The room was still dim, the faintest grey light filtering in through the frost-speckled window. The old quilt Molly had piled over you both was heavy and warm, holding the December chill at bay, though the air still bit at your nose every time you moved. Somewhere downstairs, the muffled sound of clinking pans and quiet voices hinted that breakfast was already being made, but here, tucked against George’s side, the world felt still.

His arm was draped lazily around you, his hand absently tracing shapes along your arm beneath the blankets. The heat of him was a slow, steady thing, grounding you against the cold. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, hear the low hum he made when you shifted just enough to look up at him.

“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice still rough from sleep, “one day I’m thinking… our own Christmas. Not that I don’t love Mum’s cooking, or Dad’s obsession with Muggle fairy lights, but—” He paused, his grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, even in the half-dark. “Imagine it. Waking up in our own bed, tree downstairs all lit up, a mess of wrapping paper before breakfast. You and me… maybe a little one running around in pyjamas far too big for them.”

His fingers stilled on your arm, thumb brushing gently over your skin as though he was picturing it in detail. “We’d still come here, of course. Can’t deprive Mum of her chaos. But…” He glanced down at you, eyes warm and bright even in the muted light. “I want something that’s ours. Something we make from scratch. Every year.”

Outside, you could hear the faint crunch of someone’s boots in the snow, and the scent of cinnamon from downstairs was beginning to creep under the door. But George didn’t move, didn’t rush the morning. He leaned his forehead lightly against yours, smiling faintly. “Our own Christmas traditions,” he whispered, his tone soft enough to be a secret. “What d’you think?”