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Harry has never looked forward to the holidays before. At the Dursley's, all it meant was hours of cooking then making himself scarce when guests arrived. Smelling the Christmas roast he agonized over as his stomach grumbled in his cupboard. Listening to the clanks of silverware and the melody of voices, feeling utterly alone on his worn toddler mattress under his too thin blanket.
He did not expect anything for his first Christmas at Hogwarts. He only thought about the absence of responsibility and cruelty, not the possibility of gifts. It simply didn't occur to him. Receiving a birthday cake and Hedwig that summer was an anomaly. Harry Potter did not get presents. Hagrid happened to be ignorant of that rule, is all.
But then he woke up with a pile of gifts at the foot of his bed. At eleven, Harry experienced a true Christmas for the first time. Another anomaly, he wanted to argue. But then he got presents on his twelfth birthday, and he recognized a pattern emerging. A new rule: Harry Potter got presents from friends.
He felt so happy. Even the simplest gift was something amazing to him.
Those first couple of years at Hogwarts, he even had his friends with him at Christmas. He was seen and heard. He didn't need to hide. He smelt the Christmas roast and ate it too. His fork and his laughter joined the beautiful cacophony of holiday cheer.
Later, his friends didn't always stay for Christmas at Hogwarts. Ski trips in foreign countries and family time at home called like siren songs. Fourth year had them staying until Yule for the ball, but not a day more. They rushed back to their families, gifting him small, rushed apologies. He was but an absent-minded afterthought.
Harry did not mind this. How could he, when they’ve already given him so much?
He did not get angry. He couldn't. Why want something he knew wasn’t his — couldn’t ever be his? They were not his family, despite personalized knitted sweaters and “you're always welcomed here"s. Being like family was not the same as being family.
It was enough. More than he's ever had. To be thought of at all meant more than either Hermione or Ron knew.
Harry did not think to ask for more. Yet, more was given to him his fifth year, starting with a letter from Sirius.
Hey Pup,
I told Dumbledore not to have any Order meetings during the holidays. Told him I wanted to be alone.
But really, I want you here. It's none of Dumbledore's business what I get up to in my own home. What time I spend with my own godson.
About a month ago, I mentioned wanting to have you over for the holidays and he said it wasn't a good idea. He thinks he got me to see his side of things.
What Dumbles doesn't know won't hurt him.
When McGonagall asks why you didn't sign up to stay this year, tell her you're going to the Dursleys. I already had a chat with them. They will support our cover story. I was very convincing.
I have a feeling you don't like it there. Try to think of a good excuse for why you'd be going there, just in case. Maybe a muggle friend that you want to see, living nearby.
See you soon.
-Padfoot
p.s. don't stress too much about end of term tests. have some fun, pup. maybe do a prank or two with the Weasley twins.
Harry immediately agreed.
It honestly wasn't hard to convince McGonagall that he wanted to stay at the Dursleys for Christmas. He told her and emotions flickered across her face too quickly for Harry to decipher, before settling on a soft smile. He didn't need to use the excuse he had prepared. He had a weird feeling, thinking her eyes were a bit too knowing, like she reached some sort of conclusion that really pleased her. It was a bit disconcerting that the conversation went so well.
The day the train was set to depart from Hogwarts, Harry was ready. He explained to Ron and Hermione earlier why he was seeing the Dursleys. There, he had to use his excuse (calling it that felt much better than “lie") and really sell it. Ron accepted it rather quickly, but Hermione still had a contemplative look on her face even after she stopped questioning him.
He made sure to casually mention to them that he was meeting the Dursleys outside the station. He told them in the common room so other people would overhear. No one would find it strange, then, when his relatives were nowhere to be seen inside.
The ride to London is nerve-wracking. He tries to appreciate the last moments he's having with his friends for a while, but feels his mind constantly drifting. Thoughts of hot chocolate, Christmas trees, and a place to call home. It always felt like something beyond his reach. Yet he’s hurdling toward it at who knows how many kilometers per hour. Looking out the window, the scenery rushes past. It feels both too slow and too fast.
“Harry?”
He looks at Hermione. He notices that they are alone. Neville went to sit with Luna a couple hours into the trip, and playing back the conversation he wasn’t paying any attention to, he recalls Ron saying he was heading to the loo.
“Yeah, ‘Mione?”
“I just wanted to make sure this is what you really want.” She bites her lip as if stopping herself from saying more.
Harry blinks. He doesn't realize what she means for a moment. Then, it hits him. “Yes. I'm just tired of seeing everyone go back home… and not having that.” The words come out, more honest than he's been all week. Yet he can't let her know the full truth. “I know it's not the best there. But it's been better. Sirius gave them a talking to.”
He feels guilty, but knowing she would lecture him, maybe even tell someone, gives him the conviction to look her in the eyes and lie.
He thinks about the betrayal over the last summer. Being ignored, left to rot after the disaster that was the end of the Triwizard Tournament. All while Hermione and Ron were together, with Sirius and all the Weasleys. All the people he cared about together, and him alone. No contact just because "Dumbledore said so.” He knows he’s making the right choice in not telling her. Or maybe, some part of him just craves petty revenge. Wants her to be left out of the truth like he was during that miserable summer.
“Oh, Harry,” she sighs. She brings him into one of her strong, short hugs. “I hope it goes well.”
“Yeah, I hope so too,” he agrees.
Ron comes back in then. Harry feels calmer now, having cleared the air with Hermione. Knowing that Hermione cares so much comforts him.
The rest of the train ride goes well, with jokes and banter and candy shared between them. Hermione's little trying-to-seem-annoyed huffs come out when Ron and him get too loud or rambunctious.
When they arrive Harry quickly gets onto the platform, heading to the restroom. He enters a stall and dons his invisibility cloak, belongings tucked into his jean pockets. He asked a seventh year to apply shrinking charms to Hedwig's cage and his trunk. She also put a feather-light charm on the trunk. It can be undone with a press of a finger or wand simply with the intention to unshrink or un-lighten the items. That bit of magic wouldn't pop up on The Trace, she told him with a wink. It cost him one galleon. It's a brilliant bit of magic, so it was very much worth it.
He leaves the station, maneuvering through the crowd. He heads over to a café a few blocks away and takes off his invisibility cloak in the alley next to it. As he enters, he looks around for Sirius, remembering what he wrote in his most recent letter.
I'll be in disguise. You won't recognize me so look for a man in a purple shirt.
Harry spots a man in a purple band tee. He has sandy brown hair and piercings. Including face piercings. He sits down across from him.
He grins at Harry. Despite him looking completely different to Sirius, the smile is the same. He grins back.
“Hi pup!” He gets up from the table and crowds him into a big hug. It's very different from Hermione's, or even Mrs. Weasley's. He's taller and sturdier. Very solid, despite the years in Azkaban. He's recovered nicely since then, looking more like the man found in his parent's wedding photos. Even though he's wearing a different face this is still Sirius. It must not be Polyjuice, Harry muses.
“Hi Siri,” he mumbles into Sirius’ firm chest. He doesn't want to let go.
Sirius releases him slowly, keeping his hand on his shoulder. He directs him to the ordering counter.
“What do you want?”
Harry stares at the menu. Shame comes over him when he realizes he's never been to any type of restaurant before, other than the Leaky Cauldron and Three Broomsticks at least. There is something awfully ironic about eating out at a muggle café for the first time with a pureblood wizard.
He looks at Sirius, taking in his easy going demeanor. His hand is still a comforting presence on his shoulder.
“I don't know. I've never been to a café before,” he admits.
Sirius’ face scrunches in confusion for a moment before he lets out an “ah.” He smiles reassuringly. “How about a hot chocolate or some tea? Their chai latte is great here.”
“Um. Hot chocolate.”
“Great.” He turns to the cashier. “One large hot chocolate and a medium coffee, black.” He chuckles, looking at Harry to see if he catches the pun. Harry rolls his eyes. “Two sausage breakfast sandwiches. And one of each of your pastries. To-go, if you will. Except for the chocolate cake. Warm that one up?”
The cashier looks a bit startled at the order. Harry looks over at the display case. There’s easily 20, maybe 30 different pastries. Harry gapes.
The cashier opens his mouth as if to ask Sirius if he’s sure when Sirius places several hundred-pound bills on the counter. He closes his mouth.
The total takes a moment to calculate as each item is added individually. The cashier announces it after entering the last item. Harry stares at Sirius. He’s grinning like a fool. “Keep the change,” he announces. Harry looks at the amount on the counter. He’s just tipped this man over a hundred pounds.
“You do realize that’s a lot for a tip, don’t you?” Harry asks as they sit down, drinks in hand.
“Yep.” He sips his coffee loudly. A different worker places the cake on the table. He places a large bag beside it that takes up most of the space.
They share the cake in peaceful quiet, with only the soft instrumental music, murmurs of other customers, and the muffled sound of London streets filling the air. It is a huge contrast to the magical pubs he’s been to, or even Fortescue's Ice Cream. All the remaining tension he feels about Sirius not liking him or not feeling out of place around him dissipates in the time it takes to finish their food (30 pastries excluded).
He is side-along apparated to Grimmauld Place. Despite only having spent a small portion of his last summer here, it feels like coming home. He stares at Sirius’ back as they enter the house. He’s almost expecting him to disappear.
It’s different from last time he was here. Cleaner. New wallpaper. House elf heads gone. The troll-leg umbrella stand and other unsightly oddities replaced by more tasteful options.
“Wow. It looks great.”
Sirius turns around. He looks like himself again. “Thanks pup. Claiming the Black lordship made Kreacher and the house a lot more agreeable.” He lifts his hand and a ring appears. It has a crest with crows on it. He doesn’t make much else out before it disappears again. Harry reaches out feeling Sirius’ hand. He doesn’t feel it. It’s not just invisible, it’s vanished.
“Wicked.”
“Yeah I know.” Harry notices that smile lines appear around Sirius’ eyes when he smiles wide. Somehow, it has the effect of making him look younger rather than older. It’s nice to see evidence of happiness on his body rather than suffering.
Harry tackles him in a hug. His heart feels full.
Maybe if Sirius can recover from Azkaban, Harry can recover from his demons, too?
Sirius laughs as he picks Harry up and spins him around in their embrace. Harry joins in, laughing harder than he’s laughed before.
When the spinning stops, Sirius moves his hand up and into Harry’s hair. He cups the side of his head gently. “You’re so grown up, Harry.”
Hearing him say his name like that lights up something in him that he didn’t know existed. It feels like acknowledgement. It feels like love.
He looks at Sirius. He has this complicated look on his face. As if he can’t choose between frowning or smiling.
“I’m here now,” he responds, finding the implication in his words. “You’re here now,” he says, feeling it equally important.
“We’re here now,” Sirius agrees.
The days go by in a flurry of joy, eating pastries, and getting to know each other. Sirius brings out some photos Harry’s never seen before. He brings out a letter from Lily, and adds his own embellishments to the story told there. Harry stares at his mum’s writing, fascinated and melancholic. They put up a Christmas tree that they bought from a muggle tree shop and decorate it with magic. Sirius tells him the trace doesn’t work here. He spends many hours learning new spells from Sirius, using magic for every little thing. The energy in the air as they cast tastes like freedom.
Sirius tells him how he glamored himself so well at the café and during their other trips into muggle London. He says that while Harry’s dad was better, he is also a deft hand at transfiguration. Self-transfig is an essential building block for anyone wishing to undergo the Animagus transformation, he argues. Otherwise you can end up half-transformed with no undoing it. It also helps the process along, understanding the principles that go into it.
When he explains this, and begins teaching Harry some glamors, he tells Harry that Dumbledore doesn’t approve of him going out in public. Says it’s too dangerous. All of the Order agrees.
“Yet, when I saw Tonks and Mad-Eye in Diagon last week, neither of them blinked an eye at me! Hah!” This proves, in Harry’s opinion, that it is fool-proof. “It isn’t a charms spell. You’re changing your body, actually, physically changing it. There are charms that change the appearance, but can be easily undone, or detected, from devices and spells — like Moody’s eye. Transfiguring yourself means detection is a lot less likely. Countering it is harder too. You need the exact counter spell.” He notes that Moody definitely saw magic on him if he looked, but would have no clue just how much magic was used and for what. He would’ve thought it was a cosmetic charm, if he gave any thought to it. Many people use them.
Learning about magic from Sirius is like night and day to school. There, they manage to make something as amazing as magic boring. Here, every piece of knowledge is exciting and new. He thinks about magic in ways Harry has never considered before. Talks about it as if it were alive, like claiming his house has a personality. He tells tall tales about his short time as an auror, showing off the spells as he tells them, his and his enemies’ both. His tales are as tall as he claims, Harry knows.
Harry likes when Sirius teaches him spells when telling stories about the Marauders the most. Although the spells themselves are simpler, often less useful, he takes in the lessons like he takes in air. Teenaged versions of Sirius and his mother and father are brought to life in Grimmauld Place’s living room through the memories shared and re-lived. Tears are brought to his eyes more than once, but never fall. He’s just too happy to cry.
On Christmas Eve, Harry and Sirius make sugar cookies. At one point, Harry goes to the bathroom and comes back to a disaster. In only a few short minutes, Sirius has managed to make a mess of everything.
Despite not being gone long enough for it to happen, the cookies are burnt. Sirius shamefully admits that he tried to speed the baking along with magic. It did not work. Then he covered them in frosting to try to hide his shame. Or to try to redeem them. It is unclear.
They laugh and laugh and laugh. Then they make new ones. There is no anger or stress. Burnt cookies mean nothing more than starting a new batch.
Afterwards, they wade through the Black Library for baking books. They find one, and several on cooking. A miracle, Sirius says. Sirius did not believe such a good-natured book would exist in his family’s library. He spends the next hour with a shocked expression. At the ten minute mark, Harry is sure he’s just pulling faces to mess with him.
“Stop making faces,” Harry laughs, “it’ll get stuck like that.”
“What?”
“Oh. Ah, muggle expression?” The rest of the day, they exchange muggle and wizarding phrases as they remember them. Harry particularly likes ones that are oddly similar. “Cauldron calling the other cauldron black,” feels like a horrible, literal interpretation of the muggle one he’s familiar with. Harry wonders out loud which one came first for similar phrases, which leads to him announcing the “chicken or the egg” paradox to Sirius. Sirius proudly claims it as his favorite muggle phrase and uses it ironically and wrongly as often as he can.
“Pass the butter, please. Hmm. Real chicken and the egg scenario, with milk and butter, eh?”
“It quite literally is not!”
Come Christmas day, Harry races down the stairs to the living room after pounding on Sirius’ door, shouting, “It’s Christmas! Time to open presents!” He’s heard that kids run to open presents Christmas morning, but has never had the opportunity to do it himself. He didn’t even think about doing it, knowing Sirius would love it too.
Sirius grabs him from behind as he approaches the next flight of stairs. He can’t quite hold back a flinch, but then forces his body to relax as he is picked up and thrown over Sirius’ shoulder. “Let’s goooo!” Sirius exclaims.
He’s placed on the couch and Sirius drapes himself over him.
“Ge’ off,” he grumbles.
Sirius obliges and grabs an armful of presents, plopping them on Harry’s lap. He’s grinning from ear to ear, as if he’s the one opening the presents.
“Come on, come on! Open them!”
Even childish like this, Harry finds Sirius extremely charming. He wonders if Sirius has had a Christmas like this before, either. One with no pain or badness, where he can be himself.
He opens the presents piled on him. First is Mrs. Weasley’s traditional gift of a sweater and fudge. He puts it on over his tee-shirt.
“Fudge for breakfast?” He proposes.
“Fudge for breakfast,” Sirius confirms with a serious nod.
They both take one and start on it.
He opens his next presents. Unsurprisingly, there is a book from Hermione and candies from Ron — Every Flavor Beans and chocolate frogs. He rolls his eyes affectionately. If there’s one thing he can count on, it’s those two’s consistent gift-giving tendencies.
“They like to gift me what they would like,” he jokes.
“Huh. You’re right.” Sirius picks up the book and looks at the cover. “Interesting, this one, at least.”
“Yeah, at least there’s a variety with Hermione’s. Different genres, subjects, things like that, even if it’s always a book. Ron… Ron is just not a good gift giver, I suspect.” Hermione at least gives him books for things he’s interested in, or might want to know more about.
Sirius laughs.
“It’s nice, though. To expect those things and get them. To get anything, really. I can count on Ron and ‘Mione to remember me.” To care goes unsaid.
The gifts are quite nice, even if he has to admit they’re pretty unoriginal. For Hermione’s, he would never get a book for himself, but finds that he appreciates each and every one. And not just because they’re from her. They’re always genuinely good books. For Ron’s, it makes him feel nostalgic and grateful. It reminds him of their first meeting where they shared his “one of everything” haul from the snack cart. He grins when he realizes just how similar he and Sirius are, thinking of the pastries from the café. Ron’s candies make him think of the gift of friendship. His very first friend. And that’s the most important gift he’s gotten from Ron, and continues to get each year.
The next present is wrapped in the same paper most of the rest of the gifts are wrapped in. He looks at Sirius.
He smiles.
He opens it and inside is some kind of leather strap. It’s too big to be a bracelet, though. And there’s a strange attachment on it, also made of leather.
He looks to Sirius for an explanation.
“Here,” he reaches out, putting it on Harry’s arm. It goes about midway up his forearm. “You put your wand in it. It’s a wand holster. Anti-summoning and theft charms on it. You flick your wrist like so,” Sirius demonstrates and his own wand pops out from beneath his sleeve. “And ta-da! Your wand is there.”
“Sirius, this is great.” He thinks about how he won’t forget or misplace his wand anymore. Then thinks about how much quicker he can be on the defensive when trouble finds him. “Really, it’s brilliant.”
“And wait, there’s more!”
“Hah.” He opens the next few that Sirius hands him, not wrapped in Sirius’ paper. Gifts from the twins, Luna, Ginny, and Neville. He gets pranking material, which Sirius oh’s and ah’s over; a book on occlumency that makes him feel watched, honestly — but appreciates nonetheless; a comic and some magazines on Quidditch — he didn’t know the wizarding world had comics! There’s moving panels and it’s great!; and finally a book on the defensive and offensive uses of 250 herbs and plants.
After that, it’s all presents from Sirius. The next one he opens is a handwritten journal. The cover reads ‘The Marauder's Totally Awesome Guide to Becoming One with Your Inner Animal.’ Harry bursts out laughing at that, which quickly turns into tears when he opens it. Each one signed their name on the inside cover. He traces over his dad’s signature with wonder, much in the way he did with his mum’s handwriting in her letter to Sirius.
“Thank you,” he chokes out. For all that the subject is fantastic, it’s who wrote it that really matters to him.
“You’re welcome, pup.” Sirius has that happy-sad look on his face again, and Harry suspects he is much the same. “I have some other books on the Animagus transformation to lend you in the library, but honestly, this has all you need. Some visualizing exercises and shit in those books are helpful, though.”
“Yeah, sounds great,” he says, not caring much about that at the moment. Just appreciating holding something his dad once held.
The next few packages are exactly what he hears every kid say they don’t want for Christmas: clothes. He's ecstatic opening them though, enough that the embarrassing one filled with socks and underwear barely fazes him. He’s given so many shirts, sweaters, and pants. Even some pajamas and two pairs of shoes. One has wizarding robes, which Sirius explains has both casual and more formal options, telling him how to tell the difference and some wizarding do’s and don’ts when it comes to dressing.
Most of the clothes are muggle though. He loves the band tee-shirts. He gets an image in his head of being a mini Sirius. Dressed just like him, piercings and all. (Yes, the piercings were real, he came to find out after Sirius removed his glamors. He got them repierced as all his piercings healed over during his stay in Azkaban.)
He puts on a pair of fuzzy socks. Wizarding ones that have an animated snitch flying around. It moves from one sock to the other. Magic, he thinks in awe. It still amazes him.
It stops moving if you touch it, and an animated “+150” with confetti appears. You press it again to start the game over. Harry absolutely loves it. He’ll wear them until his feet stink, he tells Sirius, much to his amusement and dismay.
The last gift he opens is the smallest one yet. It’s a box that easily fits in the palm of his hand. Sirius is bouncing in his seat, unable to sit still.
He opens it slowly to mess with him.
After the torture and Sirius begging for mercy (“Just open it already! Please!”), he sees what looks like a jewelry box. He opens it and it’s a ring that shares the same coloring and crest that Sirius wears.
He doesn’t understand the significance but feels that it is significant.
“A matching ring?” He asks. Even if it’s just that, Harry loves it. But he senses it has some wizarding meaning.
“It’s the Black Heir ring,” Sirius explains quickly.
“Oh, cool.” He responds automatically. “What’s an heir?” He knows the literal meaning, in a muggle context, but struggles to connect it to their situation.
“I’m… choosing you to be next in line for the Black Lordship. As my godson. It’s typically reserved for a lord’s child.” He lets that sink in. “I’ll explain more what a lordship entails, later. But what’s important right now is… you're my godson. I care about you. You’re my family.”
Harry doesn’t need to hear more. He puts it on.
Sirius gasps. A rush of energy thrums through Harry’s body from his finger, up his arm, and to the rest of his body, coming back to rest at his fingertips. He feels energized. Fulfilled. Like being stuffed after a big meal, but in someplace different, deeper. His soul, he thinks.
His eyes water as he smiles so hard it hurts. He flings himself at Sirius in a bone-breaking hug. “I love you I love you I love you,” he chants.
“I love you too, Harry. So much.” He hugs back.
They hug for a very long time, Harry’s head ending up against Sirius’ chest. Hearing his heartbeat like a Northstar guiding his own heart.
“Just one last thing,” Sirius announces.
“What?” Harry asks. “That was the last present, right?” He looks back at the tree. There’s none left.
“Yes, in a sense. This one is not so much a present, as something I want to show you.”
“Okayyyy,” Harry drawls out. He leans back.
Sirius grabs his sleeve and pushes it up, exposing his right arm. On it, there’s a tattoo, freshness evident through the lack of hair on it. It’s a stag.
“Oh.” He reaches out and at his touch, the stag moves. It gallops around his bicep, ending in a fierce pose. It disappears in a cloud of smoke, much like the cloud of a Patronus before it gains corporeal form. Then it condenses and the stag is formed again, appearing in the pose it began in.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until tear drops start running down Sirius’ arm.
That arm wraps around him, bringing him close. He feels safe, even safer than Sirius’ hugs usually make him, knowing Prongs is there behind his shoulder.
In his mind he writes a new rule: Harry Potter gets gifts from family.
He’s been gifted safety, with the wand holster and magic lessons. Memory, in the form of stories and photos; the letter and journal. Comfort, in the clothing and learning about wizarding culture. Happiness, in all Sirius does. Family, in the ring, the tattoo, and the warm embrace of Sirius’ arms.
From now on, Harry will look forward to the holidays, he decides.