Chapter 8 – Christmas 1971

Over in the 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 head. "Do as I say, not as I do."

"Well then I'm Prince Philip." Clara said, tying her hair 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 as she 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 all 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 screen and drink champagne (or the imitation version Peter's mother bought for them) and listen to their monarch's reflections on 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 whole game at making themselves into something more important than they were just so they felt that they were making a difference. But what could they really do compared with wizards like him? How ignorant they all were.

"Yes please!" Clara said, taking the roast potatoes from her mother. "I do love our queen. She's ever 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, along with the latest scandal.

"The queen doesn't run the country." Peter said, unable to help himself. Honestly, his sisters were thick as bricks. "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, now coming back to the table with desserts.

"I don't know that anyone's really in charge." Clara said, helping herself to some of their mother's homemade Christmas pudding. "After all, don't we too have power as their 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 as though she were looking back at something she would never have again. Well that much was true, thought Peter. She was old and his father was long gone.

"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. You should try it!"

"Oh, the poor dear." Mrs Pettigrew said fretfully. "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. It was exhausting. Peter's sisters told her they didn't care. They told her how loved she was and that she was amazing simply for being herself. 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 this made them just as weak as his mother. He wouldn't be caught dead fuelling the pity party.

She was looking at them tearfully now. 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, so as his sisters flapped around her like a pair of turtle doves, offering tissues and helping to clean up, Peter skulked away into the little sitting room to watch 'A Christmas Carol' which was being broadcast for the first time on the BBC.

"Bah humbug," Clara said teasingly as she came into the room a short while later. "Come on, Peter. You've hardly spoken to us all Christmas. Do you want to play charades?"

No, Peter didn't want to play charades. He'd witnessed his classmates already make a fool of themselves with the traditional game on the last night of the school term. But his sister was so insistent that he couldn't refuse, and he had to admit, he did have more fun than he thought he would. Especially when Annabelle tried to act out 'away in a manger' by running in and out of the room and lying on the floor rocking. It was brilliant when people other than him made fools of themselves.

After charades the Pettigrews opened their presents. This was the part of the day Peter had secretly been most looking forward to. He hadn't got his family any gifts. His mother still did that for him, but he hoped he might receive something special this year.

"Oh, thanks Peter!" Clara said, 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. As he picked up the last one and read the label (to Peter, love Annabelle), he felt a strange flutter of disappointment. It wasn't a bad gift. It was a red jumper ("I know your school house colour is red," she told him), but it hadn't been from him...

He knew it was silly to get his hopes up every Christmas like this, but he couldn't help it. Since his dad had left, he'd not heard from him once. He didn't know the circumstances, and his mother never spoke of it, but Peter thought of him constantly. He was a wizard too, Peter knew that. Did his dad know his son was a wizard? If he did, would it change anything?

The same questions buzzed around his 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 the older he got, the more he felt the void.

"Peter dear, what would you like for dinner?" His mum asked, poking her head round the corner. "I think the girls and I will just have cheese and crackers, but I can whip you up something more substantial if you're hungry?"

"Yes please." Peter said before turning back to watch his sisters, now delighting over a makeup kit one of them had been given. It was the least his mother could do. This was all her fault.

Peter wondered what his father would be doing right now. Did he have a new family of his own? Was he giving them gifts, joining in their games, following their traditions? He longed so much to see the man it felt like an ache in his side and wondered for the thousandth time what could he do to prove himself. Maybe one day his name would be in the papers. He'd be headline news. And his dad would read it over morning breakfast with his family and spit out his orange juice. He'd come and find his son and they'd leave this little village. They'd go and live somewhere they could do magic all the time. And Peter would be appreciated for the wizard that he was. He thought that maybe he might be able to be happy then.

...

Over in the West Country, James Potter was also having the perfect English Christmas, although his was 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 eagerly 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 did to that poor Snape boy."

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

"But quite honestly we don't care what you do at Hogwarts so long as you're kind enough to others." His dad continued. "So to save us both the bother of replying to every letter we get 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.

James picked it up and examined it. "Er, thanks dad." He said, wondering why his dad had given him a cloak twice his size, and one that looked like it had already been worn a few times, but not wanting to be rude he said instead "how will this help me stay out of trouble?"

Fleamont laughed. "Put it on."

Completely non-plussed, James did so. And then he screamed as his whole body vanished from sight.

Rapidly removing the cloak, he gaped at his parents who were both laughing.

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

An invisibility cloak? James was ecstatic! He'd heard of them of course, but he never knew his dad had one, and more than that, he would be willing to give it to James. He could only imagine what incredible adventures he and his friends could get up to at Hogwarts with this.

"This is the best present ever!" He said, throwing his arms around his father's neck. "Can I write to tell the others?"

His parents laughed and said that he could, so James took off at a run up the staircase to his bedroom. He sat down at his desk, grabbed a piece of parchment, picked up his quill and began to write.

Dear Sirius, he began, then paused. He hadn't heard from his best friend at all this Christmas. He didn't take it too much to heart as he'd remembered what he had said about being unlikely to be able to write, but he still hoped he was OK. He remembered how unlike himself he had been on the Hogwarts Express and James couldn't help wondering how he was getting on in his London home with his family who seemed to dislike him so much.

"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. James had been hanging around to 'help', which mainly meant licking the bowl and distracting her.

"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.

"James, dear, you know I don't like talking ill of people." Euphemia said, now washing her hands at the sink. "And I haven't got much good to say about the Blacks."

"Are they evil?"

"I'm sure they're not evil." Mrs Potter said, turning to James and sighing. "They just have values your father and I don't agree with. Why are you so interested in them anyway?"

"Well, they're Sirius' family." James said. "I just want to know what they're like."

"Oh." Euphemia said, and she looked a little surprised. "Sirius Black. In Gryffindor?"

"Yes." James said. Why was this such a strange thing to fathom? Children weren't always like their parents were they?

"Well, fancy that." Euphemia said and James thought he saw a small smile on her face. "That apple fell into a whole different orchard."

James helped his mother decorate the Christmas cake and let himself be distracted by the comforting familiarity of Christmas with his family, but over the days that followed he couldn't help but worry about his friend. It was something he found himself doing more and more these days. A Remus-like quality he'd been unfamiliar with until now.

So he paused before writing to his friend, wondering if perhaps he was being insensitive, sharing news of his wonderful Christmas when he had no idea what was going on for Sirius. But the Blacks surely couldn't be that bad, he told himself. And Sirius had a brother, didn't he? Well, he was probably having a better Christmas than all of them then! Feeling cheered by this thought, James scribbled the letter, then wrote one to Remus and Peter too, before attaching them to Allegra's outstretched leg and sending her off into the sky.

Hearing the sounds of his dad's old gramophone downstairs, he made his way back into the living room, where his parents were drinking eggnog and dancing together. They called him over and he let himself slip back into the comfortable security of being loved and cared for. He was sure that absolutely everything was fine.

...

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 quickly and took the letter, reading with delight James' news and smiling at the gift his father had given him. While he didn't agree with his friends breaking rules, it might help with their chances at winning the house cup at least when they didn't get caught every week for doing so.

He took Allegra into their kitchen and asked his mum if there was anything she could give him. "I think she's had a long flight."

He could still feel the aches and pains of the transformation a few days ago. He'd become used to the wonderful ministrations of Madam Pomfrey and had forgotten how much pain he was in without the medicines and treatments she provided to him the day after. It didn't help that the nights were so long in winter and wolf had longer to ravage itself too.

Apart from that, his Christmas had been quiet and peaceful. His father and mother had given him some new books and clothes, as well as a muggle board game, which they played together after they'd been out for their customary long walk.

He had missed his friends terribly and it lifted his spirits enormously to hear from James. He imagined his friend now, hoping he was having a good Christmas in his big home with his loving parents. He didn't know as much about Peter's family life, but knew he had two sisters, and expected his mum was feeding them all well, if her regular care packages to the castle were anything to go by. He had been worrying about Sirius nearly constantly. He'd not heard a word from his friend and the anxiety in his eyes as he'd said goodbye to them on the train had been haunting Remus all Christmas. He hoped that James perhaps might have heard something. He must remember to ask in his return owl.

The Lupins enjoyed one last cup of hot cocoa and one last game of scrabble together before retiring to bed. The house was cold 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 he would hear back soon.