Christmas Eve

Three days: of blizzards, of carols, of half written, nearly sent letters...

Victoire,

I miss you.

I'm sure you know that. Is there much a point of sending you a letter full of what you already know?

Dear Victoire,

I wonder if you know how your laughter rings in my ears? Do you know I can't write my essay on the painting Olympia without thinking of your boldness? Could you imagine that I flipped through one of my old herbology books last night just to feel nearer to you?

My dearest Victoire,

I see your hair playing in the sunlight as you walk around a corner, I see you sleeping on the couch in the sitting room with moonlight staining your skin, I see you climbing up into the attic room and the torchlight flickering over your legs. Is it possible to be haunted by the living?

Is it possible to be at the Burrow and not think of you? I don't think so. Every corner where we kissed, every glimpse of the orchard, the tall grass, the forest's edge and I remember the pout of your lips, your grasping hands, your

My love,

You're wrong.

I'm not as bad as you. I'm worse. I know I'll have you back today. I know I'll see you this evening. But it is four in the morning, and I have spent the entire night, the past three days imagining what you did that night I had to leave you. I have teased out every detail, and am content in knowing that you will never read this.

And so I will say here that I have spent hours thinking of you. You, naked in your bed: your breasts peaking through your hair as they always do, your nipples that love to be pinched and pulled, your hands skimming over your skin, your fingers as they find your wet cunt, play and swirl around your clit, slide inside you, curl upward and tease the nerves 'til your lips part, panting, moaning, your legs shake, your hips writhe and rise to each touch, your skin grows slick with sweat, and you come around your fingers.

My love, I could think of nothing more perfect.

When he woke, he lingered on the contents of the last letter as much as he could. It was considerably more enjoyable to think about Victoire than the ceremony to happen later that night.

Slowly, he opened both eyes to find the invitation—dark green parchment embossed in gold with the Order of Merlin seal—where he left it on his bedside table, and promptly resolved to sleep away as much of the day as he could manage.

Hours later, Teddy stood in a small space off the ballroom in the Wizengamot headquarters. A lounge, the assistant to the Chief Warlock had called it when he, Harry, and Ginny arrived early, as requested.

Albert Foxcroft, Head of Magical Law Enforcement and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot Court for the past twenty years, was far too busy, they were told, to greet them himself, and so his assistant was sent in his place.

They had been walked through the details of the night's events—Teddy's cue to walk on stage, the proper way to hold the award, where to turn for the photographer from the Daily Prophet—and with each new instruction Teddy felt smaller, more and more like an accident waiting to happen.

"What if I fuck up?" he asked Harry abruptly.

"Then I'll tell you about the time I accidentally blew up my aunt," Harry said warmly, "and whatever you might've done will seem very smooth by comparison."

He watched through a crack in the door as members of the Wizengamot and past receivers of the Order of Merlin began to arrive, their dress robes billowing like richly colored sails from the blustering wind and rain that crept inside.

Housed in what appeared to the passing muggle as the decrepit and decaying West India Docks warehouse on the Thames, the headquarters of the Wizengamot allowed absolutely no means of magical entry to the building for the security of its members. Only through the front door could they enter, and what an entrance they made—each new guest was framed by a colossal work of delicately wrought iron and heralded with a howl of thunder, while a footman in midnight blue livery took their traveling cloaks.

Across the room, Teddy spotted a twelve piece orchestra readying their instruments, Foxcroft addressing his assistant, more footmen in the back corner circulating trays layered high with flutes of champaign, and heard the distant clatter and smattering of angry French from the kitchen.

His jaw, he knew, must've looked detached when they first arrived. He had never seen pictures of the Wizengamot headquarters, and couldn't remember a single detail of when he was there with his Gran for his mother's ceremony. But it seemed impossible not to stare at the windowed ceiling made of crystal—not glass, the assistant reminded them—and the gilded parapet style molding that crowned the emerald walls.

The ballroom itself had begun to fill with people, and as Teddy cast his eye around the room, he saw many a face that had looked out at him from a photo in the Daily Prophet, a painting at Hogwarts, the back cover of a book, even the dust jacket of his favorite records. Tilly Toke, the batty old witch who saved at least a dozen muggles from the attack of a Welsh Green dragon, chatted with one of the members of The Weird Sisters, the ghost of Gifford Ollenton discussed tactical flying with Gwenog Jones, and from behind his great, bushy eyebrows and matching russet beard, Foxcroft laughed uproariously with Millicent Bagnold.

He was going to fuck up, he was sure of it as he watched them all.

Calmed only slightly by the arrival of Angelina and George, Percy and Audrey, Ron and Hermione, his eyes grew wide as saucers when Ginny suggested they join the others.

"N-now?" Teddy stuttered.

"Looking to make a grand entrance, are we?" the grinning assistant asked, and Teddy jumped. He hadn't noticed the little wizard's return.

"No, no, now's fine," Teddy said quickly.

His mouth went dry and he willed his feet to not trip as he followed Harry and Ginny into the crowd. He hoped to be inconspicuous—invisible, even—draw as little attention to himself as possible (rather difficult with this bright blue hair of mine, he thought ruefully), but the moment he stepped into the ballroom he felt surrounded by hands to shake, small talk to make, and congratulations to answer for. It all amounted to babble—clattering, inescapable, ceaseless…

And then he saw her.

She beamed at him, and walked through the crowd like a streak of moving, breathing molten silver in the glimmering, golden room. In this dress, this slip of pleated grey silk dotted with white jewels that glittered like dark stars, this sliver of moonlight she had somehow managed to slink around her body, no one would look at her and think girl, no one would look at her and think child, no one would look at her and think anything but Valkyrie. For that was what she was to him as the cluster of congratulators parted for her, as she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, as she smiled, her sharp little teeth peaking out, and said enchantingly, "Excuse us, won't you?" and guided him away from the crowd.

He hardly watched where they were going, only looked down at her, noticed the sequins fashioned as feathers that capped her shoulders, laughed to himself, and thought, yes, my love, remind them that when angry your kind shed their pretty outsides, sprout wings and hurl fire, remind them you are never to be trifled with.

Victoire spotted him first—noticed him across the room, flustered, encased by new faces, a pink flush splashed over his neck at feeling so completely overwhelmed.

She remembered what her Maman said when she told her why she'd be coming tonight: "When you were a girl, and your father and I would go to parties, you would look at the two of us and say, 'Papa, next to Maman I cannot see your scars.' That is what you will do for Teddy."

And so when her Grand-Mere offered her one of her ball dresses, Victoire chose not the one of blue taffeta with a wide, full skirt, nor the one of black lace with a train that ensured no one could follow behind her, but the one of steel grey that shimmered like stardust with the unthwartable look of armor. For that was what she'd be for him tonight, and happily so.

She knew precisely the moment he found her in the crowd because his eyes focused, his shoulders dropped, and his back straitened—tall and proud. Those around him faded away easily enough, and soon they were on their own, tucked behind a great marble pillar, out of sight.

"I quite like this," she said, smirking up at him, her fingers curling around one of his lapels. "Makes you look a bit older."

He smiled dreamily, and said softly. "'S'not fair, my mind goes blank when I look at you."

"Blank?" she asked, grinning, more than a little pleased with herself.

The sound of the orchestra starting swelled in the air around them, and Victoire absentmindedly began to hum the tune.

He raised his palm to her cheek, ran his thumb along the pout of her bottom lip, and the minute vibrations tickled the pad of his finger. "Well, not quite blank so much as filled entirely with you..."

"I hoped you'd like it," she said quietly, and shivered slightly at the touch of his finger to her lips.

They stayed like this for many a moment, each watching the other through fascinated eyes, until Victoire said, "Is this what you'd like to do all night?"

"What I'd like to do?" Teddy asked.

"What's that saying? This is your party," she said, smiling, and he couldn't stop himself from staring once again.

"With you on my arm, it definitely is," he said with a cheeky wink, and he was pleased to see the laughter bubble forward from her lips. "As for what I'd like to do—"

He swiped two flutes of champaign off a passing tray, and handed one to her. "Cheers."

"Cheers," she repeated happily before taking a sip.

His hand ran down the length of her arm, his calluses from Quidditch rough against her skin, and she broke out in goosebumps at the memory of that very same feeling from the last night they had been in his room.

He leaned nearer, his mouth against her ear, and whispered, "I missed you."

The complete, unguarded sincerity of his words stilled her, stopped her from quipping 'so that's what you'd like to do.' Instead, she whispered in return, "I missed you too…" And after a long while, she added, "Enough to write you a letter."

Teddy sighed, and his eyes slid shut. It had been a marvelous letter too.

My dear Teddy,

I think I've become spoiled by our nights together. Whether we're in your bed or mine, in the grass by the lake or in the Forbidden Forest, I cannot imagine a night without you. When the sun sets, I look for you around every corner, in every quiet moment, and since I cannot find you here, I must assume you're the night itself. The sky you're hair—the dark, inky blue you've been wearing lately—the freckles, the marks scattered over your back like constellations to be charted. And with each new night I realize: forget new worlds, forget the stars, there is nothing so wonderful as discovering the great depths of a person. My Teddy, I love you.

"I know," he breathed, his eyes still closed, and he reached into his pocket to retrieve the little square of folded parchment. He opened his eyes to find her watching him.

He reached out for her suddenly, and pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck as he did. "Fuck, I'm so nervous, Victoire. I've been walking around with it in my pocket all day. I'm so glad you're here."

She wished they were at his Gran's old house, the Burrow, her room, anywhere she could pull him away from the party, and they could flirt and enjoy each other from the sidelines like they usually did.

He raised his head from her shoulder and brought his mouth to hers, grinning at the little sigh that parted her lips. She bit lightly, playfully at his bottom lip, happy to be in familiar territory, to be able to touch him and comfort him in a way she knew how.

Faintly, she was aware of a flashbulb going off across the room, and realized if they kept at it much longer they were bound to be noticed by Rita Skeeter.

"We'll get spotted," she whispered, her voice wavering when his mouth descended to the nape of her neck. "And then we'll never hear the end of it."

"What happened to 'it's my party'?" Teddy asked, and she nearly laughed at how he pouted.

"It can be your party by the bar," she said, and with his hand in hers, led him toward it.

"What if they don't serve you?" Teddy asked, hoping to find a reason why they should return to the dark corner they'd been hiding in.

She cast a rather doubtful look over her shoulder, her hair leapt into the air between them as they moved, and he realized it was much more likely they wouldn't be able to speak at the sight of her than deny her.

"Then we'll go back to snogging in whatever hidden place we can find," she said, entertaining the idea. "And when it's time for you to go on stage, they'll put that big spot light on to find you in the crowd, and Foxcroft will say, 'Ah look, there's Edward, right where we always look to find him—with his tongue down his girlfriend's throat. What a picture for the Prophet.'"

"Edward?" Teddy asked, unhappy at the sound of his given name. "You think they'll call me Edward?"

She turned to him, smirking, but before she had the chance to tease him, the torchlight dimmed, the orchestra quieted and the assistant to the Chief Warlock was at Teddy's side.

"Mr. Lupin," the assistant said in a simpering voice. "If you'll come with me, we will start the ceremony shortly."

Teddy's eyes widened, he gripped Victoire's hand tighter, and she felt the panic rise in him.

"In a moment or two," Victoire said haughtily to the little man. "We aren't finished speaking."

"Of course," the assistant rushed to say, and Teddy was surprised to see a blush spread blotchily over his cheeks. "Of course, whenever you're ready."

"Thank you," Victoire said dismissively, and the assistant left them.

Teddy looked at her, his eyes somehow wider. "I'm gunna—"

She kissed him, her mouth sweet against his. "I love you, and you're not going to fuck up."

Teddy looked at her hopefully. "You sure?"

She smiled, and the warmth of it spread through Teddy like a shot of Firewhiskey. "Absolutely."

He straightened up, and nodded into his resolve. "Alright. I'm ready. I'm ready. I'm gunna go."

He kissed her cheek, steeling himself a moment longer before he walked toward the front of the room where he could see the assistant to the Chief Warlock, and Foxcroft himself, waiting.

"Ah, good, Lupin m'boy, there you are," said Foxcroft, glancing over at Teddy. "All set, are we?"

Teddy looked up at Foxcroft, a word ready on his tongue, but instead of replying he felt struck by how strangely organized the man's beard was. It appeared as if every hair had been painstakingly arranged to look perfectly straight and tidy, and left Teddy with the impression of being spoken to by a rather pompous ginger lion.

"Yes," Teddy said finally. "Whenever you are."

"Good, good," Foxcroft stated before Teddy finished speaking, and Teddy started to realize why Hermione always spoke of her boss in very clipped tones.

With a wave of Foxcroft's wand, the torchlight focused on a singular spot at the head of the room, and without preamble, he walked into it.

"Ladies and gentleman," he began grandly, and the room quieted to a hush. "Welcome, welcome. It is a pleasure to see you all here tonight. Rarely is one surrounded by so many of our national heroes. But of course, I do promise to be quick, lest we have a repeat of George Weasley's ceremony."

Foxcroft's eyes narrowed as he peered through the bright light and over the crowd. "You didn't bring any Catherine Wheels this time, did you, Weasley?"

"Seems we're going to find out pretty soon," George called amiably, and laughter rumbled from the crowd.

"Well then," Foxcroft said with a look of thinly veiled irritation. "As you very well know, the Order of Merlin is a historic award. Granted to only the very finest witches and wizards for the past six centuries, it represents the highest mark of achievement for our kind… And that has been just the trouble in the Wizengamot's consideration of the awardee we honor tonight. For he is not one of our kind."

He paused dramatically, allowing time for his words to settle over the room, and the dread he'd been feeling all night started to bloom deep in the pit of Teddy's stomach.

"In the wake of his passing," Foxcroft continued. "Remus Lupin became rather famously known as the werewolf who fought alongside the Order of the Pheonix in the Battle of Hogwarts. On the 2nd of May, 1998, he marked himself as a werewolf of astounding bravery and unparalleled selflessness in the sacrifice of his life for the safety of wizarding kind… But if you ask any one of us today what comes to mind when considering werewolves at the Battle of Hogwarts, the reply will undoubtedly be filled with tales of Fenrir Greyback who butchered, mutilated and slaughtered hundreds of our kind under the guise of fighting for the greater werewolf freedoms promised to him by Voldemort… And Greyback was hardly alone.

"Rarely rising above our most gruesome perceptions, it appears all werewolves are satisfied in being nothing more than monsters. All except one, that is."

He smiled magnanimously, and Teddy recalled sickeningly the assistant's mention of this rehearsed hesitation—to give the orchestra a better chance of accompanying Foxcroft's final line. "And so tonight we the Wizengamot honor the exception to the rule, the one who proved their kind has a choice between man and monster, Mr. Remus John Lupin with an Order of Merlin, First Class, accepted for him by his son, Edward."

It is remarkable how effective anger is at quelling fear, how completely Teddy could forget every minute detail he worried over—nervous he'd somehow mar the memory of this night. He fought a bitter laugh at the thought; there wasn't any way he could've ruined things as entirely as this speech had.

Only when he heard Foxcroft repeat his name, reach out his hand and say, "Edward, come forward, come forward, no need to be shy," did Teddy remember the asinine part he was expected to play.

He stepped toward the man, his back straight, his shoulders relaxed, entirely at ease now. He no longer needed to worry about impressing these people, about looking like a child.

The following moments seemed to pass in a blur, the shaking of hands, the posing for pictures. The award itself was handed to him for only the briefest time before it was taken away to be wrapped up safely. Foxcroft clapped Teddy on the back, and steered him toward others with saccharin, self-serving smiles, and they too congratulated him on his father who managed to act like a human being instead of "little more than a dog like the rest of his kind."

Nothing seemed real until Victoire approached him, smiling stiffly, and said for the sycophants to hear, "Come dance with me, darling."

"Quite a girl you've got, Lupin," said one of Foxcroft's men, eyeing Victoire appreciatively, his attention lingering so long Teddy's hand contracted into a fist.

"A girl who doesn't like to be kept waiting," Victoire said, tugging lightly at his arm, and the men seemed charmed, didn't realize as Teddy did that there was a keen edge in her voice.

Teddy placed his hand at the small of her back and, without even a parting glance to Foxcroft, led her toward the dance floor.

As they walked, he leaned in toward her and said quietly in her ear, "Thank God for you, five more minutes, and I think I'd be a goner."

"I'm impressed you could even look at him after that speech," she replied, casting a glare over her shoulder. "Everyone is furious. I've never seen Aunt Hermione so riled."

Teddy nodded. This bolstered him somehow, to be reminded he wasn't alone—that there were people who remembered his Dad, been in the Order with him…

"'Fought alongside,'" Teddy scoffed. "He was just as much a part of the Order as the rest of them."

"Aunt Hermione said she knew the Wizengamot felt like their hand was forced on this one, but she never thought Foxcroft would go this far—"

"'Their hand was forced?'" Teddy asked bitterly. "What the bloody fuck does that mean?"

"Apparently, all the old Order members have been putting pressure on the Wizengamot to give your Dad the award," Victoire replied, unfazed. "They said it wasn't right he's the only member left without one, especially considering he did some of the most dangerous work, and when the old Order includes the Minister, it didn't leave them much of a choice."

"So they didn't want to give it to him," Teddy spat. "Prejudiced old bastards, motherfucking—"

"Look," Victoire said levelly, stopping short as they walked and took both of his hands in hers. "It's fucked up. Massively fucked up—Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron are threatening to give their First Classes back. But I think, right now, you've got two options: we can leave, go back to the Burrow, and celebrate Christmas Eve properly with the others—"

"Leave?" Teddy asked. Strangely, the idea didn't sit right. It seemed remarkably close to giving the Wizengamot their way. "What's my second option?"

Victoire grinned at him, and from the particular look in her eye, Teddy knew she felt similarly. "We can stay here, dance, eat, and drink until you've worked up enough courage to tell them just how hard they should go fuck themselves."

At her words, Teddy emitted a sharp, barking laugh. "I think I'll take option two."

For years to come, Teddy would remember the rest of the night only in bits and fragments anchored down by how many glasses of champagne they'd drunk.

Two glasses:

"Where are the rest of them?" Teddy asked, looking about the ballroom to find it noticeably absent of their family.

"The rest of who?" Victoire replied dreamily.

"Harry, Ron, Ginny," Teddy said, spinning around in place to reassess the room. "I don't see George or—"

"Oh," Victoire said, drawing out the sound in realization. She waved her hand in the general direction of the lounge where Teddy, Harry, and Ginny had waited earlier in the evening. "They're off sorting out with the Minister what to do about that bugger Foxcatcher—"

"Foxcroft," Teddy corrected.

"Yes, that prat," Victoire said before taking another sip. "Aunt Ginny said if they do nothing, it'll look like they agree with him. Aunt Hermininie—Hermione—have you ever noticed how difficult that is to say? Aunt Hermione said if they don't respond in the right way, it could cause a rift in the Ministry… Are those Cauldron Cakes?"

Three glasses and four Cauldron Cakes:

"Which one d'you think that is?" Teddy asked, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Kirley?" Victoire replied, taking a guess.

"Nah, can't be Kirley, he's got lighter hair," said Teddy.

"Well, fuck if I know, everyone in The Weird Sisters looks the same to me," Victoire said.

"I've got to agree," said a voice behind them. "We've all got that scraggly, long hair."

Teddy turned around slowly, unsure if he'd heard the bloke right.

"But that's Donaghan," said the scraggly-haired man behind him. "I'm Kirley."

Teddy's eyes widened at the sight of the lead guitarist, and his jaw dropped open. "Holy shit."

Three glasses, one shot of Firewhiskey with Kirley Duke, a Kir Royale for Victoire, and a handful of Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans:

"You're a terrible dancer," Victoire giggled, as he spun her around once again.

He tripped over her foot for the third time, but he could hardly help himself. She was inescapably lovely—with her moon-pale skin, and deep, dark eyes—he loved to see her dance.

"Only when I've got a drunk partner," he said, smirking down at her.

She pouted, and he nearly kissed her then—nearly took her full bottom lip between his teeth, as she liked.

"I'm not drunk," she said a little petulantly before erupting into laughter once again.

Teddy laughed fully, tripping on her again in the process. "Not at all."

Four glasses:

"Teddy," she breathed against his lips.

His hand slid from her breast to her waist to the firm curve of her arse. His fingers gripped her tighter, and she shifted in his lap until their hips were aligned.

They had stumbled down hallway after hallway until they found a room that suited them. And here, in the dark, he felt at ease, he forgot where he was—there was nothing but her.

She kissed down the line of his jaw, over the thin skin of his neck, and he groaned when her hips rose and fell into his. He remembered, remembered that night in her bed, the feeling of her skin against his, of being so close, of seeing her bare underneath him. It felt as if every nerve in him ached at the memory. His hand tangled in her hair, he brought her mouth to his again, and his lips moved over hers fervently, desperately.

Five glasses:

"Have you ever done this sort of magic before?" Victoire asked, eyeing Teddy.

"No," he said, smiling with the sort of confidence only four glasses of champagne and a shot of whiskey could bring. "But it s'only a little paint and a sticking charm."

It had taken them nearly forty minutes to find their way back to the ballroom—admittedly, in part, because they refused to let go of each other, and stopped every few paces to kiss whatever bit of the other they could reach first.

Even now that they had ducked past five footmen, a Daily Prophet photographer, and Rita Skeeter to make it out onto the street, Teddy could hardly keep himself from her.

He brushed his lips over her shoulder, noticing the goosebumps that rose to meet his touch.

"You're cold," he murmured. He shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and slid it over hers. "Here."

"Thanks," she said, and pulled it close around her. "You sure about this?"

Teddy nodded. The thought, the phrase had been rolling around in his mind all night—a little snippet from Beetle the Bard, 'But it is you who name him monster.'

Victoire had been quick to tell him that this was not the whole line—in fact, it was a commonly quoted paraphrase, and when she recited for him the full verse, he thought, even better.

If he'd been aiming to find the right way to voice his anger, to respond to Foxcroft's speech, he'd be hard pressed to think of something better than this.

And he ought to do it now before the champagne-produced courage wore off.

He stepped back from Victoire and further into the street surrounding the Wizengamot headquarters. The storm had stopped only just before he and Victoire managed to tuck outside, and what little remained of the peeling West India Docks façade was soaked through.

He raised his wand, fixed the image of what he sought to make in his mind, and closed his eyes—not quite sober enough to want to watch what he was doing.

"Epoximise," he said clearly, and waved his wand counterclockwise once, twice, and a third time.

He parted one eyelid, then the other as the words slowly started to form in the worn wood surface, gilded and illustrated like those out of an illuminated manuscript:

Have the tales not taught us well?

Wizard, centaur, werewolf, elf,

all are to be feared.

But it is you, young Peverell,

who look upon the rest,

and name him monster.

"Oh fuck," he whispered at the image he managed to conjure beside the words: Foxcroft's face, unmistakable with his meticulous red beard, as it slowly transformed into a werewolf and back again.

"That's bold," Victoire said when he returned to her side. "It's perfect."

Teddy grinned to himself, and slung his arm around her shoulder. "C'mon. Let's get back inside."

Six glasses, another shot with Kirley, and a Croque Monsieur and water for Victoire:

"Has he been like this all night?" George asked Victoire quietly, amusement ringing in his voice at the sight of Teddy, who was having a rather heated discussion with Herman Wingtringham over the need of a lute player in a rock band.

"I'm sorry, Herman," Teddy said. "But I'm unconvinced the lute is an indispensable aspect of The Weird Sisters sound. Iconic? Yeah, I'll give you that, but necessary? No."

Footmen surrounded them all, doling out traveling cloaks to their owners, and Victoire felt that familiar warmth at being surrounded by her family again.

Ginny eyed Teddy over her shoulder. "Has he?"

Victoire laughed, and the usually melodic sound was interrupted by hiccups.

"I see it's not only Teddy who's enjoyed themselves," George said, and winked at her.

"Good," Ginny said, and her eyes flashed darkly. "He deserves to have a good night after that unbelievable pr—"

"The car's here," Bill cut in smoothly, and Victoire noticed a rather familiar warning look pass from her father to her aunt.

Victoire tugged at Teddy's hand, "You ready to go?"

"Victoire," he said dreamily, as if just realizing she was beside him, and without glancing at the man, quickly said, "Goodbye, Herman."

"You two have a good chat?" Victoire asked, charmed by how entirely his attention was on nothing but her.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her to him as they followed their family out to the street.

"I did write to you, you know" he said quietly against her ear, and then very loudly when they stepped outside, "Fuck, it's cold."

"Do you want your jacket back?" Victoire asked through her laughter.

"No, I like how you wear it," Teddy said, and his brow furrowed. "But I promise, I did."

"Did what?" she asked, leaning into him.

"I wrote you," he said, and a wolfish grin broke out across his face. "They were very good letters too. Very, very good…"

"Hmm, it's a pity I'll never get to read them," she teased as they stumbled toward the enchanted car.

His grin broadened at the thought, nearly split his face in two, and he said smugly, "We'll have to change that, won't we?"

Before she had the chance to understand his meaning, the chance to stop such a thought, he stepped away, retrieved his wand from his pocket, and began to turn his hand in a clockwise motion.

It was then that she realized—"No, Teddy, you'll splinch yourself!"

But he didn't hear her, and in the next instant the typical sound of apparition cracked through the air.

Not even a half hour later, she found him waiting for her when they arrived at the Burrow. He sat at the foot of the stairs, smirking to himself, with a small stack of parchment in his hand.

"Happy Christmas," he said with a kiss to her cheek.

She took them from him, smiling sleepily, and picked at the fold of the top letter.

"No, not yet!" Teddy said quickly. "You can't open them tonight. That's not how Christmas works."

"Alright," she said with a smile, and looked down at the parchment consideringly.

She leaned into the warmth of him, and he found himself dizzy at the nearness of her—her lovely hair that always smelled of jasmine, the curve of her hip where his hand had settled, the softness of her skin…

"Goodnight, Teddy," she said, and even in his current state, he could hear the smirk in her voice.

Christmas Day

The next morning, Teddy woke with quite a jolt.

"Strike the harp and join the chorus! Fa la la la la la la la la," James shouted as he pulled down the ladder to Teddy's room at the Burrow. "Wake up, Teddy! It's Christmas!"

Teddy groaned and rolled over in his bed, only to instantly regret it as the sun reached his eyes.

"Fuck," he mumbled, and jammed a pillow over his face.

"Yeah, and it'll still be Christmas in five minutes," came Victoire's voice. "We'll meet you downstairs."

"Going to give Teddy his Christmas present, eh?" Fred asked in a rather suggestive tone, and Teddy heard what was unmistakably the sound of a smack to the back of his head. "Merlin, I was only joking."

He parted his eyes just enough to watch Victoire ascend the last rungs of the ladder and pull it up behind her, still dressed in her pajamas.

"Was he right?" Teddy asked cheekily, his voice muffled only slightly by the pillow. "Come to give me my Christmas present?"

She swatted his leg playfully as she sat down on his bed. "Maybe. I suppose it's only fair, since I've already opened mine."

"You have?" Teddy asked, thinking of the turn of the century herbology book he'd given her. It'd taken him a month and Hermione's help to find.

"Mhmm," she replied breezily, and pulled the pillow away from his face a little, leaning down to kiss just beneath his ear. "Would you like to hear my favorite part?"

"Of course," he said, and brought his arms around her waist, encouraging her to settle in beside him. He was rather used to her reading aloud the bits and pieces of her books that seemed most fascinating to her. He enjoyed it too—especially when she was curled up beside him.

He closed his eyes to better ward off his hangover, and because of this, he didn't realize that it was, in fact, a letter, not a book in her hand.

"Oh good," she said as she lifted the blanket and slipped in beside him. He smiled to himself, entirely pleased and content. "It's quite an interesting bit, really. Very illuminating."

"Hmm," he said, and pulled her closer, rested his head against her chest.

She looked down at him, threaded her fingers through his hair before asking, "Should I start?"

"Whatever you like, love," he sighed.

"Alright," she said. "'…your hands skimming over your skin, your fingers as they find your wet cunt, play and swirl around your clit, slide inside you—"

"Oh fuck," Teddy said, and sat up suddenly. His head swam at the movement, and his vision blurred. "Fuck."

"'—curl upward," Victoire continued, relentless—her voice temptingly breathless. "And tease the nerves 'til your lips part, panting, moaning, your legs shake, your hips writhe and rise to each touch, your skin grows slick with sweat, and you come around your fingers.'"

She smirked up at him, and waited patiently as he gathered himself again.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, still clutching his head.

She glanced down at the parchment. "This? You gave it to me. Last night."

Teddy's eyes widened. Admittedly, he remembered very little of the night before. "I did?"

"Mhmm," she replied calmly, sitting up as well. "And I've got to agree. They're very good letters."

"I never…" he started. "I didn't mean for you to read that."

"Why?" she asked, her head titled to one side.

"It's… it's…" he stuttered.

"Much bolder than anything you've said to me before," she finished for him, and nerves gathered in his belly at the cool tone in her voice.

"But I've got to admit," she said, grinning, and leaned toward him. "You're right. You're far worse than I am."

Her hand slid up the outer curve of his leg toward the band of his pajamas.

"Here?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Now? With everyone here?"

Her smile broadened as she felt him rise to her.

"No, of course not," she said, withdrawing. "I just wanted to get a little even. Do you know what it was like to read this?"

Teddy felt the heat rise to his cheeks, and a swoop of disappointment pass through his stomach at the loss of her touch. "I'm beginning to."

"Good," she said, smirking as she rose from his bed. "C'mon—if we don't go downstairs soon they'll think we're up to something."

"And what if we are up to something?" Teddy asked, grinning.

"Oh, you really don't remember much of last night," she said.

"I'm starting to," he said, getting out of bed. He wavered from one foot to the other, and lifted a hand to each temple to steady his head. His fingers brushed over his skin, and he realized there was something missing.

"Victoire?" he asked slowly. "Why am I missing half an eyebrow?"

She reached up and lifted his fingers to find a telltale bald patch just above his eye. Her eyes widened and a deep, throaty giggle left her before she could help it.

"I told you you'd splinch yourself," she said, still laughing. "You're luck half an eyebrow's all you left behind."

Teddy reached haphazardly for the small mirror on the bedside table, and eyed himself in it.

"You think that's bad," Victoire said with a grin as she reached for the door. "Just wait 'til you see the Prophet."

Hello all! I know it's been a while since I posted a chapter. I got a new job about a month ago, so I'm thinking I'll post a new chapter now once a month (sometimes twice a month). Thanks so much for reading! As always, I love to hear what you think.