This chapter is an entry for A Christmas Carol held by Fanfic.

—Excerpt from an unrevealed journal under the initials of S. B. Found in the house-elf Kreacher's stack of belongings. Dated 25 December 1995.

This is my second—and hopefully, not the last—Christmas being surrounded by those I consider as a family after Prongs'. Though their visit occurred on the most unfortunate circumstance—when Arthur Weasley was found severely injured after Nagini's attack.

Bless the Blacks—12 Grimmauld Place isn't that far from St. Mungo, where he's recovering at. But curse the Blacks too—the Weasleys, my godson, and his woman colleague left me rotten near the hearth when it's Christmas Eve.

I swear I'll kill Wormtail for throwing dirt on my name and banning me from stepping out of the door.

However, I had the most unusual encounter less than an hour later, when my eyes have gone starry at watching the hearth for too long without blinking.

There was a strong scent of cinnamon, swirling white powders, and a distant woman's hums. It was as if someone baited me with Andromeda's experimental Christmas cookies.

I raised my wand at the ready, though shakily. The alcohol's effects were holding me back.

A stout woman appeared, spinning on her toes while giggling in a merry tune. She looked at me wide-eyed when my wand's tip touched her rosy cheeks.

"Who are you?" I asked. "What are you doing here? Hush!"

"But I just stopped by!" Her plump cheeks thinned as she pouted, and she also had a wand of her own, striped in red-and-white. "It's unkind of you to hush me away."

"Did you just Apparate? From where? Who sent you here?"

"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past. And I'm here representing the joys of Christmas!" She beamed. "I must take you for a ride."

She couldn't be a joke item from Zonko. Unlikely a Death Eater as well. But her unexpected entrance had remained a mystery.

Nevertheless, I didn't object. She brought the joy of Christmas, after all. What could've possibly gone wrong?

"I'll take you to your past. The time-switch will feel funny, but—"

"Just do it. Humor me, er, ghost." She was see-through, only her outfit and attributes were colorful. "Though there's nothing remarkable of my past."

She nodded. Her smile stretched to her humble eyes.

The dropped powders swirled to life at her incantation, and as she grabbed my unwashed hand by force, we entered a dimension where we were pulled backward, farther from the interiors. An unseen force bounced on my middle. Our surroundings waned at an increased pace, and I closed my eyes as my hair blocked my face from sight.

It was a gentler transport than Apparate.

Soon, my shoeless toes collided with something firm and sturdy. I smelled more cinnamon wafting from the wooden table on my left—from a large platter with white cookies. Crowding around it were dishes of all kinds as if a feast was being held.

"Boys, lunch's ready!" A bun-haired woman said, her voice quivering, equivalent with her age. I clutched my chest, calming down the hurtling pang.

"You're early, Euphemia." A bald man in his sixties shambled by, his spirit contrasting his hair color.

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter. Two years prior to their deaths.

"Well, what can I do? It's Christmas, and I can't wait to start our feast!" Her smile radiated the whole room, which had been decorated with Christmas ornaments. "I hope the boys share my excitement too. Boys—"

Simultaneous footsteps docked the carpeted staircases. Two figures clad in capes hurled downstairs, still wearing top-hats on top of their crumpled hairstyles. Laughs were heard as they dodged each other's paths, racing to be the first to seat themselves.

"Here's a handkerchief I've prepared." A frilled surface gently wiped my curvy cheek, which was soaked. My bitten lips trembled as millions of words were detained inside them.

I wished I was here—not as a see-through ghost. I wished I was my younger self, who was sitting across the house's head and had accepted their warmth out of eagerness.

The spirits of Christmas reached its peak when Euphemia forced us to wear the shawls she sewed, which I had worn out of meekness.

We commented on Euphemia's dishes, which deserved Outstanding grades. Prongs and I entered a lengthy discussion about the upcoming Quidditch matches and our fellow Gryffindors. Fleamont and I discussed residential areas with affordable residences.

Which gave them the second thunderstorm of their lives after Prongs' birth.

"You shouldn't move out." Euphemia cut us midways while distributing her cherry puddings, her firm brows arching downward. "We're more than happy to have you here. You're not a burden."

Deep down, I never wanted to leave Prongs' house. But my manly pride had refused it.

"You're always welcomed here, Sirius. Please reconsider it." The warmest of smiles lined Fleamont's wrinkled face, emphasizing his overwhelming selflessness.

By then, there wasn't any differences between the ghost's handkerchief and rained dirt.

"Why are we here?" I croaked to her, blindfolded by her brightly smiling features. "It's 1977—"

"To recover the best Christmas you've ever had."

The lunch had ended rather awkwardly afterward.

Euphemia gathered the used cutleries and cleaned them with a hushed Scourgify. Fleamont, still with his glowing face on display, retired to his unused workplace to catch up with the piling Daily Prophets.

Prongs and I returned to his room, which was stuffed with Gryffindor attributes and photographs of the redhead—Lily Evans. He collapsed on his mattress face-first.

"What will I do without you, Padfoot?" His voice was muffled by the sheets. "Things will bore themselves without you."

"It's New Year soon, Prongs." I had reasoned, absently staring at The Marauders' last secret shot taken near The Black Lake. "New things I've got to do. And this is our last year attending Hogwarts."

Prongs hid his face under a huge chunk of pillows, that for a while, he seemed like he had fallen into his dream state. I avoided trampling over our laundries on the floor as I tiptoed to my mattress at the other end of the square-shaped room, guilt eating up my determination.

I had never wanted to leave Prongs and his parents. My affection to them surpassed my fondness of my own bloodlines, oddly.

"You won't leave that way, won't you?" I nearly flung a spell towards the voice until Prongs interfered it with a stretched yawn. His voice had lost its previous glee. "Tiptoeing?"

My back crashed against my arranged pillows, which greeted me with winter's immense coldness. "It's the stupidest thing a black dog can do in a room with a restless stag." I referred to our Animagus forms lightly.

His sudden angst morphed into something else—downcast.

"Look, I'll find a place nearby. That way, after Hogwarts, we can still keep an ear on each other—the black dog, the stag, the werewolf—"

His face burst through the blockading pillows. His lopsided glasses brought more recognition to his hazel eyes, which have reddened due to cut-off tears.

"I won't leave you, Prongs. Honestly, I'd prefer haunting you and your descendants rather than living a prim life."

It was supposed to be an unwritten vow. But it turned into a cheesy line when it came from a notorious prankster's mouth.

I should've reconstructed it before Prongs rose and offered a brotherly hug.

"Destiny has something for you, Sirius Black." Was how the ghost knocked my senses.

"And has it leaked something to you?"

"I've sneaked a glance on its journal. Part of the reason why I took you on this Christmas throwback session."

Should I rejoice or mourn at the fact? I had concluded that being a joyful ghost meant that she'd obviously supply me with joyous memories.

"After you left James Potter's house, the two of you graduated. He got married. They had a son, who destiny had set eyes upon the moment he was born."

I knew the continuation of the story. Prongs' story ended at the same moment mine reached its temporary epilogue.

"Why do you think they made you their son's godfather?"

"Because Prongs was my best partner-in-mischief?"

"Because destiny had told them to. You're in for a greater plot, Sirius Black. You've been absorbed into Harry Potter's destiny's fulfillment plan."

—Excerpt from a paper found in the house elf Kreacher's stack of belongings. Dated 18 June 1996.

Kreacher had made a terrible mistake, yes, but he didn't regret it. Even if Kreacher contributed to the demise of his current master, Sirius Black.

It wasn't entirely Kreacher's fault. The blood-traitor had heeded the greasy-haired professor's words regarding Harry Potter.

It wasn't Kreacher's fault that he was killed by his majestic cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange.

Blood-traitors deserved death as their prices.

But one thing Kreacher had discovered—the blood-traitor died for his godson, Harry Potter. His vow, which was stated in the 25 December 1995 entry, had been fulfilled tonight.