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Christmas.
It had always been an enjoyable holiday, in Gwen's fine opinion, but that was back when she had a family to spend it with. Before the summer of 1977, when she'd lost both her mother and her father in the span of three months.
Now, Gwen decided Christmas had to have been invented by a loving family who never lost each other and intended to spend every December twenty-fifth together for the rest of their earthly lives, for it was a foolish and selfish holiday that only made the happiest people feel good.
The list of people staying at Hogwarts for the break was exponentially smaller than it had been in years past. Many, Gwen knew, wanted to return to their families as much as they possibly could, all knowing the Wizarding World was sat delicately on the brink of a war and was inextricably in high risk. Still, Gwen didn't mean to resent the hundreds who were going home, but she couldn't help the ball of heat that blossomed inside her chest as she stood on the platform, the Hogwarts Express pumping steam into the snowy air.
White flecks piled up on her hair. She didn't notice; her eyes were on James. He wasn't looking at her—and was it her imagination, or was he making it a point to ignore her?
"Gwen." Walker's voice drew her back, and she had entirely forgotten he'd been in front of her the whole time. "Merlin, let a bloke say goodbye for once."
She twisted her lips and sniffed against the cold. "Sorry. I just.. I don't want you to leave me here, Walker. Can't I just come with you?"
He frowned again. This was not the first time the idea had been brought up, and somehow, he figured it would not be the last. "I'm sorry, Gwen. I wish there was something I could do. But you know my dad; crazy paranoid about everything. He doesn't mean to offend you, it's just—"
"I'm bad luck," Gwen managed, dully. "It's fine. I understand. Thanks for trying, anyway. I'll see you in a few weeks, Walker; happy Christmas."
"Happy Christmas," he agreed, and offered her a kiss on the cheek before he gathered up his trunk and his bookbag and headed off to board the train. Four minutes to spare.
"Ahem."
Gwen turned. She'd taken her eyes off James for two measly seconds and he'd already managed to weasel his way back over to her in the split second—his cheeks were painted pink from the cold, his lips chapped and split, his glasses fogged from the heating charm he'd no doubt had Peter cast on them.
He was fiddling with a small velvet box, rolling it between his fingers. He was nervous. But James Potter never got nervous.
"What's this?" Gwen asked, and she couldn't hide the careful tone that crept its way into the words. She wasn't sure what he was doing, and it could have ended horribly for either of them. For both of them.
