[There's a low din after every jump, a general blind of noise--people walking, the murmur of voices, the clang of locker doors opening and closing--distant sounds of the showers running--and sometimes noises that are far more panicked, screams, or worse, people waking in a place they don't expect. After over two years of it, even this noise has become pretty commonplace.

The sharp clatter of the golf clubs on the floor sticks out as unique. It's enough to get Sirius to wander over, his attention caught. He huffs a laugh at Arya's question, as he leans against a nearby locker bank to observe. (Not too nearby. Direwolves, man. He's had enough chaperoning from Grey Wind to know to keep a bit of distance.)]

They could ask the same of you, y'know.

[Never mind that they can't talk. Sirius raises his eyebrows at all of them: Arya and Nymeria and the golf clubs, an odd little tableau even for space. He still looks rough--thinned-out face, hair grown too long, mouth still touched with black rot at the corners, smudges that are echoed in the blackish smudges beneath his eyes--but he's acting perfectly normal. He even manages to hitch his mouth into a smirk.]

You look like hell, y'know.

Thanks.

[He says it dryly, but he holds his arms akimbo, like he's presenting himself for further inspections and comparisons to death.]

It takes a lot of effort to look this much like death, y'know. But thanks for asking if I feel better or not, it really means a great deal to me.

[Never mind that she didn't actually ask. She observed. That's close enough.]

So what are the clubs for?

Yeah?

[Dubious on that one. 'The ship wanted me to have them' seems like it could end badly, depending. Sirius keeps that one to himself, as he surveys the clubs again. You don't go to school in Scotland without coming across golf clubs every now and then, no matter if it's exclusive secret remote wizard school, but still. Muggle sport is weird.]

Don't s'ppose you've got Father Christmas, where you're from. Do you?

[Sad. Sirius shakes his head, not necessarily surprised--Alayne hadn't known of Christmas either--but that doesn't make it any less sad.]

And my father's Orion Black. Now we know a little more about each other.

No, Father Christmas. He brings gifts once a year, if you've been very good. Or even if you haven't, really, they just use the 'if you've been good' bit to frighten you into behaving. If the clubs were from him, they'd have been wrapped.

Not just the country, the whole world. And I think it's a generally held truth that stealing from Father Christmas will not only prevent you from ever getting another present yourself, but it will also guarantee you going to Hell. Or whatever it is that you believe in.

[Questions of the afterlife are not important here, and Sirius waves them away.]

Anyhow, he's magic, innit he. He hasn't got it, he is it. Stands to reason that he'd not be caught. You can ask anyone.

[Got it in one, Arya.]

What a little sceptic you are, it's disheartening. And probably just 'cos you were given such a lame present. I mean, really.

But if you'd been given a really brilliant present, you'd have to grudgingly accept the old Xmass Spirit, if only out of sheer greed. You just wait until Space Christmas rolls around.

That's it?

[Incredulous, Sirius stares at her. Wizard-Westerosi communication ends up being a bit less stilted than one might think, mostly because the wizarding world is plated so firmly in a weird past. For someone else, the image of a morningstar might be a bit more difficult to conjure up. Not so for Sirius, even if the morningstar he's thinking of is a bit more enchanted than Arya's. (Probably.)]

A lifetime of gifts ahead of you, and you're going to turn 'em all down preemptively? That isn't a very well thought-out plan. Come on, there's got to me something-- don't think, just answer: what d'you want more than anything?

[He snorts, but he gets out his wand regardless.]

I didn't think you were such a boring girl as that. Stand back, would you--

[And probably before she's actually gotten completley clear, he's already giving his wand a complicated little wiggle, a motion like he's drawing a few quick circles above his head--one, two, three, four--and the edges of the towel draw up like someone's picked them all up at once and pressed them together at their ends. And there they twist together quite quickly, until the towel has formed a bundle with the clubs all inside, ends sticking out in a few places, bulges telling their shape in others.]

There. A preview of magical gifts.

[She's right, in a grim sort of way. And it's not like Sirius feels sorry for her, or is stupid enough to think that she deserves some Christmas just to turn around that bitterness, make her heart grow three sizes, blah blah--it's all bullshit. A kid being bitter about something like gifts and magic should not be anything to comment on. There's magic, and then there's magic, and neither of them fixes things most people might deem unfair.

But the latter does make it a bit more bearable, sometimes. So: privately, maybe, he adds Arya's name to a list, and then he puts that list away again. Do not open until Space Xmas.]

Oh, you're so welcome. But you still owe me. [And even though she's going to leave, and he's made her point, he's got to put in:] You'll double owe me at Space Christmas. Just you wait.

[And here he was just about to point that out. Irritably, he shuts his mouth, and rolls his eyes, hugely.]

Sorry, and why doesn't this count? This was helpful, wasn't it? Even you can't say that it wasn't, you're holding 'em all bound together, you'll be able to carry 'em away--that's helpful.

If anything, we're even.

[He snorts, a little disgusted.]

You're so bloody high-maintenance. What a girl. [But okay fine--] Put 'em down again, I'll do a hover charm. Unless you want to hover as well, and then by all means, keep hold. I don't mind either way.

Fifty-fifty chance.

[A beat; he upgrades:]

Eighty-twenty. Fifteen percent guaranteed to drop you in a fun way. I'm starting to like you, despite myself. D'you want to take those odds?

[He considers her only for a second, and then, abruptly, he raises his wand--and with the required little swish-flick motion--]

Wingardium Leviosa--

[--The golf clubs that Arya clutches at suddenly start to drift upwards. Not quite all at once--a few of them are quicker to respond than others, which results in what must be a bit of a disjointed feeling, one of the larger clubs remaining stubbornly groundward while the others pull away, rising--but eventually they all get into the act, and with enough force and power that Arya has risen with them as well--so long as she keeps her hold.

The hovering isn't drastically high, but as Sirius jabs his wand, the clubs start to float off down the hallway, like feathers borne along in an invisible breeze.]