Ornament

Harry sat in the brightly lit living room, a nagging voice at the back of his mind drowning out the dull buzz of chatter that surrounded him. 'You should be at the door, greeting the guests. Let Ron sit down awhile - it's your house and your party, so go be useful!'

He glanced out the high window to his right, past the reflections of the hundreds of bright, flickering candles that adorned every available ledge and surface, to the snowcovered night that lie just beyond the glass. His heart wasn't full of holiday spirit that evening, for it, too, lie somewhere in the darkness, just beyond his reach.

The Patil twins; Neville Longbottom; Dean Thomas; Seamus Finnigan; Cho Chang; Oliver Wood; Ernie MacMillan; Hannah Abbott; Terry Boot; Rolanda Hooch; Pomona Sprout; Rubeus Hagrid; Molly and Arthur Weasley; greetings came and went as guests flooded into his warm, spacious home, wriggled out of their elaborate winter gear, and found a comfortable place to sit and talk with old friends. Harry didn't participate. A stranger might have thought it rather bad manners and dismissed him as simply being a bad host, but each and every person there knew what he had gone through, and they let him be. He sat in his armchair, in the corner, staring into a clear crystal glass that held a few mouthfuls of chilled wine. Once-bright emerald eyes stared back at him, now dim with the pain of loss, blinking thoughtfully.

“Ah, Harry, dear.”

Harry raised his head, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Tiny tufts of thick, fluffy snowflakes dotted the wide brim of her violet pointed hat, from beneath which sparkled a pair of deep hazel eyes, behind prim rectangular spectacles. McGonagall's back was as straight as possible, her posture excellent, and her silvery hair was pulled into its usual tight, proper bun, but her sternness had lessened slightly over the years and she smiled brightly. “Good to see you again, my boy.”

Setting his wine aside, Harry stood up to take the cloak that fell from around the elderly woman's thin shoulders. He tried to avoid her concerned expression as she pressed the back of her hand gently to his cheek. The skin was soft and cool with little ripples of age, whose lines and creases each told a different story. Searching his face, she asked softly, “How are you doing?”

There is an ornament
Lost inside the night
There on a Christmas tree
With a thousand lights

“I'm... holding up well.” The words escaped in a small sigh, and he folded the purple cloak over his arm, glancing up. “How about you, Minerva?”

“Lovely,” she answered, and smoothed her skirt before sitting down almost elegantly in the chair closest to Harry's. He retrieved his glass and took a small sip while, unsurprisingly, McGonagall declined everything save water. She sat back, hands folded in her lap, and was content to gaze silently around the room. Hagrid had apparently consumed a bit too much eggnogg (probably spiked by Fred and George, Harry thought,) and was tipsily declaring his everlasting love to Molly Weasley, who was blushing madly while Arthur looked on from across the room, his face red with a mixture of temper and strong drink. After a moment, Harry noticed that McGonagall was watching him. Her silent, piercing gaze instructed him to stand up and he did so without protest. He glanced at Ron, who was still at the front door, welcoming people and inviting them inside. He explained to McGonagall that he would seek her out later, and strode toward his best friend of many years, glass still in hand.

“Hey, Ron,” Harry said, coming to stand beside the tall, gangly man, “I'll take over here for awhile. Besides, Luna's practically dying to see you,” he added with a smug little grin that widened as his friend's face became as red as his hair, and he slunk away from the door to join Luna Lovegood across the room.

The doorbell rang, though the sound was muffled and nearly drowned out by the cheery Christmas music playing in the background. Harry turned doorknob and pulled, only to come face-to-face with a rather odd, but intriguing, sight.

“Evening, Tonks.”

“Wotcher, Harry!” she said gleefully, sporting a shock of short red and green hair that stuck out in thick spikes, and silver eyes the color of tinsel.

“Hello Alastor,” Harry added as he took Tonks' coat, watching her bounce away into the mas of people milling about in his living room. Moody gruffly, but politely refused the offer to have his coat taken and hung up with the rest, claiming that there were far too many valuable magical objects stowed in his pockets that would drive any respectable witch or wizard to petty thievery in mere moments.

“Drinkin' that wine without checkin' it first, eh, boy?” Moody asked with raised eyebrow, and fixed Harry with a particularly scrutinous gaze. Harry rolled his eyes and immediately surrendered his glass wordlessly to the scarred ex-Auror, who cupped it in his calloused palm and swirled it gently, holding it up to the light to peer through the heavy liquid with his magical eye. He sniffed at the faint, sweet scent through what was left of his nose and observed it closely, before he lifted the glass to his mouth and... spit in it.

Revolted and indignant, Harry cried, “Hey!” Moody tried to look apologetic, but a hint of a smirk lie across his pale lips.

“Sorry, Potter, habit got me there... but I s'pose you just can't drink this one now, can you?” Without moving his gaze from Harry's, he drew his wand and sent the tainted wine zooming into the kitchen where it poured itself down the sink. He smiled grimly. “Drinking ain't the answer, son,” he growled, and stumped away to join the crowd.

No one can see her
She's standing all alone

Somewhere she glistens

Where no one can see

Hands in his pockets, Harry turned and glanced out the semi-circle window near the top of his front door. Thick, heavy snowflakes drifted gently through the freezing air to dust the ground with a fresh layer of powdery white, covering the seemingly never-ending trail of footsteps that led up to his front porch.

Ding dong.

Harry pasted a smile on his face and opened the door once more, only to consciously feel the color drain from his cheeks, leaving them a stark, pale white. Wrapped in the warm, strong arms of her husband, Helen Granger smiled up at him.

“Hello, Harry.”

“M-M-Mrs. Granger... Mr. Granger... um... uh... p-please, come in.”

His eyebrows knitted. Why were they there? Why in the bloody world were they there? Surely they would have ignored his invitation entirely? After all, that's what he had expected. Surely they would blame him for everything, wishing only to never again look upon his face?

That's what he had expected.

But they had attended the annual Christmas party every year before, always pleased to see the bright, happy glow in the faces of their daughter and future son-in-law, and they had come again this year. Harry took their coats silently and watched with a heavy heart as they drifted away from him with one last forlorn look.

I don't believe I can say what had happened
All of those words that we put into play

No longer matter, I should have known that then

But I just know you're far away

On this Christmas Day

On this Christmas Day

On this Christmas...

“Oy, Harry, mate, why don't you go sit down for a bit?” Ron's voice interrupted his thoughts. He and Luna were standing near, both wearing carefully constructed expressions that didn't work well to hide their obvious concern. Nodding, even though he had only stayed to greet a mere three or four guests into his own home, Harry snatched his cloak from the hook in the entrance and threw it around his shoulders, and swept silently through the open door, disappearing into the still winter night.

The lands surrounding his house were vast and undisturbed. Tonight, the familiar sounds of the earth were muted by a thick blanket of snow that left only a creaking, crunching noise when Harry stepped slowly through it, staring up at the handful of stars that dotted the velvet sky, veiled by his misting breath as it rose into the crisp air. A chilling breeze ruffled his cloak and sent a cloud of snow skittering playfully around his feet.

Somewhere the wind

Carves moments in the snow

And if he sees her

He never lets it show

He just drifts behind her

Erasing every step

Tinsel and garland

Are whispered through trees

When Harry turned sharply to the left and ducked under the cover of the trees, the silence he encountered there was more deafening than before. Tree limbs, thick with long green needles and mounds of crystalline flakes, drooped in silent greeting to their visitor as he crept through the darkness to a place he knew well.

The fallen trunk had never made it all the way to the ground; instead, it was nestled comfortably between the thick boughs of a neighboring fir, low enough to make a wide, curving seat. Harry climbed onto the trunk, brushing a bit of snow from the icy bark, and settled down between two heavy branches, wraping himself securely in his thick cloak and letting his head fall back into a cushion of old, dried needles. He breathed slowly. An impenetrable darkness fell behind closed eyelids, and he sighed.

So peaceful.

I don't believe I can say what had happened

All of those words that we put into play

No longer matter, I should have known that then

I just know you're far away

On this Christmas Day

On this Christmas Day

On this Christmas...

Harry's relaxed body tensed up as soon as his eyes closed, for it was then that his thoughts always turned to her. To Hermione.

Heartless, hooded grey eyes, like bottomless pits of stone. Thick, dark hair, falling in heavy curles around broad shoulders, cloaked in black cloth that swirled gracefully around a lithe figure. A low, menacing laugh through parted lips of blood red. Blood. So much blood. It oozed and dripped and threaded its way across her creased palms in crimson rivulets, running over long, thin fingers that ended in nails filed to deadly points, warm and slick and sticky and glittering like red diamonds in the half-light... No, it wasn't Hermione.

It was Hermione's murderer. Bellatrix Lestrange.

The killing curse was too good for her. Too quick and painless a way to dispose of the most cherished thing in the great and golden Harry Potter's life. It was done with a blade. A long, silver dagger fit to be owned only by the cruelest of Voldemort's followers, evil and twisted as the soul of its bearer. He remembered the feeling of raw fear that flooded his body as the razor edge caressed her milk-white skin and dug viciously into her flesh, silencing her voice forever and spilling her blood like drops of summer rain mingling with hot tears.

His undying love for Hermione had burst from his body as he dropped to his hands and knees, and the force of such a beautiful, pure energy had ripped Bellatrix's soul away before she could draw breath. His sobs filled the silence left by the stilling of Hermione's chest, as he held her tightly and tried to restore the warmth that was rapidly leaving her body. It felt so small, so frail in his shaking arms.

Amongst the hollow echoes of his weeping, he felt her sould touch his as it drifted out of his reach forever.

Come, Christmas

Stay, Christmas

Watch over her this day

Keep her

Protect her

From harm now in every way

Harry didn't know how long he lay alone on that cold winter night, but he did know that as soon as he opened his eyes, the harsh, racking sobs that permeated the silence ceased immediately. He wiped away the tears that were beginning to freeze on his pale cheeks and sat up with a great, shuddering breath, hanging his head. The wind whispered through the trees, forming unintelligible words that soothed him unexpectedly, creating a strange, beautiful music that calmed his soul. He lifted his head and closed his eyes once more, letting the icy breeze ruffle his untidy hair and gently caress his skin.

“Hermione...” he sighed, frowning slightly, and opened his eyes.

She was there.

She was within him, beside him, above him. She surrounded him. She completed him. Harry stretched his arm out into the deep shadows, feeling blindly for what he knew, but still didn't believe, was there. His straining eyes caught a glimpse of her own, warm and brown, a myriad of emotions swirling within their misted depths. Heartbreak. Despair. Love. His fingertips brushed a pocket of air that he could have sworn was the soft touch of her own hands, sending a chill through his rigid body.

”Harry...” the faint whisper fluttered past his ear, and she was gone.

“I love you, Hermione,” he whispered back, drawing his hand to his chest where a scattering of snow was melting in the warmth of his palm.

Shelter her, gently

There in your arms she'll be

Until the day when you

Bring her back home

To me

There was a crash behind him that brought Harry's head snapping up, and caused him to finally tear his eyes away from where they were frantically searching the empty darkness.

“Harry? Harry, are you out here?”

Tonks stumbled clumsily into the glow of Harry's hastily-cast lumos spell, grinning sheepishly. Minerva McGonagall appeared shortly after and shook her head hopelessly at the young witch, though she was smiling.

“Harry, dear, we're all very worried... won't you come back with us?” she asked, her soft Scottish accent comforting and pleasant to the ear. Rather than fighting those who cared about him and pushing them away when he needed them most, Harry nodded slowly and stood up. The wind swiftly embraced his departing figure, a blanket of snow dancing around the hem of his cloak as he returned to the house, and the people who loved him.

There is an ornament, lost inside the night...

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