From Now On

Snow is falling thickly outside, piling up on window ledges, smoothing out the rough patches so that everything in sight is transformed, dead and barren to fresh and hopeful, expectant. Against the blinding whiteness, you can see anything coming a hundred miles away.

Or so she thought.

* * * * *

His ruffled hair is already standing on end when she drops another armload of books on the table in front of him. He winces at the sound and she can see the exhaustion behind the green of his eyes, the resignation in the downward droop of his lips. She feels like she shouldn't notice these sorts of things about him anymore, not when it's been so long since they've sat together like this, just Harry and just Hermione. She doesn't want to ruin it, doesn't want to end up with her hopes dashed—again.

He smiles rather hopelessly up at her, expecting to find a solution in her eyes.

“No rest for the weary,” she says apologetically, not sure just what she's apologizing for. For not having all the answers, maybe.

She doesn't need the clock on the mantel to tell her that it's well after midnight already. The fire is crackling low in the grate. Beyond the snow-covered ledge, a cool lip of gray-green rims the horizon.

“You haven't forgotten what day it is, have you?”

“Of course not,” she says curtly, cracking open a book on self-defensive spellwork and trying to affect a look of complete concentration. “Sunday was the twenty-first,” she reasons, remembering the last time she'd bothered with dates. She's found keeping real time somewhat disorienting—the recognition that there are only so many hours in a day, and only Merlin knows how many days until—until. “Which makes today the twenty-fifth,” she finishes lamely, dropping her gaze to the page. The letters waver and blur before her eyes and her throat tightens.

“More commonly known as a minor bank holiday,” he says, a smile tugging upwards at the corners of his mouth and she thinks about how she was half in love with him before he ever even opened that mouth, before he'd said a single word. How there was something about the way he tugged nervously at his sleeves, stretching the fabric out over his bony knuckles. The way he—scrawny legs and stick-figure arms and all—filled his seat on board the Hogwarts Express. Like he belonged there. In her life. And she thinks about how she didn't—doesn't—believe in being half in love with someone. How she committed fully long ago.

* * * * *

Later, much later—in the library, balancing yet another stack of books against her hip—she'll reason that he must have made the first move—that his hands surged forward and caught her round the elbows, pulling her towards him—that her paralysis must have been complete until the moment his lips met hers, until the moment his fumbling hands upset an avalanche of books... But none of that matters right now. Just for this moment, they have all the time in the world—no dark tomorrows looming above them, waiting to swoop in and leave everything in ruins—just a here and a now and a from now on, however long that may be.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” she whispers, as though just remembering, and he kisses her again. And outside the snow falls hard and fast, the world washed clean.

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