Warning: this is an experiment; it's unbetaed, it's short, it even has feelings on it! I think of this as a written romantic comedy, and I like it - then again, I like romantic comedies, so this is no surprise. The characters, as usual, aren't mine (none of them - lots of surprises in this one!).

Finally, this fic is made possible because of Nat King Cole ("L-O-V-E") and Nightwish ("Walking in the Air"); great inspiration for the feelings part.
Cheers and Merry late Christmas!

(Love) It's Called 'Magic' for a Reason

When you said to me that muggles have a definition of magic, I was… shocked – which, in turn, was completely unsurprising, for both of us. Muggles aren't really my speciality, as I am surrounded by wizards only. Without you in my life, I'd never, and I do mean never, do a dish by hand, or watch television; you probably know that already, since you always tell me I'm the most predictable best friend.

But think about it for a while longer: these people a definition about something that doesn't exist for them! Something they wish it existed! It's utterly crazy, Hermione!

At least, that's what I thought, back then…

We first started talking about it because of some posters on the stores' windows (in that big street you like so much) and it was carried all the way to Central Park. It was snowing lightly, and I remember your hair full of snowflakes while we were sitting on that bench. Seeing your smile as I tried uselessly to remove some from the strands on the front made me tingle. The silence of the moment had something I couldn't put my finger on; a quality of comfort, of warmness, of permanence. It made me forget the birds chirping, or the children with the snowballs playing around, even though they were yelling earlier and presumably continued to yell before they hit me with a snowball the size of a bludger. Then it popped, that bubble that was formed – probably it has something to do with you laughing maniacally at my snow-covered face. It wasn't that funny, okay? I felt cold all day because of it. Then again, so did you, which I'm kind of sorry about, I was angry and you wouldn't stop laughing; but maybe putting a snowball in your hood was too much.

The subject appeared again when you mentioned that show on the Broad-way (that's the name of that other street with the theatres, right?) you wanted to see – a magicians' show. I remember you switching to full lecture mode when I joked about staying at home and making magic in front of you instead of going to the show. I should have shut my big mouth; or even better: you should learn to get jokes.

One phrase from that talk stuck on my head, like it was bloody charmed: 'magic, for muggles, it's something you can't explain – it just sort of… happens, you know?'. I then felt like muggles had a funny logic; or better yet, that they threw it out of the window at some point.

I shouldn't have scoffed your explanation – I knew it from the moment you made that face. The SPEW face. The face signaling your determination to shove understanding into my 'ignorant little head'. You actually said this once, remember? Of course you don't! You were redder than my hair that day. I probably was too. So I reckon it was the anger talking – but it'd shaken me, and yielded a big fight. Once we parted, back then, I felt like a shell of a person. There was infinite nothingness that week, as if everything was black and white, and not worth remembering. I call recall clearly the change back to bright colours: a rich tone of brown was the first tone I saw. Yes, your eyes, when you came to apologise. There was that bubble again: floating in the middle of the Burrow's living room with us inside. There was a hug too, one that substituted everything that could be said – interrupting your long, coherent, almost didactic speech was the best idea I had that day. You were surprised with it, I remember hearing you gasp and take a while to hug me back. I melted when you did. Even you – liking words as much as you do – have to admit that there was so much more there, it would take a tome to describe it. It seemed to last for hours; until my bloody brother, in all his sensitivity, interrupted us to babble at you.

It's ironic for me to be saying all of this, being the averse from words in the pair; but I came to the conclusion that it's necessary. You need that, that's the way you roll. So if that's way it takes to make you think about it, notice it, and think about it some more, that's the way I'm gonna do it. Your obsession with understanding, I feel it's like the central pillar of you, and I think it's beautiful. Like, the way your eyes sparked when you explained how that metallic thingy floated (a mag-something? I can't keep up with all the names!) in the air without any magic (or so you claim, I still think they hide a wizard there somewhere); or how you were excited when there was that film about the universe, you couldn't stop talking about it – it made something flutter inside me, as cliche as it seems. In a way I was glad that you took me to all those places to make me understand 'muggle magic'.

Today the pieces fell together and I... got it. You did make me understand it, after all. And, no it wasn't with all the classes about it (sorry 'bout that).

Yes, it was your fault. You and that bloody ice skating below the big tree, in the rock-fellow centre – don't look at me like that, it's not like I'm going to get the names right if you do! At first, I kind of hated the idea. I looked at those people from above and thought ice skating was a bit stupid. You just go 'round and 'round, doing the same things, no objective… and the worst part was: people were bloody loving it!

Why, I asked myself in disconcert, why? They even had this amazed smiles plastered, like they were drunk and loved everybody (I was half expecting them to start hugging and singing together). I think I made that clear, but you are as stubborn as ever. You insisted. You said it was Christmas. And you said it was important to you – puppy eyes included. I can't handle puppy eyes…

Yeah. That's the reason I agreed to the marvellous idea.

However, my regret caught up quickly. After my third fall (in what? Ten minutes maybe?), my arse was cold, hurting and I hated the idea even more than before. I was pissed at you – I should have said no, I reasoned with myself (more of less that – I filtered the cursing part).

Then the sun went down, and the giant tree was coloured by bright lights, which reflected on the ice. The sculptures of people with wings were also lit, harmonising with the snow-topped pine trees around the pathway. The sky in its dark blue provided the perfect background and even the buildings collaborated, with random windows glowing, and their lilac illumination that dissolved with vertical distance.

I was mesmerised at the sight – it was gorgeous. I felt something about it – something I couldn't explain. I knew it was there, I didn't know why.

You held my hand at that moment – the feeling grew, it took over. I looked at your eyes, counting the multi coloured reflections in your iris. Your smile made me smile and I agreed to have another go at skating. I don't know why, but I felt nothing could go wrong, like the moment simply had to stay perfect.

There we were, gliding in the ice, just the two of us – it was completely different than before, though. It was effortless, safe, it felt like floating again, in our bubble. It didn't go away this time; there wasn't the snap usually broke the warmness of it all. And yet, there was no understanding – it's like it didn't need any of it.

Finally I was able to see what you've been telling me for days. The 'magic'.

It followed me here.

It's light, and it makes me feel that way; it makes me smile, and tear. It's confusing, but it feels so right. It's even better than flying a broom: there's no wind aggressively trying to push you off. In fact, there's nothing trying to shake it off, just this… completeness. It envelops me in warmness. It sounds tacky, and silly – both. I can't really define it.

Again, I feel it's your fault.

I…

That's it, I guess.

Thanks showing me (muggle) magic, Hermione, and Merry Christmas.

The said girl blinked twice as she took in the declaration her friend dropped on her lap. A mountain of words filled her head instantly, all the possible answers battling for her attention.

To hell with all of them.

Magic wasn't formed with words – at least not that kind of magic; and she wordlessly plant a sweet, long kiss on the redhead's lips.