I'll be Home for Christmas

I'll be home for Christmas

You can count on me

Please have snow and mistletoe

And presents on the tree

Christmas Eve will find me

Where the love light gleams

I'll be home for Christmas

If only in my dreams

It is Christmas Eve, and the wizarding world is in ruins. The snow barely covers the torched buildings and the lifeless bodies scattered about. Thick, palpable fear hangs about the air. In the few houses that still stand, hidden, protected by Fidelius Charms and centuries-old wards, no decorations are placed. Death Eaters had attacked just the day before; the world is at war--at its darkest and most hopeless hour--and no one can afford to celebrate.

In a small corner of this devastation, a lone figure makes his way. Tall, lanky, and with only a tattered robe to warm him, Ronald Weasley silently trudges on, thick boots plop-plopping on the snow-covered road. The North Wind dances around him, playful, teasing, and brutal, but he pays it no heed.

In his right hand he clutches a tiny parcel wrapped in red and gold, and one thought fill his mind.

It is Christmas Eve, and he must go home.

"Ron, look! Snow!" Hermione's delight is priceless, and her smile radiant, and for a minute she is a child again.

Ron laughs heartily, his first in many weeks, and he pretends to be the carefree boy he was in Hogwarts, picking up a clump of snow, forming it into a tight ball, and aiming for Hermione's back.

Hermione shrieks and attempts to get back at him, but she misses and the snow hits a laughing Harry square in the face, and he sputters for a while before bending down and making his own snowball to throw.

An hour later, the giggling, snow-drenched trio enter the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley looks at them with exasperation, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She sets down mugs of steaming hot chocolate, and the three immediately pick them up, frozen hands drinking in the warmth. They sip quietly, whispering and laughing among themselves, and Harry looks up and points above Ron and Hermione.

"Look! Fred and George's floating mistletoes!" he announces loudly. Ron and Hermione hastily move away from each other, both blushing furiously. Harry laughs and tells them it is only a joke, and is naturally pelted with small pillows.

But that was long ago, and Ron is lost in those memories. He shakes himself out of his reverie, and finds that he has reached his destination.

"Number twelve Grimmauld Place," he whispers, voice scratchy and dry, and the house appears in front of him. This house, like all the other remaining houses that line the street, is devoid of any ornamentation. The windowpanes are lined with snow, and there is only cold. The doors are old and weary. There is little cheer in the other houses, but in Number twelve Grimmauld Place there is even less. Perhaps it is because the weight of the war leans most heavily on those who live in it.

"Sometimes, Ron, you can be such a prat," Hermione sighs, hands on hips. She is staring down at Ron, who is lounging on his bed, and he gives her a cheeky grin.

"And sometimes, Hermione, you can be such a mother hen, but you don't see me complaining," he retorts, winking playfully.

Hermione rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. "Ronald Weasley, you had better help me look for the root of Mandrake right this moment! I absolutely must test my theory right away; we don't know how helpful it can be for that new variation of Petrificus the Death Eaters have come up with!"

"Hermione, it's almost Christmas! Can't we wait just a little until the season's over?" Ron pleads, to Hermione's consternation.

"I swear, Ron, there is no resting, no holidays, no reason to celebrate until this war is--"

"Erm, Ron? Hermione?" Harry pokes his head through the door. "There's an attack in Hogsmeade. We've got to Apparate outside now."

Ron pushes the door open, and though battered and worn, it does not creak. It is dark inside; the house is either empty or asleep. Even Mrs. Black's portrait is quiet; she has probably gone to visit some friend or other. A glance at the clock on the wall--it is the Muggle kind, as the magical one always places everyone in Mortal Peril anyway and is quite useless--tells him it is a little past midnight. It is Christmas Day.

He does not light any lamp; he knows where he wants to go. The steps are silent, dead, and even his boots on the wooden floor betray no presence as he makes his way to the second door on the left.

His hand turns the knob, and the door swings open soundlessly. A portion of the room is bathed in light, a sliver of the moon dancing in between the drawn curtains. Hermione lies deep in slumber, tucked between sheets of white.

Ron draws closer, his feet moving of their own accord, until he is beside her. A slight frown creases her face, and tearstains run down her cheeks. Ron frowns. She had been crying... was it because of him?

He places his gift on the table beside her bed and kneels down, hand gently stroking her hair.

"Hermione," he whispers, and the silence almost drowns his words. "Wake up."

She does not stir.

"Hermione..."

The Death Eaters are great in number, and aggressive in attacking. They are ruthless, relentless in their Avada Kedavras, and the few members of the Order are being worn down.

Ron fights ceaselessly, wand shooting out bursts of deadly green light. There are no Unforgivables anymore; the fight is only a battle of speed and power now. His arms grow tired, but there is no room for rest. They are surrounded, and a slight hesitation can mean a fatal opening in their defense.

To his left, Harry faces his enemies with grim determination. There is hardness in the set of his jaws, coldness in his eyes. He is the savior of the wizarding world, and he carries that burden resolutely. There is no pity, no hesitation in killing; the line between what can be done and what should be done against evil has long since blurred.

To Ron's right, Hermione stands against her share of Death Eaters. She is strong, quick, and Hogwarts' cleverest witch is sharp even in the field. There is no fear in her eyes, only defiance and taunting for the purebloods who look down at Muggleborns like her.

There are more Death Eaters coming from her side of the battle, and they bear down on her, but she shows no weakness. To her right, a cluster of them forms, and she focuses all her attention to taking them down one by one. She is succeeding, but she does not notice the one figure to her left, who raises his arm and points his wand at her. Ron turns his head just in time to see this.

It happens all at once, in a millisecond. The wizard utters the curse, and Hermione does not know what is going on; she is only aware of falling to the ground, and when she looks up, it is Ron's face she sees.

The continuing battle drowns Hermione's scream.

"Hermione... wake up... I'm home..."

"Hm?" Hermione yawns, sitting up on her bed. Was someone calling her? She looks around, but the room is empty, except... the red-and-gold present on her table is unfamiliar. She picks it up curiously, and gingerly, with tentative fingers, she unwraps it.

It is a ring.