Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, this story would depict possible aspects of what I might have done with them and what I might have added to the books. But I don't own them. Still, here it is. No infringement intended.
Author's Note: I've been thinking about and planning this fic for ages. I just needed to start writing it for real. It may not be updated for a while, as I have other incomplete stories I need to finish. This prologue chapter was meant to drive me to get writing again, so I thought I'd share it as a preview of what's to come.
The title is whimsical but apt. It derives from a headcanon I posted on the Harmony Discord over a year ago—a headcanon that user Lord Lawful Good ran further with, which led me to realize there was more of a story to tell. I'd like to thank him in particular for the inspiration. My other inspiration comes from a favorite passage from Deathly Hallows, which serves as the epigraph to this story.
The phrase "huddled for warmth" is a well-known and well-worn fanfic trope, potentially implying a rich subtext. This story is about how Harry and Hermione got to that point, and where their relationship might go from there.
Also, be forewarned that this story will adhere as closely as possible to all canon except the epilogue, so there will be hints at H/G and R/Hr, but none of that will be discussed in any detail. The focus of this story is clearly on H/Hr, their friendship, and their developing physical connection.
They spent most of the day inside the tent, huddled for warmth around the useful bright blue flames that Hermione was so adept at producing, and which could be scooped up and carried around in a jar. Harry felt as though he was recuperating from some brief but severe illness, an impression reinforced by Hermione's solicitousness. That afternoon fresh flakes drifted down upon them, so that even their sheltered clearing had a fresh dusting of powdery snow.
— Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter 19, "The Silver Doe"
Chapter 1: Five Minutes More
Everything was white.
Downy soft and glistening in the daylight, large snowflakes drifted down, blanketing the garden.
The small girl was standing on the back porch of her parents' house, feeling an occasional chill from the wintry breeze, while the pristine frosted blanket made the atmosphere quiet and completely still. It comforted her, strangely even warmed her. Everything was hushed, everything at peace.
She felt happy. Elated, even.
Wasn't it Good King Wenceslas who looked out on the Feast of Stephen, observing the snow, watching for someone far away? "Sire, he is a good league hence!" She found herself humming the tune of the carol, filled with anticipation, though not for the someone possibly out in the snow. She didn't know what might be lurking outside the fence surrounding her parents' garden. She only knew she felt safe here, sheltered from unknown dangers.
Oddly, Hermione Granger didn't know why she was anxious, or what she was awaiting.
But those weren't the words to the carol, she thought. Didn't the poor man "live" a good league hence? He dwelt by the fountain of Saint Agnes, she recalled. Just then she noticed new blooms emerging on the white flowers in her parents' garden—Christmas roses, the flower of Saint Agnes. Her mother would often make wreaths with them to take to her grandmother's grave, though the girl thought the flowers in the garden were lovely enough to make a bouquet.
Hermione shook her head. She wanted to bask in holiday cheer and the pure drifting snow, not think of graveyards and death. Those seemed so far away, as if she were in a private sanctuary, an idyllic childhood refuge. But a refuge from what? Another chill passed through her as the wind picked up and subsided. The snow drifts were becoming deeper. She gathered a few flowers, occupying herself and calming her disquiet. Her thinking was muddled, and beneath the merriment of the day, there was some darker emotion. Yet the jaunty tune came back to her mind, unbidden. What were those lyrics again?
Hermione could swear she heard someone else singing the carol softly to her—the voice echoing as if disembodied and enunciating slowly, almost crooning, but with strange Latin words. She recognized the text, even if she couldn't remember where it came from:
O dilecta domina, cur sic alienaris?
An nescis, o carissima, quod sic adamaris?
Si tu esses Helena, vellem esse Paris!
Tamen potest fieri noster amor talis.
Out of nowhere, an owl glided quickly by, dropping a large parcel from several feet off the ground. The box landed with a soft whoosh in the new snow—not even a thud—before she could even identify anything about the bird that left it behind. It was her first year at Hogwarts, and she wasn't used to seeing many owls showing up here. Yet it also felt so familiar.
Christmas must have been yesterday, so she reasoned, but she didn't have any memories of it. She didn't actually know where her parents were, come to think of it, though she felt they were safe. Hermione also knew she had given many gifts of her own, so many of them—wishing, hoping. And now this belated gift seemed to arrive precisely on time.
Curious, she bent down and pulled a thread of the red ribbon. The thread appeared to go on endlessly, untying knot after knot after knot. She began to feel like she was pulling a long rope, almost like someone was lost at the end of it, out at sea—except not at sea, but lost in the wisps of snow. Out there somewhere. Finally, the knots gave way, and she was able to lift the lid.
It was a maroon jumper, bearing a large 'R' on the chest.
The elation dissipated immediately, and Hermione felt profound emptiness seep through her insides. In an instant, she was older, practically a young woman, no longer the blissful twelve-year-old girl contemplating whether young Harry Potter appreciated his chocolate frogs. She wanted to cry, but there were no more tears. That time of mourning was over. She was filled with anger, almost hatred.
Still, she pulled the jumper from the box, wrapping her arms around it ritualistically as she had done before, wishing that he was safe, that he might still be alive. The tears threatened again, and she buried her face in the wool, breathing in deeply.
And she smelled… Harry.
Harry?
God, he smelled so good. She buried her nose more deeply, nuzzling the patterns in the wool. It smelled like Harry—earthy and musky, yet fresh—and the happiness returned. Hermione was smiling ecstatically and almost crying, but now out of sheer joy. She knew it was Harry, that he was safe. That he was here, with her, in her refuge!
The arms of the jumper slowly ascended, wrapping themselves around her as she sighed deeply, pulling the fabric closer, needing to feel him . She never allowed herself to admit how much she needed him, not like this. But he was here, holding her—she could recognize that scent anywhere.
"Harry…" she breathed, almost moaned. "Harry… I was so afraid for you. But you're here. Safe. Merlin, you don't know how much… how so, so much, I lo—"
Hermione felt something twitch below her. The wool rubbed against her cheek as her eyes flickered open.
The world was definitely not white.
It was gray and tan and cold and harsh. It was a tent, with the coarse canvas bunched up, hovering just above the bed. And the soft fabric against her cheek was not maroon, but drably gray as well. Still, there was a glorious sound in her ear: the beating of his heart.
She closed her eyes, holding them shut for several seconds and begging for this to be real. She felt her head rise and fall slightly with the rhythm of the boy's breath. The dream wasn't real, but it was Saint Stephen's feast day. As her brain came to full awareness, she recalled that much. Hermione chewed her lip as she tilted her head up slightly, allowing her eyelids to slowly rise and observe the dark mop of hair on the boy she was cuddled so close to, the young man whose arm was loosely wrapped around her as her head lay upon his chest. The weak winter daylight was peeking into the tent just enough to bathe his face in yet another shade of gray, though the slight color on his cheeks gladdened her. He's getting better.
Having verified her suspicions, she found herself almost involuntarily moving her head to kiss his chest, above his heart, at that very spot where she worked so long merely a day ago to pry away one of the most evil enchanted objects in existence. Neither of them had worn that detestable locket at all today, in fact. It lay on the table beside Harry's bed.
She didn't want to disturb him, but couldn't resist nuzzling further into his chest as her leg wrapped more closely over his. The earlier thought echoed in her mind: Maybe we should just stay here together… grow—
But her eyes suddenly opened wide, as she abruptly emerged from her reverie. No one is keeping watch! Are we really so stupid to think we're safe here? She and Harry had been exhausted for weeks. The past two nights were even worse, sapping their energy as they were awake through much of the darkness, keeping some perverse mockery of a Christmas vigil. Except instead of awaiting the advent of a Messiah, they were running away: fleeing from the snake and from Voldemort, from the voices, from the wind itself.
As if on cue, the wind whistled through a gap in the tent door, sending a chill through Hermione. The blue glow surrounding them provided a modicum of warmth, but the frigid weather outside kept creeping in. Harry needed to rest, to recover completely, particularly given his unstable state. At times he was chilled and unable to warm himself, but then he'd suddenly become feverish, as the effects of the dark magic slowly dispersed from his system. He needed to be ready for this bitter cold world, this harsh evil dark gray world….
Hermione sighed softly. She really shouldn't be in Harry's bed now anyway. It was too dangerous, too complicated.
But was it really?
She didn't want to think about that now. Besides, she needed to get up, to keep watch.
But not quite yet. Today had been so unexpected; nonetheless this felt so right. It had been almost a year since they had allowed themselves such an indulgence. Well, it was never quite like this, she thought. But this is what she treasured— these moments. In one form or another, they had happened for years, ever since that one accidental touch on an otherwise uneventful night in the Gryffindor common room nearly five years earlier. Hermione and Harry never talked about them directly, barely even acknowledged they existed, aside from that one exceptionally awkward conversation last year, when Hermione had been afraid they'd end forever.
For the past several weeks, they had both struggled to maintain that discipline, to remain within the preset bounds the world seemed to expect from them. At first, Hermione stayed away from him deliberately, closing herself off, fearful that the accusation leveled against her could actually be true. But on Christmas Eve he had cried—real tears streaming down his cheeks—and all she saw was a lonely little boy, bereft of family and friends. And wasn't that the reason all of this had begun between them so many years ago? When he actually put his arm around her in the graveyard, taking the initiative in that manner for the very first time she could recall, how could she not give in? How could she not give him as much as he wanted, as much as he could ever need?
Who am I kidding? Hermione needed this as much as he did. Now she merely regretted how long it had taken them to acknowledge it. She didn't care what it meant or didn't mean. All she knew was that it was right —how could it not be right for two people who cared deeply about one another to be close, to find comfort in a time of distress? Given the dark events of the past year along with the events and revelations of the past days, she struggled even to imagine how their outlook could become worse.
Yet it didn't feel like that now. Somehow, the cares of the world seemed so far away when she was in his arms. The entire universe could be falling apart around them, and she'd happily lie here forever, dreaming of Christmas and occasionally even allowing herself to become lost in emerald green eyes.
Harry stirred just a bit, still asleep, but pulling her closer into his side. Hermione smiled in response and drew the downy white blanket up to her neck, before she wrapped her arm more tightly around him.
Just five minutes more….
Footnote: We begin with a dream sequence that is my attempt to dip into Hermione's subconscious in a similar fashion to Harry's dreams that JKR included in the books. I won't unpack all the possible meanings and references, as part of the fun as a reader is often to speculate on what these things might represent and to come to your own interpretation.
One obscure reference deserves a little explanation, though. It's perhaps a stretch that Hermione's subconscious begins singing a medieval Latin song. But as someone so fascinated with history and who spends so much time paging through ancient tomes, she might be the type of person who could have a little fun singing along with a Latin tune if she happened upon it. So maybe it could stick in her memory and bubble up in the midst of her brain's random connections on December 26th.
The lyrics quoted were indeed written for the same tune as "Good King Wenceslas," centuries before that melody was used for a carol telling a story about the day after Christmas. It was originally a medieval song about spring, "Tempus adest floridum," which means "the time of flowers is come upon us." In the Carmina Burana, a collection of bawdy and satirical medieval songs, the lyrics to this tune turn into an impassioned love song in their final verse, which is what Hermione hears. Roughly translated:
O lovely woman, why do you alienate me?
Do you not know, O most beloved one, that I ardently desire you?
If you are Helen [of Troy], then I want to be Paris!
Our love is so great that, even still, it can happen.
I'll leave you to sort out why that text comes into her head at this moment. And of course I'd love to hear your thoughts and reactions in reviews.