It's not like Christmas at all // for westwardlee

[wandersfound.livejournal.com]

Title: It's not like Christmas at all
Author: wandersfound
Recipient: westwardlee
Rating: PG
Highlight for Warnings: *Angst, angst, angst*
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: westwardlee asked for "GoF-time Christmas" and "a lonely Christmas." Sirius is on the run, but it's hard to be alone on Christmas.
Author's notes: Title comes from "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)". Happy holidays westwardlee and everyone else!


Sirius sends the letter three days before Christmas. It’s the first time he’s been in a house in over a month, and he’s only there now because he happened to overhear a Muggle family talking about going on a ten-day cruise for the holidays (because that’s what Muggles do, apparently, they cruise). He had followed them home and luckily they hadn’t noticed a mangy looking stray lurking around their front garden as they loaded suitcases into a car and driven off down the street, no doubt too busy anticipating their holiday to pay any mind to the dog.

So Sirius moves in, keeping the lights off at night, moving around the house as little as possible, and taking his animagus form any time he’s near a window (or at least ducking down, as he suspects the neighbors aren’t particularly observant anyway; Muggles never are). He stays for two days, and on the third he deems the location safe and obscure enough to risk sending a letter.

It’s vague, vague enough that no one should be able to figure out his location or-- hopefully, even who he is-- from the message.

Moony,

Well, I’ve gone on holiday. It’s a lovely place, by the sea. Rather quiet. I’ll probably be here until Boxing Day or the day after, and it’d be nice to see an old friend. If you happen to be free this Christmas, you could visit.

A small scribbled heart, which Sirius had accidentally smudged so it looked more like a small scribbled blob, and then:

Padfoot

The letter arrives by post owl early in the morning of Christmas Eve. A single sheet of parchment tied loosely to the leg of a muddy-brown barn owl. The message isn’t a surprise to him:

Very busy, urgent business, Dumbledore doesn’t think it’s safe anyway, so sorry.

But the words still sting cold against him as he reads. The note isn’t even signed. There’s just a short, slightly crooked dash that isn’t even wavy enough that Sirius can pretend it’s sloppy handwriting for

I miss you,
Love, Remus.

Remus’s handwriting is impeccable, anyway.

In the afternoon, Sirius risks an excursion outside. He assumes that the neighbors are too busy with their Christmas preparations to pay any mind to the large shaggy black dog sneaking furtively out of the house. He had intended to leave for a while on Christmas Eve anyway, to sneak into a shop and get some decorations to make the house look somewhat festive for Remus’s arrival, but with the knowledge he would be spending the holiday alone Sirius wasn’t in the mood to hang tinsel or string beads.

He had been counting on Remus being able to go out to a store and buy food for Christmas dinner, but instead Sirius digs through a trash bin behind a butcher’s shop for scraps of discarded meat.

The ground is dry and hard, so his paw prints don’t appear as Sirius pads quickly over the cold dirt and dark pavement back from the town to the house in which he is lodged. Cracking open the back door slowly to slip in without causing a disturbance that would be noticed by anyone passing by, Sirius enters and then returns to his human form, slumping against the nearest wall for a moment before standing straight and going to the cupboard where he had hidden his wand. After a moment’s pause, he also grabs his quill and some parchment.

Moony,

Sorry you can’t make it, mate. It’s not the same without you.

He can’t bring himself to write more, can’t think of anything else to say--or rather, he can think of too much to say, none of which he can say without revealing who or where he is, so folds it carefully and sends it off with a nearby owl.

He doesn’t bother to sign it.

As the sky outside gets darker, the sun dropping below the horizon, the air inside the house grows colder. Sirius considers starting a fire in the small brick fireplace but worries that someone will see the smoke rising from the chimney outside. After all, it is dark, but it isn’t late. And it’s the night before Christmas. People could still be out and about. So he contents himself with lighting a small bluebell flame in an empty jar.

The tiny flame doesn’t keep him warm enough for comfort, so he changes back into his animagus form and curls up on a cushioned chair to sleep. The next morning, Sirius wakes up feeling cramped and stiff.

It’s Christmas day, and he spends it alone.

**

Meanwhile, far away, though not so far by Floo powder or apparition or even broomstick, if Remus could be persuaded to fly a long distance on a broom (unlikely, he had been rather disagreeable to long stretches of time on broomsticks since one memorable summer when Sirius had gotten them lost and they had ended up an entire country away from where they had meant to go), another man spends Christmas day alone. Early in the afternoon, he receives an owl.

Remus,

I’m sure you can understand that going to visit Sirius could reveal his location. For both of your safety, it would be best if you stayed away.

My deepest apologies.

Happy holidays,

Albus Dumbledore

Remus wants to crumple the letter, but he restrains himself, laying the parchment on a writing desk and taking out his own fresh sheet. He lifts a quill and dips it into an inkwell.

Albus, he writes,

I do understand. I suspected that would be your answer, and I do agree with your advice. I have written to Padfoot already and informed him.

Merry Christmas,

Remus

He ties the letter to the waiting owl, which flies off through an open window, leaving Remus, once again, alone.

Remus walks quietly down the stairs of the old house, careful not to disturb any of the portraits hanging on the walls, and goes to the kitchen. He pours a glass of wine and lifts it before drinking.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispers to the empty air, receiving nothing but silence in return.