Red Beads

Red Beads

A garland o' red beads

To warm a heart

That looketh upon

This sweet Christmas tree

Holidays, in my opinion, are the worst days of the whole year. Why, you ask? It's obvious, isn't it? Holidays mean that I have to actually go home. Holidays equate arguments, name-calling, and the ever depressing, ever painful reminder of my mother's absence.

Petunia would never let me forget, even if it was possible to.

But here I am; home, for Christmas. In my opinion, the second worst holiday season ever. The first, of course, is Easter. That's when my mother passed away. She had cancer. It's okay. You don't have to be sorry about it. She'd been battling it for a long time. I guess I should be happy that her pain and suffering has now ended. But a very selfish compartment in my soul determines that I wish she could still be around. For me, because I still need her.

Life at home was bearable with Mum around. She was an angel. She was always so proud, and so supportive. She used to love Christmas. I remember one year, when she dressed Petunia and me up like princesses. She even crowned us with tiaras, and Petunia, who used to hate to play dress up, played along anyway. Mum herself dressed up in a beautiful white gown, wore her special white satin high heels - and the diamond and sapphire necklace we had helped Dad pick out for her birthday that year. The faded freckles on her arm coloured warm by the flickering fire that we tiptoed past, the way her green eyes smiled impossibly - and gave the air of lighting up the room. And then we found the tree. The glorious tree with the trinkets she'd accumulated over the years, and the garlands of pretty red beads - "To match Lily's hair," Gordon Evans chuckled as soon as he saw his pretty, angelical wife lifting them out of the box with a sigh. It was her last year; she was sure, her last year of putting up Christmas decorations, and fairy lights. It was her last year, and her daughters were going to remember it forever.

"Oh," a cold voice creeps over my skin. I shiver. I don't need to turn around to know that the voice belongs to Petunia. "You're home."

"Yes," I say with great effort. The room feels so very cold suddenly. "How've you been?"

"Good," she replies stiffly, averting her gaze.

I realise that I am holding onto the garland of red beads. I must have picked it up unconsciously whilst reminiscing. "I was thinking about putting up the tree. I'd love it if you and I did it together. You're much better at decorating than I am. I wouldn't know what to put on first." It's a lie, but one used calculatedly to mollify my sister.

"Oh, alright, I guess I could help you out." She steps into the room, and I smile. Next time I see Professor Slughorn, I must remember to tell him that maybe I should have been sorted into his house after all. Despite the fact that having the likes of Lucius Malfoy or Narcissa Black as company in the Slytherin Common Room makes my skin crawl. And the idea that the lot of them are all just prejudiced wannabes. I'd rather be locked in a broom closet with Sirius Black.

Wait, is it too late to take that back? Being locked in a broom closet with Sirius Black is a terrible idea. He's my boyfriend's best friend! Boyfriends should be banned by law from having good looking best friends. It's far too tempting. Not that I have been tempted. When I consider Sirius' entirety, I am very turned off, thank you very much. But the man has his moments. Usually when I'm drunk or groggy with sleep, exhaustion and so forth - and hence am incapable of making sense to even my own self.

"Look, the lights have to go onto the tree first, Lily. Not the baubles. That's just insensible," Petunia's sharp voice drags me out of my reverie. And I am thankful, mind. Let's just say that I ought to never speak of this thought train to James. I doubt it would be wise, and I strongly doubt he would find it endearing, attractive, or even remotely amusing that I think Sirius a very attractive person - when I am drunk or tired beyond self-comprehension, of course.

"Mum used to love doing this sort of stuff," I remark in a faraway voice - forcing my mind to stop thinking about men altogether.

"Is that why you're doing this? Because Mum used to love it?" Her voiced is edged with accusation, though on the surface, it remains pleasant-like.

"No. I'm doing this because it's Christmas." I try to remain patient. It's a very difficult task.

"Why do you even care, anyway, Lily? It's not like you were around. It's not like you were here to share Mum's pain. Why do you even care?"

There are tears falling from Petunia's fierce eyes. And then she's gone.

The world feels as though it's caving in. Brick by brick. And I can't breathe.

Sometime later, I finish decorating the tree - placing the angel with the chipped wing at the very top of the tree. It is Petunia's favourite. Strange, but true. My pristine and cleanliness-obsessed sister's favourite decoration is the angel with the chipped wing and the suspicious smudge across her pale yellow dress. You wonder, sometimes, about the people you think you know.

I take slow steps upstairs, walk into the first room on the right, and fall back first onto the bed. Petunia's bed, as she so harshly reminds me. Every summer, Easter and Christmas, I share my sister's bed. We'd always done so. Even before Hogwarts.

I used to hate sleeping on my own. My parents found they couldn't get me to sleep in my own bed by myself, so in an effort to kick me out of their bed for once and for all, they slipped me in to the left of Petunia's sleeping frame. And that's how we stayed for the next eight years.

Until our lives changed by one simple letter with my name on the front.

Ten gold baubles, twenty silver bells

One pretty cherub angel,

Your smile, mostly,

Takes a mind from hell

I see him. He's not very hard to find. His untameable hair (believe me, I've tried), flecked with snowflakes, whipping in the wind is so unmistakeably him that I want to laugh out loud and then snog him thoroughly. "We had to pick the coldest day to go Christmas shopping, didn't we?" I grin, reaching him with quick steps.

He leans down and kisses me tenderly. "It's not as windy in Diagon Alley."

"Where's Sirius?"

"At home."

"Ah, the man borrowed some of Remus' tact?"

"No," James grins mischievously. "I slipped Sleeping Potion into his dessert last night (Mum wouldn't let him go to his flat without having some of her 'famous roast turkey' first). So, when I get home, I might want to consider putting up a shield charm."

"You are so -"

"Cold. Let's get going, love."

We pass on through The Leaky Cauldron, where Severus Snape pointedly ignores us. Severus and I used to get along really well. You could even call us friends. Up until that unfortunate day in our fifth year when... Well, I don't like to think about it.

"What do you need to get? And for whom?" James asks, oblivious to Severus' loathing sneers.

"Sugar Quills for Dorcas, chocolate and that new Eva Starlight novel for Remus. It's about a werewolf, and a vampire - who are mortal enemies. And there's this girl, Darla, whom they both love, and -"

"She has to choose between them, and she chooses the werewolf?"

"Yes."

"I don't know what you and Moony like about trashy romance novels."

"But James, they are absolutely side-splittingly hilarious. 'And his pearly white fangs sunk into her candescent neck, his lips gently caressing her soft skin, his tongue lapping the slight pool of blood that rose up between...'."

James stares at me horrified. "Her neck is brightly lit? And he's kissing her, whilst sucking out her blood?"

"Hilarious, isn't it?" I giggle.

"Your sense of humour needs to be re-checked."

"What do you suggest I buy for Sirius?"

"Anything to do with motorbikes will be greatly appreciated." I feel giddy at having spun around so fast, and look up to see Sirius Black, looking rather attractive in a leather jacket and gloves, actually. Dammit. This is not a good time. "Prongs, my friend. I'm afraid I slept in."

"Yes," James replies pleasantly. "You were snoring like a volcano."

"Volcanoes snore?"

"Your idea of a simile needs to be re-checked," I offer with a smirk.

I feel my hand being grasped. It isn't by James. "Come on, Lily. Let's go find that Eva Starlight novel."

"Damn you, Sirius."

He laughs at me, and then staggers. By the looks of it, James has an excellent aim even when he's not flying. He's also very adept at Transfiguring scrunched up pieces of parchment into snowballs. I am impressed by the cleverness of it. I always have been - just too afraid of what would happen if I showed it.

"I was only messing around, mate," Sirius frowns pretentiously.

"As was I." I feel my hand being taken up again, but this time it is by the right person. "I haven't asked yet, but how's home? And your sister?"

"Home is cold. My sister is about as hospitable as the Arctic." I shrug, "Nothing to report."

"Why does she hate you so much?" he asks, suddenly stopping our tracks in the middle of Diagon Alley. A middle aged witch glares at us angrily. "I mean, you're Lily. No one could possibly hate you. Well, with the exception of Snape. Even Malfoy doesn't hate you. He just sort of ignores you - which is a good thing when you consider what he'd do if he actually hated you. And when you consider what he is." He sighs. "I just don't get it."

"Nor do I. We used to be best friends."

There is silence between us, in which Sirius takes up the opportunity to blather about his motorcycle, its engine, and his plans to enchant it to fly once he's finished with Hogwarts.

We finally manage to shake him off when we enter Flourish and Blotts, and he spots a new book on display about Muggle transport inventions and their comparison to flying, Apparating and the Floo Network. My guess is that the book will prove to be heavily biased in favour of Wizarding society. Sirius'd be back in about two minutes complaining about the attitude and mindset of the nincompoop author. His words, not mine, mind. How grand.

"You know, Lily, I've been thinking," James whispers.

"That's new." I regret my words the moment I speak them, blaming the company of Sirius for my moment of cynicism.

James (bless him) ignores it, and ploughs on. "Maybe Petunia is jealous. Maybe she liked being your best friend, and felt betrayed when you chose to go to Hogwarts. Maybe that's why she hates our world so much. Because you wanted it more than her."

This rare moment of insight catches me by surprise.

"Merlin, Prongs. You're not going to go all soppy on us now, are you?"

"Sod off, Sirius," James and I state in unison.

And even if it's over

Sweet love, remember so

This Christmas shared together

And the love once long ago felt.

There is red wrapping paper and gold ribbon spread out all over the bed. I should at least attempt to clear it away before Petunia enters the room and is tempted to evict me from it. She certainly loves her life to be organised, clean and perfect.

Personally, I think she's just being a bit of a neurotic control-freak. But I'm not going to share this opinion with anyone. If I do, I'll have to kill them for agreeing with me. Blood is, after all, thicker than water.

The door handle creaks open. Petunia stands in the doorway, her arms crossed, her eyes surveying with disgust the mess that occupies the room.

"I was going to give this to you at, you know, Christmas morning. But, ah, here." I hand her a red parcel with a gold ribbon carefully tied around it to add a sense of festivity. "Merry Christmas."

"Thanks," she murmurs, walking into the room. She picks up her bag and scarf.

"Wait," I call.

She pauses.

I grab the Ravenclaw scarf that Benjy Fenwick gave me last year at the Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin game. "This would look better with your outfit."

She smiles briefly.

"Have fun with Vernon."

Half a minute later, the room is empty. Save me, the red wrapping paper, and pile of gold ribbon spread in a tangled mess over the bed. I sigh loudly into the darkening atmosphere.

Things aren't getting better. But maybe, in the whole grand scheme of life, they simply aren't meant to.

Whether or not you agree, for me there is a reason as to why I believe holidays to be the worst days of the year. Holidays mean going home. Holidays equate the endless frustration of being a sister to someone who wishes you were anything but who you are.

Maybe I did choose magic over Petunia. But magic is my life. Being a witch is my identity. I can't sacrifice that. Not even for Petunia.

Thread a garland o' red beads

And hang it o'er the tree

Love lost is still love had

Abiding in memory.

Finis