A/N

Merry Christmas, my loves! This is the FINAL chapter of Astoria — and yes, my biggest apologies, I totally forgot about this story, but let's just pretend that I saved a chapter about Christmas for Christmas.

Thank you all so much for sticking with me for so long. This closes the Draconian AU once and for all, so I really hope you enjoyed this story. It's been such a wonderful journey writing this series these past five years. And who knows? Maybe I'll return to fanfic again someday.

In the meantime, you can find me with my original fic SUGAR RUSH. If you have any questions, please direct them to my instagram (HEPBURNETTESWP)!

x Noelle

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HER EYES FLUTTER open as rays of sunlight stream in through the curtains. The first thing she's aware of is Ron's arm looped around her waist. He's curled himself against her, so that she can feel his chest pressed to her back, his hips cradling her arse and his erection between her thighs.

It's a position that reminds her of the night before: one hand on her breast, the other between her thighs, as he'd fucked her slow, hard, deliciously from behind. She blushes now, especially at the memory of how he'd bitten down on the juncture between her neck and shoulder, and whispered all kinds of filthy things in her ear until she felt like she would combust. She'd come this close to begging, and Slytherins almost never beg. Ron might be the model Gryffindor, all chivalrous and honourable and innocent on the outside. But she's delighted to find that he lowers all his inhibitions in bed. He's mouthy and demanding and passionate, and she loves that. She loves...

No, not that.

With a determined breath, she summons her wand and casts a freshening charm on her mouth. Merlin forbid that she ruin their morning after with bad breath. As she runs a hand through her hair, she looks around Ron's room.

It's strange to see it in broad daylight. She's been to his flat on many occasions, but never ventured into his room. Somehow, this place seems off-limits when they stay within the definition of 'just friends'. Posters of the Chudley Canons and rock bands she's never heard of adorn the walls. A Muggle drum set in the corner that was her gift to him after he swore he'd learn how to play (but never did). Hideous red curtains and bedsheets that declare his Gryffindor pride. He's marginally neater than his friends claimed he'd been before, but still the occasional sock or shirt finds its way onto the floor.

Then she sees his nightstand.

It's sparse, unlike the rest of the room, and only three photographs adorn it. The first is of his immediate family, the second of the Golden Trio during Hogwarts days. The last one is of him and her. They'd taken it about three years ago. He'd brought a camera when he'd taken her out to lunch. Something about needing to take an official picture to solidify their friendship.

She's never seen it before though, until now. Had his arm always looked so tanned slung over her fair shoulder? He'd captured her startled expression, followed by the instinctive smile she'd given when he held the camera up. But what draws her attention is the split second where he'd looked at her before turning to the camera. The tiny quirk of his lips, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and the way his features completely soften as he stares at her.

Oh.

She's never really seen it from this perspective before. Is this how he looks at her when she doesn't notice? Does he know that she looks at him the same way? It almost...

It almost looks like love.

Her breath lodges in her throat. This is not good. Not good at all. A tight knot of anxiety settles in her stomach, but it grows with each second she stares at the photograph. Within minutes, it's full-blown panic and her hands curl into fists around the bedsheet. She needs air. She needs time to think. She needs...

She needs to get out of here.

Picking up her wand, she casts a silent Immobulus spell on Ron. It's the only time she's ever purposely used magic on him without his knowledge, and she feels the immediate sting of guilt. Thank Merlin he's a deep sleeper. She extricates herself from his hold and makes quick work of dressing herself. As she nears the doorway, she can't help throw one last glance at him.

For a moment, she has to catch her breath. He looks so boyish, so unexpectedly young, with his hair falling into his eyes and sunlight flitted across his body. Fuck, he's beautiful. Her fingers twitch by her side, desperate to reach for him again. Instead, she silently removes the Immobulus charm and Apparates home.

Somehow, her flat seems emptier than the last time she saw it.

She steps into the shower almost immediately. Hot water rids her skin of his scent, and she almost regrets it. When she's done with her bath, she fixes herself a strong cup of tea. Then a bowl of porridge. It's no different than any other morning. Well, it's Christmas day, of course, but it shouldn't feel any different.

Except it is.

The half-eaten porridge goes down the sink, along with the remainder of her tea. She's still jittery and panicky and— For Salazar's sake, she needs to talk to someone about this! Ron. He's the first person her mind goes to, but the last person she can talk to.

Without a second thought, she rushes to the fireplace and tosses a bit of Floo powder in. "Zabini and Parkinson residence, Hogwarts."

Emerald flames burst forth, but she doesn't step in. The last time she had, she'd stumbled upon her friends in a position that made her want to practice self-Obliviation. She'd begged Ron to do it for her, but he'd only laughed and said that everyone had to experience an awful sight like this at least once in their lifetime.

"Pansy?" she calls instead.

There's a beat, then a surprised— "Oh, hello, Astoria! Happy Christmas! Where did you sneak off to last night, you naughty girl?"

She bites her lip. "Happy Christmas to you too. I'm so sorry for bothering you this early, but I desperately need to talk to someone who isn't a Weasley or one of Ron's best friends. I—I think I did something really stupid...with Ron, last night."

"Well, anything that involves Ron Weasley is stupid, so I'm afraid that doesn't narrow it down at all."

She rolls her eyes. Ron might not be as book smart as her other friends, but he's brilliant and inventive in other ways. She should know. She spent the night with him, after all. The things he could do with his hands and tongue...

Right, focus.

"Um, okay," she says. Thank Merlin Pansy can't see her blush. "I...er, you see... I kind of spent the night with him."

"Oh good! Ron finally got some, huh?"

She shrieks at Blaise's unexpected voice. With a strangled laugh, she runs her hand through her hair and huffs out a breath. "Hi, Blaise. And I wouldn't put it that way, but Ron and I did sleep together last night."

"So what's the big deal?" asks Pansy. "You had an amazing shag—as well as a Gryffindor can shag anyway; Ron finally gets over his case of serious blue balls; and, given his Weasley genes, you'll probably pop out a dozen redhead babies."

"Yeah, that's not the issue... It's just that I think this might've been a really big mistake."

A startled silence follows. Then Blaise finally clears his throat. "You're alone, aren't you? You won't mind if we pop by for a little visit?"

"Uh, no, not at all. Come on over."

The flames die down as the call ends. She lowers the Anti-Floo wards, then starts pacing her room as she chews on her fingernails. It's a terrible habit, but she finds that she can't care less. Three minutes later, the fireplace flares back to life as Pansy and Blaise step through. Draco enters about a minute after them, followed shortly by Theo.

"Pansy," Theo says flatly, as he sweeps dust off his shirt with a flick of his wand. "This had better be bloody worth it."

"Oh, it is—it's about Ron."

"Goodbye." Draco immediately turns to the fireplace, only for Blaise to hold him back by the collar.

"It's about our girl, too, you selfish prick," Blaise tells him. "Look, even Theo's sat down for this."

It's not a surprise that Theo would. He and Ron are close friends, after all. But Draco looks at her for a moment, then relents with a sigh.

She bites back a tiny smile. Over the years, she's grown close to her fellow Slytherins—closer than Daphne had ever been with them. Young Astoria had always been envious of the friends her sister had. But now that they're all grown up, she realises that they've often no idea how to fit into a post-war world that doesn't support Pureblood ideals any more than she does. They often tease her about being the best one among them, and have become rather protective over her.

"So," Draco says, as he straddles the back of a chair. "What's the problem? I'm assuming it's the Weasel."

"It's not," she says quickly. Best to nip that idea in the bud. The last thing she wants is her friends storming over to Ron's to give him a solid pummelling. "It's just—okay, you know how I've always relied on my Sight to guide me? I'm...I'm worried that it may have guided me wrong this time."

Blaise frowns. "How so?"

"What if—what if I'm not the person Ron's supposed to end up with? Maybe I was wrong all along, and I just clung onto a Vision I had when I was eleven. What if there's someone out there who's better for him—"

"Better for him?" Draco asks sharply. "You're a Greengrass, for Salazar's sake. He should kiss your bloody feet if you even gave him the time of day."

Pansy nods. "Exactly! What's not to like? You're a Pureblood, an Unspeakable and a Seer. If this were pre-war Wizarding world, do you know how many eligible men would ask for your hand in marriage, with a face like yours? I mean, sure, now you're not as rich as you used to be, but what's he got to complain about? His family lives in a hole in the floor, and he always looks like an orange threw up on him—"

"I think what Pansy means is that you and Ron are a perfect match," Blaise quickly cuts in, when he catches the indignation on Astoria's face. Looks like an orange threw up on him? She and Pansy are best friends, but the other woman exasperates her sometimes.

"Think about it," Blaise continues. "You're quiet and calm, while he's loud and energetic. You seem to appreciate his sense of humour, and you deal patiently with his temper. He gets you out of your shell, and he stops you from overthinking. If he were here now, he'd tell you that you're way into your head. And you need to take a step back, and not overcomplicate things."

"Astoria." Theo's voice is quiet, and his gaze is calm as he studies her. "Maybe you should tell him what you Saw."

Emotions rise up in her throat, and she shakes her head. "I can't. That would be the most selfish thing if I did. It would just force him into a future that he may not even want."

"And are you sure this is not what he wants?"

"I—" she starts, then falters. Is it? She doesn't know—she's never asked. She's never dared to hope.

The corners of Theo's lips lift in a hint of a smile. "You need to find him."

Find Ron and tell him how she feels? The thought terrifies her, but it's also the right thing to do. She's been through a war; she's defeated Death-Eaters. Surely, she can do this? She slowly nods.

Her response seems to satisfy them, because Blaise grins at her and climbs to his feet. "Alright, I think our job here is done," he declares, and turns to Pansy. "Baby, what do you say we head back to Hogwarts and celebrate Christmas until one of the elves call us for lunch?"

"Did you manage to borrow Arthur's Santa suit?" Pansy asks, with a sly wink, amidst Theo's groan and Draco's annoyed, "For fuck's sake, woman!" Pansy rolls her eyes, mutters, "Prudes," and crosses the room to peck Astoria on the cheek. "Happy Christmas! Call me when you're done shagging Ron, okay? We'll get drinks with Hermione, Luna and Ginny—ooh, maybe you can scare Ginny with tales about how her brother is in the sack! Does he have any weird Gryffindor kinks, by the way?"

"Get out!" Theo growls, and shoves Pansy into the fireplace. He grabs a handful of Floo powder for himself and tosses a backward glance at Astoria. "Good luck."

"Thanks, Theo." She watches as he disappears in a burst of flames, then turns to the last person in the room. "Hey, um, sorry for ruining your morning," she says to Draco. "I know you and Hermione had plans for breakfast with Andromeda and Teddy. Did you all come here just to talk to me about Ron?"

"You're the Seer, you tell me." Draco smirks and reaches into his jacket. He draws out a small handful of what looks like coloured confetti and sets them on the floor. When he enlarges them, she realises they're not confetti. They're presents. "You and the Weasel left early last night, so Hermione brought all your presents home. Better her than the one-eared twin, who wanted to set them off with fireworks."

"Thank you."

Draco waves her gratitude off and stares at her for a moment. "Go get him, kid."

Her smile widens. It's one of the rare times she'll ever hear Draco voice his support for her, but it means a lot. "Kid? I'm only two years younger than you."

"And don't you forget it!"

He vanishes through the Floo and her flat is silent once more. For a minute or two, she stares at the pile of presents scattered around her floor. Some are labelled for Ron, others for her. Whether she wants to talk to him or not, she'll have to give him his presents.

She takes a resolute breath and picks his presents out from the pile. After she shrinks them down to a handful again, she grabs her coat and heads for the door. She casts the counterspell to undo the locks and steps into the hallway.

Then she stops.

"Ron?"

He looks a complete mess. Unshaven, hair tousled, and sporting a crease along his jaw because he'd probably slept wrong on his pillow. His white shirt is just as rumpled, as though he'd thrown on the closest thing he could find. He strides quickly down the empty hallway, and comes to a halt several feet away, still breathing hard.

She swallows. Even when he looks a mess, she can't stop the flutter in her chest. Shite. She really has it bad for him. "What are—what're you doing here?"

"I think that's what I should be asking you, Astoria."

She doesn't miss the undertone of hurt in his voice. Of course he would be, when he'd woken up and found an empty space beside him. No good morning, no awkward hello, not even a note.

She's really messed this up, hasn't she?

"Right, um—"

She drags a hand through her hair and tries hard not to stare at the lovebite on his neck. She'd spent a fair bit of time on that spot the night before, sucking on his skin until he'd moaned and his hips had bucked beneath hers. Now he's got her mark on him as proof of their shared time together, and the Slytherin in her feels ridiculously pleased with that.

Focus.

"—I just needed some time," she explains lamely. "To think, a little."

"You regret last night?" There's that hurt again, much clearer than before. He really does wear his heart on his sleeve, doesn't he?

"No, no, of course not! I don't regret anything at all. I just—I just thought you would."

He stares at her strangely. "Why the hell would I?"

This is it. This is the moment she has to tell him. But his eyes are so blue and clear, the expression on his face so open that she almost falters. She takes a deep breath and tells him the truth.

"Okay, I've never told you this before but... I was eleven when I had my first Vision. I was climbing the Grand Staircase in Hogwarts and I tripped. I don't know if you remember this, but you caught me. And when I looked at you, I saw you. Not you—at that moment; but another you—in the future."

"I know."

She blinks. He...knows? "What?"

"I know," he repeats, with a shrug. "That's why I asked if you ever had a Vision of me. When I caught you, you must've... I don't know exactly what you did, but I think you projected the image into my mind."

"I did?"

He nods. "It's like the time you showed me your Vision of the war, except you didn't do it on purpose. I saw myself through your eyes—older, taller, more handsome," he adds with a cheeky grin, and she flushes. "I figured it had to be a future version of me. I asked you what the hell that was, but I think you were so shocked that you didn't hear me."

"I didn't," she says, still dazed. Her mind reels from his revelation. He'd known of her ability from the moment she had. But if he'd known all along, then he's remarkably calm for someone who's had the future planned out for him. "How are you okay with this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because I showed you your future! No one, other than Seers, should ever be burdened with that knowledge! I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to feel forced into this future. I only ever wanted you to have a choice."

"And you think that because I know the future, I no longer have a choice?"

She swallows hard and nods.

He lets out a soft sigh and takes a step closer. His scent, crisp and fresh, envelops her; and when he speaks, his voice is gentle. "Astoria, you work in the Department of Mysteries. You know the Hall of Prophecies better than I do. What happens when a prophecy never comes to pass?"

"The sphere that the prophecy's held in fades to grey."

"Three of yours did, right? There was the time you Saw that Hogwarts would reopen in spring, but because of the bad weather, it reopened in summer instead. You had a Vision of Harry being cursed on an Auror mission, but the Dark Wizard that cursed him was killed the week before. You Saw that your parents would return last year, but they didn't and you were so disappointed."

She stares up at him, not quite understanding what he's getting at. He seems to sense her confusion, because he smiles.

"My point is—you might be a Seer, but no one's Sight is ever perfect. Hermione once told me about some Muggle theory of parallel universes, and maybe this is what all prophecies are: foretellings of a future that may not necessarily happen in this world, but in another. In one world, your parents would've returned to you last year. In another, they'd return this year. And in another, they may never return at all. I don't think of prophecies as what the future is, but what the future can be."

He reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches when his fingers linger on her ear—a featherlight touch that seems entirely at odds with how rough and rugged he usually is.

"Do you really think a Vision can force me into something I don't want?" he asks softly. "You didn't show me an inevitability. You showed me a possibility—of what the future could be if I chose it. I saw and I wanted, before I even knew what it was to want something. That's why I was nice to you at Hogwarts, that's why I wanted to be friends with you, and that's why I kissed you. Because it's you. You're all I've ever wanted."

She blinks. "Really?"

"Really. I thought it was pretty obvious that I've been in love with you for the longest time."

She meets his gaze, clear and blue, and swallows hard again. "I'm not—uh, I'm not very good with words, but..." She falters for a moment, before an idea comes to mind. She takes a determined breath and reaches up to his face. Her palms curve around his cheeks, and she stares right into his eyes. "Look."

He does.

And she shows him everything. The moment they first met. The moment they first kissed. The moment they first slept together. And all the other moments in between. She shows him the times she watched him from her seat at the Slytherin table; the times she secretly smiled when he blocked a goal from her house during the Quidditch Cup. The adrenaline rush she'd felt on the back of his broom; the similar rush she'd felt every other time he'd coaxed her out for a flight. An overwhelming relief the few times she saw him during the war—he's okay, he's alive, he's here. White hot anger when she'd caught him with Lavender Brown; a whisper of wistfulness when she saw him with Hermione Granger; liquid green envy when he talked about Romilda Vane.

The Patronuses he sent to her every night were what kept her sane after the war; the Owls he sent she'd kept in her bedside drawer. When her parents left, she'd shown up at his doorstep and he held her without saying a word. When Fred's death-anniversary rolled around, he'd shown up at her flat drunk and she let him have her bed.

She'd spent many an afternoon with him discussing their jobs over lunch, and many an evening talking about their childhoods over dinner. She'd fix his bruises after every Auror mission; he'd ask her out to lunch everyday not knowing that she was already waiting for him. Every time she wandered to his office in Weasley's Wizard Whizzes, she'd stop at his doorway for a moment. That look of intense focus on his face; the whir of new inventions in the corner. No—he's definitely not as stupid or clueless as he plays at, and she wonders why no one else sees it.

This whole falling in love business doesn't happen in the blink of an eye. It's like sinking deeper and deeper underneath a safe blanket. She sinks a little more each time he grins at her across the table during brunch at the Weasleys. Each time he wraps an arm around her to pull her close while he's playing Muggle video games. Each time he masters the perfect blend of tea before he passes her mug to her. Each time he rests his chin on her shoulder to sneak a glimpse at the confidential work she does. Each time he pulls her into a hug and she closes her eyes, thinking, this must be what coming home feels like.

She finally closes the connection and withdraws from his mind. His eyes are wide and he stares at her for a moment. She lets out a quick breath and bites her lip. "So, you, um... you saw it, right?"

"I did," he says, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "I love you, too."

She huffs out a small laugh. Leaning up on the tips of her toes, she quickly presses her lips to his. He responds immediately, his arms going around her to pull her close as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers with increasing familiarity. Already, she can feel him stirring against her, his length hardening against her stomach.

And what better way to spend Christmas than to be in bed with the man she loves?

After awhile, she has to break the kiss to catch her breath. He lingers a fraction away from her, breathing her in, and the smile on his face almost tastes of summer. Sunlight flits from the corridor into her flat, turning his hair varying shades of brown and red. As she meets his gaze, his bright blue eyes soft with affection, she's suddenly struck by a tingle of awareness. Quick, light, that goes down her spine. And that's the moment she knows:

This is what I've been waiting for.

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