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Ron had never realised how loud the Burrow was until it went quiet.
Not actually quiet, of course. The ghoul in the attic still clanged pipes whenever the wind shifted, the clock on the wall still clicked its hands around the faces of his family, and the radio in the corner still muttered news bulletins about rebuilding efforts, missing wizards and witches, and those still at large, and on occasion, whimsical music. But the explosion of Weasleys that usually filled the place had thinned. Bill and Fleur were at Shell Cottage; George disappeared for hours at a time; Ginny and Harry spent most days at Hogwarts helping rebuild and reorganize; and Dad had taken extra shifts at the Ministry for the same reason.
Mum clattered pans like she could fill the empty with noise alone.
Ron sat at the kitchen table and stared at a knot in the wood until it blurred.
Hermione was in Australia.
Australia might as well have been the moon.
He’d tried to write. Twice. The first letter had ended up a crumpled ball in the fireplace after he’d read over it and realised he’d spent three paragraphs describing the weather and the way Mum’s cabbage stew smelled like someone had hexed a bog. The second letter was still in the top drawer of his bedside table upstairs, folded neatly, every line stiff and formal like he was writing to Professor McGonagall.
He couldn’t work out how to say, So, are we… still… you know…? without sounding needy, or stupid, or like he was twelve.
He dug his thumbnail into the table’s groove, eyebrows pulled tight. Snow drifted lazily outside the kitchen window, catching in the crooked fence. It should have felt like Christmas. Instead, it felt like a waiting room.
“Ronald Bilius Weasley, if you sigh any louder, you’ll blow the roast out of the oven.”
Ron jumped. His mother stood by the stove, wand in one hand, wooden spoon in the other. Her hair frizzed wildly around her face, apron dusted with flour. There was a smear of something—was that cranberry sauce?—on her cheek.
“I wasn’t sighing,” he muttered.
“You’ve been sighing all morning. Yesterday as well. And the day before that.” She flicked her wand; a tray of freshly baked mince pies slid onto the counter. “It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. This house is not going to be turned into a morose little cave because you can’t stop brooding.”
“I’m not brooding,” Ron defended. “I’m—thinking.”
“Brooding,” Molly corrected crisply. “And thinking never did anyone any good if they didn’t get up and do something with it.” She jabbed the wand toward him, and the tray of mince pies rose into the air, drifting closer. The smell hit him: buttery pastry, clove, orange, and something warm that wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. Home.
“I need these taken to the Lovegoods,” she went on. “Xenophilius is still a bit… peculiar after everything, and Luna’s been helping with the streamers in the village, but they’ve hardly got any food in. I promised I’d send them some pies. You can take them.”
“Me?” Ron groaned, “Why can’t you just send them over by owl?”
“Because I am your mother, and I said so.” She slapped the spoon onto the counter. “You’ve been moping about this house for weeks. Out. Fresh air. A walk. A bit of company. It’ll do you good.”
He opened his mouth to argue—closed it, and looked away. “What if Hermione… writes?” he tried weakly.
“If she does, an owl will land on that windowsill, and I’ll call you. You’re hardly going to London. It’s a fifteen-minute walk. Twenty if you sulk all the way there.”
He scowled, but the fight had gone out of him.
“Fine. I’ll take the flaming pies.”
“Language,” she reprimanded, but her face softened. She reached up and fussed with his scarf as he shrugged into his coat, fingers awkward against his neck. “And Ronald?”
“What?”
“Try to be… cheerful,” she said, as if the word were a new spell she wasn’t sure would work. “Luna’s had a hard year, too.”
“Yeah… I know.”
*
The walk to the Lovegood house was mostly white and grey, the world muffled by snow. It crunched under his boots, sinking around his ankles. The trees that lined the path were bare and black against the sky, their branches like spidery fingers. His breath steamed in front of him, and he jammed his free hand deeper into his pocket, careful to keep the box of mince pies level.
Hermione would have had a lot to say about the snow. Something about Muggle transport delays, or she’d have shivered and grabbed his arm and complained about how cold it was, and then brightened up at the sight of the Burrow, saying it was like something out of a storybook.
He realised, too late, that he was smiling at nothing. His grin faltered.
What if she comes back and decides the story’s done?
Hermione had always been better than him, hadn’t she? Smarter, braver, more certain. Maybe she’d be in Australia, far away from war and Death Eaters, with all that sun and Muggle normality, and think, I don’t want to go back to that mess. Maybe she’d realise he was just the bloke who left her in a tent and came back when it suited him.
Ron’s stomach twisted. He nearly missed the turning.
The Lovegood home rose out of the snow like someone had tried to build a normal cottage, only to have one too many Firewhiskeys midway. It was tall and round and slightly bent, as if a giant had pinched it between two fingers and twisted. Something flashed in one of the upper windows—maybe a wind chime, or maybe an exploding teapot.
With the Lovegoods, you could never tell.
He raised his hand to knock, but he door opened before his knuckles hit wood.
“Hello, Ron,” Luna chimed, like she’d been expecting him.
She had pink glitter in her hair, and her wand was tucked behind her ear. She wore a bright yellow jumper with a dancing Hippogryff pattern knitted into it, half-finished, threads dangling from the sleeves. Her eyes were as wide and silvery as ever, but there was a new heaviness under them.
“Er—hi,” Ron huffed, “Mum, uh—Mum made mince pies. For you. For… Christmas.”
He thrust the box at her a bit too quickly. She took it like it was something precious rather than just pastry.
“Oh,” she smiled, “That’s kind. I like mince pies. They remind me of stories.” She stepped aside. “Would you like to come in?”
“Er. Yeah. Mum said I had to—well, not had to—she wanted me to, um—”
“I’d like you to,” Luna interrupted, and for the first time her gaze sharpened, pinning him in place. “It’s been very quiet. Daddy is out looking for the winter Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. He says they’re more likely to appear when it snows because no one expects them to.”
“Right,” Ron nodded, “Course.” And stepped inside.
The Lovegood home was both exactly as he remembered and different. The same odd objects hung from the ceiling: tiny golden bells, strings of shells, garlands of dried flowers and feathers. Magazines fluttered their pages on the coffee table by themselves, and the ceiling still had painted clouds. But there was a missing, hollow feel to the place, like someone had taken a painting and scrubbed out parts of it. Stains lingered on the walls from where the Death Eaters left their marks; fire scorched patches of wall; an irreparable crack through a portrait of Luna and her mother… A scarred home painted over.
Luna set the pies on a small table, closed the door, and moved toward the kitchen doorway.
“I’ll make tea,” she announced. “We can try one of the pies and see if they’re as good as I remember from school. Your mother’s pies always tasted like she’d baked the sun into them.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, “Remember to tell her that.”
Luna tilted her head, considering. “Do you want to come with me, or would you like to explore?”
“Explore?”
“There are new things since you were last here,” she said matter-of-factly. “And old things that look different when you look at them again. That’s the curious thing about looking.”
He shrugged, shifting his weight. “I’ll just… wait here. Don’t want to get eaten by some cursed spoon or whatever.”
Luna smiled dreamily, “The cursed spoon is in the drawer. You’ll be safe out here.” She vanished into the kitchen, humming something tuneless.
Left alone, Ron shoved his hands in his pockets and let his eyes roam.
Stacks of The Quibbler lay everywhere, some of them with headlines that made him snort—MINISTRY PLOTS TO BAN FLUFFY SOCKS—and some that made his jaw tighten—REMEMBERING THOSE TAKEN BY THE WAR. There were drawings pinned to the walls—new, intense sketches of Hogwarts, of DA members standing in a row, of Harry and Ginny flying, of Neville with the Sword of Gryffindor raised.
And one of him.
He froze. In the drawing, he stood between Harry and Hermione, wand raised, face fierce. It was more heroic than he’d felt, like someone had looked at him and seen something he hadn’t known was there.
He tore his gaze away, ears burning.
His eyes landed on a shelf tucked between two overflowing bookcases. It was crowded with little trinkets, but one thing caught his eye almost immediately—a snow globe.
Ron stepped closer without quite deciding to.
It was about the size of a Quaffle, the glass cloudy around the edges. Inside, a tiny village lay under a blanket of white. Little houses, crooked chimneys, and miniature trees dusted with frost. If he squinted, he could see specks of gold light in some of the windows, like candles burning. A small lake cut through it all, frozen and shining.
He glanced toward the kitchen. He could hear Luna moving about, the clink of cups, the low rush of a kettle. No footsteps coming back.
He picked up the snow globe.
It was heavier than it looked, cold seeping into his palms. Little flecks of silver and white clung to the inside of the glass. He turned it over, reading the faint, scratched words on the base: Everleigh, come to stay, not as things are, but as they may.
“Yeah, that figures,” he sighed, “S’pose it’s full of Nargles too.”
He lifted it to eye level. The village inside seemed almost too detailed—he could see a tiny bridge above the narrowest end of the lake, minuscule lampposts, and each tree branch etched carefully. It felt… expectant, somehow. Like it was waiting.
“Careful with that,” Luna’s voice floated from the doorway.
Ron jumped, hand jerking. He hadn’t heard her come back. “I’m not going to drop it…Just looking.”
Luna stood there, tray in her hands, a teapot and two mismatched cups rattling softly on it. Her expression was more serious than he was used to.
“It’s a pretty thing to look at,” she agreed, “But things are usually not what they seem.”
Ron frowned, glancing between her and the globe. “It’s just a snow globe,” he stated. “What’s it going to do, make me feel all Christmassy? Might be an improvement.”
He tried for a joking tone, but it came out brittle. Hermione would have rolled her eyes and then smiled and told him not to be so dramatic. Luna just watched him, that intent, unfocused focus of hers that made him feel like she was seeing more than his face.
“Still,” she continued quietly, “I wouldn’t shake it.”
Ron, stung by the warning, by his own raw mood, and by the uncomfortable sense that the thing was staring back, did exactly what he always did when warned not to: he ignored it.
“It’s a snow globe, Luna,” he grumbled, and gave it a firm shake.
The world inside exploded into movement. Snow leapt into the air, swirling in a frantic storm. The tiny houses vanished behind the blizzard. The glitter went from silver to an odd, opalescent gleam, like pearl and starlight and something else that made the hair on his arms stand up.
“Ron—!” Luna’s voice rang out. He heard the tray hit the floor with a crash, cups shattering.
The globe grew suddenly colder in his hands, so cold it burned. He tried to let go, but his fingers wouldn’t obey; they were stuck, fused to the glass as if it had turned to ice around his skin.
“What the—Luna, it’s—”
The snow inside wasn’t just whirling anymore. It was pouring outward, somehow, through the glass that wasn’t glass. A wind roared to life in the sitting room, slamming into him, smelling of pine and cinnamon. Luna lunged toward him, hair flying, grabbing her wand.
“Ron, you—”
The words were ripped away as the wind howled louder, and the floor vanished.
The room exploded, followed by a sensation of being pulled inside-out. Ron’s stomach lurched as if he were Apparating without knowing how, worse than splinching, worse than anything; leaving only the roar of a storm and Luna’s hand clamped around his.
Then he hit something.
It was softer than the ground ought to be. Snow, he realised a second later, as it went down the back of his collar and up his sleeves and into his nose. He spluttered and burst up out of the drift with a gasp.
The air was sharp and cold, but not the bitter, damp cold of the English countryside. This was clean, almost sweet, the kind that burned his lungs in an oddly pleasant way.
He coughed out a mouthful of snow and scrubbed his face clean.
“Luna?”
“Over here,” came her calm voice from somewhere to his left.
He twisted. Luna was half-buried in a snowbank, blinking up at the sky as if she’d decided to lie down on purpose. Her hair fanned around her like a pale halo, studded with glittering flakes.
“You all right?” he asked, stumbling over to her.
“I think so,” she said, sitting up with an effort. “My ear’s a bit cold. And my foot. And… most of me.” She looked around slowly. “Oh. It’s very pretty, isn’t it?”
Ron turned around. They stood at the edge of a village straight out of some wizarding storybook. Snow lay thick on the ground, smooth and untouched except where they’d fallen, glittering faintly in the pale light. The sky overhead was a soft, silvery blue, just beginning to blush toward evening, and delicate white flakes were drifting down lazily, never quite landing on them. A cobbled street led between rows of houses with steeply pitched roofs, each one sugar-dusted with snow. Warm, golden light spilled from tiny paned windows, and smoke curled from chimneys.
At the head of the street, just beyond where they were, stood an arched iron gate. Its bars were twined with evergreens and little glass ornaments. A sign hung from the top:
HERE YOU MAY WALK THE LIFE NOT LIVED.
JOY IS THE ONLY PRICE.
Ron stared. “That’s not ominous at all.”
“I think it’s quite clear,” Luna said thoughtfully, brushing her jumper clean. “Though I do wonder whether they mean joy like happiness, or joy like a person. It would be very unfortunate to be trapped here until someone named Joy comes along.”
Ron snorted despite himself. “Yeah, well, where exactly is here? We were in your sitting room, and then you had to keep some cursed snow globe on a shelf like a normal ornament, and now—”
He gestured helplessly at the picture-perfect village.
Luna’s gaze slid to the gate again, then to the houses.
“I did tell you not to shake it,” she said, not reproachful, just stating a fact. “Daddy bought it from a man in a travelling market who said it showed you ‘the Christmas you deserved’. I thought that sounded a bit suspicious.”
“And you kept it anyway?”
“It was very pretty,” she shrugged.
“All right,” he sighed, “Well, let’s find a way out before your dad comes home and sees we’ve redecorated the place with tea and mince pies.”
Luna got to her feet and took a step toward the gate. It swung open before she could touch it, metal creaking cheerfully. Warmth rolled over them, the cool air mingling with the smell of roasting chestnuts, mulled cider, and something baking. Somewhere deeper in the village, bells chimed.
“Welcome,” said a voice.
Ron startled. A woman stood just inside the gate, bundled in a thick fur-lined cloak. Her cheeks were pink with cold, and her eyes were crinkled at the corners. She looked… pleased. Just pleased to see them, like she’d been expecting them all along.
“Er—hi,” Ron stammered, “We’re a bit lost, actually—”
“Lost?” she laughed, “Oh, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, dear. Welcome to Everleigh.”
Luna’s eyes lit up. “That’s a nice name. Is it because it’s always evening?”
“Of a sort,” the woman said, smiling. “Come in, come in, you must be freezing. Oh! And look at you two.” Her gaze swept over them, warm and knowing. “Just in time for the festivities. The whole village has been talking about this.”
“Talking about—what?” Ron asked warily.
“Why, your visit, of course.” She winked. “And the engagement, naturally.”
“The—what?” Ron choked out.
“Engagement,” she repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone’s been quite beside themselves. A war hero and the Star-Seer at last. It will be a beautiful match.”
Luna tilted her head. “Star-Seer,” she murmured, “That’s rather flattering.”
Ron’s ears were ringing. “Hold on…We’re not engaged. We’re not even—we’re just—”
Luna looked at him, curious, as he flailed.
“Friends,” he finished lamely.
The woman just chuckled. “Of course you are, dear,” she said indulgently, like someone humoring a toddler. “It’s all right to be shy.” She leaned in conspiratorially, eyes on Ron. “The ring can wait till after the feast. Welcome, Ronald. Welcome, Luna.”
Ron froze. “You… know our names?”
“Of course,” she said brightly. “Everyone knows the names of those whose stories we’ve been reading for so long.” She stepped back and gestured down the street. “Come now. The mistletoe is already hung.”
*
They were swept up before Ron could protest. The village was full of people, all bundled in winter cloaks, laughing and talking. Children darted past with enchanted snowballs that hovered in the air before exploding into poofs of colourful glitter. Candles floated overhead like little stars. A band played in the square, instruments moving on their own, the melody cheerful and festive.
And everywhere they went, people greeted them.
“Ron Weasley!” cried a man leaning out of a shopfront, “You saved my niece at the Battle of Hogwarts. Drinks on me!”
A woman handing out bell-shaped biscuits reached out to squeeze his arm. “The boy who stood by Harry Potter through it all,” she said fervently, “He could not have done it without you. You’re a true Gryffindor, you are. We’ve all said it. Here, have a biscuit.”
Ron stammered something incoherent.
He’d heard praise before. People had clapped him on the back after the battle, had called him brave and brilliant. But that had always felt… messy, tinged with grief and exhaustion and the knowledge that some of those doing the praising had been hiding under their beds while others died. Here, the admiration was simple. Clean. It soothed his raw spots like balm.
Luna, too, was greeted with an easy familiarity.
“Miss Lovegood,” said an elderly wizard in a cloak patterned with stars. “Your articles on the hidden constellations changed my life. Truly.”
Another pressed a small bouquet into her hands. “For your art,” he said, “Your portraits of the fallen—everyone here has one on their wall.”
“That’s kind,” Luna replied, “I haven’t actually drawn all of them.”
“Oh, but you will,” a woman said confidently.
Ron’s head spun.
They were led, somehow, to the village square. A huge Christmas tree stood at its center, decorated with ribbons and baubles of all colours and sizes. At the very top, instead of a star, there was a sprig of mistletoe. More mistletoe hung overhead between the houses—glowing clusters that drifted like lazy clouds. People laughed and dodged or deliberately stood beneath them.
And everywhere Ron and Luna went, someone was nudging, winking, saying things like:
“When’s the big day, then?”
“Don’t keep the lass waiting, lad!”
“They’re so sweet together.”
Ron’s face felt permanently on fire. “This is mad,” he hissed at Luna as they squeezed past a group of carolers, “They’ve got the wrong idea.”
“Perhaps,” Luna said serenely, “Or perhaps they have a different one.” She peered up at one of the floating sprigs. “The magic is clever. Look.”
He followed her gaze. The mistletoe drifted over the heads of the crowd until it reached them. Then it arrowed downward as if caught by a gravity that applied to no one else.
“Nope,” Ron said immediately, stepping sideways.
It followed.
“Ron,” Luna warned, as the nearest villagers began to notice.
“Oh, look!”
“They haven’t kissed yet?”
“Go on, then!”
A small circle was forming, people drawing back to give them space, faces alight with fond expectation.
Ron shot Luna a helpless look. “I— This is— We can’t—”
“It’s just a kiss,” Her eyes were oddly clear. “On the lips, in front of strangers who think they know our story better than we do. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s ever happened to us.”
He barked a laugh, high and strained. “Not helping.”
She stepped a little closer. The mistletoe hovered just above their heads, pulsing gently.
“If we don’t,” she whispered, “I think we’ll make them sad. And this place doesn’t like sad things.” Her gaze flicked around the square once, thoughtful. “Not at all.”
Ron gulped. “Fine. Just to shut them up.”
“Of course.”
He bent down, quick and clumsy, and brushed his lips against hers. It was barely more than a touch, the sort of peck he might have given Aunt Muriel if she’d demanded one at Christmas (on the cheek, though!). The crowd whooped anyway, cheering, clapping. The mistletoe flared bright, then drifted away, satisfied.
The world did not shatter. The snow globe did not spit them out. Nothing changed.
Ron drew back, heart rattling in his chest, ears burning. “There,” he said hoarsely, “Happy?”
“I think they are…But the village is still humming.”
“Humming?”
“Like when a spell doesn’t know it’s finished,” she explained, “We’re not done yet.”
*
They tried, of course, to break it the normal way. Ron tugged at the edge of the world, so to speak. He walked to the far end of Everleigh, the path looping back to the village no matter how far he went. He tried to Apparate. The magic didn’t so much block him as ignore him.
Meanwhile, Luna wandered the streets, looking with that peculiar focus of hers. She asked questions no one seemed to find odd.
“What happens if someone wants to leave?” she asked a girl plaiting ribbons into a wreath.
The girl giggled. “Why would you? Everything’s perfect here.”
Luna’s eyes flicked to Ron, who, at that moment, was coaxed into telling the story of how he’d saved Harry at the lake during the Horcrux hunt, except this version had him wrestling a dragon as well.
He could hear himself talking, see the villagers hanging on every word, laughing at his jokes—because he had jokes, suddenly, and they landed—and he felt even taller.
It was intoxicating, being the best version of himself someone else had written.
It was also wrong.
That night—or what passed for night in a place where the sky remained a perpetual, twilight-blue—they found themselves in a small, lantern-lit inn. They slipped into a booth at the far end, close to the crackling fireplace. The innkeeper appeared before they could even glance at a menu, setting down two steaming mugs of hot chocolate topped with heart-shaped marshmallows. She winked knowingly, as though the drinks had simply been waiting for them to arrive.
Ron stared into his. “This place is barmy.”
“It’s comforting,” Luna chimed, wrapping her hands around her mug, “That’s the worrying part.”
He glanced at her. “You’re enjoying it?” he asked, more sharply than he meant to.
“I like that they think my art matters,” she said, “And that people listen when I talk about strange things without looking away. It’s very gentle here. No one is cruel. But it’s not really about me. It’s about the idea of me. I’m a story in their book.”
Ron winced. That sat too close to how he’d been feeling. “Everyone here thinks I’m… brilliant,” he cleared his throat, “but… I’m not, not really… I mean—not all the time. And they talk like… like Hermione’s some footnote.”
He didn’t realise he’d said her name out loud until Luna’s gaze softened at the mention of her.
“You love her,” she offered. It wasn’t a question.
Ron nodded, staring at his chocolate.
“Yeah…Yeah, I do. I’m just not… I’m not sure what that even means now. She’s in Australia, and I’m here, and I’ve messed up so many times, and this place—” He gestured vaguely at the walls, “It’s like it wants me to forget her. Or wants me to… pick a different… story.”
He trailed off, suddenly quite certain he was talking too much.
Luna watched him for a long moment. “I think places like this don’t understand love very well,” she said at last. “They understand wanting. That’s much simpler. Wanting safety, or praise, or kisses under mistletoe.” She smiled at him. “They don’t know what to do with the parts that hurt.”
“Do you… want this?” he blurted out, “All this? The whole… couple thing?”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Here?”
“Anywhere,” he said, and then wished he could stuff the words back in.
Luna took her time answering, sipping her chocolate. The fire popped softly.
“I liked you when we were younger,” she said conversationally, “You were very kind to me when everyone else thought I was odd. You believed me about things you didn’t have to. You made jokes to make me less afraid, even when you were frightened too. That was… important.” Her lips curved a little. “So yes. I suppose I’ve had a soft spot for you for a long time.”
Ron’s heart did something strange and painful in his chest. “Oh,” he replied brilliantly.
“But liking someone,” Luna went on, “doesn’t mean they’re supposed to be yours. Or you theirs. That’s a rather small way of looking at souls.” She toyed with the handle of her mug. “Here, everything is very small. It’s warm and lovely, like a snow globe, but it’s still a globe. A little glass world where nothing complicated can breathe.”
Ron looked around. At the perfect fire, at the neatly folded napkins, at the window where the snow fell in the exact same pattern it had when they arrived.
“Then why won’t it let us go?” he asked.
“Because we haven’t paid the price,” Luna said, glancing toward the window, “Joy. It wants us to be happy. Perfectly, stupidly happy. To choose the easy version of ourselves.”
He thought of the mistletoe. Of the villagers’ delighted faces. Of the way his stomach did a funny little flip at that first, awkward kiss.
“We’re supposed to… give in?”
“I think we’re supposed to stop fighting whatever we’re afraid of,” Luna said. “Our fears turned inside out.” Her gaze on him sharpened. “You’re afraid you’re not good enough. Here, you’re the best. I’m afraid I’m too strange to belong. Here, they adore my strangeness.” She smiled sadly. “And we’re both a little afraid of loving people who might not love us back the same way. Here, everyone has already decided that part for us.”
“So what, we just… pretend? Act like we’re… like we’re—”
“A couple,” Luna supplied calmly. “Yes. Perhaps. Or…” She met his eyes. “We could see what’s actually true, underneath the pretending. That might be the only thing magic like this understands.”
“You still like me?” he asked quietly, “Not just ‘school crush, ha ha, remember when’, but—”
“Yes.”
He looked away, heart hammering, guilt and something softer tangling together.
“I don’t want to replace Hermione,” he said in a rush. “I don’t want to use you to feel better because she’s far away and I’m… a mess.”
“I wouldn’t like that either,” Luna agreed. “But I also don’t think the heart is a bedside drawer where you can only keep one thing at a time. I think… sometimes there are might-have-beens that tug at us. They’re still real, even if we don’t choose them.”
He thought of the sign over the gate.
Life not lived.
“Maybe we have to let this one be real,” he said slowly, “just once. So it doesn’t… haunt us?”
“That sounds like the sort of thing this place would approve of,” Luna agreed. “And it sounds honest. I like honest things. They’re much rarer than people think.”
“So we… what? Go out there and have the perfect romantic winter wonderland evening? Hold hands under the fairy lights, go ice-skating, kiss under mistletoe, admit we fancy each other and then—what, we wake up back at your house with tea on the floor?”
“Possibly…Or we stay here forever and become very good at ice skating.”
“Not helping,” he chuckled.
She stood up abruptly, “Come on then, Ron,” she winked at him, holding out a hand, “Let’s go see how this story wants to end.”
*
It was easier than it should have been, slipping into the shape the village wanted for them.
They walked through the falling snow, shoulder to shoulder, fingers brushing shyly as they caught snowflakes with their tongues. Ron found himself laughing, genuinely, at some ridiculous joke she made about snowflakes being Nargles in disguise.
They skated on the frozen lake, the ice enchanted to catch and steady them when they wobbled. Luna’s hand in his was small and warm, and felt like it belonged just there.
“Is it really all right,” he asked at one point, as they stood on the little bridge watching a group of children build a snowman, “if this is just… a might-have-been?”
Luna’s elbow gently nudged his. “Of course,” she said softly, “Might-have-beens are very important. They remind us that we are full of choices. Paths not taken don’t just vanish, you know.”
He looked at her, properly, for the first time since they’d arrived—not as the village’s idea of his fiancée, not as the dreamy girl people underestimated, but as Luna. Who had been locked in a cellar and still believed in impossible creatures and magic of the most ridiculous kind…Who had drawn his face like a hero and then stood here, now, offering him a way to be honest without flinching.
“I’m glad it’s you,” he whispered, “Here. In this… whatever it is. If I was destined to have the perfect fake Christmas romance to get out of a cursed snow globe, I’m glad it’s you.”
Her eyes shone. “I’m glad it’s you too.”
Above them, a sprig of mistletoe drifted into place, glowing softly. They both looked up.
“Feels like this is the bit,” Ron said, heart pounding in his ears.
“Yes, but this time, we should mean it. Otherwise, it’s just decoration.”
He laughed, nervous and helpless. “I’m still in love with Hermione,” he croaked, “That’s not going to stop because of—this… I think.”
“I know…And I’m still a little bit in love with you. That won’t stop because you’re in love with someone else.” She smiled anyway, “Life is very untidy that way. It’s all right.”
“Okay,” he whispered, then stepped closer.
This kiss was nothing like the first.
It wasn’t to shut anyone up; it wasn’t to appease a crowd. It was gentle, and terrifying, and real. Ron’s hand came up, almost of its own accord, to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling in cold-silk hair. Luna’s hands fisted in his coat. For a moment, he forgot about gates and curses and signs and wars and Australia. There was just the soft press of her lips, the warmth of her, the sudden fierce ache of this, too, could have been.
The village held its breath.
Then the world cracked like thin ice.
The ground dropped. Ron felt the twist of magic again, but this time it was less violent, more like being unspooled from something that had been wrapped tightly around him. The taste of snow and cinnamon, and Luna clung to him as everything went bright—
—and he was back in the Lovegood sitting room.
He stumbled, grabbing for balance. Luna fell into him. The tray of tea was on the floor where it had fallen, cups shattered, liquid spreading in a dark stain across the boards. The snow globe lay a few feet away, perfectly intact, its little village dark and still under a layer of unmoving white.
For a second, Ron wondered if he’d imagined all of it.
Then he realised Luna’s fingers were still curled in his coat, knuckles white.
Luna was the first to move. She stepped back, cheeks flushed, eyes wide in a way he’d hardly ever seen. Her hands dropped from his coat, hovering awkwardly in the air like she couldn’t quite work out what to do with them.
“Well,” she stammered, “That was… educational.”
Ron huffed out a laugh, “Yeah, you could say that.”
“I suppose we should… clean up,” Luna said after a moment, looking down at the shards of china. “Before Daddy comes home and thinks the Nargles have become clumsy.”
“Right,” Ron said automatically, “Yeah. Cleaning. Good plan.”
She turned away, tapping her pockets in search of her wand.
Something in his chest fluttered. The might-have-been tugged at him, sharp and insistent. They’d left it behind in that little glass world, but its echo was still here, in the way his lips tingled, in the way Luna’s eyes flicked away from his and back again like she was afraid of staring too long.
Maybe it was the curse’s residue. Maybe it was his own stubbornness. Maybe it was the knowledge that he was going to spend the rest of his life wondering if he walked away too soon.
“Luna,” he called after her, before he could talk himself out of it.
She froze. He crossed the space between them in three strides and, very gently, caught her wrist. Slowly, she turned back to face him.
“Yes?”
“This isn’t the village…No mistletoe. No crowd. No magic demanding anything. But… I don’t want the only real bit of that to stay in there.”
His hand shook a little as he reached up, cupping her cheek. “If that’s… if that’s all right,” he added, because it had to be.
“It’s more than all right,” she whispered.
He kissed her again, slower this time, giving the moment space to exist. Luna’s lips were warm and soft, and she made a quiet, surprised sound against his mouth before leaning into him, her open palms resting on his chest. Ron became suddenly, keenly aware of her in ways he hadn’t allowed himself before: the steadiness beneath her gentleness, the way she met him without hesitation, without asking him to be anything other than what he was.
There was no blinding light this time. No roaring wind. Just the quiet crackle of the fire, and the faint rattle of the enchanted magazines. The world didn’t shift or demand or rewrite itself. It simply held them in a moment that was entirely of their own choosing.
When they finally drew apart, foreheads resting together, breathing unevenly, Luna smiled—a little sad, a little wondering.
“A remnant,” she whispered, “Of another life.”
“Yeah,” Ron sighed, eyes closed, “Something that… could’ve been. Might’ve been.” He swallowed. “Maybe still… will be.”
“Or maybe it will just be this… A very lovely secret. Both are all right.”
“Trust you to make me feel better for being a twat who fancies two girls,” he chuckled softly.
“I did say hearts aren’t bedside drawers.”
He opened his eyes and stepped back at last, and glanced at the snow globe on the floor. “We should probably get rid of that.”
“Yes,” Luna agreed, following his gaze. “But not yet.” She smiled, mysterious and distant. “I think it’s good to remember that inside every perfect round little world, there are cracks where other lives might seep through.”
He shook his head, fond and exasperated all at once. “Only you would make cursed Christmas decorations sound philosophical.”
“Someone has to,” she replied.
He laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks. Somewhere, far away, Australia was still Australia, and Hermione was still Hermione, and his future was still a messy tangle of choices and fears.
But here, in this odd little house that smelled of tea and printing ink and wild magic, there was also this: a might-have-been made real for the span of a few heartbeats, a softness he could carry with him like a charm against the dark.
Ron bent, picked up the box of mince pies—miraculously uncrushed—and set them on the table.
“Come on…Let’s at least eat one before something else tries to curse us.”
“All right,” she replied, “But if they taste like joy, we’re binning them.”
Ron grinned, “Definitely.”