A Weasley Christmas

She could remember a young man sitting at the table some twenty years ago, his wizarding robe frayed a little at the edges and his nerves going the same way. His hair hadn’t got grey streaked through it then, thought it’d only take a few years after their deaths- his face hadn’t been so lined either, though it did have some resilience to it with the small glint of life in his eyes.
But the boy sitting in his seat looked similar to him: she could see the resemblance in his sharp chin and wide green eyes, and the knowing smile that adorned his face. Yes, Teddy Lupin was similar to his father in more ways than he realised, but Molly Weasley could see it now as he reached over to spoon parsnips onto his plate. The resemblance was uncanny, actually: his mother was in him in clumsiness and gentle heart but Remus was in him through and through, right to his bones.

He smiled as Victoire, her granddaughter, handed him her plate to fill with vegetables. He handed it back to her and blushed, his pale face flushed with colour, and sat back down in the wooden chair. Dominique was to his left and Albus to his right, both louder and more boisterous than he was, but then Molly was sure that it was just an only child thing really: siblings made you more robust, she was sure of it. He scratched at his hand knitted jumper and smiled at Arthur as he offered him a large piece of Turkey.

Remus Lupin had been in the exact place in 1982. Molly had insisted that he come for dinner on Christmas Day with her and Arthur: they’d just got married (all the talk had been two years ago at the Potter’s wedding, and now the fear was over, their wedding was the perfect thing to celebrate with: also, Arthur’s mother was insisting that they get married- they’d had their children out of wedlock and the elders thought it scandalous) and a fine china tea set was crying for use, so she’d made spiced current buns and brewed good tea for the evening. She’s also been conscious that Remus probably hadn’t eaten for a while and that he was ultimately alone: he deserved company. And good tea: she knew he loved tea.

She’d heaped turkey and potatoes into his plate and had forced him to have the orange and green vegetables to match, as not to offend Arthur’s father, who had hand picked them from his garden and was sitting next to him. With a wave of Arthur’s wand, the werewolves plate was swimming in gravy too: the smell had drifted around the tinsel covered kitchen and delighted everyone, but Remus couldn’t smile. His face was too stiff with grief and anger : his body was unresponsive to anything but the scolding hot plate he accidentally picked up to pass to Molly. She could remember wondering idly whether he could feeling anything but pain anymore, but she focused on spooning mashed carrot into her baby’s face instead.
Molly had thought he was rude at the time, even though she knew better. She had gave him a shove between the shoulder blades as she’d moved around the kitchen in an attempt to get him to eat: she’d cried afterwards as she held baby Ron in her arms- how could she have done such a thing? He was alone, really: Arthur and her were not good friends with him and the other- his name was now not mentioned in their house- was never to be seen again. His heart must bleed, she’d thought. Bleed for the loss of life. It was strange adjusting her thought, though, she’d allow herself that: he’d been thought of as a traitor for a few months before this. Peoples hatred and fear ran deep within the very core, every aspect of living. If was hard to erase those feelings: Arthur was the only one in the family that had no qualms at all about him.
The morning after (Remus was sleeping on the sofa), as the sun was robed in thick clouds and mist of the early morning, she’d woken Remus up to push milky tea into him. He’d drunk it silently, but said a meek thank you afterwards and had pulled the blanket further around himself. At 22, he looked ancient.
“Molly… What should I do?”
She felt as though she couldn’t answer. She’d diverted the question and handed him some toast instead, and busied herself the rest of the day, saying that she needed to get the children ready. A poor excuse, she knew, but Molly didn’t know what to say. Her brothers had died young, everyone knew, but comforting someone when grieving was harder than she could imagine. Valiant and brave, her brothers had fought that darkness just as the Potters had. Just as Remus had… Just as Peter Pettigrew had, though Molly knew, as she looked at her grandchildren, that they’d been taught differently. She knew now that Pettigrew was a sneak and a liar, a vile man, but at the time, she could distinctly remember thinking that poor Remus and Pettigrew and Black had been brave… Until. Well, it needn’t be said.

Teddy was now eating, munching on lemon carrots and itching his chest under the thick jumper Molly had knitted him. Beside him, Dominique’s bob of bright, flaming hair swung as she animated chatted to him, her mouth open. How very… French.

**

After dinner, the whole company was piled into the living room for fun and games. Harry and Ginny were helping clear up the table, and Ron was playing hide and seek with Molly Jr, Percy’s daughter, as he talked drone-like about work to Arthur, who was just happy to have the whole family for Christmas. Rose and Lily were making mistletoe float in the air without wands, whilst James threatened to set it on fire to the tune of jingle bells with his wand, which caused uproar. Hugo sat with a new guitar, struggling with chords, whilst Albus was helping make desert with his older cousin Lucy, another one of Percy’s daughters. With them was blonde haired Louis, who was shouting at Dominique to be quiet as she sung Christmas wizarding tunes to Albus’s poor guitar playing. Finally, Teddy sat down with Victoire, holding a large, old volume that Molly couldn’t make out.
“What’s that , Ted?”
“Oh, just a book, Aunt Molly.”
“A present?” Arthur asked, putting a hand around his wife’s waist as Percy droned on next to him. Teddy nodded. “From who?”
“My dad.”
Molly and Arthur both looked at each other, their mouths drying up. The bubble of noise and cheer still went on, but in the kitchen, Harry sensed there was something wrong. Slowly, he appeared behind Arthur and Molly with a smile on his face , his eyes glued to his God son: a smile would calm Molly, he thought. But inside, he felt sick: What was wrong? he thought, as, with a swish of his wand, the plates stacked up by themselves in the kitchen.
“What’s up, Teddy?”
“Harry, he said it was from his dad.” Molly looked a little ill. “Did you give it to him?”
Harry’s face ashened. He called Ginny over, who said that she’d never seen the book before.
“Teddy.” Harry called the boy to him, whose hair was turning an off shade of brown and gold, his usual colour when unsure of himself. Victoire lazily spread herself over the chair in response, but Teddy still clasped the book in his hands as he stood beside Harry, looking up at him.
“Teddy, who gave you the book for Christmas?” Harry asked, tugging at the collar of his shirt.
“Dad.” was Teddy’s reply, looking down at the tattered book, with its green linen cover and 70s style font. “It’s ‘antiquarian’ now. It’s great, isn’t if?” But as soon as Harry reached out to touch it, Teddy clutched the book fiercely to his chest. “He said that no one else can touch it.”
“Ted?” Harry felt his stomach flip. “Don’t play games.”
“I’m not.”
“So, you’ve seen your dad?” Harry felt stupid, thinking of Professor Lupin alive and well, taking to his son. Stupid. A cruel trick.
“Yes, Uncle Harry!” Teddy rolled his eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“No, Ted, because your dad is dead.” It was difficult to say, and Harry hated it.
He was an orphan of war, but still had a bustling, loving family, unlike Harry had had . Teddy was happy with them, but Harry knew Teddy longed to look over pictures, books, clothes and even the wands of his parents. He pined for them like a lost dog, and Harry had given in to most whims… But this was strange. Who had given him the book? If Ginny nor Harry had given him the book, then who?
“Teddy… Can I see the book?” Ginny asked, holding out her hands. Reluctance strewn over his face, Teddy wanted the book to Ginny. With a start , she gasped as her eyes fell on the inside of the front cover.
“Oh Harry, it was Professor Lupin’s book.”
“Then it’s no big deal!” Molly sighed with relief, linking her arm through Arthur’s. “Come on, let’s go serve mince pie-”
“No. Harry, it’s his book from when he was a boy… And look. Look at the message.”
Curling his fingers around Ginny’s free hand, Harry placed his head on her shoulder as he read the inscription.

Remember, don’t show this to anyone, Teddy. I’ll see you again soon, and don’t be afraid. I’m here.
Dad.

But the ink was fresh, only a few minutes old.
“Teddy, where did you get this book?!” Harry could feel his temper playing up, fiery in his stomach. Teddy froze, hands shaking.
“Please don’t tell me off.”
“I won’t, Ted, just tell me!”
“It was under the tree! When I opened it, it didn’t have the writing, but when I was going to read it to Vic, it appeared. Is there something wrong? It might be a spell.”
“No , Ted.” Harry closed the book with a snap. “It’s something more than that.”