Summary: Old friends share memories the Christmas Eve after OoTP
Disclaimer: I am not the one who created these characters. I'm just borrowing them for a few hours.
Author's Note: based vaguely on Anne Fine's Step by Wicked Step, except here the characters discuss Christmas. I'm in a festive mood.
The Night For Stories
Prologue
The Kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place was quiet that evening. People sat in the uneven light of the fire, just enjoying the company of others. Red and green tinsel criss-crossed about the chimney breast, and the legs of the table had been wound with gold. The table was littered with plates and cutlery, the remnants of a fine dinner.
Molly Weasley's decorations brightened the grey interior of the house, and seemed to bring a little happiness to the residents. She was sitting at one end of the table beside her husband Arthur. His glasses lay on the table in front of him, and he kept running his hands through his thinning red hair.
On the opposite side of the table to them sat their last son, Ron. He was fiddling with his fork, trying to balance it straight up on one finger. Hermione, sitting beside him, kept shooting him annoyed looks. On Ron's other side sat Nymphadora Tonks, who was trying very hard not to knock anything over. Her hands were crossed neatly in her lap, her foot jiggling slightly.
Next to Hermione sat Ginny Weasley, her flaming red hair tied in a loose ponytail. Her eyes were closed and she was leaning back in her chair, absently stroking Crookshanks who was curled up on her knees. Every now and then she sneaked an eye open to see if there had been any development around the table. Every time, she was disappointed. Her glance fell more often towards the figure slumped beside her. Remus Lupin was pale, his hair noticeably greying and his robes full of holes. He leaned his head on one hand, and traced patterns in a pool of gravy with the spoon held in the other.
Christmas Eve had never been so quiet, thought Ginny. And none as quiet as Harry, who stared into space and met no one's eye. He was not as lost as he had been a few months ago, but he was still prone to falling into deep reveries, sometimes for hours on end.
Not one person around the table could think of anything to say. At first the dinner had been lively and happy, the teenagers sharing stories about their term at Hogwarts, the adults moaning about cleaning. It had been an unspoken rule this Christmas not to mention the wider world.
A sudden noise like a gun firing backwards made everyone jump and look around. At the far end of the table lay the mouldering pile of rags that was Mundungus Fletcher. Molly made an angry noise and took a sip of butterbeer, and stillness fell once again.
"I'm bored," said Tonks, unable to bear the silence any longer. "Who wants to play a game?"
Seven eager faces looked back at her, so she ploughed on, "Let's talk about Christmas. What your favourite Christmas was, something like that. Or one that sticks out."
"Sounds like a laugh," said Ron. "Who goes first?"
"Well, Remus is furthest away," said Tonks. "And he's a teacher. He's used to leading."
"My best Christmas memory?" asked Lupin, slowly.
"Yep," said Tonks.
"Well, alright," he said.
Clapping her hands gleefully, Tonks filled her wine goblet from the bottle, and Ginny shifted Crookshanks into a more comfortable position. Harry's eyes disengaged with the middle distance and refocused on his old professor.
"This memory takes place on Christmas day, two years ago," said Lupin. Looking around at his friends, he began to tell his tale.