shiiki
in
shiikifics
FIC: Five Ways to Count Down to Christmas (Multiple characters, Gen)
Title: Five Ways to Count Down to Christmas
Author: shiiki
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sirius Black, Dolores Umbridge, Molly Weasley, Weasley Family, Percy Weasley, Remus Lupin, Petunia Evans, Harry Potter, Andromeda Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Albus Dumbledore, Narcissa Malfoy, Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 2,912
Summary: A variation on post-war Christmases, with five themes.
Notes: Happy Christmas to my wonderful flist! ♥ This got away from me somewhat, so it may not be exactly merry, but I hope it's enjoyable at least.
i. Innocent
5 days to Christmas ...
The cold was receding.
Only slightly -- he doubted that it would ever truly leave, that invasive chill that seeped right to the marrow of his bones -- but it was enough. He shivered and drew his robes closer, for all the good they would do.
Footsteps were sounding along the dark corridor and he thought he could make out the muffled sound of voices. Could it be? He could feel the tiny bubble of hope flaring up in him, proof that the Dementors must have retreated from the corridors.
He crawled to the bars of his cell and waited.
Soon enough, he could make out distinct words -- the first time since his incarceration that he'd heard a human voice that wasn't unhinged screaming.
The two visitors came into view. With the light in the prison falling in strange patterns, he could make out their bodies first -- one sturdy man in crisp uniform-like robes; the other long and lanky, dressed shabbier ... for one glorious moment before their heads emerged from the shadows, he imagined it was Remus. Then the shabby-robed man's red hair stood starkly against the dreary prison walls, and disappointment hit like a hex.
He must have let out a moan, because the red-haired man jumped and suddenly both men were peering cautiously at his cell.
'That's Sirius Black,' hissed the shorter man.
'The ...'
'Mass murderer, yes.'
The words were like a second punch to the gut. Sirius reeled away from the bars.
'Innocent,' he rasped. 'I am innocent.'
'No doubt he believes it,' sneered the shorter man. 'Dark scum. Let's move along, Weasley, the faster we're finished here, the better. It's Christmas -- I'm sure you're in a hurry to get back to your family.'
For some reason, though, the man called Weasley lingered when the other strode off quickly. His face was a study of indecision. 'I wonder ... well, it is Christmas,' he muttered softly. It was only when the other man called after him that he turned away to hasten after him; but not before a small, long object fell from his fingers into Sirius's cell.
Sirius reached out and closed his fingers around a slab of chocolate.
He stowed it carefully away in a corner of his cell, knowing he would be in more dire need of it later. For now, the warmth of Weasley's gift stayed with him -- until the Dementors closed in again, and the brief visit was driven out of his head, leaving nothing but the cold and the nightmares and the screaming in his head -- and the one mantra he grasped to keep himself sane.
'I am innocent.'
---
The cell is cold. The Dementors are gone now -- the new regiment has seen fit to dispose of them, more fool they -- but it seems as though the chill they brought with them is forever infused in the very walls of Azkaban.
Dolores draws her pink shawl closer around her shoulders, noting with disgust that it is getting a little threadbare.
No matter. They can't possibly hold her in here for that much longer.
And when she is released, well, those naughty children playing at being the Ministry will have a lot to answer for. According to the little calendar she inscribed onto the wall with a loose bit of rock -- she would like to use her trusty black quill; a new mark every day on the wall and into the palm of someone who deserves to be punished -- it has been 118 days.
The sound of footsteps echo down the corridor, sparking off a chain of cries down the neighbouring cells. Pleas, curses, death threats -- all are hurled at the approaching guard. Dolores waits until she can see who it is; there is no point in wasting words on a tool of the renegades that make up the new regiment.
The red hair is distinctive. Percy Weasley, the young ambitious Minister's aide. He seemed such a brilliant boy, so unlike those uncouth brothers ... but in the end, blood tells, doesn't it?
'Hem hem,' she coughs discreetly. He stiffens, looking at her warily. 'Percy.'
'Madam Umbridge,' he acknowledges politely.
'Madam Undersecretary,' she corrects sweetly. 'It will not be long before I regain my title, young Weasley. I'm sure you can see the way the wind is blowing.'
He recoils. 'You've been charged for a hundred and sixty-eight war crimes and proven guilty. You're in here for life.'
'I have done nothing wrong.'
A pause. 'You're mad if you believe that.'
'I am Senior Undersecretary to the Minister.'
His face is a study as he stares at her. Finally he sighs and tosses something between the bars of her cell.
'Merry Christmas, Dolores,' he says before he strides off.
Chocolate. She traces the ridges of the bar before stowing it away in a corner. She will show it to Cornelius when he comes tonight.
---
ii. Safe
4 days to Christmas ...
Molly set the last steaming bowl of stew on the kitchen table. There was still a large helping in the pot on the stove, to be kept hot for Arthur when he finally arrived home. The hours he'd kept for the past two months ... well, the Ministry was in dire need of people. And he'd been promised Christmas day off, at the very least. Besides, as Arthur had pointed out, with all the overtime pay he'd amassed, they'd be able to fork out a little more for presents for the children this year.
In a corner of the kitchen, her middle son was curled up on a chair, his nose in a book. Molly beamed at her son -- the clever boy, five years old and already reading -- before calling to him.
'Percy. Percy. Put down your book, dear, and go call your brothers for dinner.'
He gave her a pained look, but carefully folded down a corner of the page and obediently trotted off. Moments later, she heard the sound of several loud thumps, accompanied by an indignant yell and squealing laughter -- the former would be Percy and the latter Fred and George, no doubt -- and finally what sounded like a herd of Erumpent thundering down the stairs.
'I'm telling Mummy!' Percy was complaining.
'Shut it, all three of you.' Bill's voice, with all the authority of the first-born.
'But --'
The twins stampeded into the kitchen first, pulling themselves up into their chairs and clapping at the sight of food. Charlie and Bill were next, each with a squirming baby. Molly plucked Ginny from Bill's arms ('Thank you, dear.') and bade Charlie settle Ron in his baby chair. Percy trudged in last, a sullen look on his face.
Molly looked round at all her children crowded around the kitchen table and her heart sang. Arthur would be home soon enough and that was the most important thing -- never mind presents, never mind money: this Christmas the war was over, and they would all be together.
Safe.
---
The food doesn't smell as good as when they had house-elves taking care of meals, but it will be edible, and that's the best Narcissa can do now. Not a single house-elf is left in Malfoy Manor; all deserted to Hogwarts in May and none returned after. She does not know if any other old families got their servants back; she has not been in touch with any of them since the battle.
Most of them have been condemned to Azkaban, anyway.
Like Lucius, she thinks with a shiver. But no -- Lucius will be free again, eventually. How ironic, that it is her, not him, with the influence to bargain for a lighter sentence for him. How ironic, for her to be declared a war heroine, for that one lie she told the Dark Lord in order to save her Draco to be her saving grace.
The loud whip-crack of Apparition startles her. She turns, expecting Draco -- it is early for him to be home, but who else would it be? -- and is shocked to find a house-elf with a long nose bowing to her. It is another moment before she recognises this particular house-elf.
'Kreacher!'
'Miss Narcissa remembers,' says Kreacher, with evident delight. She notices, however, the title by which he addressed her -- 'miss', not 'mistress'.
'Master has sent Kreacher,' the elf continues. 'Master wishes Kreacher to help Miss Narcissa at Christmas.'
She has to remind herself that the master of which he speaks is not her late cousin Sirius, but Harry Potter.
Potter, who somehow managed to worm his way into the good graces of the Black family elf despite being a half-blood. Potter, the victor, who can be condescending now that he has all the spoils of war.
It would be easy to bid the house-elf to take care of it, to arrange a feast for her and Draco. But she will not take it, not from Potter.
'Tell Potter I don't need help,' she says haughtily. 'Nor pity.'
'As you wish, Miss Narcissa.' Kreacher bows low to her and Disapparates.
Narcissa turns back to her cooking with a frown. It's hardly gourmet level, but it will be enough for her, and for Draco, and for Lucius when they visit him at Christmas, and even if a Christmas at Azkaban is a far cry from the balls of yesteryear, they will be together, safe, a family that survived the war.
And that's all that matters now.
---
iii. Loss
3 days to Christmas ...
The moon waned three days before Christmas. Remus emerged from it sore, aching, and utterly defeated. He had nowhere to go; his employer had given him an ultimatum at the last moon -- one more sick day and he was out. There was nothing to do except lie in the rackety old shack he'd found for his transformation and waste away.
Maybe if he got lucky enough, he'd die too.
His thoughts brought him back a year, to Christmas with the Potters, before they'd gone deeply into hiding. They'd all drunk to the war ending by this Christmas, for a safer world for Harry ...
Well, they had got their wish: the war had ended. But it had not been without a price. James, Lily, and Peter had paid with their lives. And Sirius ... his freedom? His principles? Whatever it was, the victory had cost Remus everyone he had loved.
Be careful what you wish for, he thought bitterly. Sometimes it could be more than you could afford.
---
Last year, Andromeda thought Christmas was terrible. Ted on the run, He Who Must Not Be Named in power, the constant threat hanging over all of them ... But Dora and Remus were with her, and there was life growing amidst all the destruction. Fragile and precarious, but a new life all the same, which spelled hope. And they all prayed for the war to be over, for Ted to come home, for the growing child inside Dora to grow up safely.
Two of those wishes have materialised now: the war is over, Teddy will grow up in a safe world. But Ted never came home, and Dora and Remus never will either. Prayers, Andromeda thinks, come with a price.
---
iv. Orphan
2 days to Christmas ...
Dudley was excited by the growing pile of presents under the tree. He pointed at them, giggling madly, screaming, 'Me! Me!' Petunia surmised that he believed (quite correctly) that they were for him.
'That's right, Dinky Diddidums!' she said, squeezing his arm. 'All yours. And you'll get to open them in two days! Isn't that exciting?'
There was another baby in the room, as small and dark as Dudley was large and blond. He watched Petunia and Dudley with his thumb stuck in his mouth. For some reason, it made Petunia uncomfortable.
Stop staring, she wanted to snap at him, but what was the point, when he probably couldn't understand? All the same, she wished there was some way to make him turn away, close those brilliant eyes that were fixed on her ... Lily's eyes, seeming to reproach her from beyond the grave.
Lily, who would never get to play with her son the way she was paying with Dudley now. Petunia felt a stab of guilt. Carefully, she drew the mat she'd placed Harry on closer to the tree, closer to her and Dudley.
'You will get one present too, Harry,' she said, holding up a single finger.
Her words of course went right over Harry's head, but he seemed to understand that he was to be part of the game right now. Imitating Dudley, he clapped his hands together and let out a gurgling sort of laugh. The sound of it soothed Petunia's conscience. She patted Harry on the head.
---
Teddy is not a particularly noisy baby. Harry doesn't know if that is something he should worry about. Not that he wants Teddy to cry, of course, but is it normal for babies not to cry a lot? He wishes he could remember what he was like as a baby.
With Teddy bundled up cosily in a blanket, tied around Harry's shoulders to form a sling, Harry takes him down Diagon Alley, pointing out the cheerful decorations displaying in the shop windows. He doesn't say anything -- not a peep out of his tiny mouth -- but his hair occasionally changes colour to match the vibrant hues of each new decoration they pass.
'See anything you like, Teddy?' asks Harry. 'I have to get you a present, you know, and I'm not sure what's a good idea. I'm ... kind of new at this godfather thing.'
He remembers with a pang Sirius and the Firebolt -- and how the first Christmas present he ever had from his godfather (that he can remember, anyway) had been perfect. Sirius got it right from the start. Harry wants very much to be the perfect godfather to Teddy, even if he won't be able to remember it. He owes Remus that much.
They pass a shop selling bits and bobs -- in the display window, crystal balls and prisms catch the light and reflect it in a multitude of colours. Harry stops to admire the prettiness of it, wondering if it's a good idea for Ginny.
Then Teddy laughs as though he's been tickled. He stretches a hand out towards the display glass and his hair goes through a rainbow of colours.
'You like those?' Harry says, delighted.
He finds the perfect prism inside the shop -- carved in the form of a wolf. As they continue down Diagon Alley, Harry charms the wolf prism to float along, always in Teddy's line of sight. He is rewarded by the frequent sound of Teddy's laughter, ringing out like music to his ears.
---
v. Remembrance
Christmas Eve ...
The Christmas decorations at Hogwarts were the most splendid in eleven years, but few students were left to enjoy them. Albus imagined that parents were just too eager to have their children back now that there was no danger in travelling, no threats hanging over everyone's heads. Which family wouldn't want to be together to celebrate the first Christmas after the war?
Perhaps, he thought, he should look in on Aberforth tomorrow. Although it wasn't his brother that he desperately wanted to see ...
His wand lay on his desk, along with a cloak of silvery material. Only one thing was missing -- the one Hallow that he longed most of all to find.
It wouldn't just be his mother and sister he wished to bring back, though. It seemed as though every year of his life, the list of people he had wronged, to whom he owed a second chance at life, grew longer.
It was Albus's way, every year, to light a candle for each one. When the he has lit them all, they shine in the office like little, winking stars, reminding him always of the guilt he can never forget.
---
The Ministry is empty tonight; Christmas approaches, and the employees are spending time with their families -- as they well should. Kingsley is alone in his office, however, because there is another family he must drink to -- one to which he is tied to by bonds stronger than blood.
Tomorrow there will be an official celebration -- the first Ministry-organised event in honour of Harry Potter's victory in May -- and he will be there, making speeches and toasting the fallen, but there are some things he needs to say in private first.
He lays the photographs out on his desk one by one, with a glass of Firewhiskey above each of them: a private tribute for each lost friend.
'Mad-Eye.' He raises his glass to Alastor Moody. 'Constant vigilance -- I won't forget.'
He makes his promises to his friends, sealing it with a toast. To Remus and Tonks, he vows to make the world safe for Teddy and the children of tomorrow. To Fred, to keep a sense of mischief alive always. To Dumbledore, to always consider the right before the easy. And so it goes, until his head swims with the images of his old friends, the burn of the alcohol, and the weight of the promises he's sworn.
Tomorrow Kingsley will be sober and serious, but as he asks the people of wizarding Britain to remember those who sacrificed their lives for today and tomorrow, it is everything he says tonight that he will remember.
---
Fin
Happy Christmas
Author: shiiki
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sirius Black, Dolores Umbridge, Molly Weasley, Weasley Family, Percy Weasley, Remus Lupin, Petunia Evans, Harry Potter, Andromeda Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Albus Dumbledore, Narcissa Malfoy, Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 2,912
Summary: A variation on post-war Christmases, with five themes.
Notes: Happy Christmas to my wonderful flist! ♥ This got away from me somewhat, so it may not be exactly merry, but I hope it's enjoyable at least.
i. Innocent
5 days to Christmas ...
The cold was receding.
Only slightly -- he doubted that it would ever truly leave, that invasive chill that seeped right to the marrow of his bones -- but it was enough. He shivered and drew his robes closer, for all the good they would do.
Footsteps were sounding along the dark corridor and he thought he could make out the muffled sound of voices. Could it be? He could feel the tiny bubble of hope flaring up in him, proof that the Dementors must have retreated from the corridors.
He crawled to the bars of his cell and waited.
Soon enough, he could make out distinct words -- the first time since his incarceration that he'd heard a human voice that wasn't unhinged screaming.
The two visitors came into view. With the light in the prison falling in strange patterns, he could make out their bodies first -- one sturdy man in crisp uniform-like robes; the other long and lanky, dressed shabbier ... for one glorious moment before their heads emerged from the shadows, he imagined it was Remus. Then the shabby-robed man's red hair stood starkly against the dreary prison walls, and disappointment hit like a hex.
He must have let out a moan, because the red-haired man jumped and suddenly both men were peering cautiously at his cell.
'That's Sirius Black,' hissed the shorter man.
'The ...'
'Mass murderer, yes.'
The words were like a second punch to the gut. Sirius reeled away from the bars.
'Innocent,' he rasped. 'I am innocent.'
'No doubt he believes it,' sneered the shorter man. 'Dark scum. Let's move along, Weasley, the faster we're finished here, the better. It's Christmas -- I'm sure you're in a hurry to get back to your family.'
For some reason, though, the man called Weasley lingered when the other strode off quickly. His face was a study of indecision. 'I wonder ... well, it is Christmas,' he muttered softly. It was only when the other man called after him that he turned away to hasten after him; but not before a small, long object fell from his fingers into Sirius's cell.
Sirius reached out and closed his fingers around a slab of chocolate.
He stowed it carefully away in a corner of his cell, knowing he would be in more dire need of it later. For now, the warmth of Weasley's gift stayed with him -- until the Dementors closed in again, and the brief visit was driven out of his head, leaving nothing but the cold and the nightmares and the screaming in his head -- and the one mantra he grasped to keep himself sane.
'I am innocent.'
---
The cell is cold. The Dementors are gone now -- the new regiment has seen fit to dispose of them, more fool they -- but it seems as though the chill they brought with them is forever infused in the very walls of Azkaban.
Dolores draws her pink shawl closer around her shoulders, noting with disgust that it is getting a little threadbare.
No matter. They can't possibly hold her in here for that much longer.
And when she is released, well, those naughty children playing at being the Ministry will have a lot to answer for. According to the little calendar she inscribed onto the wall with a loose bit of rock -- she would like to use her trusty black quill; a new mark every day on the wall and into the palm of someone who deserves to be punished -- it has been 118 days.
The sound of footsteps echo down the corridor, sparking off a chain of cries down the neighbouring cells. Pleas, curses, death threats -- all are hurled at the approaching guard. Dolores waits until she can see who it is; there is no point in wasting words on a tool of the renegades that make up the new regiment.
The red hair is distinctive. Percy Weasley, the young ambitious Minister's aide. He seemed such a brilliant boy, so unlike those uncouth brothers ... but in the end, blood tells, doesn't it?
'Hem hem,' she coughs discreetly. He stiffens, looking at her warily. 'Percy.'
'Madam Umbridge,' he acknowledges politely.
'Madam Undersecretary,' she corrects sweetly. 'It will not be long before I regain my title, young Weasley. I'm sure you can see the way the wind is blowing.'
He recoils. 'You've been charged for a hundred and sixty-eight war crimes and proven guilty. You're in here for life.'
'I have done nothing wrong.'
A pause. 'You're mad if you believe that.'
'I am Senior Undersecretary to the Minister.'
His face is a study as he stares at her. Finally he sighs and tosses something between the bars of her cell.
'Merry Christmas, Dolores,' he says before he strides off.
Chocolate. She traces the ridges of the bar before stowing it away in a corner. She will show it to Cornelius when he comes tonight.
---
ii. Safe
4 days to Christmas ...
Molly set the last steaming bowl of stew on the kitchen table. There was still a large helping in the pot on the stove, to be kept hot for Arthur when he finally arrived home. The hours he'd kept for the past two months ... well, the Ministry was in dire need of people. And he'd been promised Christmas day off, at the very least. Besides, as Arthur had pointed out, with all the overtime pay he'd amassed, they'd be able to fork out a little more for presents for the children this year.
In a corner of the kitchen, her middle son was curled up on a chair, his nose in a book. Molly beamed at her son -- the clever boy, five years old and already reading -- before calling to him.
'Percy. Percy. Put down your book, dear, and go call your brothers for dinner.'
He gave her a pained look, but carefully folded down a corner of the page and obediently trotted off. Moments later, she heard the sound of several loud thumps, accompanied by an indignant yell and squealing laughter -- the former would be Percy and the latter Fred and George, no doubt -- and finally what sounded like a herd of Erumpent thundering down the stairs.
'I'm telling Mummy!' Percy was complaining.
'Shut it, all three of you.' Bill's voice, with all the authority of the first-born.
'But --'
The twins stampeded into the kitchen first, pulling themselves up into their chairs and clapping at the sight of food. Charlie and Bill were next, each with a squirming baby. Molly plucked Ginny from Bill's arms ('Thank you, dear.') and bade Charlie settle Ron in his baby chair. Percy trudged in last, a sullen look on his face.
Molly looked round at all her children crowded around the kitchen table and her heart sang. Arthur would be home soon enough and that was the most important thing -- never mind presents, never mind money: this Christmas the war was over, and they would all be together.
Safe.
---
The food doesn't smell as good as when they had house-elves taking care of meals, but it will be edible, and that's the best Narcissa can do now. Not a single house-elf is left in Malfoy Manor; all deserted to Hogwarts in May and none returned after. She does not know if any other old families got their servants back; she has not been in touch with any of them since the battle.
Most of them have been condemned to Azkaban, anyway.
Like Lucius, she thinks with a shiver. But no -- Lucius will be free again, eventually. How ironic, that it is her, not him, with the influence to bargain for a lighter sentence for him. How ironic, for her to be declared a war heroine, for that one lie she told the Dark Lord in order to save her Draco to be her saving grace.
The loud whip-crack of Apparition startles her. She turns, expecting Draco -- it is early for him to be home, but who else would it be? -- and is shocked to find a house-elf with a long nose bowing to her. It is another moment before she recognises this particular house-elf.
'Kreacher!'
'Miss Narcissa remembers,' says Kreacher, with evident delight. She notices, however, the title by which he addressed her -- 'miss', not 'mistress'.
'Master has sent Kreacher,' the elf continues. 'Master wishes Kreacher to help Miss Narcissa at Christmas.'
She has to remind herself that the master of which he speaks is not her late cousin Sirius, but Harry Potter.
Potter, who somehow managed to worm his way into the good graces of the Black family elf despite being a half-blood. Potter, the victor, who can be condescending now that he has all the spoils of war.
It would be easy to bid the house-elf to take care of it, to arrange a feast for her and Draco. But she will not take it, not from Potter.
'Tell Potter I don't need help,' she says haughtily. 'Nor pity.'
'As you wish, Miss Narcissa.' Kreacher bows low to her and Disapparates.
Narcissa turns back to her cooking with a frown. It's hardly gourmet level, but it will be enough for her, and for Draco, and for Lucius when they visit him at Christmas, and even if a Christmas at Azkaban is a far cry from the balls of yesteryear, they will be together, safe, a family that survived the war.
And that's all that matters now.
---
iii. Loss
3 days to Christmas ...
The moon waned three days before Christmas. Remus emerged from it sore, aching, and utterly defeated. He had nowhere to go; his employer had given him an ultimatum at the last moon -- one more sick day and he was out. There was nothing to do except lie in the rackety old shack he'd found for his transformation and waste away.
Maybe if he got lucky enough, he'd die too.
His thoughts brought him back a year, to Christmas with the Potters, before they'd gone deeply into hiding. They'd all drunk to the war ending by this Christmas, for a safer world for Harry ...
Well, they had got their wish: the war had ended. But it had not been without a price. James, Lily, and Peter had paid with their lives. And Sirius ... his freedom? His principles? Whatever it was, the victory had cost Remus everyone he had loved.
Be careful what you wish for, he thought bitterly. Sometimes it could be more than you could afford.
---
Last year, Andromeda thought Christmas was terrible. Ted on the run, He Who Must Not Be Named in power, the constant threat hanging over all of them ... But Dora and Remus were with her, and there was life growing amidst all the destruction. Fragile and precarious, but a new life all the same, which spelled hope. And they all prayed for the war to be over, for Ted to come home, for the growing child inside Dora to grow up safely.
Two of those wishes have materialised now: the war is over, Teddy will grow up in a safe world. But Ted never came home, and Dora and Remus never will either. Prayers, Andromeda thinks, come with a price.
---
iv. Orphan
2 days to Christmas ...
Dudley was excited by the growing pile of presents under the tree. He pointed at them, giggling madly, screaming, 'Me! Me!' Petunia surmised that he believed (quite correctly) that they were for him.
'That's right, Dinky Diddidums!' she said, squeezing his arm. 'All yours. And you'll get to open them in two days! Isn't that exciting?'
There was another baby in the room, as small and dark as Dudley was large and blond. He watched Petunia and Dudley with his thumb stuck in his mouth. For some reason, it made Petunia uncomfortable.
Stop staring, she wanted to snap at him, but what was the point, when he probably couldn't understand? All the same, she wished there was some way to make him turn away, close those brilliant eyes that were fixed on her ... Lily's eyes, seeming to reproach her from beyond the grave.
Lily, who would never get to play with her son the way she was paying with Dudley now. Petunia felt a stab of guilt. Carefully, she drew the mat she'd placed Harry on closer to the tree, closer to her and Dudley.
'You will get one present too, Harry,' she said, holding up a single finger.
Her words of course went right over Harry's head, but he seemed to understand that he was to be part of the game right now. Imitating Dudley, he clapped his hands together and let out a gurgling sort of laugh. The sound of it soothed Petunia's conscience. She patted Harry on the head.
---
Teddy is not a particularly noisy baby. Harry doesn't know if that is something he should worry about. Not that he wants Teddy to cry, of course, but is it normal for babies not to cry a lot? He wishes he could remember what he was like as a baby.
With Teddy bundled up cosily in a blanket, tied around Harry's shoulders to form a sling, Harry takes him down Diagon Alley, pointing out the cheerful decorations displaying in the shop windows. He doesn't say anything -- not a peep out of his tiny mouth -- but his hair occasionally changes colour to match the vibrant hues of each new decoration they pass.
'See anything you like, Teddy?' asks Harry. 'I have to get you a present, you know, and I'm not sure what's a good idea. I'm ... kind of new at this godfather thing.'
He remembers with a pang Sirius and the Firebolt -- and how the first Christmas present he ever had from his godfather (that he can remember, anyway) had been perfect. Sirius got it right from the start. Harry wants very much to be the perfect godfather to Teddy, even if he won't be able to remember it. He owes Remus that much.
They pass a shop selling bits and bobs -- in the display window, crystal balls and prisms catch the light and reflect it in a multitude of colours. Harry stops to admire the prettiness of it, wondering if it's a good idea for Ginny.
Then Teddy laughs as though he's been tickled. He stretches a hand out towards the display glass and his hair goes through a rainbow of colours.
'You like those?' Harry says, delighted.
He finds the perfect prism inside the shop -- carved in the form of a wolf. As they continue down Diagon Alley, Harry charms the wolf prism to float along, always in Teddy's line of sight. He is rewarded by the frequent sound of Teddy's laughter, ringing out like music to his ears.
---
v. Remembrance
Christmas Eve ...
The Christmas decorations at Hogwarts were the most splendid in eleven years, but few students were left to enjoy them. Albus imagined that parents were just too eager to have their children back now that there was no danger in travelling, no threats hanging over everyone's heads. Which family wouldn't want to be together to celebrate the first Christmas after the war?
Perhaps, he thought, he should look in on Aberforth tomorrow. Although it wasn't his brother that he desperately wanted to see ...
His wand lay on his desk, along with a cloak of silvery material. Only one thing was missing -- the one Hallow that he longed most of all to find.
It wouldn't just be his mother and sister he wished to bring back, though. It seemed as though every year of his life, the list of people he had wronged, to whom he owed a second chance at life, grew longer.
It was Albus's way, every year, to light a candle for each one. When the he has lit them all, they shine in the office like little, winking stars, reminding him always of the guilt he can never forget.
---
The Ministry is empty tonight; Christmas approaches, and the employees are spending time with their families -- as they well should. Kingsley is alone in his office, however, because there is another family he must drink to -- one to which he is tied to by bonds stronger than blood.
Tomorrow there will be an official celebration -- the first Ministry-organised event in honour of Harry Potter's victory in May -- and he will be there, making speeches and toasting the fallen, but there are some things he needs to say in private first.
He lays the photographs out on his desk one by one, with a glass of Firewhiskey above each of them: a private tribute for each lost friend.
'Mad-Eye.' He raises his glass to Alastor Moody. 'Constant vigilance -- I won't forget.'
He makes his promises to his friends, sealing it with a toast. To Remus and Tonks, he vows to make the world safe for Teddy and the children of tomorrow. To Fred, to keep a sense of mischief alive always. To Dumbledore, to always consider the right before the easy. And so it goes, until his head swims with the images of his old friends, the burn of the alcohol, and the weight of the promises he's sworn.
Tomorrow Kingsley will be sober and serious, but as he asks the people of wizarding Britain to remember those who sacrificed their lives for today and tomorrow, it is everything he says tonight that he will remember.
---
Fin
Happy Christmas