Seven drabbles for the Traditions challenge on xoxLewrahxox's forum.

Dedicated to the lovely and Romanian crissu, who explained me a few things about Christmas in Romania so that I could sort of feel the atmosphere for the first drabble =)

Traditions

We all know about the traditions that J.K's told us about – like giving a wizard a watch on his seventeenth birthday, but there must be hundreds more, right? And what about the Muggleborns? Wouldn't they bring Muggle traditions to Hogwarts. The challenge for this fortnight is to write a story of more or less a multiple of 100 words involving one or more characters and a tradition. Enjoy!

Singing children outside, whose names he doesn't know – loneliness. Charlie's face is drawn, for the lifestyle he chose is now coming back to hit him in the face – for dragons know no Christmas and no fire can take away the chill at the pit of his stomach.

He chose this, Charlie tells himself. To live for the sound of his heartbeat beneath the dragons' roars, somewhere far away where his name is his own – new. He left Christmas dinners and beaming faces behind.

Charlie fingers his old woollen sweater nervously, and stalks off to reread the letters.

Feeling wistful, boy?

It arrives early in the morning, delivered by an unfamiliar owl, probably just to ensure that he won't refuse the package. Percy rips the paper aside and stares at the rough fabric in his hands as though to memorize the slightly irregular patterns, his heart in his throat. It used to be navy blue, his favourite colour. This year the sweater is grey, a dull yet oddly angry shade, that looks, in his pale hands, like a plea – somehow.

It is his only Christmas gift. Percy wraps it carefully in its paper, and sends it back where it belongs.

Away.

Nobody knows where he is.

(his sister's burning wrath at his betrayal, his mother torn between relief and disgust. No. No one should know.)

Ron doesn't expect a present. It is war anyway and nobody cares about Christmas. Shell Cottage, all discreet lights, is welcoming but no Burrow.

(he wonders where they are, whether they are still safe. Will they say "Merry Christmas", will they offer each other a smile as their only gift? Will they – kiss?)

At Christmas he wears some random sweater – he thinks of bright purple, cheerfulness and friendship, and bites his lip, hard – not to cry.

This year, George told his mother no.

He knows it's hurting her, and in a way, he's being cruel. But only one sweater at the twins' size? Really? Just no. Fred won't have a sweater this year and hell, neither will George.

It feels good, in a horrible-twisted-wrong way, to remind her that when Fred fell, half of George stopped existing as well. Every single day, at dawn and at sunset and when he allows himself to laugh, George loses Fred all over again and he won't pretend that it's okay, one less sweater, life goes on.

He'd rather die.

Ginny scowls and twists the card into her hands viciously, almost tearing it before finally tossing it away. Crossing her tiny living room in two steps, she collapses into a chair.

Once upon a time, she was a little girl with a crush on a famous boy and a pack of protective brothers. She'd scowl at her Christmas sweater in slight contempt, and hide it at the bottom of her trunk. Once upon a time she was rebellious in little things...

And then she became a grown-up. Successful (insecure), independent and free (alone).

"Merry Christmas, Ginny," she mutters. "Damn it."

Christmas at Shell Cottage is cosy and quiet. Bill holds his little girl tight against his chest, revelling in the huge responsibility that does not feel like a burden, not weighting him down but making him soar towards the sky instead. His wife approaches, beautiful and smiling. Together, they look like a picture – a picture of life that his scars can't damage.

"Zis 'as just arrived," Fleur says quietly, pushing a warm woollen scarf into his hands. "For Victoire."

He smiles.

Things change. Children grow up and babies are born and mothers get older.

He thinks it's rather beautiful.

She is sitting in their old armchair, staring out at the window. Arthur does not want to disturb her; he just stands there, watching. She doesn't look restless for once, but happy and calm.

"Remember when we got married?" he asks softly. "What amazed you the most was that we'd grow older together. It seemed so far away."

She chuckles quietly. "Well, here we are," she says. "My dear old husband."

He smiles, thinking of their huge, loving family. Soon Molly will knit no more sweaters for them.

It somehow feels immensely right, to be reaching the very end together.