Hocus Pocus

MONDAY. DECEMBER 20, 1971.

The moment Peter gets home, he heads straight for his room to unpack his trunk. He pulls out all his muggle clothes, folds them neatly, and tucks them into his drawers. He places his chess set on his bedside table and sets his wand down on the windowsill. Finally, he lifts the bauble Professor Alderton had instructed him to give his mum from the bottom of the chest.

It’s a crystal ornament on a thin silver string, Glittering, reflective surfaces jut against one another repeatedly until the angles form the shape of a mouse. Peter stares at the gift. It’s a strange present if you ask him. He honestly can’t imagine why Professor Alderton would assume his mum would want a crystalline rodent, but he’d seemed pretty insistent about the whole thing. 

Downstairs, Peter can hear Bernadette shuffling about in the kitchen. The entire house smells of roast chicken and thyme. He pockets the bauble and heads down to greet her. 

Bernadette Pettigrew is a petite, plump, pink-skinned woman with hair the color of sun-bleached straw that she ties up on her head in a big, winding bun while she works. The Pettigrews can’t afford a house elf, so Merlin knows Bernadette works  a lot . Peter hardly ever sees her with her hair down unless they’ve got company over. 

As Peter pads down the stairs, he catches sight of her bun before anything else, peeking up overtop of the oven. She stands up straight, wipes her wand on the flowery frock that covers her housedress, and turns– perhaps she meant to yell up the stairs for him to come down, but the shout dies on her tongue as soon as she locks eyes with her son. 

She smiles when she sees him, opening her arms for the fifth hug of the evening. Peter obliges. He closes his eyes as her soft arms close around him. 

“It’s good to have you home, Petey.” She kisses the top of his head thrice before releasing him. “It’s been so quiet here without you. I think we ought to get a pet of some kind.” 

Peter rubs away his mother’s lipstick. “We’ve already got the owl.” He says. 

“Oh, Harold hardly counts.” Bernadette chuckles, waving about her ladle like a wand. Harold the owl hoots indignantly from his perch. “I thought something like a cat might be nice– part kneazle, maybe. Effie tells me there’s a rather nice squib who breeds them down in Surrey.” 

“But I’m allergic,” Peter says. 

He’d  asked  for a cat when he was younger. She’d had been completely against the idea, she’d said Peter was allergic. Now she shakes her head absently as she turns back to the stove. 

“You  might  be.” She says. “Your father was… but I’m not. So I suppose it’s a coin toss, really.” 

The mouse in Peter’s pocket seems to wriggle at the mention of his dad. The heart in Peter’s chest does the same. His palms begin to sweat. “He was?” 

His mum nods. She stirs the big grey pot on the stove, suddenly quiet. 

But Peter’s squirming heart refuses to quit. His mother  never  brings up Paul without prompting. He’s not ready to stop talking about him yet.  They just started! 

“One of my professors from school used to work with Dad.” He blurts. 

Bernadette’s shoulders stiffen ever-so-slightly. She wipes her hands on her apron, but the ladle keeps stirring. “Really?

“Yeah.” Peter nods although she can’t see him. “His name is Professor Alderton. He’s really nice.”

“Alderton?” She turns back to face her son again. “William Alderton?”

“He says he and Dad were friends. Did you know him?” 

“I did… not terribly well. But I knew him.”

“I thought you might’ve because he asked me to give you this.” Peter pulls the trinket from his pocket. It twinkles in the warm kitchen light. The mouse’s narrow whiskers seem to twitch in anticipation. Peter feels a bit twitchy himself. His mother’s face goes completely blank. “Mummy?” 

Bernadette picks up the gift by the string. She cups it in her palm gently as though she were holding a real mouse. Her eyes glisten. 

“Mum?”

“Why don’t you go see if the Potters want to come over for dinner?” Her voice rasps as she speaks. She doesn’t even look at Peter; her gaze is still locked firmly on Professor Alderton’s present. 

Peter’s stomach twists guiltily. He hates it when his mum cries. It’s almost enough to make him wish he could take the gift back and undo the entire conversation. But the damage is already done. 

“Mummy, why are you crying?” He tries to take back the mouse. “I’m sorry. Is it about da–”

Bernadette snatches the mouse out of reach. Her face goes from sorrowful to stern. “Go, Peter. Now.” 

Peter freezes. He blinks up at his mother, stunned at her harsh tone of voice. She never speaks to him that way.  Never. 

“Oh! I’m sorry.” She composes herself as quickly as she fell apart, placing the mouse on the counter and swiping away her tears with her thumb. She reaches out and grabs Peter to pull him into another smothering hug. “I’m sorry, Dear. I didn’t mean to– I just-” 

“It’s okay.” Peter finds himself saying although he feels anything but. 

She kisses his head again. “Be a good boy and set the table, hmm?  I’ll  go invite Effie.” 

He nods. His mother sniffs and gives him a watery smile. She rubs away the pink stain on his forehead before removing her apron and leaving the room. Once she’s gone, Peter sets the table as requested. All the while, his eyes never leave the crystal mouse seated on the countertop. 

+++

TUESDAY. DECEMBER 21, 1971

James is happy to be home. He knew he would be, of course. He knew he’d tackle his dad the moment he stepped off the train and he knew he’d hold his mum’s hand as they left the platform. He knew he’d sneak Leopoldo candied crickets and greet the portrait of Dadaji and go out back to chase gnomes around the snow-covered garden. He knew he’d be happy to see the sloping crests of the manor and smell Mummy’s cooking and decorate the tree Papa picked out. He’d known he’d be happy to be home. But he hadn’t known how much he’d missed it here until he'd set foot inside his house and been struck by a wave of homesickness. 

It was silly, really. How could someone be homesick when they were already at home?

But James was undeniably homesick. He’d spent all of yesterday evening planted firmly at his mum’s side and had slept tucked between his mum and dad with his freezing feet pressed firmly into Fleamont’s flank and his head nestled directly in Effie’s armpit. 

It was marvelous… but not half as marvelous as tonight. Tonight, James is wrapped in his Falmouth Falcons duvet, sharing the biggest bowl of ice cream any eleven-year-old boy’s ever seen with his papa. The only light in the room comes from their big, boxy, muggle tellovision. It casts dancing shadows across Fleamont’s face.

Euphemia retired to bed two portraits ago, and James can feel the tendrils of sleep curling over the edges of his own consciousness. But he does his best to hold his eyes open as the mingling sounds of muggle canned laughter and his papa’s own chortling wash over him. 

The woman on the tellovision fumes. “What d’you mean uuuggh! I don’t like spam!” She says. Fleamont laughs heartily. 

“What’s spam?” James asks. 

“Pig meat from a can.” 

James’ lips pucker. On the rare occasions mummy cooked pig, it never came from a  can . “A tin can?” 

His papa nods and James can’t help the sound of disgust that escapes his throat. Fleamont laughs again. He sets the empty ice cream bowl on the floor and opens his arms to let James settle against his side. James does. 

“Tired, beta?” 

James hums. He licks the last bit of chocolate from his lips and lets his head loll towards the tellovision, content to fall asleep here and let Papa carry him to bed when he’s good and ready. 

“Wait,” Fleamont nudges his son. “I’ve got something to show you.” 

Fleamont extracts himself from James and reaches behind the sofa. When he pulls his arm back, he’s holding a glossy, golden parcel. He plops the thing into James’ lap, grinning boyishly. 

James picks up the parcel. It’s surprisingly light given its size. It’s flexible and soft beneath the parchment, almost like a blanket. 

“Go on, then.” Fleamont prods. “Open it.” 

James does not need to be told twice to open a present. He tears apart the gilded wrapping paper and is met with the sight of gleaming, silvery fabric. James picks it up. It shimmers and ripples like liquid— like a moonkissed pond. His eyes widen. 

“Papa,” He breathes. He’s not sure what else to say. James is speechless… which doesn’t happen often. 

“It’s yours. Happy Christmas.” 

James leaps to his feet and throws the invisibility cloak around his shoulders. Everything below his neck vanished. He squeals with excitement. 

“Do you like it?” Fleamont asks. His mustache curves upward as he smiles. 

“Like it?! It’s brilliant!” James twirls around. He can feel the cloak swishing about near his feet, but the illusion holds strong. “Where did you buy it?” 

Fleamont laughs. He shakes his head. “I didn’t buy it. My father gave it to  me  when I was your age.”

James imagines his father and Dadaji sitting in the attic of the Potter’s manor in Cambridge where Fleamont had lived when he was a boy. He imagines Dadaji’s grey whiskers as a manicured black beard. He imagines Fleamont’s thin hair as a full and messy mane. He clutches the cloak closer to his chest. 

“I wanted to give it to you back in September,” Fleamont continues. “But mummy thinks we ought to give you some time to settle in at school.” 

“I can take it with me?” James asks. “To Hogwarts?” 

Fleamont nods and James’ mind immediately starts to race. Imagine what he could do with an invisibility cloak at school. Imagine the pranking potential.  For Marauding! 

“Just don’t tell your mother.” 

James pulls a face. He’s not a fan of that idea. Fleamont laughs again. He claps his son on the shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, beta. Don’t lie if she asks, of course. But the whole point of the cloak is to go unnoticed, yeah?” 

James nods. 

“So if I let you take this to school, I need you to promise me that whatever trouble you’re planning on getting up to, you use the cloak well enough that I only ever hear about it from you. Not a Professor.”

“I will,” James promises, eyes shining almost as bright as the cloak’s fabric. 

 +++

WEDNESDAY. DECEMBER 22, 1971.

Sirius darts up the long, dark staircase on the balls of his feet. He makes next to no noise; it’s the expert stride of a boy with years of practice. He drags his fingertips along the silver-rimmed guardrail as he runs. The cool metal feels invigorating against his skin, though it’s not half as exhilarating as the stifled laughter that sounds from an unlit corner ahead. 

“I can hear you,” Sirius says. His eyes adjust to the dark, and he can just make out the shadowy silhouette of his brother as he rushes between rooms. 

“No, you can’t.”

Regulus disappears into the drawing room. Sirius follows. He feels around blindly in the inky blackness as the door eeks shut behind them. 

“Face it, Reggie, you can’t hide forever,” Sirius says. 

“Don’t call me that.” Comes Regulus’ immediate, whiny reply. 

Sirius grins. “Gotcha!” He lunges towards the sound of his brother’s voice with outstretched arms. He connects with Regulus, perhaps with more force than strictly necessary, and both boys go tumbling to the ground. 

Regulus wheezes in surprise as he rolls onto the soft, velveteen rug. Sirius laughs, flipping over onto his back. 

“I win.” He grins, triumphant.

Regulus doesn’t answer. He sits up and rubs at his back; his white teeth glint in the dark as he grimaces. 

“You pushed me.” He frowns. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Sirius says, sitting up as well. “I fell too.”

“You pushed me on my birthday.” glowers Regulus. He stands up, hands on his hips, pale face pulled into a pout. “I ought to tell Kreacher.”

Sirius’ hand shoots out and grasps Regulus’ ankle. The smaller boy yelps. “It’s not your birthday yet,” says Sirius. He gracefully gets his feet back beneath him and offers his brother an apologetic smile. “You can give me a shove, though. If you like.”

Regulus eyes Sirius curiously. His cloudy grey eyes look like river stones as he appraises the older boy. Then, he gives his head a small shake, trying to hide the soft smile creeping across his face. 

It reminds Sirius, strikingly, of something Remus Lupin might do. He turns away. “Suit yourself.” 

He raises a slender palm into the air, and the several lanterns mounted on the walls flicker on, one at a time, illuminating the Black Family Tree as it writhes upon the wall. Sirius’ eyes trace the branches between him and his parents.  

Break has been alright. Of course, it’s only been two days. But those two days have gone better than expected. Mother and Father seemed almost pleased to see him— pleased to have him home at the very least. In fact, the first day he’d been home, the subject of school had been skirted entirely. Orion had been locked away in his study, busy with winzemagot business, and Walburga had given his hand a squeeze before sending him off to entertain Regulus. At dinner last night, Walburga had asked him about his grades. Sirius had been proud to report he was doing quite well. It was almost easy to forget anything had changed at all.  Almost.  If not for the fact that Kreacher wouldn’t so much as look at him. If not for the fact that Regulus keeps staring at him the way he used to after Sirius had gotten a particularly short haircut— as if he were analyzing Sirius. As if Regulus needed to be sure Sirius wasn’t a stranger. Sirius tries not to prickle at it. 

“Do you get shoved a lot at school?” He asks. 

Sirius blinks. He turns back to his brother, raising a brow. “Sorry?”

“At Hogwarts,” Regulus says. Then he corrects himself. “In Gryffindor, I mean. Mother says the boys there are brutes. Do they push much?” 

“They’re not brutes,” Sirius says a bit too quickly. The analytical look returns to his brother’s gaze, and Sirius sighs. “Not all of them, at least.” 

Regulus shrugs and turns towards the tapestry. He places a finger on the branch that connects him and his brother. The branch pulsates and wriggles in reply. Sirius fiddles with his ring. 

“Can you keep a secret, Reggie?”

Regulus’ mouth twitches into a frown. “I don’t like that name.” 

“Can you?”

Regulus nods. 

“I don’t mind being in Gryffindor all that much,” Sirius says. It’s a bit of an understatement. But it’s a safe enough confession that Regulus ought not to go squealing to Kreacher. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he just looks confused… and perhaps a bit sad. “But aren’t you lonely?” He asks. “All your friends are in Slytherin.”

Sirius can’t help but snort. Edmund Avery and Bruce Mulciber: his friends. They  are not  his friends. They never really were. They were more like business partners than brothers. No, Sirius has real friends now. Not some cheap imitation. 

“I’ve made new friends.” He says simply. “My roommates are all very friendly.”

Regulus doesn’t look convinced. But he doesn’t look sad anymore either. So, Sirius considers that a victory. 

“Does this mean you’re not cunning anymore?” 

Sirius nudges his brother. “I’m still plenty cunning.”

“But you’re brave now too.”

Sirius shrugs. “Maybe.” 

“Or maybe you’ve always been brave. Maybe that’s why you can’t follow the rules.” Regulus muses. “Father does say Gryffindors are lawless.” 

Or maybe father’s laws are rubbish.  Sirius thinks sharply. He bites his tongue. 

“Maybe.” 

Regulus gives a single solemn nod. Then, he leans forward and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry.” He says kindly. “I won’t tell anybody.”

Sirius smiles. “Not even Kreacher?”

“Not even Kreacher.” 

His younger brother extends a pinky. Sirius locks his own around it. They shake. 

***

At exactly eleven o’clock, guests begin pouring out of the fireplace. 

Lucius Malfoy is first to arrive. 

Sirius bristles at his attendance.  Why is he always around?  It’s not as though Sirius is constantly forced to make small talk with Rudolphus and Randolphus— or like his family invites Juliette to every single ceremony. Regulus’ birthday ought to be a family affair, and as desperately as he may wish to be, as eager to act as though they've already been wed Narcissa may be, Lucius Malfoy is not yet family. 

 He’s forced to watch as Orion gladly shakes Lucius’ hand and welcomes the pale-haired prick into his home. Sirius  does not  greet Lucius. 

Uncle Cygnus is next. His hair is much greyer than the last time Sirius saw him just a year ago. He looks old… and angry. 

As he steps out of the fireplace, he extends a hand to Aunt Druella and helps her out next. She looks as fresh-faced as ever, the result of obsessive consumption of beauty potions, no doubt. Her flaxen hair cascades down her back, never cut once in the entire time Sirius has been alive. She greets Malfoy with a kiss on the cheek. The two of them stick out— light spots in a sea of dark shades— the only people present without a drop of Black blood. 

Narcissa’s next. She silently takes her place between her father and her betrothed, eyes gazing anywhere but the fireplace as Andromeda and Bellatrix exit, practically side by side. 

Bellatrix somehow looks more exhausted than her father. She’s paler than usual, which is difficult to achieve, and she’s got poorly concealed purple bags beneath her eyes. She looks like she’s been crying. But that can’t be true. Bellatrix never cries. 

And Uncle Alphard is last, of course. As always. He’s the only family member to wear an easy smile as well as the fancy dress robes they’ve all adorned for the occasion. 

“Where’s my nephew?” He asks with a grin. 

Regulus steps forward, smiling back at him. 

“Happy Birthday, boy!” Alphard crouches down to be level with Regulus. He fishes a galleon out of his pocket and plops it into Regulus’ hands, patting the boy once on the cheek. “Don’t go spending it all in one place.”

Regulus giggles and thanks their uncle as Walburga leads everyone upstairs and into the banquet hall. 

Kreacher has already laid the table. A veritable feast awaits them. Sirius takes his seat beside Regulus and across from Andromeda. 

Walburga waves her wand, and the enormous roast goose sitting in the center of the table begins to carve itself. Cuts of meat float to the appropriate plates. The goblets beside the goose fill with rich, dark wine. Uncle Alphard eagerly reaches for his. He downs half his chalice in one swig, then turns his gaze on Regulus once more. 

“So,” He says cheerily. “Eleven. Big birthday. Are you looking forward to school?”

Regulus, the perfect little prince, finishes chewing and even sets down his fork before he speaks. “I’m a little nervous, actually.”

“Nonsense, boy.” Orion laughs. It’s a forced, hollow sound. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

Bellatrix sniffs, hiding the curve of her lips behind her goblet. She does a piss poor job. 

“Is something amusing, Bellatrix?” Walburga asks. Her voice is smooth and cool like sea glass. Sirius is not fooled. 

Neither, it seems, is Bellatrix. She shakes her head, casting her eyes downwards towards her dinner. Narcissa squeezes her eldest sister’s hand kindly, but she pulls back after receiving a warning look from their father. 

“Orion’s right, Regulus,” says Cygnus. “You’re a well-bred boy. There shouldn’t be any trouble for you.” 

Sirius picks at the goose on his plate, unable to bring himself to take a bite despite his growing hunger.  What does that even mean? To be well-bred?  He’d heard it so many times growing up and he’d never even thought to question its meaning…  Does it mean pureblooded? Surely not…  there are plenty of purebloods in Gryffindor.  Wealthy, then? French?

There’s a tap against his shin and Sirius is startled from his thoughts. He looks up and directly into Andy’s warm eyes. She pinches her brows together and nods imperceptibly towards his food. Sirius shrugs. He knocks their ankles together. 

About halfway through the dinner, Bellatrix reaches for her wand, presumably seeking to refill her goblet. But before she can lay a hand on it, Druella snatches it away. 

“You’ve had enough.” She says pointily. 

Bellatrix’s dark eyes flash momentarily with something dangerous, but it passes as quickly as it came and is rapidly replaced with shame. 

Sirius has never seen Bellatrix look so pathetic. 

She’d always been a pillar of strength. The eldest in the generation, a beacon for the younger children to follow. Bellatrix always agreed with her Uncle’s position in the Winzemagot, she didn’t make a fuss about being betrothed to a man a good deal older than her, and she excelled while in school. Sirius can’t fathom why everyone is suddenly treating her like… well, like  him . 

He watches her through the rest of the meal. She meets no one’s eyes. Not even Narcissa’s. Not even when Narcissa offers Bellatrix a sip from her goblet. Not even when she declines. Sirius doesn’t eat much, but he forces himself to at least finish his plate– he doesn’t want to upset his parents. And at the end of dinner, when everyone’s had their fill of goose and aubergine and mushroom bisque and they are waiting on Kreacher to bring out the buche de noel by hand, while the adults are engrossed in a conversation about the new muggle school being built down the street, Sirius kicks Andromeda’s shin and leans forward in his chair. 

“What’s going on?” He whispers once he has her attention. “What’s wrong with Bellatrix?”

Andromeda’s polished face collapses. She chews on her lip before she answers. “I don’t know.”

“Andy!” Sirius implores. 

“I don’t! She won’t tell me anything… I think Cissa might know.”

Sirius has no desire to ask Narcissa anything. “Why would she tell  Cissa  over you?”

“Putain si je sais.” She scoffs with a clipped tone of bitterness he’s not used to hearing from her. “ Nobody  will tell me.” 

Sirius opens his mouth to reply, mostly just eager to join his favorite cousin in cursing at the dinner table, but he’s cut off when Kreacher appears between him and Regulus, holding a buche de noel almost as big as he is. 

“Dessert, Mistress.” He says proudly in his toady little tone. Sirius scoots away. 

“Very well,” Walburga says. “That will be all, elf.” 

Kreacher bows deeply, his droopy snout brushes against the floor. Then, he disappears with another  pop . 

As the log divides itself into slices, Uncle Cygnus suddenly leans back in his seat. He raises his fork and points it directly at the Malfoy intruder. 

“Lucius, before I forget, I wanted to congratulate you on getting selected. Very impressive.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Lucius smiles graciously. 

Walburga perks up instantaneously. Her ice-blue eyes widen with interest. “Selected? For the Knights of Walpurgis?” 

Lucius nods. 

“That  is  quite impressive.” Orion agrees, discarding dessert entirely. “Tell me, are you the youngest recruit?”

“No, sir,” Lucius says. “I’m certainly one of them, though.”

“You ought to put in a word for Bellatrix,” Druella says. “I know it’s rare for women to be selected, but what with you and Rodolphus both–”

“Mother, I want to be noticed on my own merit.” Bellatrix snaps. It’s the first time she’s spoken all night. Her parents respond simultaneously. 

Druella hisses. “Connections  are  merit.” as Cygnus grits out “We can discuss your merit when you prove you’re done squandering it.”

She ignores her mother. “What more do you want from me?” Bellatrix asks, voice rising and angry. She stands, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Regulus clutches Sirius’ arm at the sudden noise. “What more could I possibly offer in penance? I’ve–” 

“We’ll discuss this at home!” Cygnus shouts. “Sit.”

Bellatrix shuts her mouth. She sits, but she shoves her plate away. “My apologies, Aunt Walbuga, I seem to have lost my appetite.”

Sirius turns to Andromeda, but she isn’t looking at him. She’s looking at her sisters, and she looks positively sick to her stomach. 

Oh. 

Andromeda might have been just as clueless as him when it came to precisely what Bellatrix had done to incur the ire of their family, but she isn’t in the dark about this. Nobody is as in the dark as Sirius is anymore. Not even Regulus. Sirius wouldn't have even known anybody was mad at Bellatrix until just now if it weren’t for Regulus’ letter. It feels strange, to say the least. He’s seated in his own home, and he feels completely lost. 

Regulus seems to sense the shift in his brother. He taps Sirius’ wrist gently, bringing him back to reality. 

“You should eat your dessert,” Regulus says. 

Sirius gazes down at the slice of yule log on his plate. He slides the plate towards his brother just as the grandfather clock that towers over them from the corner of the hall begins to chime. 

It’s midnight. Regulus Black has just turned eleven years old. 

Uncle Alphard, drunk enough to have found the whole argument rather entertaining, stands and claps Regulus on the shoulder. “Bon anniversaire, Regulus.” 

“Merci.” 

+++

THURSDAY. DECEMBER 23, 1971.

There are a great many Christmas traditions that the children in Cokeworth enjoy. The most popular one of all is sledding. When the snow gets thick enough for it, children flock by the dozens to the park at the edge of Spinner’s End because it’s got the biggest hill in the town and spend the entire day sliding down on various vehicles. The kids from the west side of the neighborhood, Spinner’s End, make do with whatever they can: bin lids and old wading pools and the like. While the kids from the east side of town, where Lily’s house lies, tend to have actual sleds. Some children even get a new sled each year– the Evans’ can’t quite afford that, but Lily doesn’t mind and Petunia doesn’t like to sled, so it’s really not an issue. 

The second most popular amongst the children is probably the snowball war. Lily doesn’t particularly enjoy the snowball war, as, for her, it tends to turn into two straight weeks of being pelted by bullies while she’s just trying to read on her front step. 

The adults of East End prefer the Christmas lights competition, as does Petunia now that she’s becoming a teenager. Though she’d never get up on the ladder to help their dad with the actual decorating, she’s come to enjoy picking out the precise colors and such. Petunia’s very good at being bossy. Lily thinks she might be suited to be a headmistress or something of the sort someday. But Petunia hated the very notion of it when Lily brought it up, so Lily keeps it to herself lately. 

But of the numerous Christmas traditions in Cokeworth, carroling is Lily’s favorite by far. She’s spent the last three nights alternately watching assorted groups make their way through the neighborhood from her bedroom window and begging her parents to take her. 

She’d cracked open her window, braving the cold night air just to hear better. Petunia had scoffed as she passed Lily’s room on her way to bed. 

“The songs haven’t changed, you know.” She’d said, absently adjusting one of the peony pink rollers in her long, dark hair. “You’re not going to hear anything new.”

Lily frowned, running a hand through her own, knotted hair. “I know. I just wanted to listen.”

Petunia hadn’t responded. She’d just sighed as if she were disappointed with her little sister and strutted away. 

Lily misses Petunia. They used to be such good friends… and now it was impossible to keep Petunia in the same room as her for more than a few hours. She wonders if Petunia might still be cross that Lily had gone through her things over the summer. She hopes that’s not the case. How’s she meant to make it up to her if Petunia won’t even speak to her? Now, as The Evans family is finally stepping out into the streets, bundled in matching Christmas jumpers knitted by Mrs. Evans’ mother, Petunia’s up in front of the rest of her family, nose in the air and Lily’s just a couple steps behind. 

Nora Evans wraps an arm around Lily’s shoulders. “Excited?”  

Lily nods, doing her very best to ignore the stick feeling of gloves on her fingers. 

“We  are  just doing the one street, aren’t we?” Petunia asks.

Nora sighs. “We’ll go for a couple hours at most, love.”

“But it’s cold out here,” Petunia frowns. Her thin lips cut an ugly, pink line across her face like some sort of scar. 

“I can make cocoa when we get home.” says their dad. His wiry glasses sit so low on his nose it almost looks like they might tip right off. “How does that sound?”

The huff of Petunia’s warm breath creates a shimmering cloud as she whips her head away once more. 

“That sounds great, Dad,” Lily says with forced brightness. “Thanks.” 

They join an existent group of carolers and traverse the block, heading further east as they travel. At every house, someone prances up to the door and gives it a firm knock before the others begin to sing. They sing  everything . Lily’s old favorite: Here We Come A-wassailing, Nora’s preferred hymn: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, and the elderly couple from next door’s insisted classic: Silent Night. 

Most people are happy to see them, some even hand out peppermint humbugs. Lily’s pockets are chock full of them by the time they get halfway down the road. The entire neighborhood is bustling with spirit. There is one house, however, that seems utterly empty. 

The car in the drive is practically buried in snow. It hasn’t been moved in days. The sparse lights on the outside of the house are turned off, and the Christmas tree on display through the window is dry and brown. They skip that house, as Nora says whoever lives there is probably on holiday somewhere. 

So the next house over gets struck with two songs. First comes Sean Evans’ pick of Twelve Days of Christmas. Petunia sings purposefully off-key the entire time to protest being forced to sing a five-minute song that’s mostly about  birds . Mum and Dad even suggest that the group try to cheer her up by singing the Beatles song that came out a couple of years ago. Petunia loves the Beatles. 

But it’s to no avail. She looks bored the entire time. 

When they reach the end of their street, as the rest of the group turns left, Petunia hangs back and veers right. 

Lily slips away from her father. She takes a few tentative steps towards Petunia’s retreating form. “Where are you going?” 

Petunia pauses. 

“Home.” She says, still facing away from her sister. Finally, she turns to look at Lily over her shoulder and Lily’s stomach sinks at just how sad her eyes are. “I don’t suppose you’ll come with.”

“Can I?”

“I can’t stop you.”

Lily scampers forward at once and falls into stride beside her sister. Petunia’s a good deal taller than Lily. And a great deal thinner. Must be a funny sight. Lily thinks with a tired sort of bite. Petunia with her long, willowy limbs and elegant neck, striding gracefully down the street next to dumpy little Lily. What a strange pair the two must have made when they’d been closer friends. 

They walk for a while in silence, past the house where they’d sung the Beatles song, past the house with the dead tree in the window, and, perplexingly, past their own house. 

“I thought you said we were going home?” Lily says apprehensive. She eyes her sister warily. 

Petunia marches onward without so much as a glance at Lily. “I changed my mind.” She says snippily. “It’s allowed.”

Lily clamps her mouth shut and chews on the inside of her cheek. 

They walk to the very edge of East End, straight to the park they used to frequent. The one with the swing set. 

“Tuney?” Lily’s voice is unsure and wavering. She tries to keep any burst of happiness out of her expression until this whole thing’s been sorted. 

Petunia shrugs. She offers no explanation. 

Petunia’s not one to apologize with words. 

“I’ll race you?” Lily offers. 

Petunia smiles. “One, two, three, go.” 

Petunia takes off like a shot as if she’d been planning for this all along. Lily awkwardly lopes after her. 

Petunia flings herself onto the swingset, flying backward and upwards with surprising speed once seated. Her soprano laughter carries and makes every lamp on the street glow brighter. Lily smiles uncontrollably as she sits on her own swing. 

“I’ll bet I get higher than you,” Petunia says as they glide by one another. 

“How much?”

“Loser picks up the wrapping paper tomorrow night.”

“Deal.” 

The girls pick up speed, pumping their legs and tossing back their heads. Higher. Higher. Lily feels like she’s back at school, swooping through the air on a Shooting Star. Only this time it’s better– leagues better– because Petunia’s there too. Her chestnut hair whips around her face as she flies too, right next to Lily. 

And, just like that, this isn’t fun anymore.

Lily stops kicking her legs; she slows jerkily to a simple sway. 

Petunia beams triumphantly. “I win.” She says as she, too starts to slow. 

“Tuney, I’m sorry.” Lily blurts out before she can stop herself.

“Pardon?”

“I’m sorry I went through your things. And I’m sorry you couldn’t come to Hogwarts with me.” Lily says. “I wish you could have. It would have been much more fun if you’d been there. I missed you the whole time, I promise. I–”

“You think I’d want to go to your… your  circus  school?” Petunia spits. “And be surrounded by  freakshow fodder?  No. I don’t think so.” 

“Petunia, please-"

“No.” She stands up sharply, folding her twiggy arms over her jumper, obscuring the emerald P emblazoned on its front. “Enough.”

“I’m only trying to-”

“--Humiliate me! Again.” Petunia says, her eyes wild and angry. “Like you always do! Well, guess what, Lily, –”

“I’m not-”

“-- You’re a  freak . And I’m not. The only one who should be humiliated here is  you .” 

She says it with such seething hatred, such venom, that Lily is startled into silence. She sits there, blinking owlishly at her sister as Petunia pants ragefully. The air between them grows thick with her frosted breath.

“Goodnight, Lily,” Petunia says sharply. 

Petunia turns on her heel and leaves. Lily can only watch. 

With tears in her eyes, Lily rips her gloves off her hands. She chucks them hotly into the snow and viciously bites at the hangnail she’d been trying to let alone. She peels it off with her teeth and stares numbly at the pinpricks of blood she leaves in her wake.

+++

FRIDAY. DECEMBER 24, 1971.

Severus’ house is at the western edge of Spinner’s End. It’s cramped, hardly big enough for the three people who live in it, threadbare save for the ornate bookshelves Eileen managed to snag from the old Prince manor, and dim. Most houses in Cokeworth are electrically wired, but his house is lit solely with candles. 

It’s also loud. 

While he’d been away, he’d forgotten just how loud his house could get. Eileen and Tobias argue at all hours. They typically have the decency to do it in a different room, but it’s not as if the paper-thin walls of their little hut dampen much sound.

This is exactly why Severus is so glad Lily wants to see him today. Even if it’s only meant to be for a few minutes before she has to go home for supper. It gives him reason to slip out the creaky front door and make his way towards East End.  

Severus doesn’t  love  East End. He’d much prefer to be living closer to London, or somewhere in Hogsmeade, or maybe France.

When he arrives at the hill by the park he heads for the hulking willow tree right at the very top only to find that Lily’s already there. She’s sitting in the snow against the tree, looking much like a flower in early bloom. Her red hair glistens with ensnared snowflakes. 

She looks up at the sound of his footsteps and her worried face breaks open into a visage of relief. 

“Sev,” Lily says in the tone of someone who’s just shedded a heavy burden. She throws herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso. “Thank goodness.”

Severus tries not to wheeze as the strength and suddenness of her crushing embrace knock the air out of him. “Happy Christmas, Lils.”

“But it isn’t!” She says with a sniffle, “It isn’t at all.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Petunia hates me!” Lily cries, tossing herself back against the trunk of the tree. Severus winces when she knocks her skull against the base of the willow. But Lily barely seems to notice. 

He chooses his next words very carefully. Petunia’s never been his favorite person, and, quite honestly, it seems entirely possible that she might hate someone who’s done nothing to deserve it. But it’s difficult to imagine anyone hating  Lily . Though, logically, he supposes some people must considering she’s nearly as outcasted in town as he is, he just can’t wrap his head around the idea. Petunia  knows  Lily. How could anyone both know her and hate her?

In the meantime, he takes a seat next to her. The snow seeps through his cheap gloves and wets his palms while he settles. 

 “What happened?” He eventually settles on.

Lily tips to the side, laying her head on his shoulder. She tells Severus about the Evans’ carroling, about Petunia’s sulky mood, about sneaking off to go to the park, and finally about what made Petunia snap. 

“She just clamped up,” Lily says, wringing her gloved hands. “She wouldn’t let me  say  anything. She…” Lily suddenly stops speaking, biting down on her chapped bottom lip. 

“She what?” Severus probes. He takes Lily’s hand into his own and begins toying with her fingers, hoping the sensation might distract her.

Lily takes a deep breath, she casts her emerald eyes to the grey sky. The sun must be sinking somewhere behind the endless veil of clouds because darkness is creeping across the park. “She called me a freak.” 

Severus’ hands freeze. He fights the urge to clench his fists so as not to crush Lily’s hands. He wants to march right over to the Evans’ House in East End and hex Petunia. He wants to give her boils from head to toe, or make her teeth fall out, or something equally awful.

“I don’t know what to do.” Lily buries her face into Severus’ shoulder. “I made everything worse.”

“You didn’t do anything.” He says firmly. He jerks his shoulder away to force Lily to look him in the eyes. “Petunia’s being unreasonable.” 

“I know… but-”

“No. There’s nothing else to it. She’s just jealous of you.”

Lily scoffs. “Right.”

“I mean it.” He says. 

“What do I have that Petunia could possibly be jealous of?” She snaps. “A lack of friends? A few extra stone?”

“For one, an ability to read books without pictures–”

“That’s not-”

“ –your face, for another.”

“Oh, please!” Lily yanks away her hand and crosses her arms, closing herself off to him. He plows forward regardless.

“ ‘Please’ yourself. Have you seen the amount of rogue she uses? End of story.”

“But that still doesn’t–”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake. You’re a  witch , Lily!” Severus exclaims. “You’re  special  and she’s not. It’s no wonder she’s been acting batty ever since you got your letter.”

Lily blinks at him, finally silent. The last lingering glow of sunlight vanishes. Everything around them goes grey and dull. But not Lily. 

Lily remains effervescent. 

She shakes her head; melted snowflakes slide off her hair. “I have to go home, now.” She stands, blooming to her full height and reaching out a hand to help Severus stand.

He clasps their hands together. His stomach jolts in a peculiar manner. He tries not to question it. 

 “Thanks for listening, Sev.” Lily says, crushing him in a hug once more. 

“Always.” Severus replies. 

She gives him a sad smile as she pulls away. Then, quick as a snidget, she presses her cold lips to his cheek and hurries back down the hill. 

Severus feels as though he’s been struck by lightning. He can feel electricity crackling in the tips of his fingers. He steps back, placing a hand on the solid trunk of their tree to steady himself while he watches her leave.

The heart in his chest gives a strange little hop and he’s forced to sit back down. Warmth pools in his face. It rapidly grows unbearably hot against the stinging winter air, so he covers his reddening face with his moist palms.

He wants to be confused by this terrible bodily reaction. He wants to wonder what’s wrong with him. He wants to question if perhaps he’s caught a cold. 

But he can’t. 

Just as he can’t ignore the realization ringing incessantly in his ears.

I think I fancy Lily Evans.

+++

SATURDAY. DECEMBER 25, 1971.

Remus doesn’t tend to rise before the sun, especially not when he’s at home in his cottage– far away from his noisy friends. Even on Christmas, Remus will typically sleep until noon. But, on this particular Christmas, he’s awoken by the gentle rhythm of his mam carding her fingers through his hair. 

He opens his eyes, still too foggy to even balk at the hour. Hope’s face is framed by wisps of her honey-colored hair that have fallen free of her braid. She smiles at her son, and it fills him with a syrupy warm sensation. He missed her. 

“Nadolig Llawen.” She whispers. 

“Happy Christmas.” He echoes. 

She sits him up gently. He complies, of course, leaning forward and pressing his tired eyes into her shoulder. 

“There’s something you need to see.” She says, voice still quiet– a kindness to his ears as they grow more sensitive in the back end of the lunar cycle. “Come on.”

Remus stretches. His limbs pop and snap like those of an old man as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He’s grateful to his mam for pretending the sound doesn’t make her sad. 

The second he catches sight of the Christmas tree, he pauses in surprise. There’s a mound of parcels wrapped in parchment beneath the scraggly tree chopped by his da. On the open windowsill, sits Leopoldo. The owl hoots happily upon glimpsing Remus, gives one hyper ruffle of his feathers, and flies off. 

Remus turns back to Hope. She looks at him with a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. “I think you ought to open these before Da wakes up, yeah?” She tweaks her head towards the gifts. 

Remus agrees. So he does. As he suspected, they’re from his friends. James sent him a large, sleek, raven’s feather quill and a leatherbound journal. The bulk of the presents are from Peter. There’s a hefty package of chocolate frogs, and smaller parcels stuffed with other sorts of sweets. There are caramel cobwebs and ice mice and pepper imps. 

There’s nothing from Sirius. Remus tries not to notice.

Hope smiles at Remus the entire time he’s unwrapping these gifts. He basks in the happy glow of his mam’s approval for as long as possible, sharing a few frogs with her, giggling at her surprised face when one of them hops straight into her coffee. 

Hope drinks coffee, unlike Remus and Lyall. She likes to tease the boys, telling them they’re just afraid of the stronger stuff. But Hope isn’t afraid. Remus doubts Hope is afraid of anything. 

After a while of things continuing this way, just as the sun finally begins to peek over the horizon, Hope leans forward and nestles her chin into her palm. “Are you going to tell me who sent you the gifts?” She says. “Or do I have to ask?”

“My friends from school,” Remus admits.

Her face doesn’t change. She simply hums, contentedly. Of course, she’d already assumed the answer. She almost seems pleased. So Remus goes on. 

“I meant to keep to myself,” He says. “Really, I did, but my roommates are very nice, and they like me a lot. I haven’t told them anything, I swear.”

Hope shakes her head and holds up a hand to halt Remus’ rambling. “Of course not.” She says kindly. “Of course. You’re a smart boy, Remus. I know you’d never do that.”

Remus settles back onto the floor, reassured that she understands. She always understands. 

“I’m proud of you.” She says, abandoning her stool in the kitchen and coming to join Remus in front of the tree. 

“Proud?”

“Very proud.” She confirms. “It takes courage to recognize when you’re deserving of something the entire world will tell you you aren’t.” 

She leans over and plants a warm, coffee-scented kiss on his forehead. Remus leans into her touch. 

“Now, let’s get this stuff packed away.”

The light in Remus’ chest starts to dim. 

“I don’t think today’s the right day to let Lyall know about any of this.” She offers by way of unnecessary explanation, a sympathetic smile on her face. 

Remus knew this, of course. So he doesn’t know why it hurts so much to hear her say it. He’d never intended to tell Da everything about school. So it makes no sense that his chest is aching at the thought of hiding his spoils. He does his best to shove the pain down.

Remus is quite good at that. He has to be. 

“Right?” His mam prompts.

He plasters on his softest smile and tries to keep from cracking at the edges. “Right.”