The Weasley household was always chaotic at Christmas. In truth, it was always chaotic, whatever time of year, but Christmastime had its own unique brand of frenzied chaos. From buying and sending and wrapping presents, to cooking enough food for a small campsite, there never seemed enough hours in the day for Molly Weasley to get everything done, which was why, well after her children were in bed and after Neville had come by, she was sitting in the living room, knitting Harry's Christmas jumper.

But she wouldn't change it, not for all the world.

Especially since this Christmas, one chair would remain unoccupied.

Forever.

They'd all brought presents for Fred, had left them on his bed, since they all silently agreed that they couldn't hear to see them sitting under the tree, never to be opened. But they still wanted to honour him, to let him know, wherever he was, that just because he wasn't with them anymore didn't mean that they'd stopped thinking about him every day, that he no longer resided in their hearts.

For those first few months, Molly hadn't been able to get through a single day without crying.

One day, when everyone had been at the Burrow, those who were her blood and those who weren't, but might as well have been, Molly had been sorting through the washing, like she did -since everyone else always conveniently found something else to do when she asked- when she came across some of Fred's clothes. She hadn't even noticed them in the wash, and only after she had neatly folded them and was about to call Fred did she realize he didn't need any clothes, that her little boy was dead, that she wouldn't ever hear his laugh again or hug him or talk to him about the shop.

Molly had collapsed, a puppet who's strings had been violently cut.

She hadn't told anyone about that day, not even Arthur, who was at work so often that sometimes she wondered if he just wanted to delay returning home, that if he didn't come back, he wouldn't have to face reality.

But Molly didn't have that option.

So she carried on. She did the washing and the cooking and the cleaning, looked after the chickens and tidied the garden and tried not to go in Fred and George's room.

She wasn't the only one. George had only been in their twice. The first time was after the funeral, when they had all departed into different rooms, unable to look at each other and see their grief looking back at them. George had curled up on Fred's bed, jacket and shoes and tie still on. It had been one of Fred's, covered in bright flowers. He'd stayed on that bed for hours, looking at nothing, watching as the sunlight filtered in through the windows, making the dust motes dance, since no one had been in to clean.

Then George had got off the bed, acting as if nothing had happened, cracking jokes like always. They all knew it was for Fred, to honour his memory, because if they didn't laugh then they only cry. Cry, and never stop, and in her heart Molly knew her son would be disappointed if they let their grief rule their life.

So here the were, celebrating Christmas, wrapping presents and eating mince pies and playing board games and hiding socks, the house full of laughter like it had not been in so long.

Molly put the finishing touches on Harry's jumper, needles flying with expert precision. She never got tired of it, making jumpers for the children. She'd even whipped one up for Neville, since the boy deserved a present. He'd even said that he'd sleep on the couch, poor thing. She'd given him Ron's room, since he certainly wouldn't be using it. While she hadn't been as close to Frank and Alice, she'd still known them, still been in the Order with them, and she knew how much they had loved their little boy. She thought it was brave, opening himself up to that hurt and disappointment. She just hoped that it all worked out for him. And for Ron.

Merlin, she was furious at him. She knew that he wasn't doing well, especially after his falling-out with Hermione, and she'd tried reaching out to him so many times, asking if he wanted to stay the night after their weekly family dinner, or if he wanted to do something with her. He'd always said no, insisting that he was too busy or that she don't really mean it, and she hadn't wanted to push him, lest he stop coming altogether. But maybe she should have pushed. After his behavior yesterday at the Charity Ball -which the Prophet had already covered in an exclusive issue- she should have done more. This wasn't her boy, going about at all hours of the night, fighting with his brother and not even sending Hermione a birthday present -yes, she knew about that too; as if her children could have kept that a secret.

Ron was somewhere else, was someone else, and it broke her heart that she couldn't reach him. She'd always helped him, whether it was homework or sitting together reading or him helping her cook dinner or colouring in with him, beaming even when his pictures weren't exactly masterpieces, but still putting them on the fridge because her son drew that, she'd always been their for him.

But this was something she couldn't help.

She hoped that he got on well in America, that he remembered to do his washing and to eat right and to not leave all his stuff lying around and to vacuum the carpets and to get a wand permit and that he didn't miss her, didn't need her and she not be there for him.

But Ron was a young man, and she had to let him be his own person. Even if that person was not the sweet boy she raised and this new him... this new him she just wanted to scream at until her lungs were raw and then hug him and never let go.

She really needed to start drinking less coffee, if she couldn't get ahold of her thoughts.

Molly had started drinking it after the War, for the mornings where she didn't want to get out of bed and needed a little energy. Hermione had shown her how to work the fancy coffee machine Harry had gotten her, and she thought of them every time she turned it on.

She was proud of them, both of them, for all they'd been through, all they'd achieved. For Hermione for going back to school and fixing her parent's memories at the same time, and still sending her letters when she could. And Harry, for doing the impossible and yet still be willing to help people, even though she still had her doubts about him being an Aurour. His life had been dangerous enough these past years; it seemed unnecessary to seek more if it out to pay the bills when there were other, safer jobs.

Or maybe it was just because she worried.

It was her job to worry, despite all the many protests she received. It was her job to fuss over Charlie when he came in with a scratch on his arm and a singed eyebrow, to remind Percy not to work so hard when he sat for hours, back hunched, doing paperwork and working on Ministry reform bills. When Ginny came home from Hogwarts with yet another hole in her Quidditch uniform from a brutal game. When Harry visited with a crack in his glasses and looking too skinny.

She loved them, and just wanted them to be happy.

And maybe try all would be, given time. Maybe she wouldn't wake up from soul-crushing nightmares and have to have Arthur hold her until she could stop shaking. Maybe the house would be filled with laughter, and never be silent again.

But until then... until then, she'd sit here and wrap all the presents under the tree, and leave cookies out for Santa that George would no doubt come and eat. And tomorrow, she'd get up at dawn and cook a feast while they all made a mess in the living room and threw balls of wrapping paper at each other despite her warnings not to. They'd sit together at the table, a family still healing, but still full of love.


Christmas Eve held a special place inside Luna's heart. It wasn't just because winter was her favourite season, with the skeletal trees waving in the wind or the cheery atmosphere that seemed to descend on people, making them a little kinder to one another, or sitting with friends by a blazing fire. It was because she got to spend time with her dad, got to spend hours together making deccorations for around the house, listening to Christmas music on the wizarding radio, laughing as he spun her around, the way he used to with her mother.

Those first few years, especially around the holiday period, had been tough on her father, especially when the anniversary of her death was only a couple of months away. But he'd still made sure that there was a tree, that there were presents for her and that he sat and watched Christmas movies with her on the little TV they had, even if he wasn't the best at working it and the plugs trailed like snakes everywhere.

Christmas felt like home, like a hug from the world, telling her to enjoy the quiet moments, to not waste a moment. And she didn't plan to.

Her father knocked on her bedroom door, the blue and green stained glass panels in it casting his face in shadow. Luna quickly stuffed his presents under her bed, tugging down her patchwork quilt -made by her grandmother as a wedding present for her mother- for good measure.

"Come in," Luna said, picking up a random book and opening it halfway.

Ooh, Encyclopedia.

Xenophilius came in, smiling at the familiar sight of his daughter with a book in her hand. "Hey, sweetheart, I hope I'm not interrupting you."

Luna put the book down, cover thumping gently closed. "Of course not, Dad," she said with a smile of her own.

Xenophilius nodded. "Good. Okay. Well, I was wondering if, if maybe you wanted to light a candle with me. For your mother."

Luna froze. He'd never asked her, not once in the years since she passed. Sometimes she thought it was because he wanted to grieve her in private, that he didn't want Luna to see him cry. Other times she wondered if it was because if they lit a candle, they would be admitting that she was really gone.

"Yes," Luna whispered. "Yes, I'll light a candle for mum."

Her dad offered her his hand, the gesture evoking memories of him holding her hand in the park or picking berries, of him carrying her home when she was tired, days spent writing the Quibbler together, hands covered in ink.

She took it, letting him lead her out of the room and down the stairs, out it the crisp air of late evening, the sky a shade of deepest blue, dotted with clouds. She could just make out the stars, shining down on the both of them.

Sometimes, when the nights were long and her loss felt like a palpable thing, a phantom limb weighing her down with every breath, she used to open her window, as far is it would go, and look up at the stars, fingers gripping the cold wooden sill, and imagine that her mother was one of those stars, as beautiful and shining as she had been in life. That she was looking down on them, was still a part of them, keeping them safe and guarding them through the night.

Although Luna knew it wasn't true, that stars were just balls of gas, that their light was nothing sacred or holy, she still likes to believe her mother was out there. She did live in a world full of magic, so why couldn't anything be possible?

Her father knelt down, the long grass whispering against the best pair of robes he had. Luna knelt down next to him, head resting against his shoulder. The candle sat before them, new and shining, waiting to be burned.

"I thought," her father began, "that if we put it here, she could see it. See it, and know we're thinking of her."

Xenophilius got out his wand, casting it to the tip of the wick. Luna put her hand in the pocket of her dress, removing a small birthday candle she'd picked up as her father opened the back door. It was red and glittery, and Luna thought her mother would have liked it. She lit it with her own wand, which she'd been using to hold up her hair, and the thick waves cascaded down her back as she stuck it into the wax beside the wick, careful not the jostle either flame.

"You look so much like her," her father said quietly, not looking at her but looking at the flames. "You are so much like her. She was always curious, about everything, and she had the heart of a dreamer as well as a scientist. I'm glad you got that from her, that that part of her is still alive, somehow. And I loved her. I loved her so much, that when she died, I felt like a part of me died, too. I think a part did, and I know that if she's still out there somewhere, she's probably cursing me soundly for it. But I love you, too. I love you just as much, if not more. My precious little moon, so full of light and hope and the best things in the world. Which is why I want you to go out there, to explore and have adventures. I know you worry about me, that you're scared that if I'm on my own, I won't look after myself, that I won't be able to cope. But I'm your father, and it's my job to ensure you get the best life, the life you deserve. Don't let me stop you from following your dreams. Don't let my grief hold you back. Nothing ever stopped your mother, and I don't want anything to stop you."

Luna swiped at her face, tears reflecting the light of the candle, glowing like liquid fireflies. "But dad, I like looking after you. It's my job to look after you. You've done so much for me, for so very long. Considering this last year, it's the least I can do for you."

Xenophilius kissed the top of her head. "But Luna, tell me honestly, don't you have dreams? Things you want to do?"

"Dreams can be put aside. Family is more important," Luna argued.

"But not as important as yourself. When you were little, you told me you wanted to be an artist. You were four, and you paraded your drawings and sculptures all around the house. The next week, you wanted to be a writer, and started making up articles for the Quibbler. Then there was something with dinosaurs, then that year you wanted to go to the moon and we made that spinning model of the solar system and out glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling."

"I've still got the moon," whispered Luna. "It's a fine paperweight."

"My point exactly. You had all these dreams, and just because you may not want to go to the moon anymore and make friends with aliens doesn't mean you still can't live out your new dreams. Dreams can keep you alive, Luna, can sustain you as much as food or water or a good air of shoes. And right now, my only dream is for you to be happy. She'd want you to be happy," he said, head turning to the candle.

Luna pulled her dad into a hug, head buried in his shoulder. "Okay, dad. I'll follow my dreams. If you make me a promise."

"Which is?"

"That you be happy, too. That if you have dreams, you follow them, too, and you not wait around alone when I'm not there. Everybody needs someone. And no, Wrackspurts don't count. And maybe get a new Christmas tie; I'm not sure pointsettias are 'in' at the moment."

Xenophilius laughed. "Okay, Luna. I promise."

The candle flickered, as if in approval.


Author's Note: Hello, everyone. Happy Tuesday. I'm sorry this is a short one, and that the first half may not be as polished as most others; it was difficult to write, I deleted several bits because of timing, and it was hard to get it to flow. Maybe it's just because I'm not used to writing for Molly, and I'll have to get to know her better. But let me know what you thought of this chapter. I wanted to juxtapose the two families, yet show how close the bonds between parents and children are, how Christmas can bring people together.

To all the Marvel fans, Happy Black Widow Day for tomorrow! Who's excited? I'm excited! And for Loki!

A special thank you for all the guest reviews I've gotten recently. Even though I don't know your names, I love and appreciate you all the same.

As a little sneak peak, the next chapter will have a very adorable Dramione scene. And there's singing involved!

With love, Temperance Cain.