Sturgis Podmore perched on the icy metal fire escape of a Muggle tenement overlooking Knockturn Alley, wrapped the invisibility cloak tighter around himself, tucked his gloved hands into his armpits, and resigned himself to a long wait. What a way to spend Christmas Eve. The casual thought released a memory of a Christmas long past.
A dreary rented room, a small stack of unopened Christmas cards on the table next to a carton of Chinese take-out. His Christmas dinner, untouched, forgotten as he stared blindly at the divorce papers in his hands. Caught off guard, Sturgis huddled against the rusty iron railing until the memory passed. The sound of a door shutting in the alley far below brought him back to the present.
The divorce had been almost twenty years ago. Over and done and dealt with, or so he'd believed, until his time in prison. It had been like that for months after his release from Azkaban. Any little thing would set it off, the depression and hopelessness, the pity and self-disgust. The dementors who'd guarded the prison during the first half of his incarceration did that to a fellow, feeding off every happy memory, every cheerful thought, until nothing was left.
Nothing but this: You're pathetic, incompetent. What do you think you're doing here? Hoping to lose another invisibility cloak? You're no use to the Order. No use to anyone...
Sturgis shook his head impatiently. It had been getting better, he'd thought. But then had come the holiday season, and suddenly there were a million things to trigger the memories. Christmas trees. Snowflakes. Fairy lights. The scent of roasting chestnuts wafting from a vendor's cart. A storefront Father Christmas' cheery 'Ho, ho, ho!' Christmas memories, and none of them good. He shrugged. At least I can make sure the others have the chance to be home with their families tonight. No sense anyone else having to be miserable. Against his will, his mind dredged up another memory of grief and pain.
The year no one had the heart to even try to celebrate. Not after attending all those funerals. The Prewett brothers, the McKinnons, poor Benjy Fenwick...
A voice sounded in his ear. "Imperturbatus!" Podmore flashed a rare gin; he'd slipped the long, flesh-colored string of the Extendible Ear through a crack in the bathroom window. The Death Eaters meeting in the squalid Knockturn Alley flat would think their plotting safe from spies, when in reality he could still hear every word. Sturgis sat on the fire escape for close to an hour, ignoring the cold, focusing all his concentration on the plans being made in the rooms below. Intent on the occupants of the flat, he didn't notice the lone witch making her way home through the alley. His mind barely registered the three swaggering warlocks coming from the opposite direction. He was invisible; they posed little threat to him. It wasn't until their voices drowned out the Death Eaters' discussion that he gave his full attention to the drama that was now taking place beneath his feet.
"Expelliarmus!" The thug laughed coarsely as the woman's wand was ripped from her fingers and flew to his hand. It looked as though she'd managed to stun one of her attackers before being disarmed. Another had dropped to the muddy cobblestones, clutching his groin and cursing. She darted to one side, trying to get past the last warlock standing, but he blocked her path, casting another hex that froze her in her place. Sturgis muttered a curse or two of his own; he'd hoped the witch would be able to escape.
The warlocks who'd been injured in the scuffle were already recovered. Now all three closed in on the unarmed woman, who began to scream loudly for help. Sturgis cursed again, more concerned for the fate of his spying mission than for the stranger below. That was another thing the dementors did to a fellow. They sucked the heart right out of a man, made him cold and unfeeling like themselves.
You're despicable. Cowardly. Worthless. Ashamed, Sturgis dropped his head into his hands and groaned silently. Even without the threat of the Death Eaters discovering him, he couldn't help her, not against three warlocks. Incompetent. Stupid. Always a hopeless failure.
The witch's screams had brought the Death Eaters crowding onto the balcony, muffled in heavy winter cloaks. For an instant, Sturgis harbored the hope that they would intervene to drive the thugs away. After all, it was Christmas eve—
"Looks like someone's going to unwrap an early Christmas present. Go on, go get her, lads!"
So much for Christmas spirit. Sturgis reckoned that if they'd had any to begin with, they would have been home with their families, not out plotting the deaths of innocent Muggles.
"Please... No..." Her screams died away in despair as she realized no one was going to help her. The thugs were ripping her robes off, to the accompaniment of the Death Eaters' approving laughter. Without thinking, Sturgis drew his wand and muttered a spell. Memories flooded back, sweeping him away on a tide of self-loathing.
His mother, holding the parchment with his marks for the term. "Sturgis, your father and I don't understand. We're paying a lot for you to go to that school because they told us you were going to be a wizard. But with these marks... Well, it doesn't seem to be working out, dear. Perhaps we should reconsider. You could attend Broadlands and live at home..."
Shouted taunts from the Death Eaters brought him back to the present; "There's one way for a girl to protect her virtue."
"Ha, what's the matter, lads? Not going to let a few layers of clothing spoil your fun, are you?"
The witch's robes, faded blue, lay in tatters in the mud of the alley. The apparent leader of the warlock gang clutched a second layer in his hands, a bright shade of magenta. To the astonishment of all but Sturgis, the witch was still clothed in robes of dark green. As Sturgis and the Death Eaters watched, one of the other toughs grabbed at the neckline and tore. As the green fabric parted, a layer of red velvet was revealed. More laughter from the Death Eater audience, more frantic tearing of robes. Lavender silk. Yellow taffeta. Sturdy brown tweed. The witch had stopped struggling and simply stood, gaping at the growing pile of robes at her feet. Pleated Scottish tartan. Sensible grey twill. Purple sequined dress robes with marabou trim.
"Come on, they've let her scream enough. Someone may come to investigate." The Death Eaters turned away in disgust, slamming the balcony door. The faint sounds of them flooing away one by one reached Sturgis through the Extendible Ear.
"Take that!" The witch had retrieved her wand and was hexing the astonished warlocks with vigor, chasing them from the alley.
Sturgis noted absently that she was now wearing tailored robes of navy blue corduroy. It seemed she had the situation well in hand. Rolling up the Extendible Ear, he rose stiffly to his feet and turned to go. He stopped at the sound of crying. Sighing, Sturgis choose apparation as the quickest method to get from the fire escape to the ground. He pulled off the invisibility cloak and stuffed it into a pocket of his cloak before going to the witch's side. The shock of her ordeal had overwhelmed her and she knelt in the muddy snow. "There, there. You're safe now. Well done," he complimented her, helping her to her feet.
"Look at all these robes," she stammered, gesturing to the pile lying trampled in the slush. "There must be a dozen. Where do you think they all came from?"
Sturgis winced. "I'm afraid I'm responsible for that. Sorry."
"Sorry? What are you sorry for? You saved me!" She ran her hands over the mud-stained corduroy. "These are nice. Shame they got dirty... I could use a new set of robes. Do you think these stains will ever come out?"
Stupid, worthless, talentless idiot! He'd come to terms with his magical disability years ago... But then came three months of exposure to the dementors. "There will be more, underneath," Sturgis told her miserably.
What do you mean, more?" Realization dawned. "Would you mind turning your back?" Sturgis complied, self-recriminations and memories of botched charms accompanied by the rustling of many layers of fabric. "You can look now." She had moved to the mouth of the alley, to stand on the clean-swept cobblestones. She'd peeled down to robes of burgundy wool accented with braid. Robes of brown, lime green, and pale orange hung over one arm. She gaped at Sturgis. "Will they... will they stay?"
"Oh yes." He grimaced. "They're permanent."
"They're lovely. I've never owned anything so nice." She hesitated. "I don't mean to sound greedy... how many more?"
Sturgis let out a laugh that was more of a cough. Double Charms, first year. Conjuring teacups. Delicate porcelain cups appearing on each desk, one by one. But on Sturgis' desk—stacks of cups. A deluge of cups, piling higher and higher, teetering, toppling to the floor in a crash of broken china. Startled screams. Incredulous laughter. Professor Flitwick's shocked face. "Mr. Podmore! Ten points from Hufflepuff for your tomfoolery!"
Sturgis shook free of the memory with an effort. "One hundred and sixteen. Er, that includes the dozen or so back in the alley. So, about a hundred more to go. I am sorry."
"Why do you keep saying you're sorry? You save me, give me all these beautiful robes, and then apologize?" She laughed, incredulous. "Thank you! Blimey, if you had a white beard, I'd think you were Father Christmas!"
"You won't be thanking me next week, when you're still trying to get out of them all," he said glumly. Tea cups, pincushions, ink bottles, doilies. It didn't matter what he conjured, he always got exactly one hundred and sixteen of them. You're a laughingstock. An idiot. A fool.
"Oh, piffle. It won't take that long. I just don't know where I'll put them all."
"Let me carry those for you." He gethered the conjured robes into his arms. "You shouldn't walk out alone at night," he admonished her. "Not in a neighborhood like Knockturn Alley."
"I've never had any trouble before." Her tone was a trifle defensive, her door only a few steps further up the cobblestoned street. "Alohomora."
"Just be more careful in the future." As the door opened Sturgis handed back the bundle of robes and turned to go.
"No, wait! Why don't you come in for a minute. After all, it is Christmas eve. No one should have to be alone on Christmas." Suddenly she was stammering, her self-assurance gone. "Oh! Um, I'm sorry. You've probably got a w- um, a family waiting for you—"
A dreary rented room, a small stack of unopened Christmas cards on the table next to a carton of Chinese take-out. The dismal memory, playing its endless loop in his mind. It took a certain amount of effort to smile at her. "It just so happens that I'm alone this Christmas. But you shouldn't be inviting strangers into your flat, either."
"Somehow I think that I can trust you." She stuck out a hand. "Wanda. Wanda Petronski."
He shook it solemnly. "Sturgis Podmore."
"See, now we aren't strangers, Mr. Podmore."
"Call me Sturgis."
He sat at one end of a sagging futon and looked around with frank curiosity as she lit the candles in their sconces. Books overflowed shelves, covered the little dining table, piled in heaps on the floor. Hardcovers, paperbacks, even leather-bound grimoires. Whatever else she might be, Wanda Petronski was a voracious reader.
She laughed softly, embarrassed again, and swept a stack of books off the table, revealing a tiny Christmas tree adorned with miniature fairy lights, which she lit with a wave of her wand.
The Christmas holiday, when he was eleven. His parents waiting for him at the train station, looking nervous and out-of-place in their Muggle clothes. The little artificial tree with its blinking electric bulbs. His father's face, alight with excitement as Sturgis ran downstairs on Christmas morning. The gleaming new bicycle, his dream gift... before he'd begun attending Hogwarts and discovered brooms. The light in his father's eyes dimming, the confusion on his face as Sturgis tried and failed to hide his disappointment... You ungrateful little git. Dad did everything for you. How could you hurt him like that?
"Sorry, I'm not much of a housekeeper. Let me pour you a drink." He blinked and managed another smile, took a grateful gulp of the brandy she poured, listened as she told him of her interests, her friends, the retail job she held just to earn money for advanced studies. The mother who'd died three years ago. The father who'd never been part of her life. "Merlin's beard, you must think I'm the worst chatterbox—"
"Not at all." He never wanted her to stop talking.
"Tell me about yourself, Sturgis. Why are you alone on Christmas eve? Forgive me if this is out of line, but you seemed to drift off there, for a moment. I'm guessing the holidays aren't a happy time for you." She touched his arm, a gentle gesture that for once didn't set off any unhappy memories.
Of course. He hadn't known her when he was sent to Azkaban. There were no memories of Wanda Petronski for the dementors to steal or defile. Instead of misery and shame, he was feeling something he hadn't felt in a long time. Something new and still fragile. Friendship. Trust... And maybe, just maybe, something more. He took a deep breath. "I've had more than my fair share of happy Christmases, Wanda. I just can't seem to remember any of them right now." The next words came out in a rush, before despair and self-doubt could stifle them. "Some friends of mine are having a party tomorrow. I wasn't planning to go, but now... Well, would you like to join me?"
Her eyes darted to the pile of conjured robes. "Oh, I don't know. I really haven't anything to wear..." She laughed and he grinned. "I'd love to."
"It's late. I should really—" Belatedly, he remembered why he was even here. I still have to report back to the Order! Incompetent, useless fool...
"Wait just a minute." She jumped up and rummaged among the books. "I want you to have this, Sturgis." Wanda held out a music box. "Open it!" A tune played, the bell-like notes bringing even broader smiles to both their faces. "It's got a permanent Cheering Charm on it," Wanda explained. "It was a Christmas gift from my mother when I was a little girl."
"I can't accept this—" No-talent, worthless mudblood—
Wanda covered his hands with her own, pressing the gift into them, silencing the voice in his head. "Consider it a loan, then. Until you don't need it anymore." She saw him to the door. "Happy Christmas, Sturgis. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Happy Christmas, Wanda." He made his way back to the mouth of the alley, turned into the broader cobblestoned expanse of Diagon Alley, started back toward the Leaky Cauldron and Order Headquarters in Muggle London. A shop window display, still brightly lit despite the late hour, caught his eye. A Christmas Tree. A tiny Father Christmas in a miniature sleigh, enchanted to wave and pipe a merry 'Ho, ho, ho!'
The memory caught at Sturgis, tried to drag him back into darkness and despair. His parents waiting for him at the train station, looking nervous and out-of-place in their Muggle clothes...
He fumbled for the music box in his cloak pocket. A new memory bloomed in his mind, pure and bright and untouched by the dementors' blight. A tiny tree amid teetering piles of books. A laughing woman in burgundy robes, pressing a gift into his hand... A happy memory, just one of many more to come. Sturgis Podmore smiled and slid the music box back into his pocket, unopened.
——————
Author's notes: In addition to the Harry Potter books by J.K. Rowling, I drew inspiration from The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins by Dr. Seuss and The Hundred Dresses by Eleanor Estes. The name Wanda Petronski is from The Hundred Dresses.
Thank you for reading, and may all your holiday memories be happy ones.