Ginny watches her mother stir the dinner soup the muggle way (for the first time in a long time) with great interest. The lamp was low and Celestina Warbeck was warbling out a somebody-done-somebody-wrong-song, and somehow this made her mother glow. Not in the creepy alien way, but in the happy way. The nice way. Of course, this was 'happy' as apposed to the 'It's Christmas, I'm not in my own home, the war is started over, Harry's in danger, Sirius is suicidal, AND THE WORLD IS ABOUT TO EXPLODE!!' mood of the past few weeks. You know, happy in contrast. The wrinkles that made themselves apparent by day were thinned, and the natural Briton pale of her mother's skin was warmed and flushed by the heat and ruckus of the house (Christmas wasn't Christmas, in their household at least, without ruckus. Even in wartime). Her hair was just as frizzy and untamed as usual, but now, the fire that Mad-Eye had lit was shining through it so it looked aflame. For the fist time since Ginny had gotten to Grimmauld Place, it felt like Christmas.

She really would have to try that Muggle stirring thing one time.

A\N: Honestly, I wrote this one just for the title (and because is unappreciated, the poor dear!), so I'm sorry if it's crapsicles on ice (repetitively redundant AND a double negative, I think…ish). REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW PLEASE!!