Looking through some old photographs,
faces of friends we’ll always remember.
Watching busy shoppers rushing about
in the cool breeze of December…



“I swear, Mr Weasley, nearly every customer who came to the till told me how delighted they are that the shop’s open.”

George smiled and nodded at Verity. Even now, some months later, people were still surprised, he could sense it, that he kept the shop open after only a month of being ‘on holiday’ after, well �” after the war.

But what did they expect, that he’d mope and brood?

Well, he did, but in private. His mother had enough on her plate. His pain must be only a fraction compared to hers, and besides, Fred would absolutely thump him or slip him some nasty nougat of their own invention if he moped and brooded in the open.

Like now. But he couldn’t help it. He glared at Fred, daring him to open his mouth and say anything. Fred only waggled his eyebrows though, and proceeded to prod Oliver on the back, causing Oliver to jump a foot in the air.

“What have you got there, Mr Weasley?” Verity said, in a tone just a touch nauseating in its dripping kindness and warmth. She’d been like this ever since �” since the shop reopened. During the funeral, she’d been speechless, except for loud heaving sobs.

Returning the dripping kindness and warmth through his smile, George tilted what he was holding for her to see.

“One of the kids asked awhile ago about a photo album. I remembered this. It’s just here in the cupboard for Merlin knows how long. Angelina dropped it off one day �””

“Oh! Look at you!” Verity trilled, laughing. “But what did Mr Weasley do to your captain?”

George shrugged. He still didn’t know what Fred did to Oliver in that photo of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He hadn’t asked Fred; George hadn’t looked at these photographs in so long. Oliver nearly always dropped by whenever he could spare time off training, anyway, the girls wrote, Harry was almost family and Fred �” Fred had always been a constant. George had never dreamed�”

Head bowed, he raised a hand to tell Verity he was going up. Without looking if Verity saw the signal and without waiting for her response, George elbowed his way through the crowded shop to the stairs. In the privacy of the bedroom, he let his growl loose and flung the album to one of the beds, Fred’s bed.

George sank onto his, head in his hands. He allowed one, two, three sobs out before he swallowed the rest and drowned them with a deep breath. It was pathetic. Fred would think George should have had enough crying, or let Mum do the crying. George grinned to himself, looked up and around. He’d taken pains to keep their room just as they had left it before going to Hogwarts. Oh, he cleaned the room, but thanks to magic, not a thing was moved.

One of Fred’s socks, a white one, still peered from under the bed like a �“ George had to grin again at his own thoughts �” like a ghost. If only...

But that was ridiculous, and somehow too good to be true. That would have been too spectacular. Things too spectacular cost dearly. And what was he doing, wishing Fred was a ghost? You couldn’t test products on a ghost.

After a strangled sort of half-sob, half-snigger, George cleared his throat and sighed, gingerly picking up the album again so as not to disturb the wrinkles of Fred’s sheets.

Outside the window, snow was falling again, great fat flakes rendered many-coloured by the fairy lights all the shops had strung on their facades. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was brightest of all, what with their prototype Christmas Carolling and Twinkling Lights, a version of Wildfire Whizbangs, except that they sang instead of banged, were snowmen and stars instead of dragons and wheels, and lasted for the twelve days of Yule.

But trust Fred to perfect the prototype and then forget to tell George how.

Fred probably wanted to wait until after the war mayhem to tell him.

On either side of their broad window, the narrow mirrors were covered. The same was done to the mirror in the bath. Verity had asked about this. George had answered with candour. And the poor girl had burst into tears and nodded and vowed she would never touch the mirrors unless he was ready.

Even in the Burrow and in the streets, George avoided mirrors, polished windows, even the ponds, now glassy for the winter.

It was just too painful, seeing his reflection. Missing ear aside, he only needed to flick his hair out of his face a certain way to be convinced he was looking at Fred, not himself. And yet, instead of being comforting, it was the exact opposite. He was alone now. He’d tried looking cross-eyed at his reflection, but it only made his head ache in addition to the dull throb in his middle. It was difficult, the fact that now only in photographs could he see that there used to be two of them.

With a sigh, he sat back down on his bed and opened the album again.

As he turned the pages though, he discovered with some alarm that Fred seemed to have been adding to this album. Sure enough, another page and George was looking at himself and Fred smugly polishing their till counter. In the next page, he and Fred were caught on camera with their backsides in the air, cursing and laughing at each other by turns, trying to coax out runaway pygmy puffs from under Fred’s bed.

Something large lodged itself in George’s throat. Without sparing another glance to the photo and to their room, he went out the door hastily. Only after several deep breaths did the urge to run down and strangle Verity for her uncanny knack for candid photographs pass.

Wearily, he went back down, hoping there would be some slack in the tide of customers so he could escape to The Leaky Cauldron for a cuppa laced with something stronger. The tall clock in the hall said it was going on four, people would be going to tea at least or to prepare dinner.

Sure enough, when he went down, there were only a handful of people in the shop. A woman and three blokes about his age. They were on the counter; Verity was smiling as she put their shopping in bags.

George approached cautiously, not wanting to be noticed. He could recognise one of the boys, and all regular customers were more or less on speaking terms with Fred and George.

But the boy only nodded to him and smiled slightly. It was his mother who spoke.

“Hello, son, you must be Mr George Weasley. I’m Criselda Creswell. We’ve just about left and had already finished tea at the Cauldron, we even met Mr Potter and your sister, are they coming or going? But Owen here finally admitted he wanted to drop by here, only he thought it would be improper to take me here, you know, so soon after their father died.”

George nodded absently, smiled absently... and then it all clicked. This was the family of Dirk Creswell’s. He blinked out of his stupor and shook hands with Mrs Creswell and her sons. He and Owen exchanged eloquent looks. Words were not necessary to portray their sympathy and understanding.

George looked at Mrs Creswell. There was a broad silk crape looped with her teal scarf. But she was beaming, taking their bags from Verity and depositing several handles to each of her son’s hands. George suddenly wanted to be home that moment, with his own mum, dear old poor Mum.

“Well, dears, happy Yule to you and your family and friends. And dear,” she clasped a hand around George’s forearm. “You will extend our gratitude to the Order, won’t you? They were the ones who informed us, you know, when Dirk was found. And of course, Potterwatch has been very helpful, too.” She took a deep breath, and squeezed his arm with a smile. George found his own hand covering hers and squeezing back.

“My sons didn’t dare try to steer me here, no doubt they think it would be too frivolous, bless them. This Christmas shopping nearly shocked them out of their skins already. But I told them, your father would be disgusted with me if I don’t keep our Yule traditions just because he left us, and through no fault of his own, too! So I hauled them over here.”

“That’s nice, Mrs Creswell,” Verity said tremulously. George nodded, grinning at Owen’s and his brothers’ mock winces.

“And when I saw this shop as bright as ever, you know what I thought? I said to myself, ‘See, Criselda, you’re not alone in battling your grief with a happy face!”

George still didn’t say anything. If he tried to make a sound, he was sure only some sort of gurgle would come out. The giant lump in his throat was throbbing now.

And then as though she could see the lump through his skin, Mrs Creswell squeezed his arm again. “Let it out, dear. It will be over before you know it.”

Mrs Creswell waved goodbye quite seemingly blithely. George only envisioned her doing so, however, because he was already running upstairs.

His forehead against the cool glass of the window, and looking out at the colourful covered heads of the people below, he let the tears out. It was the first time he’d let himself really cry. During the funeral, he’d cried a little, but only a little; he’d tried to be strong for their Mum, to not add to her suffering by being miserable. But Merlin’s pants, he was miserable.

He missed Fred. There were many things they still had planned, had not finished, had to do together.

When he’d lain bleeding in the couch at the Burrow, he remembered his immense relief that it was him who was injured, and remembered that he vowed he could endure anything as long as none of his family were hurt. And even then, he’d thought about his mother and Ginny and Ron, not Fred. He’d never really imagined that Fred would die on him. He was the tough one, the smarter one.

George didn’t know how long he wept for his twin there. But it felt like forever, because his chest felt light all of a sudden when the sobs ran out, as if he’d downed a bottle of butterbeer or been bespelled with a Cheering Charm.

He began to notice how the shoppers below were dodging a snowball fight four kids had started. Two or three even propped their shopping against a store wall, stooped to pack some snow and threw back, amid laughter and hoots. One missile went off course and sailed right over a red head. It was Ginny. Holding her hand was Harry.

George drew back from the window and hastily wiped his face.

And then, hit with inspiration, he wrestled the window open and directed his wand at a couple of snowballs.

Ginny and Harry sputtered and spit out snow, rubbed their eyes and looked around, but all the snowball participants below looked as bewildered as they did.

One mousy boy, who was nearest Ginny, cried plaintively, “’Twarn’t me, miss!”

George sank to his knees by his window and laughed until he couldn’t breathe anymore. Verity must have heard him, because when he went down to the shop to face his sister and Harry with the most innocent look on his face, she smirked and mimed zipping her lips, her eyes sparkling with tears.

Before he could comment, though, the door opened. Ginny and Harry came in, still shaking snow off their heads. Out of the corner of his eye, George saw Verity subtly wiping her eyes with her fingertips.

“Hi, Verity. We’re here to drag you to dinner. Won’t take no for an answer.” Ginny gave him a steely gaze.

“No dragging will be necessary,” George said airily. “I’ll follow you out, Verity, I’ll lock up.”

Ginny herself lifted the counter flap and looped arms with Verity. The two girls went out.

“Alright, George?” Harry asked, smiling tentatively.

“Alright, Harry,” George said as he waved his wand to lock glass cases and put shelves in order. And then they trooped out onto the snowfall, George secured the shop door and they walked down the street together.

“Mum and Dad agreed to go with Charlie then?” George asked, keeping his eyes ahead.

“Yes. I think Ron and Hermione are Portkeying over for the dinner, too.”

After speaking, Ginny chose that moment to duck to lace her boots. George was caught unawares. Quality Quidditch Supplies was brightly lit; opposite it, the Apothecary’s dark glass door was rendered mirror-like.

George’s reflection was framed in it perfectly.

He was just about to wince and turn away when a large snowball came down on his head. He shook off the impact and couldn’t help grinning at how his reflection looked. Fred had always been very evasive when it came to snowball fights. It was nice to see him walloped.

“Expect more later, you git,” Ginny said, now looping her arm through his. “We know it was you.”

She began to drag him forward, but he looked back at his reflection another time and smiled.

Sparkling lights all over town,
children’s carols in the air,
by the Christmas tree,
a shower of stardust on your hair.



“I forgot the name for this kind of circuit... See, when you take away one bulb, all the rest don’t light up! Amazing... And then look, another kind of circuit, isn’t it, when they blink in waves like this �””

“I think it’s a series circuit, Dad, and there are also things like capacitances and inductances to consider. It’s complicated. I hated it back in Muggle Studies, but still, it’s interesting, how the Muggles’ way of creating light has evolved. Isn’t it?”

Arthur picked up the screwdriver he had dropped and turned to smile sheepishly at Percy. Arthur had been muttering to himself, alone in the sitting room, delegated with the task of decorating for Christmas.

“Your mother’s gone to visit Andromeda for a sec. Help me bring this battery back to the shed, will you? I �” I saw these lights for sale at the village. I had to try them out. But I guess your mother will prefer fairy lights as usual.”

“Let’s leave it on, Father. It’s nice. And, you know, perhaps Mr Black would have liked his old motorbike’s battery being put to good use even though the bike’s been destroyed.”

Arthur was taken aback for a moment, surprised at what came from Percy, who always used to be the most wary and impatient of his Muggle-tinkering. With an affectionate nod, Arthur shrugged inwardly. “Well, it’s a miracle the battery’s survived, you know. Ted �” Ted said they’re always the first to explode... Anyway, it was a simple matter to use a little magic to let it do what it’s supposed to do with these lights.”

“You’re quite good with Muggle stuff, Dad.”

Arthur had been hiding the battery behind the tree. He paused in his crouch just then, again surprised by the compliment, not because it wasn’t very true, but because it was the first one he’d ever received from his third son. When Arthur re-emerged from behind the pine, Percy’s face was still red.

Come to think of it, his face had often been in that shade these days. Arthur clapped him on the back. “Fairies are messy, anyway, right?”

“Right, Dad.” Percy looked relieved and queasy at the same time. “Um, I think I’ll go ahead and pluck the chickens.”

Before Arthur could say another word, Percy was gone. Arthur chuckled to himself. Percy used to hate plucking chickens. Next to de-gnoming, it had been the household punishment, until Bill turned seventeen, and his brothers knew to appeal to him, when he’d been home, to just point his wand at the chickens killed for dinner.

Arthur had kept quiet about it, because he was privately amused with his sons’ camaraderie. And then of course, Bill went to Egypt for treasures and Charlie likewise gallivanted off to Romania and dragons. Arthur had wondered whether the tradition would hold, but as if Molly knew their third son would never use his wand to alleviate his brothers’ punishments, she stuck with de-gnoming.

And anyway, by then, Ron’s and the twins’ antics had gotten too big for mere de-gnoming and chicken plucking…

From the kitchen, Arthur could hear Percy muttering incantation after incantation at the chickens piled by the sink. Arthur wondered if that would be all he’d hear from then on. No more explosions, shouts of laughter, or outbreaks of shrieks from Molly.

He winced at the direction of his thoughts. He looked around wildly for a moment, but there was nothing else to attend to. The tinsel glinted from the tip of the star on top of the tree to every corner of the sitting room; apple logs were stacked high beside the hearth and a couple were burning in the fire, giving the room a fresh, tangy scent, along with the pine, the holly wreaths on the walls and the mistletoe floating here and there with the red and green candles.

He looked toward the kitchen, but no, he should give Percy some time to settle his own nerves, and Arthur doubted he’d have much to do there anyway. Molly would have kittens if he meddled in her domain.

Therefore Arthur hastily shrugged on his coat. Outside, he welcomed the sigh of the frigid breeze and gave a sigh of his own. As he had learned to appreciate since late November, the cold froze his tears before they even made their way down.

But more tears came, and no amount of cold could freeze the fire of a father’s grief.

He wasn’t aware of it, but he stood there long enough for the gnomes to come out and scurry by his feet, trying to prod him into vivacity by throwing miniature snowballs at his boots. At any other time he would have thrown snow right back and sent the funny little buggers shrieking gleefully back to their holes. But now there was the pang of knowing there would be no one to cheer him on, laughing in the background, as the twins usually did, back in those long-ago Christmases when Ron and Ginny were still whinging about wanting to go to Hogwarts already and the Burrow was unencumbered with protections against, and worry about, Death Eaters...

The gnomes suddenly squealed in chorus as Arthur dropped on his rump on the snow, the strength suddenly gone from his legs. He nodded to himself. Yes, perhaps it would be good to get away for a while. The Burrow just didn’t feel like the Burrow just now. Instead, his house haunted him.

And he doubted very much that being in Romania would silence his guilt either �”

“Arthur?”

His hands jumped to his head, to scrub at his face and run through his hair. Molly opened the door just as he was getting to his feet.

She went to him, put her arms around his waist and then cupped his cheeks. As their eyes met, understanding flowed between. And she shook her head as though disagreeing with him, and she hugged him again. “Dear, what were you doing? Are you alright? It’s freezing out here. And you don’t even have anything on to cover your head!”

Arthur cleared his throat and turned away from the intensity of the connection of their eyes to wink at the gnomes. “I’m fine, Molly. Just chatting with your garden residents.”

Molly rolled her eyes and began to chivvy him back to the house. Arthur put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed.

“You’re still sure about going to Romania?”

She looked up at him and her eyes watered as she nodded fervently. She touched his cheek again. “We need it.”

Two hours later, Arthur couldn’t have agreed more.

He sat at the head of the table, carving the meats, watching, nodding, smiling as best as he could, to match the effort of everyone around him. All of them were being strong for each other. All of them tried to make more noise than usual to keep grief at bay. Hagrid was tossing back firewhiskey like it was water, getting rowdier and rowdier. Molly and Andromeda exchanged smiles and the serving spoon every now and then. Little Teddy was busy babbling between mouthfuls of anything he could reach from his place in Fleur’s lap. Only Ron and Hermione ate quietly, their eyes rising to each other often, mimicking Ginny and Harry’s actions. The rest of the Weasley boys, his boys, teased each other, sniggered at each other and jabbed each other, like old times.

But it just wasn’t like old times. It would never be the same again.

George suddenly rose with his goblet held aloft. “To Fred!”

Everyone fell silent. And then Molly burst into tears. Bill put an arm around her, leaving Arthur free to rise and toast his son’s memory. “To Fred,” he said softly, but firmly, belying the way his knees shook and how much his heart wanted to howl.

The very thing they had all been fighting seemed to cloak the whole table in an instant. Hermione and Ginny were both crying silently now. George looked at them askance, his own lips trembling. And then he looked at his father, and Arthur was struck anew of his son’s sorrow. But George only raised his goblet higher to him, and drank. Arthur took a deep, fortifying breath, clutching the stem of his goblet tightly because his hands shook. He took the tiniest sip he could manage without choking. He couldn’t break down. His wife and children needed him.

Little Teddy gurgled and even muttered something like, “Yum!” and plunged his tiny hands and forearms in the bread-and-butter pudding to his right, with enough force to send pieces flying to Bill’s and Ron’s faces, one very moist chunk even lodging itself up Ron’s long nose.

Someone snorted. There was a tiny cough. And then there was a moment’s silence before the dining room burst into laughter.

Arthur was awed about the way it happened in his house, the way one emotion seemed to roll onto another in an endless, harmonious loop, but he laughed as hard as all of them, and when tears came to his eyes, Ginny smilingly wiped them away with her fingertips and kissed him.

Arthur’s heart clenched. He felt like he didn’t deserve any of his children’s caresses.

Afterwards, when the eggnog was exhausted and gifts were exchanged, Charlie stood up with reluctance and just as hesitantly plucked a large ring of black beads from behind one of the decorations in the mantel.

“This is our portkey, Mum, Dad. It goes off in ten minutes,” he said sheepishly.

Molly jumped up, as though fearing she’d change her mind if she didn’t move quickly. In a flash, she shrunk their garment bags and pocketed them. Ginny ran to her mother and hugged her.

“We’ll take care of ourselves, Mum, you just... have your holiday, okay?”

Molly nodded. It was all she managed, really, as she hugged the children and Andromeda. As for Arthur, he was nearly just as motionless and speechless, only hugging back and kissing his daughters’ cheeks: Ginny’s, Fleur’s and Hermione’s. By now, he was really grateful he and Molly were going away. He was near to exploding.

And then they all stood back, beaming through tears. Charlie held out the bracelet; Arthur and Molly put a finger on it. With a whirl and swirl of colour and sounds, they left the Burrow behind.

Instead of the familiar all-leather and all-askew sitting room of Charlie’s small flat, they arrived in a dark side-street, which, to their amazement, led smack to the light and bustle of Muggle Bucharest.

Charlie chuckled at his parents’ stunned expressions. “Here, Dad, you just walk around for a bit, and then you just squeeze this little dragon when you feel you could do with a drink. It’ll take you to that pub just down from my flat, The Green Dragon, where I’ll be waiting for you.”

And with that, he disappeared in the crowded thoroughfare after kissing his mother’s cheek and pressing a spoon with a dragon handle to Arthur’s hand.

Snow began to fall.

“Well, I could walk off all I ate, I think. Are you game, Mollywobbles?”

Molly only chuckled softly and took his arm.

In an unspoken agreement, they went in the direction of the giant Christmas tree aglow in the centre of one park.

They looked around at the city decorations as they walked and crossed streets. Giant lanterns in all shapes and sizes twinkled and danced on every lamppost and every building. Bare trees didn’t look bare at all, bedecked as they were with garlands and wreaths of winter greens and more lights. Everywhere they looked, there were children’s faces drinking this all in like they did. Cars moved slowly; people far outnumbered them for the evening. Or perhaps the drivers and passengers also wanted to savour the Christmas air around them.

Arthur felt both pain and pride like he did in London. The same, if not more lavish, decorations had been up at the Ministry and in Diagon Alley. It was a time for celebration, a Yule untainted by uncertainty and fears. And he had been a part of making it so. But a portion of his heart, the portion that mourned the loss of his son, felt he would have rather not been a part at all.

As they stepped onto the park premises, strains of carols reached their ears.

“Oh, just listen, Arthur. Isn’t it lovely?” Molly squeezed his arm.

A medley of children’s singing was floating in the air.

“Adente fideles,
Laeti triumphantes!
Venite, venite in Bethlehem.
Natum videte, regem angelorum.
Venite, adoremus Dominum!”

“ ‘Come’, they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
‘A new born King to see,’ pa rum pum pum pum
‘Our finest gifts we bring,’ pa rum pum pum pum
‘To lay before the King,’ pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.”

They reached the Christmas tree at last. It towered to perhaps twenty feet above them, a magnificent pine hung with golden tinsel, beribboned wreaths and blue and red lights. Around it, clumps of children sang, for donations, and some, simply for the joy of Christmas and singing. Arthur found a bench nearby and brushed the snow from it before leading Molly to sit.

She snuggled against his side and soon began to weep quietly. It felt like another of their unspoken agreements, this. Freely giving vent to their grief now; they had done their best to hold it in check back home, for the sake of their children.

Arthur wept, too, without realising it, until Molly looked up at him and wiped away his tears with her wool-gloved hands.

“I’m sorry, Molly �””

“You can cry all you want, Arthur.”

“I �” I still can’t get over it �” You’d think, after six months �””

“Oh.” Molly cupped his cheeks again the same way she did earlier. “Oh, Arthur. I understand completely.”

Sighing, she snuggled back in his arm. Arthur could see the puffs of her deep breaths as she tried to calm herself. He held her tightly.

They had already talked �” and cried �” about it in those first dark hours after Voldemort was finally vanquished and Fred’s loss slowly and painfully sunk in. It was a primitive, male instinct: He had failed to keep his son safe. And it had been her biggest fear, that they lose one of their children.

It hurt even more for him, that he hadn’t protected her either from her fears coming true.

“Don’t blame yourself, do you hear me? None of it was your fault, Arthur,” she whispered suddenly, as though she heard his thoughts.

He sighed and held her even closer. “Give me time, Molly.”

She nodded against his chest. “A week.”

“What?”

“Until you see your children again. Arthur, I will not have you suffering like this. Remember that time when your sons flew that car to fetch Harry?”

Arthur winced. “Exactly. I was irresponsible �” negligent �””

“No, dear. What I mean is, it’s you they owe for growing up brave, confident and happy people. Our house may be small, but you gave them plenty of room to explore in the ways that count. Do you understand what I’m saying? I even wish I was like you �””

The last word was a squeak as Molly dissolved into not-so-quiet tears.

Arthur knew what was coming. He hastily tilted his wife’s chin so that her overflowing eyes looked into his own. “Molly, you were a wonderful mother to them. They owe you as much for being brave, confident and happy �””

“That last thing I did to Fred was �””

“Oh, shush, he didn’t mind that, you know that. We’ve talked about this. He knew you only wanted to hug Percy after a long time. Fred was never the jealous sort.”

“Oh, Arthur.”

After a few more sobs which she buried into his neck, she quieted and they sat there close, watching people coming and going, listening to the carols and brushing snow off each other’s hair.

Another unspoken agreement was formed then. They indeed needed time, that was all. And the wait would be bearable because they had each other’s love and assurance.

Quite many weeks but not even a decade later…



My idea of a perfect Christmas,
is to spend it with you.
In a party or dinner for two,
anywhere would do.



Ginny shoved her mother aside at the sink for the third time that morning and relieved herself of her morning sickness. Molly rubbed her daughter’s back and shared a half-wince and a half-smile with Harry, who sat at the table wearing rice cereal and peas beside a similarly attired James in his high-chair. Ginny had barely muttered a ‘Thanks, Mum’ to Molly’s offered glass of water when two yells erupted from two different directions outside the kitchen, barely seconds apart:

“Grandma, Minnie and Molly are tearing each other’s hair out!”

“G’anma, I can’t find Vicki and her dog is still chewing on my B’udger!”

Molly threw up her hands. “Times like these, I wish Arthur and I are headed back to spend a quiet Christmas in Romania or even Tunisia!” she said with mock vehemence, though she was grinning as she wiped James in passing as she ran out of the kitchen.

In the hall, she bumped into Arthur, who grabbed her shoulders to steady her with a whispered, “Do you?” He, too, was grinning.

“Well,” Molly drew it out as they went up the stairs together. “I’ll answer that after we see the damage the two girls did to each other.”

But Minnie and Molly were already hugging (as they always did after fights) by the time their grandparents reached the second landing and Lucy was rolling her eyes above her book in the window seat. “Molly wanted to win in their last round with the Exploding Snap but Minnie axdentally made them burst because she flipped her hair and Molly just burst, too, and grabbed the hair furiously and Minnie had no choice but to grab back. I thought I’d call you because they both have beautiful hair and it would be a shame for them to scalp each other,” the four-year-old recited, as if she read what happened from the book in her hands.

Molly and Arthur wisely took care not to catch each other’s eyes as they soothed the fighting girls and made them hug each other again. Little Molly and Minnie were quite thick due to their similar ages but they also quarreled nearly as often as they held each other’s hands, more like sisters than the cousins that they were.

After inviting Lucy to come down for a cookie and receiving a polite and pompous decliner, Molly and Arthur left the girls to it. Only when they were safe in the stairs up did they let go of their amusement.

“Merlin, I hope Louis leaves his Bludger for a minute to play with Lucy a little or else�“”

“Or else, what? She’s nice as she is, just very conscious about hair�“”

When they subsided from their suppressed laughter, Arthur asked, “So? Still want to go off to Romania? We can, you know.”

Molly had opened her mouth to answer, but just then, Victoire came charging down from the attic, pursued by Teddy.

“Vicki, you better go straight to the drawing room first and separate your dog and your brother’s toy!” Arthur called after them.

He and Molly started back down. Molly twined her arm through his and held him close. The house was bursting with warmth and love and happiness. She paused under a sprig of mistletoe and kissed her husband.

“Do you want to go to Romania? Still feel like you let your children down?”

She asked it with confidence because she knew his answer. It sparkled in his eyes as he smiled and shook his head. He had been reassured quite many times over in the past years. With each wedding, each birth, their children had again and again shown the world how nicely and lovingly they’d been raised, bringing pride �” and unknowingly to them �” assurance, to their father. Arthur still mourned the loss of Fred, as did Molly, but the grief wasn’t as keen now that it was layered over and over with many joys and more promises of joys.

As for the guilt, it had long ago been a banished feeling, made selfish and petty by the realisation that had they let it engulf them, they wouldn’t be here in this happy setting now. And Fred certainly wouldn’t have wanted that. It was a long and difficult journey they’d decided to weather together.

“But you know what, Mollywobbles, I think we’ll be fine in Romania or Tunisia. Just as long as we’re together. I can’t quite do without you.”


~*~




Celebrating the Yuletide season
always lights up our lives.
Simple pleasures are made special, too,
when they’re shared with you.



“Um, aren’t we going to Australia?”

“Oh, Ron, you’re back,” Hermione mumbled, not moving from the blessed cool of the windowpane and still not opening her eyes.

“George very subtly shooed me out. And you know how good I am at taking hints, so that means he fairly booted me out of the shop.” He chuckled. “I think he has plans for Angelina. Isn’t that brilliant?”

Hermione hummed. She didn’t trust opening her mouth just then. She was suddenly feeling sick.

“I’d help with the packing, except that you may have a system about it I won’t know about �“ Hermione, what’s the matter?”

Finally, he had noticed she was still glued to the window, unmoving.

“I’m not �“” She had barely whispered these words before she was losing her breakfast all over the window sill and the carpet. Again. For the... ugh, fourth day that week. Hmm.

“ �“ feeling well,” she moaned, wiping her mouth and turning to Ron with watering eyes. He was already by her side and Vanishing the sick with his wand with one hand and touching her face with the other.

“Why are you ill again? Do you think it’s the eggs from the Mortons?”

“No �” I don’t know �“ well, um, I have an idea. But let’s wait until I’m sick again tomorrow to even consider it.”

“What? Why should we wait until tomorrow? Shouldn’t we take you to a Healer now? I’ll call Mum �“ there must be a bug going around, it’s dead winter �“ do you want to take Pepper-Up? I think we still have some in the �“”

“Ron, no, I can’t take any potions, but yes, we’ll tell Molly. We’ll just go to the Burrow. I don’t feel like portkeying to Australia anymore �“”

He paused to look her in the eyes and convey his concern and understanding. “Good decision, love. But are you sure? It’s your parents’ thirtieth anniversary celebration and we haven’t been there since �“ you know.”

And despite her being ill, he smiled. She smiled back. Australia held dear memories to the two of them, including that time eight years ago when her parents regained their memories of Hermione from her childhood to adulthood in a process unnoticed by them but slow and painful to Hermione. It had lasted months. Each day, they had journeyed step by baby step into remembering Hermione as she was at the time: nineteen years old and not the infant they believed she was. The memory modification reversal had taken time. Hermione had even feared she would never have them back; Ron had helped her keep her hope and at the same time comforted her while hope was all they had.

But just now, dear as Australia was, Hermione felt too attached to her home to even think of leaving it. And she was sure her parents would understand and might even take a portkey over here instead.

The thought made her smile wider.

“Ron, you know about women’s monthly courses, don’t you?”

Predictably, he grimaced. “What about it? Is it that time of the month then? That’s why you’re ill?”

Hermione bit in her cheeks. She mustn’t bungle this. And she must savour each word and reaction for recount to the family later... “What you must know is, I don’t get it every month. I have an irregular cycle. Which means that I don’t ovulate regularly either. A woman who doesn’t ovulate regularly has a harder time conceiving so �“”

“What are you saying?” His voice had taken on a panicked tone. A third-anxious, a third-terrified and a third-bewildered.

“My mum also had irregular monthlies and my parents tried for more than three years before they had me so �“”

“Hermione,” Ron moaned, voice now thick with relief. “We have years plenty, love. Is that what you were worrying about so much that you made yourself sick?”

“I wasn’t worrying! For goodness’s sake, you’re really so good at taking hints, aren’t you?”

“What the �“ what hints? What are you talking about? I’m at my wit’s end with you. You’ve been very moody lately and you throw up and suddenly threw away our plans to join your parents in the Australian coast today. And then you start telling me about women’s courses and that you took three years to make �“ What hints am I supposed to be getting?”

Hermione burst into laughter when he reached ‘�“ you took three years to make’ and laughed harder as Ron scowled at her. Right, then, she decided to just say it and watch him take it in. She took a deep breath, mainly to control her mirth and to suddenly announce: “I wasn’t expecting it but I might be pregnant already. In fact, I feel quite certain even. They say witches always know.”

He staggered where he stood.

After a moment, he mastered the use of his lungs, knees and legs again and wordlessly scooped her up in his arms.

“I get all the hints now,” he muttered into her hair.

They could have spent all the rest of the day kissing, but they went out to get a tree instead. After setting it up in the living room with quick waves of Hermione’s wand, they went out in the snow once more, to make a snowman �” with a baby. Ron was thoroughly whipped at their snowball fight, believing his wife was delicate. Hermione then began to drag her husband back to the house so they could decorate their tree before they went to the Burrow for dinner, but Ron hung back.

There was a single rose peeping out of their neighbour’s conservatory. It was uncanny how it seemed to twinkle at Ron in the considerable distance. He hiked over the fleecy field and plucked it, knowing he was probably saving it from exposure anyway since their neighbour was on holiday in Asia. He wondered how this rose was just then peeping out the rather unexplainable crack in the glass, which Ron sealed with a furtive jab from his wand.

Uncanny.

Which was how he thought just then about becoming a father. Of Hermione’s child. The love of his life giving him another love of his life.

He stared at the rose and it's perfect petals. Looking at it this way, one wouldn't even remember the thorns.

No wonder roses were the world's most beloved flower.

It represented life. There were thorns, but they were overshadowed by the petals.

Sorrows. Overshadowed by joys.

When he went back home, Hermione had a mugs of hot chocolate waiting. He kissed her again and gave her the rose as he circled the tree to where she was hanging a bauble.

“Oh! So red and beautiful. Where did you �“ ”

“It wanted to join us. It was probably getting lonely in the greenhouse.”

He took it from her and tucked it in her hair lovingly.


~*~




Looking through some old photographs
faces of friends we’ll always remember.
Watching busy shoppers rushing about
In the cool breeze of December…



“�“dad’s a werewolf! I wish he was here, you know.”

“Me, too. I’m sure he was a lovely person. Dad says so. Everyone says so. And Mum says your mum used to make everyone laugh with her nose.”

“You mean by doing this?”

Victoire burst into giggles. Andromeda controlled the urge to roll her eyes and march into the room to tell off her grandson. She was never comfortable with him mimicking his mother’s antics. Nevertheless, it made her heart warm when, as the case was now, he used it to entertain someone, especially a friend. And that friend’s laughter warmed Andromeda’s heart as much as her grandson’s humour did.

“Look at this one, she actually changes her nose here!”

It must have been the photo of the Order of the Phoenix. Andromeda sighed where she stood outside the door of the attic.

“And here’s Uncle Fred. I think that’s the extendable ear he’s waving behind Grandma."

"Have you ever used one?”

“No. I’m sure my dad has told Uncle George not to give us some as presents yet. Uncle Harry says he’ll get us some, but Auntie Ginny and Aunt Hermione are contrary. So is Grandma. And of course, there’s no chance of getting it myself. Too expensive.”

“Never mind, we’ll have one, one day. Look, this must be Mad-Eye. Wow."

"He looked creepy."

"But he was tough.”

“Yeah, he was. Mum says... well, it’s a long story. The one about the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Tell me!”

But Andromeda wasn’t keen about the Tournament. What she was keen on, she had to see already. So she knocked once and opened the door.

Teddy and Victoire sat Indian fashion on the worn rug, and beside Victoire’s little mongrel, Jacques, there were two thick volumes open between them: photograph albums. Smiling, Andromeda plucked both books from the floor and sat down on the bed with them in her lap.

“By all means, continue your chat, dears. Just let me look at these, thank you.”

The album dedicated to the Order, she tackled first. Her heart went warm and cold alternately as she viewed her daughter in the pictures, always grinning in that pert way of hers, and always with a nose and hair colour that she wasn’t born with. And there was Moody. Unsmiling and always looking like he was being included in the frame against his will. Remus was more acquiescent, though also apparently timid and reluctant. He probably thought there was no one to treasure his photo anyway. Had a very low self-esteem, that Remus. It almost cost him dearly, too. But all was made right. He and Dora made up. Were quite ferociously united at the birth of their son... and until the end.

Andromeda sniffled uncontrollably and looked up in alarm and shame. Teddy and Victoire were deep in a discussion of the Polyjuice Potion, however, and didn’t seem to notice her.

She opened the Weasleys’ family album next. Here were fewer but eloquent photographs. Most were in Egypt, one was on a Christmas spent in... dear Merlin, this was Black House in Grimmauld Place! How came all those cheerful and not sombre and stuffy decorations? And then she saw her cousin’s face: Sirius was laughing and his mouth moved as if he was bellowing or perhaps even singing something, one hand waving a goblet and the other on his godson’s shoulder.

Andromeda smiled wistfully. She regretted she and Sirius hadn’t been reunited, but at the same time, she was happy for him, that he had found a semblance of joy that one Christmas at least. She knew all the rest must have been dreary.

Fred Weasley’s photographs made her heart ache for Molly all over again. Such a darling boy. Well, he would be too rowdy for her tastes, but wasn’t that exactly what endeared Nymphadora to her?

With a final sigh, she closed the album and got to her feet.

“Teddy, Victoire, what do you say you join me for a bit of last-minute additional shopping at Diagon Alley? And be sure to be quiet about it, or else you will have to mind two kids apiece as we go.”

Teddy and Victoire, who had leapt to their feet and cheered at the word ‘shopping’, hushed to silence as though they’d been Stunned.

Andromeda left for a quick word with Molly, who herded the other children far from the drawing room so the three could Floo away.

Now, it was somehow ironic that only after Ted and Dora’s death had Andromeda ‘shopped’. But she couldn’t help it. Only after the war had she reinstated herself into the Wizarding world once more. Before, Andromeda Tonks née Black was only a legend, never seen, never heard. After the War, she was seen and heard plenty, though in an unobtrusive way.

If you called being mistaken for Bellatrix unobtrusive.

The mistakes lessened and lessened over the years though, as people absorbed the fact that the deadly Black sister was dead. Soon, Andromeda could shop alone without Molly constantly ready to tell an ogling bystander that she had killed Bellatrix herself, ‘you can stop reaching for your wand now, thank you very much’.

Andromeda could laugh at those memories now as she trudged through the snow-covered cobblestones, giving and receiving Yule smiles to and from everyone, her grandson and her dear friend’s eldest grandchild swinging her hands to a carol they were lilting.


~*~




Sparkling lights all over town,
children’s carols in the air!
By the Christmas tree,
a shower of stardust on your hair…



“Three, two, one!”

The cross in the village church lit up in lovely gold and blue lines, and then garlands of more blue and gold twinkles blinked into life from around it and crawled over to the whole village. This was the third year that Ottery St. Catchpole had put up lights which they ignited at seven on Christmas eve. The Weasleys cheered from where they had been watching on their orchard hill, and James voiced his opinion by howling at the uproar.

“Whoops! Sorry, Ginny! Kids, you were too loud! As usual!” Bill said, swinging Louis to his shoulder and grinning at a bemused Harry, who tried to quiet his son by pointing and saying ‘Looky, looky!’ at the lights below. Ginny just harrumphed and linked arms with Hermione �“ who was just as grumpy because of Ron’s excessive mollycoddling (Ginny had a good guess what it signified though Hermione wouldn’t say yet) �“ as they trudged through the snow back home, George and Arthur leading them all with their wandlight.

Percy and Audrey had the fire and lots of chocolate ready for everybody, but Ginny went to her bedroom instead and waited for Harry to come in with a hungry James.

Sure enough, she heard her son’s plaintive cry above the noise of her nieces and nephews and their parents. She frantically cast around for something that might quiet him without forcing it on him by her breast.

“Oh, what’s ailing my handsome little Jamesie?” Ginny heard Hermione croon over the bustle of what sounded like all six kids plus Ron fighting over the fireplace to melt marshmallows. “They startled you, didn’t they? Bad cousins and bad uncles, huh? You were just trying to be a sleeping angel, weren’t you? Harry, I think he’s hungry. Better take him to Ginny �” Ron, for goodness’ sake!”

Right, why didn’t Harry know that? Still, Ginny was thankful, because her husband trying to dump their child on their sister-in-law gave her time to decorate their bedroom for James. She smirked. Well, it was as much for Harry, too, judging by his flabbergasted expression as he entered with the baby screaming on his chest.

“Have a Harry Christmas? I thought I was safe from such decorations since Dobby �“ Oh, dear old Dobby, Ginny.”

“Yeah, dear old Dobby,” Ginny giggled as even James ogled the decorations in silence. He didn’t even notice that he was now in his mother’s arms.

“What’s that?” Harry pointed at a large square hung on a long string of tinsel by the window. As Harry drew near, he saw that the square wasn’t all white, but depicted a cottage like a gingerbread peeping between the pine and the snow.

“From Dudley,” Ginny answered, legs now stretched out on the bed, nursing James.

“It’s big. You know, it’s like we have this unspoken contest of who sends the bigger card each year!”

Ginny laughed. “I’m in there this year. It says, ‘To Harry and J-E-A-N-N-E’.”

Harry did look, and then, grinning, turned back to her. “I know why you’re laughing, Mrs Potter. That’s not his handwriting. And certainly not Aunt Petunia’s either! And besides, think of him asking his dear mum to write his card to us!”

“Your cousin’s got himself a girlfriend. And not just any fling, it looks like, if she’s writing his cards.”

“I’ll owl him tomorrow about it.”

They both jumped just then as the kids seemed to have run out of marshmallows and began bellowing carols.

“Kids, not so loud! The baby!” Harry bellowed back.

A couple of the Harry Father Christmases and miniature trees dropped to the floor. Several tinsel hovering in the air floated down.

Ginny glared at Harry and they both looked down at James. He was too busy suckling, however, to think of crying.

They both sighed in relief and laughed softly.

“Hey, wait a moment, stay right here,” said Harry, carefully easing off the bed to rifle through their trunk. Whatever he took, he fussed over with his back turned to Ginny. And then he turned his head as though to check if she was peeking. A second later, after whispering just loud enough for her to hear, “I love you so much, Ginny,” he swiveled around and clicked the Wizarding camera in his hands. The flash exploded. And this time, James really did howl again.

“What was that for?” Ginny asked as she placated James by moving him to her other breast. Harry just grinned.

“Quite a nice photo, I’m sure, one that I’ll treasure for the rest of my life.”

A week later, it was printed, framed, entitled ‘everything and more’ and enshrined on Harry’s bedside table. Ginny was sitting and smiling there with James cradled against her, strands of tinsel twinkling in her hair.


~*~




I can’t think of a better Christmas
than my wish coming true.
And my wish is that you’ll let me spend
my whole life with you…



“That was quite unexpected.”

“What was?”

It was midnight and the moon shone like a giant pearl in the sky, reflected in the black mirror-like surface of the icy pond on whose bank George and Angelina were walking.

“Everything,” Angelina answered, burrowing deeper into his side. His arm was around her shoulder, and hers was around his waist. He wore a black cloak �” hers was a rich red velvet. Their reflection in the water depicted a rose clinging to a rock and the rock likewise clutching the rose.

The moonlight was probably addling his mind, George thought. Still, it was a nice enough betaphor. He’d have to ask Hermione tomorrow. But he felt it was good. He felt it was true. It was true.

Angelina was saying, “I mean, I wasn’t expecting Percy to be such a hen-pecked husband �“”

George laughed. “He isn’t, though. Only very devoted to Audrey and his two girls.”

“And Ron and Hermione! You know, I’ve always thought Hermione would be the kind of woman who’d wait ten years �” ten years filled with agendas and goals �” before having kids. I'm glad I'm wrong, though.”

George shrugged. It was nonchalant, though he felt different inside. Nothing short of gleeful. Two more babies to spoil and corrupt. “Harry and Ginny are having another, too.”

Angelina smiled, giving his waist a squeeze of congratulations. “I’m really so glad. This Christmas has been delightful! And because you’re quite happy.”

George felt that was true as well. There was still a gaping hole somewhere in him, but he was happy. The hole was like a crack in the rock, which the rose sheltered and even sheltered in sometimes, filling it.

“I still always wish every night that Fred’s still here, especially in those nights when I discover Ron had fed the pygmy puffs too much again, but yes, Angelina, I’m happy.”

She had gasped at first, and then the gasp turned into a sigh of relief as he finished his sentence and pulled her closer.

“And I was wondering all day �” actually been wanting all day to ask you, you know �“ Ron was just too thick to take a hint to get lost, but I was wondering, if you want to make it a permanent thing, me being happy.”

She lifted her face from where it had been buried in his chest and raised her eyes to his. She must have seen something there, because her eyes suddenly sparkled. He’d thought that never really happened except in tawdry books, but here was his Angelina with her eyes looking like they had diamonds. “George.” And she laughed a little at the way her voice shook at the one syllable of his name. “Of course I �“”

“Marry me?”

She was silent for a minute. George feared he’d have to repeat the ugly phrase and even add the ‘will you’ part which was the really ugly part. And there was no way of rephrasing it either without making it even more awkward and stilted, damn question. No wonder they called it ‘popping’ it.

Still, he would repeat it. He loved the woman he was asking. That made the question easy to swallow somehow. There was no one else he would think or be inclined to ask.

“Did �“ did I hear you right?” she whispered.

“What did you hear me say?” Suppose he had choked and blubbered without his notice?

“You asked me to marry you.”

“I did.”

“You did?”

“Was it unexpected, too?”

“No.”

“No?” He felt the stirrings of panic. Wasn’t ‘no’ a very bad word in such moments?

“It was longed for.” She buried her face in his chest again. George let her words sink in and only when he was sure he hadn’t hallucinated them did he let out at sigh of relief, burying his nose in her hair. They held each other like that for a long time and George was fascinated by their reflection in the pond, with the moonlight gleaming on them as they stood there as one, clinging to each other.

“So you will?” he asked.

“Will what?” she asked back.

“Marry me.” There, it didn’t sound bad with a declarative tone.

“Yes. I will.”

She didn’t pay much mind to the ring either. George was right that the ring was nothing compared to the glint and sparkle of the future engulfing engaged couples… and the deafening cheers of families of engaged couples.

“What are you thinking about, George? You’re so quiet,” his mother asked later, hugging him and kissing his cheek as they all settled in the sitting room, the kids asleep upstairs and the adults sharing eggnog after they piled the gifts under the tree and stuffed the stockings.

“Just very happy, Mum, and very in love,” George answered melodramatically. He caught Angelina’s eye and winked at her as she rolled her eyes and mimed vomiting behind the other couch.

It wasn’t entirely true. He had omitted a part of his thoughts.

He was also thinking, “Darn you, Fred, you owe me a hundred galleons.”


~*~



My idea of a perfect Christmas
is to spend it with you.
In a party or dinner for two,
anywhere would do

Celebrating the Yuletide season
always lights up our lives.
Simple pleasures are made special, too,
when they’re shared with you

Looking through some old photographs,
faces of friends we’ll always remember.
Watching busy shoppers rushing about
in the cool breeze of December

Sparkling lights all over town,
children’s carols in the air!
By the Christmas tree,
a shower of stardust on your hair…

I can’t think of a better Christmas
than my wish coming true.
And my wish is that you’ll let me spend
My whole life with you…

Looking through some old photographs,
faces of friends we’ll always remember.
Watching busy shoppers rushing about
in the cool breeze of December.

Sparkling lights all over town,
children’s carols in the air!
By the Christmas tree,
a shower of stardust on your hair…

My idea of a perfect Christmas
Is to spend it with you!




Author’s Notes: Again, this song which inspired the chapters is by Jose Mari Chan. You can listen to it on the web. You should! It’s lovely. The title is, ‘Perfect Christmas’.

In JKR’s post-DH sketches, she’s told us Harry and Dudley are on a Christmas-card-exchange friendship. George marries Angelina Johnson and begets little Fred and a daughter, Roxanne. Before becoming an Auror, Ron helps around the shop first. Percy marries a woman named Audrey and has two daughters: Molly and Lucy. Bill has three children: Victoire, who is born on May 2, 1999, the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Dominique (Minnie) and Louis. In this fic, I have Louis at age three, Lucy at age four, Minnie and Molly at age five. Calculated from canon: Victoire is seven and Teddy is eight.

ETA: Source: the Lexicon, JKR.com, Mugglenet and http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article3105517.ece

Hermione’s parents experienced something medically documented. I’ve read about it once in an old issue of Reader’s Digest. A man suffered from a severe head injury. When he woke up, the things he knew were from when he was small, and he moved on from there until he reached his memories in his present age before the accident.

Here, I theorised that the same thing happened to Mr and Mrs Granger when Hermione reversed the memory modification charms. Though they easily recovered sense of their own identities, it took some time for their memories of Hermione to come back. ‘That was a big thing [she] made them forget’, to quote Mr Weasley from GOF.

Thanks to Jan and Julie for this Challenge, to Nescafé for fuel, to my insomnia for the ideas and to you for reading and giving reviews. Give them again! Thank you. ^_^