thirty2flavors (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thirty2flavors) wrote2005-12-30 04:41 pm
thirty2flavors) wrote2005-12-30 04:41 pm
just to keep you posted
Did everyone have a decent Christmas? I hope so. I did. And a decent birthday, too, which was yesterday. (I got a digital camera! =)!!!!!)
I never did write anything Christmas-y, as I had intended to. Damn. I started something, but per usual, did not finish it.
Sirius thought you could tell a lot about a family from their Christmas tree.
For instance, the Potters’ Christmas tree was gigantic. It was a massive compilation of artificial branches, brightly coloured lights and ridiculous china ornaments of animals or snowmen or Santa, often doing something ‘cute’, like one of the mice skating on a Popsicle. There was an angel at the top, real, edible candy-canes dangling from the branches and shiny, festive Christmas baubles waiting to be broken. It was, as far as Sirius could tell, completely and stereotypically perfect, from its skating mice down to the side of the tree lopsided from the time that James, over-eager nine year old, had knocked it over.
The Pettigrews always got a real tree. For the entire month of December, their living room played host to the smell of pine, the drip of sap and perpetual fire hazard. It was, as far as things go, more traditional. Most of the ornaments were wooden, tiny little things Mrs. Pettigrew had accumulated over the years, from craft fair after craft fair. Every year, a new strand of popcorn garland was put up around it, presents were put beneath it, and every Christmas Eve, the family gathered around to put the star on the top bough. The Pettigrew Christmas tree was cozy, homey and traditional.
The Lupins, as far as Sirius knew, had had the same Christmas tree since the dawn of time, or perhaps earlier. It was, by Remus’ description, tiny, scraggly, shoddy-looking and yet surprisingly endearing. (“Kind of like you?” Sirius had suggested immediately after, for which Remus had hit him.) Perhaps four feet in height, the Lupin tree hosted solely homemade decorations; there was a circular, flat piece of paper, in the center of which a much younger Remus had pasted a Muggle picture of a squirrel, cotton-balls-turned-snowmen, and a rather wonky-looking stocking that his mother had made during her short endeavors in knitting. It was not the most presentable of Christmas trees, but it was full of time, energy and nostalgia.
He frowned as he glanced up at their Christmas tree, right there in the corner of Number Twelve’s sitting room.
It is big, intimidating, and ludicrously fancy. All of the lights were white. It had no skating mice, popcorn garlands or pictures of squirrels; it had things like tiny bows, miniature, golden harps and stiff, silver figurines of reindeers that, in Sirius’ opinion, had probably never been anywhere near a sleigh or a jolly fat man.
It looked like it belonged in the lobby of a five-star hotel, he thought. It was elegant, impressive and entirely impersonal.
He scowled as he polished one of the silver reindeer with his thumb. He wished it had the perfection of the Potters’, or the warmth of the Pettigrews’, or the love of the Lupins’, but then again, he thought, the Black family had never been exceptionally perfect, warm or loving.
He sighed, flicking the reindeer in the face and dropping his hand. It was midnight, on Christmas Eve, and he was standing in their sitting room, inwardly criticizing their Christmas tree. Surely there was something wrong with him?
A yawn from the doorway broke the layer of silence that had settled in the room and Sirius nearly knocked the tree over as he spun around. Who the--?
Oh. It was Regulus.
Startled sensation fading fast, Sirius arched an eyebrow. “What the hell are you doing up? Waiting for Santa?”
Regulus smirked, and in three steps, he had entered the room. As he passed by, so did the unmistakable smell of hot chocolate. “What the hell are you doing up?”
It was, Sirius realized, a rather rock-solid argument, and so he chose not to answer, and instead decided to assume authority.
“It’s past midnight. Go back to bed, you prat.”
“Oh, right, because you’re allowed to stay up here and do Merlin-knows-what and I’m not? I’ll pass.”
With a defiant glance, Regulus walked to the nearest armchair and sat himself down in it, taking a drink from his glass.
“Where did you get that?” Sirius asked suddenly, jerking his head towards the cup.
Regulus stared at him with an expression that reminded him of how Remus sometimes looked, whenever one of them managed to say something completely asinine. “What d’you mean, where did I get it? Where do you think I got it? Paris?”
“Did Kreacher make it?”
“No, I did.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“You did manual labour?”
“Making hot chocolate is hardly manual labour, you lazy arse.”
Sirius decided not to dignify it with a response. Regulus looked to the tree, looked it up and down indifferently, and Sirius wondered, suddenly, if his brother realized everything that was wrong with it.
It could be kind of like an experiment, Sirius thought, a scientific inquiry.
So, with an air of nonchalance, he glanced at it, and then at Regulus. “I hate this tree,” he said simply.
Regulus drew his legs up into the armchair with him and took another sip from his glass. “Well, no surprise there,” he muttered. “You hate everything.”
It was not exactly the reaction Sirius had anticipated.
“Wh—what d’you mean, I hate everything?” he asked, his head tilting and his brow furrowing.
“It’s really quite a simple concept, Sirius. You see, there’s you, and then there’s everything, and then there’s you, hating everything. Shall I explain it with sock puppets?”
“Oh, stuff it, you prick,” snapped Sirius, “I do not hate everything. In fact, of everyone in this family, I think it’s safe to say I hate the least. So ha.”
He held his head with a smug superiority, but Regulus did not look up from his drink in order to notice. In fact, he merely snorted.
“Says the bloke who hates Christmas trees,” the younger Black muttered.
Sirius scowled again. “I didn’t say I hate Christmas trees, I said I hate this tree. I have no problem with Christmas trees in general, just this one.”
Regulus looked up at him incredulously. “Why the bloody hell do you hate our Christmas tree?”
“Because – well – because – look at it!” Sirius gestured wildly, but the blank expression on his brother’s face never changed to one of comprehension. “It’s -- it’s so …big and elegant and perfect and it’s got all these, all these bows and stupid silver reindeer and golden harps where it should have skating mice and ugly squirrels and popcorn.”
This time, Regulus’ expression changed – he looked completely bewildered.
“You’re completely mental,” he decided.
“I am not,” said Sirius, scowling. Didn’t Regulus think that it was far too pretty, too polished, too artificial? Surely he, too, would have rather had an ugly knitted stocking or two? “You just don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Ugly squirrels and popcorn?”
“No, damnit, you idiot, not the squirrels, exactly, but everything that the squirrels – you know what? Why am I even bothering? As if you have any sort of capacity for understanding the subtleties of life.”
“Do these subtleties have anything to do with the Potters having ugly squirrels on their Christmas tree?”
Sirius glared. “No, actually, that’s the Lupins, and – wait – how did --?”
Regulus rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t exactly skill-testing, especially with your infatuation with every other family in all England.”
Sirius remained indignant. “I am not infatuated.”
“Yes you are,” insisted Regulus. “You’re so infatuated that you’re comparing our Christmas tree to theirs.”
“Well, it just so happens that our Christmas tree fails, dismally, in every respect.”
Regulus’ eyes narrowed a little and he instinctively held his head a little higher. “I happen to like our Christmas tree.”
Sirius flicked a hand impatiently. “Well, yeah, but you also happen to like Bella, Kreacher and asparagus, so your opinion really doesn’t count for anything.”
“You’re an idiot,” Regulus decided, scowling. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the tree.”
“Yes there is!” Sirius exclaimed, tossing his arms in the air, suddenly incensed. “Everything’s wrong with it! It’s too pretty, it’s too artificial, it’s too… fancy and it’s too pretentious, just like everyone in this bloody house.”
--
Hmm. I did like that, I just.. didn't seem to know where I was going with it. Damn. Ahem. Pictures:
Yep. The mice skating on the popsicle. And you thought I was making creative!
...and the ugly squirrels! Woo! I was an artistic child, clearly.
Christmas tree!
Christmas cards!
Dakota says hello.
Bye.
As far as Silly Love Songs, I had promised to have it up by 2006 -- and 2005 is quite nearly over. Lexiii, if you read this, I'm emailing it to you, but if betaing proves to be complicated or you take too long I'm just going to upload it anyway and hope there is no gaping plot hole. =)! My cousin was up for the past couple of days and the last week before holidays was hectic, so now I finally have some free time. Yay!
<3
Kali
I never did write anything Christmas-y, as I had intended to. Damn. I started something, but per usual, did not finish it.
Sirius thought you could tell a lot about a family from their Christmas tree.
For instance, the Potters’ Christmas tree was gigantic. It was a massive compilation of artificial branches, brightly coloured lights and ridiculous china ornaments of animals or snowmen or Santa, often doing something ‘cute’, like one of the mice skating on a Popsicle. There was an angel at the top, real, edible candy-canes dangling from the branches and shiny, festive Christmas baubles waiting to be broken. It was, as far as Sirius could tell, completely and stereotypically perfect, from its skating mice down to the side of the tree lopsided from the time that James, over-eager nine year old, had knocked it over.
The Pettigrews always got a real tree. For the entire month of December, their living room played host to the smell of pine, the drip of sap and perpetual fire hazard. It was, as far as things go, more traditional. Most of the ornaments were wooden, tiny little things Mrs. Pettigrew had accumulated over the years, from craft fair after craft fair. Every year, a new strand of popcorn garland was put up around it, presents were put beneath it, and every Christmas Eve, the family gathered around to put the star on the top bough. The Pettigrew Christmas tree was cozy, homey and traditional.
The Lupins, as far as Sirius knew, had had the same Christmas tree since the dawn of time, or perhaps earlier. It was, by Remus’ description, tiny, scraggly, shoddy-looking and yet surprisingly endearing. (“Kind of like you?” Sirius had suggested immediately after, for which Remus had hit him.) Perhaps four feet in height, the Lupin tree hosted solely homemade decorations; there was a circular, flat piece of paper, in the center of which a much younger Remus had pasted a Muggle picture of a squirrel, cotton-balls-turned-snowmen, and a rather wonky-looking stocking that his mother had made during her short endeavors in knitting. It was not the most presentable of Christmas trees, but it was full of time, energy and nostalgia.
He frowned as he glanced up at their Christmas tree, right there in the corner of Number Twelve’s sitting room.
It is big, intimidating, and ludicrously fancy. All of the lights were white. It had no skating mice, popcorn garlands or pictures of squirrels; it had things like tiny bows, miniature, golden harps and stiff, silver figurines of reindeers that, in Sirius’ opinion, had probably never been anywhere near a sleigh or a jolly fat man.
It looked like it belonged in the lobby of a five-star hotel, he thought. It was elegant, impressive and entirely impersonal.
He scowled as he polished one of the silver reindeer with his thumb. He wished it had the perfection of the Potters’, or the warmth of the Pettigrews’, or the love of the Lupins’, but then again, he thought, the Black family had never been exceptionally perfect, warm or loving.
He sighed, flicking the reindeer in the face and dropping his hand. It was midnight, on Christmas Eve, and he was standing in their sitting room, inwardly criticizing their Christmas tree. Surely there was something wrong with him?
A yawn from the doorway broke the layer of silence that had settled in the room and Sirius nearly knocked the tree over as he spun around. Who the--?
Oh. It was Regulus.
Startled sensation fading fast, Sirius arched an eyebrow. “What the hell are you doing up? Waiting for Santa?”
Regulus smirked, and in three steps, he had entered the room. As he passed by, so did the unmistakable smell of hot chocolate. “What the hell are you doing up?”
It was, Sirius realized, a rather rock-solid argument, and so he chose not to answer, and instead decided to assume authority.
“It’s past midnight. Go back to bed, you prat.”
“Oh, right, because you’re allowed to stay up here and do Merlin-knows-what and I’m not? I’ll pass.”
With a defiant glance, Regulus walked to the nearest armchair and sat himself down in it, taking a drink from his glass.
“Where did you get that?” Sirius asked suddenly, jerking his head towards the cup.
Regulus stared at him with an expression that reminded him of how Remus sometimes looked, whenever one of them managed to say something completely asinine. “What d’you mean, where did I get it? Where do you think I got it? Paris?”
“Did Kreacher make it?”
“No, I did.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“You did manual labour?”
“Making hot chocolate is hardly manual labour, you lazy arse.”
Sirius decided not to dignify it with a response. Regulus looked to the tree, looked it up and down indifferently, and Sirius wondered, suddenly, if his brother realized everything that was wrong with it.
It could be kind of like an experiment, Sirius thought, a scientific inquiry.
So, with an air of nonchalance, he glanced at it, and then at Regulus. “I hate this tree,” he said simply.
Regulus drew his legs up into the armchair with him and took another sip from his glass. “Well, no surprise there,” he muttered. “You hate everything.”
It was not exactly the reaction Sirius had anticipated.
“Wh—what d’you mean, I hate everything?” he asked, his head tilting and his brow furrowing.
“It’s really quite a simple concept, Sirius. You see, there’s you, and then there’s everything, and then there’s you, hating everything. Shall I explain it with sock puppets?”
“Oh, stuff it, you prick,” snapped Sirius, “I do not hate everything. In fact, of everyone in this family, I think it’s safe to say I hate the least. So ha.”
He held his head with a smug superiority, but Regulus did not look up from his drink in order to notice. In fact, he merely snorted.
“Says the bloke who hates Christmas trees,” the younger Black muttered.
Sirius scowled again. “I didn’t say I hate Christmas trees, I said I hate this tree. I have no problem with Christmas trees in general, just this one.”
Regulus looked up at him incredulously. “Why the bloody hell do you hate our Christmas tree?”
“Because – well – because – look at it!” Sirius gestured wildly, but the blank expression on his brother’s face never changed to one of comprehension. “It’s -- it’s so …big and elegant and perfect and it’s got all these, all these bows and stupid silver reindeer and golden harps where it should have skating mice and ugly squirrels and popcorn.”
This time, Regulus’ expression changed – he looked completely bewildered.
“You’re completely mental,” he decided.
“I am not,” said Sirius, scowling. Didn’t Regulus think that it was far too pretty, too polished, too artificial? Surely he, too, would have rather had an ugly knitted stocking or two? “You just don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Ugly squirrels and popcorn?”
“No, damnit, you idiot, not the squirrels, exactly, but everything that the squirrels – you know what? Why am I even bothering? As if you have any sort of capacity for understanding the subtleties of life.”
“Do these subtleties have anything to do with the Potters having ugly squirrels on their Christmas tree?”
Sirius glared. “No, actually, that’s the Lupins, and – wait – how did --?”
Regulus rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t exactly skill-testing, especially with your infatuation with every other family in all England.”
Sirius remained indignant. “I am not infatuated.”
“Yes you are,” insisted Regulus. “You’re so infatuated that you’re comparing our Christmas tree to theirs.”
“Well, it just so happens that our Christmas tree fails, dismally, in every respect.”
Regulus’ eyes narrowed a little and he instinctively held his head a little higher. “I happen to like our Christmas tree.”
Sirius flicked a hand impatiently. “Well, yeah, but you also happen to like Bella, Kreacher and asparagus, so your opinion really doesn’t count for anything.”
“You’re an idiot,” Regulus decided, scowling. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the tree.”
“Yes there is!” Sirius exclaimed, tossing his arms in the air, suddenly incensed. “Everything’s wrong with it! It’s too pretty, it’s too artificial, it’s too… fancy and it’s too pretentious, just like everyone in this bloody house.”
--
Hmm. I did like that, I just.. didn't seem to know where I was going with it. Damn. Ahem. Pictures:
Yep. The mice skating on the popsicle. And you thought I was making creative!
...and the ugly squirrels! Woo! I was an artistic child, clearly.
Christmas tree!
Christmas cards!
Dakota says hello.
Bye.
As far as Silly Love Songs, I had promised to have it up by 2006 -- and 2005 is quite nearly over. Lexiii, if you read this, I'm emailing it to you, but if betaing proves to be complicated or you take too long I'm just going to upload it anyway and hope there is no gaping plot hole. =)! My cousin was up for the past couple of days and the last week before holidays was hectic, so now I finally have some free time. Yay!
<3
Kali
no subject
Happy belated birthday, and merry belated Christmas!
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no subject
Fabity fab, m'dear. C'mon, now, let's finish it. :D
no subject