Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Serendipity, or any related characters.

A/N: Well, hello again! Tis the season. I felt inspired by one of my favorite holiday rom-coms, Serendipity, and I couldn't resist taking a momentary pause on my other WIPs to write this. It will consist of five chapters, with the last one posting on Christmas Eve (December 24th).

Thanks as always to the most fantastic beta team for being my cheer-readers: be11atrixthestrange, accio-broom, adenei, sm_jl, and mina_roman.

A note on Sweet Home Ottery: The next chapter is coming, I promise. However, with some other writing commitments I've taken on that do have time constraints/deadlines, I've been working on it slowly over the past few weeks. Chapter 10 is also pretty pivotal, and I want to take my time to get it right :) I hope you enjoy some fluff and holiday cheer in the meantime!

Happy Holidays to all!

The Holiday Prophecy

Chapter One

Serendipity - the art of finding the pleasantly unexpected by chance.

Ron

New York City is arguably one of the most festive places on the planet.

The holiday decorations transform the skyscrapers into a magical, twinkling landscape, creating beads of light that shimmer across the sky. And lights there are — thousands of them, to be exact —along with picturesque holiday displays that include very large inflatable Santas, life-size toy soldiers, and giant red and gold ornaments that decorate city blocks. Even the top of the Empire State Building is lit up with vibrant shades of red and green.

Storefronts are festooned with holiday decor, along with food kiosks filled with plenty of festive cocktails and hearty food for patrons to peruse through. A larger-than-life Christmas tree adorns Rockefeller Center Plaza, a beaming symbol of the joyful season.

Ron Weasley admires the city as he stands in the middle of a tourist-packed street in mid-December. He tucks his chin into the wool of his maroon-knitted scarf, taking advantage of the wintery weather as freckles of snow sprinkle down atop his head of ginger hair.

This is his first visit to New York —first visit to North America, actually. He really had no desire to pack multiple layers of clothing, fly on one of those aeroplanes, navigate countless tourists, or see the glittery decorations up close, but his best mate, Harry, and sister, Ginny, practically begged him to tag along on their holiday.

"You deserve a break, mate," he recalls Harry insisting, knowing that Ron is still struggling to get over his break-up with his long-term girlfriend — ex-girlfriend, Lavender Brown, just over a month ago. While his desire to take a break may be true, he isn't yet convinced that the break he needs involves traipsing to another country on a picturesque romantic getaway. He's still cringing over what he almost walked in on in the hotel room earlier between his best mate and sister, and that was enough to make him decide to tour the city alone and avoid any other assault to his eyes that could possibly leave him scarred for life.

As he shuffles along with hordes of people, bumping shoulder to shoulder with those walking as if they're always in a hurry, the hustle and bustle makes him wonder why he subjected himself to this monstrosity.

Although it's not quite the same as Christmas in London, the unique charm of New York — the buzzing energy and the elaborate, extravagant displays — is enough to fuel his annual sense of wonder and embrace the experience.

Bring on the Christmas cheer.

He decides to check out the impressive window dressings that appear to host one-of-a-kind presentations that appeal to window shoppers — not that Ron has ever done much shopping outside of Diagon Alley. The displays here in New York really are ornate, each one unique in its own way. Some showcase jewelry, clothing, or holiday-themed trinkets, although many items he has a hard time catching a glimpse of with the amount of visitors lining the entrances to the department stores.

A particular pair of arm-length gloves of an olive green color catch his eye. It's the only pair remaining in the window display, everything else already snatched up in the chaos of the shopping rush. Ron leans towards the glass to get a closer look. He reckons the fact that the gloves are leather bound and made of tough material would make them a suitable gift for Ginny this year. She's always complaining about how worn her Quidditch gloves are.

Shrugging his shoulders, he walks through the double door entrance to the department store, turning the corner in the direction of the gloves. Just as his hands reach for the garment, they collide with another set of fingers.

"Oh, er, sorry."

He finds himself mesmerized by a pair of chocolate brown eyes. Taking a moment to observe the woman's appearance, she's bundled up in multiple layers of clothing with long brown hair that tumbles in frizzy curls behind a fleece earband.

"Not to worry." An English accent rolls off her tongue, sending shivers down his spine. Blimey, he wasn't expecting to meet an attractive Englishwoman on this trip, but he'll take it.

"Oh! Your accent."

The woman's eyebrows raise in amusement. "Your accent."

"No!" Ron can already feel the heat invading his cheeks, and he's certain he's as red as one of the giant ball ornaments in the storefront. "Er, I mean, I just wasn't expecting someone else to be-"

"British?" Bloody hell, how does she read his mind like that? "You do realize that New York City is one of the largest hosts to international travelers?"

"Yes-yes of course," Ron stammers. Shaking his head, he holds out the gloves clutched within his hands. "Bugger, nevermind. You wanted these, eh?"

"I was going to take them, but you go on ahead-"

"No, I insist." Ron thrusts the gloves into the woman's hands, who eyes him with uncertainty.

"If you're sure."

He smiles, knowing he's making the right decision. Ginny will just have to do with a different pair. "I am."

Before the woman can offer him a parting acceptance and disappear into the abyss of people, the gloves are wrangled out of her hands by a big, burly elderly man with a white scruffy beard and a crimson red jumper. His appearance looks strangely like one of Saint Nicholas, maybe even Professor Dumbledore, except not nearly as friendly and perhaps a bit frightening.

"Hey, wait a minute! Those are hers!" Ron shouts, curling up his fists in anger over the rude man swiping the garments from the unsuspecting woman's petite fingers.

A haughty expression colors the grumpy old man's face. "Really then? Who are they for?"

At the same time, Ron makes eye contact with the woman as they both blurt out,

"My girlfriend!"

"My nan!"

Ron scrunches up his face, mouthing over at her. Your nan?

The woman shrugs, tucking a curl behind her ear as she averts her eyes to the ground. Ron finds himself intrigued to see her earlier confidence dwindling, instead replaced by what looks like sheepish embarrassment.

"Oh, fine," the man grumbles, flinging the pair of gloves in their direction as Ron fumbles to catch them in mid-air. Mumbling underneath his breath — "I really hate commercialism" — the Saint Nick wannabe trudges off, leaving the two younger acquaintances with a single pair of olive-colored gloves.

"So," Ron turns back to the mysterious woman, a question burning on the tip of his tongue, "you weren't really serious about-"

"No!" She laughs, obviously flustered. "It was just the first thing I could think of!"

"Right," he chuckles, offering her a warm smile.

"Well, here." The woman sighs, holding the gloves in her outstretched hands. "You should take them. Your girlfriend would want these."

"I-uh-don't actually have a girlfriend," Ron mumbles, shuffling his feet. "I mean, I did just get out of a relationship, but it's definitely over, so I don't have to give her a gift or anything — sorry, I'll stop talking now."

Honestly, what is his deal? Never in his life has a girl managed to get his wand in such a twist, making him trip over his incessant, awkward babble, but here he is. She must think he's completely mental.

"Well, really solid team effort then." He hopes he's not imagining the pleased grin on her face.

For a moment it's just the two of them standing alone, tucked away in the only quiet corner of the busy store with other frantic shoppers paying them no mind. Blimey, she's pretty, with the fluorescent lights from the window display shining down on her pale face. Her skin looks so soft, it makes him want to reach out and place his palm on her cheek. Her eyes are bright and wide as she gazes up at him, lips slightly parted, making no sound as if she's holding her breath for something more.

He can't possibly ask her on a date, even if he wanted to. How could he? She's a Muggle who lives in a different country from him — at least, he thinks so. He makes a mental note to ask her. Even if he wanted to give it a go, how would he even begin to explain his world, to make it a working relationship?

Now you're just getting ahead of yourself, you pompous git, Ron tells himself. She's probably just being friendly and cordial with him while still thinking he's a dodgy stranger. It doesn't mean she's interested in anything more than polite conversation.

"I was thinking of going ice skating," she says out of the blue, clear apprehension evident in her eyes. "Would you care to join me?"

Through raised eyebrows, Ron inquires, "Ice skating?"

"Yes…" Her mouth twists up into a sly smile. "It's a sport where-"

"Har har," Ron interrupts, admittedly getting a thrill out of her teasing. "Yes, I know. I've just never been."

She lets out a gasp. "You're joking!"

"'Fraid not."

"Well…" She chews on her bottom lip, the action causing a wave of anxiety to pulsate through his entire body. "What do you say?"

Ron has a decision to make here. He can either choose to embrace the unknown and go with his gut instinct to take her up on her offer, or he can allow himself to dissolve into a full blown panic.

Thank Merlin he chooses the first option.

"I'm in!"

Walking side by side, they approach what's known as the Winter Village in Bryant Park. A massive amount of people move around a crowded rink, wearing white steel-bladed skates as they slide over the smooth ice surface.

"Many people go to Rockefeller Plaza to ice skate, but I prefer this location. It has the most magnificent view of the New York City Public Library in the background."

"The library, huh?" To Ron, it seems like an odd feature to point out, but then again, he's a bit embarrassed to not be sure he could recall what the inside of the library at Hogwarts looks like if someone asks him.

"Dazzled by all of the holiday lights, yet?" She questions, holding a small bag with a pair of purchased gloves inside of it.

"I suppose. It's all a bit fancy, isn't it?"

"The city lights remain unparalleled to any other experience I've ever had," she murmurs, gazing up at the white lights lining the outside of the tall library building in front of them.

"I'll take your word for it."

"So," she turns to him with a grin as they take their place at the back of the queue for skate rentals. "What brings you to the city?"

"I'm on holiday with my sister and best friend."

"Oh?" Her brows draw together. "And where are they tonight?"

Ron scoffs. "Probably doing things I don't particularly care to think about."

"Oh? Third wheel, I take it?"

"More like still trying to process the idea of my best mate dating my sister."

She giggles in response as they approach the front of the queue, and Ron decides that her laugh is one of the best sounds he's heard in a long time. Filled with the desire to learn more about her, he asks,

"So, what brings you here to New York City? You live here, yeah?"

A coy smile lights up her face. "I'm not sure I'm ready to answer that question yet."

"Okaaaaay," Ron draws out, smirking. "How about this one? What do you miss most about England?"

She ponders his question for a moment before answering. "Well, I miss my parents terribly."

In a way, he suspects she's just admitted to no longer living there. He presses on.

"Do you visit them often?"

She frowns as she reaches for the pair of skates that the attendant hands her. "Not so much since I moved. Work keeps me very busy."

His curiosity continues to mount, but he doesn't want to push her for more information than she's ready to disclose, so he simply replies, "That's understandable."

"How about you?" She asks just as they're lacing up their boots. "What do you do for work?"

Ron's not quite sure how to answer at first, but he supposes he should be as honest as he possibly can without raising suspicion. "I'm, uh, well I guess you could say I'm a please-man."

She laughs again. "A what? A policeman? Is that what you said?"

Coughing, Ron quickly adds, "I mean, yes, I am a policeman. Protecting the law, preventing crime and such."

"Well…" The woman bows her head, clearly trying to hide the grin on her face, "Sounds fascinating! You must be very brave."

Ron can't help but puff out his chest a little at her compliment. She makes him sound so interesting. "Ah, well."

"Come on, let's hot the ice!" She exclaims, coming to a quick stand on her feet.

"Hot the ice?" Ron peers up at her, scratching his cheek. "What in Mer — what does that mean?"

"Oh!" She waves a dismissive hand. "It's just a silly saying I use. Simply meaning that once the blade of your skate meets the ice, it creates a friction that naturally grows…"

Fuck, I could listen to her all day, Ron surmises, as she rambles on about the specific intentions behind her joke. So intelligent she is and he wishes that he had a better grasp on how she sees the world. Unfortunately for him, he considers himself to have no charm at all, so how is he supposed to sweep her off her broom?

Standing up as she suggests they get out onto the rink, Ron tries to balance on either foot. How do people make this look so easy?

She's already several steps ahead of him, gliding onto the rink with ease and grace, something Ron doesn't think he'll be able to manage with his two left feet. Bracing his arm against the wall, it's a bit frightening once the blade of his skate makes contact with the ice for the first time. The surface is slippery, very slippery, and he finds it difficult keeping his legs steady while trying to get used to the friction of the ice.

Meanwhile, his beautiful, courageous new acquaintance is already zooming down the rink, going farther and faster with each stride. He stares at her in awe as she tilts back her head, embracing the wind blowing through her curls as she approaches him again.

Coming to a slick stop at the wall next to him, she asks, "Would you like some help?"

"No, no," Ron insists, shaking the ice from his skate as he leans against the barrier. "M'fine. You go on ahead. I'll be out there in a minute."

"If you say so," she cheekily replies, pushing off the edge with her hands as she glides backwards into the crowd.

Mustering up the strength, Ron pushes himself off the wall, ankles wobbling like a bloody gnome as he works hard to get the balance and placement of his feet just right to avoid falling flat on his face. He's a bit frustrated by how difficult a task it seems to be for him to learn, especially seeing others make skating look so fluid and simple, but he propels forward as both of his skates scrape against the solid ice parallel to one another. His body remains stiff, which makes the experience harder for him, so he wills his nerve endings to relax.

Feeling comfortable enough to make a different move, Ron experiments by bringing his right foot inward towards his left before repeating the motion on the other side, gaining the small amount of momentum he needs to trudge forward along the ice. He can't imagine how he must look to some people, and he can't stop thinking about how his toes and calves are cramping from trying to keep his skates upright, but he continues anyway. He finally manages to lengthen his left and right legs, alternating his strides with a balanced rhythm.

"Way to go! You've got this!" He recognizes the familiar voice of the woman cheering for him, but unfortunately the loud chant proves to be too much of a distraction and he loses all focus on his movements completely.

"Oh no."

When Ron looks up, he's speeding fast in the woman's direction, who frantically waves her arms up and down in an effort to get him to stop.

"Watch out!"

She seems frozen in place, unable to move, a blatant look of terror written all over her face.

Bloody hell, why can't he use magic right now?

He knows he needs to steer away, but he can't —blast, what is wrong with his skates? Without a doubt, he's sure he's going to fall, he just hopes that it isn't at the expense of her.

However, fate seems to have different plans, and as Ron finds himself tripping over air, he's crashing straight into her, wrapping an instinctive arm around her head to protect it from smashing against the icy pavement. With an oomph, they stumble to the ground, a tangle of limbs as many gasp and whisper around them.

"Ouch!" He hears her mumble into his coat from beneath him.

Ron lifts his head from her mass of curls now splayed out along the crystallized surface, breath hitching in his throat as their noses brush together. Her chest rises and falls with every shaky breath. A tingling feeling takes over his entire body in such a way that makes him feel like he's drunk on Firewhiskey, warming him from the inside out.

As if suddenly realizing their precarious position as people continue to skate around them, Ron sits up on the ice, although doesn't make a move to release his hold on her. "Mer- I mean, Gods, I'm so so sorry, I didn't know how to stop myself. Are you alright?"

Her body is trembling, like she's trying to suppress something. Is she cold? Is she going to be sick? Instead she bursts into loud, jarring laughter, with dark eyes brimming with tears and a smile enveloping her face.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Oh, we look ridiculous, don't we?"

"Oi!"

She giggles even harder at his offense, and he can't stop the grin that tugs on the corners of his lips. He moves to his side to check for injuries, the laughter dying in his throat as he hears her take in a sharp inhale of breath.

Hissing again, she holds up her forearm that hosts a deep red gash with blood trickling down her skin. "Oh, yes. I suppose it does sting a bit."

She supposes? Growing increasingly frustrated with himself over his clumsiness, Ron helps the woman to a standing position, willing his feet to work properly so as not to send them both tumbling to the ground again.

"Let me take a look. Ah, yeah, that's a nasty one." Ron's fingers trace around the perimeter of the wound.

"Let's move over to the bench." She nods her head in the direction of the park. "I have some ditt — uh, bandages in my bag."

Lines form between his brows. "Really?"

"Oh, I always have the essentials packed. Just in case."

They somehow make it safely off the rink and settle on an empty bench as Ron begins to inspect the wound. The woman digs through a small beaded bag as disguised items clink around, making it seem like the tiny carrier holds more than it's physically able to. His curiosity grows, although he doesn't dwell on it once she hands him a roll of gauze and adhesive tape.

"Do you mind?"

"Hold still a moment, yeah?" Ron makes quick work of the bandage, taking great care to be as gentle as possible when wrapping the gauze around her arm. It's hard to resist the urge to use magic. In his world, the minor abrasion would be gone with just a quick flick of his wand.

"You're very calm," she observes. "Must be because of your law enforcement training in high stakes situations."

A teasing tone hangs off the edge of her voice, and he pauses his work for a moment to view the wicked smile on her face. Bloody hell, I think she's flirting with me!

"Oh, yeah. I've got loads of training with treating flesh wounds. Wouldn't want it leaving a nasty scar, or worse, getting so infected that the doctors might have to chop off your arm!"

The woman throws her head back in laughter, a sound that is music to Ron's ears. She really does have a brilliant laugh. The realization dawns on him that she hasn't had the urge to check one of her mobile phone thingies — is that what they're called? — all night.

Wait. She hasn't checked her phone, assuming she has one in that bag of hers. That's a bit odd in today's times, isn't it?

A tickling sensation brings his attention back to the matter at hand, and he's startled to find her fingers touching the pale, cold skin of his hand that's still resting on her arm.

"Are you looking at my freckles?"

"You just have so many," she whispers back, keeping her gaze trained on the pattern she's making as she connects one freckle to another with her finger on his skin. The simple action makes him feel wanted and desired. Maybe this holiday wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

As the woman's hand moves, Ron catches a glimpse of something up the sleeve of her coat, something long and stick-shaped that resembles wood — hold on a second, what the actual-

"Wait — you're a witch."

"Pardon?" The woman's eyes darken even more as she draws her lips into a thin line. "That's very rude, why would you-"

Ron flashes her his wand stowed within the inside pocket of his coat, silencing her in an instant as her eyes grow wide.

"You're magic."

"You're magic!" He reiterates, not able to conceal the delight in his voice. So many mysteries surrounding their evening together, things she's said and done, all fall into place. Yet, so many questions still continue to swirl in his brain. They look to be around the same age — how is it possible they've never met before? Wouldn't she have gone to Hogwarts?

The guilty-looking woman lets out a breath she has apparently been holding. "I can't believe this…"

A rumble of laughter ripples through Ron's chest before escaping through his lips. "Well, Merlin's pants! How amazing is this?"

She taps her chin. "So, let me guess, policeman, sir...you must be an Auror."

Ron smirks. "Intuitive. Why don't you grab that dittany you're hiding in your bag there, yeah?"

She blushes, although doesn't make a move to pluck the small bottle out of her bag that he knows she must have. "Actually, before I do that, would you be up for another adventure tonight?"

"Are you going to tell me more about yourself if I do?" Ron challenges back, although he's already decided in his mind that he will join her regardless. He'd rather spend time with her than part ways.

"Maybe." She jumps to her feet, nursing her injured arm with her hand. "I've got a few ideas. To start, just because we're wizards, doesn't mean we can't indulge in Muggle traditions every now and then, right?" There's a twinkle in her eyes that rivals the sparkling trees against the dark night sky.

As he stares into her irises, he realizes something. Blimey, he doesn't even know this beautiful witch's name! How could he have been so daft not to get her name? She's probably wondering how thick he could be...well, if he wants to earn the opportunity to hear it, best to go along with her plans.

"Alright. What did you have in mind?"