A cold winter evening had settled early over London, obscuring the sky with leaden clouds from which prickly snowflakes were falling. The windows of your cramped attic flat, nestled under the very roof of an old but stubbornly enduring house at the back of Diagon Alley, were fogged with condensation from the December cold outside and the meagre but precious warmth within.

You were on all fours in the middle of the room, clutching a rag in your hand and scrubbing furiously at the worn floorboards, desperately trying to scour away the ingrained stains of old wax and the other traces of your poor student life together. The steady splashing of water could be heard from the bathroom: in the tub, obedient to a spell, the laundry floated, dipped and turned over by itself, as if being watched over by invisible but caring hands. On the stove, in a saucepan there was a delicious smell of stewed cabbage with sausages: a feast you both could only ever afford in the days leading up to Christmas.

The key creaked in the lock. The door swung open with a long groan, letting in a blast of icy wind. Remus stepped over the threshold, huge in his threadbare, too-large coat with crystals of unmelted snow sparkling on his shoulders. His face was smudged with soot, his cheeks were red from the frost but his weary eyes shone with the gentle light that always appeared after a hard, honestly done day's work. In one hand he held a paper bag of groceries (how had he managed to save money for the festive cheer? It was touching beyond words), from which a baguette was treacherously peeking out; with the other hand he was forcefully wiping a charcoal streak from his face.

The young man sighed heavily. His gaze, sliding over your figure, suddenly lit with a playful sparkle, quite uncharacteristic of his somewhat melancholic restraint. The corners of his lips twitched in a grin and, putting the package on the nightstand, he whistled approvingly.

"Nice arse, love," he blurted out. "Far better than the heaps of ash in the fireplaces of snobs."

Remus's gaze involuntarily lingered on the line of your hips, emphasising the playful but risqué nature of the compliment. So new was this purely male sort of appraisal for him that a wave of colour immediately rushed to his temples, flooding his cheeks in a pink dust even the layers of soot couldn't hide. He looked down, pretending to untie his scarf but the happy smile refused to leave his lips.

"Sorry… that was rough of me," he hesitated, throwing off his coat and still avoiding your gaze. "All day with the soot and the smoke. It fair turns a man's head, it does."

He shut the door behind him, finally hung his coat on the hook and, no longer wasting time, squatted down next to you. Remus pushed the bucket of water aside, touching your temple to brush away a strand of hair that was stuck to your forehead.

"I brought bread, cheese, some apples and, you won't believe it, even wine!" His eyes turned puppylike as if he were yearning for your approval. "And there—" he nodded at the stove "—sure it smells as good as any fine restaurant I've been scrubbing today, if not better."

Remus looked away, staring pointedly at the boiling pot and sheepishly ran his palm over the back of his head, only smearing the soot further. He let his gaze linger for a moment on the room: it smelled of dinner, and there was laundry drying in the corner. The heat from the stove spread across the walls and yet it felt bare. Screwed up again? No, shit. Embarrassing. Not a sprig of mistletoe, not a garland, not even a candle in the window as though Christmas hadn't yet dared to enter this house. For a second a shadow of annoyance flickered in his eyes: he was so tired today that he hadn't thought to bring at least some fresh spruce branch or a new ribbon.

O-oh.

"You really are the perfect housekeeper. You know, for the holiday, it's looking a bit lonesome still," he noted with a slightly guilty smile. "I'll help with the decorations, I promise. But first, I think I'd best nip in for a shower before I get everything dirty."