Christmas - that magic blanket that wraps itself about us, that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. It may weave a spell of nostalgia. Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer, but always it will be a day of remembrance - a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved. ~Augusta E. Rundel

The gaggle of girls in the corridor were giggling when she walked past. Not at her, she knew that; these girls were giggling because ... well, that’s what teenage girls did when they were happy �“ especially when the biggest event to hit Hogwarts was only two weeks away.

Charity Burbage sighed. What wouldn’t she give to be their age again? The thrill of first love (or the possibility at least) and the excitement of getting dressed in new dress robes, styling your hair and ... She shook her head; why she was bothering to torture herself with these thoughts was beyond her. She was attending the Ball because she had to, with no partner and no possibility of finding one not when she lived and worked at Hogwarts.

“Professor Burbage.”

She turned her head towards the group of girls and seeing one of her N.E.W.T. students approach, she assumed a smile, “Yes, Angelina. How can I help you?”

“You dropped this,” Angelina replied, holding out a violet feather quill.

“Thank you,” Charity said, and took it from her. She was about to walk off when something stopped her, a longing perhaps for some normal conversation and a chance to join in. “Are you looking forward to the Ball, Angelina?

Looking surprised at the unexpected conversation, Angelina nodded.

“What are you wearing?”

“Uh, red robes,” Angelina replied and… giggled. “Mum sent them last week. She had them especially made for me at Madam Malkin’s, red with a gold trim.”

“That colour will look amazing on you. And you have a partner?” Charity asked, wondering which one had asked her. It wasn’t a secret in the staff room that a certain set of twins were sweet on Angelina, but no one was entirely sure which one would ask her ... and whether Angelina would accept.

“Fred Weasley.” Angelina smirked.

“Ah, well, I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun,” Charity said, smiling at her student.

“I intend to,” Angelina replied and with a wicked grin, she walked back to her friends.

“What did she want?” Charity heard Alicia ask.

Angelina shrugged. “Just chatting about the Ball.”

Charity started walking again, but just before she escaped around the corner, she heard Alicia add, “Probably lonely. Can’t be much fun being single when you’re that old.”

Old! The word screamed in Charity’s mind. I’m twenty-four.

In shock, she stumbled back to her rooms, which were near the kitchens. Charity had been a Hufflepuff when she’d attended school, so when she’d landed the position of the Muggle Studies teacher and had been offered a set of rooms, she leapt at the chance to be near her old house. Now as she heard the students traipsing down the stairs, laughing uproariously, she wished she’d chosen somewhere else. Septima Vector, for instance, lived above her Arithmancy classroom. It meant, for one thing, that she was never late for lessons; better still, she was nowhere near the pupils.

Putting down the scrolls of parchment essays on her desk, Charity walked across to the mirror on the wall and studied her reflection. Her hair was held up in its usual bun because she wanted to appear mature, yet instead of looking smart, or respectable, it only emphasised the pallor of her cheeks and the dark circles under her eyes.

“Merlin,” she muttered in horror, “am I really only twenty-four?”

She wasn’t old, she knew that. Some days she felt as dippy as a teenager and knew she hadn’t changed much from her schooldays. However, Alicia had been right about something; she did feel lonely. She was single because the only available man, who wasn’t old enough to be her grandfather, was Severus Snape, and he never looked her way unless he had to. She shivered. He’d belittled her for five years when he’d taught Potions and that insecurity hadn’t diminished now she was a fellow member of staff.

She got on well with most of the professors, despite not being close to any of them �“ except maybe Septima with whom she’d had some good nights at the Three Broomsticks. Although, Septima had recently taken up with a French wizard called Gerard Bonbon, who was the assistant manager at Honeydukes and all her free time was spent with him.

Still studying her reflection, Charity unpinned her hair, watching it fall lankly about her face. It was long, nearly to her waist. At school, she’d always thought her hair was her best feature and had worn it loose on most occasions (except Potions where Professor Snape had insisted she tie it back away from the flames). She hadn’t lacked for a boyfriend in those days.

“What has happened to me?” she asked her reflection miserably. The mirror image did not reply but just stared back desolately.

Her gloom subsided �“ it usually did �“ for Charity was a witch for whom the goblet was half-full and never half-empty. Yes, she was single. Yes, she had no partner for the Ball. She was also twenty-four, the youngest professor at Hogwarts, teaching a subject she adored (even if most of her pupils thought it was a joke), and she had her whole life ahead of her.

Pinning her hair back up (in a looser, softer bun) she made her way to the Great Hall for dinner.

The atmosphere was livelier than usual. Even given the fact that it was Christmas, there were foreign students here, and the Yule Ball was approaching, the excitement in the air was palpable tonight.

“What’s going on?” Charity whispered to Septima as she squeezed in next to her.

“I think the pupils have just found out that Albus has booked the Weird Sisters for the Ball,” Septima explained. “It was supposed to be a secret, but you know how hard it is to keep these things quiet.”

“The Weird Sisters!” Charity exclaimed. “Really?”

“Mmm, I thought that would interest you,” Septima replied slyly.

She picked at her food after that, not taking in a word Septima said as she babbled on about Gerard, the Ball, her robes and whether to get her hair cut for the occasion.

Only one thought echoed around Charity’s mind.

Myron was coming back to Hogwarts.

“You look a little peaky, my dear,” Filius, on her other side, said. “I hope you’re not coming down with anything. There are some nasty bugs around this time of year.”

“I’m fine,” Charity murmured, touched that he’d noticed her distraction. “Just end of term ... exhaustion, I expect.”

“Well,” Filius replied, as he speared a potato with his fork and raised it to his mouth. “Perhaps you should go and see Poppy for a Pepper-Up Potion. You wouldn’t want to miss the Ball, now, would you?”

“Of course not,” Charity said, her stomach churning. Perhaps if she was ill then she wouldn’t have to see him, then again ... This was Myron, the boy she watched from afar for a year, pining after him until...

***

“Charity Burbage,” Myron murmured. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” He smirked. “Of patrolling with you, I mean.”

Charity swallowed and tried not to fiddle nervously with her hair. She couldn’t help it; Myron Wagtail, seventh year Slytherin was simply the most glamorous boy at Hogwarts. Although not as good-looking as the Head Boy, Bill Weasley, he had charisma. His slow, lazy smile and all-too knowing eyes only added to the fascination for the witch population of Hogwarts. They all knew he was ‘a bad lot’ yet, somehow, his hypnotic hazel eyes made everything seem like such a good idea.

“Bertie Cadwallader’s ill,” she said, and hoped that wasn’t her voice squeaking, “and Bill said your partner’s cried off sick, too.”

Myron raised an eyebrow. “Mmm, I think Flint has broken a fingernail or something earth-shatteringly awful like that,” he drawled. “Silly witch was sobbing in the common room when I left her.”

Charity didn’t say a thing. If the gossipmongers were correct, Vivienne Flint was sobbing because she’d just broken up with Myron - again. It was a very on�“off relationship and looking up at Myron, Charity wondered why on earth he put up with Vivienne’s moods. He smiled down at her, so she looked away, terrified in case he saw her blush.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” he asked.

Oh, why did everything he said have to sound so seductive? She scuttled away from him and towards the Entrance Hall.

“Charity, come back,” he called, not moving an inch. “We should start with the Hufflepuff corridors and then move to Slytherin.”

Charity turned back and saw him wink at her. “I’m sure the Hufflepuffs are very well-behaved and won’t cause us any trouble. I can’t say the same thing about my House,” he murmured, sounding inordinately proud.

She took a breath, and then fixing a smile on her face, she walked breezily back to him. “Whatever you suggest, Myron,” she replied.

Myron chuckled. “Makes a change to find a girl who’s open to suggestion, Charity.”

***

That had been how it had started. Patrolling with Myron had been anything but boring. He’d made her laugh with his bitchy stories about his fellow Slytherins and she ... well, she wasn’t sure what he saw in her. He’d liked her hair and insisted that when he saw her that she wear it tied up so he could take it down and run his fingers through her satin tresses. It had been a secret, intermittent thing, when she could skip a lesson, and he could forgo his revision for the evening. They’d meet in an empty classroom, or by the lake when it was warm, where she’d lose herself utterly in his kisses and words as soft as caresses.

Myron Wagtail had been her first. Her first love and her first lover. She’d expected him to leave as soon as he’d got what he wanted (after all, wasn’t that the way of men especially Slytherin men?), yet something about her had kept him entranced all through that summer term.

It was after he left Hogwarts that the problems started. It had been no secret that Myron loved music. He’d spoken to Charity of his desire to do something different. He’d wanted to ‘perform’, and although she’d been interested, she’d never considered him serious. He had a job lined up at the Ministry, courtesy of his father, after all. He was a bright student gaining all of the seven owls he took and she, Charity, could not believe that he’d chuck in his future to set up a band.

“We’re calling ourselves The Weird Sisters, Chas,” he’d said, one evening as she joined him in the Hunchback’s Hump, a rather salubrious pub on the corner where Diagon Alley met Knockturn Alley. “Great name, don’t you think?”

“Um, yeah, sure,” she’d agreed because at the time she did think this hobby of Myron’s was quite cool. It was only when it became plain it wasn’t a hobby that things began to unravel.

He was never there. He was always in the air, travelling to and from gigs in sleazy parts of the country to which she was not welcome.

“Not a good place for a nice witch like you, Chas,” he’d whispered. But when he’d kissed her again, she could smell scent on his skin and knew it was not her own.

Charity had returned to Hogwarts for her final year as the new Head Girl, weeping at night over her broken relationship. She’d wanted him to return to her, tail between his legs, when the band folded, and was thwarted when Myron’s hard work and ambition had paid off. The Weird Sisters were now the biggest band in Britain and were soon to tour America. She could scarcely believe they were coming to Hogwarts for what was surely a drop down in status.

“I say, Charity, you really don’t look at all well,” Filius murmured. “Perhaps you should visit Poppy now.”

Feeling her head start to throb, Charity smiled weakly at him. “Perhaps you’re right, Filius,” she replied.

***

The next two weeks passed in a blur. Charity remembered being in her lessons, yet couldn’t remember what she’d taught. Even the diligent pupils were all far too excited with thoughts of Christmas, and, in her frame of mind, Charity wasn’t in the mood to enforce discipline. There was little difference in Muggle Christmas traditions and their own, so she confined herself to teaching them the Christmas carols her Muggleborn mother had taught her.

She joined her colleagues for Christmas breakfast, and listened patiently to Septima gushing on and on about the present Gerard had delivered through her window early this morning. Charity deliberately did not say anything about the fact that he’d sent Septima chocolate, which showed, in Charity’s mind, a lack of imagination considering he worked at Honeydukes. Besides Septima was not a witch who prized imagination. She taught the driest of subjects, so her head was full of figures and complicated spell combinations. She’d probably read somewhere that chocolate was a romantic gift, and that had filled her with happiness �“ who was Charity to disabuse her of that notion?

Myron had given her chocolates once. An apology for not meeting her in Diagon Alley where she was buying her schoolbooks. Another time he’d written a song for her, ‘Teenage Witch’, which had made it onto their first album although he’d long since stopped dedicating it to her. Instead, he declared it was a song for all his fans.

’Girl, you enchant me.
Spin your magic around me.
Hair tumbling softly,
My witch, how you charm me,
Down in the abyss,
Where I’m lost in your kiss.’

Charity heard Fred and George serenading Angelina and Alicia with her song as they walked past.

“You are coming tonight, aren’t you, Charity?” Septima’s question intruded on her thoughts. “Only you don’t seem very excited and I thought you knew the lead singer.”

“Long time ago,” Charity mused. She smiled faintly as Alicia stopped laughing at George and turned around to where she was sitting.

“You know Myron Wagtail, Professor?” she asked in awe.

“He was a prefect when I was at Hogwarts, Miss Spinnet,” Charity replied. “We ... er ... patrolled together.” She smiled inwardly. Suddenly the ‘old’ Muggle Studies professor wasn’t quite as uncool as Alicia thought.

As both Alicia and Angelina’s faces lit up with excitement, Charity noticed in amusement that both Fred and George were glowering.

“Bill says he’s a flash git,” Fred complained.

“And a Slytherin,” chipped in George.

“True,” Charity replied, and then giggled. “On both counts. But then your brother wasn’t the shy, retiring type either.”

Feeling happier than she had in a while, she smiled at them and walked out of the Great Hall, leaving them all wondering.

***

As if Albus had ordered it, snow had fallen thickly through the night, covering the Beauxbatons coach and making it look like an iced cake. Charity watched from one of the castles’ frosted windows and took vicarious delight in the pupils engaging in snowball fights. It was noticeable that the majority were boys; the girls obviously had far more important things to do than play games as they styled their hair and fussed over make-up. It amused her that even the studious Miss Granger had been caught up in the event as she dashed off early and fled to her room. Charity watched her fly up the stairs and wondered who she was going with. Clever girls didn’t always get partners, especially clever girls who had a pair of lunk-headed boys as their best friends.

Girl, you enchant me.

She’d wept when he’d pulled out his guitar and sang it to her. Tears of happiness as he swore the song was for her and her alone.

Spin your magic around me.

Then cried bitterly when she discovered she was not his one and only. It had only been a matter of time, she supposed, because ‘flash gits’ like Myron Wagtail did not wait for girls like Charity �“ not when there were others only too willing to drop everything for him.

“Stop crying over it, Charity,” she muttered as she descended the stairs towards her rooms. “It was over six years ago and you’re not that girl anymore.”

***

The Weird Sisters were finishing their first set when Aurora Sinistra limped off the dance floor with Professor Moody.

“Are you going to speak to him?” she asked Charity as she lowered herself into a seat next to Charity.

“Who?” Charity asked, but she knew exactly who Aurora meant. The news that she’d once known the lead singer of the Weird Sisters had swept through the Hogwarts staffroom courtesy of Septima who had turned it into some kind of torrid and romantic affair instead of a school time dalliance.

“Myron, of course,” Aurora replied. “Do you think he knows you’re here?”

“Doubt it,” Charity replied. “We didn’t exactly keep in touch.”

“Have you danced at all,Charity?” Bathsheba Babbling, the Ancient Runes teacher, asked as she flopped down into the chair the other side of Aurora.

“Albus took pity on me and did his duty dance.” Charity sighed then started laughing. “Severus looks particularly sour tonight. I think he’d hex me if I approached him.”

“Hmm, you need to look further afield,” Bathsheba replied. “That Beauxbatons’ professor is really quite gorgeous. Beats me why we can’t get any decent looking wizards at Hogwarts. Must be the French climate.”

The three witches started laughing as they debated the pros and cons of working at Hogwarts. Although it was undoubtedly the best school in Europe, Hogwarts was sadly lacking in male talent, as Angelina Johnson would say.

On stage, Charity could see Myron, his hair long and robes ripped in all the right places, singing his heart out as he finished the song. It was a recent song, dedicated to no one in particular, encompassing �“ he said �“ all his fans.

“You should talk to him,” Aurora was whispering in her ear. “At least to show him what he’s missing.”

“I doubt he remembers me,” Charity replied. “It was all so long ago, and he must have had dozens of girls since then.”

“No harm in jogging his memory,” Bathsheba said, giggling, and then added more seriously, “besides you look lovely tonight, Charity. Those violet robes really bring out the colour of your eyes.”

Unused to compliments, Charity blushed and changed the subject, making small talk about Cedric Diggory and the other champions who all looked to be having so much fun.

“Not sure Harry is,” remarked Aurora. “He hasn’t danced once since the beginning.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t like dancing,” Bathsheba mused. They stopped talking and watched as Harry, obviously deciding he’d had enough, edged around the heaving dance floor with Ron and left the Great Hall.

“At least Hermione’s having fun,” Charity murmured.

“Not as much as Septima,” Aurora gasped, and pointed to a dark corner. “Just look where Gerard is putting his hands.”

“All over her bonbons,” Bathsheba whispered and went off into a fit of giggles.

“Do you think they’ll get married?” Charity asked idly.

Aurora exchanged looks with Bathsheba. “Hmm, probably not when she discovers Gerard Bonbon is no more French than I am,” she said. She smiled knowingly. “Septima introduced him to Madame Maxime, and it was clear he had no idea what she was talking about. He told Septima it was Olympe’s provincial accent, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be plain Gerald Good from Acton Green.”

As Bathsheba and Aurora started snorting, Charity did not join in. Although her friend had been rather smug and irritating about Gerard recently, she had been happy. “Poor Septima,” she said and sighed.

“You’re too charitable, Charity,” Aurora replied waspishly. “Septima’s been a right pain and you know it.”

“Not her fault she sometimes dreams of better,” Charity mumbled, but Aurora wasn’t listening as the Weird Sisters had trooped onto the stage again.

“HELLO, HOGWARTS!” Myron yelled. The pupils screamed their delight as he took a bow before introducing all the other band members. Charity only recognised the lead guitarist. The other members had left or been sacked over the years as Myron had found success, but Kirley Duke �“Myron’s best friend �“ had not been discarded.

“And now, I want to slow things down a bit,” Myron was saying. “This song was one of the first I ever wrote. Usually I dedicate it to all you teenage witches out there, but tonight ...” He paused, and then, as he pushed his hair off his face, he stared straight across to the top table. “Tonight, this song is for one girl only.”

And then, without accompaniment, Myron began to sing.

’Girl, you enchant me.
Spin your magic around me.
Hair tumbling softly,
My witch, how you charm me,
Down in the abyss,
Where I’m lost in your kiss.’

His voice lilted hypnotically, hauntingly and all the time he stared across at the teachers’ table until he found Charity. But when he smiled at her, Charity looked away. As the band joined in, Myron turned his attention back to the girls standing at the front, touching each outstretched hand, directing a word or two at some of the eager witches, and Charity decided she’d had enough.

He would never change. She’d catch his attention but it would be all too brief before he’d be distracted by a prettier face. Trying to remain unobtrusive, Charity shuffled her chair backwards a few inches and then slipped away from the table.

She couldn’t bear to go back to her rooms, not yet, so with a cloak wrapped tightly around her she fled outside, hoping the cold air would soothe her flaming cheeks.

Around her, couples were pairing off. She could see one of her fourth years, Lavender, giggling with the Irish boy from Gryffindor. Young, innocent, caught up with the joy of a new romance. Charity sighed; young love lasting as long as winter’s snow.

She didn’t heed the commotion behind her; did not take in that the clamour of excited pupils swarming around her, could only mean one thing.

“Myron, Myron,” she heard a girl squeal. “Is it true you were in Slytherin, like me?”

“Uh huh,” she heard him reply. Slinking further outside, Charity couldn’t resist peeking back.

Myron was standing in the center of a small crowd of pupils autographing parchment, or in one case an arm, and sparing a few words with each.

“So will you dedicate a song to our house,” the same girl asked. Charity looked closer, recognising the sharp features of Pansy Parkinson, who’d relinquished the arm of her boyfriend to gush over Myron.

Charity flinched when she saw Myron smirk at Pansy. “I’ll dedicate a song to Slytherin,” he agreed, then started to push his way through them, “and all the Houses. It’s not fair to single out one.”

“But we’re Slytherins,” she protested.

“No, I’m a singer,” he retorted, not giving Pansy another glance. He looked towards the door and, too late, Charity forgot to duck. He smiled and this time she knew it was just for her.

“Hey, Chas,” he whispered and grabbed her by the arm as she tried to flee. “Looks like you’re avoiding me.”

“We don’t have anything to say, do we?” she muttered, not looking him in the eye. “And shouldn’t you be getting back?”

“Nope, Donaghan’s been itching to sing and I should rest my voice,” he said firmly as he pulled her to one side away from prying eyes. “Let’s talk.”

“Oh, Myron,” she said, sudden tears welling in her eyes. “What on earth do we have to talk about? It’s been six years.”

“Missed opportunities,” he whispered in her ear. “I want the chance to make amends.”

She allowed herself to lean against him, inhaling his musky scent, breathing in his essence, relaxing in his embrace. Until a giggle close by wrenched her to her senses.

“For one night only,” she said bitterly. “Merlin, you haven’t changed.”

“No,” he said calmly. “I haven’t changed. I’m still ambitious. I still want to be a success. What’s wrong with that?”

“You don’t care who you hurt,” she cried. “And tonight you can’t even be bothered to make a fresh conquest. Thought you could just take up where you left off with me.”

She pulled away from him, but as Myron pulled her back, they both heard the song coming to an end. He cupped her face in his hands. “Chas, I gotta get back, but I meant what I said. I want to talk, that’s all.”

“What if I don’t?” she whispered.

“Then you’re not the girl I remember,” he said, a touch sadly. “That Hufflepuff who was willing to give even the worst kind of boy a chance.”

She said nothing, watching with regret as he strode through the crowd, and leapt back up on the stage.

Myron Wagtail �“ always the worst kind of boy �“ was a star, and wanted to ... talk.

Who was she to refuse?

***

“Thank you for waiting,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d wanted nothing to do with me.”

The Weird Sisters had finished for the night and she was sitting with Myron, their legs hanging over the edge of the stage as they drank beer straight from the bottle.

“You wanted to talk,” she said coolly, yet did not wrench her hand away from his.

He sighed. “I wanted to say sorry, Chas, and also, thank you.”

“An apology I can accept, but what are you thanking me for?” she asked curiously.

“Teaching me that hard work pays off,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have got this far without that knowledge.”

“You always had determination,” she countered, sipping her beer.

“Means jack-shit without effort,” he said and clinking his bottle to hers, added, “Here’s to you, Professor Burbage. The Weird Sisters owe you -- big time.”

She lifted her face towards his, her eyes searching for a sign he was insincere, but he looked serious. And in a moment, things changed. She tilted her head, moved towards him and slowly began to kiss him, luxuriating in the long-forgotten feel of his lips. Myron didn’t hesitate, but kissed her back, one hand snaking its way around her waist as his mouth moved to her neck.

“Your hair,” he muttered.

“What about it?” she asked.

“You’re wearing it up, just as you always did for me.”

“Well, perhaps you can take it down, Myron,” she suggested in a whisper.

***

“I won’t see you again, will I?” she said sadly, the next morning.

Myron was sitting on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a towel having just stepped out of her shower.

“We have a tour coming up,” he mumbled, not looking her in the eye.

“America,” she replied. “Yes, I read all about it in the paper. You must be pleased.”

“I am. I am,” he said.

Picking up a smaller towel, Charity started to dry his long, dark hair, rubbing vigorously as she fought back the tears. A one night stand, a moment's pleasure; last night she’d thought she could live with that, but now she wasn’t so sure.

“Come with me,” he blurted out. “You and me, Chas, discovering America together. We’d be an amazing team.”

And she did believe him, was sorely tempted, but that life �“living out of a trunk and always on the move �“ was not for her. “I can’t,” she said. “I have a good life here.”

He turned to face her, smiling lopsidedly. “I think I knew the answer before I asked.” Myron leant towards her, and took the towel from her hands. “Our manager says we need at least two years, maybe three to crack the Americas, longer if we try for Brazil, too.” Slowly he traced her upper lip with his forefinger. “I’m not going to ask you to wait, Chas, but if I get back and you’re still free ... then maybe ...”

He wasn’t promising anything, she knew that. Instead, he was offering something, a small gleam of light that she could cherish within her.

Draping her arms around his neck, she pulled him back on top of her. “You know me, Myron,” she whispered as she started to kiss him. “I’m always open to suggestions.”