She Always Does

Azure

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 10/12/2006
Last Updated: 10/12/2006
Status: completed

He doesn't know where this road goes. He doesn't know where his feet are taking him, but that's perfectly fine, really, because this is Christmas, this is magic, and this is why he's fighting. He wants to save this. He wants to keep it close, because this is something close to happiness, when the holidays in Hogsmeade are everywhere around him.

Chapters

1. Under the Red and Green

1. Under the Red and Green

[Author's Note: It's a funny thing, I think, that whenever I have that urge to write again, I find myself coming back to Portkey time and time again. But bear with me, gentle readers - it's been awhile since I've done this, and I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing once again. I hope you enjoy this! Please leave a review, if you feel so inclined.]

She Always Does

by: Azure

Here are lights - red, green, white and bright, winking and glinting and shining in the corners of his eyes, and here are lights standing sharp in the darkness, lights everywhere at once and nowhere he can reach. Here is laughter - ringing like bells, ringing in harmony, laughter on the wind and on the air and in his ears, too, when he stops to listen. Here is snow - whirling and twirling down from the heavens, falling on his hair and on his glasses and on his skin, cold and damp and so very scenic, such a nice white touch to finish the picture of the holidays before him.

And here is magic - the magic of Hogsmeade, the magic of Christmas, the magic in his veins, and the proud little flame cradled in his fingertips, the small bluebell fire Hermione taught him so many ages ago.

Harry Potter, for the first time in his life, is a face in the crowd. He is an old kid wearing the weight of the world on his shoulders, bearing the brunt of the future upon his back, and he is the Boy Who Lived, too, although he doesn't think that is really all that important. Here, in the sea of faces and the sea of hands, he is just another breath frosting the air, just another set of footprints in the snow, and it is a bittersweet feeling, knowing that this solitude won't - can't - last. But this is what he wanted, he thinks, and he is in no position to complain, here, when the crowd is washing over him, overwhelming him, and the eyes normally trained on his scar are wild and happy and looking somewhere else entirely. Here, for the first time in his life, he isn't the savior of the Wizarding World. Here he is just Harry, Harry standing in the darkness, Harry with the bluebell flame curling around his hands and keeping the chill of the night at bay.

And this is amazing - this is extraordinary. He can feel the smile on his lips and the spring in his step as he weaves his way through the crowd, passing under the lights and the laughter. He can feel the snow in his socks and the fire in his fingers and he can feel alive, for once, with the wind and the specks of white falling around him. He doesn't know where this road goes. He doesn't know where his feet are taking him, but that's perfectly fine, really, because this is Christmas, this is magic, and this is why he's fighting. He wants to save this. He wants to keep it close, because this is something close to happiness, when the holidays in Hogsmeade are everywhere around him.

And something is missing.

He thinks he might be lonely. He thinks that's not really a big deal, when he's walking under the lights, but there is a sea of faces, here, and a sea of hands, mittens and gloves clasped together as the couples wind their way along the white roads. It's a silly thing, honestly - he scuffs his shoes on the ground, mumbling and grumbling beneath his breath - but it's there, all the same, and it's such a strange thing, he thinks, that the very minute he finds his anonymity - his happiness? - he wishes he had someone to share it with. But such is life. No, such is his life - such is the way things tend to go, when you're Harry bloody Potter, when things never quite go as planned.

And this is Christmas. And this is that magical time of the year where everyone's either very happy or very sad, and he thinks he might be somewhere very in-between, but he's fine, really, he just can't shake the idea that there's something absent from this picture-perfect scene. He thinks Hermione, if anyone, might know what it is. Clever witch, that one. He doesn't know where she is, now, but he hopes she's happy, because she doesn't seem to smile so much, anymore, whenever he sees her standing alone by the fire.

He hopes she's smiling. He really does like it when Hermione smiles, and he thinks she would grin if she saw him now, walking through the crowds with her special blue flames dancing across the palms of his hands. She is very proud of her fire. He's proud of it, too, and very grateful, because even if he doesn't have a hand to hold like everyone else, well, at least he has something to keep him warm. Something she gave him - something he doesn't ever want to give back.

"Harry?" The word is quiet, yet still it sits heavy on the wind, drowning out the laughter and the music in his ears.

He stops, surprised, and then she's standing in front of him, an eyebrow arched, her head cocked slightly to the side, and the hint of a smile on her lips. It's a very cute pose, he decides, and then he realizes his bluebell fire has faded away, has withered in the wind and left his hands bare and cold in the night.

"You're not wearing any gloves," Hermione says, and she moves closer, slowly, shaking her head and failing still to look overly disgruntled. "You could catch a cold." Her tone, though half-hearted, is one she might use on a child - a child who happens to be a full head taller than her.

Her gloves are thick, he sees, as his eyes fall to her hands. Thick, black, and vaguely shapeless. "I had you," he says, after a moment, looking still at those sad gloves, and even before the words leave his lips he knows she understands. She always does.

"So I see," she says, softly, and he can't tell if it's merely the bright shadow of the Christmas lights but there is a hint of red on her cheeks. She hesitates, for a long second, looking down at her own hands, and then very slowly sheds her gloves, letting them fall to the snow. "Ugly things," she adds, and her fingers look pale and delicate against his.

He moves at once to wrap his hands around hers, smiling slightly as she scoots closer, smiling even more when she looks up at him, those flashy red lights still seeming to color her cheeks. The snow is on her cloak and on her lips and in her hair and it looks like a fantastic mess, now, white and glorious and bushy and spotty, and he wants to run a hand through it, because this is Hermione. This is - well, he doesn't really know what this is, doesn't really know what is going on, but she truly looks happy, now, and so does he. There's something in her eyes, something warm and exciting, and he doesn't know how she found him, here, amidst the hustle and bustle of the holiday, but he's very glad she did.

"Hey," he says, just loud enough where she can hear him.

"Hmm?"

He notices, with some curiosity, that their faces have grown much closer, that her lips are closer than they have ever been. He also notices, with even more curiosity, that he can't seem to take his eyes off her.

"Merry Christmas," he says, and grins, because there's the thought, now, stepping to the front of his mind, that he just might know what he was missing. It's a hunch, really, but he thinks it's a damned good one, and he thinks she just might have figured it out too.

"Mm," she says, and nods, and now she's smiling, too, that pretty Hermione smile, the one he hasn't seen in far too long. Her hands gently pry his apart, breaking contact for the first time, and then she steps into him, one arm locked snugly around his waist with the other resting on his back. Her breath and her lips and her smile are very close to his neck.

He still doesn't really know what is going on. But that's okay, because she's smiling, he's smiling, and the sea of faces and the sea of hands are sweeping around them. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are merely two faces in the crowd, here, two smiles as a finishing touch to the picture of a Hogsmeade holiday.

And here is Christmas, he thinks - lights, laughter, and snow, the bright specks dotting her head and the touch of white he can feel as he runs his hands through her hair. Here is magic. Here is his solitude and his peace and his happiness, and here is Hermione, too - and that's all he really needs to say. Even without the words, she understands.

She always does.

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