Chapter 24
Last Christmas, Aunt Petunia had woken Harry up even earlier than usual, ordering him to get started on an elaborate breakfast spread before Vernon and Dudley were due to come downstairs. While he fried pan after pan of bacon, whisked together a mountain of eggs, and toasted half a loaf of bread, Aunt Petunia had scurried through the house, dusting every surface in the living room, straightening the pictures, and meticulously positioning the heaps and heaps of presents under (and around) the tree.
Dudley had thundered down the stairs just as Harry was scooping eggs onto the plates, still in his pyjamas and already in a foul mood. Aunt Petunia had fawned and simpered over him, ushering him to the kitchen table and snatching the full plate from Harry’s hands to put in front of him.
Harry had been given a plate of eggs, a slice of toast, and a glass of orange juice, then shooed to his cupboard to stay out of sight for the rest of the day so as not to ruin their holiday. He’d watched through the crack of the cupboard door as the Dursleys demolished the feast he’d made, then Dudley had importantly led the way into the sitting room to assess his mountain of presents. He’d made a big production of counting how many boxes had his name on them.
Frankly, Harry had been surprised he’d known how to count to twenty-nine.
Afterwards, with a sea of wrapping paper coating the floor—a sea that Harry would doubtlessly be ordered to clear up, once he was allowed out again—and a satisfied smirk on Dudley’s stupid face, Aunt Petunia had insisted on a nice family portrait. Vernon and Dudley had begrudgingly gone upstairs to change into their suits while Aunt Petunia fussed with her dress and pearls.
In the past, Harry had been made to take the picture for them. But the year before, Vernon had bought an expensive new camera that had a timer and a foldout stand, so that they didn’t need anyone else to hold it at all. The three of them took a family picture in front of the tree, all smiles and fancy outfits, and Harry had closed the door of his cupboard and curled up on his mattress.
For Christmas that year, Aunt Petunia gave him an old pair of Vernon’s socks. They were black and much too big for him, worn threadbare at the heels.
Watching the Dursleys, Harry had always wondered what it would be like to have an actual Christmas, one that included him. As he’d gotten older, he’d thought maybe some people just aren’t meant to get these sorts of things; maybe losing his parents meant losing out on proper holidays, too. It had gotten harder to watch every year.
If he’d known last year that it would be the very last time he’d have to watch a Dursley Christmas, he might not have spent the day so bitterly, miserable and lonely. He’d never dreamed of having the life he does now. A guardian who’s nice, who cares about him, who knew his parents and answers his questions; a friend of his very own; money to his name, a proper bedroom; a fantastic school lined up for him to attend, having magic and his parents’ legacy behind him.
If only it didn’t come at the cost of being a monster.
*
Harry wakes up on Christmas morning tired and sick. His head aches almost as bad as his joints and his eyes feel gummed together. He stares up at the ceiling for some time, unwilling to move from his bed. He remembers this feeling from last time and he hates it just the same.
Eventually, he makes himself move. He knows that if he mopes too long, Remus will likely worry, and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t bother getting dressed, just hurrying to the bathroom to quickly run through his morning routine, studiously avoiding looking at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t need to see a zombie staring back at him.
He intends to head straight to the kitchen to hopefully start breakfast before Remus gets up, wanting to treat him to something edible for once, but as soon as he steps out from the hallway, he’s taken off-guard. He stands frozen in the entrance to the sitting room, staring.
There is a tidy stack of presents under the tree. It isn’t outrageous, nothing like Dudley’s normal haul, or even like the modest pile at the Longbottoms’, but even from here, Harry can see his name on the gifts. They hadn’t been there when he’d gone to bed last night. He can see the gifts from Neville in shining red paper, but then there are a handful of other boxes also with his name on them in a familiar, measured scrawl.
Harry’s chest is doing something funny.
“Merry Christmas, Harry,” Remus says gently from one of the armchairs. He’s in his ugly plaid housecoat and slippers, cup of tea in his hand.
Harry turns on his heel and runs back to his room.
He can hear Remus call after him, worried, but he doesn’t bother to respond. He dives under his bed and grabs his bag, then dashes back to the sitting room. Remus is standing now, two steps closer to the hallway as if he’d wanted to go after him. There are lines in his forehead and a frown pulling at his lips.
“Harry,” he says. “Are you—”
Harry opens his bag. “Merry Christmas,” he says. The words stick a little to his throat and he has to clear it awkwardly. Remus stares at the presents he starts pulling out to add to the pile.
“Oh,” Remus says. His face has turned somewhat pink. “Well.”
“I’ve got presents. For me,” Harry says. It feels like he has to say it out loud to believe it.
Remus’ face has smoothed out to something softer and happier. He smiles. “That is generally what happens at Christmas,” he says.
Harry can’t help it. He throws himself forward to hug Remus. It’s just as stiff and awkward as the first time, but Remus warms up to it a little faster, curling his arms around Harry’s shoulders. He puts a hand to the back of his head, which no one has ever done before, and it’s—nice. It’s very nice.
“Thank you,” Harry murmurs to the fabric of Remus’ robe. His face is smooshed, and the words come out muffled, but he thinks Remus gets it anyway.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Remus warns. “You haven’t seen the gifts.”
That makes Harry want to laugh. Somehow, he can’t imagine Remus giving him anything worse than a pair of used socks. The bar isn’t exactly high. This is already shaping up to be his best holiday ever and they haven’t even touched anything yet.
“Come on, let’s have some breakfast,” Remus says, gently prying himself free. Harry quickly releases him, mortified, but Remus gives a comforting, if awkward, squeeze to his shoulder before he lets go completely. “I’ve made some sausage and eggs. I trust they’ll be passable?”
In the kitchen, Harry finds that Remus has quite beaten him to his plans. There are already two plates out, neatly served, kept under the telltale shimmer of stasis charms that Harry is starting to recognise. He wonders how long Remus has been awake.
Harry’s chest feels funny again. It’s always somewhat strange when Remus insists on cooking for him, but at least he usually lets Harry help a little. This is different. This is Christmas and Remus has gone out of his way to cook for the two of them, even though he takes no joy in the task and Harry is, objectively, the better skilled at it. It would have been easy—understandable, even—for Remus to ask Harry to handle the meals for the holiday especially. Harry probably wouldn’t have even minded.
But this isn’t Privet Drive anymore, and Remus certainly isn’t the Dursleys.
“There is just one thing,” Remus warns before they tuck in. Harry pauses, apprehension squeezing his belly. “As we have one week until the next moon, it’s time to start taking the Wolfsbane potion. It’s your choice whether you’d like to drink it now or after breakfast.”
Harry frowns. “Madam Pomfrey always made me take potions first thing.”
“We can keep doing that, if you like,” Remus says agreeably. “However, it isn’t a very pleasant way to start the day.”
“You’ve tried it before?”
“Just this morning,” Remus admits. “Shortly before you woke up, while I was making the food. It’s the first time I’ve had access to it, so I’m not sure what the effects will be like throughout the day, if it’ll make us a bit drowsy, but I can’t say it tastes the best.”
Harry thinks about it. He hates taking so many potions, but he’s getting resigned to it now. “I’ll drink it now,” he decides. “So I don’t have to think about it later.”
“Good man,” Remus says. “Here you are.”
He waves his wand and the stasis cupboard opens, letting a heavy bottle fly towards them. Harry catches it neatly out of the air. The potion inside is foggy and blue, a bigger dose than most potions Harry’s been made to take so far.
Deciding not to draw out the inevitable, Harry quickly unstoppers the bottle, plugs his nose, and sets about gulping the thing down. He almost chokes after the first mouthful but valiantly struggles through. It’s disgusting. It’s so bitter it makes his tongue curl, and it burns faintly on the way down his throat. When he finally lowers the bottle, his eyes are watering.
Remus takes the bottle from him, looking sympathetic. “Terrible, isn’t it? Better wash it down with some pumpkin juice.”
Harry gladly does so. “That’s rank,” he says.
Remus laughs. “Well, so long as it does as advertised and keeps us sane for the full moons, I don’t think we can complain too much. And it’s only for a week a month.”
“Ugh,” Harry says. “Can’t we make it taste better?”
“Afraid not. Pity sugar makes it useless. Unfavourable reaction between ingredients, I’m afraid. The slightest change could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Harry repeats, alarmed.
“It uses volatile ingredients,” Remus says calmly. “If brewed incorrectly, there could be… unfortunate side effects. But our batch was made by a trusted, competent brewer, Harry, I promise. We’ll be fine.”
Harry squints at him for a moment. He’s usually pretty good at telling when an adult is lying. Remus sips at his tea and patiently lets Harry study him without complaint.
“Alright,” Harry says reluctantly. “If you say so.” He makes a mental note to keep track of how he feels throughout the rest of the day, and to watch out for signs of Remus keeling over from his own dose. Not that he would know what to do to help in that case—would 999 be appropriate?—but he’ll keep an eye out anyway.
“Good,” Remus says. “Now, let’s have our breakfast so that we can move on to those presents, hm?”
*
Harry is overwhelmed by his stack of presents. There are even more of them than he initially thought. It makes him feel bad about the somewhat smaller pile by Remus’ knee, but the man himself doesn’t seem particularly upset by the difference.
Catching his eye, Remus gives him a reassuring smile. “This is more than I’ve usually gotten, these past few years,” he admits. “You’ve rather expanded my social circle.”
Harry ducks his head, ears burning. He can’t help but marvel at the haul next to his armchair. Nine whole gifts of varying size sit waiting for him, his name written (mostly) neatly on each one.
He jerks his head up at the sound of tearing paper. Remus is busily digging his way into one of his gifts, something wrapped in dark red with a shiny gold ribbon. Harry doesn’t recognise it. Slowly, with Remus distracted, Harry reaches down and picks up one from his own stack.
It’s a bundle of rough brown paper tied together with twine, and it’s lumpy and crinkly in his hands. His name is scrawled messily in thick black ink. There’s no note, but that doesn’t matter, because Hagrid’s signed his name on the other side of the wrapping paper. The paper rips and unravels to let a hand-carved flute roll into Harry’s palm. It looks as if Hagrid made it himself. It screeches shrilly, a bit like an owl, when Harry blows into it.
Remus looks up at the sound, eyebrow raised. Harry grins at him broadly.
“Lovely,” Remus says wryly, but doesn’t tell Harry to knock it off.
Emboldened, Harry falls upon the rest of his gifts with more vigour, making sure to put the flute safely and reverently out of the way on the coffee table.
He gets another brown paper wrapped gift with Hagrid’s writing, this one telling him that it’s actually from Charlie, the redheaded student Harry had met with the interest in dragons. Apparently, he’d stopped by Hagrid’s asking after ‘Dudley’ and dropped off some more of his mother’s treats for him. Harry sets it aside and reminds himself to share some of the toffee with Remus later. He wishes he’d thought to send Charlie a gift with the letter he’d sent a few days ago, gushing about the dragon under Gringotts, but resolves to make up for it later.
Remus is building his own collection at his end of the table. So far, he has a squat bottle of golden liquid, a few sheafs of heavy folded parchment with a fancy seal, and a small leather-bound book. He’s getting low on gifts, only one left before he reaches the ones from Harry.
It’s nerve-wracking.
Rather than dwell on it, Harry tears into the next present.
He ends up with two books from the Longbottoms: a beginner’s guide to magical plants, with certain entries highlighted and annotated by Neville, ones he thinks Harry will find especially interesting; and a serious looking book that advertises itself as a concise and accurate record of the last wizarding war. Flipping through the index shows Harry that his name is included. It makes him uncomfortable, but Mrs Longbottom’s elegant note tucked into the cover tells him that she fully expects him to read it. He dumps it on the table uneasily.
Fortunately, the next gift he opens is a decently sized box of sweets. The note says it’s from the Headmaster, and that he hopes Harry’s having a splendid holiday with Remus. There are some more of the candies Harry favoured the last time the Headmaster delivered them, chocolate frogs, sugar quills, cauldron cakes, as well as those blasted beans. But there are a few new things, too, with strange names and flavours. The labels don’t seem to be in English. Some of them don’t look like any language Harry’s seen before.
In any case, Harry’s sure Neville and Remus will help him sample them all.
He gets another book, this time from Professor McGonagall, which is surprising because he’s only met the woman a few times and she always came across as stern and no nonsense, not the type to give him a fun looking book like Quidditch Through the Ages. Although, they have exchanged a few letters where she’s answered his questions, and she’s been nice enough then.
Remus sighs long-sufferingly when he sees the book.
“I told her you were fascinated by the game,” he says. “Or flying, at least. I’m afraid she’s going to try very hard to recruit you. She’s enthusiastic about the House teams.”
Lastly, with no other choice, Harry turns to Remus’ gifts to open. He’s unaccountably nervous, doubly so at the thought of Remus opening his. What if Harry did it wrong? What if Remus doesn’t like them?
“You’re building quite the library,” Remus says somewhat sheepishly when Harry starts opening his gifts. Two of them are yet more books. Harry spares a moment to wonder why people think he should be spending all his time reading, but then decides that’s ungrateful. Besides, Mr Alden was the same way, always giving Harry more books to read, and Harry liked reading, really.
It helps that Remus has given him two books that he actually asked for, some weeks ago now. There’s a glossy cover of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them that doesn’t really look second-hand. Harry wonders how much Remus had to shell out for it. It looks interesting, with plenty of illustrations of creatures with wings and fangs and funny beaks, each with an informative paragraph about their habits and abilities, and it classifies them by how dangerous they are, which is fascinating. Harry bets Hagrid would like it.
The other book is rough and yellowed at the edges, gritty and fragile to the touch. It’s handwritten in careful, clean lines, ink bleeding and faded on some pages.
An Introduction to Lycanthropy, it reads on the cover. Harry handles it gingerly.
Remus clears his throat. “You said you wanted to read about werewolves,” he says stiffly. “I’ll lend you the Ministry book I have, but I think it’s only fair you get both sides of the story. That one was written just a few years ago by an actual werewolf. I knew her, actually. It’s a rough draft, never got published, but overall, it’s decently accurate about what a new werewolf can expect.”
Harry traces a finger over the name written tiny and hastily in the corner of the cover. Sara Hadi. He wonders where she is now, if she’s still out there trying to write about werewolves. He gets the impression it must be a tough line of work. He sets it carefully on top of the rest of his books.
The last gift from Remus is in a small rectangular box. Harry eases off the lid and finds the same learning quill he’d looked at in the stationary store, the one he’d tried to keep Remus from spotting.
Harry feels himself flush.
“Your mother once complained at great length to me about how steep the learning curve was for students raised in the muggle world,” Remus says. “You’re expected to learn at the same pace as other students, with very little concessions, all whilst grappling with a quill for the very first time. Anything that can help ease the transition is a good investment, she assured me.”
That does make Harry feel better. The idea that his mother may have at one point needed this quill at a similar age dampens some of the embarrassment. Plus, this means he can write freely to Neville—and anyone else—now without worrying about his atrocious penmanship.
“Thank you,” Harry says sincerely. “For all of it.”
“You’re very welcome,” Remus says. “Now, let’s see—”
He pulls one of his gifts from Harry into his lap. It ends up being the box of liquorice wands and fizzing whizzbees, with a chocolate frog thrown in for good measure. Hagrid sent it with his last letter, having ventured into Hogsmeade on Harry’s behalf.
“Ah, you remembered,” Remus says, sounding pleased. “We’ll have a nice stash in the house.”
His second gift is one Neville sent last minute through the post, tucked in with a quick letter addressed to Harry. Remus unwraps it carefully and then holds it in his lap for awhile, just looking at it. Harry fidgets.
It’s one of those moving pictures of the two of them, taken sneakily at Longbottom Manor. In it, Harry is studying his hand of cards, tongue poking out of his mouth. Next to him, just in frame, Neville is peering over his shoulder, confused furrow in his brow, occasionally leaning out of sight as he frowns over his own hand. Remus, on the other side of Harry, is looking over at him, eyes only occasionally dropping down to his hand. His face is soft and amused. Harry knows, because he spent several hours memorising the picture before wrapping it.
Finally, Remus moves. He picks up the frame and looks up at Harry. His face is soft again. “This is lovely,” he says. “Really. It means… very much to me.”
“I thought, um,” Harry stumbles, awkward. “I thought we could put it up in the living room? And—and maybe one of my mum and dad?”
Remus’ face goes through some interesting changes. He clears his throat. “Yes. Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”
He’s looking a bit overwhelmed, so Harry politely looks away. When he’s given Remus long enough to recover, he tentatively ventures, “You’ve still got a present left.”
“Right,” Remus says roughly. He lays the picture frame gently on the coffee table.
The last gift Remus opens is the one Harry had been most nervous about, the one he’d regretted as soon as he’d been faced with wrapping it. The cookbook.
Harry watches Remus’ face closely, anxious that he may be insulted. Far from being offended, however, Remus just laughs good-naturedly.
“I get the hint,” he says. “Are you up for helping with Christmas lunch? I’m afraid I just about exhausted my abilities with breakfast.”
Harry nods eagerly. “I do a very good ham,” he says proudly.
*
It is, indeed, a very good ham, if Harry does say so.
Wizarding cooking still takes some getting used to, and obviously Remus has to handle the magical parts. It shortens prep and cooking time a lot when he can just wave his wand to defrost and chop and set the temperature, and Harry watches enviously, thinking of all the trouble that could have been saved growing up if only he could do the same.
Although, considering his relatives’ reactions to his infrequent accidental magic, maybe it wouldn’t have saved any trouble at all.
While they wait on dinner, Remus lets Harry break out the cards. They play a few rousing rounds of crib while munching on Charlie’s mum’s treats—delicious fudge and treacle—happily ruining their appetites. Remus keeps winning, probably because Harry’s still pretty fuzzy on the rules, having only really played once or twice with Neville, who is similarly inept. Remus stays patient teaching him the rules again, though, and Harry just about gets the hang of it by the end.
The dinner turns out well. Maybe not quite to the same standard as the feast at the Longbottoms’, but considering their limited supplies, time, and experience, Harry feels quite proud of himself. Remus doesn’t offer a word of complaint, which is entirely unlike the Dursleys, who found fault in everything Harry did, and it reminds Harry that he really ought to stop comparing them.
“I picked these up from Diagon,” Remus says over the demolished ruins of the mashed potatoes. He reaches into the hall cabinet and withdraws a box, patterned all over with tiny looping firework explosions. “A bit silly, but I always thought they were fun.”
Harry peers in the box. They’re… Christmas crackers. Harry’s seen them before; he even got to pull one at school last year, when the teacher handed them out and one of the new kids shared with Harry. He didn’t get the prize inside, but at least he knows what they’re like in theory.
Remus offers him the end of one. Harry takes it and pulls.
It breaks with a loud, jarring crack, and colourful sparkles erupt upwards into their faces. Green and blue smoke billows up, twinkling merrily under the kitchen lights.
A startled laugh bubbles up out of Harry’s mouth before he can stop it.
“That’s fantastic!” he says. “Can we go again?”
“Don’t you want to see your prize first?” Remus asks, scooping up the crinkly paper ball that had fallen to the table in the excitement. He unwraps it to find a small wizarding chess set and one of those silly crowns to wear. Except it isn’t a crown—it’s a set of bunny ears. They twitch and swivel around and everything.
Harry eagerly grabs another cracker while Remus puts on the ears. They suit him terribly.
They pull the second cracker and get a face full of silver and purple smoke and sparkles. This cracker spits out another crown along with a wooden dragon figurine that looks up at them with a tilted head, wings fluttering.
“Whoa,” Harry says, impressed. He prods experimentally at the figurine. It snaps weakly at his fingers but doesn’t otherwise protest being scooped up. It promptly tucks its head under its wing and appears to fall asleep.
Harry’s crown ends up being funny looking antlers. He drops them on his head and turns to Remus, grinning, with the wooden dragon curled on his shoulder. Remus blinks at him, looking startled, then pained. But before Harry can feel too anxious and quickly drop everything, Remus reaches out and lightly adjusts the antler crown. His smile is only a little bit off.
“Hagrid will be impressed,” Remus says, nodding to the toy. “Careful not to lose him.”
Affronted, Harry curls a protective hand over the dragon. “I won’t.”
“I know you won’t,” Remus assures, and starts quickly gathering up all the rubbish from the crackers and turning away to throw it in the bin. He keeps wearing the bunny ears.
“Hey, Remus,” Harry says, fidgeting with the dragon figurine. “This is a really good Christmas.”
Remus pauses. “Yes,” he says eventually. “It is. The very best.”