Miranda tosses and turns all night, every time she dares close her eyes, horribly vision flash before her. No matter what she does she can't escape them.

Harry held captive by the Dark Lord, writhing in pain. Matt's body, bloody and mutilated. Hermione pleading for mercy as she is tortured by the Cruciatus curse. Ron and Ginny screaming in agony. They cry for her help. Tortured shrieks and whimpers; begging. Miranda can't reach any of them. She can't save them. It's too late. It's her fault. She can't save them. She can't save any of them.

Draco's icy eyes invade her mind, unbidden. The curl of his lip as he told her to stay away, throwing away their friendship like it was nothing. Like she was nothing. Her mother's lifeless form falls over and over again, green flashes of light searing into her brain forever.

No one can save you. You are alone. Everyone is gone.

You are alone.

You are alone.

You are alone.

Miranda awakes with a gasp, her hands trembling. Nausea washes over in thick waves, her head spinning. Hyperventilating, she grips her sheets until her knuckles turn white. His voice echoes in her head over and over again, and she cannot drown it out. The room around her is blurred. She can't think. She can't breathe. She needs—

"Miranda!" Matt barrels into the girls' room, Harry at his heels.

Miranda is crumpled in half, taking quick, shallow breaths. She hears an extremely worried voice, the patter of footsteps. She is mildly aware that there is a figure standing over her bedside. "Oh my god!" Hermione. Miranda rocks back and forth slowly on the bed, screwing her eyes shut. More footsteps, a horrified, high pitched noise. There are hazy outlines of people in front of her.

"Is she ill?"

"What's wrong with her?!" Another voice, deeper, more agitated, if possible. She is vaguely aware of someone touching her face. "Miranda?" Harry.

He's here. He's here. Miranda shudders at the recognition.

You're alone.

"I'm going to get McGonagall!" Hermione scrambles to her feet, hurriedly wrapping her dressing gown around her.

"No!" Mateo shouts. "I know what to do. I've got this." He grabs Miranda's hand and closes his eyes, letting their shared power flow between them. "I'm here Miranda," he whispers aloud, determined to fix this. "I'm here. Listen to me. Don't listen to him."

Damn it Miranda snap out of it. He's in your head. Don't let him control you. Whatever you're seeing, whatever you're hearing— it isn't real. We can fight this. You can fight this.

Miranda grist her teeth, a gut wrenching torment burning through her as she tried to resist. Fight it. Fight it. With a strangled breath, she comes to.

Mateo.

Miranda, thank Merlin.

With a sharp inhale, Miranda is yanked out of her possessed state, unclenching her fists as her heart rate slows to a normal pace.

Harry's features are stricken. He is beside himself, bent at her bedside. Hermione's face is stark white, and Mateo looks immensely defeated— drained. Like he's just run a marathon.  "Miranda?" Harry ventures, a thumb on her cheek.

Her blood is ice cold.

"She's ok," Mateo sighs in obvious relief, relinquishing her hand.

Harry embraces her so tightly that Miranda swears she hears one of her ribs crack. "Don't do that to me, Mandy," he chokes out, pressing his nose into her hair. He clutches his head, wrecked.  "I thought—"

"I'm alright, Harry," Miranda manages, hoarse. Her eyes sting with tears, but she blinks them furiously away. "I promise."

"Maybe you should go to the infirmary," Hermione muses, peering at Miranda with deep concern. Parvati and Lavender are wide eyed and speechless, never having witnessed something of this nature. Mateo looks as though he is starting to agree as Miranda swallows down bile building in her throat.

She interjects, "Hermione it was just a dream." She reaches out, weakly patting her on the hand, "Actually you should go sleep in Ginny's room, I don't want to wake you again." She turns to Parvati and Lavender, "You guys too. I'm sorry about all this." Parvati and Lavender exit immediately, grateful for the opportunity.

Hermione, however, lingers. "I'm not going to just—" she protests reluctantly.

"Please Hermione?" Miranda implores, praying she will listen. She can't handle everyone hovering right now. And she knows the longer Hermione is here, the greater the likelihood that she will tell a teacher. And Miranda cannot allow that. Dumbledore is away again, and it would most certainly lead to her having to talk to Snape about how she needs to practice blocking better. "It would make me feel better," she looks up at her beseechingly.

Hermione wavers, "Well—okay. But the second you need something, I'm here." Miranda smiles softly as Hermione leaves for Ginny's. Thanking her best friend for understanding. For giving her the space she needs. Now all she has to do is handle her overprotective brother.

You too, Mateo.

No way.

Matt...

Miranda.

If I need you, you'll know.

But—

Go back to bed.

Are you sure?

I'm sure.

I love you.

I love you too, Matt.

Mateo exits quietly, and then only Harry remains. Miranda can feels his eyes on her, as she always can. It's comforting though, like a warm blanket she craves on the darkest, coldest of nights. Tonight was one of those.

"I hope you're not planning on asking me to leave too because I won't." Harry informs her, arms crossed. Stubborn as ever, her boyfriend. His expression is fierce with love.

"I know,"  says Miranda quietly. A ghost of a smile passes over her  face.

Harry relents, just for a moment. "I'll go if you really want me to," he tells her, "but—"

"Don't go," Miranda whispers into the darkened room. "Please?" Her request is hushed, simple. She needs him. She needs Harry.

"Always." Harry's eyes soften as he climbs into Miranda's bed beside her, pulling her close against his own body. Miranda's hands are still trembling and Harry puts his hands over her own to steady them, arms secure around her waist. She draws as close to him as she possibly can, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. His skin is warm and his hands are gentle, and the familiar smell of him fills her nose.

"Is this okay?" he breathes into her ear, a cautious question. Miranda nods silently, a singular tear dripping down her face and rolling off of her chin, landing on the pillow beneath her. Harry says nothing, merely kissing the wetness off of her face with his thumb. Miranda's breaths become even as she relaxes into Harry's touch, finally, finally, able to rest her eyes. She is safe. And more importantly— so is he.

The last few days before Christmas pass by interchangeably, slow and sticky like syrup. Miranda has been silent, more subdued, since the night of Slughorn's Christmas party. Food has no taste anymore. The dark winter nights are long, and she mostly stays inside, staring out the window listlessly, nothing to do but worry. She replays certain scenes in her mind over and over again, voices echoing in her head.

"Do me a favor and stay away!"

"You don't know me."

"Avada Kedavra!"

"I love you, sweetie."

"Mom, no!"

She and Harry always sleep together now, in her room or his. They are each other's safe place. Some nights Harry wakes up screaming, drenched with sweat, and Miranda has to calm him down, rub his back until he falls back to sleep. Other nights Miranda is the one who has to be soothed, and when it gets bad Mateo is there to hold her hand and block the bad thoughts out.

Voldemort knows about the connection now, between Miranda and him. He knows he can impact thoughts in her brain, make her feel pain. He doesn't know all of it, at least that's what they hope. Dumbledore still hasn't returned, but his letters have said that he doesn't believe Voldemort is aware of Mateo, or that they can work together to overpower his mind. They still have the element of surprise, for now.

You have to eat.

I went to dinner, Matt

You hardly touched your food.

I wasn't hungry.

Miranda...

Matt.

Harry's worried about you, I am too.

I'm fine.

You don't look fine.

He knows Matt. He knows and what if he knows about you too?

He doesn't.

We don't know that. He could come after you next.

Miranda sighs and looks away. Mateo shoves a grilled cheese at her. "Eat please. I know it's your favorite." Miranda takes a bite begrudgingly.

"You got her to eat?" Harry appears on her other side, attentive.

"Oh my god you guys," Miranda makes an impatient noise in the back of her throat. The two of them have been smothering her nonstop for three days straight. It is so bothersome that Miranda almost wishes Mateo would go back to hating Harry, because their newfound bond and penchant for worrying about her was not cutting it. "I eat!" Miranda exclaims defensively.

"Not enough," Harry tilts his head as he looks at her with pity, Mateo mirroring his expression on the left.

"Stop looking at me like that," Miranda scowls, taking another, more aggressive, bite of her sandwich.

"Like what?" Both boys  quickly attempt to rearrange their faces.

"I'm not made of fucking glass," Miranda snaps angrily.

"We don't—"

"No!" Miranda shouts, unable to take it any longer. "You treat me like I'm some fragile fucking bird who's going to shatter at any second. Don't act like it's not true." All of her pent up emotions are spewing out of her at once, a knotted mess. "Both of you, no fuck that, all of you. Ron, Ginny, and Hermione included have been walking on eggshells around me since that night. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." She glares at them, "I don't want to be pitied. I don't need to be pitied. I need you to be straight with me and not lie to me because you think I cannot handle it!" Her cheeks are growing redder by the second. "I can fucking handle it. I am stronger than you know, every single day he's in my head. Telling me I'm nothing, trying to make me believe that all of you are gone and it's all my fault. I fight him off everyday. So yeah maybe I'm not a fucking ray of sunshine, but that doesn't mean I'm fucking disabled. I'm just fucking exhausted all the fucking time!" Miranda finally exhales, out of breath by the end of her rant. She thinks that's the most she's cursed in a while. Mateo and Harry are speechless.

Harry is cowed, staring guiltily down at her. "I—I'm sorry Miranda," he mumbles, "we shouldn't have— I shouldn't have done that. You don't treat me that way and I have just as many nightmares as you." Harry apologizes.

"Damn right." Miranda clenches her jaw, "Took you long enough."

"Do you forgive me?" Harry scratches his head sheepishly.

"Of course I do, you idiot," she smiles for a moment, shaking her head. Of course she forgives him, looking at her with those baleful puppy go eyes. "I'm sorry I yelled, but I had to make my point. I know you only worry because you love me."

"Damn right I do," Harry grins, pulling her in for a kiss.

Mateo clears his throat pointedly, a disgruntled frown settling over his brow. Ron steps in from the staircase, "Let's go, lovebirds. Break it up." He hands Harry his trunk and Hedwig's cage. "Mum'll kill us if we're late."

They were spending the holiday at the Burrow, along with the rest of the Weasley's, and Sirius and Remus. Miranda is quite looking froward to a break from dismal Hogwarts. She scowls at Ron, "You filthy hypocrite." Ron does not get a chance to retort, however, because he has suddenly become occupied with Lavender Brown's tongue. Proving Miranda's point entirely, of course. Harry, Ron, and Matt all avert their eyes.

Miranda cranes her neck around the common room. She had been hoping to say goodbye to Hermione before they left, but it looked as though she would have no such luck. She can't blame her for wanting to miss out on the goodbye slobberfest. Hermione wasn't joining them this year, choosing instead to spend time with her parents. Miranda misses her already.

When they arrive at the Burrow, a bit disheveled from their trek through the snow, Mrs. Weasley immediately sets them to work with dinner preparation, as she bustles about the house. Miranda sometimes feels as though the woman has a love—hate relationship with company, and can never quite decide which one will win out. She does hug Miranda and Mateo each very tightly though, and then Harry. Sometimes, Miranda forgets how close Molly and her mother had been, they had attended school at the same time after all. The older ones in comparison to Remus, Sirius, Harry's parents.

Currently, the four of them are cutting sprouts. Well, Mateo is cutting sprouts. Ron is brandishing his knife in a variety of dangerous ways, and Harry is alternating between kissing Miranda and flicking spouts at her. Both of which she enjoys much more than she cares to admit.

Harry plucks out a green bit that has nested itself amid Miranda's blonde tangles and she scrunches her nose at him,  "I hope you're pleased with yourself, Potter."

"Don't worry, I am," Harry reassures her, grinning. "Very much so."

"It's going to take me ages in the shower to get all this out," she huffs.

Harry's gaze rakes over her, his voice taking on a low, mischievous quality, "I could help you out if you wanted." Miranda flares red.

Mateo frowns, momentarily pausing in his chopping to point his knife at Harry sternly, "Oi! Watch it. I've got ears."

"Same," Ron mumbles. "Though I'm wishing I didn't right about now."

"Funny," Miranda fires back with swift accuracy. She tilts her head at him, "Like how we all wish we didn't have ears or eyes whenever you and Lavender are around." Harry looks pointedly down at his cutting board, while Mateo coughs. Ron falls silent, having been bested. Miranda is, nonetheless, very pleased with herself. So pleased, in fact, that she nearly lobs off the tip of her finger when she returns to her work.

Harry immediately whisks the knife out of her hand.

"Harry!" Miranda cries, jumping for it. He holds it just out of her reach.

"Not a chance, McGonagall," Harry replies, tucking the knife back in the drawer and leaning back against it. "That's the fourth time you've nearly amputated yourself. We don't want to eat you."

"Fred and George once convinced me that the oven was a secret passageway to Fortescue's," says Ron offhandedly. "Had the door shut and everything when dad found us." He shakes his head at the memory. "Only time I've ever seen Dad as angry as Mum. Fred reckons his left buttock has never been the same since."

"Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock —"

"I beg your pardon?" says Fred's voice as the twins entered the kitchen. "Aaah, George, look at this. They're using knives and everything. Bless them."

"I'll be seventeen in two and a bit months' time," says Ron grumpily, "and then I'll be able to do it by magic!"

"But meanwhile," says George, sitting down at the kitchen table and putting his feet up on it, "we can enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a — whoops-a-daisy!"

"You made me do that!" says Ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. "You wait, when I'm seventeen —"

"I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected magical skills," yawns Fred.

"And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald," says George, "what is this we hear from Ginny about you and a young lady called — unless our information is faulty — Lavender Brown?"

Ron turns a little pink, but does not look displeased as he turns back to the sprouts. "Mind your own business."

"What a snappy retort," says Fred. "I really don't know how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know was . . . how did it happen?"

"What d'you mean?"
"Did she have an accident or something?"
"What?"
"Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage? Careful, now!" Miranda sniggers quietly, though she could argue that it was Ron who had suffered the brain damage.
Mrs. Weasley enters the room just in time to see Ron throw the sprout knife at Fred, who has turned it into a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand. "Ron!" she says furiously. "Don't you ever let me see you throwing knives again!"

"I won't," says Ron, "let you see," he adds under his breath, as he turns back to the sprout mountain.

"And you let him keep his knife?" Miranda mutters under her breath indignantly, elbowing Harry in the ribs.

"Fred, George, I'm sorry, dears, but Remus is arriving tonight, so Bill will have to squeeze in with you two."

"No problem," says George.

"Then, as Charlie isn't coming home, that just leaves Harry and Ron in the attic, and if Fleur shares with Ginny and Miranda —"

"— that'll make Ginny's Christmas —" mutters Fred.

"— everyone should be comfortable. Well, they'll have a bed, anyway," says Mrs. Weasley, sounding slightly harassed.

"What are you two up to?" asks Ron. "Can't you help us with these sprouts? You could just use your wand and then we'll be free too!"

"No, I don't think we can do that," says Fred seriously. "It's very character-building stuff, learning to peel sprouts without magic, makes you appreciate how difficult it is for Muggles and Squibs —"

"— and if you want people to help you, Ron," adds George, throwing the paper airplane at him, "I wouldn't chuck knives at them. Just a little hint. We're off to the village, there's a very pretty girl working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks are some- thing marvelous . . . almost like real magic. . . ."

"And swindling unsuspecting Muggle girls because any witches with half a lick of common sense won't go out with you is much more important than spending time with your family on Christmas," Miranda deadpans, rolling her eyes. Then adds, "During a war."

Fred beams, ruffling her hair as they pass. "See," he clucks approvingly, "McGonagall gets it."

"Gits," says Ron darkly, watching Fred and George setting off across the snowy yard. "Would've only taken them ten seconds and then we could've gone too."

"I couldn't," says Harry. "I promised Dumbledore I wouldn't wander off while I'm staying here."

"Oh yeah," says Ron. He peels a few more sprouts.

"He's right, you know," Miranda says quietly, catching sight of Harry's face. "It's not safe."

Harry purses his lips, rather bitter and self pitying, "Nothing's safe when you're me."

She bites back a smile, teasing. "Life is just so hard for the Chosen One."

Harry glowers, "Don't call me—"

Miranda does not stop, continuing right along. "You're just so tortured and misunderstood," she coos, pouting. "Poor little baby—"

"Will you shut up?"

Miranda pokes her tongue out at him, "But I'm having so much fun." She kisses him lightly on the jaw, "Now will you stop being such a moody prick, Potter? It's Christmas."

He rests his chin on her shoulder, "Alright. But let me remind you, you fell in love with this moody prick." Harry presses his lips to the space just above her collarbone, "That was your mistake."

Miranda's insides are all mushy, and her legs feel like jello. She's so unbelievably in love with him that she has the odd urge to squeal. "It wasn't a mistake," she murmurs, looking up at him beneath long lashes.

They do not see Sirius, Remus, or Tonks, who have been working very long hours at the Ministry and for the Order, until Christmas Eve night. The Weasleys and their guests are sitting in the living room, which Ginny has decorated so lavishly that it is rather like sitting in a paper-chain explosion. Fred, George, Harry, Miranda, Matt, and Ron are the only ones who know that the angel on top of the tree is actually a garden gnome that had bitten Fred on the ankle as he pulled up carrots for Christmas dinner. Stupefied, painted gold, stuffed into a miniature tutu and with small wings glued to its back.

They are all supposed to be listening to a Christmas broadcast by Mrs. Weasley's favorite singer, Celestina Warbeck, whose voice is warbling out of the large wooden wireless set. Fleur, who seems to find Celestina very dull, is talking so loudly in the corner that a scowling Mrs. Weasley keeps pointing her wand at the volume control, so that Celestina grows louder and louder. Under cover of a particularly jazzy number called "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," Fred and George start a game of Exploding Snap with Ginny. Ron keeps shooting Bill and Fleur covert looks, as though hoping to pick up tips. Meanwhile, Harry is making a valiant attempt to get Miranda to dance, mostly to distract her from stringing tinsel around his neck.

Oh, come and stir my cauldron, And if you do it right,
I'll boil you up some hot strong love To keep you warm tonight.

"We danced to this when we were eighteen!" says Mrs. Weasley, wiping her eyes on her knitting. "Do you remember, Arthur?"

"Mphf?" says Mr. Weasley, whose head had been nodding over the satsuma he was peeling. "Oh yes . . . marvelous tune . . ."

"It's so good to see all of you!" Miranda exclaims happily, beckoning Remus, Tonks, and Sirius over. "How did you manage to get away from Order business?"

Remus and Tonks hesitate, while Sirius says, "Oh c'mon Moony they can handle it. These two are smart as whips."

"My concern is not that they can't handle it, Sirius, rather whether they should," Remus responds, peering at the eager faces of Miranda and Harry.

"We want to know," Harry says earnestly.

"Really," Miranda adds, "we've been taking lessons with Dumbledore all year to prepare ourselves. The only thing we don't know is what we're preparing ourselves for."

"Right," Tonks nods in understanding, "is it true that you and your brother can really—" Remus puts a warning hand on her arm, shaking his head imperceptibly at Harry.

"What?" Harry furrows his brow, "Can really what?"

"Nothing, nothing," Tonks waves her hands airily.

"If you really want to know what's going on I suppose we could tell you bit," Lupin changes the subject deftly. "I've been underground," says Lupin. "Almost literally. That's why I haven't been able to write, Harry; sending letters to you would have been something of a giveaway."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been living among my fellows, my equals," says Lupin. "Werewolves," he adds, at their look of incomprehension. "Nearly all of them are on Voldemort's side. Dumbledore wanted a spy and here I was . . . ready-made." He sounds a little bitter, and perhaps realizes it, for he smiles more warmly as he went on, "I am not complaining; it is necessary work and who can do it better than I? However, it has been difficult gaining their trust. I bear the unmistakable signs of having tried to live among wizards, you see, whereas they have shunned normal society and live on the margins, stealing — and sometimes killing — to eat."

Miranda chews on the inner corner of her cheek, "How come they like Voldemort?"

"They think that, under his rule, they will have a better life," says Lupin. "And it is hard to argue with Greyback out there. . . ."

"Who's Greyback?"

"You haven't heard of him?" Lupin's hands close convulsively in his lap. "Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many people as possible; he wants to create enough were- wolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has promised him prey in return for his services. Greyback specializes in children. . . . Bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has threatened to unleash him upon people's sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good results." Lupin pauses and then says, "It was Greyback who bit me."

"What?" says Harry, astonished. "When — when you were a kid, you mean?"

"Yes. My father had offended him. I did not know, for a very long time, the identity of the werewolf who had attacked me; I even felt pity for him, thinking that he had had no control, know- ing by then how it felt to transform. But Greyback is not like that. At the full moon, he positions himself close to victims, ensuring that he is near enough to strike. He plans it all. And this is the man Voldemort is using to marshal the werewolves. I cannot pretend that my particular brand of reasoned argument is making much headway against Greyback's insistence that we werewolves deserve blood, that we ought to revenge ourselves on normal people."

"But you are normal!" says Harry fiercely. "You've just got a — a problem —"

Lupin bursts out laughing. "Sometimes you remind me a lot of James. He called it my 'furry little problem' in company. Many people were under the impression that I owned a badly behaved rabbit."

He accepts a glass of eggnog from Mr. Weasley with a word of thanks, looking slightly more cheerful. "My friends never made me feel like a monster."

"Because you aren't," Sirius insists, jaw uncharacteristically tight. "You're just the same as everyone else. Better, even."

"Touching, Black."

"I do try, Moony," Sirius smiles. "I do try." Shortly after this, Fleur decides to imitate Celestina singing "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," which is taken by everyone, once they have glimpsed Mrs. Weasley's expression, to be the cue to go to bed. About time anyways, Miranda had been yawning up a storm, while Ron had dozed off long ago, giving Miranda and Ginny ample time to draw a thick mustache and matching unibrow on his face. Fred and George had already taken the photo.

Harry and her are some of the last to leave, however, climbing the winding Burrow steps hand in hand. Just as they reach Ginny's bedroom door, Harry sandwiches her between his chest and the wall, closing his mouth over hers. Miranda smiles lazily against his lips, "Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, Mandy." Harry tries to kiss her one last time, but Miranda closes the door just before he manages to. He calls from outside the door, "You're breaking my heart McGonagall."

To which she replies, "Go to bed Potter."

Sighing happily, she lays on her bed, ignoring the look Ginny is shooting at her. "You are so in love," Ginny snorts, coming to sit on Miranda's bed. Miranda suspects she wants to get as far away from Fleur as possible.

"I am not," Miranda protests, flushing.

"Puhlease," Ginny scoffs, tossing her hair. "There are literal hearts circling your head."

"Shut up, Gin," Miranda chucks a pillow at Ginny's head. It nearly hits Fleur, which would have been a catastrophe of massive proportions. Apparently the blonde is a very heavy sleeper, and also wearing charmed ear muffs, presumably to block out Celestina's voice.

"It is on now!" Ginny says in a hushed, daring tone, and the girls start hurling pillows at each other, giggling wildly, feathers flying through the air. Ron bangs on the adjoining wall from the next room over.

"OI!" he whisper shouts. "Some of us are trying to sleep in here." And the girls collapse on their beds, snickering, clutching their stomachs from laughing too hard. Miranda goes to bed quickly, it's been a long day. However, in the middle of the night, she is awoken by a headache as usual. She walks out into the hall, perhaps to fetch a glass of water. Anything is preferable to the sleepless night looming in her near future.

"Looking for me, love?"  Harry's devilish voice jerks her from her thoughts, startling her. "Couldn't resist my moody charm?"

"As if," Miranda hisses, nudging him with her socked foot. "I had another headache." Harry's joking nature immediately switches to worry when he hears this. Miranda instantly regrets telling him. She sighs, "Don't look at me like that, Harry. I'm fine."

"As your boyfriend, it is a requirement to worry." Harry brushes a stray feather out of her hair. "Wow," he notes, lips twitching, "you really do have a feather in your hair this time." A reference to their first almost kiss. The first of many, really. Too many, now that Miranda thinks about it. They had the worst luck. He tilts her face up softly, leaning in. "Do you know what one of my other requirements as your boyfriend is?" he whispers. "My favorite one?"

"What's that?" Miranda breathes, already knowing the answer.

"This." Harry kisses her, and for a moment, all is right in the world.

When Miranda wakes up Christmas morning, Ginny and her waste no time at all bounding down to the living room. Ginny is afraid that Fleur will arise and she will be trapped. The windows are almost completely obscured with the snow, and both girl shiver as they patter into the room, bulging stockings in hand.They find Ron, sitting bolt upright on the rug and examining what appears to be a thick gold chain. "She's got to be joking. . . ."

Miranda crawls into Harry's lap, burrowing against him for warmth. "What's that?" asks Miranda, also frowning at Ron's unusual present.

"It's from Lavender," says Ron, sounding revolted. "She can't honestly think I'd wear . . ."

Harry looks more closely and lets out a shout of laughter. Dangling from the chain in large gold letters are the words: My Sweetheart

"Nice," he says. Miranda and Mateo are snickering. "Classy. You should definitely wear it in front of Fred and George."

"If you tell them," says Ron, shoving the necklace out of sight under his pillow, "I — I — I'll —"

"Stutter at me?" says Harry, grinning. "Come on, would I?"

"I would," Ginny hums cheerfully, roaring with laughter.

"How could she think I'd like something like that, though?" Ron demands of thin air, looking rather shocked.

"Well, think back," says Mateo. "Have you ever let it slip that you'd like to go out in public with the words 'My Sweetheart' round your neck?"

"Well . . . we don't really talk much," says Ron. "It's mainly . . ."

"Snogging," finishes Miranda, with a disgusted curl of her lip.
"Well, yeah," says Ron. He hesitates a moment, then says, "Is Hermione really going out with McLaggen?"
"I dunno," says Harry. "They were at Slughorn's party together, but I don't think it went that well."

"Understatement of the century," Mateo mutters under his breath. Ron looks slightly more cheerful as he delves deeper into his stocking.

Miranda rolls her eyes, "Boys are so stupid."

"We are," Harry agrees airily, as if finally noticing that she is beside him. It takes him a bit to wake up in the mornings. Miranda thinks if he would just give in and drink coffee that problem would be solved. He pauses, brightening,  "Morning, beautiful."

"Aw shucks Harry. Thanks. I did put some extra effort into my hair today I'm glad you noticed. Unfortunately, I'm not interested." Fred shrugs sadly from the doorway, his reddish hair still mussed from sleep.  "Maybe George is. He's not attractive as I am, but he's nearly there."

"Shove off you arse," Harry hurls a balled up piece of wrapping paper at the twins. "I was talking to her." Miranda giggles.

"Well, now that you've resorted to name calling, you've lost your chance with me." George blows Harry a kiss, "And trust me you're missing out."

Harry ignores the twins raucous behavior, "Happy Christmas Miranda."

"Merry Christmas Harry."

"Americans," says Harry, shaking his head in mock disapproval. Then, he slips a small, somewhat neatly wrapped box into her hands. Miranda had not been expecting this. She'd already opened her present from him and Ron. This  is altogether unexpected. What could it be?

"For me?" Miranda put hand to her heart over-dramatically.  "Really?"  She tugs the ribbon loose to reveal a delicate gold necklace with a small pendant. The pendant contains a single jewel, half green and half blue, the two colors melding together in the middle.

"Do you like it?" he asks, watching her hopefully. "I saw it and thought of you because of your eyes, it's ok if you don't like it," he stammers when she remains quiet, "I can—"

Miranda melts at that. Just a little. Just enough. The necklace is gorgeous. "I love it," Miranda whispers sincerely. She is beaming, shining with evident happiness, "I love it Harry, it's perfect."  She kisses him, "Can you put it on?"

"Yeah—yeah sure," Harry rakes a hand through his hair, pleased that she liked his gift so much. Miranda gathers her curls at the nape of her neck, lifting ti slightly so that Harry can clasp it. "Now where's my present," Harry nips at the exposed skin cheekily.

"Patience Potter," Miranda says, bestowing him a wrapped present from under the tree.

Harry opens it eagerly, and pulls out a soft yarn object. His brow wrinkles. "A scarf?" he says weakly, trying to conceal is disappointment and failing horribly.

Miranda explains, in a very roundabout long winded way. She understands his confusion, but she really is good at giving presents. "Well Matt and I were going through this box of our mothers things with Sirius. And well— apparently your mother was a big knitter during the war. Sirius said it kept her distracted—and she knitted tons of things, blankets, tea cozies, hats, socks, practically anything. Anyways, your mom knitted this scarf for your dad as a wedding present. That's why there's a stag on it. I have no idea how it got mixed in with Mom's stuff, but I thought you should have it."

Harry's mouth hangs slightly open. He looks down at the scarf in his hands, then back up at Miranda. "M-My mum made this?" Miranda nods. "It was my dad's?"

Miranda nods again, hoping this reaction is a good one. "I know it's not much but—" Harry just hugs her, he's so overcome by emotion.
Later that day, when all the adults have risen and the kitchen smells of the delicious dinner Mrs. Weasley is whipping up, Sirius declares to Harry, who is wearing the scarf, eyes slightly wet, "You look just like James." Remus seconds this opinion, a wistful sort of expression crossing his face when he looks at them both. Harry twirls Miranda around the kitchen. Ginny has put on Weird Sisters, a welcome change from Celestina, but perhaps not so welcome to Fleur, who looks just as offended by this music as she had the previous night. She laughs, the earrings she'd received from Hermione by owl this morning swinging to and fro beneath her ears. They're very pretty, twinkling copper stars. Miranda just wishes Hermione had been here to give them to her in person.

Miranda plucks a piece of lint off of Harry's sleeve. "I'm going to go get Matt. I think dinners almost ready," she tells Harry, kissing him lightly on the lips. Harry watches her go, grinning like an idiot. Sirius leans back against the counter smugly, observing his godson with much mirth.

"Is she the one?" Sirius breaks the silence, and Harry's prolonged stare.

"What?" Harry starts, turning his head to face his godfather.

"Miranda," Sirius repeats softly, "is she the one? You look at her the same way James used to look at Lily. I don't know much about love m'boy, but your parents were it."

Harry's face lights up at the mention of his parents as he rummages around in his pants pocket, "She's the one alright Sirius." He finally finds what he's looking for and holds it up triumphantly. A delicate band of gold and a simple sapphire stone glint in the light.

Sirius's eyes are as large as saucers, shocked, "Blimey, Harry is that—?"

"She's the one. This is how sure I am she's the one." Harry's words are honest, direct, steeped with raw emotion. Sirius knows them to be true, recognizes the familiar fierce expression of love that he had seen on James's identical features what felt like yesterday. Suddenly, he's a teenager again, listening to James about Lily. The effect is jarring.

"Harry—" Sirius begins.

"I suppose you're going to try and talk me out of it," Harry cuts him off hotly.

"You're kids—"

Harry holds his ground. "She's of age and I will be too in a couple months."

"Harry you barely—"

"My parents were eighteen when they got married," reminds Harry.

"There was a war going on, everyone was—"

"There's a war going on right now!" he cries out. "I love her," he states, mouth set in a determined line.

Sirius heaves a very large sigh, as if he knows the feeling all too well. "Harry, I'm sure you do, but you need to be careful—"

"I am sick and tired of people telling me to be careful!" Harry snaps angrily. He exhales, "This is what I want."

"Is it what she wants?"

Harry pauses to consider this for a moment, a tiny needle of doubt wedging its way into his mind. "I'm not giving it to her now," Harry informs him. "I'm going to wait. For the right moment. But I am going to do it."

"All I'm asking is that you really think about this," Sirius implores. "It's a serious matter, Harry. You can't rush into this. Take some time. Think about it. You're sixteen. You have all the time in the world."

There is a beat. Harry meets his eyes, voice quiet, "You and I both know that's not necessarily true." And with this foreboding statement, Harry carefully slips the ring back in his pocket, just as Miranda returns with Mateo in tow, completely unaware of what had just transpired.

Christmas dinner is a splendid affair. Molly has truly outdone herself. The little house is filled to the brim with people. As everyone digs into their goose, forks clinking, goblets sparkling in the warm light, Miranda looks around at all the faces. All the joy. Mr and Mrs Weasley at the head of the table, pressing over it all. Tonks and Ginny snorting pumpkin juice out their noses at a joke Fred and George had just told.  Fleur and Bill, nuzzling one another. Sirius and Remus laughing with Mateo and Ron, heads bent closely together. Harry, sitting beside her, one hand twined with hers under the table. A lopsided smile gracing his cheeks as he gazes at her. And for the first time in a long time, Miranda feels...lucky.