She finds him standing in the sun.
He doesn't know where this road goes. He doesn't know where his feet are taking him, but that's perfectly fine, really, because this is Christmas, this is magic, and this is why he's fighting. He wants to save this. He wants to keep it close, because this is something close to happiness, when the holidays in Hogsmeade are everywhere around him.
"Some things," he said, holding her eyes for all the while, "should never be forgotten."
An attempt at a humorous look of some of the issues many seem to have with HBP. If that doesn't win you over, try this - Harry's a pirate. With a cape.
Nights like those don't need fancy words, and I think everyone knew it, too. You just have the emotions, when it all comes to a close; you can turn your head and see the people you trust the most all around you, and you can tell they're thinking the exact same thing - and that's all that matters.
It was one of those magical Weasley holidays, with the snow and the laughter and a blanket of stars - it was utterly charming and utterly warm, even as the fireplace fell silent and the moon took his spot amongst the sky. She stood alone in the night, drawing the familiar cold into her lungs, her arms crossed over a worn sweater. There was a certain beauty in silence, she had decided; it was cool and comforting and spectacularly unspectacular, the things she needed most, and the things she could only find in the moonlight along the snow drifts of Ottery St. Catchpole.
A tipsy Ronald Weasley is a very dangerous thing. A VERY IMPORTANT NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This is crap. Really. I wrote this three years back and plan to keep it around mainly for history's sake, so please don't read it. Read something else instead. One of the stories above this one, perhaps? Thanks!