The smell of rashers permeated the kitchen of the tiny cottage, as it did every Sunday morning. Severus occupied one of the two chairs at the wooden table, nursing an Earl Grey. He could hear his wife chatting to the post-owl in the other room, in what had become a daily ritual when the Prophet arrived. He felt his lips curl into a small smile: the warmth he felt on these mornings had little to do with the cooker or the tea at his hand, and had everything to do with the woman in the next room who was conversing with a witless bird.

Severus took another sip of his tea and surveyed the little that was left on his plate. His wife had become a much better cook in the last several years, after taking on the task of creating an edible meal with all the passion she had once reserved for her academic endeavors. Unsurprisingly, her efforts had surpassed his own skill—at least for breakfast, a meal he had never paid much attention to until after he'd left Hogwarts and they were married.

His wife bounded in, curls bouncing, a smug look on her face. In her hand was not only the Prophet, but a parchment roll tied with red and green ribbon. He felt his smile falter. She set the both on the table near his teacup and silently turned her attention back to the rashers.

"I'm not opening it," Severus said, trying to keep the grouchiness out of his voice and failing miserably. "You know what happened last year."

"Of course, I remember. You sang 'Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg,' at the top of your lungs for an hour after breaking the seal." Her giggles threatened to keep her from getting the next comment out. "You have an excellent singing voice, Severus."

He felt his frown deepen and poked the ribboned invitation with his fork. "I'm not opening it," he repeated. "And I'm not going."

Hermione turned from the cooker at that. "Oh, Severus, don't say that. Please go with me. Don't make me choose between staying home with you and seeing everyone."

"No."

"No?"

"You know how I detest crowds."

"We never stay long. Surely you can suffer it for a couple hours—for me," she said, her honey eyes begging.

"I suffer plenty, without such occasions as this. Certainly as my wife, you wouldn't want me to suffer even more."

Hermione huffed and turned the rashers. "No matter what you say, you know you enjoy it."

"I enjoy Molly's over exuberant ministrations, poorly prepared food, and boring conversation over the din of feral urchins?"

"Oh, you know you do, you insufferable git. And you know how happy it makes me when you come with me."

"It's chaos," he groused.

"You say that every year."

"It's true every year."

Her brow furrowed. "I'll tell you what. I'll open the invitation if you agree to go with me."

"The things I do for my wife," he mumbled under his breath.

"Oh, the things you do for your wife," she teased, as she produced a plate of hot rashers with more eggs and laid them on the table. Wrapping her arms around him from behind, she whispered, "I was just thinking about the things you do to your wife…" She began to nuzzle his ear. "You know, after breakfast, I might be convinced to express my unending gratitude for you agreeing to attend the ghastly Weasley Christmas party again this year…"

Well, he thought a few minutes later when she was leading him back to their bedroom, I'm not above receiving some compensation for my future misery.

Hermione and Severus arrived in the field outside The Burrow with a soft CRACK. She glanced up at him, presumably to gauge his mood; he offered her his elbow and they made their way towards the house, the snow crunching underneath their boots and their breath visible in the numbing winter air.

Far too soon for his liking, they reached the back door, which had been decorated with fairy lights, courtesy, no doubt, of George. A warm light from the Weasley kitchen flooded out the door's bare window to illuminate the snow at their feet; the sound of voices within suggested The Burrow was near capacity. He tried to hide his scowl.

The door opened with a squeak.

"Hermione! Severus! Come in, come in!" Molly practically yanked them inside, mauling them with meaty hugs. Severus stiffened under her touch; thankfully, she moved on to his wife rather quickly, gripping the top of Hermione's arms.

"Arthur! The Snapes are here! Come collect their coats!" Molly bellowed over her shoulder without releasing Hermione. "George! Get the Snapes some drinks!"

Hermione caught Severus's eye and winced. After the incident three years ago, they both knew better than to drink anything George handed to them.

Arthur wandered up, his own drink in hand, Father Christmas hat askew. "'Lo, Hermione. Severus. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas to you, too, Arthur," Hermione said, smiling.

"Hermione!" The erstwhile Chosen One, apparently already well in his cups, teetered over to give his wife a hug. Severus noted with satisfaction that Potter didn't pull her close or hold her long.

"Professor," Potter added sedately and held out a wavering hand. Severus raised an eyebrow but didn't bother to correct the swaying fool. Potter continued to be stubborn about his title for reasons only Merlin could fathom.

As they made their way through the cramped and crowded kitchen, Severus relinquished his frock coat to Percy and accepted their drinks from George, who waggled his eyebrows and winked at him. The room was warm—too warm—and the air felt thick and humid. Combined with the dubious smells emanating from the oven, it felt almost…suffocating.

Hermione squeezed past, plunked herself down on the threadbare couch in the sitting room, and proceeded to be engulfed in a gaggle of small Weasley grandchildren. Moving toward the perimeter of the room, Severus vanished the drinks and surveyed the confusion before him.

It was going to be a long evening.

Severus cast a discrete Tempus and sighed. 10:17pm. Merlin, the night was crawling. He took a sip of his Firewhisky—one he had poured himself—and glanced around.

There was hardly a space unoccupied. As for the Weasley family, Ronald was on the couch, attempting to inhale the face of the latest in his long line of unremarkable girlfriends; George and Angelina were huddled and sniggering in the opposite corner of the room; and Charlie—one of the few at the party that could hold an intelligent conversation—was nowhere to be found. A cadre of red-headed brats were screaming and running full-tilt around the house, bumping into people and furniture haphazardly with no regard to person or property.

As he wandered into a small alcove alongside the sitting room to get away from the noise and press of people, Severus turned, only to stop short.

She stood a few feet away, nearly hidden around a corner and with her back to him; her long, straight red hair shone in the room's soft light.

He could no longer breathe. His skin pricked and he felt the blood drain from his face; his stomach dropped and his body flushed with sweat. He stood there, frozen, until higher reasoning regained control. Get ahold of yourself. It isn't her. It can't be her, you stupid git.

He stepped closer.

It wasn't her. It was the Chosen One's wife.

She was leaning out of the alcove, peering up the stairs that began on its far side.

In the year since he'd seen her last, Ginevra had let her hair grow and tonight, she had left it loose and unfettered by the braid she usually wore at Hogwarts or when reporting on her former Quiddich team. From the back, her hair looked just like—

"Dammit, George…" she muttered, somewhere between annoyed as-all-hell and bemused. She glanced above her. "Where are you, Harry?"

Severus looked up. Apparently, Ginevra Potter was trapped under enchanted mistletoe.

Before Severus could form his next thought, he was bumped roughly from behind and he collided into the current Mrs. Potter with an inelegant thud. Stumbling, he glanced behind him to discover a child of six or seven scampering up from the floor and bounding away.

"James Sirius!" Ginevra bellowed from beside him. "Get back here!"

"Sorry!" came the breathless reply, called over the shoulder as the aptly-named menace picked up speed again.

As Ginevra turned towards him, all thoughts of his childhood crush evaporated. Her eyes…they were not the green he had adored years ago, but a flat brown, coloured by irritation with her child and her situation.

"I think we're stuck," she said, pointing upward.

Severus tried to back away from her and found he could not. He scowled. "Indeed."

"Well, we could solve this ourselves…" she said, glancing at him with something that remotely resembled hope.

He gifted her the darkest sneer he could muster. What would Potter say if he knew he had kissed his wife while reminiscing of his mother? Did Potter even know how much his wife resembled Lil? Perhaps Potter suffered some kind of Oedipus complex…

"Oh, never mind," Ginevra huffed when Severus didn't answer. In a near-perfect imitation of Molly, she put her hands on her hips and looked around again for her husband who was still nowhere in sight.

"Not only would I deem it inappropriate to kiss the Chosen One's wife," Severus commented sourly, "I might suggest that this enchantment may not be confined to our temporary imprisonment."

"You mean if we kissed in order to release the spell, my illustrious brother might have other…surprises in store?" She paused. "Yeah, you're probably right. I wouldn't put it past him. Our faces would get stuck together. Or the mistletoe would scream, 'Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater,' or some other shite."

Severus snorted.

Neither said anything as the sound of chaos clambered through the air.

Well, at least it felt cooler in the alcove. And at least Ginevra smelled…nice.

Merlin, where the hell was his wife when he needed her? And how long would they have to stay trapped in this barely visible recess, until their saviors—in the form of their spouses—happened by?

Severus set his jaw, glared up at the offending greenery, and willed the blasted thing out of existence...and a memory surfaced, unbidden, of another time, another mistletoe.

"Hey, you."

"Hey."

He took her in. Merlin, she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. Her emerald green dress matched her eyes perfectly; he wasn't sure if the colour was a nod to his house or not. Certainly, her fellow lions must have teased her about it, regardless.

"Thanks for coming with me, Lil," he said reverently.

"Sure."

Severus took her hand, led her down the stairs, and they stepped into the Great Hall, which had been transformed for the Yule Ball.

"Wow," Lily breathed, staring up at the open ceiling that resembled the nighttime sky. The snowflakes floated around her, sticking to her shoulders and to her hair. He smiled at the wonder on her face. "Incredible."

Exactly, he thought.

Severus pulled his eyes away and glanced around the room. He noticed Avery and Mulciber near the hors d'oeuvres. They'd been suspicious that he had chosen to escort a Gryffindor, so he would at least have to greet his housemates to help smooth things over. "I'll be right back."

"Sev, please," she said. "Stay here with me. Don't spend the night talking to those two."

"Come on, Lil. I'll be back in a few. It's no big deal."

"It is. It really is."

"You're being ridiculous, as usual."

He hated when Lily tried to keep him from his friends. After all, he never asked her to stay away from the Gryffindors he didn't like, did he?

"So what, should I hang around here all night just to make sure Potter doesn't annoy you? Like I'm some stupid guard dog? Because there's no other reason for me to stick around, right?" he snapped.

"Sev…"

He let himself sigh and dragged his hand down his face. "Sorry," he mumbled. No matter what he had just said, he didn't want to fight. Tonight, he had other plans—in his pocket.

"Never mind, I won't talk to them. I'll get us some drinks. Be back in a minute."

Severus grabbed two glasses of punch—spiked, curtesy of Black—and headed back towards his date. Lily was facing away from him, her attention on the fairy lights draped along the far wall. Her long red hair reflected the lazy light, and Merlin, it was breathtaking. It always was.

He paused, as he did every day, to beg any deity who might listen to give him the only thing he wanted: a chance with her. This is the night I'm going to try, he thought. Please, give her to me. I'll give up Avery and Mulciber. I'll make her happy. Please.

This time, though, he added the last bit he had to bargain with—the tiny bit of leverage left that he could offer to a deity, the final negotiation against the pull of fate, against the destiny he saw rising before him. After his next words, there would be nothing left to add to his plea. If you give her to me, I'll give up the Dark Arts. Forever. And if you do, I'll never ask for anything else again.

As he approached her, he put their two drinks in his left hand and felt around for the leaves in his pocket with his right. They were there. Maybe a little worse for wear, but they were there. He gathered his courage, striding towards her with purpose.

He had made his bargain. It had to be now. Right now.

"Hey," Lil said, smiling.

"Hey." He handed her a glass, suddenly nervous. "I brought something…"

Lil looked at him oddly. "You did. Thanks for the drink."

"Not that." He reached into his pocket to retrieve the fading leaves of mistletoe. He held the wilted green up between them, allowing a sly smile to creep across his lips.

Lily glanced at it, her own smile faltering. Her ivory skin turned pale. "Oh, Sev..." she breathed. "You know how much I love you, but not…I can't…I…" She took a step back. "Look, I think I'd better go…"

"Wait—"

As she spun away, he released the limp, wrinkled sprig of mistletoe and watched it as it slowly drifted to the floor at his feet, vowing never to pray again.

"Severus?"

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as the welcome voice of his wife interrupted the last of the memory. He turned to see Hermione, with The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Him in tow. She glanced between him and Ginevra curiously.

"I'm afraid that I did not avoid this year's frivolity after all," he said as emotionlessly as he could.

Hermione looked at him blankly. Potter swayed next to her, his glasses lying crookedly across his nose. The Chosen One glanced at Ginevra, blinked, and took a sip of his Firewhisky. He seemed to be past the ability to form words.

The woman that had materialized to rescue him couldn't have been more unlike the girl he had longed for all those years ago. Her hair wasn't the long, silken red that had once mesmerized him; instead, hers was a curly, riotous mess. Her eyes weren't an enchanting, vivid green; instead, hers were an ordinary, quite unremarkable brown.

But her curly hair allowed him to hold her fast when he made love to her, and when he carded his fingers through it, they didn't slip—unlike, he imagined, they would if he had tried to hold on to Lily's. His wife's brown eyes were the colour of warmth and comfort; they shone with years of love and respect for him. Not once had they held disgust or contempt. Or rejection.

Merlin, he loved this woman. He felt his lips curl into a small smile.

"We're stuck," Ginevra clarified, pointing up at the mistletoe and rolling her eyes. Her husband didn't respond.

"Ah. Need a little help?" Hermione asked, smiling back at Severus shyly.

His wife of nearly a decade saddled up beside him, inserting herself thoroughly in the small space between him and Ginevra, and wrapping her arms around his neck. He looked down at her tiny frame…and silently thanked the deity that refused his request all those years ago.

"You okay?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he whispered back. "Just thankful for a plea, if you will, that went unanswered."

Hermione looked at him quizzically then lifted herself up on her tiptoes to kiss him, her lips warm and firm against his. She smelled like…home. And while he was not particularly given to public displays of affection, this time, he welcomed her kiss with the gratitude of a man who had been presented a gift that was both precious and undeserved.

He felt something give way. It was more than the release of the magic confining him to the space under the mistletoe; it was as if he'd been freed from the pain of another tiny piece of his past.

Because when he kissed his wife, it felt like—she felt like—the answer. To a prayer.

To everything.