The snow outside The Burrow was subtle and quiet. It was almost as if life was a movie and everything was happening perfectly.
Or so he hoped.
Ron rubbed his callous palms together as he looked out the window, watching as the snow calmly fell down from the sky.
He was clad in this year's Weasley jumper and a pair of jeans, his hair as red as ever.
It was the Christmas Eve, and The Burrow was bustling with excitement.
Although the entire house was in a festive mood, and he felt that he should be, he just couldn't. Not now.
This always happened, every year, ever since the war.
Christmas was supposed to be a time of forgiveness, but he couldn't forgive whoever killed Fred, he couldn't forgive who destroyed their family. He couldn't forgive those who hurt them.
He felt bitter.
Every Christmas since then, they weren't complete. And sometimes it felt empty.
Suddenly, something popped behind him, and confetti fell down on his head, knocking him out of his reverie.
It was George, holding a Muggle confetti cannon.
He gave Ron an uneasy smile, his eyes glassy. Ron returned the smile.
"Angelina's pregnant," George offered, in an attempt to make conversation.
And he did. He rose from his seat by the window and hugged George.
"Congratulations, George."
George smiled, "we're naming him Fred."