𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗙 𝗔𝗭𝗞𝗔𝗕𝗔𝗡 [𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍]

Chapter Thirty Nine: Beer

‾‾‾‾‾‾‾ ･⋆✵⋆･ ‾‾‾‾‾‾‾

Christmas has always been Sirius' favorite time of the year, even when he was little, because it was the only time Grimmauld Place felt like a home and not just a very fancy, yet untastefully decorated house.

Back when him and Regulus were close, their mother used to let them decorate the Christmas tree by hand since they didn't have wands. Of course, Walburga would have to fix the mess her sons made out of the tree with her magic afterwards but Sirius still had a lot of fun with Regulus. Those were good time. Sirius looks back on them fondly.

But this year, Christmas arrived a little too early for Sirius's taste.

Everyone he knows, even Evans, have decided to go home for Christmas break and leave him wondering what to do.

Sirius could have gone to the Potters' place but Mr. Potter was going to Germany for business and was going to take James and Mrs. Potter with him. They have offered to take him with them, but Sirius didn't want to impose.

Peter and Remus had both offered to take him in as well but Sirius had politely declined. He didn't want to be a burden on them. Both families really weren't as better off as the Potters.

So instead of doing the smart thing and staying at Hogwarts alone like any sane person with at least two brain cells to rub together would do, Sirius decided to go back to Grimmauld Place. Not the best idea he's ever had, he'll admit.

Walburga had long since stopped trying to de-Gryffindor Sirius's room (she almost set the whole place on fire once) so it was untouched and exactly how Sirius left it before going to James' place last summer.

He'd added a few more Gryffindor banners and even a fair number of Muggle posters (most of them of motorcycles and scantly dressed Muggle girls) to make sure none of the original Slytherin green wallpaper was visible. He'd succeeded.

Christmas sprint has been absent from Grimmauld Place for a very long time now, the absence of a Christmas tree and the lack of fairy lights to brighten up the dark stone corridors of the ancient mansion were proof, hence, there was nothing to cool the rage bubbling under the surface.

Sirius's blood boiled every time he laid eyes on Regulus (he still hadn't forgiven him for that Quidditch match back in November) and Walburga's blood boiled every time she laid eyes on Sirius (his very existence was a slap in the face for her).

So to avoid the unpleasantness, instead of being in any other part of the house, Sirius spent the better part of his days sitting in the dusty attic, watching the Muggle man next door and listening to the music that pumped through his window: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Queen, ABBA and other Muggle bands Sirius recognized thanks to Blake and Remus.

And today was no different.

Sirius used his teeth to tug his gloves off his frozen fingers and scribbled stories of himself dying gross deaths on his dream diary for Divinations. Getting trampled by a herd of wild minotaurs sounds horrible enough, right? Sirius put his quill down and pulled the glove quickly back on his pale and stiff fingers since the attic had no heating mechanism.

He puffed out a cloud of hot air that condensed right before his eyes in the frozen attic before he looked out of the circular window until he could think of some other horrible way to die.

He was marveling at the sea of white that stretched out before him and the cheery and warm Christmas lights that adorned the houses of his Muggle neighbors when he saw the Muggle man next door was sweeping away the snow that had accumulated around his motorcycle.