"Merry Christmas!" rang out over and over again in the Weasley house on the eve of the holiday that always seemed to bring magic and joy, even in the most trying of times. But the war was over now, and Hermione had other things on her mind.
Like men. Or, more specifically, one redheaded man.
The Weasleys were always so loving, and they did everything in their power to make Hermione feel like one of the family. And she truly had become surrogate daughter to Molly. But tonight she didn't want to be part of the family. Rather, she wished she was that mysterious woman who Harry had brought with him. She wished that she was on the receiving end of those looks that almost every male in the room was sending the exotic beauty.
Harry and Ginny had had a short and tumultuous relationship that left no doubt in anyone's mind that they were simply not compatible, much to Molly's chagrin. They parted on amicable terms and still enjoyed each other's company immensely, even if they didn't often go out of the way to seek it.
As for Ron and herself, Hermione had always known that they weren't meant to be. It had taken her giving him a stern talking-to, almost a year of silence on his part, and a war before he admitted she was right. On the eve of the most important day in almost a century for England's magical world, he had at last broken down, finally facing the possibility of losing one or both of his best friends.
The Weasleys had a tradition of handing out pyjamas as the Christmas Eve gift, and everyone had to change into theirs before the festivities started. Hermione received hers with a gracious smile and sincerely told Mrs. Weasley that they were lovely before heading off to the bathroom to change. But as she unfolded them, she knew that it was not Mrs. Weasley who had picked out her flannel pants and t-shirt, but rather the mischievous redhead that was following in her mother's footsteps as a matchmaker.
The pants were a lovely crimson and white floral pattern that was elegant, not brash as floral cloth so often can be, and the shirt the same deep red colour. Ginny often commented that Hermione looked spectacular in red, but that was not the only thing that clued our heroine in. All together, the outfit was positively indecent. The shirt was so tight, it verged on being whorish, and the pants somehow clung to her every curve. This being Hermione making these judgements, however, we may assume that they were really not as bad as that. Suffice it to say, they were tighter than anything that Hermione felt comfortable wearing in public.
Hermione made her way over to her friend, and with a fake smile plastered to her face, told her in her most dangerous voice (and everyone knows that Hermione is quite the force to be reckoned with) that she was going to kill her. The green bedecked girl smiled and gave Hermione an infuriatingly knowing look. Ginny had always been a bit reckless, observed Harry as he watched the exchange between the two women.
Hermione took her seat at her usual place. Oh, she moaned inwardly, that she even had a usual place! The only good thing about her chair, besides the fact that it was heaven on legs, was that it was exactly opposite the object of her deep and reluctant affections. Charlie Weasley was quite possibly the most attractive man she had ever met. Not in a traditional sense, but he definitely had that rugged, muscled look.
They got to know one another during the war, when Charlie was around more often for Order work. It was during that same awkward period when Ron was ignoring Hermione completely, and Harry was trying to mediate between the two. She felt alone; Charlie was always there with his easy smile and carefree laugh. He had not really shown any partiality to her in particular, but seemed to instinctively know when someone needed an ear or even just a few laughs. Can Hermione really be blamed for having fallen for him, and fast? He had such confidence, without the arrogance that men in general, and particularly the Weasley boys, were known for.
The first time one of their encounters occurred, Hermione was taking a break in her studying for Horcruxes and useful spells and was in the kitchen making hot chocolate. Why were the English always characterised by their tea drinking, she wondered, when so many preferred coffee or hot cocoa? As she was in the midst of her musings, much lighter than they had been of late, Charlie Weasley walked in. As a young woman of 19, she could hardly miss the physical attractions of the second oldest Weasley, but she ignored her own train of thought and smiled at him. It wasn't her brilliant smile. She herself had not seen it in ages. Instead, it was tired, much too despairing and worldly for one so young. Charlie decided it was up to him to bring her old cheerfulness and almost annoying optimism back. So, he regaled her with stories of his escapades on the dragon reserve, of the ridiculous things he had seen and even done when he was new. Soon, he had her talking, and before she knew it, she unloaded all her worries onto him. He listened, seeming to know that women don't want advice, only someone to listen and sympathise with them. He told her Ron was an idiot, that the war would be over soon, and that she should come to him whenever she needed to.
It was weeks before she took his advice, but when Ginny proved too absorbed in her own problems with Harry, she finally sought out Charlie's kind eyes. It became a ritual, and every week they got together, with Charlie gradually telling her more and more of his missions and her dumping her struggles and insecurities on him until they once again rose to torment her.
Now, as she watched him talking to Harry's newest fling- there was no doubt in her mind that it would not last long-, her heart hurt in a way she had not previously known. Hermione knew she wasn't really thinking clearly, but she suddenly wished that her hair was a rich black, and her eyes were slanted in such wonderful way. She wished that her legs were long and her waist so impossibly small. She suddenly felt as if she was suffocating, and she rushed out the door as soon as opportunity presented, grabbing her coat and calling out excuses. I'll be right back, she heard herself yelling, I just need some fresh air.
The snow glittered in the moonlight and she looked up at the stars. They were always such a comfort to her, physical proof that mysteries can be unravelled. She drew a few shaky breaths, and cursed when she heard the door open behind her. Mist. German was a second language to her, as was French, and both came almost as freely as her native English. Hopefully, the person was at the door had no idea that she was throwing semi-profanities at them.
She could feel him. Hermione was convinced that she would be able to tell anytime he occupied the same room as her. Hermione, his deep voice throbbed through her, are you alright? She finally turned and smiled in affirmative. It wasn't exactly true, but he needn't know that. She looked at him, with only a small wife beater on, shivering in the cold, and knew, at that exact moment, that she would never feel this way about another man. She wasn't so foolish as to believe that she could never fall in love again, but this was something special and unique. It was extraordinary and, since Hermione could never do anything in halves, completely consuming.
Hermione, he said again, look up. She did and cursed again, only this time it was at the Weasley women- whichever one decided it would be smart to hang enchanted mistletoe on the ledge that was currently sheltering her from the falling snow. It was so cliché, she thought as Charlie gathered her into his strong arms. He bent his head, but paused for a second. His hair was brushing her cheeks, and his bright blue eyes bored into her own flecked ones. Then, he dipped his head down and covered her mouth with his. It was shocking, surreal, and sudden. She felt deprived as he pulled away, but her nerves still told her where every inch of him was touching her. She never felt more alive; it all was so intense, it was almost painful.
Oh Hermione, his voice now husky, I've wanted that for so long. She was surprised, and accidently looked into his bewitching blue eyes again. He leaned over again and kissed her more thoroughly than the first time. Hermione, he didn't bother moving his lips from hers as he spoke, will you marry me?
She had never done anything impulsively, but she knew that if she didn't marry him, she would never meet another man without comparing him to Charlie. She also knew that she would reach as perfect a level of happiness as any human had ever reached before with him at her side.
Yes. She watched his face fill with that smile, oh that wonderful smile, and she knew, if only for that smile she had made the right choice. But she didn't only get that smile. She got the rest of him, too.