Work Text:
"If I could back in time and hex Walburga, I would do it, and I would do it with a smile," Hermione hisses furiously.
She had mentioned it rather off-handedly, carelessly. Never really thinking much of it, because the thought of stringing Yule lights—holiday lights in the dark and dreary place of Grimmauld is enough to excite her for the upcoming Yule. But the moment she mentioned to Sirius that they should grab a Christmas tree before the end of November before they get sold out was enough to drive a poleaxed look home.
Sirius looked like she told him that there were grindylows tap-dancing in the kitchen.
It took her a minute to realize that Sirius had never actually celebrated Christmas—or Yule; not at Grimmauld at least.
He never had a Christmas tree.
He confessed that he celebrated Yule with the Potters, but the tree was always decorated, the lights were always up, and he would show up, almost like a guest. James, on the other hand, had been Dorea and Charlus' trueborn son, so the tradition of decorating and doing the smaller rituals had always fallen to him. Even though the Potters' took him in as their own and the fact that they continually told him that he was their son—it still didn't change the fact that there were some things that he never had gotten to do.
Hermione was determined to make this year's Christmas the best Christmas.
It didn't matter how old Sirius was nor how old Hermione was—there was always a certain type of magic fluttering through the holidays.
.
"Harry said we could've gotten a fake tree," Sirius points out as Hermione expects the bark of the nearest pine tree.
Hermione spins around and glares at him, "It's the principal, Sirius!"
He muffles a snort and eyes the tree she's judging from the trunk, "What about this one?"
"It's a bit too weepy," she points at the branches, "See how they are sparse? When you put the ornaments on it will slide right off."
Sirius nods thoughtfully and then takes in the rest of the evergreen field. He spots one across the bridge and grabs Hermione's hand. He leads them to a tree with a dusting of frost, deep green needles, and a thick trunk, "What about this one?"
Hermione eyes the tree shrewdly and tilts her chin, "Do you like it?
Sirius shrugs, "It's a tree, love."
She rolls her eyes, "Sirius, smell it."
He furrows his brows.
She makes an impatient sound and points to the branch.
Sirius leans down and takes a dramatic whiff. An inhale that would've put Padfoot to shame and he exhales in surprise. Stumbling back, he stares at the tree with wide eyes— he had almost hummed when the smell of evergreens, pine, snow, and something sweet curls into his sinuses. It smelled like winter, it smelled like drinking tea on the fuzzy rug near the fireplace, it smelled like the holidays and Hermione's hair when she stumbled out of the floo.
It smelled like home.
Hermione smiles at the awestruck look on his face and squeezes his hand.
"We'll take it."
.
After Hermione had sufficiently positioned the tree on the edge of the living room and threw a mat around the stand of the Christmas tree, she grabbed a few rolls of string lights. The wizarding world doesn't use electricity, but Muggles have these battery-operated ones, and while the candles that they use at Hogwarts were...nice, they were a bit medieval in spirit.
"First we wrap the lights and remember to keep the box in your hand at all times," Hermione instructs and hands him a bunch of wire, "If you lose the box it's going to be a pain to find."
"And you don't want to use magic?" Sirius asks curiously and pulls the strings apart.
"It's not the same," she waves it off.
He barks out a laugh and starts draping, "You say that about everything, kitten."
"Yes, but," Hermione pauses for a moment to gather her thoughts, "I know wizards and witches here think that magic is useful for everything—and it is! And muggles obviously don't have any, so they have to create their own type of magic. Doing some things by hand and it feels different. When you put all the pieces together and take a step back, it feels—more."
"Yet you still insist on washing the dishes."
"I like washing the dishes!"
Sirius laughs again and finishes his draping. He puts the box on the floor and tosses an arm around her shoulder, "Never change, Hermione."
Hermione rolls her eyes and flushes despite herself, "Next is the ornaments. I got them in Gryffindor colors, I thought maybe you would like them."
"Of course," he agrees and smooths over a glass deer ornament melancholically.
She wilts a little but presses a button on the deer—his nose twinkling a bright red.
Sirius grins at that.
.
"And the last thing we have to do is put the star up," Hermione hands him a four-pointed star, one with gold tassels and silver straps.
Sirius shifts his attention to the star in his hand and frowns, "I was told that the star is the most important part of the tree."
"It is," she agrees and waits.
He stares at her.
"What?" she grumbles, embarrassed.
"Shouldn't you put it up?"
Hermione could've said that she always put up the star, that when she was an only child, it was her favorite thing to do. She could've said that she always did it and one year of not doing it wasn't going to kill her. She would've said that she was fine and that it was his tree. She should've said that in all the years he's been alive, in all the Christmas' and Yule holidays that have passed him, that he deserved to put the star on the tree.
Instead, Hermione's red-cherry eyes brighten, she puts her hands on his knuckles and smiles gently, "Sirius, you are the star. It would only be appropriate for you to be the one to put the star up."
Sirius stills for a moment, silver orbs shine like two fistfuls of diamonds, and his lips press into a thin line. She's never seen him look like that; elated, terrified and bashful all at the same time. He drops a kiss on the crown of her head.
Sirius takes the star and places it on the tree like the cherry on top.
.
"Now, all you have to do is press this button," Hermione hands him the remote and points to the red button on the bottom.
Sirius inhales deeply, glances at the dark tree, and hits on the button.
The tree—the tree comes alive.
This must be the magic that Hermione told him about. It's glittering, shimmering against the leaves of the evergreens, the ornaments glinting like gemstones, and the star—the star a shining beacon against the moody, dark walls of Grimmauld. Twinkling and wonderful.
Hermione wraps her arms around him, and she whispers into the winter air, "Merry Christmas, Sirius."
Sirius doesn't think he's strong enough to let her go this time.