Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Twinkling Lights
Soft piano music floats around the otherwise silent room. The only light illuminating the room comes from the Christmas tree. Sitting directly in front of the tree, staring at it as in a trace was the person George was looking for.
Moving quietly into the room George sits behind her, without her noticing that he was there. 'Wonder what she's thinking about?' ponders George as he slips his arms around her waist. Pulling her towards him. He was slightly surprised to find that she wasn't startled. She just relaxed into him as if she knew the whole time he was there.
"This is nice," she whispers as if she's afraid to speak too loudly and beak the spell.
Holding her close, George is able to smell her sweet perfume. Planting a kiss on her check, he smiles contently. "Very nice," he whispers.
"I'm talking about the tree," she whispers. Hearing George mumble the same thing, she smiles and rolls her eyes. "It's perfect." Looking up at the tree, George thinks, 'At lest she's happy with it. The bloody thing is bare. It has a few pieces of ornaments and some white lights. It's a poor excuse for a Christmas tree.'
"The tree is not what is perfect. What is perfect is that you're here. I'm here. And we together," whispers George as he uses one hand to massage her back. "You have had a long day, and right now I just want you to relax."
"Oh, George," she sighs.
"I mean it, Hermione," whispers George. "You're having a rough pregnancy. I don't want you to over due it." Holding her close, George smiles as he places a kiss on the top of her head. "Enjoy the quiet now, before long the boys will be up and chaos will ensure."
Her soft laugh was greeted by the soft bounding of two sets of footsteps. Flashes of red races pass them. Looking up on the couch, George spies both of his sons laying down looking at the tree. 'Is this a tradition?' he wonders.
"Don't you want to open your gifts?" asks George.
"Later daddy after breakfast," they answer as they start to drift back to sleep.
'What? Who are you and what have you done to my kids?' thinks George, before he looks down and see that she is sleeping peacefully in his arms. "Thank you boys," whispers George.
"Merry Christmas daddy. Night Mommy," they whisper back.
Looking at the tree, George feels blessed. The twinkling of the Christmas tree lights, reminds him that it was less then a year ago, he was less then a shell of the man he is today. Hearing the soft notes of the music, he recognizes the tune.
'Although it's been said Many times, Many ways, Merry Christmas to you.'
The End: For now.