The Gift of the Mages

Ron entered the small shop on the outskirts of Ottery-Saint Catchpole. It was the kind of place he'd usually rather not be caught dead in, full of feminine frou-frou, but with a few men's furnishings: ties and chains and the like. But he'd do anything for his sweetie--even if it meant assuming the role of a weary last-minute shopper and haggling with a snooty salesgirl. And the words GRAND OPENING SALE in the window didn't hurt any.

He had done Cleaning and Pressing Charms on an outfit he'd borrowed from his dad in his attempts to look like the wizard-about-town, knowledgeable of Muggle dress habits. He pulled at the jacket, which was still a trifle small in the arms even though he'd done an Enlarging Charm on it.

He couldn't believe that he hadn't been able to hock his dad's watch at any of the pawnshops in the Alley. It was almost as if there was some kind of plot against him. He'd been tempted to write Harry to loan him the money, but he couldn't--he just couldn't. Now he had a plan--a rather desperate one--but if it worked...

He hadn't even decided on the hair ornaments--until today. All the comb sets in Diagon Alley were just too flash and gaudy--though cheap enough. One even had a row of blinking rhinestones proclaiming the wearer to be "too sexy for my robes". Not Hermione at all, no matter how tempting the price.

So he was going back to that new branch of Gladrags Wizards Wear in Ottery-Saint Catchpole where he'd seen the first set he liked, even though the price was way out of line. He did it after a chance reference his mother had made. Apparently she had met the owner and liked her very much. Hermione had even bought her wedding robes at the Hogsmeade shop. So maybe, just maybe, with his mother's connection and the fact that Hermione had finished paying for the robes, he might get the proprietor to make a little deal.

An elaborately coiffed woman strode to meet him with a may-I-help-you look on her face. She was dressed in a sky-blue suit he thought his mother would look good in if she ever had the money for it, and had surprisingly warm, beautiful eyes to match.

He cut to the chase. No sense giving her a chance to flutter her eyelashes and try to talk him into an even more expensive purchase. "Miss, I'm interested in that set of combs you have in your front window."

She deferred to his excellent taste. "Mmm, yes, the tortoiseshell. Very chic. A holiday gift for the witch in your life?"

"My wife...um...but how did you know--"

"That you're a wizard? I have sixth sense for these things--and only a non-Muggle would wear a Nehru jacket, seersucker clamdiggers, and sandals in this weather."

"Oh."

She waltzed on by him and went to the window, bringing back the boxed set. The combs looked almost ethereally delicate, resting in their bed of cotton wool. Hermione would love them.

"Would you like to pay cash? Or do you have an account with us?"

"Um--can I open an account--right now?"

"Our policy is to ask for cash for the first purchases, then, once you've spent a certain amount, you become a Privileged Customer and you can open an account on future purchases."

"Um--how much do you have to spend to become--erm--privileged?"

"Five hundred Galleons."

Ron gulped and tried another tack. "Well, it's possible my wife has an account already--at your Hogsmeade store. I mean, she bought her wedding robes there--"

The witch turned on her heel and walked behind a counter. She put the combs down and opened a small file box that was sitting there. "What's the name?"

"Weasley."

She thumbed through some squares of parchment. "Nothing here."

Ron frowned. "Hmm--I have a slight problem then. I don't have the money to pay for the combs right now. You see, I went on a bit of a spree today--you know--shopping for friends and family. It seems I didn't take quite enough Galleons out of my account at Gringotts, but they're closed now. With it being Christmas Eve and all--I wonder if I could make a trade?"

A slight frown sullied her smooth, made-up forehead as she surveyed his empty hands. He realized he should have brought along a few parcels to back up his story, but it was too late to retreat now.

He plunged on. "I have this watch, see? It's solid platinum--and has all kinds of great spells on it--" He handed it to her.

She ran her well-manicured hands over its lustrous surface. She was obviously impressed, murmuring, "Oh, lovely, and retro is in right now. But this inscription--'To Ron', and so forth-- that would have to be magically removed--to be saleable, of course."

Ron gulped but nodded, and he felt a tear forming in his eye, thinking of the loving sentiment his father had had engraved on the bezel.

"My dear boy--" she began, but then she became all business, "--but--I'm afraid we don't carry timepieces of any kind."

He had a wild thought that he might just snatch the combs off the counter top and run out the door with them. As if she read his thoughts, she casually gathered up the box and clasped it to her chest.

"Look, miss," he continued. "I'm Ron Weasley. I live--well, lived--just over the hill--at The Burrow, you know. Big house, garage, gardens, trees, a pond, lots of land." She looked blank. His attempt to describe the rundown family manse as an estate of considerable value was not going over well at all.

He tried the small-talk approach. "Oh, I reckon you're not from around here. Believe me, I was that surprised to find a branch of Gladrags here in a Muggle village." He found his voice was cracking. His brother Bill was so much better at this.

Her own voice was pleasant, even musical. "It's something new we're trying, an expansion into underserved areas. My husband's helping me finance it. We've had a sort of windfall, as you might say. But your name--Ron--is that short for Ronald? And Weasley--I know that name quite well..."

Ron saw a glimmer of hope. "Well, as I say, the Weasleys are known all over the area." He tried folding his arms and leaning a hip against the counter the way his brother Bill would do when chatting up a girl. He couldn't quite manage the arched eyebrow, but he smiled in what he hoped was a winsome way. "My father's with the Ministry--pretty high up. Muggle--er--relations, you know--"

"Yes, but that's not where I know the name Ronald Weasley from--"

Now Ron had a feeling of panic. Had there been an announcement in the Prophet about his detective agency going under? If she knew he was without funds, he'd never clinch this deal. "Look, if you've read anything--I mean--it's not as bad as it looks--"

A look came over her face as of a light dawning. Her great eyes glowed. "That's it. I read it somewhere...ohhh...you write, don't you?"

"Huh? Uh, well, yes, a little. How did you know?"

"I'm not psychic, if that's what you're thinking." She held up a hand to stifle his reply. "Bear with me, will you?" She paused a moment, thinking, remembering perhaps. Then she smiled. "Do you like comic books, Mr. Weasley?"

"Well...yes."

"And are you by any chance partial to the Mad Muggle series?"

"You mean, do I like it? Well, sure. Doesn't everybody?"

"And is it possible that you're the Ronald Weasley who's been writing to my husband all these years?"

"Your husband?"

"Robert Raglan."

"You mean--" Ron felt a bit faint at hearing his idol's name.

"My name is Gladys--Gladys Raglan. I own Gladrags." Her voice turned soft. "Yes, you're the right age and everything. You're the one. A real fan, aren't you?"

"Uh...yes, ma'am. And I did sent him some stories in his style--kind of--and using his characters." He wasn't sure at first if it was a good idea admitting this. He watched as Madam Raglan's eyes misted over, as if she remembered his stories. Perhaps his hard work was finally paying off, if only in a minuscule way. Perhaps she would take the watch in trade for a 'real fan' of her husband's work. Ron had a dim sense of an irony in this, but he had no time to work it out, as the shop bell tinkled behind him.

"Oh, Miss Granger, very good," called Gladys Raglan past him. "The delivery broom was here just an hour ago. I have your gift ready...special order." She crossed the room to another counter and pulled a small paper-wrapped package out from behind it.

Ron turned and gulped. "Hermione, what are you doing here?" She looked different today. She was wearing that bulky old mac she'd picked up at a rummage sale. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and she had her hair tucked away under a black woollen cap. Her forehead shone whitely in the glare of the shop lights.

"You two know each other?" asked Madam Raglan.

"We're married," put in Hermione, but she did not answer Ron's question. He thought she looked worried or embarrassed about something. She crossed to the proprietor and fumbled with her purse. He heard the clink of coins--lots of coins.

Madam Raglan, apparently satisfied with the transaction, gave her the package. "I don't think we have your address for our Owling List." She brandished a quill and parchment. Hermione scribbled the requested information. Ron strained to catch a glimpse of stray hair curling out from under her cap. He could see none. What was it Dennis had said last night about new hairstyles? She wouldn't...She couldn't...

He watched as she slipped the package into her pocket. "What's that, Hon?"

She gave him a tight little smile. "Oh, just a last-minute gift. You know how these things are."

Ron goggled at her reply. They couldn't afford gifts, especially not careless ones of the 'last-minute' variety. She was staring at his chest now, at his carefully pressed jacket, his well-knotted, if ill-chosen, tie, as if she could not bring herself to look him in the eye. Why was she being so secretive?

Hermione cut into his thought with a tremulous "See you at The Burrow," and was gone before he could get another word out.

"Now, Master Weasley, we have to talk," said Madam Raglan.

But Ron was staring at the door in agony. He had more than half a mind to go after his wife--his darling, heretofore perfectly honest wife--who seemed to be very upset about something.

~*~

On Christmas Eve, George, Angelina, and Dennis shuffled through the soft snow of Ottery St. Catchpole, on their way to the Weasley enclave. They'd Apparated on the farther side of the village, just for the pleasure of observing the quaint Muggle holiday traditions. They heard carolling groups and shrieking children sledding on Stoatshead Hill, peered into houses at train gardens and fir trees decorated with 'eckeltrik' lights, smelled cookies baking, beef roasting, admired fancy displays in shop windows.

Each carried a package and dressed in traditional wizarding robes. They knew from experience that Muggles would explain away their eccentric finery as just one more expression of the season's happy madness.

George wore a great pancake of a hat made of violet satin, with lime Fwooper plumes trailing down the back and violet robes with gold trim. He carried a gilt box of chocolate Galleons wrapped in gold foil for his sister Ginny and, in his pocket, a hip-flask filled with Old Snifter's Best Brandy for Ron.

Angelina's stylish white turban with a faux-sapphire like a third eye and silver-and-white robe set off her dark beauty. She had a delicate cut-glass bottle of Algerian perfume for Mrs. Weasley and a canister of exotic teas for Hermione.

Dennis brought up the rear, toting a polished sandalwood box he'd made himself with numerous small drawers full of Muggle hardware, like pan-head screws, hooks-and-eyes, and triple-A batteries for Mr. Weasley. They'd spend happy hours discussing the uses of each, he was sure. He'd sent away specially for his outfit and was dressed to the nines in the Oriental tradition in crimson robes and skullcap. On his feet were green slippers embroidered with gold thread that sported pointed toes curled up at the ends.

"Look," he said, and he pulled them over to a shop window, "That looks a little like us." All three gazed at the painted-plaster miniatures in a scene so cherished by Muggles of a certain religious tradition.

"Christmas is really a Muggle holiday, isn't it? asked George.

"Yes," said Angelina, "The ancient witching traditions called it Yule. They may celebrate different stories, but their themes--peace, joy, and hopefulness--are essentially the same."

George pointed to three richly dressed figures in Eastern garb, bearing lavish gifts, bent over a small child asleep in what looked like the feeding trough of a cattle byre.

"What's all that about?"

"He was a very special baby," answered Angelina softly, "a saviour promised to their race, the very essence of love. The Magi travelled a long way following a prophetic conjunction of Jupiter and Mars just to find him."

"Magi?" said George. "Wizards--like us?"

Angelina turned to answer, and saw beyond her husband a man--Muggle--staring at them. He had apparently broken off from a small group of pub-crawlers who were standing across the street, trying to decide which pub to crawl to next.

"Evening, folks, where's the pageant?"

George screwed up his face at this. "Pageant?"

"It's a kind of Christmas play, George," said Angelina, catching his arm. She raised her voice. "Just come from there, sir. Next village over: Saint Lapidary-and-All-Angels. A fine time, that, but they've broken up for the night."

"Pity. Must have been a good show. Costumes look marvellous. Happy Christmas to you."

"Happy Christmas," they all waved after him.

"How do you know about all this stuff, Ange?" asked Dennis, as they continued along towards The Burrow.

"Mum has a lot of Muggle relatives, and she's a great one for inclusion, so we exchange visits a lot. That's why I did so well in Muggle Studies."

They were nearing the edge of the village. Dennis was slowing them down a bit, fumbling for his wand while resting his gift against his hip and trying to remember a Foot-Warming Charm his brother had once shown him. Despite his pride in his appearance, he was starting to realize that the slippers were a tad impractical for walking in snow.

At the last shop, they saw a tall figure in the light of the show window. It was Ron, dressed in the oddest get-up the trio had ever seen.

"Hey, Bro," shouted George. "Whuzzup?"

"Oh...hi, George, Angelina. That you, Dennis? Look here. Aren't they beautiful?" He opened a longish box. Nestled in cotton wool were four delicate tortoiseshell combs, with mother-of-pearl butterflies chasing over them.

Dennis caught up to them and stared into the box, his mouth agape. He'd accidentally given himself a hot-foot trying to get that charm right. But suddenly all thoughts of frostbite and second degree burns were driven out of his brain. "F-for Herm-m-ione?" he stammered, not entirely due to the cold.

George pulled Dennis aside and muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "I'll kill Dung Fletcher..."

Angelina alone remained calm, and bit back a comment about the imprudence of her brother-in-law wearing sandals and clam-diggers in the snow. "They're fabulous, Ron."

"And expensive-looking," Dennis started to say, but Angelina backed into his already throbbing toes.

"She'll be thrilled to pieces, I'm sure," Angelina continued loudly to cover his groans.

Ron pocketed the box, a dreamy look on his face. "Did you know? She's expecting."

"Who? Hermione? Expecting what?" said George.

Angelina cut in, "No, we didn't. Congratulations, Ron."

"She told us all, just a bit ago. Mum got all teary, of course, and made Hermione a cup of tea. So I slipped back out to pick up her present here."

"They must've cost you a pretty Sickle, Ronnie-kins." George had managed to get in under Angelina's guard. She glared at him as if she was about to launch a Cruzan Whammy at his sorry carcass.

Ron didn't notice the silent exchange or the dig at his minority, and for once, didn't seem to care. "It's weird how it all worked out. I didn't tell you before, but--Hermione and me--we hit some pretty hard times there for a while."

"Thanks to dear Ludo Bagman," said George.

"Oh, you heard about that. Well, all of a sudden, Madam Fudge-Bagman--his wife, you know--owls Hermione that she's heard all about the wonderful work she's doing and wants to sponsor a special project in the New Year."

"Probably rehabilitating wayward husbands... " smirked George.

"... or unfortunate young witches out on the East End," said Dennis.

Angelina sighed. Short of a blanket Silencio, there was little she could do once these two got on a roll. Besides, it didn't seem as if Ron was listening to them. It was as if he was in a little world of awe and contentment all his own, from which neither the slush besieging his toes nor the twins' gibes could touch him.

"Then--to cap it all--Robert Raglan--you know--"

"Yeah," said George, "the cartoonist with the Lockhart fixation."

Ron nodded, "I've sent him a lot of my own stories over the years, you know, to see what he thought of them. But he never replied, except for the odd autograph and fanzine. But then I recognized some of my own stuff in his new novel--"

"Mere coincidence, I'm sure," said George.

"He's nothing like his brother, I'm also sure," Dennis chimed in.

"What brother?" asked Ron.

"Didn't you know? The infamous Rascal Raglan. Dung Fletcher's partner in crime."

"Really?" said Ron. "Well, Robert Raglan's not like that--not at all. Anyway it turns out his wife was the one answering his mail all that time, and she read my stories too. Master Raglan never saw them at all. My plotlines must've gone into her subconscious. She remembered them, but she didn't remember where she remembered them from. Does that make sense?"

"Oh, sure," muttered George.

"So whenever Robert was stuck for an idea, she just threw something out off the top of her head, and more often than not, it was something I had written. But she didn't realise it."

"Right," added Dennis.

"They just tumbled to it a couple days ago. Raglan somehow got a hold of one of my comic books. Don't know how that happened...but, anyway, his wife recognised some of the ideas I wrote in the margins, and it made her remember the stories I sent. She still had the copies filed away. So now they know that I really did have a hand in the writing of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle and the Quidditch-Playing Prefect of Pigpimple Academy." He said this last reverently, as if Merlin himself had revealed it to him.

"The Augureys will be so glad to hear that," said George under his breath.

"And the eagles," Dennis chirped.

Ron's rising excitement rode right over their cynical tones. "So he's going to give me some money for it, and a dedication in the next printing. Oh, and his wife--she owns this shop here--Gladrags. She gave Hermione a gift certificate--for baby clothes."

"Our little 'scone in the fire'," crooned George, making a face at Dennis.

"Best of all, Robert thinks I have a talent for writing and he's going to help me get started in the New Year. Hermione was so happy. We're going to exchange gifts soon as I bring this back."

"So you didn't have to sell your watch?" asked Dennis.

"You knew about that? No, Madam Raglan gave me the combs--as partial payment."

"And Hermione didn't have to cut her hair," said Dennis, satisfied.

"So you did know about that--"

"Well, Hermione confided in Angelina, and she told us--"

"But she did cut her hair, Den," said Ron, quite calmly.

"What? No, she couldn't--I mean--you got her the combs--"

"The combs are for... when it grows back."

Dennis blustered, "And you're not mad about it? But what about--? I mean--you told me--you said--no--you shouted, 'She wouldn't dare!' Right? I mean--you like her hair long... don't you?" he finished weakly.

Ron put a hand on the young man's arm. "It doesn't matter, Den."

"It doesn't?" said Dennis. He was thoroughly puzzled now, but George and Angelina looked at each other in perfect understanding.

"She wanted to buy me something really special," Ron said softly. "She loves me. That's all I care about." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And... we're going to have... a baby."

Dennis nodded finally, and they all linked arms and walked on to The Burrow with the snow falling softly, Muggle carols in their ears, and another bright star beaming down on them all.