The days passed like leaves falling from autumn branches. Slowly, like Father Time had decided that every second should feel like an hour and every hour a day. Sometimes, they rushed by in a blur, dizzying, until Harry woke up one day and realised: It's the first day of Advent.

He wasn't sure what to do. The Dursleys had never been the religious sort of folk and he remembered Hermione mentioning something about her mother going to Catholic school as a girl. The Weasleys couldn't tell you a single thing about Jesus and Harry honestly didn't know much about the bloke himself.

But the day felt significant for some reason. A break in the monotone of his and Hermione's life. Not an unwelcome break, per se, simply a fracture that helped the mindless clockwork of their lives seem less mindless and repetitive.

It didn't call for anything special. Nothing outside a special dinner and a casual mention over the table. Perhaps he would light candles.

He looked in the cupboards, taking note of everything they had. Rice. Minced meat. Peppers. Tomatoes. Something warm, definitely. It had been snowing all week and Hermione had finally caved and turned the thermostat up to a reasonable 20 degrees. A sort of chilli and rice. Yes, that sounded quite good. And he'd make some hot chocolate on the stove as well. He was pretty sure he had seen some Bailey's in the liqueur chest as well. But he'd save making that till after they had eaten.

He took a shower at noon and was fresh-faced and clean-clothed by the time Hermione came home. She shivered, falling against him, her coat cold and her cheeks red.

'Hermione?' He peeled her snowy coat away, tossing it aside, and ran his hands up and down her arms.

'D-didn't th-think it'd b-b-be tha-that c-c-cold,' she stuttered.

'Oh, Merlin, Hermione.' He sat her on the sofa, unfurling a blanket and tugging it over her shoulders. He pulled his wand out of his trousers, casting a charm on her. 'This has gotta be the stupidest thing you've ever done.' She managed to glare at him, and despite the fact that her teeth still chattered, he counted it as a victory. 'You're lucky you didn't freeze your toes off.'

'W-why don't y-you go f-freeze y-your b-b-balls off?' she snapped.

He barked out a laugh. 'Stay angry. It'll warm you up.' He knelt in front of her, taking her icy hands into his and began rubbing feeling into them. 'Jesus, Hermione. Why didn't you just use a heating charm?' She glared at him but didn't say anything, only sat, shivering, on their sofa. He took a break from her hands and began to tug her boots off, shaking the snow off and throwing them on top of her coat. The soaking socks went next along with her hat and scarf. He shook his head and cast a quick drying spell. 'You need a hot bath. And some food. You'll get ill.' He took her hand, pulling her to her feet. 'Come on.' With a wave of his wand, he Summoned fresh clothes from her room.

He sat her on the toilet as he ran the water. 'H-honestly, H-Harry,' she told him, arms crossed over her chest. 'You don't need t-to run a b-bath f-for me.' She frowned up at him. 'I'm f-fine. S-seriously.'

'Why are you still stuttering then?'

She pursed her lips.

'Exactly. I'll have dinner ready by the time you get done. Take as long as you need– actually.' He reached down, picking her hands up again and turning them over. 'I want your fingers to be all wrinkly when you get out. All right?'

She scrunched her nose. 'Really, Harry?'

He squeezed her fingers and placed a chaste kiss on the tips. 'I want wrinkles, Miss Granger!' he called, walking out.

Crookshanks sat outside the door. He looked away when Harry came out but as soon as he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he heard the door yawn open and Hermione shriek. 'Ha– oh. Hullo, Crooks.' He smiled to himself and began dinner.

Hermione, bless her, had a stack of cookbooks, and one of them mercifully had a rudimentary recipe for chilli that he could base his own off of.

He had learnt that most of her books had belonged to her parents. Written on the inside cover were either one of three names: Ben Granger, Helen Granger, or Hermione Granger. Ben had looping, almost unintelligible handwriting while Helen– his wife and Hermione's mum– had clean, perfectly spaced handwriting, almost as if she had copied it from a book. Hermione's was somewhere in between. She could be neat when she needed to be but he found that if she was in a hurry, her penmanship decreased to that of a scrawl, barely legible except to her and anyone with better eyesight than Harry.

In the rare occasions that Hermione opened up about her parents– it usually involved one or two glasses of alcohol and a day or two of sleep deprivation– Harry made sure to listen.

Her father, Ben, she said, was a quiet sort of man. He was clever in the bookish sort of way but she remembered fondly of him blushing deeply during social situations, stuttering and lost without a surgical mask and a professional setting to shield him. But he was a good man, she always said, with tears in her eyes. He was a good man, truly. And she certainly didn't deserve him, nor he and what she did to him.

Her mother, Helen, was driven. That's what she always called her. Driven. Ambitious. Smart, of course. But she had a plan and everything that didn't follow it be damned. Hermione had admitted to him one night that her mother hadn't taken the news of her magic well. That she didn't speak to her for weeks on end.

'I was supposed to become a dentist,' she had slurred. 'Or a doctor or lawyer or Lord knows what. I think she thought the magic thing was a phase. That as soon as I- as I got myself 'under control' that I'd turn back to a more… respectable profession.' She had shrugged and laughed bitterly. 'Look at me now. I'm a shopgirl. The only degree I have are my OWLS but who in the Muggle world gives a flying fuck about that?' She laughed again, this time borderlining mad. 'Not that she can even remember her own name, much less mine or what a fucking disappointment I am.'

Hermione emerged from the bath, her hair damp around her shoulders. She sat on the counter, crossing her legs at the ankle. 'What're you making?' she asked.

Harry placed a cup beside her. Tea. She drank it, more for his sake than her own. She wasn't going to be ill just because of a little snow. But if he was going to be so worried about it then it was the least she could do to listen to him.

'Here.' She opened her mouth and he placed a spoonful of red stuff onto her tongue. He watched as she tasted it, her eyes closed as a hum rose from her throat. 'Ugh, that's delicious!'

He grinned. 'Perfect. It's about done. Could you get some bowls?'

She reached over and opened a cupboard, taking down two bowls. She handed them to him and he filled them with rice and chilli. She pulled her legs up so she was sitting cross-legged on the counter, giving him room to lean against the wall beside her.

'What do you want to watch tonight?' she asked, stirring her food around.

Harry shrugged. 'Whatever you want.'

'I have The Fox and the Hound on VHS,' Hermione started. 'If you wouldn't mind watching it with me. It's a good movie. My favourite.' She went on, almost in a ramble, 'My cousins and I used to watch it over Christmases. They used to tease me about being Copper. You'd be Todd, I think. I dunno why. You just remind me of him.' Her cheeks flushed red and she shoved good into her mouth. 'Sorry,' she said around her chilli, 'you haven't got a clue what I'm saying.'

Harry smiled. 'We'll watch Fox and the Hound. Then I'll know.' He reached over and tweaked her nose. 'And don't talk with your mouth full.'

She swallowed and stuck her tongue out at him.

He blew a raspberry back.

~~~

'Come on,' Hermione whinged. 'The film's starting!'

Harry rolled his eyes and walked slower towards her and the sofa. Gingerly, he sat down next to her and handed her two cups of hot chocolate. While the film started, he flicked a blanket out, spreading it over their legs. The whole time, Hermione gave him an irritated side eye. He only grinned cheekily at her.

'Are you quite done?' she asked, raising her eyebrows. She handed him his cup and settled against his side, sighing as he finally stilled. 'You're gonna love it,' she promised.

'Mmhm.' He took a sip of his drink.

If Harry was being honest with himself he wasn't paying much attention to the film. Hermione kept her gaze glued on the screen, her eyes shining. The whole time she had a small smile on her face and when she laughed it was a sweet chuckle. Sometimes she would tap his arm and whisper, never looking away, 'This was my favourite part.' She was warm against his side, her hip fitting perfectly against his. Halfway through the film, she leaned her head against his arm and he could feel her hair tickling his neck, smell the sweet, honey scent of her soap. No, if Harry was being honest with himself, he wasn't paying attention to the film at all.

Finally, the end credits began rolling and she sighed contentedly. 'What did you think?' she asked, turning to look up at him.

His breath caught in his throat. How many years had he known Hermione? Ten? How could he have not seen the constellation of freckles across her cheeks? Or the delicate shadow of her eyelashes or the curve of her lips? The silver reflection in her eyes from a television screen?

He swallowed. Get a hold of yourself, Harry, he chided himself. It's nothing. It's just the increased proximity. And you've been worried about her all day, is all. Heightened emotions. Don't do anything stupid.

'Harry?' she asked, her breath ghosting across his face. 'Are you okay?'

His eyes fell closed and he nodded, slowly, numbly. He was falling asleep. He was tired. Yes, that was it. It was late. He was getting a bit sleep deprived, is all. Right.

'Right,' he mumbled, opening his eyes. 'Sorry, I'm a bit tired. Er, what was the question again?'

She smiled up at him, fondly. 'What did you think of the film?'

He smiled. 'Oh, it was good. Cute. Almost like a platonic Romeo and Juliet, I think. Did you say I was like Todd?'

She giggled. 'You're sweet like him. And you're a bit stubborn and foolhardy like he is.'

'Foolhardy?' he repeated.

'Reckless,' she explained. 'Take it as a compliment. Todd was always my favourite as a kid.' She sighed and sat up, stretching her arms out. Harry didn't notice the arch of her back or the slope of her throat. He didn't notice the curve of her breasts or the long, satisfied moan that she gave. He didn't notice any of it at all.

He rubbed his face and got up as well. Bed. I need to go to bed, he told himself. 'Well, thanks for showing that film to me,' he said. He folded the blanket to avoid looking at her.

'Thanks for watching it with me,' she replied, picking their empty cups up. 'Go on to bed. I'll pick up.' She reached up and braced a hand against his shoulder as she leaned in and placed her lips against his cheek in a chaste kiss.

He froze, his mind focusing on the action. The warmth of her lips. The softness of them against his face. He was going to shave every day if she kept kissing him like that.

Kissing.

Hermione had kissed him.

How many times have you kissed her? he asked himself. He ran over all the instances that it had happened. Simple, light brushes. An absent gesture against her temple. A light, sleepy peck against his shoulder. Mechanical. Instinctual. How had such a habit come about? Why hadn't it felt so important before?

Harry blinked and realised he was still standing in the front room, the blanket held limply on his hands. He shook his head and hurriedly finished folding it. He took the remote and turned the telly off. Went upstairs.

But he couldn't shake the feel of Hermione. Warm against his side. The narrow slant of her shoulders. The lean curve of her back. The softness of her lips against his cheek.

He needed to go to bed. To sleep. He was thinking of things he had no business or mind to think about.