A Minute for the Snowflakes

Azure

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 21/06/2004
Last Updated: 21/06/2004
Status: completed

It was one of those magical Weasley holidays, with the snow and the laughter and a blanket of stars - it was utterly charming and utterly warm, even as the fireplace fell silent and the moon took his spot amongst the sky. She stood alone in the night, drawing the familiar cold into her lungs, her arms crossed over a worn sweater. There was a certain beauty in silence, she had decided; it was cool and comforting and spectacularly unspectacular, the things she needed most, and the things she could only find in the moonlight along the snow drifts of Ottery St. Catchpole.

Chapters

1. Another Step

1. Another Step

[A/N: This was, initially, an attempt at angst, but it went a bit in the opposite direction, it would seem. Regardless, here it is: I was a bit hesitant to upload it, as I don’t exactly have a beta at the moment (call it manly pride, if you must…though stupidity seems more appropriate), but I gave it a thorough read-through and couldn’t find any truly prominent errors. I hope you enjoy reading it, and feel perfectly free to leave reviews if you’re so inclined. : ) ]

***

It was one of those magical Weasley holidays, with the snow and the laughter and a blanket of stars - it was utterly charming and utterly warm, even as the fireplace fell silent and the moon took his spot amongst the sky. She stood alone in the night, drawing the familiar cold into her lungs, her arms crossed over a worn sweater. There was a certain beauty in silence, she had decided; it was cool and comforting and spectacularly unspectacular, the things she needed most, and the things she could only find in the moonlight along the snow drifts of Ottery St. Catchpole.

It was here, in the black and white, that she could stop and listen. She could pause for the lone wolf cry just around the bend and taste the first snowflakes on her tongue; it was childish, perhaps, something only she would appreciate, and yet that thought alone warmed her far more than the plain black mug clutched in her hands, which had long turned cold.

Tea. She didn't really like it in the first place.

"That's my sweater, you know."

She jumped and a free hand flew to her chest - the space beside her was writhing, changing, and quite suddenly a familiar set of green eyes came into view.

"Harry." She hoped he couldn't hear the frantic pounding of her heart.

The remnants of the Invisibility Cloak slid off. "Hermione." He glanced at her with a rather cheeky grin, the familiar dash of black hair tinged with snowflakes.

She had the mercifully brief urge to reach out and scatter it with her hand, to trail the dark strands from across his forehead. He was staring at her, still, with that confident smirk - and Hermione realized she had yet to answer his accusation. "I didn't think you'd mind," she said truthfully, glancing down at the sweater in question.

Harry simply laughed. "No, I don't, really. Just a bit odd when I saw you making off with it, I guess. I don't mess with your stuff, I'll have you know."

Hermione gave him what she hoped was a frosty glare. "I did not mess with your things! I only needed something warm!"

"You could have asked."

"I - " Hermione fell short, silently cursing the blush she felt across her cheeks. She abruptly lowered her eyes, refusing to face the mirth she could see made manifest in his own, though it warmed her nonetheless to see him smile. "You don't shut up, do you?" she asked sullenly.

Two fingers came under her chin and lifted her eyes once more. Harry looked positively charming with the fire in his eyes and the tint of rosiness played across his skin, and for a long second Hermione wondered what in Merlin's name was happening to her.

And then he pushed her.

She let out a shriek as she lost her balance and plopped backwards into the snow, her hair snaking out of its bun and curling about her face. And he was grinning, again, that cursed Harry grin that made her want to laugh, even when another part wanted to hex him into next week. Hermione looked up at him with a sigh as he crouched and arched an eyebrow, looking highly amused.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I don't believe I heard you correctly."

Hermione refused to let him win. "Then you might want to get a haircut. Seems all of that hair is finally affecting your hearing." She felt her own grin battling to be freed.

Harry blinked. "Aunt Petunia tried that, once." A stray finger moved to tug at one of the dark locks. "It didn't quite work out."

"So the Dursleys did do something right!" Hermione said with a smirk, only partially aware that she was still perched in the snow and it was - Merlin! - unnaturally cold. Even the sweater did little to alleviate the situation; she was briefly tempted to pull Harry closer and take advantage of his heat, though the thought alone made her blush and feel strangely light-headed.

"Since when have you backed the Dursleys?" he asked, moving to sink down into the snow beside her, glancing at her with a hint of a challenge in his eyes.

"Since it occurred to me that they seem to have a bit more fashion sense than you."

Harry looked slightly bemused as he mulled this over. "Tell me something, Hermione."

She faced him with a triumphant grin. "Yes, Harry?"

"Whose sweater are you wearing?"

Damn.

Harry patted her quite kindly on the knee, oblivious of the mutinous look that adorned her face. "As I thought."

"Must you make my life so difficult?" Hermione realized, rather dazedly, that he had slipped an arm around her waist, so that they sat side-by-side facing the gentle darkness and the wind amongst the trees.

"I daresay you're worth the effort," Harry said quietly, his gaze turned towards the stars.

Hermione turned to look at him, then, moving her own arm on a whim to encircle his waist, his eyes a clandestine sort of bright in the reflection of the sky. The question fell from her lips before she had quite realized she had spoken. "Am I?"

Only then did Harry turn to look at her, a grin working its way across his lips. He spoke easily, rather as if the answer was blindingly obvious and carved into the snow before them. "You always will be."

She smiled, then, closing her eyes so that the single tear would not fall free, even as the warmth she had long craved swept across her body and a calloused hand came to rest on her knee.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked gently, as she inched open her eyes and the concern crossed his face.

"Nothing," she said, and could tell he believed her. The tear was trailing its way down her cheek. "Everything is perfect."

She realized, with a shy sort of blush, that he had yet to look away; his eyes lingered on her face long after her words had faded into the night, and it took far more courage than she had ever thought to meet his gaze. Harry looked rather flushed and for a short minute she was vaguely concerned; but, strangely, when she moved so as to ask him of it, the words quite simply wouldn't come out, withering just at the tip of her tongue.

"You always will be," he said again, seemingly in a sort of amazement, though the arm he had wrapped around her waist tightened considerably, until Hermione gradually become aware of the closeness of their lips and the glimmer in his own eyes and that strange sort of sensation when the realization hit that maybe what she truly needed was right in front of her eyes.

"Harry," she began, somewhat unsteadily, "I - " but his finger rose and stilled her lips, and he was shaking his head softly.

"We don't need words," he said quietly, a grin flickering across his lips, which were mere inches from her own.

And Hermione was inclined to agree; she was hardly aware that she was nearly sitting in his lap and that her arms had risen to encircle his neck and that she had completely forgotten about the cold, and the snow and the stars and the sky and everything else that seemed miles away and utterly unimportant. She was finding it somewhat difficult to breathe, then, her eyes roaming across his face, taking in everything that had changed in six years and everything that would change in the rest of his life, up from the strong chin towards the silver-framed glasses and those undeniable eyes.

"Harry," she said again, the name rolling with pleasure across her lips, "my Harry." The words seemed hardly important, even then, when the promise was in the cold and the magic and the future.

Their future.

On a whim she fell forward and sought his mouth with her own; it was strange and wonderful and all of those other meaningless words, the ones she knew could never hope to dream the taste of his lips in the frigid air and the sudden faint feeling that, clichés be damned, it was a storybook, magical moment, one she could never forget.

They broke apart not a short time later and Hermione struggled to regain her breath, content to merely look at him in the infinite second that followed. There was the fire in his eyes and the permanent pain, too, but something else had made its way inside, something new and great and simply happy. Harry grinned, then, a bit shakily at first, a trembling finger moving to brush away the tear carving a path down her cheek.

"We don't need words," he said, again, and she knew he was right.

It was here, she knew then, in the black and the white and Harry, that she could stop and listen. She could pause for the wolf cry just around the bend - and, there, the answer - and taste the snowflakes on his lips; it was childish, perhaps, something only she could appreciate, and yet that thought alone warmed her, though not nearly as much as the sensation of having his arms wrapped around her, holding her close.

They didn't need drama. Love was just another adventure, though perhaps the greatest of them all, above the basilisks and boggarts and prophecies and tears, and the one adventure to last a lifetime.

"I don't need fireworks," he said with a grin, his lips close to hers and a hand cupping her chin. "I just need you."