Hi guys!

That's right, two chapters in one day, have I gone mad? Kinda.

I started out with "omg, I'm going to write Christmas fluff this chapter, yay!" and then it turned totally angsty. Oops. But hey, the thing I like about Harry Potter is that it covers all genres, and Christmas is simply not a super happy time for Harry, if you realize the shit he's been through.
I still think it's really beautiful, though. It really shows how close Harry and Hermione are and how strong their bond is.

And Aunty Penelope had a few wild years as a young adult. Who would have guessed?

Thank you again for all the support you have shown me over the last couple of days (and hours!), you guys mean the world to me.

Love, Flora

Chapter 7: How Harry realized that sometimes, it was okay to be a total wreck.

It snowed. Of course it snowed - it was almost Christmas Eve. As Harry and Hermione apparated on a little hill near Aunty Penelope's cottage, tagging their trolleys with luggage and a very happy Crookshanks behind them, he thought about how long ago it was that he had actually looked forward to Christmas. Longer than he liked to admit, he reckoned, and soon after he realized that maybe he had never looked forward to Christmas this much.

Christmas was a party that merely consisted of confirmations that everyone else had what Harry had not. A real family. As a child, Christmas had been pure torture, where Dudley would be showered in gifts and he would usually get none. Especially when he still used to believe in Santa, Christmas had been a horrible time of year, where he was convinced that he was "a bad boy" for not receiving any special gifts, aside from some worn-down clothes of Dudley or the occasional broken, second-hand toy. He would see his nephew get the greatest gadgets, the most shiny and beautiful presents, and he would be left with nothing but disappointment, that left him feel hallow through and through.

'Santa hates you,' Dudley would tell him. 'He thinks you're a rotten boy and that's why he's not giving you anything special. He won't bother letting his elves slave away at your expense. Freaks don't deserve gifts, after all.'

Harry tried to be so good in the months leading up to Christmas - making the best breakfast, helping out with all the chores without a hint of complaining and even seeking out tasks that he could do without his aunt and uncle asking him, but would still be happy with - but all to no avail. Coal in Harry's stockings, for the first eight years of his life. So, even when he learned that Santa wasn't real, Christmas had left a poor taste in his mouth, and even though the Weasley's tried their best with their jumpers and their amazing cooking, Harry would always feel left out. He would attend their celebrations, and he would always see himself as an outsider, the one who couldn't actually fit in, no matter how hard he tried, because he didn't actually belong. He was just another invitee, a testament to the Weasley's caring nature, not an actual participant. It had felt less forced when he and Ginny had dated, and over the years he had grown to like giving his friends gifts and receiving them in return, but Christmas would always feel like a holiday of what-could-have-been's. At Christmas, Harry missed his parents, like it was only yesterday that he'd lost them. At Christmas, Harry usually grieved.

Hermione knew this. She was one of the first ones to realize, as she had been with him at Goderic's Hollow at Christmas Eve, and she had seen the look in his eyes. She had stood by him, she had hold his hand, and she had looked at him as the tears had streamed down his face. She had summoned the wreath of roses, she had let him be, she had been there for him. He never spent another Christmas without her, and every Christmas Eve, they would find a minute or two to hold each other's hand and share that moment again. Harry hated crying, but tears would usually well up in his eyes for a brief moment, and Hermione would always let him grieve in silence, for just a little while. She wouldn't verbally comment on it, he knew she knew how he felt, and her presence was all he needed.

He visited his parent's grave that morning. He had conjured a wreath of his own and had talked to their gravestone a bit - ridiculous, he knew that, but he liked talking to his parents, even though it was probably just make-believe. When he briefly explained to them that he would spend Christmas with Hermione's family because of his temperamental fake-proposal, he swore he could hear his father snicker beyond the grave, and he imagined Lily slapping him punishingly on the arm. "James, Harry is serious about this, you know!" "Oh, I'm sure he's very serious, alright. Merlin Harry, that is the most creative pick-up line I've ever heard. Next time, be sure to buy a girl dinner first." "I am not actually dating her, dad!" "Right, you don't have feelings for Hermione. Except you do. You know you do, and just so you know, you'd absolutely have our blessing if you'd get actually married to Hermione." "Stop pestering him, James." "What's the fun in that? After all, it's not really Christmas without a little family quarrel..."

Harry knew for sure that Hermione would give him their moment today as well, to think about the loss of James and Lily once more, and he was also sure that he wouldn't feel as left out this Christmas as he usually would. The Weasley's were fun, but they were also loud, and abrasive, and very relentless in their Christmas bantering. They always had these family traditions, that Harry could never feel a part of, because it was so crowded, and there would always be people he didn't always see eye-to-eye with. It had made him skip Christmas Day with the Weasley's for the past few years, instead celebrating Christmas Eve with Hermione, Neville and Luna, and spending Christmas Day alone or at work. This time he would spend the days with Mister and Mrs. Granger, who had always been calming and sweet, and Aunty Penelope, who seemed very upfront at first, but who was possibly just very lonely, just as he was. And of course, there was Hermione. The one he supposedly should be starting a family with of his own, if he would act on their so-called "engagement". He looked at her, the coldness stinging her cheeks red, snowflakes in her flowing hair, brown eyes bright and just as sparkling as the snowdrops that fell out of the sky. He couldn't help but think that the guy that would eventually start a family with her, was one lucky bastard.

'I'm actually really excited,' Hermione said, as she stroked Crookshanks through his pet carrier. 'Aunty Penelope is been said to make a mean Christmas punch. Mom is making her own Beef Wellington - it's absolutely divine Harry, I swear. Of course, we'll miss Luna and Neville's stories of the countries they've visited this year, and the elaborate descriptions of the next crumple-horned snorcack she couldn't find, but I'm sure she'll make that up on New Year's Eve...'

Harry chuckled, loving listening to Hermione's rambling, and he told her that he couldn't agree more. She looked back to him, smiling sweetly, understanding what he said and the meaning behind it. When they halted before the door to Aunty Penelope's cottage, she squeezed his hand a bit.

'It'll be fine. You'll see.'

'I know,' Harry replied seriously. He was making this way too awkward already, wasn't he? Why was he so gloomy today? This was just Christmas, for Merlin's sake. He'd celebrated it with Hermione at least a hundred times, and he had always been fine. Never as a betrothed couple, though, a pestering voice said in his mind. You're sure you won't find any mistletoe in Aunty Penelope's house? I'm certain you wouldn't actually mind, would you... He paused for a moment to curse his messed up subconscious and took a deep breath. Normalcy, that was key here. Some freaking normalcy. He shook the thoughts out of his head, messed up his hair some more and then grinned mischievously at Hermione.

'I know, because I'm always fine when I'm with you, darling.'

'You're going to make me barf,' Hermione said, appreciating his change of tone and immediately jumping in on the banter. 'You're telling me I should tone it down with the "a thousand times yes!"-statements, it's only fair that you back down as well.'

'I never said that I would stop exaggerating,' Harry said slyly. 'By the way, did I tell you that, if the snow wasn't as pearly white as it is right now, it would surely pale in comparison to your astounding beauty...'

'I'm this close at hexing your mouth shut, you absolute Philip.'

'Philip? Philip? My God Hermione, I've never heard you swear like a bloody sailor! Wash your mouth, young lady!'

Hermione elbowed him hard in the ribs and Harry laughed and winced at the same time. She used the doorknocker in the shape of a lion and it didn't take long for a servant to open the door - an older gentleman, with a lot of wrinkles and a tuft of hair on his head that he had tried to comb as flatteringly as possible.

'Ah, Miss Granger, Mister Potter. You are being expected. You can leave your luggage here - thank you. Now, please follow me.'

Aunty Penelope's house was big, absolutely, but it was by no means a mansion. She had a nice entrance foyer, with a substantial wooden staircase that had wooden shields carved into it, but the servant - who introduced himself as Alan - was the only staff Aunty Penelope had, and he led them to the lounge, that somewhat reminded Harry of Gryffindor Common Room. Two comfortable love seats, bookcases, a crackling fireplace... Harry immediately felt at home. As Mister and Mrs. Granger were still working in their practice, Aunty Penelope was alone, and she greeted them warmly, letting Alan serve hot cocoa to them.

'I am so pleased that you're both here, absolutely. And you both look so wonderfully ordinary!' she exclaimed. 'My Harry, that jumper looks absolutely lovely on you.'

Harry mustered a shy grin and thanked her. Hermione let Crookshanks out, and the cat immediately started to investigate the house with a keen interest.

'Thank you for letting him come over, Aunty,' Hermione said, as she installed herself on one of the love seats. 'I couldn't leave him home all alone on Christmas.'

'I understand. Geoffrey and I used to have lots of pets - I was very found of our pug, Grumpy, but when he got older he used to smell like he'd already died,' Aunty Penelope said, sipping at her afternoon tea. 'We once had a cat as well, you know. Siamese type, can't remember the name. There was probably something wrong with him, as he was insatiable. I can quite clearly remember one time we couldn't find him - he'd got himself stuck in our cooking pot and when we found him, he'd eaten the biggest portion of the stew. But dear Geoffrey didn't want to get rid of him, he didn't have the heart, although he did come quite close when the beast stole his medium-rare steak during his birthday-dinner...'

Harry leaned against the wall, warming his hands with the hot cocoa and smiling gleefully.

'Crookshanks has his antics too. He tried to eat the pet rat of our friend, Ron, during our third year at boarding school. Oh, how they fought each other over it...'

'And may I mention that Crooks was totally justified doing that!' Hermione cut in. 'Ronald's pet rat wasn't exactly... Well... Let's just say, he deserved to be eaten.' Harry laughed.

'That's true, Hermione-...'

'Oh, please dear, you can sit next to your fiancee,' Aunty Penelope gestured. 'There's no need for you to keep your distance or to be all fuzzy about that. I lived through the sixties, you know.'

Harry quickly looked at Hermione, but she seemed perfectly content with it, and why wouldn't she be? They had set next to each other so many times... He placed himself next to her on the sofa, but he noticed she still kept her distance. She still felt the awkwardness somewhere, but so did he. He didn't mind it for now.

'The sixties, Aunty Penelope?' Harry asked, friendly. 'Do tell.'

'Oh, I haven't drunken enough port for that, dear boy. I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl, but I don't think you'd feel any better if I'd tell them to you,' Aunty Penelope said, dismissively, but then she winked. 'Although, I guess I could tell you about that one vacation that Geoffrey and I had in India, where we tried some quite exciting mushrooms...'

Harry and Hermione had a great afternoon, talking with Aunty Penelope about her weird experiences with drugs and other travel stories. She truly was an amazing story teller, grasping their attention for every second, and Harry felt Hermione slowly relaxing against him. Finally she ended up with her back against the arm rest, her feet perched on Harry's lap, as Harry lazily stroked her calves.

'But how did you get passed customs with all those goods in your bag?' Harry asked, dumbfounded, after he listened to a story of how Aunty Pelope and Uncle Geoffrey had managed to smuggle a huge quantity of a quite illegally distilled beverage across the border.

'You have no idea of the influence I had on men at that time, boy,' Aunty Penelope said, with a wink. 'Oh, I believe I hear the car of your parents, Hermione. Make sure to never mention a word of what I've just told you both. What do you say we move to the kitchen? I wanted to bake some Christmas cookies for tonight...'

'Cookies?' Harry asked excitedly, as if he were eight years old and not 23. 'Are you good at baking, Aunty Penelope?'

'As good as any Aunty,' the old lady replied, dignified. 'Alan sure tries, but he never puts the right amount of almonds in them... It's a feeling, you know, not something you can achieve with a measuring cup. Do you love cooking, Harry?'

Hermione grinned and affectionately stroke him through his hair, as he got up from the sofa.

'Oh yes, I do. I used to cook almost all the meals when I still lived with my aunt and uncle. I used to do a lot of taste-testing, because they usually didn't let me eat the same amount of food as they did. Anyway, they wouldn't notice when I would nick a few ingredients from the pantry and whip something up myself when I was hungry, so I became quite good at you know, pastries and omelets and stuff. Work has made me too busy though, so I don't have a lot of time to cook at the moment, I'm afraid...'

'Remind me to be particularly nasty next time I see your aunt and uncle,' Hermione growled, as they entered the kitchen. 'I tend to downplay how appalling they treated you.'

'It's okay,' Harry said quickly. 'I do too.'

Hermione didn't like that reply, as she pulled Harry into a tight hug, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Harry felt that now familiar warmth spread through his limbs, as he leaned in and took in the smell of her hair. They stood there for some moments, while Aunty Penelope got some of her kitchen utensils out of the cupboards, trying very hard not to be too obvious about listening in.

'I hope you never tell yourself that you deserved how they treated you. You don't. Never forget that.'

Harry didn't know why, but he felt a lump in his throat. Possibly because no one had ever said those words to him. No one had ever told him he didn't have it coming, that he didn't cause them to be so hurtful towards him. "It's your own fault", that was their mantra. "It's your own fault for being so useless, for being so different, for being a freak." Hermione's kind words hit him hard, especially today, when he thought about how little Harry would usually spend Christmas Eve hoping that tomorrow would be a total change from the usual Christmas morning's, only to have his little heart shattered each and every year, and he felt himself biting his tongue to stop himself from crying.

What is with you, today? He asked himself. Get a grip, Potter!

'It's alright, Harry,' Hermione said, with a soft and soothing voice. 'It's not a weakness to show you're hurt.'

He felt her softly draw circles on his back, comforting him and holding him like he had never experienced, and he couldn't hold back anymore. He cried, and she held him, firmly, and Harry thought he would crumble if she would ever let go.

It took him some time to get a hold of his emotions, but when he did, he saw that his glasses had blurred, and that two silhouettes were standing in the opening of the kitchen door. Hermione's parents.

'I'm sorry,' Harry apologized. 'I didn't know what came over me. I-...'

'Don't you dare apologize,' Hermione said, sternly but sweet. 'It's okay to not always be okay. I'm actually really proud of you.'

And then she broke their promise - she kissed him on the cheek, but he instinctively knew she would always have done that in a situation like this, fake-betrothal or not. That was just Hermione. Sweet, awesome, Hermione. Weirdly enough, the crying made him feel a lot better, like a black cloud was taken from his mind, and when he cleaned his spectacles and hugged Hermione's parents, he knew that today would be a lot easier.

'Right,' he said, after putting an apron on. He rolled up his sleeves and walked towards the counter. 'Cookies. What ingredients do you use for the dough, Aunty Penelope?'