Advent Fic...
Title - Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas
Author - joely_jo
Word Count - 1877 words
Rating - PG-13
Prompts - a musical instrument and a Christmas radio broadcast
Summary - A little Christmas lightness is stirred in a relationship in wartime.
Author’s Notes - First of all, I did the best I could with these prompts. They caused me a headache until brienze reminded me about a movie I love and thereafter a plot bunny formed. Also, this fic features some of my recent style experimentation… second person, present tense… Intriguing to read, but bloody difficult to write! Lemme know if it works.
And many thanks to everknowledge for the last minute beta job. You’re a star, my dear.
It’s been a long day and your feet are aching in too small shoes you bought in an attempt to look feminine. With a yawn, you grab up your cloak from the behind the desk, looking a little surreptitious as you try to avoid being seen by anyone; the last thing you need is someone else starting up a useless conversation. It’s Christmas Eve and you just want to be home.
The three large glasses of mulberry wine have gone to your head a little but you’re trying not to let it show as you nox the light above your desk and slip quietly out into the lift. There’s no-one around but you can still hear the sound of dulled laughter and music coming from the Christmas party two floors below. Despite the troubles, you’ve all been able to relax for a little while. Christmas does that to you, makes your worries disappear and makes everything seem just that little bit shinier.
The doors to the lift open and you step out into the atrium. Arthur Weasley, wearing a cock-eyed Santa hat and singing drunkenly with Kingsley and Amos bids you goodbye with a slurred shout, “Have a good one, Tonks! And tell Remus to cheer up a bit, will you?”
“I will, and Merry Christmas, lads!” you yell back and throw them all a wink as you slip out of the door.
Outside, the streets are already coated in a frosty rime and wreaths of low cloud swirl and drift between the roofs and alleyways, threatening snow. The streetlights are on low power, as is the way these days, and their amber glows barely penetrate the gathering mists. It’s late and there’s nobody about, no sound but the click of your heels on the pavement as you head down the street. Your breath plumes in front of you as you head for the park just around the corner where you know you can apparate safely home.
As you approach the house overlooking the park - the big Georgian townhouse with the stone lions on the gateposts - you see that another party is going on. Lights blaze out from the windows and you see the shadows of people moving around inside, holding up glasses, dancing and laughing. Blessed Muggles, you think as you walk past, how innocent they are! But you know that their innocence is merely born of ignorance. If they only knew what was going on around them, they would find the dancing and laughter that much harder to summon.
Once hidden by the trees and bushes in the park, you raise your wand and apparate, and as you blink your eyes open again, your own red front door greets you. You cast alohomora onto the lock then take the steps up to your first floor flat two at a time.
You are about to dive straight inside, desperate to get in front of the fire and see Remus again, but then you stop…
Piano music is coming from beyond the door; it is a tune you’ve heard before a long time ago but can’t quite place, melodic but slow and fluent.
Intrigued, you push open the door. As you slip inside, your eyes fall on Remus, his back to you, sitting at the battered and slightly out of tune upright piano you picked up at a flea market the other week in the mistaken belief that it would be easy to work out a charm to get it to play itself. He’s leaning forwards as if a weight is pressing on him but his shoulders are moving fluidly and it is then that you realise that the music is being made by him.
Your ears sharpen in on the melody.
Suddenly, it clicks and you remember your father’s old LP collection and a particular tune performed by Judy Garland. You smile and move towards him. In a low voice, you sing, “Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow…”
He stops playing as he hears you and turns in your direction, his delighted smile sending a bubble of warmth bursting down your spine. “I didn’t know you played; you never said.”
Nodding, he turns back to the piano. “I only play for people I don’t know, and well, you never asked.” He pauses and clears his throat, an embarrassed red flush spreading across his cheekbones. “It’s not something I go shouting about.”
There is a small space next to him on the stool and you perch down. “It’s beautiful… play some more, please?”
He sighs heavily, the sombre mood of late returning once again, “I told you, I don’t like playing for an audience.”
You study his face. It is grey and his expression is haunted, as it has been far too often in recent days. Lines of worry score themselves beneath his eyes and you see the ghosts of all the people he’s lost flicker and blink behind them. “It’s Christmastime,” you say, by way of comfort and reason.
He looks down and wryly chuckles, “Please don’t launch into another song…”
“You what?” you grin, enjoying his momentary amusement but not quite understanding the reason for it.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies. “It’s just a song I heard coming out of one of the Muggle shops this morning. I thought you might know it, what with your love of all things native.”
“Native,” you giggle. “I like that.”
There is a long silence. He lays his hands on the keys, lightly tracing several of the black ones, then removes them and sets them on his knees, thoughtful. You stand and shift yourself in front of him. “How are you doing?”
He releases a long, pent-up sigh and his eyes fall to the floor. Silently, he places his hands on your hips then lets his forehead rest against your stomach. You stare at him, amazed by the show of dependency from this man who is dependent on no-one. You move your hand until it rests on the back of his head and you feel a trickle of tension ease from him.
Long minutes pass and you can feel his breath hot through the material of your t-shirt, coming slow and steady. Finally, he lifts his head and smiles at you, faint like a lighthouse flashing through fog. “Thank you,” he says, his voice quiet.
It’s a strange thing to say, but the thing is, you think you kind of understand what he means.
****
A little later, she coerces you into playing some more, challenges you with her bold, winking eyes and youthful smile. You sigh and shake your head, amazed at her beauty and her brass. Despite it all, she drags the hedonist out in you.
You sit at the piano and pick up the sheet music you’d been playing from earlier, darkened to sandpaper yellow with age and curling slightly at the edges. Its blue cover announces its title: Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, piano arr. by Hugh Martin, lyrics by Ralph Blane, and you flick open the front page and settle it down in front of you.
She perches herself on the narrow edge at the bass end, her bottom nudging some of the lower keys as she finds a comfortable position, then giggles at the sound she makes. You place your hands on the keys, feeling the cool ivory through your fingertips and start to play. For a while she stays completely silent, her gaze drifting off into daydream, then she closes her eyes and hums softly along with the tune.
You finish with a light flair, lifting up through a scale, then pause to look at her, hoping she has enjoyed it. A soft smile, then she edges in front of you, takes your face in her hands and kisses you.
Her lips feel soft and pliant and you open your mouth to her almost at once. It is quiet in the room and you can hear nothing but the beat of your pulse in your ears. After a long minute, she breaks away from you. “It’s so quiet…” she observes in a low whisper. “Like when it’s just about to snow.”
You smile. “It never snows; there hasn’t been a white Christmas in years.”
Nodding, she presses her forehead into yours again. “Would be nice, though, wouldn’t it? Hopeful.”
****
A while later, she goes out and fetches glasses of whisky and mince pies while you add fuel to the fire and flick on the radio to listen to the Carols from Beauxbatons. When she returns, she piles cushions from the sofa on the floor in front of the fire, then goes to the window and draws open the curtains. A tiny squeak of amazement alerts you and you turn to see her standing mesmerised in front of the window. “It is snowing, you know,” she comments and you go to her, to peer out through the glass together.
A scene from a Christmas card greets you, frozen and still, like the pause before an intake of breath. Speckles of snowflakes are landing and melting on the window pane, transient visitors to this world of warmth. “Did you know that every snowflake is different?” you note, as she reaches out and presses her fingers to the glass.
“Really? Is that true?”
“Mmm…”
She pauses and withdraws her hand, letting it fall to her side. “Who checked?” she says, finally, turning and frowning at him, perfectly serious. “I mean, somebody had to check, didn’t they? Who checked that every snowflake was different?”
You stare at her for a moment, then laugh out loud at her earnestness. “Oh, I don’t know… some stuffy old professor, no doubt.” She arches her eyebrow. “Yes,” you continue, “and I know I said I’d done some desperate jobs over the years, but that was not one of them.”
Chuckling, she kisses you firmly on the lips, then pulls away and murmurs, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, Remus…”
A smile creeps onto your face. “A merry little Christmas to you too, my love…”
She turns again towards the window and leans back against you as you stand, comfortable, at ease. The weight of her body against you is heavy but as trusting as if all her bones have melted. And as you stand there and look out onto the falling snow, for the first time in a long while, you feel the burnings of real tenderness. Looking down over her vivid pink head, you see some loose, downy hairs blow gently with the in and out of your breath and feel a spark at the sudden knowledge that this will, despite everything, be the best Christmas you’ve had in years.
The fire crackles as it sets into the log you have not long thrown on it and you glance up, feeling her adjust her position slightly against you. Her head is sleepy on your shoulder and quite oddly, you notice her feet. Somehow, she has kicked free of the wobbly kitten-heels and pulled on in their place the holey striped socks she prefers.
You smile. Moments like this are precious, and you wish, not for the first time, that your memory could frame them sight, sound, taste, touch and scent.
The End.
Author - joely_jo
Word Count - 1877 words
Rating - PG-13
Prompts - a musical instrument and a Christmas radio broadcast
Summary - A little Christmas lightness is stirred in a relationship in wartime.
Author’s Notes - First of all, I did the best I could with these prompts. They caused me a headache until brienze reminded me about a movie I love and thereafter a plot bunny formed. Also, this fic features some of my recent style experimentation… second person, present tense… Intriguing to read, but bloody difficult to write! Lemme know if it works.
And many thanks to everknowledge for the last minute beta job. You’re a star, my dear.
It’s been a long day and your feet are aching in too small shoes you bought in an attempt to look feminine. With a yawn, you grab up your cloak from the behind the desk, looking a little surreptitious as you try to avoid being seen by anyone; the last thing you need is someone else starting up a useless conversation. It’s Christmas Eve and you just want to be home.
The three large glasses of mulberry wine have gone to your head a little but you’re trying not to let it show as you nox the light above your desk and slip quietly out into the lift. There’s no-one around but you can still hear the sound of dulled laughter and music coming from the Christmas party two floors below. Despite the troubles, you’ve all been able to relax for a little while. Christmas does that to you, makes your worries disappear and makes everything seem just that little bit shinier.
The doors to the lift open and you step out into the atrium. Arthur Weasley, wearing a cock-eyed Santa hat and singing drunkenly with Kingsley and Amos bids you goodbye with a slurred shout, “Have a good one, Tonks! And tell Remus to cheer up a bit, will you?”
“I will, and Merry Christmas, lads!” you yell back and throw them all a wink as you slip out of the door.
Outside, the streets are already coated in a frosty rime and wreaths of low cloud swirl and drift between the roofs and alleyways, threatening snow. The streetlights are on low power, as is the way these days, and their amber glows barely penetrate the gathering mists. It’s late and there’s nobody about, no sound but the click of your heels on the pavement as you head down the street. Your breath plumes in front of you as you head for the park just around the corner where you know you can apparate safely home.
As you approach the house overlooking the park - the big Georgian townhouse with the stone lions on the gateposts - you see that another party is going on. Lights blaze out from the windows and you see the shadows of people moving around inside, holding up glasses, dancing and laughing. Blessed Muggles, you think as you walk past, how innocent they are! But you know that their innocence is merely born of ignorance. If they only knew what was going on around them, they would find the dancing and laughter that much harder to summon.
Once hidden by the trees and bushes in the park, you raise your wand and apparate, and as you blink your eyes open again, your own red front door greets you. You cast alohomora onto the lock then take the steps up to your first floor flat two at a time.
You are about to dive straight inside, desperate to get in front of the fire and see Remus again, but then you stop…
Piano music is coming from beyond the door; it is a tune you’ve heard before a long time ago but can’t quite place, melodic but slow and fluent.
Intrigued, you push open the door. As you slip inside, your eyes fall on Remus, his back to you, sitting at the battered and slightly out of tune upright piano you picked up at a flea market the other week in the mistaken belief that it would be easy to work out a charm to get it to play itself. He’s leaning forwards as if a weight is pressing on him but his shoulders are moving fluidly and it is then that you realise that the music is being made by him.
Your ears sharpen in on the melody.
Suddenly, it clicks and you remember your father’s old LP collection and a particular tune performed by Judy Garland. You smile and move towards him. In a low voice, you sing, “Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow…”
He stops playing as he hears you and turns in your direction, his delighted smile sending a bubble of warmth bursting down your spine. “I didn’t know you played; you never said.”
Nodding, he turns back to the piano. “I only play for people I don’t know, and well, you never asked.” He pauses and clears his throat, an embarrassed red flush spreading across his cheekbones. “It’s not something I go shouting about.”
There is a small space next to him on the stool and you perch down. “It’s beautiful… play some more, please?”
He sighs heavily, the sombre mood of late returning once again, “I told you, I don’t like playing for an audience.”
You study his face. It is grey and his expression is haunted, as it has been far too often in recent days. Lines of worry score themselves beneath his eyes and you see the ghosts of all the people he’s lost flicker and blink behind them. “It’s Christmastime,” you say, by way of comfort and reason.
He looks down and wryly chuckles, “Please don’t launch into another song…”
“You what?” you grin, enjoying his momentary amusement but not quite understanding the reason for it.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies. “It’s just a song I heard coming out of one of the Muggle shops this morning. I thought you might know it, what with your love of all things native.”
“Native,” you giggle. “I like that.”
There is a long silence. He lays his hands on the keys, lightly tracing several of the black ones, then removes them and sets them on his knees, thoughtful. You stand and shift yourself in front of him. “How are you doing?”
He releases a long, pent-up sigh and his eyes fall to the floor. Silently, he places his hands on your hips then lets his forehead rest against your stomach. You stare at him, amazed by the show of dependency from this man who is dependent on no-one. You move your hand until it rests on the back of his head and you feel a trickle of tension ease from him.
Long minutes pass and you can feel his breath hot through the material of your t-shirt, coming slow and steady. Finally, he lifts his head and smiles at you, faint like a lighthouse flashing through fog. “Thank you,” he says, his voice quiet.
It’s a strange thing to say, but the thing is, you think you kind of understand what he means.
****
A little later, she coerces you into playing some more, challenges you with her bold, winking eyes and youthful smile. You sigh and shake your head, amazed at her beauty and her brass. Despite it all, she drags the hedonist out in you.
You sit at the piano and pick up the sheet music you’d been playing from earlier, darkened to sandpaper yellow with age and curling slightly at the edges. Its blue cover announces its title: Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, piano arr. by Hugh Martin, lyrics by Ralph Blane, and you flick open the front page and settle it down in front of you.
She perches herself on the narrow edge at the bass end, her bottom nudging some of the lower keys as she finds a comfortable position, then giggles at the sound she makes. You place your hands on the keys, feeling the cool ivory through your fingertips and start to play. For a while she stays completely silent, her gaze drifting off into daydream, then she closes her eyes and hums softly along with the tune.
You finish with a light flair, lifting up through a scale, then pause to look at her, hoping she has enjoyed it. A soft smile, then she edges in front of you, takes your face in her hands and kisses you.
Her lips feel soft and pliant and you open your mouth to her almost at once. It is quiet in the room and you can hear nothing but the beat of your pulse in your ears. After a long minute, she breaks away from you. “It’s so quiet…” she observes in a low whisper. “Like when it’s just about to snow.”
You smile. “It never snows; there hasn’t been a white Christmas in years.”
Nodding, she presses her forehead into yours again. “Would be nice, though, wouldn’t it? Hopeful.”
****
A while later, she goes out and fetches glasses of whisky and mince pies while you add fuel to the fire and flick on the radio to listen to the Carols from Beauxbatons. When she returns, she piles cushions from the sofa on the floor in front of the fire, then goes to the window and draws open the curtains. A tiny squeak of amazement alerts you and you turn to see her standing mesmerised in front of the window. “It is snowing, you know,” she comments and you go to her, to peer out through the glass together.
A scene from a Christmas card greets you, frozen and still, like the pause before an intake of breath. Speckles of snowflakes are landing and melting on the window pane, transient visitors to this world of warmth. “Did you know that every snowflake is different?” you note, as she reaches out and presses her fingers to the glass.
“Really? Is that true?”
“Mmm…”
She pauses and withdraws her hand, letting it fall to her side. “Who checked?” she says, finally, turning and frowning at him, perfectly serious. “I mean, somebody had to check, didn’t they? Who checked that every snowflake was different?”
You stare at her for a moment, then laugh out loud at her earnestness. “Oh, I don’t know… some stuffy old professor, no doubt.” She arches her eyebrow. “Yes,” you continue, “and I know I said I’d done some desperate jobs over the years, but that was not one of them.”
Chuckling, she kisses you firmly on the lips, then pulls away and murmurs, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, Remus…”
A smile creeps onto your face. “A merry little Christmas to you too, my love…”
She turns again towards the window and leans back against you as you stand, comfortable, at ease. The weight of her body against you is heavy but as trusting as if all her bones have melted. And as you stand there and look out onto the falling snow, for the first time in a long while, you feel the burnings of real tenderness. Looking down over her vivid pink head, you see some loose, downy hairs blow gently with the in and out of your breath and feel a spark at the sudden knowledge that this will, despite everything, be the best Christmas you’ve had in years.
The fire crackles as it sets into the log you have not long thrown on it and you glance up, feeling her adjust her position slightly against you. Her head is sleepy on your shoulder and quite oddly, you notice her feet. Somehow, she has kicked free of the wobbly kitten-heels and pulled on in their place the holey striped socks she prefers.
You smile. Moments like this are precious, and you wish, not for the first time, that your memory could frame them sight, sound, taste, touch and scent.
The End.