I was feeling Christmassy. This is kinda Christmas and New Year, so … enjoy!
Merry Christmas (nearly), or whatever else you're celebrating this time of year! Have a great time, because 'tis the season to be jolly.
Cover image by Natello.
Lucky Find
It was the Christmas of seventh year and Sirius Black was happy. Years of sombre celebrations were past, and now he was free. Free on Christmas day.
James' parents had asked what he'd wanted, and he'd said he didn't know. They'd smiled and said to choose something - anything - and they'd buy it.
So here he was, walking down the streets of muggle London, and he felt alive. Alive for the first Christmas he could call his own.
Snow spiralled towards the floor, melting on contact with the ground. The cold air cut through Sirius' jacket. Laughter rang through the frosted streets. Each house was decked in tinsel of red and green and silver and gold, lights that flickered merrily. Through windows, families gathered around lavishly decorated trees, their delighted chatter brightening the night. A few men and women holding each other's hands or the hands of their children wandered past Sirius, their smiles wide and their eyes bright.
Didn't they know there was a war on?
He pushed thought of the war, of death and sadness and of his own memories of Christmas aside. That wasn't for tonight. Tonight was joy and happiness.
A homeless man huddled in a doorway that Sirius passed. He gave the man a smile of his own. "Merry Christmas," he said.
The words were warm and welcome on his tongue. He'd said them often enough this morning, but now they seemed to have finally settled in his mouth. The man grinned at him gratefully.
Sirius kept going, a hundred more new sights and sounds greeting him from all sides. He had never experienced such an explosion of joy, locked in the dark maze that was 12 Grimmauld Place. His heart was soaring.
He wanted to soar like this all the time, to be free, zooming above the clouds.
And then it hit him. He wanted to fly. Broomsticks could only go so high. He remembered an afternoon long ago at Remus' village, when a beautiful vehicle had driven past, a machine of wheels and handles and an engine that purred like a cat. It had been as if it was flying an inch above the road, with all the grace it moved with.
Sirius wanted a motorbike.
Five minutes and two apparitions later, he was at a garage with a wad of the Potter's muggle money in his pocket.
It was dingy and small, with only one man in sight. The outside was covered in graffiti, and the inside walls smeared in engine grease. It stunk of petrol and cigarettes.
"Hello," He said to the man at the counter, whose bulging biceps and bald head were covered in tattoos. "I'm interested in purchasing a motorbike."
The man raised an eyebrow. "You old enough to drive?"
"Yeah." He said, slightly affronted that the man thought he was sixteen or even younger.
"Got a licence?"
He didn't. "Obviously."
"Let's see it then."
Sirius brought out his wand, "Here."
"What's this? Some stupid joke? I won't-"
"Confundus."
The man swooned comically, then nodded, "Alright. Let's show you what we've got."
Ten minutes after that, during which Sirius endured a tour of a series of vehicles, all in various states of disrepair, he saw it.
"This one … well, she's needing a lot of repair. You won't want her. Doesn't even drive."
"I'll take her."
"What?"
"You heard me. I want this one."
He couldn't tear his eyes off her. Damaged, as the man had said, but with a couple spells and some spare parts, she'd be beautiful. Beautiful. Sirius had never been one to describe things that way, but now he could hardly describe her as anything but that. Painted a battered black and silver, with the engine bare. The handles protruded from the front at an elegant angle, and the seat was his for sitting in. He'd sit and feel the engine thrum beneath him, feel the heat radiating from the exhaust. He'd fly - yes, fly - above the clouds and never return.
"You sure? She'll cost loads to fix. She's a 1959 Triumph Bonneville. The last owner dumped her here."
"Yes. Perfect. I'll fix her up."
"Well, in that state, I'll sell her for £20. No-one else is going to take her, and all the parts are useless. That's a lucky find for you, boy, if you can get her fixed up."
"Yeah. Thanks."
He could barely breathe from anticipation. His fingers shook, itching to find their place on those handlebars.
Half an hour later, everything was sorted, and Sirius Black walked out of a muggle garage wheeling a motorbike on a trolley the man had lent him.
The Potters watched, amusement dancing on their lips, as Sirius worked on the bike. Day in, day out, all that he held in his mind for the last few days of 1977 was the motorcycle they had bought him. Even James couldn't coax him into playing quidditch.
He returned for meals and for sleep covered in oil, hair singed. But his eyes were alight, brighter than they'd seen them since he'd ran away. They didn't have the heart to laugh at his state or to tell him to rest because it was doing him good.
That bike certainly was a lucky find.
Flying. Soaring. Nighttime chill. Wind whistling in his ears, combing through his hair, brushing his skin. Even the crescent moon made an effort to shine weakly at him. An engine thrummed beneath him. His hand gripped the handlebars. The wheels spun on thin air.
He was flying, and what a sight it must have been: an eighteen-year-old boy on an old Triumph, whizzing through the night air on New Year's Eve. Merlin, he'd give all the gold in Gringotts to see his mother's face if she could see him now…
But she was gone, far below. The ground couldn't even keep him, so she couldn't either. He was no longer limited by silly things like gravity. This bike could take him beyond law and reason. Just as he liked it. He felt a knot untie itself inside his chest, a bubble of worry pop into nothingness.
Freedom at last. Sirius was above it all, above fear and worry. Above the creatures that haunted his nightmares. Above the war that no-one could see. He was in a place where it was just him and the birds. Him and the air, the wind, the icy chill.
He laughed, the sound stolen by the wind, trailing behind him.
The world was like a toy below him: gingerbread houses and figurine people and wind-up cars. Lights blinked from the windows, spreading onto the streets and lighting the sky.
The stars spun to either side. The rich indigo that painted the sky was deep. Eternal. Full of endless possibilities. He could go to Buckingham Palace and be thrown out by the Queen. He could ride around Trafalgar Square fifty-seven times. He could take James up to Lily Evan's bedroom window.
Free. As the fireworks blasted from all around and 1977 ended, he felt the world turn. 1978 would be a year of war and pain and death for everyone, but for now, flying far above all his fears, Sirius could only think of new beginnings.