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Harry woke up on December 25, 1998 and knew immediately something was wrong.
For one thing there was mistletoe hovering over his head and — yes, he was sure — it was playing “Deck the Halls” like a tiny organic music box.
Harry sat up slowly, and the mistletoe adjusted to remain directly over his head like a singing gnat. At the foot of his bed was a tray of cookies and milk. And Sirius, grinning over an armload of gifts.
“You said this wasn’t a real holiday,” Harry said. He swatted at the mistletoe but it neatly evaded his swinging hand and began playing “Jingle Bells.”
“It’s not,” Sirius confirmed, tossing the gifts into the air where they hovered like a cluster of balloons on invisible strings, bobbing slightly. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate it if you like.”
Harry looked at the milk and cookies. “Santa forgot something?”
Sirius frowned and scratched his head. “Oh, are they not right? I thought Santa brought them. A little creepy if you ask me, but…”
Harry’s general mood upon waking was dazed and slightly grumpy, but he was thawing, inevitably, over the bizarre and over-the-top gesture.
“No, you’re meant to leave them for him. To thank him for the gifts.”
“Ah. Well, you can thank him yourself.” Sirius snapped his fingers and a white fur cap appeared on his head. He looked ridiculous, handsome, and nothing like Santa Claus.
Harry looked up at the mistletoe and blushed. “This doesn’t mean what you think it does, either.”
“No?” Sirius leaned in, suddenly close, one hand braced beside Harry’s hip. “Don’t I?”
When their lips brushed, Harry was too surprised to wish that he didn’t have morning breath, and that the mistletoe wasn’t playing “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” He just smelled the ginger in the cookies and felt Sirius’s stubble and his own smile interrupted their first kiss.
Sirius’s eyes were grey as storm clouds seen up close. In fact everything about kissing him felt rather a lot like flying high in the sky where it was beautiful and dangerous.
“Happy fake holiday, Harry.”