Author's Note: The inspiration for this fic came from the 2005 Winter Fanfiction Challenge on MuggleNet. It takes place after the seventh book, and I'm only making assumptions about who survives through that book. I have very specific ideas about who dies when for dramatic effect and emotion. Anyway, this is snapshot of the first Christmas Harry and his friends celebrate after the seventh book.
Dampened Frivolity
Christmas. A happy time. Or so it should have been. This year was far removed from the frivolity of most years, but there seemed to be a quiet, sad sort of peace heavy in the snowy air. Many had fallen in the Second War. Few families were left untouched. But this was the price they had willingly paid for peace and freedom. Life would have been much harder than it was even now, if they had not given up so much.
And on this diminished yet happy night, a family was gathering before the fire in a ramshackle house on a hill, after a feast of celebration. This family had been larger, once, but they had given up many of their members to the War. What few remained would be wounded for life because of this. The two who appeared to be the heads of the family sat side-by-side, holding hands and smiling bravely for the others, though their thoughts had turned to the seats that should have been filled. This red-haired couple had given up their own children, their two youngest. One son who now sat in the embrace of his wife had been mangled almost beyond recognition, another sobered and embittered so thoroughly that it was a marvel he had even come this year. Their eldest was abroad, and the twins (who had once been all that kept the family smiling) were rather subdued, though still laughing and making their usual jokes as they played with the bandy-legged cat on the hearth rug.
A haggard-looking man slumped in an armchair close to the fire. His hair was streaked with grey and his face was wrinkled, though he was hardly old enough to merit these features. His eyelids sagged tiredly and he gave the overall impression of someone who had just recovered from a terrible illness. Even so, he smiled as he watched the twins. Though his thoughts were straying to his three dearest and now dead friends, he managed to keep up a semblance of holiday cheer.
Perched daintily to one side, and looking decidedly out of place, was a thin, refined woman with a copious length of light blond hair. One could tell from her exquisite gold-threaded gown and diamond-encrusted necklace that she possessed no small amount of wealth. She was speaking in a dignified manner with an old, sharp-eyed woman who wore a green silk dress and clutched a bright red purse. A teenager, who was obviously the rich woman's son, slouched grumpily at her side. Slick, white-blond hair accented his pale, pointed face and garment of deep green velvet. His cold eyes took in his surroundings with utmost distaste and contempt; if it had been up to him, he would never have set foot in this foul excuse for a house. But his mother had told him primly before departing that he would do well to be courteous to this family, for they were ultimately the reason he was even alive. So he had grudgingly agreed to come, but that didn't mean he would enjoy it!
Sitting comfortably on the sofa were four of his least favorite former classmates, two boys and two girls who watched the conversation of a certain Mr. Lovegood and Mr. Granger – who sat off to one side – with some amusement. One girl with light hair, protuberant dreamy eyes, and a necklace made of corks was reading a vividly-colored magazine which she held upside down. The boy who sat next to her was slightly roundish and kept on shooting nervous glances at his grandmother. The other two who sat on the sofa were perhaps the most subdued in the entire room. One a skinny boy with messy black hair and vivid green eyes, the other a girl whose most defining feature was her bushy brown hair, they had been friends for years and were extremely thankful to have each other at a time like this. But they had had another friend, and without him nothing could ever be the same. He had been one of the casualties of this War, perhaps the hardest one to bear for his black-haired friend.
This family was not so different from many others who struggled on now the War was over. There was only one major difference: they had Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, vanquisher of the Dark Lord. Rumors about him and what he had done raced about from ear to ear faster than a dragon. Only he knew exactly what had happened at that final, desperate hour, and just how he had killed the man who could never die. Harry had tried to explain it to Hermione, his best friend, but she didn't understand. How could she? The only person who could understand, perhaps, would be Dumbledore, and he was dead.
The presents began to be handed around, and Harry smiled sadly, thinking of other Christmases. How could they be happier when Voldemort had held them all captive to fear? Harry absently opened his presents, putting on a fake yet believable grin for each one and thanking each giver. A brooch depicting two silver snakes entwined around each other, given haughtily and stubbornly by the two Malfoys. A deep green hand-knitted sweater with a golden lightning bolt across the front, matching the scar on his forehead, a customary gift from Mrs. Weasley. A pair of strange-looking spectacles which Luna Lovegood insisted enabled you to see people's thoughts. Harry put these, among others, in a small pile at his feet. Chatter rose up around the room, happy enough for the occasion at last. After watching Draco grudgingly become immersed in Speaking with Snakes: A Path to Parseltongue, Hermione's gift to him, he looked over at Hermione herself. She was admiring the diamond-encrusted bracelet Mrs. Malfoy had given her, but then she looked up and met Harry's gaze. They exchanged a sad sort of smile, and sat in comfortable companionship in the midst of everyone they loved most.
This family had sacrificed many things to see this day at last, and finally they could enjoy a long-awaited peace. Mrs. Weasley glanced at her magical clock and smiled contentedly when she saw that all the hands pointed to "home". It would be a long time before any of them would point to "motal peril" again.