Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all its characters belong to Jo Rowling.
Author's Note: Despite the finality of HP7, I remain a pumpkin pie shipper. Call me delusional, but hey, that's what fanfiction is for, right? (: And yes, I am a bit too early for Christmas. I beg pardon, and for reviews, because it makes my day. (:
The dark skies and the grey tone of dirt-tainted snow on the ground did nothing to dim Harry's mood. It was Christmas, after all, and the children were back for the holidays. The idea of the children, not just his own, but that of the extended family, filling up the quiet of his house pleased him greatly.
It's been awhile since there have been much laughter of joy in his house. With the children gone, and him spending most of his days in the ministry, working, his relationship with his wife, Ginny, wasn't what it used to be. He hated to admit it, but somewhere along the road of life, he had taken a different path from his wife, and sometimes in the dead of the night, when she slept beside him, he would wonder, to the sound of her quiet snoring, if their path would intertwine again one day. Sometimes he wondered if he wanted to; she hasn't been exactly discreet in her growing "friendship" with Neville Longbottom, not that he blamed her. He wasn't the best of husbands, although there was a time when he tried.
But no, today was not the day to think about such depressing thoughts. It was Christmas, after all, and the extended family was congregating at his house to celebrate
Harry trudged through the snow with some effort. The days of his youth were far behind him now, and while he still maintained his skinny frame – work and weekly quidditch (he played seeker in a semi-pro league; Madam Hoops would turn in her grave to see the talented Potter playing with amateurs) helped, his stamina was not like it used to be. At least, he usually consoled himself, at thirty-seven, he didn't look a day older than thirty (thank Merlin for wizarding aging), although his prematurely graying hair was a telltale sign of age.
Hermione, his best friend, and his other best friend's wife, liked his graying hair. It made him looked distinguishingly handsome, she had told him fondly, and because of that comment, he had refused his wife's suggestion of using magic to stop the graying. You see, Harry trusted in the words of his best friend more than life itself; she has never let him down, not once, in their twenty-six years of friendship. Of course, he would never tell Ginny this. Not unless he wanted her to pack up the kids and leave. Which he didn't, of course. He loved his children dearly, and while that passion between a man and woman has faded long ago, he had never doubted his love for his wife, even if he wasn't sure if he was still IN love with her.
No one stays in love forever, he told himself, as he neared his house, bright and sparkling with the Christmas lights he had hung around the day before. He had done it without magic; sometimes working with his hands gives him more of a satisfaction than a levitation charm. The noises of the party echoed onto the empty street to welcome him home. No one was around; it was Christmas, after all.
The front door opened, and the noises escalated. A warmness, the kind that only comes from being in a big, close-knitted family, beckoned. Holding the door open was a woman, her bushy brown hair held back messily in a bun, a few tendrils falling gingerly by the side of her face. Her wide smile met his equally wide one. As he scooped her petite frame into a hug, ignoring the crowd behind her as they ignore him for the party, he felt a magical bind form around the both of them. Looking up, he eyed the mistletoe with some reluctance.
"Mistletoe," he choked, attempting for casual and failing miserably. His heart thumped even more rapidly.
"I see," Hermione merely replied, almost businesslike. "Well then, you'll have to kiss me won't you?" She grinned a familiar grin, one best friend to another. But her brown eyes portrayed what her lips couldn't, and would never will.
"Oi, mate! Just kiss my wife and get on with the party," Ron Weasley called out from the background, his trusting blue eyes peering out from under the red hair that fell over his forehead. He held a bottle of butterbeer in his hand, and after raising it in a toast to Harry, he turned his attention elsewhere. No one else paid any attention to the two people standing by the front door, caught in a body bind with a magical mistletoe dangling above them.
It was Christmas, after all, and these things are frequent occurrences at a Christmas party.
Harry gave her a sad smile, his green eyes returning the sentiments her eyes revealed to him. He raised his eyebrows almost comically, and with a shrug, he lowered his head and kissed her gently. She kissed back in kind. The entire process took less than five seconds, and to the world, it was nothing short of chaste. A kiss, from one best friend to another.
Harry stepped back as the mistletoe zoomed away rapidly to find its next victim. The two stared at each other for another second, and then Harry grinned mischievously. Hermione rolled her eyes, and smacked him playfully.
The moment was gone, but not forgotten, and Harry would recall it often in the next year, as he eagerly awaited for the next Christmas.
After all, it was Christmas, and no one would suspect a charmed mistletoe.