Chapter 184: A Long Conversation
"So, Sirius… what was Christmas like in your house?" Hermione asked, cheeks slightly flushed as she hurried to change the subject.
Sirius looked up at the ceiling. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his fingers tracing the frost patterns along his goblet.
"My mother once tied me and Regulus beneath the Christmas tree with black ribbons."
"She said that way, the bond between pure-blood brothers wouldn't be 'contaminated' by Muggle-borns."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"We spent two hours biting through the ropes… then ran off to the kitchen to steal my uncle's cherry brandy."
Harry watched the firelight flicker in Sirius's gray eyes.
"But Regulus now—"
"I used to think he'd become a better 'pure-blood specimen' than me," Sirius interrupted softly. "Turns out… I was wrong."
"He was the truly brave one."
"And I…" he let out a quiet laugh, tinged with bitterness, "was just a coward hiding in Azkaban."
He exhaled slowly.
"I remember one Christmas—we transfigured Mother's pearl necklace into fireworks."
"Kreacher still hasn't forgiven us for that."
At once, Kreacher bristled with fury.
"The mistress's beloved black pearls—turned into fertilizer for flowers—!"
Soon, the group drifted into humming a tune together. Outside, wind and snow howled against the windows, while inside Grimmauld Place glowed once more with warm golden light—a house long silent, alive again on Christmas night.
After Wednesday enthusiastically finished describing how her family decorated their Christmas tree with bones, Ron suddenly stabbed his fork into a raspberry pie.
"Weasleys start Christmas from the moment morning hits!"
Ron waved a drumstick dramatically, sauce splattering onto Mrs. Black's portrait—prompting another round of furious shrieking.
"Mum goes door to door yelling, 'Get up or I'll have the ghoul yank your blankets off!' One year, George turned the stairs into a slide—Dad ended up in the snow outside in his pajamas!"
"You'll never guess what Fred once put inside the Christmas pudding—"
His ears turned the same shade of red as jam.
"He disguised extra-spicy candy as gold coins. Ginny ate one and burst into tears on the spot."
Ron burst out laughing at the memory.
"Mum tied Fred to a tree and gave him a proper beating for that."
Just as Ron was speaking, Kreacher reappeared carrying a steaming Yorkshire pudding.
Still suffering from the aftereffects of that strange juice, Ron suddenly sneezed—sending a spark flying from his mouth.
The spark ignited the brandy on top of the pudding, and blue flames shot up nearly three feet high.
"And the worst part is opening the sweaters!"
Ron tugged at the pattern on his sweater, looking helpless.
"Mum insists on knitting sweaters every year… but her knitting charms always come with a bit of… artistic flair."
"Oh—so that was from Mrs. Weasley?" Russell said, suddenly realizing. "I found a blue sweater this morning with my initials on it."
"Christmas dinner is the real highlight," Ron continued, stacking pieces of bread into a miniature Burrow.
"Fred and George turn Yorkshire puddings into bomb replicas. If you cut in the wrong spot—boom! You get blasted with cream."
"Percy once tried to stop them, and—"
"He got completely buried in cream," Harry finished, eyes shining with amusement.
"Nearly suffocated."
Harry's gaze softened, a trace of longing flickering in his eyes.
He envied that kind of family.
"Last Christmas was chaos," Ron went on, scooping up some truffle cake.
"George sent back a new type of fireworks—but the gnomes stole them."
"Just imagine—hundreds of glowing gnomes riding rockets, spelling out 'WEASLEY IS OUR KING' over the Burrow!"
Sirius burst out laughing.
"Arthur must've loved that!"
"He was too busy putting out a burning turkey with a Muggle water gun," Ron shrugged. "Didn't even notice."
"And the best part—Charlie once tied gnomes to the top of the Christmas tree as decorations."
"There are still three of them stuck in the attic, swearing revenge."
Wednesday's dark eyes rippled faintly with interest.
"That does sound entertaining. Our traditions rarely change."
"What about you, Harry?" Hermione asked gently. "What were your Christmases like?"
"I… well…" Harry hesitated.
Ron nudged Hermione quietly.
"You shouldn't have asked that. Harry used to stay with his aunt—and they didn't treat him well."
Hermione's face fell.
"I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay," Harry said, forcing a small smile.
But the memories came anyway.
Last Christmas, Harry had curled up in the cupboard under the stairs. The sound of Dudley Dursley tearing open his newest game console packaging grated like sandpaper against his ears.
Petunia Dursley had deliberately hung mistletoe on the cupboard handle—after he'd accidentally knocked down the berries the year before, Vernon Dursley had punished him by making him clean ice from every window on the street.
Their "gift" to him had been canned soup and stale bread—the crust deliberately burnt into the shape of chains.
"Freak! Go clean the chimney!"
Vernon's drunken kick rattled the cupboard door, dust from the ceiling falling into Harry's hair.
Meanwhile, Dudley shrieked with excitement in the living room, tearing open his thirty-seventh present—a remote-controlled drone, its barrel pointed straight toward the cupboard.
Snow battered the kitchen window. Harry's breath hung in the air like mist—until it vanished the moment the cupboard door opened.
Another year, Dudley had received a full gardening set—and immediately ordered Harry to play a "motionless snowman."
Ice slipped down his collar as he stood outside, counting the Christmas lights in the neighbor's yard.
Inside, the Dursleys posed for family photos with eggnog.
Harry scrubbed grease from the oven floor.
Dudley deliberately spilled cranberry sauce—it splattered across the tiles like blood. As Harry wiped it away, letters briefly appeared beneath it:
"Wizard."
Before Petunia rushed in screaming, Harry erased the trace.
But that Christmas, he had a dream unlike any before—
A snowman with antlers stood guard outside Number Four, Privet Drive.
"That's definitely a sign," Ron declared solemnly after hearing it all.
"Which means—there's still one person here who hasn't shared."
All eyes turned toward Russell.
"Me?" Russell smiled faintly.
"My story… isn't much better than Harry's."
He remembered standing in the drafty attic of an orphanage, fingertips brushing across a frost-covered copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.
The nuns' "Christmas gift" had been leftovers from the donation box—
A wool cardigan missing two buttons.
And Volume V of the encyclopedia… with the entry on "vampires" torn out.