Fic: Little Things That Mean A Lot
Little Things That Mean A Lot
By minnow_53
Disclaimer: These characters belong to JK Rowling and various corporations.
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: G
Era: MWPP, Fifth Year
Summary: Sirius is rich, Remus is poor, Christmas is coming.
Thanks: To astra_argentea for reading through.
AN: This is a sort of Christmas present for everyone who’s been kind enough to read and comment on my fics during the year. Thank you all very, very much.
Now crossposted to remusxsirius and two_boys.
Little Things That Mean A Lot
Sirius Black is known for his large, magnanimous gestures. This may be because he’s from an old family, and is therefore both rich and confident.
Even though Christmas is coming and he’ll surely need his gold, he seems to think nothing of going into Zonko’s and spending ten Galleons on tricks that will either end up forgotten in his trunk, or be used only once or twice, perhaps not even to good effect. Remus watches him hungrily, not aware he’s doing so: ten Galleons is the amount his father earns in a week, before tax.
He often, against his better judgement, converts Sirius’s purchases mentally into hard cash. This box of exploding sugar mice would buy his mother the pair of new gloves she sorely needs. The dungbombs that turned out to be faulty would mend the broken pane in the kitchen window: magic will no longer do it, because it’s gone way beyond a mere Reparo, and Wizarding glaziers are expensive.
Remus wishes he weren’t so preoccupied with gold. He wishes he could be more like other fifteen year-olds, be like Sirius, carefree and extravagant, showering gifts on people he hardly knows: Merlin, Sirius even bought that Hufflepuff girl a silver bracelet when he suddenly decided he didn’t want to go on a date with her after all. He called it a Sorry Present.
Remus has received his share of Sorry Presents as well. When Sirius spilt indelible ink on his Charms homework, he not only copied it out again, he also gave him a sugar quill and a big hug. It’s the hug that Remus particularly remembers, though it was hardly a big deal. Sirius hugs everyone.
After the Prank, Sirius obviously realised he wasn’t going to wriggle out of trouble so quickly this time. For a week or so, Remus kept stumbling across surprises tucked away in odd places: a bar of Honeyduke’s chocolate under his pillow, a Montrose Magpies key ring in his trunk, a magic bookmark next to his fork at lunch. That was when Remus finally forgave Sirius, because it's the most useful thing he’s ever owned. It automatically finds and marks the last page you read, so you never lose your place.
Bookmark aside, Remus won’t be too easily seduced or lulled by presents, not when he can so often perceive an alternative use for every Knut Sirius spends. The few Sickles he gets every term for pocket money don’t go far. He can treat himself to a new shirt from Gladrags, perhaps, a necessity rather than an indulgence; and that seems very paltry, when Sirius is buying up the shop’s entire supply of wizarding rock band tee shirts.
He doesn’t know if it makes it better or worse that when they get up to the dorm, Sirius will casually toss a tee shirt on each of the other beds, and say, ‘Hey, guys, I got too many. Moony, I think you’d look good in the blue one.’ He’s right, too. Remus does. He’s hardly taken it off since, though it’s too cold for tee shirts, and Sirius never fails to smile when he sees him in it: that special smile he reserves for Remus, the one that makes his whole face light up and makes Remus feel funny and a bit dizzy.
‘The blue’s beginning to fade,’ Sirius said just the other day. ‘I’ll get you a new one for Christmas.’
That conversation now seems to have taken place in another world, because Remus has since been summoned to Headmaster's office, where Dumbledore sat him down and told him to be brave. After all those stories at the full moon about his sick mother, fate has finally had the last laugh by sending her a serious, often fatal disease that afflicts Muggle women. She has had to have emergency treatment and will spend the holidays at the local Muggle hospital. Remus's father can’t afford to take much time off work, but he will be spending every spare second at her side. There will be no celebrations this year, no Christmas dinner, no stocking, and Remus will be staying at school.
In his usual, impulsive way, Sirius has suddenly declared that he’s going to stay at Hogwarts too this year, to keep Remus company.
He normally goes home to Grimmauld Place for Christmas. As far as the Marauders can gather, the Blacks’ festivities are lavish and last for the full traditional twelve days. Where the Lupins have a roast chicken, the Blacks have turkey, goose, pheasant and guinea fowl. Where the Lupins have a little tree in a pot on the dining table, the Blacks have a magnificent double blue pine in their enormous drawing room, hung with the most costly and magnificent baubles, draped with tinsel fashioned from hallmarked silver. The tree is enchanted so as not to shed a single one of its delicate needles.
Remus has protested; protested so much that his throat is actually sore. He’s glad the full moon was earlier in the month, because a night of howling would have left him physically unable to speak for a few days. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to put Sirius off: the thought of having one of his friends with him over Christmas is so brilliant that he can’t begin to articulate his reservations, even to himself. Perhaps he’s afraid to be happy, in case he attracts more attention from the gods punishing him for the lies about his mother.
‘Come on, Padfoot,’ he says, rather hoarsely. The nickname is new, as Padfoot has only existed for a few months, but already it comes naturally to Remus’s lips. ‘You can’t not go home. Anyway, won’t Regulus miss you?’
Regulus is often the trump card: Sirius is fiercely protective of his little brother, no matter what the differences between them. This time, however, it doesn’t work. ‘Regulus doesn’t mind. It means he can have a friend to stay. One of his Slytherin cronies. Mum’ll love him, and the house-elves will be bending over backwards to make everything as perfect as possible for the guest.’
Remus doesn’t miss the note of derision in Sirius’s voice, so he tries again. ‘I’ll feel guilty.’
‘Why? It’ll be amazing. D’you remember when Prongs stayed, in Second Year? When his Dad was working in Albania? He said he had the best time. You know what wonderful decorations we always have at school, anyway. And there’s a feast, and crackers and everything…’
‘But you’ll get all those things at home,’ Remus protests.
Sirius shrugs. ‘Moony, you’re completely wasting your breath. I’m staying.’
Now he knows he won’t change Sirius’s mind, Remus can admit he’s both glad and relieved that he won’t be alone. All the same, Sirius being there on Christmas Day complicates life for many reasons. Firstly, if his father even remembers to buy him anything this year - unlikely - it will be something useful, like a fresh roll of parchment. Remus loves parchment, loves the smell, the feel, the potential of an empty sheet, but seen through Sirius’s eyes it doesn’t seem very exciting, and he probably won’t even get it anyway.
Sirius’s family, no doubt, will send him a huge pile of expensive gifts. Last year, he got a camera, a new broomstick, a pile of hardbacks in glossy covers, enough shortbread to keep a Scottish tearoom going for several months, new dress-robes and so much chocolate that he’s still eating it.
Of course, Remus’s friends have some idea of the imbalance between their Christmas and his, but none of them have ever seen it in its full glory, or lack thereof. Remus can envisage all too clearly his single roll of parchment, if he actually gets it, lying forlornly at the foot of his bed, in contrast with Sirius’s mountain of presents, which grows in his imagination until it’s higher than Everest. Remus is mature, resigned to being poor, but he’s very young and very human, lycanthropy apart. He will try, he’ll make the biggest effort, not to envy Sirius his stash, not to feel resentful if Sirius insists, as he probably will, that Remus takes this novel - ‘I’ve already read it’ - or that scarf - ‘The green really suits you.’
He does realise he may be underestimating Sirius’s tact. Sirius can be blunt, but he has excellent manners, and his intuition regularly earns him superb marks in Divination; he also seems to have an uncanny knack of tuning into Remus’s feelings. He’ll have sensed his misgivings. He's probably already taken steps to ensure that Remus gets an equally large number of parcels.
And that’s another worry, because however much he likes Sirius’s presents, he simply can’t begin to reciprocate: well, he could reciprocate the hug, if he got up the nerve, which is unlikely. But he still has to get something a bit more concrete than a hug for Sirius. He’s started to fantasise about finding Sirius the perfect present, about being the giver for a change, buying and wrapping something that he’s thought about and chosen with care. Unfortunately, the perfect present requires gold, and he doesn't have any.
At least his preoccupation with Christmas presents helps to keep his more serious anxiety about his mother at bay, but that's hardly a huge blessing. For a few nights, he lies awake with wild fancies of robbing Gringotts, or breaking into Honeydukes and stealing enough chocolate and sweets to keep Sirius going for another year. That would be easy: thanks to the Map, he knows all about the secret passage into Honeydukes’s cellar. In fact, as he tosses and turns at three in the morning, it seems a wonderful plan. He finally falls asleep with a smile on his face, and it’s only when he wakes a couple of hours later, still tired and groggy, that he realises his conscience would never allow him to do it.
The Marauders normally exchange small tokens on the eve of the holidays, fully aware that at least three of them will get a fair amount of presents at home. This year, no matter how many times Remus calculates his meagre funds, he’s simply not going to manage presents for his friends plus an extra one for Sirius on Christmas day.
In the end, he has a quiet word with James and Peter, swallowing his pride in order to ask them if they could have a moratorium on gifts. ‘I mean… There’s really nothing I want.’
James gets it at once, and says, ‘Sure. I think we’re too old to be giving each other presents anyway. That’s a girls’ thing, isn’t it?’
Peter cries, ‘Oh! But I like - ’ and shuts up when James shoots him a filthy look.
‘I’ll tell Padfoot what we’ve decided,’ James says, with mock casualness, and Remus heaves a sigh of relief. That means he’ll have nearly a Galleon to spend on Sirius, which seems a huge amount to him, though he knows it may not seem so much when he’s found how far it can go.
There’s also the problem of buying Sirius something he hasn’t already got. James has a knack for that, for finding the exact shade of sepia ink that Sirius has a craze for that term; the copy of Wizards Only, acquired illegally, that kept them all spellbound, and aghast, last year; the photo of the four of them in a gilt frame, which Sirius keeps on his bedside table, though he could never be accused of sentimentality.
Remus begins to wonder whether it wouldn’t be easier all round if he simply spent Christmas with his father at the hospital, sitting at his mother’s bedside, but of course that isn’t possible. So on the last Hogsmeade weekend of the term, he gives the others the slip and goes in search of an adequate, if not perfect, gift for Sirius.
The Christmas displays that look so wonderful to a mere observer are less enticing when you’re actually trying to buy something. There are a few good things, of course, like the magic money bag with its anti-theft charm, which Remus is about to snap up, till he remembers that Sirius bought one for himself just a couple of weeks ago, possibly with an eye to hanging on to all his cash to get presents for Remus.
There are the usual sweets, but sweets alone don’t make a proper gift, unless it’s for Peter. Sirius has probably got every trick in Zonko’s, except the wonderful wings you can really fly with, and those cost a hundred Galleons.
He ignores the annual sock sale at Gladrags. He’s not about to buy socks for Sirius.
He drifts down the high street, and drops into Dervish and Banges, because they sometimes have interesting artefacts. They don’t today, though. Sirius won’t want a Remembrall: he already has two, and his memory is legendary anyway. The Sneakoscopes tend to be faulty, and scream whenever they go near the Gryffindor boys’ dorm. ‘I wonder what they’d do in the Slytherin dungeons,’ Sirius always says. He bought a Lunascope when he found out Remus was a werewolf, and that’s still in perfect working order.
By four, it’s getting dark. The Christmas lights of Hogsmeade twinkle brightly, but the Hogwarts students aren’t allowed out beyond four-thirty. Passing Gladrags again, Remus pauses to admire a dragon’s tooth pendant in the window; and before he knows quite how it’s happened, the pendant is in a carrier bag clutched in his hand, his pockets are empty, and he’s on his way back to the castle.
Pendants are for girls, of course, but there’s been a vogue in the past couple of years for boys to wear them as well. And what girl would go round with something so vicious-looking round her neck? Remus keeps running this thought through his head as he slips up to the dorm and hides the parcel in his trunk, but he suddenly feels cold in his stomach and wishes he hadn’t yielded to the impulse. He checks that the receipt’s in the bag, which isn’t very helpful, because he won’t get to Hogsmeade to change the present before Christmas.
All through dinner, he sits with his head slightly sideways, squinting at Sirius, trying to imagine him wearing the pendant. Sirius eventually nudges his foot under the table and asks, ‘What’re you staring at, Moony?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’
‘Oh.’ Sirius sounds a bit disappointed. ‘I thought you were admiring my dragon’s tooth.’
‘Your what?’ Now Remus isn’t only chilled; his head feels strange and fuzzy, and the world seems to shift slightly out of focus.
‘My dragon’s tooth. Oh, sorry, I forgot I still had my robes on.’
Sirius puts his hand down the front of his robes and pulls out a yellowing fang, mounted in silver on a slim chain, identical to the one upstairs in Remus’s trunk. ‘It’s cool, isn’t it? Prongs got it me for Christmas. Well, I know we weren’t giving presents this year, but he’d already bought it, so…’ He shrugs. ‘It’s lucky. I’m never going to take it off.’
‘And how is a dragon’s tooth lucky?’ Remus asks the expected question, keeping his voice light.
‘Well, it just is. I suppose it makes you happy and rich and so on,’ Sirius says. ‘Or that's what Prongs tells me, though he could be pulling my leg. But I’m not going to risk finding out if he is.’
‘Oh.’ Remus gets back to his dinner. It should be reassuring that at least he chose the right thing, but somehow it isn’t.
Though his father has owled to say that his mother is a bit better and may be home in the New Year, Remus remains anxious and preoccupied, hardly even noticing when James and Peter scramble through the portrait hole and out to the Hogwarts Express and freedom. Sirius spends a lot of time barricaded in the dorm, after issuing strict instructions: ‘Don’t come in, Moony. I've put on a locking spell.’ He’s notoriously bad at wrapping charms, Remus knows, and leaves him to it.
On Christmas Day, he’s a bit surprised that Sirius’s pile of parcels from home is relatively modest; more modest than his own pile, which includes an envelope addressed to him in his father’s writing. He feels uneasy in a way he hadn’t expected, looking at Sirius’s minimal haul.
Sirius shrugs. ‘In case you’re wondering, they mainly sent me gold this year. A lot of gold.’ He pulls out his magic money bag and shows Remus the heavy load of galleons. ‘Shall we take turns?’
They do. Sirius receives a new crystal ball - his mother approves of Divination - a dressing gown of light, warm cashmere, and the usual sweets and chocolates. This year, he gets brandy snaps, not shortbread.
Remus opens the envelope from his father, which contains a Flourish and Blotts book token. Everything else is from Sirius, who has apparently been to all the shops in Hogsmeade and picked gifts for Remus at random. Gobstoppers, a quill with spare nibs, socks from Gladrags: bright red socks with golden dots. One lumpy parcel contains a new device from Dervish and Banges that detects fire. ‘It’s brilliant!’ Sirius says. ‘Listen, you press this button and there’s a beeping noise!’ He's even remembered to get the new blue tee shirt. Best of all, he’s bought a copy of Every Boy’s Guide to the Magical Universe, which Remus has been coveting for months.
‘I haven’t got you anything much,’ Remus mumbles, handing Sirius a small package. His voice is thick, and it’s hard to get the words out. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ Sirius protests, and opens the parcel, which contains a box of white handkerchiefs. He looks at Remus with shining eyes. ‘Thank you, Moony! I really need these.’
Remus is filled with gratitude for his great-aunt Gwyneth, an ancient, absent-minded crone who believes that Christmas falls on the twentieth of December, and sends him a useful present on that date every year.
Sirius leans forward and kisses Remus on the cheek, a bit clumsily so his lips graze the corner of Remus’s mouth. ‘I love them, Moony. I’ll keep them forever.’
It’s just an impulse, of course, like the hug, and Remus knows it doesn’t mean anything: all the same, the spot where Sirius’s lip have brushed his face tingles pleasurably, and gives him a warm feeling inside.
Sirius idly fiddles with his new pendant, and says, ‘Well, it’s been quite lucky so far, hasn’t it? Maybe Prongs knows what he’s talking about.’
And perhaps, Remus thinks, the duplicate dragon’s tooth is bringing him luck too, even though it isn’t really his. It will remain in his trunk until the New Year, when he can sneak it back to Gladrags: he’ll save the money and buy Sirius something extra special for his birthday.
‘I, I didn’t really thank you,’ he stammers. ‘For all the presents.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Sirius, dismissing Mr Lupin’s annual salary with a wave of his hand. ‘I like giving you things.’
They get dressed and go down to breakfast.
End
By minnow_53
Disclaimer: These characters belong to JK Rowling and various corporations.
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: G
Era: MWPP, Fifth Year
Summary: Sirius is rich, Remus is poor, Christmas is coming.
Thanks: To astra_argentea for reading through.
AN: This is a sort of Christmas present for everyone who’s been kind enough to read and comment on my fics during the year. Thank you all very, very much.
Now crossposted to remusxsirius and two_boys.
Little Things That Mean A Lot
Sirius Black is known for his large, magnanimous gestures. This may be because he’s from an old family, and is therefore both rich and confident.
Even though Christmas is coming and he’ll surely need his gold, he seems to think nothing of going into Zonko’s and spending ten Galleons on tricks that will either end up forgotten in his trunk, or be used only once or twice, perhaps not even to good effect. Remus watches him hungrily, not aware he’s doing so: ten Galleons is the amount his father earns in a week, before tax.
He often, against his better judgement, converts Sirius’s purchases mentally into hard cash. This box of exploding sugar mice would buy his mother the pair of new gloves she sorely needs. The dungbombs that turned out to be faulty would mend the broken pane in the kitchen window: magic will no longer do it, because it’s gone way beyond a mere Reparo, and Wizarding glaziers are expensive.
Remus wishes he weren’t so preoccupied with gold. He wishes he could be more like other fifteen year-olds, be like Sirius, carefree and extravagant, showering gifts on people he hardly knows: Merlin, Sirius even bought that Hufflepuff girl a silver bracelet when he suddenly decided he didn’t want to go on a date with her after all. He called it a Sorry Present.
Remus has received his share of Sorry Presents as well. When Sirius spilt indelible ink on his Charms homework, he not only copied it out again, he also gave him a sugar quill and a big hug. It’s the hug that Remus particularly remembers, though it was hardly a big deal. Sirius hugs everyone.
After the Prank, Sirius obviously realised he wasn’t going to wriggle out of trouble so quickly this time. For a week or so, Remus kept stumbling across surprises tucked away in odd places: a bar of Honeyduke’s chocolate under his pillow, a Montrose Magpies key ring in his trunk, a magic bookmark next to his fork at lunch. That was when Remus finally forgave Sirius, because it's the most useful thing he’s ever owned. It automatically finds and marks the last page you read, so you never lose your place.
Bookmark aside, Remus won’t be too easily seduced or lulled by presents, not when he can so often perceive an alternative use for every Knut Sirius spends. The few Sickles he gets every term for pocket money don’t go far. He can treat himself to a new shirt from Gladrags, perhaps, a necessity rather than an indulgence; and that seems very paltry, when Sirius is buying up the shop’s entire supply of wizarding rock band tee shirts.
He doesn’t know if it makes it better or worse that when they get up to the dorm, Sirius will casually toss a tee shirt on each of the other beds, and say, ‘Hey, guys, I got too many. Moony, I think you’d look good in the blue one.’ He’s right, too. Remus does. He’s hardly taken it off since, though it’s too cold for tee shirts, and Sirius never fails to smile when he sees him in it: that special smile he reserves for Remus, the one that makes his whole face light up and makes Remus feel funny and a bit dizzy.
‘The blue’s beginning to fade,’ Sirius said just the other day. ‘I’ll get you a new one for Christmas.’
That conversation now seems to have taken place in another world, because Remus has since been summoned to Headmaster's office, where Dumbledore sat him down and told him to be brave. After all those stories at the full moon about his sick mother, fate has finally had the last laugh by sending her a serious, often fatal disease that afflicts Muggle women. She has had to have emergency treatment and will spend the holidays at the local Muggle hospital. Remus's father can’t afford to take much time off work, but he will be spending every spare second at her side. There will be no celebrations this year, no Christmas dinner, no stocking, and Remus will be staying at school.
In his usual, impulsive way, Sirius has suddenly declared that he’s going to stay at Hogwarts too this year, to keep Remus company.
He normally goes home to Grimmauld Place for Christmas. As far as the Marauders can gather, the Blacks’ festivities are lavish and last for the full traditional twelve days. Where the Lupins have a roast chicken, the Blacks have turkey, goose, pheasant and guinea fowl. Where the Lupins have a little tree in a pot on the dining table, the Blacks have a magnificent double blue pine in their enormous drawing room, hung with the most costly and magnificent baubles, draped with tinsel fashioned from hallmarked silver. The tree is enchanted so as not to shed a single one of its delicate needles.
Remus has protested; protested so much that his throat is actually sore. He’s glad the full moon was earlier in the month, because a night of howling would have left him physically unable to speak for a few days. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to put Sirius off: the thought of having one of his friends with him over Christmas is so brilliant that he can’t begin to articulate his reservations, even to himself. Perhaps he’s afraid to be happy, in case he attracts more attention from the gods punishing him for the lies about his mother.
‘Come on, Padfoot,’ he says, rather hoarsely. The nickname is new, as Padfoot has only existed for a few months, but already it comes naturally to Remus’s lips. ‘You can’t not go home. Anyway, won’t Regulus miss you?’
Regulus is often the trump card: Sirius is fiercely protective of his little brother, no matter what the differences between them. This time, however, it doesn’t work. ‘Regulus doesn’t mind. It means he can have a friend to stay. One of his Slytherin cronies. Mum’ll love him, and the house-elves will be bending over backwards to make everything as perfect as possible for the guest.’
Remus doesn’t miss the note of derision in Sirius’s voice, so he tries again. ‘I’ll feel guilty.’
‘Why? It’ll be amazing. D’you remember when Prongs stayed, in Second Year? When his Dad was working in Albania? He said he had the best time. You know what wonderful decorations we always have at school, anyway. And there’s a feast, and crackers and everything…’
‘But you’ll get all those things at home,’ Remus protests.
Sirius shrugs. ‘Moony, you’re completely wasting your breath. I’m staying.’
Now he knows he won’t change Sirius’s mind, Remus can admit he’s both glad and relieved that he won’t be alone. All the same, Sirius being there on Christmas Day complicates life for many reasons. Firstly, if his father even remembers to buy him anything this year - unlikely - it will be something useful, like a fresh roll of parchment. Remus loves parchment, loves the smell, the feel, the potential of an empty sheet, but seen through Sirius’s eyes it doesn’t seem very exciting, and he probably won’t even get it anyway.
Sirius’s family, no doubt, will send him a huge pile of expensive gifts. Last year, he got a camera, a new broomstick, a pile of hardbacks in glossy covers, enough shortbread to keep a Scottish tearoom going for several months, new dress-robes and so much chocolate that he’s still eating it.
Of course, Remus’s friends have some idea of the imbalance between their Christmas and his, but none of them have ever seen it in its full glory, or lack thereof. Remus can envisage all too clearly his single roll of parchment, if he actually gets it, lying forlornly at the foot of his bed, in contrast with Sirius’s mountain of presents, which grows in his imagination until it’s higher than Everest. Remus is mature, resigned to being poor, but he’s very young and very human, lycanthropy apart. He will try, he’ll make the biggest effort, not to envy Sirius his stash, not to feel resentful if Sirius insists, as he probably will, that Remus takes this novel - ‘I’ve already read it’ - or that scarf - ‘The green really suits you.’
He does realise he may be underestimating Sirius’s tact. Sirius can be blunt, but he has excellent manners, and his intuition regularly earns him superb marks in Divination; he also seems to have an uncanny knack of tuning into Remus’s feelings. He’ll have sensed his misgivings. He's probably already taken steps to ensure that Remus gets an equally large number of parcels.
And that’s another worry, because however much he likes Sirius’s presents, he simply can’t begin to reciprocate: well, he could reciprocate the hug, if he got up the nerve, which is unlikely. But he still has to get something a bit more concrete than a hug for Sirius. He’s started to fantasise about finding Sirius the perfect present, about being the giver for a change, buying and wrapping something that he’s thought about and chosen with care. Unfortunately, the perfect present requires gold, and he doesn't have any.
At least his preoccupation with Christmas presents helps to keep his more serious anxiety about his mother at bay, but that's hardly a huge blessing. For a few nights, he lies awake with wild fancies of robbing Gringotts, or breaking into Honeydukes and stealing enough chocolate and sweets to keep Sirius going for another year. That would be easy: thanks to the Map, he knows all about the secret passage into Honeydukes’s cellar. In fact, as he tosses and turns at three in the morning, it seems a wonderful plan. He finally falls asleep with a smile on his face, and it’s only when he wakes a couple of hours later, still tired and groggy, that he realises his conscience would never allow him to do it.
The Marauders normally exchange small tokens on the eve of the holidays, fully aware that at least three of them will get a fair amount of presents at home. This year, no matter how many times Remus calculates his meagre funds, he’s simply not going to manage presents for his friends plus an extra one for Sirius on Christmas day.
In the end, he has a quiet word with James and Peter, swallowing his pride in order to ask them if they could have a moratorium on gifts. ‘I mean… There’s really nothing I want.’
James gets it at once, and says, ‘Sure. I think we’re too old to be giving each other presents anyway. That’s a girls’ thing, isn’t it?’
Peter cries, ‘Oh! But I like - ’ and shuts up when James shoots him a filthy look.
‘I’ll tell Padfoot what we’ve decided,’ James says, with mock casualness, and Remus heaves a sigh of relief. That means he’ll have nearly a Galleon to spend on Sirius, which seems a huge amount to him, though he knows it may not seem so much when he’s found how far it can go.
There’s also the problem of buying Sirius something he hasn’t already got. James has a knack for that, for finding the exact shade of sepia ink that Sirius has a craze for that term; the copy of Wizards Only, acquired illegally, that kept them all spellbound, and aghast, last year; the photo of the four of them in a gilt frame, which Sirius keeps on his bedside table, though he could never be accused of sentimentality.
Remus begins to wonder whether it wouldn’t be easier all round if he simply spent Christmas with his father at the hospital, sitting at his mother’s bedside, but of course that isn’t possible. So on the last Hogsmeade weekend of the term, he gives the others the slip and goes in search of an adequate, if not perfect, gift for Sirius.
The Christmas displays that look so wonderful to a mere observer are less enticing when you’re actually trying to buy something. There are a few good things, of course, like the magic money bag with its anti-theft charm, which Remus is about to snap up, till he remembers that Sirius bought one for himself just a couple of weeks ago, possibly with an eye to hanging on to all his cash to get presents for Remus.
There are the usual sweets, but sweets alone don’t make a proper gift, unless it’s for Peter. Sirius has probably got every trick in Zonko’s, except the wonderful wings you can really fly with, and those cost a hundred Galleons.
He ignores the annual sock sale at Gladrags. He’s not about to buy socks for Sirius.
He drifts down the high street, and drops into Dervish and Banges, because they sometimes have interesting artefacts. They don’t today, though. Sirius won’t want a Remembrall: he already has two, and his memory is legendary anyway. The Sneakoscopes tend to be faulty, and scream whenever they go near the Gryffindor boys’ dorm. ‘I wonder what they’d do in the Slytherin dungeons,’ Sirius always says. He bought a Lunascope when he found out Remus was a werewolf, and that’s still in perfect working order.
By four, it’s getting dark. The Christmas lights of Hogsmeade twinkle brightly, but the Hogwarts students aren’t allowed out beyond four-thirty. Passing Gladrags again, Remus pauses to admire a dragon’s tooth pendant in the window; and before he knows quite how it’s happened, the pendant is in a carrier bag clutched in his hand, his pockets are empty, and he’s on his way back to the castle.
Pendants are for girls, of course, but there’s been a vogue in the past couple of years for boys to wear them as well. And what girl would go round with something so vicious-looking round her neck? Remus keeps running this thought through his head as he slips up to the dorm and hides the parcel in his trunk, but he suddenly feels cold in his stomach and wishes he hadn’t yielded to the impulse. He checks that the receipt’s in the bag, which isn’t very helpful, because he won’t get to Hogsmeade to change the present before Christmas.
All through dinner, he sits with his head slightly sideways, squinting at Sirius, trying to imagine him wearing the pendant. Sirius eventually nudges his foot under the table and asks, ‘What’re you staring at, Moony?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’
‘Oh.’ Sirius sounds a bit disappointed. ‘I thought you were admiring my dragon’s tooth.’
‘Your what?’ Now Remus isn’t only chilled; his head feels strange and fuzzy, and the world seems to shift slightly out of focus.
‘My dragon’s tooth. Oh, sorry, I forgot I still had my robes on.’
Sirius puts his hand down the front of his robes and pulls out a yellowing fang, mounted in silver on a slim chain, identical to the one upstairs in Remus’s trunk. ‘It’s cool, isn’t it? Prongs got it me for Christmas. Well, I know we weren’t giving presents this year, but he’d already bought it, so…’ He shrugs. ‘It’s lucky. I’m never going to take it off.’
‘And how is a dragon’s tooth lucky?’ Remus asks the expected question, keeping his voice light.
‘Well, it just is. I suppose it makes you happy and rich and so on,’ Sirius says. ‘Or that's what Prongs tells me, though he could be pulling my leg. But I’m not going to risk finding out if he is.’
‘Oh.’ Remus gets back to his dinner. It should be reassuring that at least he chose the right thing, but somehow it isn’t.
Though his father has owled to say that his mother is a bit better and may be home in the New Year, Remus remains anxious and preoccupied, hardly even noticing when James and Peter scramble through the portrait hole and out to the Hogwarts Express and freedom. Sirius spends a lot of time barricaded in the dorm, after issuing strict instructions: ‘Don’t come in, Moony. I've put on a locking spell.’ He’s notoriously bad at wrapping charms, Remus knows, and leaves him to it.
On Christmas Day, he’s a bit surprised that Sirius’s pile of parcels from home is relatively modest; more modest than his own pile, which includes an envelope addressed to him in his father’s writing. He feels uneasy in a way he hadn’t expected, looking at Sirius’s minimal haul.
Sirius shrugs. ‘In case you’re wondering, they mainly sent me gold this year. A lot of gold.’ He pulls out his magic money bag and shows Remus the heavy load of galleons. ‘Shall we take turns?’
They do. Sirius receives a new crystal ball - his mother approves of Divination - a dressing gown of light, warm cashmere, and the usual sweets and chocolates. This year, he gets brandy snaps, not shortbread.
Remus opens the envelope from his father, which contains a Flourish and Blotts book token. Everything else is from Sirius, who has apparently been to all the shops in Hogsmeade and picked gifts for Remus at random. Gobstoppers, a quill with spare nibs, socks from Gladrags: bright red socks with golden dots. One lumpy parcel contains a new device from Dervish and Banges that detects fire. ‘It’s brilliant!’ Sirius says. ‘Listen, you press this button and there’s a beeping noise!’ He's even remembered to get the new blue tee shirt. Best of all, he’s bought a copy of Every Boy’s Guide to the Magical Universe, which Remus has been coveting for months.
‘I haven’t got you anything much,’ Remus mumbles, handing Sirius a small package. His voice is thick, and it’s hard to get the words out. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ Sirius protests, and opens the parcel, which contains a box of white handkerchiefs. He looks at Remus with shining eyes. ‘Thank you, Moony! I really need these.’
Remus is filled with gratitude for his great-aunt Gwyneth, an ancient, absent-minded crone who believes that Christmas falls on the twentieth of December, and sends him a useful present on that date every year.
Sirius leans forward and kisses Remus on the cheek, a bit clumsily so his lips graze the corner of Remus’s mouth. ‘I love them, Moony. I’ll keep them forever.’
It’s just an impulse, of course, like the hug, and Remus knows it doesn’t mean anything: all the same, the spot where Sirius’s lip have brushed his face tingles pleasurably, and gives him a warm feeling inside.
Sirius idly fiddles with his new pendant, and says, ‘Well, it’s been quite lucky so far, hasn’t it? Maybe Prongs knows what he’s talking about.’
And perhaps, Remus thinks, the duplicate dragon’s tooth is bringing him luck too, even though it isn’t really his. It will remain in his trunk until the New Year, when he can sneak it back to Gladrags: he’ll save the money and buy Sirius something extra special for his birthday.
‘I, I didn’t really thank you,’ he stammers. ‘For all the presents.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Sirius, dismissing Mr Lupin’s annual salary with a wave of his hand. ‘I like giving you things.’
They get dressed and go down to breakfast.
End