Author's Note: Originally written for The Sailor Owls and Lorenzoguy14, who wanted some Fremione and a Weasley Christmas respectively. Also shaped by the Months of the Year Competition at HPFC. If you have any ideas / plot bunnies / situations you'd like to see happen, you're welcome to write a comment - I might put it in.

On the first day of Christmas, Hermione and Harry arrived together. Hermione, though fond of Mrs. Weasley, also wary of her ever since their fourth year, was wearing a dark blue sweater with a gold-like H sewn on it. Her hair looked big and littered with snowflakes in the big scarf she'd wound around her neck. Harry, only wearing a winter's jacket over a t-shirt, was immediately donned a home-knitted scarf by Mrs. Weasley, earning him a pair of raised eyebrows from Hermione.

I told you so.

Harry shrugged.

Inside sat Luna and Ginny at the dining table, Luna braiding snowdrops and dirigible plums into Ginny's long, red hair.

"Hullo, Harry," Luna said in her melodic, far-off voice. Ginny snapped her head to the side, causing a few of the plums to slide out of her hair.

"Hey, guys!" she said with a big smile. Ginny, though she and Harry had decided to call off their relationship when she took a job offer with the Holyhead Harpies, still had a laid-back, confident way around him and he was infinitely grateful for that.

"Hey, Luna," he returned, "Hey, Ginny."

"Hullo, Hermione."

"Hi, Luna," Hermione said with warmth in her voice, though she glanced at Harry hesitantly as she said it. Though Hermione had grown fond of Luna, they could still be found arguing in the late hours when Hermione found herself full of eggnog and a sceptical approach to Luna's theories. Hermione, afraid that she might revive an old slight, always felt moral hangovers the next day.

Luna didn't seem to give Hermione's scepticism much thought.

"Harry! Hermione!"

The stairs croaked under the weight of the youngest Weasley brother's frantic footfalls, greeting them both in one big, crushing hug. He had grown, not in height but in bulk, amassing just the slightest of weight and muscle.

They had all changed. Despite Hermione's discomfort, she and Luna had found a common pastime: writing poetry. Luna, of course, wrote about mythical creatures, about hawthorn and about what you might see when holding your hand up in front of the sun (- a whole lot of nothing, Hermione would argue before Harry shushed her -). Hermione on the other hand excelled at complicated metaphors, always somehow revolving around the issue of loss and acceptance.

Harry had once heard Mrs. Weasley admit that Hermione's "poetry was well performed", which Harry knew to be high praise. Whereas Luna would perform hers with a paper in hand, sometimes dramatically looking up, her voice carrying eerily through the room, Hermione rarely performed in front of friends and family (- and even Mrs. Weasley had only overheard a private session by mistake -) but her words were performed with sincerity and vulnerability and completely by heart. Her voice was alternately safe and cracked and Harry and Ron came as often as she invited them to her public performances.

They were all in the beginning of their twenties (- Hermione always one year ahead -) and Harry admired his friends more than ever.

"Harry, mate!" a couple of voices called as the twins followed Ron down the stairs. Halfway there they noticed Hermione who had been somewhat hidden behind Ron's engulfing frame, and Fred said, "And the lady Hermione."

"Hey, 'Mione," George followed chirpily and they split up, hugging Harry and Hermione in turns.

Mrs. Weasley suddenly marched in, big, black wellingtons on her feet and a chicken in each hand.

"Chicken soup, again?" George said cheekily.

"Mum, really, you're not going to persuade us to drop the Fox Tongue Potion, no matter if they do say you are what you eat," Fred followed up. Then the both of them began clucking and flapping their "wings", walking around the kitchen area in a squatting position.

"Oh, you two!" Mrs. Weasley snapped. When that obviously didn't work, she took out her wand, saying with determination, "You have until the count of three!"

"Oh no, she'll do us like one of her cakes!" Fred called, signalling their frenzied, clucking retreat up the stairs.

"Her cakes?" Harry asked Hermione, who shrugged, looking to Mrs. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley, however, had obviously decided to ignore the comment.

"She bought a new book," Ginny, whose hair now sat in a long, uneven braid, small hairs sticking out between the larger columns, snowdrops and dirigible plums seemingly haphazardly interspersed, nodded towards a collection of cakes over by the window, each new one in a contorted shape.

Harry and Hermione glanced at Ron.

"It's written by Gilderoy Lockhart."

At this, they exchanged surprised looks. Gilderoy Lockhart's last book had been Who Am I?, his career had been a fraud and all four of them knew him as the most incompetent wizard they had ever met.

"Well, that explains the cakes I suppose," Harry said.

Ginny answered, "I suppose she still fancies him a little," at which Hermione blushed.

"Now, Ginny, Ron, would you mind showing Harry and Hermione up to their rooms?"

"They've been here almost every summer for the past ten years, Mum, I think they know where to go," Ron said.

Then Ginny nudged Hermione in the ribs with an elbow and said, "You're with me and Luna."

A warm smile bloomed on Hermione's face.

That afternoon, Hermione could be found sitting in the small alcove beneath the stairs. A fully decorated Christmas tree with already a few dozen presents beneath it had taken place next to the fireplace, the top bending forcibly against the ceiling. Hermione was pampering a cup of tea as she sat, watching big, fluffy snowflakes glide through the air.

"Hermione," someone whispered and she looked up, seeing Fred with his left hand on the stairs, excitedly waving her over with his right.

Getting up, Hermione trotted around the coffee table and came to his side. He smelled good, like pine and fresh air, and she wondered if he (and George) had been the ones to bring in the Christmas tree.

"Look," he said, pointing out the doors to figures in the snow, silhouettes washed out against the white hue of winter, tumbling, sliding, completely incapable of standing on their own two feet. Hermione tried to hide a giggle, her body convulsing slightly and making her aware of Fred's sudden proximity. His hand still on the staircase, he was now effectively standing with an arm around her shoulder.

She looked up and noticed he wasn't looking outside.

He was looking at her.

"Fred," Hermione began wilfully and a little warily.

Fred raised his eyebrows questioningly, to which Hermione shook her head and looked outside again. The warmth pulsating from his torso made her light-headed and she almost leaned back into his arm.

"I've got it!" sounded suddenly from above and George stormed down the stairs.

In the confusion, both Hermione and Fred straightened and the moment was lost.

"Fred, here! I did it!"

George was shoving one of the chickens (- or was that a partridge -) into Fred's open arms, to which Fred responded, "Brilliant!"

Hermione, looking on with confusion, said suddenly, "What are you two up to?"

"Ah, you wound us, Hermione," George said, faking a blow to the heart.

"Yes, what would possibly make you think we're up to something?" said Fred, winking.

Hermione crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow.

"Here," said Fred, dumping the restless chicken into her arms and putting a hand on her shoulder, "You take care of this. That way you'll know we have absolutely no plans whatsoever with that chicken."

Then he turned towards George and walked away with his twin.

"But -!"

"No plans whatsoever, Hermione," called George.

Hermione, a little clueless, decided to let the chicken loose in Ginny's old room. It was a quaint little place, Quidditch posters ferociously covering at least two of the walls, but it was also a light, breathing place with ferns and potted plants all over the shelves and windowsills. Hermione suspected that most of them had been presents from Neville as she had heard Ginny divulge on several occasions that nothing living could survive her touch.

It wouldn't surprise Hermione if Luna had done a little to keep them alive over the holidays.

Setting down the chicken, it immediately ran away from her, making a beeline from her feet to one of the plantless pots, making a determined nest on top of the dirt.

Hermione, curious, furrowed her brows and went to pick the chicken up. Immediately squawking and flailing, it flapped its wings frenetically, and a drowsy voice called, "What the -! Hermione?"

Turning around, Hermione saw Ginny, seemingly wakened from an afternoon nap, one leg hanging from the bed while she pushed forward with one hand on the edge of the bed.

"I don't know. It just- well."

"What's it doi- Is that one of Mum's chickens?"

Hermione, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks, said defensively, "Fred gave it to me!"

Ginny peered at her questioningly for a second.

"Huh."

"He and George are doing- something. I didn't know what to do with it."

"Put it back in the hen house?" Ginny suggested, amused.

"You're right," Hermione said a moment later, smiling at herself, wondering why she hadn't done so immediately.

Rising from the bed and stretching, yawning noisily, Ginny came over to look at it. Placing her hands on her hips, she said, "Well, it looks cosy. Let it stay a little while."

Ginny looked out the window.

"It's cold outside."