Work Text:
Ginger and sugar quills
A/N: I have this HC that Sirius has a cat/knealze named Marie Antoinette. ♡ That being said, let's proceed.
It's snowing again.
The thing is, Harry is not fond of winter. Logically, he should be, he knows. Winter is fun. It is the time of snowball fights and snowman making. It is when dad secretly adds extra cinnamon to Harry's hot chocolate when mum is not looking and papa makes him colourful magical igloos, so he can have his own warm personal space in case he goes outside. Plus, it's the official season of figure skating, both in muggle and wizarding world. Although, for a boy whose parents are professional figure skaters, he certainly lacks enthusiasm.
"Come quick, Harry. It's about to start!"
He is trying to coo papa's pet kneazle into eating her muggle cat food in the kitchen when dad's excited voice booms through the house, making both him and Marie Antoinette jump. She throws him a disdainful glare before strutting out, her pretty pink nose up in the air as if he is nothing but a lowly peasant. She hates both dad and him, preferring to starve than eating anything offered by their hand. Normally Harry does not care but A) he is not heartless and B) papa will have his head if he finds out his precious kneazle has been hungry in his absence, absolutely ignoring the fact that it is the infernal creature's fault not Harry's.
"Coming, coming," Harry sighs, sounding defeated before heading towards the sitting room where dad is cuddling with a baby blue cushion on the coach, dressed in mum's pink woollen cardigan and papa's black jeans, a complete absurdity of size difference courtesy of mum's narrow waist and papa's long legs. Add his own ridiculous red and gold stag slippers and dad is a sight to behold. His attention is focused on the telly, anxiously waiting for the next program - which is the world's figure skating championship where mum and papa are performing - to start.
Personally Harry thinks that dad should have stayed away from the cardigan. It's mum's favourite, a gift from papa, so Merlin forbid, if it tears, dad is not going to make it out alive.
But of course dad does not care, being the trophy husband that he is at times.
“Has it started yet?” Harry asks exhaustedly. Struggling with Marie Antoinette is draining.
He is about to sit when she jumps on the coach gracefully on papa's usual spot beside dad like a spoiled little princess that she is, giving him the smuggest look in the history of kneazles if such history exists and Harry wants to hit his head to the wall. Annoying little thing.
Dad looks amused. “She hates you,” he chuckles and Harry rolls his eyes. It's not like she is super fond of dad either.
"Yeah, no," he replies grudgingly before sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the telly and grabbing a handful of almonds and hazelnuts to snack on.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the miraculous duo, Lily Evans and Sirius Black who have been the world's champions for several years now…”
The reporter announces and dad's head instantly turns back towards the telly with a dreamy expression, starry-eyed and lovelorn. “Look at them, aren't they magical?” Dad sighs as if he is high on Amortentia.
Harry gags. His parents are disgustingly in love.
“They are magical, dad. Officially a witch and a wizard." Harry points out but dad ignores him in favour of batting his eyelashes at some invisible entity which probably is mum and papa and the Holy Spirit combined.
“So, will they be back for Christmas?” he asks as he watches them skate gracefully towards the centre of the ice hand in hand, greeted by loud whistles and roars of clapping, an applause which puts a banshee's scream to shame.
“I don't think so, Haz. They have to perform in a charity event in New York this Christmas,” dad softly hums. “No worries, though. We are going to celebrate together and it's their loss.”
Harry certainly doesn't pout. It was not like he is bitter.
Another year, another pile of snow.
“Don't play with your food, Harry,” scolds mum, wiping the butter from her fingers with the corner of her flowery red apron. Harry has no idea why mum keeps that hideous thing. It looks worse than a house elf's pillowcase, not to mention the lily design on it is the ugliest thing that Harry has ever had the displeasure of beholding. But of course, he never dares to voice his opinion aloud about dad's gift.
“I don't like this soup,” he grumbles. “It tastes like burnt turnip,” and winces before eyeing the freshly baked cookies on the table with a frown.
“Pardon me sir, but you are sick. Sick people eat soup, not chocolate and butter cookies,” mum answers dismissively before putting the cookie plate away, not caring about Harry's pathetic whine one bit.
“Come on, prongslet, finish your soup. You don't want to be sick on Christmas, do you?” teases papa before looking up from the Daily Prophet. He is reading the sports news page while whistling to himself and Harry doesn't need to ask to know that he is focusing on the quidditch column. He can't help but to hiss moodily in response, mostly because the soup has burned his tongue.
Mum rolls her eyes. “Christmas is tomorrow, he won't recover till then,” she reminds papa and papa smirks at her flirtatiously, pulling her to his lap with no shame.
“Should we put a mistletoe somewhere then?” he purrs, running his fingers through her long hair.
“Are we leaving James out?” mum giggles playfully and Harry shudders at the saccharine overdose. Godric, he is going to end up with diabetes sooner or later.
"Argh, stop being so gross. It's obscene," he grunts under his breath and both mum and papa laugh merrily.
“Sorry, darling,” although they don't make a move to separate.
“So, when is dad coming?” Harry asks, cautiously looking elsewhere in case of any lovey-dovey danger. He is not going to risk his poor eyes. Mum and papa exchange a wary look.
"Dad isn't joining us, is he?" Harry's voice is disappointed but resigned.
“He has to stay in the training camp, love. It's the quidditch world cup this summer and dad is England's captain.”
Harry sighs. “It's not like England is going to win anyway.”
"What a great cheerleader," papa's voice is sarcastic and Harry shrugs.
Mum sighs. "Look Harry, we know it's hard to put up with our constant absence but I promise it will be alright soon," she says, voice sincere.
“In the meantime, why don't you eat your soup? It may help you with your daddy issues, it's James' recipe after all,” papa grins.
England wins the next quidditch cup.
"I'm going to spend the Christmas at Ron's."
"What? It's a family holiday, you can't spend it there."
"It's not like that guys are around."
"...."
“Harry is going to finish Hogwarts this year.”
“I think it's time to retire, I am far too old for chasing the quaffle now."
“So do I. Performing a quad is not as easy as before."
"Speak for yourself, boys. I am in perfect shape for sass and sauce in bed."
They laugh together.
Next Christmas Harry wakes up to the smell of Bergamot and tangerine tart, accompanied with hushed voices in the kitchen. He hides his head under the pillow, seeking silence. It's probably dad talking on his mirror with papa, but then again, dad is supposed to be attending some fancy event in Rome this year as England's quidditch representative.
Then, there is a sound of china breaking and cursing, his parents’ bickering now loud and crystal clear. Harry blinks in surprise before blindly reaching for his glasses, as if they could help him hear better.
“Damn, that china was a family heirloom.”
“Not that you care, darling.”
“Now that you've mentioned it…”
"Why are you guys here?” Harry asks as he pads into the kitchen, taken aback by the theatrical scene before him.
Dad is cleaning the floor from the broken pieces of china with a mini broom and a dustpan while mum is sitting on the counter teasing him along with papa who has Marie Antoinette on his lap.
“Morning, Harry. Sorry we were loud,” papa says and Harry stares.
“Have you guys caught some infectious disease that keeps you away from your fancy events and training?" he asks worriedly. "Are you dying?"
Because there is no way that his three parents would be home for Christmas at the same time.
Papa blinks and dad makes a noise like a wounded animal. “Rude!” he exclaims and mum just giggles in good humour.
“Not exactly if you don't count our group decision to retire from our professional careers,” she grins.
Harry gapes like a fish out of water. “Is this a joke?” he wiggles his eyebrows at them in a manner that hopes is giving him a stern look.
“Christmas miracle,” papa laughs and dad's expression once again morphs into its usual lovelorn mode at hearing papa's happy bark of laughter.
“Argh, you are such a simp dad,” Harry pretends to gag but his tone is affectionate, feeling warm and happy for the first time in many Christmases.
“That, I am,” dad nods proudly. “Merry Christmas, Harry,” he says and waves his wand softly, swapping Harry's T-shirt for an ugly knitted red and green jumper.
Harry grins so hard that his cheeks hurt. “Merry Christmas guys,” and if his voice is emotional, that's his own business.
It seems this winter is not going to be that bad after all.
Jilypad are nauseatingly in love and James simps so hard, bless him. 😂
Feedback is always appreciated.