Chapter 8 – Christmas 1971

Over in the English Midlands, the Pettigrews were having what most would describe as a fairytale Christmas. Mrs Pettigrew had been cooking and baking for weeks and the table in the little cottage was groaning under platters of roast potatoes, ham, turkey, Brussels sprouts and pigs in blankets.

The girls had pulled a Christmas cracker with one another and instantly donned the little paper crowns they got from inside.

"I'm the queen of England," Annabelle said, sitting up straight in her chair and tilting her hair. "Do as I say, not as I do."

"Well then I'm Prince Philip." Clara said, tying her hair back round the front of her face so it looked like she had a beard. "And I do declare, that you," she pointed at their mother. "Are the best cook in Britain."

Mrs Pettigrew laughed and dished out second helpings. "Thank you dear."

"Mum, you don't call Prince Philip dear." Clara said, throwing her brown hair back over her shoulders.

"No it's your majesty."

"Isn't it your royal highness?"

"Oh… I don't know."

"Shall we watch the speech on telly at three?" Mrs Pettigrew suggested. The queen's speech was a Christmas tradition in the Pettigrew household, as it was in millions up and down the country too. The four of them would settle around the little television, drinking lemonade, and watch as their monarch shared with them her reflections for the year.

Peter thought the whole thing was ridiculous. As if it mattered what the muggles thought. Didn't they know how boring and limited their little lives were? They played this big game at making their lives out to be something important, like they could make some kind of big difference in the world. How ignorant they were…

"Yes please!" Clara said. "I love our queen. She's so stylish."

"Aren't we lucky we have her and not some God-awful president running the country?" Annabelle said, gesturing at the newspaper, where Nixon's face was splashed across the front cover.

"The queen doesn't run the country." Peter said, unable to help himself. Honestly, his sisters were thick as bricks. Hadn't they been to primary school? "Her power is limited by the government. It's the prime minister who's really in charge."

"Should that give us confidence?" Mrs Pettigrew joked, coming back to the table with desserts.

"I don't know that anyone's really in charge." Clara said, helping herself to some Christmas pudding. "After all, don't we too have power, as the governed subjects?"

"You're right dear." Mrs Pettigrew said, passing her the brandy butter. "Gosh you're so clever. Much cleverer than I was at your age. All I was interested in at fifteen were boys and discos. I met your father at one, you know. Oh, he was such a charmer, and he could really dance! He swept me off my feet, quite literally."

Her gaze became far away and sad then, as though looking back at something she could never have again.

Well that much was true, thought Peter. She was old now, and his father was long gone. She should have picked better, really. Maybe stayed in school a bit longer.

"You should go out dancing again, mum." Annabelle said. "Bridget Anderson's mum and dad split up last year, and Bridget's mum's taken up ballroom dancing. Bridget said she's like a whole new woman now."

"Oh, the poor dear." Mrs Pettigrew said. "I must write to her."

"But she's happy," Annabelle said. "Don't you see?"

Peter's mother did not see. Since Peter's father had left, she had fallen into a spiral of guilt and low self-confidence. She apologised constantly for everything - from her cooking, their small house, their lack of fancy trips or outings…

Peter's sisters told her they didn't care. They loved her for who she was, and could she not see how amazing she was? They took her on trips, they treated her to things, they told her to put her feet up so they could tidy up from time to time. In Peter's opinion, that made them just as weak as his mother. He wouldn't be caught dead fuelling the pity party.

Mrs Pettigrew was looking tearful again. It happened sometimes. Usually at Christmas, but also on birthdays, Father's Day and a day in June Peter wasn't sure of the significance of. Peter usually let her get on with it when she got like this, but his sisters would flap around her like a pair of turtle doves, telling her how loved she was, what a great mother she was. And she would hug and kiss them through her tears, telling them how much they meant to her. They were everything to her. What would she do without them?

She'd always say the same to Peter too. He knew how important he was and how much she needed him. But, unlike his sisters, this idea didn't fill him with love and compassion. It filled him with disgust.

He sat away from the rest of the family as they watched the queen's speech. He let his mother and sisters tidy the lunch things away as he stayed on the sofa, now watching 'A Christmas Carol', which was broadcasting on the BBC.

"Bah humbug," Clara said teasingly as she came back into the room. "Come on, Peter. You've hardly spoken to us all Christmas. Don't you want to play charades?"

The traditional game was a family favourite in the Pettigrew household. It usually sent his mother and sisters into peels of laughter, and Peter was able to feel smug and superior as he watched his family make utter fools of themselves. Much as his classmates had when they'd played it on the last night of term…

Peter turned to look at his sister. Her blue eyes watery and imploring. "If I have to." He said grudgingly and turned off the telly.

The game was, as predicted, very silly. But it seemed to cheer their mother up. After charades, they opened their presents, which had been wrapped under the tree since Peter had come home from Hogwarts. He hadn't bought anything for his family. His mother had always done that for him.

"Oh, thanks Peter!" Clara was saying, opening a book that was, apparently, from him. "To Kill a Mockingbird," she read. "Thanks mum." She smiled at Mrs Pettigrew, who stroked her hair affectionately.

Peter received gifts from all his family and also one that had been sent from his grandparents. He felt a strange flutter of disappointment as he finished opening them (the last one being a knitted jumper from Annabelle). His father had left the family when he was just four years old. He didn't know the circumstances, and his mother never spoke of it, but Peter did wonder about him from time to time. He was a wizard too. Was that why he left? Did he feel the same way Peter felt now? That life was too dull and boring in such a provincial village for someone with the talents and skills that he had? Had he gone to find his real destiny somewhere else? And if so, why couldn't Peter go with him? Did his father know his son was a wizard too?

The same questions buzzed around Peter's head like flies. Why did his dad never write, never call, never send gifts… Peter longed so badly to prove himself to the man, but he never had the chance. It wasn't fair. Clara and Annabelle had their mother. They were all girls together. But Peter had no one. And now he was at Hogwarts, he was even more isolated from them than ever. He felt a stab of anger towards his mother. How could she have let this happen? Didn't she know how hard it would be for him when he turned eleven? He needed a role model, a male role model. And he hated her for whatever it was she did to drive the only chance he'd had of that away.

She knew it. "Peter dear, what would you like for dinner? I think the girls and I will just have cheese and crackers, but I can whip you up something if you're hungrier?"

"Yes please." Peter said. It was the least she could do, after all.

So while his mother busied herself in the kitchen, he turned back to his sisters, watching them delight over their gifts and feeling as distant from them as though they were strangers. He knew he didn't belong here. He wasn't like them, and he was desperate to prove it. Maybe when he proved himself his father would finally notice him. Maybe he'd see his son's name in the paper. He'd be begging Peter for a second chance. This idea cheered him, and he consented to a game of Monopoly with his family for the remainder of the evening. His mother picked the iron, Clara the thimble and Annabelle the boat. He, Peter, picked the car. One day, he thought, he would drive right out of this house and never look back. He'd turn a bend and there, his true destiny would be awaiting him. And that glorious thought carried him all the way through the rest of the holidays.

...

Over in the West Country, James Potter was having what could also be described as a perfect English Christmas, although his was a lot more magical than Peter's in a number of ways.

His parents had come into his room at the crack of dawn. Honestly, was he the kid or were they? And they had sat around his bed while he opened his Christmas stocking.

After breakfast (Ethel had made them all pancakes), they opened more presents, the ones under the tree this time. James received a new quidditch helmet, a bunch of comics, a knitted jumper, a sneakoscope and… best of all…

"Now I debated long and hard about giving this to you." His father said, holding out his final gift. "You almost lost it for a minute, when we heard what you and Sirius had done to that poor Snape boy."

James felt himself go pink. Why did he have to bring that up again? Hadn't James said he was sorry?

"But quite honestly, we don't care what you do at Hogwarts as long as you're kind and fair to others. So to save us the bother of replying to every letter we get home from that Professor McGonagall, I want you to have this."

James took the gift, intrigued, and tore open the wrappings. Something dark and silvery fell out. It was light, like silk, and it glimmered in the lights from the tree.

"Thanks dad." He said. It was cool. Probably a bit big for him, but a nice cloak all the same. "Er, how will this help me get out of trouble?"

Fleamont laughed. "Put it on." He said.

Completely non-plussed, James did so. And then he screamed.

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter both laughed. Of course Euphemia had seen her husband vanish under the thing on countless occasions.

"It's an invisibility cloak." His father told him. "It was mine, but I don't use it much anymore. I daresay you and those friends of yours will put it to good use, eh?"

James was ecstatic. He couldn't wait to tell Sirius. But the other boy had been ignoring every owl James had sent him. He didn't take it to heart. He remembered what his friend had said about being unlikely to write to him. But still he hoped he was OK. He found himself worrying about his friends more and more these days. A Remus-like quality he'd never had before.

"Mum? What do you know about the Blacks?" He'd asked his mother a few days ago as she'd been helping Ethel in the kitchen and James had been loitering around, stealing pastry and licking the baking utensils.

"The Blacks?" Euphemia said, rubbing her floury hands on her apron with a frown. "Well, I know of them, of course." She turned back to her baking, the same slight frown still on her face though, as if James had just reminded her of something unpleasant.

"Er… What are they like?" James tried again. He didn't know what he wanted her to say. He supposed he wanted reassurance…

"James, dear, you know I don't like talking ill of people." Euphemia said, now washing her hands at the sink. "I will say that the Black family have ideals that your father and I don't necessarily agree with, but they're very influential at the ministry and it doesn't do to speak ill of them."

"But what if they're evil?" James asked. They couldn't really be though, could they? Sirius was alright, and he was their son. He didn't know why it was so important to him, supposed he just needed to know.

"I'm sure they're not evil." Mrs Potter said, turning to James and smiling. "What's with all the questions anyway?"

"Oh, nothing really." James said. "Just Sirius, y'know, my friend Sirius, I've not heard from him in a while and, I just wondered…"

She hugged him and kissed the top of his head. "You're a darling." She said, waving Ethel over to take the biscuits out of the oven. "Any friend of yours is lucky to have you. And I'm sure Sirius is fine. He's probably just busy. I know what the Blacks are like with their social calendars. Now, will you help me decorate the Christmas cake?"

James had let himself be distracted by the ease and security of his mother's presence, but he still couldn't throw off that gnawing sensation in the back of his mind that something wasn't right.

"Can I go and write to Sirius?" He asked his parents now, throwing the cloak over his arm. "And the others. They'll be so impressed. You're the best dad ever!"

His parents waved him off, and James ran up to his bedroom to grab a scroll of parchment. His purpose for writing was two-fold. He wanted to share his good news, but, and possibly even more than that, he so wanted to hear good news in return. He wanted to know all was well with his friends, especially Sirius. He hoped they'd get his owl soon…

...

Remus Lupin had just finished Christmas dinner when he received the post owl from his friend James. It had been snowing, and the owl arrived in the window along with a gale of snowflakes. He ushered it inside and took the letter, reading with delight James' news and smiling at the gift his father had given him.

Remus was still aching a little. The full moon had been a few days ago, and it usually took him around a week to get fully back to normal. Christmas at the Lupins had been quiet and peaceful. His father and mother had given him some new books and clothes, and a board game, which they'd played together that afternoon.

He missed his friends terribly though, and it lifted his spirits enormously to hear from James. He imagined his friend now, in his big manor house, playing games with his parents or perhaps munching their way through a delicious meal. He wondered what Peter and Sirius were up to. He'd received a card from Peter, as promised, but it hadn't said much. He'd not heard a word from Sirius. He must remember to ask James if he had.

The Lupins enjoyed one last cup of hot chocolate together and one last game of scrabble before retiring to bed. The house was cold. They couldn't really afford to put the heating on, and Remus got changed into his pyjamas quickly in his little bedroom. He sent his return owl to James out from his bedroom window, watching the bird's flight off into the night sky. He hoped his friends had had a good Christmas. He couldn't wait to see them again soon.