December 25, 1981

Chateau Black

At precisely 8 am, Pip appeared with a quiet pop! to open the heavy brocade curtains in her mistress' bedroom. Turning to begin the laborious process of motivating the Black Matriarch out of bed, the little elf let out a high pitched squeal of alarm.

"Missy Cassiopeia! What is being the matter?!"

Cassiopeia raised both eyebrows in bemusement from her spot propped amongst the pillows. "Really now, Pip. I have woken up on my own before."

"The last time Missy Cassiopeia was waking up on her own, she was deciding to take over the whole family!" Pip accused, hands on hips and long nose pointed in the air.

"Well, I suppose that isn't an inaccurate statement- fortunately, I've no new families to take over, far as I know."

Throwing back the covers and swinging out of bed, Cassiopeia allowed Pip to fussily bundle her into her thickest winter housecoat. Her brow furrowed as she stared thoughtfully out the new open windows at the snow covered grounds below. "Though maybe you're onto something Pip. Because something in the air is telling me that it is going to be a particularly busy day."


December 25, 1981

Invermoriston, Scotland

Isobel McGonagall had raised three babes of her own, had taken active part in the raising all six of her grandchildren- yet she had never encountered a Christmas quite as strange as the one she spent with little Harry Potter.

It had started at breakfast, when the fat nanny kneazle had jumped down from his preferred perch on the back of the little boy's high chair and began staring at the front door with never-before-seen intensity.

"Odd beastie," Isobel sighed, shaking a long handled wooden spoon in the kneazle's direction. "Don't go and expose yourself as bein' strange to the whole family when they arrive, you hear?"

The kneazle shot the briefest affronted glance in her direction before resuming his intense staring at the front door.

Sighing, Isobel turned back to her charge, only to find him staring with equally odd intensity in the same direction. "Och, pay attention to your scran now or you'll never get meat on those bones lad!"

When Harry merely mirrored Pudding's affronted glance, Isobel huffed and resigned herself to taking a minute out of her feverish cooking for Christmas luncheon to investigate whatever was at the front door. Likely some carolers approaching, or perhaps a fruit cake had been dropped on the step- certainly, both cat and toddler had a sweet tooth and a knack for finding treats no matter where she hid them. Perhaps, even, one of the grandchildren or even great grandchildren was arriving early to help out in the-

Swinging the door wide open, Isobel froze in her tracks. Her eyes widened as she took in the iridescent solid sphere hovering in the air at the bottom of the stoop, rimmed in an ethereal purple light.

Behind her, the cat began inching slowly across the floor.

As if it had just been waiting patiently for the door to be opened for it, the orb suddenly began moving directly up the front steps and towards the front door.

"Noo jist haud on!"

The orb, which alternately did not understand her Scottish dialect or which had taken the open door as all the invitation it needed (now rapidly closing door be damned), continued despite her protests. It shot quickly through the narrow gap between door and frame and slowed as if it to get its bearings once in the front entryway. Then, rotating slowly midair, it moved towards the kitchen.

Towards little Harry Potter.

Minerva was going to send her to a home for sure after this.

"Stop!" Isobel rushed towards the orb, but it had been a very long time since she had attempted (let alone wanted to attempt) such a rapid reaction and her feet caught immediately on the hallway runner. As if in slow motion, Isobel saw herself falling, face first, towards the floor. The orb was still moving... she was going to be too late... she didn't know healing magic, let alone have Skele-Grow laying around... if only she had been-

There was a bright flash of purple light, and Isobel McGonagall was floating. She felt only the slightest bit of pressure as the air itself swept her back onto her feet.

Still strapped into his seat, Harry laughed loudly. "Look kitty!"

The kneazle was indeed looking, alternating between serious looks at the still drifting orb and exasperated looks at his current caretaker. Apparently, the orb took priority because after one final glance over he firmly turned his back on her and followed it down the hallway.

Moving quickly- if much more carefully, now- Isobel hurried after Pudding and moved between the orb and the child. "What is this thing?"

"Mine!"

Careful to keep the orb within eyesight, Isobel half-glanced over her shoulder at Harry, who still looked quite delighted in the wake of his rather powerful (and certainly appreciated) bout of accidental magic. "Did you make that, Harry?"

"No."

"Do you know who made it, then? Do you recognize it?"

Shutting back in on himself a bit and scrunching his shoulders down, Harry stared at her with no answer.

"You're not- wee bairn, you're nae in trouble. Do you ken?" Isobel asked gently, and, feeling quite brave, reached out to touch the orb. If only she could inspect it, or send it to Minerva, or-

It darted just out of her reach.

The kneazle purred loudly, as if chuckling, and Isobel glared at it. "Oh, you think you can do better do you?"

As if in response, Pudding hopped onto the counter, lowered himself into a crouch, and aligned himself with the orb in the air. With a powerful press of his back legs, the nanny kneazle pushed off and launched himself directly at the orb. One powerful paw scooped the solid object from the air and brought it with him as he landed directly on Harry's high chair tray.

"Gonnae no' dae that!" Isobel gasped out as the toddler quickly reached for the orb, but it was entirely too late. All hopes of having the odd Christmas day invader examined thoroughly before being let near the baby vanished as he grasped it firmly in his own hands.

"Mine," the toddler whispered with the same feverish intensity that he'd stared at the front door with only minutes prior. Then, before Isobel could snatch away the potentially dangerous object, he pulled it up over his head and sent it shattering onto the floor, purple smoke pouring out to blind the whole room.

Isobel was a long ways out of Hogwarts, but she was painfully aware of the number of poisons- and in various forms at that- which could be transported in an orb. She was also, oddly, incredibly aware of the oven timer beeping about now burnt biscuits. Minerva isn't even going to need to put me in a home- I won't make it to one.

However, as the room slowly cleared, Isobel was pleasantly surprised to find that she was not asphyxiating, or turning blue, or bleeding out her ears. Neither were Harry or Pudding (though the kitchen timer was still going off).

Harry had somehow escaped from his high chair and was standing on the kitchen floor surrounded by a small hoard of brightly wrapped and ribbon bedecked boxes of all different shapes and sizes. A smaller orb, this one made of what appeared to be purple bluebell flames, hovered directly over the little boy's heart and as Isobel watched slowly sank into him. The effect was instant- Harry's wild mop of dark hair sparked brightly and a warm glow encased him as if he had suddenly been imbued with a half dozen potions for improved health or spent a month on vacation at the beach.

"Oh, my." Isobel stared in shock as Harry plopped down on his diapered bottom and pulled a wrapped box close to him. "Hold on now- we don't open presents in the kitchen, no matter how they appear."

Popping back up immediately, Harry beamed at her before grabbing the fat kneazle by its neck and fairly sprinting down the hall towards the parlor.

"Oh, I'm carrying these, am I?" Isobel grumbled, then sent a suspicious look towards the pile. "I could still have you investigated, you know."

The boxes gleamed brighter in the light as if to convince her of their total innocence.

It took several tries, during which time Pudding impatiently trotted back and forth as if to ascertain that none of the presents were being done away with, for Isobel to levitate all of the boxes to the front parlor where she had set up the Christmas tree (Harry had quite enjoyed helping decorate it). Finally, wand clutched in her hand and a feeling of dread strong in her stomach, she allowed the child to dig in.

As careful and uncertain as Harry had proven to be with his words and his motions (an ongoing symptom of both the traumatic loss of his parents and his subsequent abusive neglect), Isobel was expecting Harry to be the kind of child who gently peeled off tape and attempted to save the paper.

She had, apparently, forgotten that he was not even two.

Bright red and green and blue and pink paper scraps flew through the air like a small storm as the child ripped and tore and pulled and tugged. Pudding pounced around him, apprehending long velvet strands of ribbon from the air and sinking his fangs into them as if they were particularly unruly garden gnomes. Watching the unlikely pair's eyes gleam at each new offering with unrestrained delight made Isobel smile so hard her own eyes watered.

First came a very, very expensive looking toy broomstick. It was, according to the box Isobel hastened to read, only able to hover a foot or two above the floor and equipped with literally hundreds of cushioning charms.

Remembering Minerva's multitude of Quidditch injuries, the elderly witch groaned and affixed Pudding with a stern look. "You will be the one chasing him on this device, not me."

After the broom came a miniature plush Quidditch set, complete with flight charms. Then a series of wizarding children's books (including an original edition Babbity Rabbit), three handmade little sets of wizarding robes, a heavy winter cloak, a set of building blocks, and (finally) a ridiculously large plate of varied biscuits.

Isobel confiscated that last item immediately, stopping both toddler and kneazle from their quick attempts to swipe a snack. "Not before lunch, for either of you," she said sternly. "Now Harry love, you can bring your books to the kitchen and I'll read with you while we finish-,"

Suddenly hyper aware of the timer in the kitchen that was still beeping, Isobel blanched. "While we remake Christmas pudding."


December 25, 1981

Longmoore Street, London

Alphard Black did not grow up celebrating muggle holidays, but most of his Quodpot teammates certainly had. Despite MACUSA's general disdain for and separation from all things muggle (or no-mag, as the case may be), many witches and wizards still took every possible opportunity to party. And one of those prime opportunities? Christmas.

Alphard had quite a few fond memories involving eggnog with rum and mistletoe, but it was the idea that Christmas was a time for overwhelming good cheer that he had been focusing on for over a week now.

After all, what better medicine for an ex-Azkaban prisoner could there be than an overabundance of cheer and goodwill?

"Sir, Quod is being done with the parlour, and the library, and the halls, and the bedrooms." His personal elf ticked off his fingers as he counted off the freshly decorated areas. "Quod was putting at least three lit trees in each room and was hanging fairies and tinsel on every bare space."

"Delightful! Did you remember the odd muggle lights?"

"Yes, but they were not working in the house, so Quod replaced them."

"Replaced them?"

"Quod was replacing the electricity with flames. But master shouldn't worry, Quod put extra spells on to keep the house from burning down."

Alphard stroked his beard thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. "Lovely! That'll do the trick then. They'll be here any minute now- we best be ready. Dinner is prepared?"

"Yes master."

"And the prisoner's uniform?"

"Yes master."

"And the traps for the guards if they try to enter my bedroom or my study, or if they try to attack, or if they're rude?"

"Yes master. It is all ready."

With a swish of his peculiar bright green and red hounds tooth robes, Alphard stood up off the couch and beamed. "Let the house arrest begin."


Sirius Black had not been told why he was leaving Azkaban, but he had assumed the worst when two guards came and sent simultaneous stunners at him. After all, normally they jumped straight to the physical abuse part of their fun.

His fears were not particularly alleviated when he first woke up, either. A heavy blindfold was over his eyes, and he could feel manacles on his wrists and around his ankles. However, he did notice one thing that seemed positive- the dementor's overbearing, soul-sucking (literally) presence was, for the first time in months, gone. Completely gone, too, not just slightly relieved like after the dementors had fed and were leaving prisoners to recover for the next round.

And then he heard a voice that he hadn't heard in quite some time.

"Why on earth is he tied like a stuck hog? I do say, lads- that's quite a bit of overkill for a man who the wind would blow over, don't you think?"

Tears pricked unbidden behind Sirius's eyes, and he bit hard on the tip of his tongue to resist the urge to break into full sobs.

Uncle Alphie!

"Required for transport, sir- we can unbind him as soon as we have him settled inside." The guard's gruff voice was resentful, and Sirius' mind flashed to several particularly sharp kicks in his ribs.

"Well, don't stand and dally then- bring him in at once!"

Sirius stayed limp, allowing himself to be roughly dragged through the front door of what he could only assume was Alphard's oversized townhome in Knightsbridge (magically concealed using the same set of spells that 12 Grimmauld Place had been).

"I won't tolerate anyone so dirty in my home- I'll be taking him to be cleaned up at once. In the mean time, you lot are welcome to enjoy the front parlor."

"Sir, that's really not-,"

"Are you insinuating that I can't take care of one unconscious individual? I would hate for the buffets I've planned for your team to turn from pancaked to gruel, lad."

"Of course not, sir. We'll be a shout away if you need… if you need anything at all."

Still limp, Sirius resisted the urge to groan as he was levitated into the air and began drifting painlessly (that was a practically new sensation, to be sure) down what was (most likely) Alphard's entry hall, past the reception room and towards the stairs. He drifted along for several minutes, feeling himself ascend, before hearing a door open before him and then close after he'd been moved inside.

"My boy, what have they done to you?"

Sirius had never heard his Uncle Alphie- brave, boisterous, laughing Uncle Alphie- sound quite so sad. Resisting the urge to let the tears still trapped behind his lids fall free, he remained still and kept his breathing steady. What to say?

"Well, you're home now. The family will take care of everything," Alphard lowered him to what felt a lot like Sirius vaguely remembered a real bed feeling and rapidly fired off four numbing and healing spells. "Odd statement, that. Neither of us would have expected to see the day."

Gentle hands removed the manacles at his hands, then his feet. Finally, the blindfold was Vanished. "Sirius, I do know you can hear me."

Popping one eye open, Sirius Black grinned. "Oh, that doesn't work on you?"

Alphard laughed, his hand gentle behind Sirius' neck as he helped him into a sitting position. "Watch your cheek, my boy- I've got a whole boat of healing potions for you, you know, and I can still give you the unflavored ones."

"Oh, Uncle, surely not- that's worst torture than Azkaban," Sirius intoned a bit dryly, but he couldn't stop the hint of a grin that hovered on his lips. "I do hope you were serious about the bath, though. I'm wearing a small country's worth of dirt and grime."

"You certainly smell like it too. I had to cast a senseless spell on my nose just to tolerate you," Alphard agreed. "If you're up to it right away, Quod will help you in the bathroom before I make you take your potions, and then you'll have dinner in bed."

"Why Uncle, you're at risk of sounding positively maternal!"

"In this family, that's practically an insult to date," Alphard muttered, then grinned. "But don't worry- the house elf will tuck you in so tight you can't get up in the middle of the night."

"Lovely. I'd like to get a move on then, if you don't mind- though, Uncle- did you happen to notice that your walls are covered in fire? Also- is that... is that supposed to be a Christmas tree? Because I'm pretty sure that's a potted maple, not an evergreen."

Alphard beamed. "Ah, so you do like it! I knew the Christmas decorations would be a hit."


December 25, 1981

Dennin Road, Hampstead Village

Helen Granger had been quite excited for Hermione's first real Christmas (babies aren't quite fun on holidays their first year, after all), and had spent several months planning presents before the rather life changing revelation was made that her daughter was a witch.

That had, to say the least, changed things.

Her shopping trips in Diagon Alley had successfully netted her an entire pile of popular wizarding toys including a small broom, a floating doll house, an obscenely large pile of books and learning materials, and an entirely new wardrobe (Helen was quite into wizarding fashion). Yet, much to her dismay, it was Cassiopeia's present which had apparently taken the cake.

"Aunt Cassie, I appreciate the thought, but I hardly think a toddler needs an explosions kit."

"Don't be ridiculous darling- its a standard potions kit. I had one just like it when I was her age," Cassiopeia reassured.

Marius shot her a glance over his steaming drink. "Did not." Agnes elbowed him.

"But it does, in fact, have the risk of exploding, does it not?" Helen asked frantically, said dangerous kit held high over her head while Hermione wailed at her feet.

"Doesn't everything?" Cassiopeia mused thoughtfully. "Even the sun has-,"

"Really, love, just let her hold the box-,"

"An extremely high probability of exploding at some point in the future- not to mention that even basic things such as salt-,"

"I am not giving our daughter a BOMB, Daniel!"

"Have the ability to catch fire and-,"

"Uhoh, Marius. She's doing it again."

"Which means even it has explosive potential, if you think about it the right way-,"

"Oh hell- not the flying!"

"What do you mean again?!"

It took an hour to sort things out, but by the time Pip had been called to entrance the small child down from the ceiling for the second time (though Marius and Agnes both insisted it was the first), Helen had been successfully convinced that it was safe for Hermione to at least make a slime with constant supervision. Pip removed the dangerous chemicals from the kit, muttering under her breath about the pitfalls of allowing her mistress to pick out presents, and the Granger family (plus Cassiopeia) was finally able to move on from present opening to lunch. Just in time, too- Pip disappeared right as Helen's parents arrived at the front door.

It was not the Christmas that Helen had imagined, but, when she curled into bed with Daniel and a glass of wine later that evening, she was completely content.