Christmas at the burrow

The Burrow, a ramshackle house just outside Ottery St. Catchpole, it's seven floors, hastily stacked on top of each other, bits sticking out haphazardly all over the place.
Muggles that saw it would swear, jokingly, that it was held together by magic. Wizzarding folk, on the other hand, would know that that is exactly what is holding it together.

A cold biting wind flows and weaves its way around the outside of the building, as if seeking a way in, drawing a fresh flurry of snow with it, which slowly makes its way down to the ground, adding to the drifts which lay all around, the countryside blanketed in pure, unbroken fields of white.

Two figures, deeply asleep in one of the upper rooms, are oblivious to the cold whipping around them, due to both the enchantments that keep the cold out, as well as their shared body heat, from their bodies pressed together in a comforting embrace.

The girl on the left of the bed, the youngest of the pair is sleeping with her face inches from her companion's, her hands clasped in front of her chest, as if in prayer, her normally neat, straight red hair, now splayed out on the pillow, forming a deep crimson halo, encircling her head.
Wrapped around her, ensuring that their bodies stay connected during the night, are a pair of long, supple arms, clasped together just level with the base of her spine.

Their bodies are touching in the way of people completely at ease with the idea of physical intimacy, be it sexual or comforting: legs intertwined, snaking around the others so much so that you cannot tell where one begins and another ends; torsos, from navel to breasts, completely in contact with the other.

One of the figures shifts slightly, her legs tightening, pulling the other against her more tightly, breasts touching a little more firmly.

Neither figure stirs however, remaining sound asleep, s

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