got to keep him happy. Can’t deal with a crying Harry as well as a dirty nappy. “Prongsie, the red-nosed reindeer had a very shiny—”
A/N: ‘Dashing through the snow’ alternative words written by and appears with kind permission of
mega_megs.![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-21 05:03 pm (UTC)He tucks his legs up and gives one of those face-splitting grins that wipe out rational thought. He isn’t ‘flesh of my flesh’ but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep him safe.
Nothing.
*sigh*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-21 06:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-21 09:15 pm (UTC)Anyhow, isn't Berte lucky to get such a fabulous story - I was snorting at the alternative Xmas lyrics. I can definitely see Sirius bringing a tree all the way from the Forbidden Forest for Harry's first Xmas. And well done Lily it is the ultimate punishment *snort*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-21 09:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-21 11:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-21 11:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-21 11:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-21 11:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-21 11:42 pm (UTC)Like you said, a wonderful slice of Christmas and family and friendship.
*happy sigh*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-28 12:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-28 05:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-29 02:28 pm (UTC)Not to forget the IC characters. Sirius and Lily were good friends too, it's forgotten by all too many fans!