Don't own The Beatles, don't own Let It Be, don't own Potter. Wow, what a surprise, eh? Just… enjoy. It's Christmas! Want get me a pressie? OK! Kill Chris Martin for me, or get Paul McCartney to give me hug. Alternatively, an Adam and the Ants LP will do beautifully.
DEDICATED TO AMILIAPADFOOT, JUST FOR BEING SHEERLY AND UTTERLY BRILLIANT. AND KIDNAPPING ME REVIEWERS x SHE'S THE BEST :)
Fairytale of Grimmauld Place
There are some sounds that you can immediately identify. The riff of a guitar, the beat of a drum, the whistle of a pipe - bold, musical sounds that easily carry over others, masking and distorting them. Roaring laughter melts into unidentifiable murmurs; the sharp chink of half-empty glasses seems almost absent beneath the din. With such prominent sounds that are commonplace around the festive season, it is easy for more subtle noises to go unnoticed - the pitter-patter of footsteps in the snow, the yowl of a cat… the wail of a crying baby.
At a deserted London bus stop, a young man, barely adult, was cradling a weeping child; his soft hushes and gentle rocking were of yet unsuccessful. The music from the surrounding Christmas Eve parties were growing distant, but the panicked infant continued to sob. He sighed, looking around nervously, knowing what he would have to do in the end, as it was the only thing that had ever calmed him down, only thing that would put a stop to the mind-numbing noise he was making. Checking around him once more, and, inwardly cringing, he sat down on the frost-encrusted bench and softly sang into whorls of the baby's ears. "When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be." The child's tears began to slowly recede, snuffling into his guardian's chest as he went into the next line: "And in my hour of darkness, She is standing right in front of me, Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be, Let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be"
The child had melted into the realms of sleep, but the man continued to sing that old song, more to himself than anything. He continued to hum the melody, until finally, another voice joined him. "And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be. For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see, there will be an answer, let it be." Unaware of the presence beside him until that moment, the young man jumped, his emerald eyes going wide with surprise. In the light of the streetlamps and tacky Christmas decorations that adorned the local houses, the crooked and feeble silhouette of an old woman could be seen, bundled up, almost comically so, in layer upon layer of thick, bobbled wool; the little of her silvery hair and paper-white skin that was exposed seemed to glow in the darkness. She lent in to her company, her watery blue eyes brimming with admiration behind her wire-rimmed specs. "Such a lovely little nipper." She cooed, beaming at the sleeping infant. "About seven… eight months old, I'd say?"
"Right you are." He tilted the child toward the elder, revealing his angelic face.
"So beautiful," she whispered, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue, smearing her lenses. "His parents must be very proud..." She trailed of there, as if a realisation had come over her. "Still. It's a shame, what with you being so, so young…"
"What?" The other exclaimed. "No! No, no. He's not mine. I'm only eighteen… I'm… I'm his godfather."
An embarrassed flush crept up the pensioner's wrinkled neck. "I do apologise, dearie. Just… with kids today, and you… just… still. Eighteen. Still rather young to be a godfather."
"I suppose they didn't plan for me to be taking up my godfathering duties this soon." The man sighed, almost painfully. "No-one did. We were sort of hoping they'd be here now, actually. For his first Christmas and all."
"An orphan." The elder concluded. "And before his first Christmas. Poor mite." She raised her head, and gave the younger a watery smile. "Though it seems you've got fath- pardon, godfatherhood down to a 't'. Wish I could say the same for my son."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. Toffee?" The conversation stopped mid-flow as the woman produced a paper parcel from her carpet bag with a flourish.
"No, no thank you. What was it then, with your son? Money, or…"
"No, no, not the money. I just think he couldn't hack the commitment, and not just to the kid. Even when he was little, he couldn't just have what was on his own plate. Had to have every bugger else's. So indecisive. His mind changed like the wind, bit of this, bit of that, bit of everything. In the end, turns out he didn't even liked what he'd been nicking, and started on his own plate. Only later on, it was metaphorically speaking."
The man began to chortle. "Sounds just like my cousin."
"Oh! Was he a friend of Dorothy's, too?"
"Nah." He sputtered between giggles, nodding at the deserted bakery on the other side of the road. "More of a friend of Greggs!"
The pensioner did a double-take before erupting into peals of laughter, twittering until tears rolled down her cheeks. Their laughs echoed out across the deserted high street, only stopping when the bundle in the mans arms began to wail.
"Here he goes again." He looked around nervously, as if suddenly aware of where he was. The woman looked upon him with narrowed eyes, cogs whirring in her mind. "If you don't mind me saying so, dear, you seem mighty nervous. Lad like you, shouldn't you and the baby be at home?"
"I don't know" he sighed. "Everything's moving so fast these days. I don't have a clue what's best for him anymore." He paused, nodding at the spluttering child. "I'd get away from here, if it wasn't for him. I'm sick of being the one everyone relies on, then ending up being such a let down."
A look of genuine shock passed over the elder's face. "No, no, dear, you musn't say that! No, that won't do! What on earth could you have done to make you say that?"
"It's just..." Yet another sigh escaped the young man's lips. "There's so much I could have done, to help them when they when they here. You don't understand... I had to leave, I had this job to do, and junior's dad came to see me and all this responsability was piled on, all this pressure to come back and live up to this role I'd been set, but at the same time I was expected to be this hero... Oh, I don't expect you to understand."
"Of course not. Though I should ask what good will running do?"
"I don't know, I don't know"
"And where would you go?"
"I don't know!" After the sudden outburst, the trio remained silent, until finally, a bus arrived and the woman rose from the bench.
"You're leaving?"
"Yes." She said shortly. "It's Christmas Eve. Why did you think I was sitting there, for my health?"
"Where you off to now, then?" Was his response, ignoring the previous question.
"My son's house."
"Really? Only you didn't seem to fond of him when you spoke about him."
The woman sighed, shaking her head. "It's Christmas. He shouldn't be alone, now should he? Now matter what he's said or done." She chose this moment to look pointedly at her companion, before looking up at the night sky that was rapidly filling with familiar shimmering white flakes. "Go home, lad. Stop arsing about and go home. Even if it's just for Christmas. Does anyone know you're here?"
"No."
"All the more reason to go back. They'll never have to know you left."
The driver started the engine, tapping his fingers impatiently. With a final nod, the elder took her seat, and the bus pulled away, leaving the two on the street where they began.
By time Harry Potter got home that night, the music had long ended. Children all over the country were fast asleep in their beds, yet in Australia, they'd be rising on Christmas morning, rushing to unwrap the presents Father Christmas had left them. Harry sighed. Bloody Australia. That's where Hermione was, right now, and where she had been since October, when she had tracked down her parents. There was no way anything would be the same without her; she was the only one who had managed to hold them together, keep them united... a team.
Slowly unlocking the door and tiptoeing through the dark as not to wake anyone, Harry thought of every Christmas he had ever known, every real Christmas, that is. As he set Teddy down in his cot with a yawn, brushing snowflakes from his hair, he noticed the small pile of gifts in the corner of the room, covered in a multitude of wrapping papers and bows. Harry smiled to himself: who was he kidding? He was stuck here, a prisoner of his own device, the love in his heart keeping him put; love for everyone here, love for every memory. Yet it was the memories that were driving him away; of Sirius, Tonks, Remus... Harry sighed, remembering the odd old woman at the bus stop. He wanted to get away from here, from the memories that had forced him to try and move on, yet he couldn't leave the home he had tryed so hard to build for his friends, family... Godson. It seemed that at Christmas, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.
It was at that moment Harry sensed movement in the doorway. There stood Ginny, wearing an infamous Weasley jumper and a sleep-deprived pout. "Where were you?"
Harry knew at that he could continue with this honest, christmassy theme and tell her the truth; however, this was one story that was going to have to wait. "Just needed some air. Teddy was screaming blue murder." As the couple left the room, the clock in the hall stuck midnight, chiming twelve times over before coming to a stop at the same moment as the duo: directly under the mistletoe. An impish smile lit up Ginny's face. "Merry Christmas, Harry."
"And a Happy New Year."
It seemed Harry's escape plan would have to be put off for a little while longer.
Lesson learned? morals? strangers? children? Snow? must be an xmas fic. As tonight is Christmas Eve... merry xmas, and a happy new year xxxx