Sirius and Open
It was Sirius' chair. His. Won over years of claiming it again, and again, and again. Emmeline's father bequeathed it especially to him, and that was years before Sirius had married his daughter. So now, no wee dog, no matter how fucking cute in his little light up hat, was going to win tonight of all nights - The Battle for the Best Chair.
"I'm Santa," Sirius could be heard, repeating to the dog who sat at his feat by the fire. For once, Mischief was on the floor and Sirius in the chair. At this stage in the evening, Sirius sported a fake Santa beard which had slipped down round his neck, the hat atop his head crooked and drooping. And judging by the volume of his voice, Sirius was already several drinks in.
"Santa. Me. See? Says so on my shirt. S A N T A. So I get the chair. Reindeers get... rugs."