The Greatest Gift

On Christmas Eve, George, Angelina, and Dennis shuffled through the soft snow of Ottery St. Catchpole, on their way to the Weasley enclave. They'd Apparated on the farther side of the village just for the pleasure of observing the quaint Muggle holiday traditions. They heard carolling groups and shrieking children sledding on Stoatshead Hill, peered into houses at train gardens and fir trees decorated with 'eckeltrik' lights, smelled cookies baking, beef roasting, admired fancy displays in shop windows.

Each carried a package and dressed in traditional wizarding robes. They knew from experience that Muggles would explain away their eccentric finery as just one more expression of the season's happy madness.

George wore a great pancake of a hat made of violet satin with lime Fwooper plumes trailing down the back and violet robes with gold trim. He carried a gilt box of chocolate Galleons wrapped in gold foil for his sister Ginny and, in his pocket, a hip-flask filled with Old Snifter's Best Brandy for Ron.

Angelina's stylish white turban with a faux-sapphire like a third eye and silver-and-white robe set off her dark beauty. She had a delicate, cut-glass bottle of Algerian perfume for Mrs. Weasley and a canister of exotic teas for Hermione.

Dennis brought up the rear, toting a polished, sandalwood box he'd made himself with numerous small drawers full of Muggle hardware like pan-head screws, hooks-and-eyes, and triple-A batteries for Mr. Weasley. They'd spend happy hours discussing the uses of each, he was sure. He'd sent away specially for his outfit and was dressed to the nines in the Oriental tradition in crimson robes and skullcap. On his feet were green slippers embroidered with gold thread that sported pointed toes curled up at the ends.

"Look," he said, and he pulled them over to a shop window. "That looks a little like us." All three gazed at the painted-plaster miniatures in a scene so cherished by Muggles of a certain religious tradition.

"Christmas is really a Muggle holiday, isn't it? asked George.

"Yes," said Angelina, "The ancient witching traditions called it Yule. They may celebrate different stories, but their themes...peace, joy, and hopefulness...are essentially the same."

George pointed to three richly dressed figures in Eastern garb, bearing lavish gifts, bent over a small child asleep in what looked like the feeding trough of a cattle byre.

"What's all that about?"

"He was a very special baby," answered Angelina softly, "a saviour promised to their race, the very essence of love. The Magi travelled a long way following a prophetic conjunction of Jupiter and Mars just to find him."

"Magi?" said George. "Wizards...like us?"

Angelina turned to answer and saw beyond her husband a man--Muggle--staring at them. He had apparently broken off from a small group of pub-crawlers who were standing across the street, trying to decide which pub to crawl to next.

"Evening, folks, where's the pageant?"

George screwed up his face at this. "Pageant?"

"It's a kind of Christmas play, George," said Angelina, catching his arm. She raised her voice. "Just come from there, sir. Next village over: Saint Lapidary-and-All-Angels. A fine time, that, but they've broken up for the night."

"Pity. Must have been a good show. Costumes look marvellous. Happy Christmas to you."

"Happy Christmas!" they all cried and waved after him.

"How do you know about all this stuff, Ange?" asked Dennis as they continued along towards The Burrow.

"Mum has a lot of Muggle relatives, and she's a great one for inclusion, so we exchange visits a lot. That's why I did so well in Muggle Studies."

They were nearing the edge of the village. Dennis was slowing them down a bit, fumbling for his wand while resting his gift against his hip and trying to remember a Foot-Warming Charm his brother had once shown him. Despite his pride in his appearance, he was starting to realize that the slippers were a tad impractical for walking in snow.

At the last shop, they saw a tall figure in the light of the show window. It was Ron, dressed in the oddest get-up the trio had ever seen.

"Hey, Bro," shouted George. "Whuzzup?"

"Oh... hi, George, Angelina. That you, Dennis? Look here. Aren't they beautiful?" He opened a longish box. Nestled in cotton wool were four delicate, tortoiseshell combs with mother-of-pearl butterflies chasing over them.

Dennis caught up to them and stared into the box, his mouth agape. He'd accidentally given himself a hotfoot trying to get that charm right. But suddenly all thoughts of frostbite and second degree burns were driven out of his brain. "F-for Herm-m-ione?" he stammered, not entirely due to the cold.

George pulled Dennis aside and muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "I'll kill Dung Fletcher..."

Angelina alone remained calm and bit back a comment about the imprudence of her brother-in-law wearing sandals and clam-diggers in the snow. "They're fabulous, Ron."

"And expensive-looking," Dennis started to say, but Angelina backed into his already throbbing toes.

"She'll be thrilled to pieces, I'm sure," Angelina continued loudly to cover his groans.

Ron pocketed the box, a dreamy look on his face. "Did you know? She's expecting."

"Who? Hermione? Expecting what?" said George.

Angelina cut in, "No, we didn't. Congratulations, Ron."

"She told us all, just a bit ago. Mum got all teary, of course, and made Hermione a cup of tea. So I slipped back out to pick up her present here."

"They must've cost you a pretty Sickle, Ronnie-kins." George had managed to get in under Angelina's guard. She glared at him as if she was about to launch a Cruzan Whammy at his sorry carcass.

Ron didn't notice the silent exchange or the dig at his minority, and for once, didn't seem to care. "It's weird how it all worked out. I didn't tell you before, but...Hermione and me...we hit some pretty hard times there for a while."

"Thanks to dear Ludo Bagman," said George.

"Oh, you heard about that. Well, all of a sudden, Madam Fudge-Bagman...his wife, you know...owls Hermione that she's heard all about the wonderful work she's doing and wants to sponsor a special project in the New Year."

"Probably rehabilitating wayward husbands..." smirked George.

"... or unfortunate young witches out on the East End," said Dennis.

Angelina sighed. Short of a blanket Silencio, there was little she could do once these two got on a roll. Besides, it didn't seem as if Ron was listening to them. It was as if he was in a little world of awe and contentment all his own, from which neither the slush besieging his toes nor the twins' gibes could touch him.

"Then...to cap it all...Robert Raglan...you know..."

"Yeah," said George, "the cartoonist with the Lockhart fixation."

Ron nodded. "I've sent him a lot of my own stories over the years, you know, to see what he thought of them. But he never replied, except for the odd autograph and fanzine. But then I recognized some of my own stuff in his new novel..."

"Mere coincidence, I'm sure," said George.

"He's nothing like his brother, I'm also sure," Dennis chimed in.

"What brother?" asked Ron.

"Didn't you know? The infamous Rascal Raglan. Dung Fletcher's partner in crime."

"Really?" said Ron. "Well, Robert Raglan's not like that...not at all. Anyway it turns out his wife was the one answering his mail all that time, and she read my stories too. Master Raglan never saw them at all. My plotlines must've gone into her subconscious. She remembered them, but she didn't remember where she remembered them from. Does that make sense?"

"Oh, sure," muttered George.

"So whenever Robert was stuck for an idea, she just threw something out off the top of her head, and more often than not, it was something I had written. But she didn't realise it."

"Right," added Dennis.

"They just tumbled to it a couple days ago. Raglan somehow got a hold of one of my comic books. Don't know how that happened... but, anyway, his wife recognised some of the ideas I wrote in the margins, and it made her remember the stories I sent. She still had the copies filed away. So now they know that I really did have a hand in the writing of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle and the Quidditch-Playing Prefect of Pigpimple Academy." He said this last reverently, as if Merlin himself had revealed it to him.

"The Augureys will be so glad to hear that," said George under his breath.

"And the eagles," Dennis chirped.

Ron's rising excitement rode right over their cynical tones. "So he's going to give me some money for it and a dedication in the next printing. Oh, and his wife...she owns this shop here...Gladrags. She gave Hermione a gift certificate...for baby clothes."

"Our little 'scone in the fire'," crooned George, making a face at Dennis.

"Best of all, Robert thinks I have a talent for writing, and he's going to help me get started in the New Year. Hermione was so happy. We're going to exchange gifts soon as I bring this back."

"So you didn't have to sell your watch?" asked Dennis.

"You knew about that? No, Madam Raglan gave me the combs...as partial payment."

"And Hermione didn't have to cut her hair," said Dennis, satisfied.

"So you did know about that..."

"Well, Hermione confided in Angelina, and she told us..."

"But she did cut her hair, Den," said Ron quite calmly.

"What? No, she couldn't...I mean...you got her the combs..."

"The combs are for... when it grows back."

Dennis blustered, "And you're not mad about it? But what about...? I mean...you told me...you said...no...you shouted, 'She wouldn't dare!' Right? I mean...you like her hair long... don't you?" he finished weakly.

Ron put a hand on the young man's arm. "It doesn't matter, Den."

"It doesn't?" said Dennis. He was thoroughly puzzled now, but George and Angelina looked at each other in perfect understanding.

"She wanted to buy me something really special," Ron said softly. "She loves me. That's all I care about." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And... we're going to have... a baby."

Dennis nodded finally, and they all linked arms and walked on to The Burrow with the snow falling softly, Muggle carols in their ears, and another bright star beaming down on them all.