Peach Shows And Mistletoe

Despite it being day, the Burrow was already well-lit when Charlie arrived on her doorstep; he could see the hearth fire through the open windows, and the snow already melting on their toasty sills. The snow came up to his calves, separated from his skin by only a thin layer of dragon hide. He'd come a long way. There was consolation, however, in the fact that he could finally smell the roast, and the crushed cranberries, and the chimney smoke; he longed for more subtle, identifiable things: the smell of the pipe Arthur hid in the upstairs toilet to smoke, the taste of the hard water of Devon. But the chill air made sure these treasures traveled no further than their source, and for now, for now, the scents of Christmastime at the Burrow drove him on through the snow-covered front garden, towards his turkey and flagon. The snow got in his eyes as he broke into a run, and as he rounded the gate he could see Bill waiting for him at the door, wrapped in a faded bomber with a scarf up to his ears. They said nothing as Charlie stopped in his tracks (and these were deep ones), only looked at each other. Bill pulled the scarf down.

"Hoy there, little brother," he said, softly.

And Charlie grinned, suddenly and happily, and the laughter of the two men carried into the night as they launched themselves at each other like schoolboys in the snow.

* * *

"Wellington Hornback," Charlie explained, as Hermione touched her fingers carefully to the burn scar on his arm.

"That one looks bad," Ginny said, pointing to another on his palm.

"Last year, same dragon. The nesting instinct isn't very strong in the Hornbacks, and they have serious post-labour cramps, something to do with the settling of the womb..." Charlie trailed off, not sure he wanted to go into it. "They tend to crush their eggs with all the stamping around. We were trying to collect hers for the incubator. We caught her on an off day, I guess. She's called Daisy," he added, helpfully.

Ginny resisted comment. "And that one?"

"Er, kettle burn."

Upon entering the house, Charlie had been stripped of his wet coat, hugged senseless by various people smelling alternately of kitchen oil and tree dust, and sat down firmly to have his toes thawed. The rest (excluding Mrs Weasley who was returned to the kitchen waging her annual war on the turkey) had slowly drifted over to the living room, complete with a sleeping Gareth and restless Judy - Fred's New Generation Twin Terrors - to join him and Hermione, who had been banned from kitchen duty this year.

"Should I know why our living room is littered with peaches?"

"It's dad," said Ginny, "his new kick is genetic modification. See, the peaches are all big."

Mr Weasley, as Charlie had found out earlier from letters sent to him in Romania, was free to actually involve himself in practical Muggle Studies now that he was retired.

"He's been growing fruit?"

"Essentially, yeah."

"Merlin help us, in the garden?"

"Your dad knows what he's doing, Charlie," interrupted Hermione, "no matter how much he seems not to." She grinned. "You should get him to explain it to you, the amount of detail he goes into is amazing."

"Alright, I will," he said, meeting her challenge with manly gusto, "later on." She laughed, and he smiled in response to the sound. "How many months along are you now?"

"Four, but you can hardly see any difference. I wonder if he's really in there at all." Hermione looked at her stomach a little wistfully.

Fred, passing by to pick up a stray bauble, patted her hand. "Don't worry, there's still time before you're over the hill. Ron, too. A small window, granted, but time nonetheless--"

"Fred Weasley, you are horrible."

He gave an elaborate bow and ran off back to the tree. Gareth was tucked snugly in the crook of one arm, which softened the joke considerably.

"Don't condemn the family just yet; you've found one Weasley you actually like," Charlie said, slipping down onto the armchair to sit beside her.

"I don't know about that," she said darkly, "Ron won't let me do anything. I feel like I've been compromised into inactivity. The Order -"

"Is acting as a peacekeeping force in the remaining Death Eater camps. Hermione, you know you have no place there, not right now."

"I know," she smiled. "Anyway I'm better off helping with the research. Or knitting socks for the troops or something. Maternal damn instincts. I'm glad I get to spend more time at home, at any rate." She looked closely at him. "It's Christmas, Charlie, and life is short. It's good to be with people you love."

"You're a poet, Hermione," he laughed, "or a hopeless optimist. And too blunt and too blatant for my liking."

Her face grew serious, and she opened her mouth to reply, but then Judy bounced heavily onto her lap, cutting her off. Charlie was relieved of the conversation even as he said, more sharply than he intended, "Judy, be careful!"

But she didn't seem to notice, and Hermione didn't seem to mind. She cocked her head inquiringly at the joyous bundle of niece-in-law in her arms. She was four that year, and already had formidable vocal capacities. "We're going caroling, Hermione, caroling, caroling, caroling! Come with us!" - and then, suddenly shy, "Uncle Charlie can come too."

She snuck a glance at Charlie's face and then hid her own against Hermione's shoulder. Charlie heard laughter from the direction of the tree and saw Ginny and Mr Weasley watching them. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, aware that he was the centre of attention and uncertain what to say. It was an indication of how little he knew of his own family, he realized, that his own niece wouldn't speak directly to him.

The war has changed us all, he thought briefly, before Judy, suspicious at the prolonged silence, raised her head and looked at him. And then she flattened her fringe down nervously - a gesture that was so familiar and so forgotten to Charlie that for a moment he felt as though his heart might stop.

"No, no," he said, stumbling up from the armchair, "I don't... singing... that is - well, my toes are cooked, and I should go put myself to use before they" - he pointed around at the rest of the Weasleys - "renounce my - family membership."

Judy looked blank, and Hermione laughed, which prompted laughter in the other Weasleys. Charlie, grateful, kissed her fondly on the forehead and smiled at her for a moment, radiant against the firelight. Then he excused himself, fetched his coat and went quickly out back, studiously avoiding the kitchen.

There was a small gate that led out of the back garden into a wooded plain, and a path on the plain that led further on to a nice hilly incline where Charlie used to sit and listen to his brothers playing Quidditch just a little above his head. It was their "bench" and the position was arranged just so in order that the loneliness of the exclusion was at its peak: on one side the outskirts of forbidding, darkened woods, and on the other the sounds of noisy competition. Charlie had never been relegated much, but he remembered the times when he had with little humour.

But tonight the treetops were covered in snow, and the quiet made him feel as though he was straddling both worlds instead of being excluded from either. He didn't know what to do with himself; he knew that he was glad to be back, but everyone seemed so foreign and so familiar all at once, and there seemed to be the need to impress the new additions to the family tree even while showing the others that he was as usual as ever.

And so he ran.

* * *

It wasn't frustration so much as anticipation that was making the time crawl by, but as Harry stood chopping potatoes for the stuffing, he had to admit that the former could not be completely absolved in the matter.

"Harry, dear, could you pass the salt to Bill, please."

Harry looked up in time to see Bill narrow his eyes at the turkey he was seasoning, and reach out a dignified hand for the bottle of salt. He stifled a laugh and handed it over, and had to eat half a potato to stop himself giggling when Bill snatched it from him with an air of injured manliness. He heard Ron turn a snigger into a cough in the far corner.

"Listen," Bill said, after a few moments of rubbing the bald bird down, "I'm - I'm going to wait for Charlie outside, alright?"

Harry watched as Bill slipped out of the kitchen; Mrs Weasley, fussily wiping her tears away ("It's these onions, boys, they get me every time,") hadn't the heart to stop him. He watched as Bill made his way to the front door, knowing that his wanting to wait for Charlie wasn't simply an excuse. They were all waiting, and it was killing them. Harry looked over at Ron, who shook his head as if to say, "Don't say anything." Under it all, he knew, they were glad to be here, in this kitchen, together at last for the first time since the war had ended. But there was something missing.

Charlie. It had been three days since they'd had word from the Dragon Reserve. The owl Charlie had sent had been half frozen from the cold, and the letter tied to its leg had been brief.

Dear all,

Airport snowed in, not flying home. I'll be taking some time. Definitely seeing you by Christmas Eve.

Charlie

And that, Harry felt, had been unsatisfactory to the point of wanting to go over to Romania and thump some sense into him. But it'd be too late even if he Apparated; he wouldn't know where to Apparate to, anyway - as it was the owl had probably taken about two weeks to reach Ottery St Catchpole. The Romanian Wizarding Council had adopted a policy of isolationism during the war, thinking it would buy them time until the more aggressive parties had been dealt with by Voldemort, while they secretly built up their defenses and offensives. There had been rumours of a secret task force who had been trying to ride the dragons, and even more of certain officials in the Romanian Ministry branch who tried to enlist the help of the vampires, the rationale being that an underground alliance would help. They wanted to ban all outside influence and interaction. As a result they had banned the use of Floo during the war, and never reinstated the Network after, presumably having had too many other things to sort out after the destruction of the dragon Reserves.

Harry had been there with Charlie; he'd been sent there as an ambassador for the DA (they'd kept the name even after becoming an official organization) to try and talk the Romanians into joining their side of the war, since back then it hadn't been clear that they were on it. After the talks fell through, he'd been stranded in Transylvania, and remembered that a friend was barely a street away. He'd showed up on the doorstep of the dragon reserve, exhausted and defeated, and Charlie had taken him in.

The sound of sudden laughter in the living room brought him back.

"Charlie, you look like hell," he heard Ginny say.

And his heart gave a great leap, and he looked over at Mrs Weasley, who was already making her way out of the door.

"Harry..."

Harry didn't look at Ron. He stared at the potato in his hands. He wanted desperately to follow Mrs Weasley out the door, but now that it came to it, he wasn't sure Charlie wanted to see him at all.

He'd left Charlie in Romania after the first battle. He'd left a bleeding, broken Charlie, delirious with fever and broken bones, to return home and take the fight to Voldemort. At the time his anger at Charlie's injuries had spurred him on, but once he'd come back to the real world the casualties became much less personal, the casualties became statistics. And somewhere between that and the end of the war, he forgot. He forgot to write back to Charlie. He forgot to feel grief when another wizard died, only frustration. He forgot to feel joy when the Mediwizards saved someone, only relief that the ranks were not being depleted. He forgot to fight to live, he knew only that he lived to fight. And he forgot that he fought for Charlie.

Throwing down the potato, he took a swig of the cheap red wine that invariably lined the supermarket shelves during this time of year. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the counter.

"Harry, you're not hiding in here the whole day."

His eyes flew open at the sound of Hermione's voice. He didn't turn. "My prerogative."

Ron snorted. "Your cowardice, more like."

"Stop running away from him," said Hermione, coming to stand beside Harry, "please, it's Christmas Eve, and it's all over. Can't you start again?"

Harry shook his head, smiling a bit sadly. "Don't think I'm so deep, 'Mione. I'm just afraid he won't want to see me. I'm afraid - I'm afraid he won't want me. I don't know how he feels."

"You owe it to him to find out, I think."

"I owe it to him to let him wallop me, that's what I owe him."

"Well," she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "they say Christmas is the perfect time to pay off your debts."

* * *

Charlie sat, watching the twinkling lights in town nearby. Far away, he could hear a carol being sung, boisterous and joyful. He wondered if it was his family, and he sat and listened until the voices faded slowly away and he could hear them no longer, and then he sat and listened some more, just to give his presence there some kind of purpose. He didn't know how long it was before he heard the rustle of sole on snow, and looked up to see a figure walking slowly towards him, silhouetted against the - well, silhouetted against the dark, really. He knew a moment of irrational terror before the spectre spoke - and then his panic only increased.

"Charlie?"

Charlie closed his eyes briefly, opened them, and then moved aside on the snow and patted the bit of grass his warmth had exposed. "Harry. Sit."

Harry did. They sat in silence for a while, watching the Christmas lights.

"You know, I've always wondered if I was really called Harold."

Charlie didn't move.

"They lost my birth certificate at Godric's Hollow, and my identification after that all says 'Harry', because that was all anyone had ever called me." Harry nodded solemnly. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie could see the lights dancing around the outline of his forehead, his hair, his nose. It reminded him of firelight, the Romanian firelight which stood straight up towards the sky. "It'd be humbling to know, I think, that I was called Harold James Potter after twenty-three years of being wholly unremarkable."

"Wholly unremarkable," Charlie repeated, with a catch in his voice, "is something you never were."

"Hmm," Harry smiled, "I was being ironic."

Charlie frowned and half-turned towards him, wanting to shake him for being so flippant, so amused. But he stopped when he realized they were lying face-to-face. There was something in their proximity, in the way that jaw line curved, that brought him back to cold nights in candlelit cabins, watching the light flicker over newly-freckled skin just as it was doing now, and chilly mornings on a hilltop watching the dragons while the sun beat down on two shirtless, laughing boys. That smile wasn't blasé, that smile was Harry's. Charlie took a deep breath. Harry opened his eyes and looked at him, reaching out to trace a finger down his nose.

"Stop that."

Harry didn't smile. "I'm glad you're back, Char. We've all missed you terribly. Your family hasn't seen you in a really long time."

Charlie tensed, anticipating some kind of flakey follow-up to that, like, "I haven't seen you in a really long time", but it was Harry, and not anyone else. He knew that Harry cared about the Weasleys - all of them, in all honesty - and nothing was added; there was no motive. He lay back down, throwing an arm over his eyes.

"I know they haven't. It's good to be back." After a moment's hesitation, he continued, "Why didn't you go caroling with the rest?"

"To be honest? I wanted to catch up with you, and it was a bit impossible back in the Burrow."

It took a bit of time for Charlie to digest this sudden honesty.

"Plus Gareth sings like a wildcat."

Charlie laughed. "I didn't expect Gareth and Judy to look so much like Angelina."

Harry smiled, happily. &lduo;Yeah, Fred was annoyed. He keeps saying they'll grow out of it, that kids stop looking soft and ugly when they hit puberty."

"I bet Angelina didn't take too well to that."

"No, she had him sleeping on the couch for two weeks. Something about making sure there were no more soft, ugly babies."

They laughed, the two of them sitting under the stars, tension gone. Feeling good about the direction of the conversation, Charlie went on to ask about the rest of the Weasleys, about Mr Weasley's peaches ("He has plans to show a more global interest, he was talking about competitions, franchising, factories, world market domination... your mother nearly thumped him."), Fred and George's Wheezes success, which had taken a turn for the worse during the war, but picked up right after ("They figured people needed more laughter, after the war."), about Ginny's education (she'd entered Muggle university after the war), about Ron and Hermione, about their wedding the day of the Battle of Shrewsbury, about the quiet, resolved ceremony, about the honeymoon they could take only two years after they were married, after the war.

When there was nothing left to tell, and nothing Charlie could think of to ask, they found themselves curled into two shivering balls of fleece and denim, huddled against each other for comfort, and they found that they were comfortable to stay that way.

"You notice how everything picked up after the war," murmured Harry. "How life goes on."

"It doesn't just go on, though, does it?" Charlie spoke unselfconsciously, and without subtext. "It's changed. I realized that earlier, in the living room. My family doesn't know me anymore."

Harry was silent for a while, and when he spoke it was with apology in his voice. "Voldemort didn't cause that, you did. Love can survive Lord Voldemort, time and long distances; not familiarity." Harry leaned his head on Charlie's shoulder. "And I suppose, in a way, it's worse that way, because -"

"Because you don't know why you love, even though you do."

"Yes."

There was an awkward silence before Harry spoke again.

"We never ended, did we? We never ended properly."

Charlie looked at him, wanting to tell him that they'd never really began either, but uncertain how to put it into words.

"Do you know, when Judy came in to ask me to carol, she flattened her fringe down, and reminded me so much of you," Charlie whispered. He felt Harry's arms come around him. "She reminded me so much of you. And everybody was staring at me, waiting to know if I wanted to go with them and sing Christmas songs, and all I could think of was you."

"Char..."

"I've missed you," His voice cracked as he tried to get his own arms around Harry, but his position was all wrong for it, clutching at his soft jacket. "Harry, I've missed you so, so much..."

"Shh, don't, don't. Charlie. Let me do this, it's my fault -"

Charlie held Harry's face in his hands and tilted it up to face him. "No, it isn't. But you've tagged up this earth with your street name once," he said, trying to smile, "don't go again. Please. Don't be the hero anymore." He was begging, he was coaxing, "Fight your demons here, Harry. Stay this time. Stay here with me."

And Charlie closed his eyes, bent his head and kissed him, softly, the slightest brushing of lip against lip. He pulled away, and Harry made a noise in the back of his throat and pushed his lips forward against Charlie's, pushed so hard that Charlie, caught off guard, fell backward.

"Out of practice?" whispered Harry against Charlie's mouth, tickling his chin against Charlie's travel stubble, and then soothing the scratches against the soft, invisible down just before his ear.

Charlie's laughter burst out of him like a - well, he didn't know what burst out of people like his laughter did at that moment, but it was something pretty damn good. And messy. He spat a mouthful of salty tears onto Harry's face, and they both collapsed laughing, rolling down the hill, only to meet again at the bottom, where Harry grabbed Charlie to him and held him tightly to his own body.

"I feel like we were never really together in Romania," whispered Harry.

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes when I think of you, and your stupid dragon hide boots. I think it must have been a dream."

"Me too," said Charlie, relief spreading through him like warmth, "sweet Merlin, me too. But you're here now, and I'm here, and we're not dreaming."

"Everytime I'm with you it feels surreal. Even this, Christmas Eve, it feels too festive to be true."

Charlie kissed him.

"Mm. It's too cold to do what I want to do."

"And they probably finished caroling ages ago."

A thought occurred to Harry. "Did you bring me a present?"

"Yup. Did you?"

"Yup."

"Is it any good?"

"Well, it's not bad for its range..."

"Its range?"

"A bath towel."

"Oh, right."

"Did you do any better?"

"Chocolates. Romanian," he added, hopefully.

There was a pause as both considered this. "I shall utilize the towel with much love."

Harry leaned in and whispered the plan for his chocolates in Charlie's ear.

* * *

Back at the Burrow Mrs Weasley had called a complete stop to any movement in the dining room as she brought out the turkey with the help of Bill, Ron, Fred and George.

Charlie had stopped outside the house, trying to persuade Harry to go in first, but Harry decided he'd rather not be the subject of scrutiny, and was trying to get Charlie to go.

"Why don't we both go together?"

"That would just defeat the purpose, Harry. They'd know."

"They know anyway. Look, just -" he took Charlie firmly by the arm and shoved him through the front door.

They made their way hesitantly towards the dining room, where they found, to their dismay, the entire Weasley clan gathered around the table, watching them. In fact, Charlie could have sworn they were waiting for them. Harry flattened down his hair compulsively.

"Sorry, we -" he began, and was quickly squashed by a veritable chorus of shushes.

Charlie raised an eyebrow and was about to say something, when he saw the turkey being brought out.

"That," he breathed, "is a fucking monster."

"Don't you forget it," trilled his mother, "and don't you use that sort of language in my house, Charles Weasley!" whereupon everyone in the room burst into laughter, and the sanctity of the turkey heralding ceremony was broken by festive cheer. Harry saw Hermione whispering something to Ron, and Ron looking over at Harry and Charlie's clasped hands, at which he pulled a face and drained his glass of wine. Then he gave Harry, who was shaking with silent laughter, a huge grin and thumbs up.

And later, after the most solid meal Charlie had had in a long, long while (during which he did actually get around to asking his father about GM peaches), he received among other things, his towel, and a videotape of Puff the Magic Dragon; Ginny got a Muggle dictionary from her father, one which operated on Eclectronics, and could speak the definitions of words out loud. Harry received a new broomgrip and, suspiciously enough, three boxes of chocolates from Charlie, Fred and George, though everyone agreed that Fred and George's were best left untouched. Harry blushed, though only Charlie noticed. Mr Weasley got a Confirmation of Entry form from Mrs Weasley for a local Peach Show. Fred gave Hermione and Ron books entitled Maternity Blues and Paternal Issues, respectively. Fred and George had a lumpy package from Mr Weasley that turned out to be a coffee machine, and a Willy Wonka keychain from Ginny, bewitched to voice angry, competitive slurs when in the presence of either twin.

There were jumpers all around from Mrs Weasley, and when they had all been received and the room had become a sea of maroon, Mr and Mrs Weasley found themselves under a sprig of mistletoe - and much to the horror of most of the people present, Mr Weasley bent his wife over his arm and kissed her quite soundly on the lips before whispering, "love you," and then getting smacked over the head with a kitchen glove.

Charlie moved closer to Harry while everybody was laughing, and slipped his own hand softly in his. "Hey," he whispered, leaning down a little so he could rest his chin on Harry's shoulder.

"Hmm?" said Harry, moving his head so his lips brushed Charlie's cheek, feeling so warm and loving and fuzzy from the food and wine and love that he thought his brain must be protesting; surely it wasn't used to so much happiness.

"I love you."

Harry nearly burst.

"Love you too," he said, flushed and happy, turning to hold Charlie in his arms, "Merry Christmas, Char."