Chapter Eight – Christmas
Harry sighed contentedly as he gazed out of Ron’s bedroom window. A thick layer of snow covered the ground, trees, chicken coop, and shed, making the Weasley’s small, ramshackle farm look like a picturesque winter scene from a painting. Combined with the faint smell of food and hot chocolate that had drifted up to the top floor, Harry was feeling rather cheerful.
Harry had always loved Christmas at Hogwarts, but this year, he just wanted to get away from it all. A small part of him knew that he was probably being a little selfish, risking everything to stay at the Burrow for the holidays. He and Dumbledore had talked it over, however, and in the end, agreed that it was best for Harry to live his life as best as he could, because to remain in Hogwarts on the pretense of safety would mean they were letting Lord Voldemort win. It was now Christmas Eve, and Harry was not going to let anyone or anything spoil his holiday.
Quick, light footsteps on the stairs made Harry tear his gaze from the ice-frosted window to the door. He was almost positive that it was Ginny out there on the landing; all of the Weasley males walked heavily, as though punching the floorboards. Mrs. Weasley always walked slowly, as she made her way up to the top floor of the house; she was normally loaded down with laundry or something from the attic.
Sure enough, it was Ginny. “Harry!” she called, knocking on the door, “Mum wants you!”
Harry crossed the room, opened the door, and looked down at her, surprised to find that he was a considerable height taller than he had been the previous year; she hadn’t even been an inch shorter than he was back then.
“Mum wants you to come and help set the table,” Ginny said, her brown eyes twinkling brightly. A festive green and gold bow held her hair back from her face, which was lit up with her smile. Harry couldn’t help but grin back. “She just sent Fred and George outside to clear the walkway; they were driving her mad.”
Harry laughed. “So I’m the last resort, eh?”
He followed her down the stairs as they bantered playfully, breathing in the faint, flowery aroma that followed her as they made their way to the bustling kitchen.
Mrs. Weasley was dashing about the kitchen, pulling miniature pies out of the oven and shoving more in, and stirring pots on the stove with her wand; Mr. Weasley was supervising two knives as they chopped up meat and vegetables, and Ron, with a slightly disgruntled look on his face, was sorting a mass amount of already-cooked mince pies that were meant as gifts into separate piles. Harry smirked, knowing that part of Ron’s displeasure stemmed from Hermione staying at her parents’ house until only a few days before they returned to Hogwarts.
“Harry dear, please set the table, would you? And those onions need to be chopped…” a harried Mrs. Weasley called, as she hurried into the adjacent dining room.
Harry helped the Weasley’s get ready for the substantial feast, preparing food, setting out plenty of chairs and other random chores; in addition to the Weasley family – minus Percy, of course – a few Order of the Phoenix members were coming over as well, including Mad-Eye Moody, Remus Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Tonks.
Before he knew it, Harry was seated at the Weasley’s magically expanded table, which was laden with mouth-watering meats, stuffings, puddings, and desserts, and surrounded by friends – and really, family.
Harry woke up the next morning to a small, neat pile of brightly-wrapped presents at the foot of his bed. Ron was already up, torn wrapping paper strewn across his bed and on the floor. He was staring, aghast, at a large book that sat on his lap.
“Ron?” asked Harry, wondering what the problem was.
Ron looked up, his ears brick red. “She… she… she got me a book.” He swallowed hard, his eyes disbelieving.
“Er – Hermione?” said Harry, trying to figure out why Hermione’s gift to Ron had him in such a snit.
“Yeah,” Ron replied faintly, “Hermione.”
“And…” Harry prompted.
“I – she – she gave me a book. Last year I gave her perfume. This year, I got her…” Ron swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I got her a necklace,” he whispered, his ears turning, if possible, a shade of brighter red. He would not look at Harry.
Harry smirked and reached over into his pile of presents. “At least you didn’t get her a ring.”
The remainder of Christmas Day was spent in leisure; the Weasley’s and Harry passed the day comparing gifts, opening Wizarding Christmas crackers, eating leftovers from the day before, and having snowball fights randomly throughout the day. Hermione turned up three days later, much to Ron’s delight, which the twins, Bill, and Charlie teased the two endlessly for.
That night, Harry went to bed earlier than usual; he was feeling rather ill. Mrs. Weasley had chalked it up to spending too much time in the wet snow, and immediately sent him upstairs to rest. He fell asleep almost instantly.
He was running as fast as he could through the Forbidden Forest, low branches and brambles whipping at his face and arms, leaving them covered in nicks and bruises. He could hear Lord Voldemort right behind him, laughing that same cold, maniacal laugh that echoed within Harry’s head whenever he encountered a Dementor and heard his mother’s final moments. No matter how fast Harry ran, Voldemort was right on his tail, though the Dark Lord was not running at all. His mind only on escaping Voldemort, Harry barely registered that Voldemort had stopped laughing and called, “Ah, here come our friends, Potter!”
They had escaped the Forbidden Forest and were now on the edge of the lake. A group of people was walking slowly toward him; shouting for help, Harry darted into the crowd. Harry stopped running and looked around at the people – why hadn’t they begun to fight Voldemort? Why had none of them responded to his pleas for help?
Suddenly, Harry’s throat closed with terror. Every single one of the people was thin and bony, with hair and skin the sickly white color of death, their eyes cloudy and soulless. Harry’s horror intensified sharply as he abruptly realized that these were not just any dead corpses, but people that he knew. People he loved. The Weasleys, Hermione, Dumbledore, Sirius, his parents, Lupin, and even Snape surrounded him, their blank eyes staring at him. They clustered around him, their hands clawing at his robes and grasping his arms and shoulders with surprisingly strong grips. Harry screamed and bit and fought as hard as he could as the dead bodies of his friends and family pulled him about; they appeared to be pulling him towards the lake. Harry fell to the ground with a thump as he struggled fruitlessly to break away from the strong, clammy, cold hands. Harry could hear Voldemort’s high, cruel laugh in the background… how his scar hurt… someone was calling his name… who was it?
“Harry! Harry!”
Harry woke up with a start; he was on the floor of Ron’s room by his camp bed and surrounded by the Weasley family and Hermione, all of whom were wearing pajamas and scared, concerned looks on their faces.
Please review!
It Had to Happen in Snape's Class by nerd2006
Chapter Notes: Beta read by ddamato.