"You know, I've never really understood this Christmas thing," Neville remarked. He walked with his girl down a snowy street, Christmas Eve.
Said girl, (Name), looked at him, quizzical. "What about?"
"All of it. It's... a Muggle holiday. I don't have much knowledge of Muggle... things," Neville replied, somewhat uncomfortably.
(Name) stopped, dead in her snowy tracks. Being a Muggle-born, she understood the Christmas spirit.
"What? You don't actually mean you don't understand Christmas?!" she gasped.
Neville turned to face her and shrugged, sheepishly.
"Merlin's flaming pants, Neville! We're going home, right now. I've got so much to teach you," (Name) instructed, taking his hand and dragging him somewhere where they could Apparate in peace.
Neville was settled in a comfortable chair by the roaring fire, a stereotypical, Happy Christmas. However, (Name) was perched in his lap, with a thin, careworn book in her hands.
"Twas the night before Christmas," (Name) read, "when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse."
Neville listened, enchanted at the tale of Christmas Eve; of Santa Claus; of sugarplum dreams.
Upon the story's conclusion, he asked, "(Name), is that Santa fellow real?"
(Name) smiled and hopped out of her boyfriend's lap. "He isn't. However, most Muggle children believe him to be; at least during childhood. This book has been around for generations, and it's a story every Muggle child has at least heard of."
She set the book on the arm of Neville's chair. "I've got to get home, dear. I've got to see my brother and sister on Christmas morning with the presents from 'Santa'."
She kissed him, and headed out into the snowy evening.
"Merry Christmas, darling."
I'm not J. K. Rowling, and I don't own this.
Author's Chapter Notes:
This is pointless fluff. Like, literally 0 plot. I don't remember why I made this, except maybe this was a fic trade? I'm pretty sure it was, and I think I only had a week. Eh, whatever.
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