The Wisdom of Snow

SecretKeeper

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 23/11/2005
Last Updated: 23/11/2005
Status: completed

Snow is nothing short of miraculous-- so delicate and yet utterly indestructible. If you let it, it can teach lessons, widen eyes, and even open hearts. (One-Shot)

Chapters

1. The Wisdom of Snow

1. The Wisdom of Snow

Author's Notes: Hello guys! I've uploaded this again because after I re-read it recently I decided it was in desperate need of a spot of editing. So, I've corrected errors, added descriptions, and overall I feel it's a better story. Still far from perfect, of course, but at least better. If you've yet to read it, enjoy!

Dedication: To every author who continued to write HHr fan fiction even after the release of HBP. *Bows in gratitude* Sometimes delusion is better than canon. ;)

The Wisdom of Snow

White.

All was white. January tendencies dealt the region a cold blow of crystalline snow. Bright stars reflected off the frozen lake and sparkling flakes twinkled in the purple twilight. The wind was chilling yet calming as it whisked the powdery white stardust into the night. On the grounds of her school, Hermione Granger leaned against a tall, thick tree, watching it float and drift away into the dark air.

The lights of Hogwarts glistened behind her, casting a faint glow that twisted and danced with the illumination of the emerging moon. Inside, children were playing and singing throughout the halls, their delicate voices barely audible over the sudden gusts of wind. Hermione managed a weak smile for their innocence. Their innocence, which was still preserved. Their innocence, which remained untainted.

Innocence.

Something she could not clearly remember ever having anymore. Something she clearly remembered wanting. Something that had eluded her for over six years. Something she gave up to fight a war that would have stolen the world's innocence, had the good stood idle.

That day had been bittersweet. It was the winter after Hermione, Harry, and Ron would have graduated, had Hogwarts remained opened. Harry had spent nearly an entire year collecting and destroying Voldemort's horcruxes.

It had been a long, tiring, and traumatic experience for all three friends. In the end, however, it was Harry who had to face him alone. It had always been Harry.

As her back pressed against the cold tree trunk, Hermione's eyes glossed over in remembrance of that night.

* * *

Harry had left without a single goodbye in the early hours of the morning. No note. No tight embrace. He left only an empty bed and an empty heart behind. For three days Ron and Hermione had traveled in search of their best friend, but their efforts were in vain. He had vanished into the very night itself.

Until one morning a week later, as Ron slept and Hermione choked back the sobs that had consumed her since his disappearance, Harry returned.

He had walked into Hermione's room at Grimmauld Place with a torn jumper, shattered glasses, and watery eyes. It had taken her a fair few moments to believe it was him. But then she had flown out from beneath her tear-sodden covers and hugged Harry so hard he fell backwards and crashed into the wall.

“It's done,” Harry told her.

She had surveyed his features intently, assuring herself that it wasn't a dream. Her lips quickly broke into a wide, thankful smile then, before they betrayed her will and pressed themselves firmly against Harry's. She kissed him passionately, yet unbearably softly, spilling all her love and worry into it.

But then, reprocessing her resolve, she hastened to back away. Her eyes grew wide as she stared into his. “I- s- sorry, I just…” she'd mumbled, in shock with herself.

But nothing more came out.

Harry answered with a timid, tormented smile. The sound of their parting lips resonated through the room.

But when neither said anything for an extended minute, Harry dispelled the awkward silence. “Let's go wake Ron.”

They never spoke of the incident again. Hermione managed to convince herself that it had been a brief lapse of judgment on her part, due to overwhelming relief. At least, that's what she continued to tell herself whenever his eyes quickened her heartbeat and her emotions deceived her.

Since then, all their days had been easier- in some ways. It was so very different from what they were used to, and the unfamiliarity spawned a sense of unease. What were their purposes if they weren't fighting anymore?

But the lurking fear of defeat lifted as a great sense of liberation descended upon their weary minds. Voldemort was gone. And though his absence in the world was indeed unfamiliar, it was wholly welcomed.

Two weeks after Voldemort's demise Hogwarts announced it would reopen immediately. Naturally, the effect was instantaneous. Wizarding families across England celebrated and rejoiced at the return of normalcy. Harry's name appeared in every headline. The Ministry of Magic awarded him an Order of Merlin, first class, and second class for both Hermione and Ron. Some had even begun petitions to create a national “Harry Potter Day.”

Indeed, the reopening of Hogwarts signaled that Voldemort's defeat was now tangible. “The-Boy-Who-Lived” could now actually begin to live.

Almost.

* * *

Harry, Hermione, and Ron had of course been invited to the celebration at Hogwarts, the night before the first day of classes. However, it turned out to be less cordial than anticipated. Upon arriving, Harry was greeted by an excitable Colin Creevey who was waving about that day's Daily Prophet.

“Do you have any response to this, Harry? I want to write in and tell them they're all a lot of prats, but it'd be easier if I had a quote or two!”

Ron promptly snatched the paper from the young boy's outstretched hands. “What's this rubbish?” he'd said.

Unfurling the wrinkled pages, a large, bold headline met the trio's eyes:

HARRY POTTER, VICTIM TO MERE MUGGLES?

He is the savior of the world: the noble, courageous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. He rebelled against the Ministry when they turned a deaf ear. He clung to his convictions when the very people he was striving to save doubted his sanity. He fought and conquered the most powerful Dark Wizard of the age.

But could he conquer his Muggle abusers?

Read on to discover the boy behind the knight, the victim behind the vanquisher.

The article continued on in this tone for six pages. Six pages that delved into the most private moments of Harry's young life: living in a cupboard beneath the stairs, the mental abuses he endured, and the emotional scars it “could potentially leave behind.”

Ron and Hermione were furious. Hermione even spat a foul word at Colin for brandishing such nonsense on a night like this.

Harry, however, told them to simply forget about it, and politely asked Colin to do the same.

He walked away from them then, and hadn't been seen the rest of the night.

* * *

Hermione sighed into the cold, her breath materializing in a white puff as she snapped her mind shut from the memories and returned to observing the snow-covered grounds.

But a tight grip had taken hold of her stomach. Her only conscious thoughts were ones of finding Harry. It had been nearly four hours since they'd arrived at Hogwarts and to that blasted article, and neither she nor Ron had made any progress in their search.

The teachers, however, weren't concerned. Professor McGonagall had even advised that they give Harry his space. “After all, Ms. Granger, he is dealing with the release of private issues unto the public. Surely you saw the Prophet,” she had spat nastily. “I would not be surprised if he is simply collecting his thoughts and calming his nerves.”

She doesn't know him, Hermione thought indignantly. If he's collecting thoughts, they're only depressing ones.

Minutes passed, and the only noise breaking the cold silence now was the echoing voices from within the castle. She knew Ron was among them, for he had decided to take McGonagall's advice despite Hermione's angry pleading that he continue to help her find their friend.

“Insensitive git,” Hermione sighed aloud.

“I hope you don't mean me,” came a familiar, soothing voice from behind her.

Hermione's heart skipped as she spun around and was met by a warmly familiar face.

“Harry!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

“Just… around,” he remarked casually. He busied himself with the laces of his lowered hood.

“Around?” Hermione questioned suspiciously.

“Yeah.”

Hermione felt her cheeks grow pink, but by the chill of the air or by her own frustration, she could not tell. She heaved a heavy sigh before returning to her position against the tree. Crossing her arms, she said, “Well, I wish you would have been around me. Or at least told me where you were going. You've been missing for hours, Harry.”

She heard him take a couple tentative footsteps towards her, the snow beneath his feet compressing together. It took him a moment to respond.

“Sorry. I just needed to get away for a bit,” he mumbled.

Hermione shifted her position so that she was facing him. Allowing her arms to fall, she asked him a question with her warm, glossy eyes. Her brow was furrowed as her bottom lip became prey to her teeth.

“Harry, I- I want to ask you something,” she confessed nervously.

Harry narrowed his eyes in skepticism, not sure when it had become custom for her to seek permission for posing a question. “Err… okay.”

Hermione took a deep breath of courage and closed her eyes before plunging on in a fit of hurried words. “I feel silly for asking, because I know better than anyone how the Daily Prophet makes their living off inaccurate accusations, but today's article wasn't like anything they've printed before, and I was wondering whether they interviewed your Uncle or something, but then that made me wonder if what they printed was true, but of course it-”

“Yeah, it's true,” he nodded solemnly.

Hermione's chest hitched. She momentarily forgot to breathe.

“Harry,” she whispered. “What- I mean, I knew… I knew they were awful, you've told me some horrible stories, but- those things… Dudley beating you up? Starving you? Oh Harry,” she finished, nearly in tears, before throwing herself upon him in a compassionate embrace.

“Hermione, it's fine,” he said, patting her back somewhat awkwardly.

“No, it's not fine, Harry,” she shrieked, releasing him. “I- I don't understand why they would be so cruel to you! You're their nephew!”

Harry shrugged. “But they don't love me.”

The rims of Hermione's eyes quickly gathered tears. Her pink, frozen lips trembled as she turned away from him.

“Hermione, you knew. You and Ron knew about the Dursleys,” Harry said, a slight question in his voice.

Shaking her head, she quavered. “But I didn't know the extent! You never talked about it much, Harry. I practically had to force you to talk about the bits I do know. I learned that they favored Dudley, that's always been sickeningly obvious. But what they did… the things they said to you, about your parents! Your aunt's sister! And you had to live with that for eleven years?!”

“Well, seventeen, if you want to include the summers,” Harry smiled wearily.

No longer able to control her emotions, Hermione let out a whimper before her tears began to fall freely. Harry had seen her cry a couple times before, but waterworks certainly were not her trademark.

Not knowing exactly what to do, Harry placed a shaky hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Hey, I don't know what you're so worked up about. I'm out of there now and I'm not going back, right?”

Suddenly, Hermione threw herself into him, shaking madly and breathing muffled words of comfort into his ear.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” she chanted, tears spilling onto his jumper. “If I'd known I never would have let you go back there, never, you would have stayed with me and Voldemort never would have thought to look there, in a muggle town.”

Harry barely held back a smile. “I wouldn't have done that anyway. Voldemort was well aware of my friendship with you and Ron, so that would have been the first place he'd have looked if I didn't turn up at my Uncle's one summer. Besides, that's where my mother was. Dumbledore would have made me go back anyway to keep the magic going. You know that.”

Hermione took a deep breath and released her friend from her hysterical grasp. “I know. I'm sorry, I just… I just hadn't known exactly how bad it had been. I wish you would have opened up about it Harry. Oh, and Snape always teasing you about your father! And Malfoy! I can't believe you had to go home to all of that too,” she cried.

“No, I didn't,” Harry mused thoughtfully. “Hogwarts was home. When I came here, I had you and Ron.”

Harry saw the look of mingled pain and concern obstructing her usual façade. Hermione, afraid of worrying him further, offered a weak smile before hanging her head low to avoid his stare.

But Harry wasn't fooled. He had to assure her.

A moment later, the distinct sound of crushing snow met her ears. Looking up, she was startled to see Harry bent down and gathering snow into his hands. It only took a second for the snow to form a ball.

“I love snow. It sort of washes everything away, doesn't it?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.

“This,” he continued, “is a snowball.”

Hermione blinked and then barely stifled a laugh. “Yes, Harry, I understand that much.”

“Then you'll understand how it's made,” he responded seriously.

When Hermione gave him naught but a blank expression, his lips formed a half smile before parting to explain. “I can take this snowball,” he said, “and crush it. I can throw it against the wall and it'll splatter. I can stomp on it, kick it, beat it as much as I want.”

Then he took the light compound in his hand and tossed it against the tree on which Hermione had been leaning. He ran his fingers over the snow-dusted trunk, then let the remnants sift through his fingers and fall.

“It's on the ground now, isn't it?” he muttered, not at all asking a question. “It looks destroyed. It's fallen to the floor. But it only lost its shape, not its character. It's still snow. It's still there, and I really didn't defeat it at all, did I?”

Hermione's eyes were cheerless but understanding. She peered at him behind a furrowed brow, but finally offered a sad smile.

“What happens when the heat becomes too much and it melts under the pressure?”

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. “Then it just turns into rain. But it's still the same thing, in the end. It hasn't gone anywhere. It lives on.”

Stuffing her cold hands inside her coat pockets, Hermione let out a small, quiet breath. “I'm glad,” she said truthfully. But after a moment of silent pondering, she added, “But I wish it were strong enough to stay the same forever. Of course, that's impossible when situations arise and change the dynamics, but- it still worries me. I start to think it's gone, and I don't want to let it fall, I don't want it to change, even if it is technically the same. I just- I want to help.”

Shaking his head, Harry responded quietly. “It's not impossible.” Then he held out his hands, palms up, and asked, “What do you suppose these are?”

Hermione lightly shook her head, confused.

“This one,” he said, lifting his left hand, “is Ron. And this,” he smiled, lifting his right, “is you.”

They smiled at each other for a moment, the singing, jubilant voices that still hung in the air surrounding them. The snow-filled wind gushed and twisted itself in Hermione's usually frizzy hair, dampening it and leaving behind light curls.

“The snow can't stay together on its own,” he told her quietly. “There's always someone there to hold it together.”

Hermione grinned, nodding in affectionate comprehension.

Harry took a step closer, putting them mere inches apart. He leaned in to her ear, his hot breath tingling against Hermione's skin.

“But you know… that's not why I left the party. The article, that is, wasn't the reason.”

Hermione leaned back and gave him a quizzical look. “What do you mean? Then why?”

“I've gotten over it. The Prophet's relentless. They'll always be trying to put everything about me out there. I don't like it, but there are more important things to worry about.”

Her frozen nose was scrunched in confusion when she replied, “Is there?”

“Well… yeah. I mean, the Prophet doesn't know everything. Only the superficial stuff. And usually what they don't know is what's most important.”

“Harry, are you going to stop being so- so obscure and tell me what's been bothering you?”

Harry's cheeks suddenly turned very red. He looked around anxiously. “I think it's easier if I just keep speaking in code,” he laughed nervously.

Hermione had never seen him quite like this before. It was puzzling, to say the least. “Harry, what are you on about? Now I'm beginning to get frustrated because this whole time I thought we were solving why you hid from me and Ron tonight, only to find it's something else?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Well, this isn't- it's a bit more complicated than a newspaper,” he mumbled.

Hermione stared at him.

“All right, all right,” he sighed. “I was just wondering… err… why people do… things.”

Hermione blinked. “Things?”

“Well, you know- what… what makes them do the things they do. There's always a motive behind their actions, isn't there? What I mean is- well, for example,” he said, his voice breaking involuntarily, “why was Voldemort so power hungry? Why was he the way he was? Or, why does Charlie love dragons? Or why did Neville collect plants? Or why did you kiss-”

He stopped suddenly.

Hermione's breathing went on hiatus.

Silence.

“Harry,” she whispered slowly, “I- I don't know what to say about that, I was… well, you know.”

Harry shook his head and gazed intently at the white ground. “What?”

“Well,” she continued, feeling rather lightheaded all of a sudden, “it was such a relief to see you, to know you were alive…”

“Oh,” he muttered. “Right.”

Hermione shuffled her feet anxiously, her heart feeling heavier than ever. “What- is that what you were thinking about? That's why you left the party?”

Harry bent his head, his cheeks burning hot. “There were other reasons.”

“Oh. What else?”

Harry thought hard. Sweat was building along his hairline despite the freezing temperatures. After a moment of procrastination, he sighed in defeat. “No. There were no other reasons,” he admitted.

Hermione frowned deeply and placed a tentative hand on his arm. Her stomach dropped like she'd fallen off a cliff as wave upon wave of unidentifiable emotions washed over her. “Harry, I'm-”

“Forget it.”

“No, please-”

“I said forget it, all right? I don't want to hear you apologize.”

Hermione's forehead wrinkled in confusion, her eyes full of apprehension. “Come again?”

Harry heaved a shaky sigh. “I just- I don't want to hear you apologize… as if it was a mistake. I couldn't stand listening to you say you're sorry.”

He braved a quick glance at her face and she saw unfathomable regret and sorrow written in his scarred irises. Then before she could think of something coherent, he turned around and began shuffling through the snow, back towards the castle.

Panic overtook Hermione. Her heart seemed to be resting somewhere in her lower abdomen as she watched Harry's retreating back. She twisted her fingers until they felt ready to bleed, unsure as to what she should do. Every moment that passed, Harry was getting further away. Every moment that passed her chance was slipping.

“Wait!” she shouted. She saw him stiffen before he came to an abrupt halt. Running to his side, she said, panting, “I think your deductions were right.”

Harry kept his focus on the snow beneath his feet. “What deductions?”

“That everything we do is for a reason,” she panted. She took a moment to catch her breath, but didn't dare look Harry in the eyes yet. She was afraid of what she'd find. “Isn't that what you were getting at? That none of us do anything without purpose, even if the purpose isn't immediately obvious… or even if we don't admit there was purpose," she blushed, “that doesn't change that it still exists. There's always reason.”

Harry peered down at her, eyeing her flushed face with deft caution. “What are you saying?”

“And it's ridiculous to pin actions on arbitrary rationale,” she continued, completely ignoring his question. “Being anything but completely forthcoming is an excuse to evade the truth. That's what you were trying to say, right? That Voldemort's acts of murder had motive, that Neville's obsession with plants can be explained, and- and that my actions can be as well,” she finished softly.

Hermione felt rather than saw Harry deflate. She finally lifted her head to meet his eyes. He was searching her, a hint of hope hidden just beyond his visage of uncertainty. She offered him a weak, encouraging smile.

Harry's mouth opened, just slightly, as if wanting to say something- anything- but his tongue felt suddenly awkward in his mouth.

“You were right,” she whispered to him, never breaking his gaze. “You were right, Harry. I'm probably the last person to do something without meaning. And… kissing you…” her face flared crimson at the spoken words, “that was no exception.”

A long minute passed during which Harry's eyes bore into hers, penetrating every wall, every emotional blockade. He wanted to do more than just speak now- his stare flickered to her lips- but his nerves remained immobile in stunned relief.

But he felt a spike of panic arrest his heart as she moved- did I wait too long? Is she walking away?- but Hermione merely knelt down and scooped up a lump of snow, just as he had done earlier. She compacted it into a sphere and rounded the edges with her fingers before offering it to Harry, who took it in his hands. He watched her curiously when she took a step closer.

“I think people are more afraid than they let on; afraid of things other than dark wizards," she smiled ruefully. “Afraid of change. Afraid of losing something, or someone. Afraid the snow will lose its character… that taking a step forward will ruin what once was. But I can let go of that,” she told him quietly, “I will let go of that fear, for you. Because change isn't always bad. Just so long as you know- you're not the only one who's uncertain sometimes. You're not the only one who needs help being kept together.”

Harry placed his other hand around the tiny snowball, cupping it gently. “I won't let you fall apart, Hermione,” he said, watching her intently, his eyes serious.

“I know,” she smiled.

She leaned into him as her eyelids fluttered shut, her body pressing against his. A second later, she felt Harry's warm, soft lips tug lightly on hers. Instinctively, her hand wrapped around Harry's neck and reached up into his hair. Her voice betrayed her with a small moan when she felt Harry's mouth part and their cores clashed. He tasted sweet, and gentle, and exactly how she'd imagined.

Harry's hands framed her face as he deepened the kiss, his stomach dancing as if a million butterflies had just escaped. He tilted his head to one side to gain better access before his desire took over and he changed the kiss from hesitantly sweet to fervently urgent. The soft murmurs of pleasure issuing from Hermione's throat stirred something deep inside him; he pulled gently on her lips with his mouth, running his tongue smoothly across her bottom lip before deciding oxygen might be a necessity.

Their mouths gradually pulled apart, both teenagers panting for air. They held onto each other, Harry's fingers grazing along her jaw line and Hermione's hands fisted in his hair.

Harry looked down at her wearing a foolish, crooked smile. His emerald eyes a blazed brightly behind his black-rimmed glasses. Hermione bit shyly on her bottom lip, her cheeks flushing scarlet for the millionth time that evening.

Without a word, the two slowly turned to face the glistening lights of Hogwarts. Hermione sighed contently, remembering the first time she'd met Harry and Ron, and knowing she'd forever remember this night as the culmination of it all.

The freezing night air smelled a bit sweeter, for some reason, as the pair headed off towards the great double doors, their arms entwined in a clear refusal to ever let go. The voices emitting from the castle sounded happier, and the prospect of tomorrow dawned brighter.

But then, Hermione noticed from the corner of her eye that Harry was clutching something so very gently, as if the object were a priceless and fragile gift. Harry followed her gaze, an impish grin playing on his lips.

He stopped and lifted his hand in front of him. Opening it, he revealed the small, delicate snowball Hermione had given him minutes before- still flawlessly untainted and perfectly intact.

His half smile stretched to meet his eyes as he breathed, “I told you I wouldn't let you fall."

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