A Very Potter Christmas

Talk about ‘the social season’ was a bit misleading to be honest. See, there wasn’t just one social season... There was two.

Throughout the year, there were a series of unrelated social events, but the main ones tended to centre around the holidays, wherein people were more likely to congregate and host events. In particular, the Summer Solstice and the Winter Solstice were regarded as the epicentre of their own respective social seasons. The Summer season spanned a lengthy two whole months, with the Summer Solstice as the peak and the jewel in the midst of the season, other events sprinkled around it like candy. On the other hand, the Winter Season took place over only two weeks; the Winter Solstice kicked things off with a mighty bang, and a short but intense gauntlet of events followed after it.

This meant that prepping had to start early. Gifts had to be acquired, meal plans had to be drawn up — and for those hosting events… well, those took months of planning. In James’s case, he didn’t have all that much to do, since the Potters hadn’t hosted a public event in years and his parents took care of the rest. The only thing he really had to prepare in advance was…

“They’ll need sixteen sets of robes each,” Dad told Monsieur Trousseau as James and Regulus stood behind him. Dad had pulled them out of school on the weekend for a day of robe shopping. It was bound to be hell.

The Slytherin looked perfectly in place, wearing casual but pristine robes for their double fitting, a disinterested sort of expression on his face that made it seem like he thought himself above everyone and everything around him. The picture-perfect Pureblood son.

James, meanwhile, stuck out like a sore thumb — from his ratty old trainers to his well-worn hoodie, to the birds-nest he called hair, he looked like a street rat that had snuck in somehow. Despite his money, status and good breeding, James’d never really fit in when it came to upper-crust establishments like Trousseau’s Trousseaux (a popular clothing store among Purebloods). He was a bit too… non-traditional.

His Dad leaned in and gave the shop-owner a mischievous and conspiratorial smile. “They’re both participating in the full season this year!”

Monsieur Trousseau’s eyebrows shot right up. “Even your son?”

Yep. Even their family robe-maker knew of James’s reputation. Of his separations from Pureblood society. It had been a conscious decision on his parents’ part when he was a young child; they had simply wanted him to grow up without the pressure of being Heir Potter, and away from the toxicity of the Ton. But as his teenage years crept in, his parents gently began to push him towards Society, and the resistance started to come from James himself, feeling disillusioned with Pureblood traditions, out of place, and comically behind his peers. (Sirius could speak six languages fluently and ballroom dance with his eyes closed by the age of eleven. James had never even heard of a foxtrot until then.)

“Even Jamie,” Dad confirmed happily, the relief of that fact lighting him up with inordinate amounts of glee. “He’s debuting this season!”

Monsieur Trousseau eyed James with tremendous interest, critically taking in his figure and probably conjuring up possible robes for the event already in his mind.

James rocked nervously back and forth on his heels, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone in the shop. He hadn’t really been worried about debuting… until he’d agreed to do it. Now, it was real, and coming up fast, and James couldn’t help but feel vastly and hilariously underprepared.

“Well, that is exciting!” Monsieur Trousseau responded in his heavily accented speech. “I shall have to make those robes his grandest yet.”

Oh joy. There was going to be shiny things, James could already tell.

“Absolutely! I want you to go all out!” Dad encouraged, grinning ear to ear. Then, he calmed down a touch and leaned in to speak more quietly. “And I’m also taking over the tab for Regulus’s robes. I understand you already have him as a client, but we will need to change the payment information you have on his file.”

To his credit, Monsieur Trousseau only glanced in Regulus’s direction for the briefest of seconds before nodding easily. “Of course, my Lord. This will not be a problem.”

Regulus didn’t react to the exchange even a little. Didn’t move a single muscle. James wasn’t convinced he was still breathing.

After a few more words were exchanged, the three of them were ushered into a spacious and luxurious private room wherein their appointment would be hosted. Attendants fluttered in and out, taking their cloaks, offering refreshments, and bringing in racks of robes for them to try on. Monsieur Trousseau himself was leading their appointment, and the whole place seemed abuzz.

That’s right. The Potters were those people. The super-rich clients that sent the whole store into a spin, pulling out all the stops to keep the clients happy. James wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He sighed into his glass of imported fancy something.

“Well, Trousseau’s rather eager to keep your Father happy,” Regulus commented quietly, regarding the way the staff flitted about efficiently as the shop-owner continued to chat up James’s Dad. “The grandest suite, the finest wines… do you think they would bring cake if I requested it?” He spoke with a slight uptick of amusement and superiority in his tone, like he was quite enjoying the princess treatment they were receiving.

James’s skin prickled uncomfortably. “I did a few years back when I was young and spoilt. Trousseau sent some poor intern all the way to the nearest bakery just to get me a slice of gateaux. I think they stock a few desserts on hand now.”

Regulus smirked, power settling over his head like a familiar crown. He leaned over and caught the attention of a staff member. “Do you happen to have any cake? I have a craving, you see.”

The poor attendant practically tripped over himself to assure Regulus that they did and scurried off to get some.

“You’re a dick,” James couldn’t help but murmur.

“I’m enjoying myself. You should try it some time, Potter.” The Slytherin made a show of relaxing into the plush armchair he was currently seated in, looking for all the world like a king reclining on a throne.

James picked at the edge of the pillow in his lap, willing for this to be over soon. A bite of jealousy stung in his abdomen at the ease Regulus was exhibiting, whilst James felt like ants were crawling all over his skin. He tried to sink into himself and let the conversation fade, in the hopes that he could sulk in silence for a bit, but the quiet only made him feel itchier.

He reluctantly turned back to his companion. This was a good opportunity to get to know Regulus anyway. “So, uh… you haven’t had Trousseau act like this before?”

“Maman always had him and his people come to Grimmauld Place. The fittings were short and dull — none of this… excitement,” Regulus explained carelessly, tipping back the rest of his drink. He seemed immensely pleased when an attendant instantly shot forward to refill his glass. “Merci beaucoup.”

James blew out a breath as the attendant retreated. “Trousseau always acts like royalty has come to town when we visit. And get ready, ‘cause this is gonna take hours. Especially with my Dad so excited.”

“Not a fan of clothes shopping?” The boy tilted his head with curiosity, grey eyes scrutinising James intensely.

“Not really,” he admitted. “I’m guessing you are?”

“Normal robe shopping takes me hours.” Regulus’s smirk was sharp and dangerous. “Robe shopping for the social season will likely take me all day.”

James groaned, sinking further down in his seat. “Whyyyy? They’re just clothes.”

“And Quidditch is just a bunch of people tossing balls around,” Regulus countered. “That doesn’t make it less fun.”

James had to concede that point. “Please don’t expect me to have opinions on your robes. My plan is just to pick the least uncomfortable sets and try to get them in every colour.”

Regulus scrunched his nose slightly as if his words were utterly disgusting. “But surely you have to match the robes to each event?”

James shrugged. “That’s for Trousseau and Dad to work out.”

“You are detestable.” The Slytherin shook his head. “No. I refuse to let you embarrass me. If I must enter so many events beside you, I will be ensuring your robes are up to scratch.” He seemed to think for a second. “And that they complement mine, I suppose. I shan’t have us clashing.”

James pulled a face and made a noise of annoyance. “That’s gonna make this go twice as long!”

Regulus sniffed. “You should be thanking me; you need all the style guidance you can get. Whatever this baggy streetwear lumberjack-jock nonsense you’ve got going on is, hurts my eyes.”

Before James could retort, a couple of attendants came zipping over, arms laden with cake platters that they set on the table before Regulus. The Slytherin was quick to thank them, surveying the selection like a cat who got the cream, and he began leisurely selecting bites to sample.

James sullenly picked up a slice of Victoria Sponge — it was already there! Sue him! He might as well at this point.

*

James was in hell. Literal hell.

Once a quick set of updated measurements were taken, he was stuffed into one set of robes, then another, then another, etc. Regulus was almost, if not more, critical than Monsieur Trousseau himself, and James felt like a prize show pony being trotted around against his will. Regulus was ruthless, and detail-oriented, commenting on everything from the fit around the shoulders to the style of the buttons, and making sure James’s robes held up to the immensely high standards he had for his own.

Against Regulus’s protests, James’s Dad at least held up his bargain of no green robes for James, but many shades of red, purple, white and blue made it into the rotation — something about jewel tones suiting his skin tone. Regulus and Trousseau were also very insistent about ensuring that any metal hard-wear on James’s robes were gold rather than silver — another thing to do with his skin tone, James had been told.

He was highly uncomfortable the whole time, feeling like a piece of meat, and increasingly sickened by the price tags on the robes that he would only ever be permitted to wear a grand total of once — it was frowned upon to wear the same robes twice to social events. James felt mildly nauseous at the wasteful frivolity of the custom.

Regulus, by contrast, seemed completely at ease, and as though he was having an excellent time. He fit in seamlessly, the silver spoon he was born with paving the way fantastically for him to breeze through discussions on the cut and fit of endless numbers of robes.

He physically fit the part too. Inky black curls delicately coiffed and perfectly in place. Sharp aristocratic features only enhanced by the fancy-schmancy robes he tried on; his high cheekbones, long straight nose and razor-sharp jawline looked like they were carved out of marble, as lovingly tailored as the garments on his body. His intriguing grey eyes were only brought out by the colour pallet of his robes — blacks, greys, blues and greens, drawing out the shades swirling in his irises.

James would have been more than content to watch and stare at Regulus’s elaborate fitting, it was his own forced involvement that had him glancing at the clock every five minutes with despair in his heart.

At long last, a break was called as the attendants swapped the evening wear out for the day robes, and James practically collapsed into his chair, glad to be away from the poking, and prodding, and critical eyes, even for a moment.

“Custom Trousseau robes for your debut,” Regulus drawled as he sat on the other end of the plush sofa. “What an honour.”

James shrugged tiredly. “If you saw the price, you wouldn’t call it an honour.”

“That’s why I’d call it an honour.” Regulus smirked deliberately. “The more zeroes on the end, the better.”

James just rolled his eyes.

There were a few moments of awkward silence in which he was aware of the Slytherin staring at him, but he didn’t look to see. He was too busy attempting to enjoy the moment of peace.

“So, are you just above it all?” Regulus eventually broke the quiet. “You don’t care about the honour of one-of-a-kind designer robes, or debuting in high society? You’re just better than the rest of us?”

James whipped his head to face Regulus. “That’s not it at all!”

Regulus remained calm, simply raising an elegant, judgmental brow. “Do enlighten me.”

James coughed, rubbing the back of his neck as he grasped for words. “I just… it makes me uncomfortable is all.”

“Uncomfortable how, Potter? Believe it or not, you need to speak actual words for me to know what you are on about.”

He took a deep breath and lowered his voice so no-one would overhear. “My parents are paying thousands of galleons for clothes I can only wear once. And I can only wear them to events my friends aren’t even invited to, because they don’t have enough money in the bank or the right blood in their veins.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I have no idea what I’m doing, or even if I want to be doing this. And the whole thing just makes me feel sick with equal parts nerves at the inevitable judgement, and disgust at the elitism. That’s what my attitude is about…”

It was probably too honest, but Regulus had asked. That said, he hadn’t quite meant to reveal that much — it just sort of spilled out accidentally.

James expected Regulus to scoff and mock his reticence, but the boy was regarding him with a new interest that hadn’t been there before, those intense, discerning eyes of his locked on James. “So, why are you doing it?”

James blew out a breath. “Partly for him.” He subtly gestured in his Dad’s direction, the man still buzzing with excitement even several hours into the fitting. “Partly because my Mum pointed out to me that change can only really happen from within the system. …Which means playing the game.” He looked over at the Slytherin. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the philosophy.” Slytherins were widely known for being particularly good at playing political games.

Regulus’s smirk slowly stretched across his face. “Welcome to the board, Potter. We’ll see how well you play.”

James still wasn’t convinced this was the right path for him. He’d never had much of a mind to track the moves and countermoves of the influential players around him. He was self-aware enough to think himself probably too trusting and naïve for the shark-infested waters. Still, if you want significant societal change, you have to have a foot in the door.

So here he was… wedging his foot in tight, and making sure that foot would be adequately adorned in comically-expensive designer shit.

“Jamie! Take a look at these, my boy!” Dad called out gleefully, drawing his son’s attention.

Only a few more hours and he’d be free.

*

“Well, you look tired.” Peter grinned at the sight of him as he trudged into the dorm.

James didn’t even deign to answer that. He shuffled over to Sirius’s bed and flopped down next to his friend, latching onto him like a koala bear. “Padfoot, cuddle me!”

Sirius chuckled and indulged him. “That bad, huh?”

James made a disgruntled noise.

“Poor baby,” Remus mocked in a saccharine tone. Luckily, James was one of the few people Moony didn’t get jealous over when it came to touching Padfoot. So, James could drape himself all along his best friend’s body without making things awkward. A good thing too – both James and Sirius were very touchy people. Especially with each other.

“Too rich for your own good.” Remus continued. “How many robes did they make you try on?”

“Hundreds,” James whispered in a haunted voice.

His three friends just laughed at him.

“Please tell me you got nice robes at least?” Sirius petted a hand through James’s hair, half-teasingly, half-comfortingly. “If you’re spending all those galleons, you might as well make it worth it.”

James scooted closer. “Regulus was brutal. He turned into a fashion dictator. I can only assume the robes I ordered are nice and respectable, based on his excruciating insistence and attention to detail.”

James could practically feel the way Sirius got more interested through the lines of his body. “He was enjoying himself?”

James sighed. “Yeah. He was loving it. I think he’s into fashion.”

“Understatement.”

“And he liked being waited on hand and foot.”

Sirius snorted. “Typical Reggie.”

“Ah, the Potter treatment.” Peter sniggered. “Make any more poor interns run out for cake?”

James pouted. “No…” Peter raised an eyebrow. “…They stock desserts in-house now.”

“There it is!” Peter grinned.

“Regulus is the one who requested the cake!” James tried to defend himself. “…This time.”

Remus burst out laughing. “Jesus Christ, you lot are posh.”

James flipped him the bird without looking over.

“So, you and Reggie got along?” Sirius asked hopefully. He hadn’t been pushing them together or anything, but James could tell their general indifference towards each other was starting to grate on him, now that the three of them lived under one roof.

James shrugged a bit. “Kinda. We talked, which is more than we do most days. But it was sort of… mild arguing and fashion critiques for the most part.”

Sirius seemed to consider this. “Progress, I suppose. I don’t reckon you’ll ever get along that well, but I can deal with light-hearted disagreements.”

James made a noise of acknowledgement, not quite sure what to say to that. Truthfully, he wanted to at least be friends with Regulus, but he’d just have to see how things went.

*

Christmas shopping, as it turned out, was more difficult than initially anticipated.

Yuletide didn’t quite have the same level of gift-giving — presents were exchanged, but they were less like birthday presents and more like symbolic tokens from nature. Finding Yule gifts for his family usually consisted of James trekking through the nearby woods for a couple of hours, collecting pinecones, berries, sprigs from trees, and other such items. Each of them had a symbolic meaning to do with the season. Apples and oranges, for instance, represented a plea for the sun to return to them given the darkness of Winter. Pine was also an acceptable gift as it was thought to endure the harshness of the cold season and warm the hearth with pleasant smelling fires. (Plus, you could wish on pinecones if you wanted to.) As such, Yule gifts were less about the gift themselves and more about the meaning.

Christmas gifts, on the other hand, were not so symbolic, and essentially amounted to individual, thoughtful presents for each of your loved ones.

James had a lot of loved ones.

He spent the whole Hogsmeade weekend on a mission. The bookstore yielded good gifts for Remus, Lily and Benjy. The joke-store was the place for the Prewett brothers. James spent hours agonising over which jumper to buy Mary (who loved fashion), and he special ordered in new dragon-hide quidditch gloves for Marlene. He bought Peter an elaborate new chess set and decided to restore an old family heirloom for Sirius — a locket with the Potter crest on it. James hoped Sirius would appreciate the sentiment. For his Mum, he also decided to go handmade, attempting to knit her a scarf with supplies he picked up at Hogsmeade, and for his Dad, he racked his brain until he came up with a subscription to a new Potions magazine. (His Dad would love it, and James would likely be forced to read and comment on each edition, but it would be worth it.) Since he would be visiting the Lupins for Christmas, he picked out an expensive bourbon for Mr Lupin and a few books for Mrs Lupin — James had heard Remus got his love of reading from his mother, so he interrogated the boy on his mother’s tastes in fiction.

All in all, he thought he’d done a pretty decent job for his first Christmas, except for the fact that he was missing one person.

Regulus. Fucking. Black.

Why was it always Regulus Black?

He’d first considered something Potions related, but he didn’t really know what Regulus did and didn’t have, or what areas of Potions the boy was specifically interested in.

He then thought about buying Regulus clothes, but quickly vetoed that idea, realising he didn’t have the fashion sense to get something the Slytherin wouldn’t find hideous.

Every idea he came up with, he somehow talked himself out of. And every idea somehow seemed worse than the last in his mind. He visited every shop in Hogsmeade, perusing the aisles with increased inner frustration and despair as nothing in particular jumped out at him. He spent hours searching and thinking himself into a headache as he tried in vain to come up with an adequate gift.

In the end, he had to give up, gift-less and vexed at his defeat. He still had a couple of weeks until Christmas. He would just have to think of something before then.