// Happy Christmas Jodi @wildegreenlight ! I really enjoyed writing a fic for you, but this one really ran away with me, I hope you don’t mind. I hope you have a lovely festive season, and don’t get too exhausted with all the holiday parties you’re throwing! //
Christmas Day, The Grangers’ house
“Is everything alright, Ron?”
Hermione has already become engrossed in the book she’s just unwrapped, but she looks up when she hears concern in her mother’s voice. Ron’s expression is unreadable for a moment. “Ron?” she asks, and now both her parents are looking at him in concern.
He pastes a bright smile on his face. “All good!” he says cheerfully. “I just think that Mum’s sent me the wrong present. I’ve got a jumper and it’s not maroon.”
“Should it be?” asks her Mum, confused.
“Well, all the others have always been…and I just thought…” he drifts off, checking the gift tag again. Hermione bites her lip. “No, it’s definitely for me!” he says, and both her parents seem satisfied with the positivity in his voice, because they go back to passing out presents.
Hermione is still worried, though. Ron keeps running his fingers over the beautiful blue wool, but he hasn’t—for the first time she’s known him—jammed the jumper over his head straight away. “Everything okay?” she adds in a lower voice, whilst her mother tactfully exclaims loudly over a box of sugar-free mints her father has just presented her with.
“Fine,” Ron says, still eyeing the jumper. “I like it! It’s a great colour. I just…did she forget?”
“Forget that it should be maroon?” Ron nods. “Do you want it to be maroon?” He shakes his head. “So…” Hermione says. She drifts off, unsure of what to say next and trying hard to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. Ron opens his mouth, glances sideways at her parents, and closes it again.
“Gosh, I think it’s time to put the sprouts on!” her mother says loudly. “Richard, do come and give me a hand. And you two—no opening any more gifts without us!”
“I just…she always gives me a maroon jumper, and I always hate it. That’s what’s supposed to happen,” Ron says, once her parents have left. “This—this is actually nice! What am I supposed to do with a nice jumper?” It’s a joke, but not really. Hermione thinks it might be time to come clean.
“It’s my fault,” she says.
“You charmed it a different colour whilst I was opening it?” he asks.
“Not exactly,” she says. “I…I asked your mother not to give you a maroon jumper this year. But I didn’t know if she would listen, or…”
“It’s kind of a long story,” she says, glancing at the door her parents have just departed from.
“They have rather a lot of sprouts to prepare,” Ron says, so Hermione sighs, and begins.
“So the idea is, it’s a treasure hunt!” Ginny says delightedly. “All the presents will be hidden somewhere around the house—I’ll give him the clue to the first one, and each one then has a clue to the next one. And the presents themselves are mostly just little things, but they all spell out the name of the place we’re going on holiday, which is obviously the main present.”
“That sounds…amazing,” replies Hermione. “Where are you going?”
“Canada!” Ginny says, passing her the plate of mince pies. “Neither of us have been, and I have a few months off in the early summer between officially leaving the Harpies and starting with England. I asked Harry if he wanted to go away; he said yes; I asked where and he said to surprise him. So. Christmas is sorted. And I’ve got most of the clues today, too.”
“What are they?” Hermione asks, because she can tell by the way Ginny is all but bouncing in her seat she’s dying to share.
“Cauldron Cakes for ‘C’, because he loves those. And a bottle of aftershave for ‘A’, because he’s nearly out, and I love the way he smells. And then for N—look, I thought this one was really good.” She carefully takes a small snowglobe out of a bag at her feet and hands it to Hermione.
“‘N’ for…Quidditch player?” she tries.
“No no no,” says Ginny. “Can’t you see?” She points to the little figure flying around the snowglobe. “He’s riding a Nimbus! They made a bunch of these, apparently, as promotional items when the Nimbus 2000 first came out years ago. I saw it at the flea market today. It’s amazing.”
“Oh, how lovely,” Hermione says, and Ginny beams. She shows her the next three items, explains the clues she’s going to use, rambles on about how excited she is whilst Celestina Warbeck croons on the wireless, and the scent of pine needles from the Christmas tree in the corner fill the air, and Hermione lets her, because she knows just how tough it can be when someone is away, like Harry is currently, on some dangerous Auror mission. The plan is that he will be back for Christmas day.
Sometimes plans are just theoretical.
Hermione and Ron—who is safely on desk duty for the month, having done six weeks in the field earlier in the autumn—have agreed to take it in turns to distract her, which for Hermione today means going out Christmas shopping. Having split up for a while (Hermione found the perfect book for Ginny in her absence), they’re now back together in a quaint little café in Hogsmeade, comparing purchases. Or rather, Ginny is explaining in intimate detail exactly how she’s going to give Harry the most wonderful Christmas ever, and Hermione is letting her, because Ginny is just as kind to her when Ron is away.
“Anyway,” Ginny says, a plate of mince pies later, once they’ve gone through the whole Canadian itinerary. “What have you got for Ron?”
“Oh,” Hermione says. “I found quite a nice scarf. It’s grey.” She digs it out. Ginny makes the right noises. “And a book, Steve Harlow’s autobiography. You know, the Cannons player? And then I thought, maybe some fancy chocolates from Honeydukes, and I’d be sorted.”
“Oh,” says Ginny. “I mean, oh! That’s lovely!”
“Mmm,” says Hermione. Ginny turns her head to the side, raising an eyebrow, and Hermione sighs. “Okay, so I know it’s not that exciting. It’s not a treasure hunt, or even a fancy holiday.”
“I didn’t mean—” Ginny says at once, looking guilty.
“No, no, it’s fine!” she replies. “I just…well, Ron and I are going to have a lot of expenses next year. The wedding, hopefully we’ll be moving, if we can ever find the right house…the point is, we agreed to go very minimal for Christmas this year. There’s no sense buying lots of stuff that will only have to be packed up in a few months, is there?”
“Absolutely,” Ginny says, “and you’re going on honeymoon in the summer, too. It makes sense not to do much.”
“Absolutely,” repeats Hermione. “That’s absolutely what we said.”
“Absolutely,” Ginny says, nodding vigorously. There’s a pause. “But…the problem is?”
Hermione heaves a sigh. “The problem is, Ron is irritatingly, annoyingly, unfairly good at giving gifts. And I—I once gave him a homework planner.”
“That was a way of showing you cared, though, right?” Ginny can always be relied upon to find the positive. “And besides, that was years ago. You’re much better at presents now.”
“Not that good,” Hermione mutters.
“Come on, last year you got him his own seat at the Cannons ground, that’s pretty good! And I recall the enormous trek we went on the year before last to track down that Martin Miggs first edition, that was good too,” says Ginny.
“Yes. And that’s the problem. I think I’ve set the bar too high,” Hermione says. “It’s not like I can repeat either of those things. It’s not so much that I want to get him something expensive—the Martin Miggs didn’t cost that much in the end—just something meaningful. Something Ron. Because he’s always so good at getting the right thing for me, and especially this year, after the effort he put in with the ring…well, I feel like it’s got to be spectacular.”
“Hmm,” says Ginny. She takes a contemplative bite of mince pie. “Hmm.”
“And I’m worried that the fact that I seem to have peaked before we’ve even got married, isn’t the greatest sign,” she sighs. “If he’s this hard to buy a present for now, how am I going to cope ten years down the line when I’ve had ten years of Christmas and birthday gifts to stress over?!”
“Well, don’t panic. You can’t do a holiday this year because of the honeymoon, but next year you can totally steal my treasure hunt reveal, I won’t tell anyone,” Ginny jokes.
“You’re too kind,” Hermione says dryly. “But what am I going to do this year? I mean,” she gets it out again, “this scarf is nice, and I think he’ll like it. But I’m not going to lie, it was a bit of a panic buy. A sort of, if I don’t find anything else, at least he’ll have something halfway decent to open on the big day. I just wish I knew what he really wanted.”
“Ask him,” Ginny says. Hermione scoffs. “No, I’m serious. It doesn’t have to be a surprise. I didn’t know what Harry wanted for Christmas this year, so I asked if he wanted to go away on holiday in the summer, when we’ve both got time off. He said yes, so he knows that’s his present. It’s true that he doesn’t know where, and there’s the little treasure hunt gifts that will be a surprise, too. But there’s no sense making life hard for yourself when you don’t have to. Just ask Ron what he wants for Christmas.”
“You know, that might just work,” says Hermione.
The thing was, despite everything Ginny said being true, Hermione still couldn’t bring herself to outright ask Ron what he wanted for Christmas. It felt like one of those things a proper girlfriend—no, wait, fiancée—should just know. It was an admission of failure, basically, to have to ask what he wanted. And she didn’t like failing.
So she waits and waits, frantically wracking her brains for ideas whilst waiting for inspiration to strike, but—nothing. She does, however, get a lucky break on the night of the Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes’ Christmas party, when he comes back more than a little inebriated, trying to tell her a story that is, apparently, very funny, but not quite managing it because he keeps bursting into sickeningly adorable giggles.
Ron isn’t really a big drinker, so it doesn’t take much to get him fairly tipsy, and he’s not really a frequent drinker either, so his cheery, puppyish antics are rare and therefore amusing rather than annoying. Hermione wishes for a moment that she’d come out too, but she has a huge case to finish preparing for before Christmas, and besides, she doesn’t fully trust what George might or might not do with any incriminating photographs (the evening had been fancy dress; Ron had gone as a reindeer. He’s come back with his red-bobble nose hanging around his neck, and his antlers rotated through ninety degrees, so he looks like he’s trying to spear her.)
Instead, she decides to use the situation to her advantage. He’ll never remember her questioning, and he might just let something useful slip…
“Ron?” she asks, once he gets to the end of the story (the punchline, which she doesn’t understand, goes “And then he said, I’m HAIRY Potter!”).
“Mmm?” he says, looking askance at her.
“What do you want for Christmas?” His eyes light up, so she immediately holds up a finger. “And remember, we’re opening our gifts at my parents’ on Christmas Day. Any ideas about me and a few strategically placed bits of ribbon should be shelved for now,” she says.
“What about that, but tonight?” he asks hopefully.
“We can’t, you’re drunk,” she says.
“Scrooge!” he says cheerfully, and she laughs.
“Seriously, what d’you want? A squadron of firebolts? A castle? Chocolate frogs?”
He pauses for a moment, clearly thinking hard. “I would like…” he begins slowly. “I would like…for Christmas…a jumper…from Mum…that isn’t maroon. I hate maroon. And she never listens. What I want…what I really, really want, is a not-maroon jumper.”
Hermione’s momentary excitement disappeared. She’d thought for sure he’d been about to announce something good… “Anything else?” she asks lightly.
“Mmm…how about, not having a hangover tomorrow?” he asks.
“That one,” she says, getting up to fetch him a large glass of cold water, “might be slightly easier.”
The more she thinks about it, the more she realises how much this would mean to Ron. She’s never fully understood, growing up as an only child, what it is to feel occasionally overlooked—especially when the Weasleys clearly love all of their children to the moon and back. But then, she remembers last Christmas Day. Ginny had just been chosen for the England Quidditch team, so her jumper had an English flag on the front, and ‘CHASER’ on the back. Ginny had been so excited—and she could think of several occasions over the years when each child had had a jumper personalised in some way. Ron’s jumpers, however, were always, always maroon. He never got so much as a different colour, and the more Hermione thinks about it, the more strange it felt. She knew it wasn’t because Mrs Weasley put less effort into Ron’s jumpers than any one else’s.
Perhaps it was time for a change. And perhaps that change was something she could organise…
“Oh, hello Hermione,” says Mrs Weasley. “What a lovely surprise!”
“I hope this is a convenient time?” asks Hermione, slipping in the back door of The Burrow.
“Of course, come on in. You must have something to eat!” Mrs Weasley makes tea and finds some cakes, which she insists Hermione takes, and Hermione explains that she has been thrown out of their flat so Ron can wrap her Christmas presents. “With a whole week still to go?” asks Mrs Weasley. “Goodness, you have had a good influence on him!”
Hermione laughs politely, and makes some remarks about Ron already being very well brought up. Mrs Weasley preens. “What about you, dear? Are you ready for the big day? Presents sorted?”
She’s been planning out this speech all week, drafting and redrafting, editing and practising like she does with her speeches to the Wizengamot. She’d decided she needed Mrs Weasley to give her an opening, rather than launching in herself, and she’s barely been in the house five minutes before just that happens. “Oh, just about,” she says. “I’ve got all of my presents sorted—well, all but one. And it’s actually one I was hoping you might be able to help me with.”
“You see, I was struggling with what to get Ron for Christmas. I’ve got a few little bits, but I wanted something special, you know?” Hermione says. Mrs Weasley nods, looking interested. “So I asked him what he really wanted and…well, at first I thought he was joking. But I think it’s something that really would mean a lot to him, and it’s just not something I could do alone.”
She pauses. Mrs Weasley still looks interested—possibly even intrigued by this point—and so far, Hermione seems not to have offended her. She lets her guard down just a little. “We were talking about the jumpers you knit for everyone. I think it’s such a lovely tradition, I really do,” she says earnestly. “We never did anything like that when I was growing up, and I can’t help feeling I missed out on something.”
“Well, we never really had much money for new toys and games, so…” Mrs Weasley says, looking slightly embarrassed.
“But it’s such a lovely tradition,” Hermione repeats. “It really, really is.” She pauses. “There’s just one thing. Ron…well, he doesn’t like the colour maroon. At all.” She’s been working so hard to keep her voice friendly and light, to keep the conversation convivial, but already she can see her mother-in-law to be stiffening, pulling back from her, and she curses mentally.
“It’s not the jumpers, he loves getting them and so do I! But I asked him what he wanted most for Christmas, and he said, well, he said a not-maroon jumper,” she says, speeding up. “And I mean, he was joking—but not really. He meant it, and I know he’d really appreciate it, and of course, if you’ve already done all your knitting—I know this is such a busy time of year for you—but if you could maybe just consider—”
“I appreciate what you’re saying,” Mrs Weasley says, in a voice that makes it quite clear that she doesn’t, “but I’m afraid Ron’s jumpers are maroon. They have to be.”
“Because they always have been?” Hermione asks. She’s prepared for this argument, too. “Because I know you’ve changed the colours for everyone else’s a few times, so I was hoping that Ron’s might also get—”
“You don’t understand,” Mrs Weasley says, turning back to face her, and Hermione is horrified to see that she seems close to tears. “Ron’s have to be maroon.”
“Why?” she asks, as gently as she can. “If you don’t mind me asking?” she adds hurriedly. There is a very long pause.
“When…when I was pregnant with Ron,” Mrs Weasley begins carefully. “I was very poorly. Very, very poorly indeed.”
“Oh,” says Hermione, unsure what this has to do with the jumpers.
“Yes…” There’s another long pause, then Mrs Weasley seems to give herself a mental shake. “I was very ill,” she continues, much more briskly. “I won’t go into the details,” she says. “It’d put you off for life. There wasn’t anything wrong with Ron himself, you understand, it was just me. As long as I survived, he’d be okay.”
Some of Hermione’s horror at this statement must show on her face, because Mrs Weasley hastens to reassure her. “I wasn’t at death’s door, exactly,” she says quickly. “It was just a very dangerous pregnancy for me—I’d just had the twins, I was exhausted…anyway, like I said, I won’t go into the details. Ron was born, he was fine, I made an excellent recovery. We were told under no circumstances should I risk falling pregnant again, we dutifully agreed, but of course dear Ginny always has had a mind of her own, but that all ended up being fine, too…”
“I see,” Hermione says, blinking.
“Anyway,” Mrs Weasley says. “I’m telling you all this because, when I was ill, I was put on bed rest. Complete and total bed rest. From month five, I recall. It was the only way, the Healers said, to ensure I would be well enough to continue with my pregnancy, and deliver safely. They also told me there was a fair risk of my…my not surviving the birth. Of course, it seems silly now—here I am, absolutely fine, there’s Ron, a strapping lad in his twenties—of course we’re fine. But at the time…”
“You had no way of knowing,” Hermione says.
“Exactly,” nods Mrs Weasley. “So, my mother moved in to look after the children. You can imagine… And I started to go completely and utterly stir crazy. I’d been doing so much—of course, that was part of the problem—and there I was in bed. All the time. I mean, there’s only so many times you can read Witch Weekly before you want to throw it out the window. So I told Arthur, I want to get knitting. I wanted this baby to have an entirely new layette. I’d used the same one, you see, from Bill onwards, and I thought, well, this baby isn’t going to have much new anyway, and I worried that he wouldn’t have anything to remember me by if I…well, you know.”
“Of course,” murmurs Hermione.
“I told Arthur to get me some new wool. Well, of course, we were poor as church mice. But he dutifully went out, and he came back into my room with a ball of wool. Maroon.” Hermione isn’t sure, but she thinks Mrs Weasley’s lips might be twitching. “And he asks me what I think of it. And I think, well, it’s not perhaps the colour I would’ve chosen for the baby’s layette, but it’s certainly different to the one I’ve got. And we didn’t know if I was having a boy or a girl, so I thought, maroon could be for both. So I told Arthur that, and he said, that’s good.”
Hermione definitely isn’t imagining things now. Mrs Weasley is starting to giggle, and laugh harder at Hermione’s bemused expression.
“Imagine it,” she says, suddenly turning serious. “You’re a month and a half into bed rest. You’ve got two and a half months more—minimum. You haven’t had anything to laugh about in weeks. And then, your husband says: wait there. As though you’re going to go apparating off at any moment. And then he comes into the room with the most enormous sack of maroon wool you have ever seen in your life.”
Hermione’s own lips start to twitch. “Two hundred and sixty-seven balls of wool. All maroon. I made the children count it,” Mrs Weasley says. “And I asked him what on earth he was thinking, and he said that the lady in the shop had had it for years and she was sick of the sight of it, so he could take it all for a Galleon just to get it out of her sight.”
“He took it all,” she confirms. “Well, it was going for a song! And he said, and I quote, ‘if this doesn’t keep you busy, I don’t know what will’. I swear, I laughed so hard I thought I was going to go into labour there and then!”
“And you’ve been making Ron’s jumpers out of it ever since?” Hermione asks. She feels incredibly guilty, imagining how Mrs Weasley must feel, being told that this thing she’s had such an important emotional connection to for all these years is something that Ron can’t stand.
“I have,” she says. Then she sighs. “For no reason, really. It just felt…well, he’s always been so fit and healthy! I mean, apart from the poisoning issue, of course. And the months you were on the run, and we were all at Mortal Peril.” She says this very matter-of-factly, but then they both realise what a ridiculous statement it is to make, catch each others’ eye and burst into peals of laughter.
It isn’t that funny, maybe, but it breaks the tension, and, after a moment, Mrs Weasley wipes her eyes and looks at Hermione with a small, but genuine, smile. “I suppose it was a superstition,” she says. “As long as I’m using the maroon, everything will be okay. But I’m just a silly old woman. We don’t need superstitions to keep Ron alive and well.”
“Ron—or you,” Hermione says gently.
“Yes, well…” She sighs. “It was a very good buy, though.”
“My dear,” says Mrs Weasley, “I once calculated that if I made Ron a jumper out of it every Christmas, he’d be one hundred and three before it ran out.”
“Oh, goodness,” Hermione says, imagining their small flat with one hundred and three maroon jumpers shoved under the bed, in cupboards, behind the sofa… Thank Merlin she’s got that Undetectable Extension Charm down pat.
“Quite,” says Mrs Weasley. There’s a pause. “So maybe…maybe it is time for a change, after all.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to—I mean, I didn’t know your story, and I’m sorry if I stepped on any traditions that it wasn’t my place to, and you don’t have to—”
“No, dear, it’s quite alright,” Mrs Weasleys says, patting her knee gently. “Let me have a good think. But…I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”
The Grangers’, 25 December
“…and…well, I suppose it appears that she did,” Hermione says, finishing the story.
Ron is silent for a long while. “Did…did you know?” she asks tentatively.
“About Mum being…ill, I guess, when she was pregnant with me?” he asks. “Yes, a little. Bill and Charlie remembered; they’d talk about mostly ‘when Granny Prewett came to stay’ occasionally, and when we asked why, they’d just say that Mum was ill. I hadn’t realised it was for so long, though. I don’t really know what was wrong with her, but I suppose it’s like she says—when someone makes a complete recovery, you don’t like to dwell on it, do you? As for the knitting—no, no I didn’t know.”
“I felt awful when I told her that you weren’t a fan of the maroon,” Hermione confesses.
“You shouldn’t,” Ron says. “I’ve been telling her for years. Now I feel guilty.”
“Don’t,” Hermione assures him. “I think she took it better, coming from me. If you’d asked her to stop completely, she’d have been devastated. I think I was the middle-man, so to speak. And she clearly took it on board…”
They both look at the blue jumper, and Ron picks it up again. “It’s actually really nice,” he says, sounding slightly surprised. “I mean, I would genuinely wear this. It’s a bit of a shock, really.” Hermione laughs. “Thank you,” he says seriously. “I mean it. I appreciate the effort you went to.”
“You’re welcome,” she says seriously, and then adds, “but, you did say that was what you really, really wanted for Christmas.”
“Actually, all I remember is you talking about yourself, wrapped up in ribbons and nothing else…” he says hopefully.
“And I said that you had to remember we’d be at my parents’!” Hermione says primly, then spoils the effect rather by winking.
“Yes, but only until dinnertime,” Ron says.
She rolls her eyes affectionately, making a very feeble attempt to bat him away as he leans in for a kiss. Just as their lips touch, the door bangs open and they jump apart, both crimson, as Hermione’s dad strides into the room. “Are you finished talking?” he asks jovially. “Whatever the matter was, it must have been very complicated, we’ve finished all the sprouts, and the carrots, and we even started on the parsnips!”
Hermione and Ron exchange glances. “It’s all sorted now,” Ron assures him, and then he leans over to squeeze her hand. She squeezes it back, and smiles.
Two days before New Year’s, Hermione and Ron go to his parents’ for dinner, where Hermione is immediately accosted by Arthur, who had been presented with a brand new “Ekletikric drill” by Harry and Ginny for Christmas. He is very keen for Hermione to come down to his shed to help him in charging it up, which Ron doesn’t mind, as it gives him time to speak to his mother in private.
“Good luck,” he mutters to Hermione, who grins and kisses him on the cheek, heading back to the shed with his father. Ron watches them go, then catches sight of his own reflection in the living room mirror. The blue wool of the jumper looks good on him, he thinks. What his mother will say, though…
“Hi, Mum,” he says cheerfully, heading into the kitchen.
“Hello dear, how are you? Did you have a good time on Christmas Day?” Mrs Weasley wipes her hands on her apron, then turns around. “Oh,” she says, pausing just slightly. “Oh, goodness. Don’t you look lovely!”
“Thanks Mum,” he says, resisting—just—the urge to roll his eyes affectionately.
“Oh, come here,” Mum says. They meet each other halfway, and wrap their arms around each other. Each time they hug, Ron feels like his mother is getting even shorter.
“Thanks for the jumper, Mum,” he says, when they finally break apart.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
“I love it,” he says, truthfully.
She breaks into a smile. “Good. That’s…that’s good. Now then! Don’t stand around there, I’ve got vegetables that need preparing!”
He falls into line, telling her about Christmas at Hermione’s parents’ house, and she returns with the story of Christmas at home. “And what have you been up to since the big day?” she asks, flicking her wand over her shoulder at a saucepan, which starts bubbling, throwing something else into the pan, and moving a stack of plates simultaneously.
“Oh, well,” Ron says, and there’s something in his voice that makes her stop everything she’s doing. “Well. We went to see a house.”
“A house?” she says lightly.
“Yes,” Ron says. “We’ll tell you all about it at dinner, but we think we might have found the one. We, um, actually put in an offer earlier. Of course, we don’t know what will happen—we’re trying not to get too attached. But…”
“Well, how exciting! Where is it? How many rooms?!” she says.
“We’ll give you all the details later,” he says. “I know Hermione wants to share them with you, too. It’s three bedrooms, but what really sold it to us—well, one of the things—is that the main bedroom has a little ante-room off it, and we thought that would be perfect for a nursery. And before you say anything, I wanted to tell you that straight off, because Hermione isn’t pregnant, we don’t want children just yet, we’re just…planning for the future. That’s all it is, I swear. We’re not even married, yet!”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” she says, supressing a smile. “I think that’s very sensible, but of course I shan’t say anything.”
Ron looks relieved, and starts telling her an amusing story about the estate agent. She listens, of course, and laughs in all the right places, but her mind is elsewhere, with a stack of wool, a pair of knitting needles, and ideas for little maroon booties, and maroon hats, and maroon blankets, and…
