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James Potter has never been one to enjoy Christmastime.
Of course, he loves the snow, and loves being with family, and, upon request, he can sort of sing the first few lines (okay, fine, maybe only the first two lines) of “Yesuve, undhan naamatthile”, but there’s something about it that bothers him. Maybe it’s that the holidays he grew up with, the ones that have him waiting impatiently weeks ahead of time even now, don’t get the same amount of attention.
The store windows are full of gifts and trees and reindeer in a way they wouldn’t be for Deepavali or Pongal (neither of which have anything to do with trees and reindeer but gifts, definitely). People can’t seem to speak to each other without a “Happy Christmas” tacked on. Children are abuzz with a sense of hope or, more likely, excitement at the promise of presents. And a small part of James is bitter, despite the fact that he wants nothing more than to be kind and giving and keep up with the spirit of the season, because he knows this unshakable sense of importance wouldn’t be given to anything he’s familiar with.
When James Potter holds grudges, he really goes for it.
But it’s Harry’s first Christmas that he’ll really understand, so he’s going to try and be agreeable for his son’s sake. Of course, Harry is only around twenty months old (James is currently maintaining that he doesn’t know his son’s age down to the day, hasn’t done the math over and over on the slower days), and probably won’t get the idea of Christmas, let alone be able to open the gifts they’ve all painstakingly pieced together for him. But, no matter what, James is going to make sure Harry enjoys it, even if he doesn’t.
Of course, when he committed to that, he had no idea how much the one person he hadn’t accounted for in this plan would make it a living hell.
“You don’t know who Rudolph is?” Lily asks, caught between surprise and horror, and James shrugs as Lily tries vainly to stifle a laugh, green eyes wide.
“We never celebrated Christmas.” James says, running a hand through his hair. They hadn’t-– Amma and Appa would get him new clothes at Deepavali, and again at Pongal, and with gifts in November and January, why throw December into the mix? James agreed—although he, like any child, hadn’t seen it clearly at the time, he’d certainly gotten spoiled more than enough. “Amma used to take us to the temple, but that was more because everyone had the day off for sure than because it was a holiday.”
“Oh.” Lily says, like she hadn’t considered this before. She looks a little surprised, mouth open in a little ‘o’, and James laughs before he can think to hold it in. These things are starting to come out more often now, the stark differences between the ways they were raised, because of Harry and wondering about how they’re going to raise him. Harry or Hari? Both, as they’ve agreed, because a life where you aren’t honest to all parts of yourself is hardly a life at all, and finding a balance has turned into an exercise of learning about each other that’s fun even at the worst of times, even if it does, occasionally, result in a fair bit of embarrassment. Lily’s cheeks are nearly as red as her hair, and James knows better than to point it out. Years of hexes have taught him that well. “I should’ve figured.”
“We’re all learning, love.” James says, shrugging, and Harry chooses that moment to come running at his legs, excitedly babbling about something or the other. James scoops him up, tossing Harry up in the air in the way that always makes Lily’s breath catch in her throat, before neatly picking him out of the air like he would’ve caught a Quaffle, a few years earlier, holding him tight against his chest. Harry screams excitedly, wrapping his arms around James’ neck a little too tightly, and James plants a kiss on the top of his son’s head. “What about you, Hari? Excited for Christmas?”
Harry, eloquent as always, sneezes loudly, and then wipes his snotty nose all over the shoulder of James’ shirt. James pulls a face, thankful that Harry can’t see the expression he’s making. Lily isn’t nearly as careful about their son’s feelings, and snorts loudly.
Harry lifts his head up, turning around to see why his mother is laughing, and smiles when he spots her face, waving before letting out an enthusiastic hello. That’s his new thing lately, greeting everyone, and James is glad he has such a social baby— everything would’ve gone to rot if Harry’d been any quieter than he is, because the only reason he and Lily managed as long in hiding as they did is because Harry took every opportunity to fill their lives with noise and wonder.
“Say ‘Happy Christmas’, Hari!” Lily prompts, and James notes that she’s stopped stumbling over the name, these days. She’d likely stopped months before, but James is only now starting to come back to himself, now that the haze of battle and fear has finally faded, leaving him feeling like a real person for the first time in years. And with that return to personhood comes a flood of moments he’s missed, while trapped in that odd, cloudy state. He’d rather not have missed that one. “Come on, sweetheart, you can do it.”
“Habbee Kissmess.” Harry says to James, looking quite serious, and Lily bursts into laughter, unable to handle it. James wants to tell her to stop, because the expression on his son’s face is definitely one he makes a lot, and he just knows she’s making fun of both of them. He’s known Lily Evans too long to think that she’d dare pass up an opportunity to rag on both her husband and son at once.
As it happens, he’s right, because the next thing Lily says, once she’s caught her breath is, “God, James, he’s just like you”.
Harry cheers exuberantly, and James isn’t sure whether Harry’s understood what Lily said or not, but he’s glad that he at least got a good smile out of it. Harry might as well be proud of being like his dad for as long as the world will let him. James is suddenly uncomfortable, smile dropping at the thought of the strange looks he’d gotten just this morning, the whispers he’d gotten for daring to do something as simple as get his son a Christmas present. James is called threatening even at his most vulnerable, called dangerous even at his softest and kindest.
There is no winning, for people like him, and he doesn’t know if he wants Harry to be proud of that.
Harry will not be left to be happy like this for much longer, a fear that’s stuck with him since the moment his son was born nearly two years ago, squalling loudly and undeniably brown. Somehow, the thought of Harry hating where he came from had always been more painful than the threat of Voldemort, who’d delighted in looming over them like a murderous, genocidal rain cloud. All the cheer inside him is gone, suddenly, bleeding out of him like someone had ripped a hole in the balloon of his heart, and Lily’s eyes are full of sympathy when he looks at her next.
She might not know exactly what it’s like for him, being unmistakably brown in a whitewashed world, and he doesn’t pretend to know what it’s like for her, being Muggleborn in a society that prides itself on quantifying magical ancestry as loudly and proudly as possible, but they are doing their best, and it is going somewhere. The proof that they are is in this giggling little boy in James’ arms, who is currently pulling at James’ cheeks to make him smile.
“Habbee Kismess?” Harry says, green eyes alight with mischief, before planting a big, sloppy, wet kiss against the side of James’ face. James can feel baby slobber all over his cheek, but surprisingly, he finds himself not minding. That, he supposes, is what parenting does to you.
“Happy Christmas, Hari.” James says, and for once, the words don’t feel out of place in his mouth.