A/N

This is the PENULTIMATE chapter of Astoria, meaning there is only one chapter left after this! I hope you've been enjoying this story so far. Next week, I'll be posting a cast/playlist insert, as I realised I've totally forgotten about that AND have yet to show you who my cast for Astoria is. If you had to cast Astoria for this novella, who would you pick?

Slight M, you've been warned. Enjoy!

x Noelle

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FRESH SNOW CRUNCHES beneath her as she trudges down the street. She has to take care not to slip on the patches of ice, and casts an anti-slip spell on her boots for good measure. Eager to get out of the cold, she makes a beeline for Mellor's Minced Pies across the junction.

A brilliant white light stops her.

The familiar Jack Russell terrier scampers up and she slows in her steps. Ron's patronus. "What do you want?" she murmurs, unable to hide an amused smile. He's even charmed it to block her path when she tries to move forward. Colour her impressed—this is some seriously advanced spell work.

"Trying to stop you from making the worst decision of your life," the owner of the Patronus says. The terrier vanishes in a white mist as Ron rounds the corner. He's got his hands shoved into his coat pockets; his heavy boots making deep imprints in the snow as he wanders over.

"I fail to see how getting minced pies from Mellor's is the worst decision of my life. Surely, the ones you got from Caddel's were much worse. I mean, you even got a stomachache from that—"

"No, I meant that getting minced pies from anywhere but my mum's on Christmas Eve is a terrible mistake."

She bites her lip and falls back a step. "Are you inviting me to the Burrow?"

They've only had this argument about fifty times over since they've become friends. Every so often, he'll extend an invitation to his parents' place. Thanksgiving. Quidditch season. Harry's birthday. His parents' anniversary. Saturdays. Sometimes, she'll attend their weekend brunches. Those are tame enough and only involve Ron's family. Harry and Hermione usually show up then, along with Draco, Andromeda and Teddy. But Christmas Eve is all those big holidays rolled into one. The Weasleys go big then, everyone knows that. The Order, everyone's extended families, and even prospective partners make it to the gathering.

It's also the one that she's refused to go for the past four years.

"But why?" is Ron's predictable answer when she rejects him once again.

She has to drag her gaze away from him, because his disappointment reminds her of a kicked puppy. "Because it's your family's thing."

He snorts. "Have you seen our Christmas Eve gatherings over the last two years? It's the Order's thing now."

"All the more reason not to go, then. I've never been part of the Order anyway," she adds, with a shrug, and sidesteps him. She's halfway down the road when his voice stops her.

"I know what you're afraid of." She stops, but doesn't turn. Footsteps draw close, and she knows he's come up right behind her. "You're afraid that you'll miss your family even more than you already do," he says quietly. "Being surrounded by all these people—it'll remind you of what you no longer have."

She swallows hard. He's right, damn him. "Christmas was our thing," she says at last, her voice small. "We used to celebrate it together—just the four of us. Even during the war, when the Death-Eaters were everywhere, Daphne and I would sneak back to our parents' cottage. We had a potted fir for a Christmas tree, and Mum gave us the jumpers she'd stitched over winter. She couldn't leave the house to get better wool, and she didn't have the house elves to help her. It was terrible and ripped in places, but it was... It was Christmas."

"I know." Warm hands close around her elbows and he turns her to face him. She lifts her gaze to his, only to find his blue eyes soft as he regards her. "But even if none of them are in the country anymore, it doesn't mean that you have to spend it alone. Spend it with me. Come to the Burrow, just this once. And if you really hate it, I won't ever ask you again. We'll go back to what we've always done before—where you mope around with a glass of wine, until I come to your rescue around midnight with more wine, and we get massively hungover on Christmas day."

She stares at him for a moment, then finally relents with a sigh. How can she not, when he looks at her like that? "Okay," she says, and tries not to react when he positively beams at her. "But the second I feel like I don't want to be there..."

"I'll leave with you." His tone is serious. "You won't regret it, I promise. Let's go."

"Wait—now? I can't go like this!"

He blinks; one hand still on her arm to drag her off to the nearest Apparition point. "Why not?"

"I—I'm not dressed for the occasion! And I can't show up empty-handed! I have to buy that Muggle wine your parents love so much."

He shakes his head at her, even as a smile tugs on his lips. "Honestly, you don't have to. Mum and dad adore you enough as it is—"

"That's still no excuse. Give me twenty minutes to change, and then we'll head to the store."

He agrees and follows her back to her flat. Thankfully, it's only two streets down. She waves her wand to unlock the door and tells him over her shoulder, "Make yourself at home!"

"I already do."

He pushes past her and flops down on the sofa. In a flash, the Muggle TV remote is in his hand as he turns on the sports channel. She shakes her head at him in mirth and heads to her bedroom.

But before she can go, he catches onto her wrist. "Hey, hold on, I got you something." He pulls out a tiny wrapped fabric from his coat and unshrinks it. A ball of unease tightens in her stomach when he shakes it out.

"Is that a...Weasley jumper?"

"Great, isn't it?"

"No." He shoots her a look of mock indignation and she shrugs. "I may not believe in Pureblood supremacy, but I do believe in the fashion sense I was brought up with. And this is not it."

"How can you say that?" he gasps, and clutches the offending piece of wool to his chest. "It's an honour to be bestowed a Weasley jumper! Do you think we just hand these out like random freebies outside Weasley's Wizard Whizzes—"

"No one will want them even if you do—"

"—And mum made it specially for you, look! It's green, for your house, and even has a huge 'A' on it."

"I swear Hermione has a Muggle book about a woman dressed just like that, with the letter 'A' emblazoned on her chest that means adulteress."

"Merlin's bloody balls, Astoria, just wear it!" She raises her eyebrows at his outburst, and he sighs in resignation. "Fine! I want—no, need—you to wear it, because I'm wearing one myself. Look." He unbuttons his coat and shows her his own red jumper with a yellow 'R' emblazoned on his chest. His broad, muscular chest... How the hell does he look so good in ugly wool? "Please wear yours. I'd hate looking like this next to...well, whatever you're wearing because you always look bloody great, anyway. It's like a Greengrass trait to always look presentable, and a Weasley curse to look like a walking carrot."

She snorts. She can't help it—it's inelegant of her and a carrot is the last thing that she'd compare him to. But it's also somewhat true, what with his red hair and equally red jumper. He narrows his eyes at her, and she finally takes the green jumper from him.

"Fine, I'll wear it, but only because your mum obviously put so much effort into it. We'll look like a side salad together, then."

Ron laughs and she disappears into her bedroom. It takes her five minutes to choose a skirt and another fifteen to do her makeup and hair. By the time she steps out, he's thoroughly engrossed in a soccer match.

"So," she starts, a little unsure, and shifts on her feet. "Is this too formal? Too casual? I'm not sure what the dress code is, honestly..."

She trails off at the look on his face. He looks, dare she say it, awestruck. His gaze sweeps down her body in a way that sets her nerves alight. He swallows hard, and she shivers at the sight of his Adam's apple sliding up and down. This is perfect. It's the reaction she'd been hoping for from him, when she'd shrunk the green jumper down to hug all her curves.

"You look...nice," he finishes at last, his cheeks flushed a brilliant red.

She smiles and smoothes invisible wrinkles down her black skirt. Ron won't ever be a flatterer—he'll always be a fumbling, awkward mess when it comes to paying her a compliment. But she prefers his sincerity to the flattery from sweet-talkers any day. "Thank you."

"Ready to go?"

She summons her coat and tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Yes."

They arrive at the Burrow a good two hours later, after Ron spends a ridiculous amount of time trying out free samples of Muggle chocolate at the store. The Burrow has been transformed into a winter wonderland, complete with the snow-covered garden, twinkling lights and boughs of holly along the fence.

Ron dryly clears his throat at the snogging couple on the front porch. Hermione springs apart from Draco, her cheeks all flushed, and jumps to her feet. "Ron, Astoria!" She throws her arms around them in a hug. "You're finally here! Luna said you'd make it this year," she adds, to Astoria. "I'm so glad she's right."

"Greengrass, Weasel," Draco greets them with a smirk. The years have mellowed Draco down to something akin to a normal human being, and Astoria highly suspects that it's all Hermione's doing.

"Ferret," Ron says, unfazed. Clearly, the nicknames from Hogwarts haven't grown stale. "Snogging had better be the only thing you do to Hermione in my parents' house."

"Oh, you wouldn't worry about me once you realise which rooms Zabini and Parkinson have desecrated. And I believe Scarface and your sister are jumping on your childhood bed."

"Jumping?" Astoria narrows her eyes; she knows exactly what Draco really means.

"Did I say jumping? I meant humping."

Ron makes a sound midway between a disgusted groan and horrified shriek. Hermione rolls her eyes at Draco and tugs Astoria aside. "Ignore him," she says kindly, "The living room's filled with people who are rather...enthusiastic, not to mention whatever pranks George has for any newcomers. You won't want to go through there, trust me. I'll take you in by the side door."

"Thank you."

Astoria turns to leave, but can't help cast a backward glance at Ron. He hesitates a little, looking as reluctant to leave as she does. But when Draco nudges him, he nods and offers her a reassuring smile. They part ways—Ron goes in with Draco to greet everyone else, while she follows Hermione in through the side door.

"You have no idea how much this means to Ron that you're here. To all of us, really," Hermione says, as they head down a narrow hallway. "All these Christmases, he's always come alone, and I could tell that his heart wasn't really into it. He'd much rather spend them with you. "

Astoria falters in her steps. When Hermione glances back at her, she bites her lip. "I always thought that he came over on Christmas because he felt...sorry for me, that I didn't have my family to spend it with."

"If he really felt sorry for you, he would've done something to fix it. He could've called Daphne or your parents back to London, or encouraged you to spend the holidays with them. But he didn't. He just spent them with you."

She falls silent at that. But she doesn't have time to mull over Hermione's words, because she soon finds herself in the kitchen. A chorus of hellos greets her from the few people in there. She notices Harry and Ginny, but she doesn't get the chance to talk to them because she's swept up in a warm hug.

"Astoria, I'm so glad you've made it this year!" Molly Weasley says. "Hermione, dear, won't you take her coat to the front? I need her to try this pudding." Astoria dazedly hands Hermione her coat, then allows Molly to lead her to the counter. "Now, Ron says that French Vanilla is your favourite. He told us you might finally come to our Christmas dinner this year, so I made it specially for you."

She swallows hard. At times like these, she's reminded of her mum. Or the kind of warm, nurturing figure her mum had never been. She closes her eyes briefly at the taste of sweet French Vanilla, and smiles at Molly. "It's perfect, thank you, Mrs Weasley."

"Please, you have to call me Molly. And don't thank me, thank you for coming. Weekend brunches are all we ever see of you, and even then it's not enough. Now come along, dear, dinner's almost ready."

She follows Molly out to the dining room. It's nothing but chaos in here. The usual room has been widened to accommodate over fifty people; the table lengthened to cater all the food. Conversations flow fast and easy, overlapping each other to create a cacophony of background noise. She vaguely registers greetings of 'Hi, Astoria!' and 'Good to see you here, Greengrass!', but she only manages to smile and nod in response.

Merlin, this is overwhelming.

"Scoot," Ginny's voice pulls her out of her daze. The redhead grins and points her two chairs down. "That's where sisters-in-law sit."

Astoria's eyes widen, even as she blushes. Molly swats Ginny, then turns back to her. "I hope you're hungry," the older witch says. "I'm going to get you an extra plate. You're so thin I often wonder if my boy ever feeds you enough, or if he hogs the food because he claims he's starving all the time," she adds, before she bustles away.

Harry sniggers. "Oh, he's starving alright. Just not for food—ow!" He yelps at the unexpected stinging hex, then turns to the offender with an injured look. "What the hell, mate?"

Ron comes up beside her, wand in hand. He flashes her a crooked grin, then rolls his eyes at Harry. "I might not be an Auror anymore, but I still know how to put people in their places." He takes a seat and leans towards her, asking in a low voice, "You alright?"

She manages a nod, and shifts closer to him. His warm, comforting presence draws her like a beacon. Ron seems pleased at that, because he puts an arm across the back of her chair. But before either of them can speak, the clink of spoon against glass makes the room fall silent.

At the head of the table, Arthur Weasley beams down at everyone. "I'd make a toast, but we all know my wife's food will go cold by the time I'm done."

"Food's getting cold right now, Dad," Ron drawls.

More titters follow, and Arthur grins good-naturedly. "I'd hoped our special guest for today would make the toast. Astoria—" Her eyes widen as everyone turns to her. "—you've been a part of our family for awhile now, whether you know it or not, and we're very happy to have you here with us today. Perhaps you'd like to say a few words?"

Everyone turns to her. That ball of dread in her stomach quickly intensifies. Ron reaches for her hand and frowns up at his father. "Dad," he hisses.

"It's okay," she assures him quietly. She bites her lip and climbs to her feet. She can do this. She's fought a war, for Merlin's sake, and twisted many a Death-Eater around her little finger. Surely, giving a toast in front of fifty odd friends and acquaintances is easy enough?

Her gaze flits around the table as she desperately searches for something to say. Here's the thing: she can't possibly be as sweet as Neville, whimsical as Luna or fiery as Ginny. She doesn't have Draco's snark, Theo's mystique, Pansy's directness or Blaise's tact. Neither does she have much of Hermione's objectivity or Harry's influence or Ron's warmth.

The only thing she can be is herself.

She takes a deep breath. "I'm not very good with words," she confesses at last. "Nor am I very good with people. I think I've been on my own for so long that I've convinced myself I like it better this way. But being here tonight with all of you: colleagues, family, friends—" —Ron, she almost adds, because he's never really fallen into the simple category of friends to her. Her eyes land on him for a moment, and the smile he gives her is bright and soft. She can't help but smile back. "—you've all reminded me of how it feels to be with the people I love," she murmurs, and raises her glass. "Thank you for helping me remember."

Echoes of "hear, hear" and "cheers" follow the wake of her speech. But the atmosphere is quiet. Not grim, the way it would be after a serious speech; but thoughtful, as though what she's said has resonated with some of them. She settles back down as Arthur thanks her, and dinner begins.

She's used to this part, at least. Weekend brunches at the Weasleys follow the same pattern. The clatter of plates and utensils; a pleasant hum of conversation around the table. Molly heaps her plate full with food as usual, and she sneaks some off to Ron, Harry or even Neville. She debates Magical Theory with Hermione, while Draco offers his snide but often valid comments; and discusses her rare sightings of certain exotic creatures with Luna. Being a Seer, she's seen them all—even those no one else believes exist. As a Holyhead Harpies fan, she talks Quidditch with Ginny, captain of said team, and they tease Ron's steadfast love for the Chudley Canons or whatever team Harry currently fancies.

Occasionally, Ron will cast a silent protection spell over her, mere seconds before a dish explodes, because he's obviously privy to his brother's pranks. They'll laugh about it—the only two to remain unaffected while everyone else drowns in the fruit punch. After dinner, she retreats to the living room where her fellow Slytherins are. They cover a wide variety of topics, from politics and their jobs, to the good old days at Hogwarts; all while Ron soundly beats Blaise, Pansy and even Draco at Wizard's Chess, until he comes to a stalemate with Theo.

She leaves when no one notices.

Out in the dark, she finally lets out a relieved sigh and looks up at the open sky. Stars dance above her, the wind nips at her cheeks and cicadas hum in the background. But she feels quite at home here.

"Why didn't you tell me that you were leaving?"

She jumps at the sound of Ron's voice and quickly turns around. He's several feet behind her. She must've been so caught up in her thoughts that she hadn't heard him coming up.

"Oh, I wasn't going to leave without saying goodbye," she assures him. "I just—well, everyone started to gather in the living room and I just felt a little..."

"Overwhelmed," he finishes when she trails off. He smiles at her surprised look and shrugs. "Now you know how I feel around them."

"You? Overwhelmed?" She lets out a small laugh of disbelief. "You're a Weasley—you belong to one of the biggest families in Magical London. Shouldn't you be used to this by now?"

"I used to be. But we lived through a war, Astoria. Back in Hogwarts, after winning a Quidditch match, I loved being surrounded by friends and hearing their cheers. I thought nothing could get better than that."

"Weasley is our King, huh?"

She swears he looks almost embarrassed. "You know about that?"

"Slytherin was furious."

He quirks a wry smile, but it fades just as quickly. "When the war happened, all those friends turned into soldiers and all their cheers became screams. And now, whenever I'm in crowds or hear loud noises, it triggers bad memories. At least when it's quiet, I know that the people I love aren't in danger."

She stares at him. Just when she believes she knows everything there is to know about him, he surprises her once again. He comes up next to her; his arm brushing her shoulder. His gaze is fixed on the sky above, but she knows that he's not really looking at it. There's a haunted expression on his face that she recognises all too well.

She's had to deal with loneliness. He's had to deal with loss. Those two things aren't that much different: here is a consequence of his.

"You know," she says at last, "there's a branch of Divination that studies the stars. It's rather similar to the Muggle study of Astrology. Look at Leo, for instance," she adds and points to a particular constellation. "Muggles believe that this star sign represents fire, passion and energy. But a Seer of celestial objects believe that each time a single star in Leo flickers, it's telling us something different."

"Huh. So what do you think these stars are trying to tell us now?"

"Oh, I haven't a clue," she says, with a sheepish smile. "I don't believe in reading the stars at all. I just said that because it seemed like you needed a subject change."

He huffs out a quiet laugh at that. "I did. Thank you." His eyes linger on her for a long moment, and she finds herself unable to look away. Although it's dark out here, she swears she can almost feel the intensity of his gaze burn into her, until she's nothing but liquid fire. "Have you...have you really never Seen anything about my future before?"

She stills at his unexpected question. It's the second time he's asked this. She wants to lie like the first time she did. But pinned under his gaze, she finds that she can't force the words past her lips. No, I haven't had any Visions of you. No, I've never known that our fates are intertwined. No, I don't think about you all the time. She doesn't say any of those, but does the only other thing she can think of.

She kisses him.

He lets out a sharp exhale when she leans up and presses her lips to his. There's a beat of surprise, where he remains completely still, and she wonders if she's gotten it horribly wrong. But then his arms come around her and he pulls her flush against him. His mouth moves against hers—hard, bruising, familiar; as though he's dreamt of having done this for years.

So has she. All these years of waiting, wishing, wanting—and he's finally kissing her. She'll be damned if she lets this opportunity go. Her hands fist around his jumper and she yanks him down to her. With a muffled groan, he obliges. One of his hands slide beneath her jumper, and she gasps at the slick heat of his palm on her skin. His other hand moves down her hip to her bare thigh, and she shivers in anticipation.

He doesn't go any further though—damn his Gryffindor chivalry—until she grabs his wrist and urges him to touch her. She thinks she's rather nailed her wardrobe choice for tonight, especially when his fingers quest under her skirt and beneath her knickers. She's half tempted to hitch her leg around his waist. He groans, and it's a needy, filthy sound that fills her with delight.

"Fuck me," he mutters against her lips.

She almost smiles, even though her stomach twists at the thick arousal in his voice. "Is that a request?"

He stills for a moment. "And if it is?"

The answer comes to her in a heartbeat. She presses open-mouthed kisses along his jaw all the way to just below his ear. He shivers and tightens his grip around her, until it's almost crushing in its force, but she quite likes that. "Then yes."