A/N: Heyo friendos, 'tis I once more, with another update, and an extra special present for all you good boys and girls out there. This is a one shot I wrote randomly one night, and never knew what to do with it. So, why not use it as a Christmas special, right? So please enjoy, and a Happy Christmas to all those who celebrate, and a Happy December to those who don't. Ok, bye!

There were once two very different children, born on different days, to different people, on two different sides of the world. The only thing that these two children had in common, was that they had received the very same present for Christmas. The girl was curious about the leather bound journal, books not being a usual featured present under the tree. The boy was even more curious, given the fact that his twin did not receive the exact same present, and this one present had only his name on it. They both studied the pages, dull in colour, and noticed one fascinating detail. There was nothing written inside. In fact, the book was completely empty, apart from what was written on the inside cover. Initials- F.A.W. on the girls, O.A.R. on the boys. Neither truly knew what that meant, or who they belonged to. They each asked their families about the journals, but none confessed to have given the gift. It was quite peculiar, but the young children didn't have much care for how odd the situation was. They played with their new toys, and the journals were pushed to the side. In fact, they didn't pick them back up for several years. And while it might have been for different reasons, they both picked them up at the same time, for one overall connection… loneliness.


"I'm sorry ma'am… but I'm afraid it's terminal. There's not much else we can do for her but to make her comfortable. Now you can do that here or we can set up a hospice service. I'm not sure-" The little girl sat glumly, swinging her feet over the waiting room seat since they didn't quite reach the ground yet. She was very tired of hospitals and doctors. They all said the same thing. They couldn't make Mommy any better. But Grandma had said that this would be the last one. Maybe that's why she looked so sad, why Grandpa was holding her so tightly. But it would be ok. Mommy was going to get better, she was. She was Mommy. She could do anything.

"I'm so sorry darling." The rain pattering down upon her umbrella didn't even bother her, apart from her thinking how cliche it was. Raining at a funeral, how original. All the people giving her condolences were ignored, in favour of staring blankly into the distance. People seemed to get the message quite quickly and moved down the line of relations with nothing more than a muttered sorry for your loss. The woman talking to her now was one of those attempting to provoke a response, but she didn't receive one. Just silence and a stony expression. Eventually all the pathetic sympathies were over with, and she was allowed to escape to her room. She sat cross legged on her floor, poking at the sympathy casserole on her plate, appetite completely absent. She didn't understand why she was forced to sit through all this nonsense. Her mother had died, why was she expected to meet people and listen to them crying about her mom, a woman they'd talked shit about behind her back? The social normalities surrounding death was completely lost on her.

She was expected to care about other people's feelings, and listen to their stories. From her grandparents and family was one thing, but having to hear about being high school sweethearts from the local car mechanic was a bit ridiculous. She was dealing with the worst pain of her life, and she was expected to take on the pain of other people. It was too much. There was far too much expected of a person. She threw down her fork and dropped her head into her hands, elbows braced against her knees. She ignored the burning feeling in her eyes, determined not to cry again. There had been far too much crying going on in her household as of late, and she was tired of it. She fell silent as she heard the stifled sobs coming from her grandparents room, and suddenly a wash of anger came over her. Anger at her mother for dying, anger at the doctors for not saving her, anger at the stupid people with their stupid false attitudes, and most of all anger at herself. For not being with her mother for all her treatments, for not noticing her mother was sick early enough, and for not spending all the time her mother had left making her happy. She felt the fury bubble up inside her, until she screamed in rage, the plate flying across the room, all the glass in the room splintering at the force a of wild, uncontrolled burst of raw magic.

She sobbed quietly into her folded arms for a few hours, trying to contain herself. It took longer than expected, but she finally regained control. She hiccuped a few more times before lifting her head to observe the damage in her room. Her mirrors and windows laid shattered on the ground, but those were easy fixes. As was the smashed plate on the corner, it's fork poking out of the floorboard it had been flung into. She sighed and wiped her face, before pulling herself up to stand, and slipped on a pair of sneakers. She would deal with this mess later, right now she had to get out of here. She was so caught up in her thoughts she didn't notice the leather bound journal sitting innocently in the middle of the floor until she had stumbled over it. She stared at it for a moment, before sighing and picking it up. She went to pop it back on the bookshelf, but something stopped her. This feeling in her stomach, one she didn't quite understand, but knew it well enough to know she should listen to it. She gripped it tightly as she exited the house and ran over to her special place by the creek, past Old Man Walker's humble abode, Lover's Lane, and the hill where her cousin had once rolled down and broken his arm. She sunk to the forest floor, and flipped open the book. Inside the front cover were the initials F.A.W, ones she still didn't know who belonged to. Inside also sat a ballpoint pen, plain black but with gold accents along the edges. She blinked, removing the pen and twirling it through her fingers. She stared at a blank sheet of paper for a good hour before finally putting pen to paper.

"Dear F.A.W,"


The boy sat outside, throwing rocks at the gnomes in anger. His mother was having yet another baby. She already had 6, why wasn't that enough? Another baby meant being overlooked even more. Just because he wasn't as smart as his older brothers, or as cute as his youngest, didn't mean he didn't matter. Perhaps he was overreacting, but he didn't truly care. He was already getting crap for not doing as well in his classes that his brothers did at his age. He was smart no doub, he just didn't excel at school work, which wasn't uncommon. They called him a high potential, low achiever, most of the time to his face. It didn't help that his twin was beating him in everything. It didn't annoy him, well at least not much. He and his twin had always been close, given they had shared the womb, and a little competition didn't really bother him. It was how his parents reacted to it. He knew they meant well, and that they loved him, but it was getting a bit bothersome.

"Why did your brother get this score and you didn't? Well your older brothers found this easy when they were your age. Stop being a nuisance. It's time to shape up son. Why can't you be more like them?" He knew he was never going to be a prefect. He knew that he would always be a troublemaker. He sometimes wondered if education was even worth it. The only class he'd found he was excited to learn about when he got to Hogwarts was potions. And he'd heard from his brothers that the Hogwarts potion master was a piece of work. It seemed to most that he would never get anywhere in life. Maybe he never would. He groaned in frustration at his depressing thoughts, and threw a pebble as hard as he could at gnome, missing it entirely and knocking off one of his mother's potted plants. He couldn't even find the energy to be worried and try and hide it. He simply blinked and stood up, walking away from the mess. He ran his hands through his hair, and kicked some dirt into the air as he went. He ignored his mother's threats as he walked through the house without taking his dirty shoes off first.

He slammed his door closed behind him, causing everyone downstairs to jump.

"What's wrong with him?" His older brother asked, more out of annoyance of the disturbance than concern.

"Hmm? Oh I'm sure it's nothing. He's fine, always is." His mother replied breezily as she returned to plans for the baby shower. The boy upstairs paced for a few minutes before collapsing on the floor. He tugged at his hair before groaning, and stood, throwing a punch at the bookshelf. He winced as his hand came back bruised at the knuckles, skin torn slightly. However, he yelped when he felt a large thwack on his head, not expecting the sudden pain. Rubbing the sore spot, he glanced down to see a journal on the floor. It was the one he'd gotten for Christmas ages ago, the one he'd had all to himself. He sat down on the bottom shelf of his bunk bed, and cracked the journal open. He traced his fingers over the delicate lettering of the O.A.R, wondering if this was the person who'd given him the present. He flipped through the blank pages, before shrugging his shoulders. Why the hell not right? He took the book over to his desk and pulled out his quill and some ink. Dipping his tawny feathered quill in the ebony ink, he stopped to think. Once he'd decided what to says turned back to the paper.

"Dear O.A.R,"


Many years past and the boy and girl grew up into fine young adults. It was perhaps a act of fate when they finally met one train ride. The boy not being in his usual carriage, the girl not being her usual non talkative self. The girl's mother dying, the boy's love of defying the rules. Anyone of these factors could have brought these two together. Perhaps all of them did. All anyone truly knows in this world, is that life is full of unexpected surprises.

But sometimes life has little plans. Little tiny plans for the people throughout it. People who play small roles in even bigger stories. And sometimes, their tiny role, can play a huge part in those epics. Sometimes it's as small as pushing someone out of the way of a falling shelf of dried newt, and sometimes it's as large as sacrificing oneself for the ones they love. No one will ever truly know what brought Odile Abigail Reisinger and Fred Andrew Weasley together. Some call it fate, some call it coincidence. But as an impartial judge, I might say that it was simply a bit of magic.