Snow fell thick over the Welsh countryside, clinging to the old slate roof of the Lupin cottage. Inside, the fire crackled, filling the small sitting room with golden warmth. For Remus, Christmas had always been quiet — just him and his parents, books stacked high, and the faint, bittersweet scent of cinnamon and pine needles. But that year was different.

That year, he’d invited the Marauders.

The first to arrive was James, bursting through the door with a snowball in one hand and his broom in the other. “Happy Christmas, Moony! Merlin, it’s freezing out there. Tell me you’ve got butterbeer, or I’m flying back to the Potters’.” Behind him came Sirius, draped in black as always, his hair glittering with snowflakes. He shook them off dramatically, as though he were stepping onto a stage. “Trust you, Potter, to make an entrance loud enough for the whole village to know we’ve arrived. Where’s the mistletoe? Don’t tell me your mum forgot.” Peter trailed in last, red-cheeked and panting, dragging a package wrapped poorly in crinkled paper. “I, uh… brought biscuits. From my mum.”

Remus’s mother, Hope, welcomed them with her usual warmth, pressing mugs of cocoa into their hands and fussing over the snow in their hair. Lyall, however, watched with thinly veiled caution, his eyes narrowing every time Sirius’s laugh shook the rafters or James nearly knocked over a lamp with his broom. Still, he softened when Remus leaned against him and whispered, “They’re good lads, Dad. Really.”

The evening unfolded in true Marauder fashion. James and Sirius tried to charm the enchanted ornaments into dive-bombing Peter, who squealed and ducked behind the sofa. Remus rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. Before long, Sirius had his guitar out, strumming a wild, off-key carol, while James sang verses that had absolutely nothing to do with Christmas. Hope clapped along, laughing until tears rolled down her cheeks, while Lyall muttered something about noise pollution.

Later, when the cottage had quieted and Peter had dozed off in front of the fire with biscuit crumbs on his jumper, Remus found himself on the back porch with Sirius. The snow stretched silver under the moonlight, and the air was sharp enough to sting. Sirius leaned against the railing, his leather jacket no match for the cold, and blew a plume of white breath into the night. “Not bad, Moony,” he said softly. “This… feels like Christmas.” Remus glanced at him, a warmth creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the cocoa. He managed a small smile. “Yeah. It does.”

Inside, James’s snores shook the walls, Peter mumbled about biscuits in his sleep, and Hope hummed softly while tidying the kitchen. And for one night, the weight of the full moon, of war, of everything waiting for them beyond the snow — all of it seemed far away.

For one night, they were just boys, wrapped in firelight and friendship, making memories in a little house in Wales.