Lights on the Tree
It was the first Christmas Eve he had ever spent on his own.
There had been the Dursleys, who had hardly been any better than being alone, then the happier Christmases at Hogwarts, and even during the War he had been with Hermione.
Ginny had asked him out on Christmas Eve. Their tumultuous relationship had lasted three years, two months, and six days, to be ended by Ginny simply walking away down the snowy street. It had been the least dramatic part of their entire lives together.
And now it was December again, and tomorrow would be Christmas. He had accepted Ron and Hermione's invitation to Christmas dinner, he had accepted Mrs. Weasley's extension of "a day for family" to include him, he had even accepted the requisite gilt-edged invitation to the Annual Malfoy Christmas Ball.
But now he was standing in his kitchen, holding a steaming mug of tea between his cold hands, and looking into the tiny living room.
Ginny had always insisted on loading the tree with piles of sentimental homemade ornaments that, in his opinion, fluctuated between just tacky and appallingly sappy. There could only be candles, real candles, never muggle lights.
"I don't like them," she had said every year, when Harry tried to put up the lights that reminded him of home, even though he had only ever seen them at the Dursleys', and that had never been home. But despite the old fashioned-ness of her decorations, Ginny had always been childishly eager to get the decorating done with, to see the tree in its fully furnished glory. A flick of her wand, and everything piled haphazardly across the branches was good enough for her.
Harry stood, looking at his little tree, smelling the faintly spicy scent of his ginger-lemon tea, and the faintly spicy scent of cut evergreens. The lights blinked slowly, making shadows against the long strings of snowy white popcorn and brilliant red cranberries.
He slipped quietly into the glowing warmth of the Christmas lights, not quite as bright as the ceiling fixture would be if he turned it on, but enough to read by, if you were close.
Just to amuse himself, he tapped once, lightly, on the silver metal snowflake that hung on the left side of the tree. All the tiny lights blinked off, and Harry felt a sudden, unexpected pang at their absence. He tapped the snowflake again, and they glowed back to life.
"Dad had one of those," Ginny had said dismissively, when Harry had shown her the snowflake. "A little muggle toy. Would you get out the candles?" Her candles had always dripped wax and threatened to catch something on fire, and they had always smelt funny, a smell strong enough to overpower the delicate scent of pine needles that Harry loved.
This year, he had strung the popcorn and cranberries by hand, each one of them, and draped and arranged the strings without his wand. It was more beautiful that way. It meant more.
The wreath Ron and Hermione had sent was not allowed inside, inside the silently peaceful flat that was now his alone. It hung outside, on his door, and he smiled when he went in and out.
He sat down, still nursing his tea, and looked at the empty foot of the tree. Tomorrow, the packages that were sitting in his bedroom would magic themselves to the feet of various Christmas trees - Ron and Hermione's, the Weasley's, Neville's, Hagrid's - and in return, mysterious gifts would appear at the base of his tree.
But for tonight, the tree was empty and beautiful, all alone.
Because tonight, Harry decided, tonight was his night, and his alone.