Snowflakes zigzagged in the fickle highland air, reminding Hermione of December's imminence. The holidays brought back memories of her parents, and as she watched Professor Flitwick hanging wreaths upon the gargoyles, she recalled the melancholy truth: Her parents, now somewhere in Australia, did not have the same memories that she had. Her childhood lived in her mind only, and until all of Voldemort's supporters were in Azkaban, that was where they would have to stay.

"Did you hear what I said?"

Startled, Hermione replied, "Sorry, no."

Ginny had not fully forgiven Hermione for her views on young marriage, and Hermione was not sure that she had fully forgiven Ginny either. Nevertheless, after a letter from Harry and a week and a half of not speaking, they were spending time together again, and to Hermione's dismay, spending time with Ginny meant wedding planning.

"I said: Do you think we should go with lilies for centerpieces? You know, for Harry's mum? I thought it would be a good idea, since she can't be there and all..."

"I think you should ask Harry," Hermione said, stiffly.

"Yeah, alright."

A stuffy silence filled the air for a long while, set aside the white noise of bickering Slytherin girls and Argus Filch, who was distraught over the recent whereabouts of his favorite mop. Apparently, Madam Hooch had found it on top of Ravenclaw Tower.

"On the roof!" he shrieked. Mrs. Norris wrapped around his ankle, proffering whatever comfort she could. "I've been lookin' for that mop for weeks!"

The Slytherin girls stopped arguing to watch the scene unfold.

"Argus, please do calm down," Madam Hooch said, shouldering her broomstick. "It's just a mop. It was probably Peeves or a student playing a harmless prank."

"Harmless prank? Frozen solid, it is!"

With only a few wreaths left to hang, Professor Flitwick snapped his fingers and the course yarn of the mop fell freely, no longer frozen in a dirty heap.

"Thank you, Professor..." Filch trailed off, sounding rather disappointed. "That still doesn't solve who needs punishing, though, does it?"

Ginny, who seemed completely oblivious to their surroundings, pointed at a photograph in her magazine.

"Do you think this is too lacy?"

The wedding dress she was gesturing came equipped with a long, lace train, and to Hermione, it looked like something one might expect to see in an expensive Muggle wedding—perhaps one between two celebrities that would have lots of paparazzi and television coverage. She was not sure it fit Ginny's taste, but she decided to keep that to herself.

"I wouldn't know, really. You could ask your mother, though. I'm sure she'd tell you."

If something were inappropriate, Mrs. Weasley would not only tell Ginny, but she would explain why it was inappropriate, what would be more appropriate, and how she could likely create the most appropriate version herself.

"Oh, I'm sure she'd have plenty to say about it," Ginny muttered. She let out a heavy sigh and marked the page in Magical Marriages, which she had been burying her nose in since she announced her engagement to Harry. Professor Whittlewood had confiscated it at least three times, but apparently, Ginny had cleverly been making copies.

"You still haven't told her," Hermione deduced.

"I'll tell her when we're home for Christmas," Ginny claimed, stretching her legs. "Anyway, I ought to get to the pitch. See you."

Hermione stifled a giggle as she predicted the look on Mrs. Weasley's face, followed by the long lecture that was bound to follow. Then, she remembered that she may not bear witness to such a lecture, because she might not be joining the Weasleys for Christmas that year.

Her heart sank.

She was invited, of course; that was part of Harry's letter, though Hermione wasn't certain that it could be called a letter. On a jagged corner of scrap parchment, he had scribbled to her what could more accurately be described as a note—a second thought that he had stuffed in an envelope meant for Ginny. A busy Auror's chicken scratch was scrawled across the back in the form of meaningless numbers, addresses, and a few names, some of which Hermione recognized, and some that she didn't. If Hermione had to guess, she would have thought he was working when he decided to write it, and instead of taking his time, he rushed it so he could send it to Ginny, for whom he had practically penned a novel.

It was embarrassing to think that Ginny had probably read it. In fact, Hermione was quite sure that was why there was still tension between the two of them.

Hermione—

Are you going to the Burrow for Christmas? You really should. And make up with Ginny, please. She needs a girl to do all of this wedding stuff with.

Hope to see you soon.

Harry

If Hermione were Ginny, she would have wanted a legitimate apology too—not one that was put into motion by her fiancé, though the fact that Harry was somebody's fiancé at all was rather laughable. He was so incredibly young, and Ginny was even younger.

Were they even old enough to understand what marriage meant? Ginny had done her fair share of dating other boys, but Harry had terribly limited experience with girls, so how could he know if he was moving too quickly?

Hermione could not make sense of it.

She did, however, wonder what it would be like to have a fiancé while she was still a mere schoolgirl. Would she too ignore her professors while browsing floral arrangements? What color would look best with the Weasleys' flaming hair? Would Ron cry when he saw her walk down the aisle?

"Of course he wouldn't," she mumbled to herself.

She almost finished the thought aloud: Because he would never ask me in the first place.

Suddenly, she felt like going back to her dormitory. At least there, she had the distraction of coursework and books, which were, to Hermione, the sort of things a girl in school should be worrying about.

There would be time for weddings and summer romance in the future, and when the time came, she would find someone much better than Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Exceptional Potions for Exemplary Students lay across Hermione's lap. She was curled up in bed, studying the potion she and Malfoy would be discussing the next day, and as usual, she was glad to have her mind on her studies rather than Ron.

While she never believed she would be looking forward to a meeting with Malfoy, she was starting to enjoy having someone to study with. It was rare that anyone was academic enough to help her in the same way that she helped them.

Her recent grades were, after all, remarkable.

"Oho! Fine work once again, Miss Granger!" Professor Slughorn had told her earlier that week. "I do hope you'll be coming to the Slug Club Christmas party?"

"Of course, Professor."

Based on her repeated success, she would be shocked if she and Malfoy were still meeting by the Christmas party. Hermione was confident that she could have performed just as well without his help, but maybe it was the desire to be finished with the punishment that made her stop creating distractions in the classroom, because as much as she would deny it, she had been distracted—pathetically distracted.

Much like Ginny felt the need to ogle at sample dinner menus and bouquets in Magical Marriages, Hermione had felt the need to write to Ron. Not only did she write to him, but she also worried about his reaction, so she edited and rewrote and overexplained nearly every point she made.

It was exhausting.

What was even more exhausting was pretending she was failing due to her own shortcomings. Malfoy had mistaken her scribblings for notes, and while she desperately wanted to tell him that she would have a perfect "O" if she had actually been taking notes, she couldn't. If he knew that she was writing love letters to Ronald Weasley, the teasing would be endless.

It was as she pondered this that she realized it had been a while since she had sent Ron any letters at all. Her marks in Potions had become important enough that the urge to write to Ron vanished, but the thought of him still made her heart ache.

She would not know what to do if she had to face him again.

It was then that she came to terms with something she suspected she already knew: She would have to disappoint Harry and the Weasleys that year, because as long as Ron would be at the Burrow for Christmas, she would not be.

Sunday breakfast sounded truly dreadful. Nightmares of war and Ron and the nameless, handsome woman plagued Hermione's sleep, leaving her with a throat full of bile and violet pouches beneath her eyes. Alas, feeling quite nauseated, she still found herself in the Great Hall, staring at Ginny as the girl pored over Wizarding Weddings.

"Orabelle nicked it off Madam Pince's desk. We reckon Filch finally popped the question," Ginny snickered.

Hermione grumbled nothing in particular. She did not endorse stealing, even if it was from the most miserable woman at Hogwarts.

"I think I like it better than Magical Marriages too. It's quite a bit longer and there's a whole section for decorative charms."

Decorative charms sounded much more interesting than flower arrangements or color swatching, and for the first time that morning, Hermione ceased regretting her Sunday visit to the Great Hall.

"Are there any you like?" she asked, sleepily.

"Well, I do like the Glitter Charm," Ginny said, pointing at a glimmering photograph in the magazine, "It says here that you can do any colors you want... Oh, violet and gold would be so pretty with my hair, don't you think?"

"I do, and this spell wouldn't be very hard." Hermione leaned towards Ginny to read the text. "I could help with something like this."

For the first time in nearly two weeks, Ginny beamed. "Would you really?"

"Of course."

Seizing a crumpet, Ginny flipped the page. She took a large bite and asked, "So you aren't on about the age thing anymore, then?"

"I still think you're both young," Hermione admitted, "but that doesn't mean I won't help. You're my best friends."

The redhead visibly relaxed and reached past her friend to stab a sausage. "Thanks, Hermione. Really, it means a lot. I know it means a lot to Harry too."

"It's nothing. I know the two of you will be good together."

She would never admit she was wrong, because she did not believe that she was, but there was nobody that deserved happiness more than Harry and Ginny. Even through the horrors of war, they had emerged stronger than ever, which was more than she could say for her and Ron, so maybe, however unlikely, the two of them knew something that she didn't.

Maybe love, like Quidditch, left a void in her library of knowledge.

Ginny interrupted her thoughts by pointing at a set of purple, puffy-sleeved bridesmaid robes. Never in all of her years had Hermione seen anything uglier, and that included the frilly dress robes Ron wore to the Yule Ball.

"These are ghastly. Who in their right mind would make their friends and family wear these?" Ginny groused.

"Wear what?" Lydia Clappord took a seat to Ginny's left and peered down at the magazine. She crinkled her nose in disapproval. "Oh, they're positively hideous. I never knew purple could be so ugly." With a glance at Hermione, she added, "Just imagine how you'd look in one of these—with that hair of yours and all."

"Her hair is fine," Ginny snapped, "and if any of my bridesmaids could pull off one of these dresses, it's Hermione. My veela sister-in-law, however, would look like that portrait of Catrice Capiden on the fourth floor."

Hermione snorted. Fleur would, indeed, resemble Catrice Capiden, a rather infamous witch who was renowned for her over-the-top robe designs and melodramatic demeanor. The Fat Lady and her friend, Violet, were known to drink far too much red wine and gossip about Catrice for hours on end.

"Your sister-in-law is a veela? All the more reason to make her wear something atrocious, in my opinion," Lydia said, scooping a heaping pile of potatoes onto her plate. "Hermione, aren't you going to eat something?"

Distracted by the magazine, Ginny did not seem to realize that Hermione had not been eating until that moment. She turned to glare at her friend. "Great question, actually. When was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday," Hermione murmured. "I'm just not all that hungry."

"I don't care," Ginny said moodily. She grabbed a crumpet and dropped it onto Hermione's empty plate. "Eat."

"Yes, alright," Hermione sighed, breaking apart the breakfast pastry. Even after the smallest bite that she could muster, her stomach roiled in protest.

Lydia seemed pleased enough with her efforts, but Ginny was watching her with narrow eyes.

"A rat couldn't live on that little nibble."

Hermione groaned and raised another stomach-churning morsel to her mouth, but before she could bite into it, the morning owls came to her rescue.

Ginny's usual visitor dropped a hefty envelope in front of her, as he often did. Then, something strange happened. Just behind Altius's snow-white form was an impossibly fluffy owl with a large blue bow around its neck. This owl, one that Hermione did not recognize, had a small, ornately decorated envelope tied to its foot, and it was hopping across the table—hopping towards her.

"That's Luna's owl," Ginny commented as the bird parked in front of Hermione with a loud hoot. "I recognize the bow."

Hermione untied the envelope and turned it in her hands to find a seal of beautiful bronze wax. In it, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows was stamped, likely the choice stamp of Luna's father, Xenophilius Lovegood. How curious it was to see it again. How hauntingly familiar it was.

"I wonder what she wants," Hermione said, breaking the seal.

The stationary parchment that she pulled out reminded her very much of both Lovegoods. Spindles, stars, and moons decorated the edges: the things of Luna. Then, at the top was, once again, the triangle, the circle, and the line: the cloak, the stone, and the wand. A more welcome sight was just below that; in Luna's curly, girlish penmanship was not a note, but a true letter—a letter that was quirky and hopeful and everything that Luna Lovegood represented.

Hermione did not realize just how much she missed the airy girl until that moment.

Dear Hermione,

I hope you are well. How is Hogwarts? Neville and I have missed it very much, as well as our old friends. I rarely leave my home, though my father has been more permitting as of late. He does not often trust Aurors, but he likes Neville well enough.

Of course, with all of the rumors of Death Eaters sending Gendelsnicks out on their behalf, I understand why my father prefers I do not leave. I would never want to run into one of those, especially since they are quite sneaky. You will only know if one has bitten you if you have terrible dandruff, and if you already have dandruff, that isn't much help at all, is it?

Fortunately, Neville does not work next weekend, and as Hogwarts students will be allowed to go to Hogsmeade, we were hoping that you would join us at the Hog's Head next Saturday. We saw Ginny Weasley rather briefly, but we were sad to see that you did not join her. I am ever so pleased to learn of her and Harry Potter's engagement! They are both quite lovely, don't you think?

I ought to finish writing this. My father is asking me to help him rid the houseplants of Bibbles.

I do hope you will be able to make it.

Sincerely,

Luna Lovegood

Ginny quirked an eyebrow. "Well? How is she?"

"Frankly, she seems a bit bored being stuck in her father's house," Hermione summarized. "She and Neville will be in Hogsmeade next weekend, though, so maybe that'll cheer her up."

"Are you going to meet them there, then?"

Hermione, rather honestly, said, "I don't know. Possibly."