Harry landed on his stone hearth with a bit of a wobble, steadying himself on the mantelpiece and accidentally knocking over an empty pint glass. He caught it mid-air, almost losing his balance again, and swore.

"Harry?" came Hermione's voice. "Be careful in there, I haven't had a chance to clean."

"Oh, really?" he said, glancing around the room. "I hadn't noticed." It had been a very good party, which he supposed was his only consolation for letting two dozen of his nearest and dearest absolutely trash his cottage. He stepped over a sticky puddle of something or other that was shining iridescent blue in the glow of the fire, then over a precariously-balanced and skillfully-made tower of Chocolate Frog cards. There were empty glasses and bottles everywhere, along with what looked to be half of his best chess set, torn wrapping paper, the streamers that had once hung from the ceiling, a few socks he didn't recognize at all, and, to his horror, a pair of bright purple pants.

At least his Christmas tree had gotten through the party unscathed. Its elven-made tinsel shimmered and gleamed, and then he realized that the baubles had been enchanted to spell a very rude word. Scowling, he pulled out his wand and put it to sorts, because honestly, that wasn't even clever.

Harry made it to the entryway and unbuckled his travelling cloak, hanging it up beside his Professor robes. "Remind me never to speak to any of our friends again."

"Will do," came Hermione's reply, and he frowned. Her voice wasn't coming from the sunroom or the dining room, but rather from the kitchen, which—

"Ah," said Harry, upon stepping into the kitchen, which was oppressively warm. "You're… cooking?"

"Yes." Hermione's attention was fixed on whatever it was she was doing at the counter, which seemed vigorous and somewhat dangerous. She was wearing a loose pair of jeans with a large tear in the back of one thigh, a flannel shirt that had seen better days, and her hair had been scraped into something loosely resembling a bun. This was a remarkable improvement, considering that when he'd left, she'd been buried under a small mountain of blankets in his guest room and threatening disembowelment for anyone who tried to get her out of bed. She glanced at him over her shoulder and he noticed a smudge of something bready and white on her cheek. "I heated up the rest of the mulled wine. Why waste it?"

"Very brave of you," he replied. He went over to the stove, where the huge copper pot of leftover mulled wine was gently smoking, and turned down the heat. "I don't even know half of what George put in this stuff."

Hermione snorted. "Who cares? It's delicious." And to prove her point, she took a large gulp from a mug that had a portrait of Santa Claus wearing sunglasses on it, along with the phrase, 'There's Some Ho's In This House!' "Did Ron make it back to Diagon okay?"

He stared at the mug, wondering how he could have forgotten about her Secret Santa gift from Luna. "Yeah, but I think George had to carry him most of the way, poor sod." He ladled himself his own mug of wine and leaned against the doorframe, watching as she went back to whatever it was she was doing. "Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Making latkes." Another gulp of wine down the hatch. "How was Teddy?"

"A terror, as usual. He'll be even worse tomorrow, of course, but I bribed him to behave until Christmas Dinner. After that, it's just him and me until the New Year."

"Aw," said Hermione, swapping what looked to be the last, hard nub of a potato for half of a large onion. "You'll have fun together."

"Yes, and his grandmother gets a much-needed rest." Harry took a sip of wine and ignored the tremor that went through his stomach when Hermione bit her lip and peered at a piece of paper that he assumed had the recipe on it. This was one of his favorite faces of hers — focused, keen, sharp as a razor. He cleared his throat. "Don't take this the wrong way, but what is a latke?"

Hermione muttered something unintelligible under her breath and glanced at him over her shoulder. "What?"

"Latkes?"

"Potato pancakes. Fried, covered in salt and creme fraiche. Basically, the most addictive substance on earth." Something hit the bottom of the glass bowl hard. "Shit!"

"Right," said Harry, taking another sip of wine. "And you decided to make them in my kitchen right now because?"

"Because yesterday, I finally convinced Jacob's mother to give me the recipe — it's taken me years, Harry, years, I thought I'd have to marry into the family before she budged — and I'm not about to waste time not eating latkes." She plucked the dropped hunk of onion out of the bowl and went back to demolishing it.

"See," said Harry, "a really interesting thing just happened there."

"Did it?" said Hermione, still only giving him one third of her full attention.

"Yes," continued Harry. "A really interesting thing where I asked you a question and you answered it without actually answering it at all."

"What? Really?" Hermione glanced at him again. "Did I?"

"Merlin, Hermione, yes." He put down his mug and dared to approach, looking down over her shoulder.

His fears were confirmed. There was a gritty, flour-like substance everywhere, and he guessed it was the same stuff that was smeared onto her cheek. The cupboards had apparently exploded all over the counter — the apple corer was out, for some reason, he didn't even know that he owned an apple corer — and at the middle of it all was a huge pile of what looked to be shredded paper. It was a monolith of potato and onion, and it only seemed to be growing by the second.

This, here, was an excellent example of why one could never trust Hermione in the kitchen. In every other way, she was brilliant, beyond brilliant, but hand her a spatula and she'd find some way to light it on fire. "Good God," he managed.

"It's a large recipe," said Hermione, just a touch defensive as she frowned down at the piece of onion that was refusing to go through the grater — yet another thing he didn't know he owned. "I promise, it'll be worth it in the end."

Harry's eyes were beginning to water from the shredded onions and he stepped away. "My kitchen, Hermione!"

"You weren't using it!" she fired back. "Besides, I didn't know how long you'd be at Andromeda's, so I figured—"

"Catatonic," he said, shoving his glasses up his forehead and wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "When I left, you were practically catatonic—"

"A Hangover Potion and a shower can do wonders, Harry—" she said, all frosty.

Perfect, now he was conjuring up images of her in the shower as well. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and fumbled his way back to safe ground. "I said you could stay for Christmas Eve, not terrorize my kitchen!"

"Honestly, Harry, you'd think I'd knocked down a wall and torn up half the garden!"

He ignored this. "Who is Jacob, anyway, and why are you bribing his grandmother?"

"My neighbor, Harry." A spoon — now she was using a spoon?! — hit the counter with a clatter and he opened his eyes in time to see her shoot him a glare. "The one who lives in the house just opposite me! His whole family is Jewish and they always bring me a plate of latkes on the last night of Hanukkah."

"Okay," he said, because there was nothing else he could say to lessen the insanity of this moment. "And you thought you'd try your hand at making them?"

"Yes."

"On Christmas Eve?"

"Yes."

"In my cottage?"

"Yes."

"The day after the Christmas party to end all Christmas parties?"

"Yes!" Hermione snapped, finally turning around to stare him down. Her face was bright, she was just a little bit sweaty — the kitchen really was getting too warm — and her gaze was sparkling with energy and defiance. A couple of curls had sprung free of her bun and were falling into her eyes — in any other moment, he'd find that adorable, but now, he just found it menacing. Then he noticed that she'd mis-buttoned her shirt and had to fix his gaze on the potato mountain because he could see the edge of her bra.

Aha, Harry had enough brain cells to think. I'm fucked.

But there was no use in fighting it now. "Fine," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "What do we do next?"

Two hours later, they were slumped on the floor against the couch in the sitting room, half-stupid from mulled wine and latkes, trying and failing to play Monopoly.

Hermione cackled, taking another slug of wine. "You owe me another hundred."

Harry groaned. "I'm down to dust-bunnies over here, you lunatic."

Night had truly fallen and a fresh snowfall was dusting the window sills, throwing an eerie glow across his warm, cozy sitting room. All the remaining traces of the previous night's party had vanished with a few choice flicks from Hermione's wand, much to Harry's relief — the room felt like his home again. He'd only lived in this cottage for a few years, but he already knew he'd be here for a long time, and he couldn't do that if the strange mixture of Gigglewater and pixie dust had stayed where it had once been on the floor. Hermione had informed him between turns that had the puddle even been touched by a spark, it would've self-combusted and burnt a hole through the wooden floorboards, the cellar, and even the dirt beneath the house.

At least the latkes were delicious. She'd been right, of course — they were worth the effort and the trouble of figuring out how to use a Shield Charm to keep the hot oil from splashing onto their hands, not to mention the near-destruction of his kitchen. But the clean-up was a problem for a future Harry, he figured, not one for Christmas Eve Harry.

The clock on the wall chimed eleven, and Harry looked up to watch the face of the clock sparkle from the light of the crystal stars carved between the numbers. "What time are your parents expecting you, again?"

"Around lunch," said Hermione, busy counting her many bills. Since her parents had relocated to Bournemouth, his little cottage in Godric's Hollow had become a favorite stopping point of hers on the journey from London, since the Floos were always easier than getting a Portkey. "We'll do presents, a walk, then dinner." She glanced at him with a small smile. "I imagine you're doing the same with Teddy?"

"Something like that, though I'm sure he'll tear through his presents at the crack of dawn." Harry polished off his wine and suddenly realized that he was quite a bit tipsy. Before he could stop himself, he hiccupped.

Hermione burst into startled laughter, her eyes shining in the low light of the fire. "What? What was that, Harry? That sounded like a chipmunk—"

"Nah, it was just a passing squirrel." He grinned at her, trying not to blush. She was so close to him now, close enough that he could see the freckles along her cheekbones and feel the heat of her body, and he fought off a wave of affection so intense that it was almost blinding.

"Nooooo," she said, all cheeky, leaning in even closer. "No, I think that was you, Harry—"

He swallowed. This was dangerously close to flirting, even for them, and if he kept looking at her, he was worried about what she might see in his face. "Come on," Harry said, shifting his attention back to the board. "It's your turn."

"All right, spoilsport." Hermione settled back against the couch with a sigh, slouching a little, the mismatched buttons of her flannel pulling the fabric even lower—
Harry stared down at Go!, his heart hammering in his throat. He had to pull himself together, maybe all that wine had been a huge mistake—

"Um, Harry," she said, frowning. "What's this?" She reached under the couch and pulled out what looked to be a dull green bauble.

That threw him. It wasn't the same color as the ones on his tree. "I have no idea."

"There's a tag on it," Hermione said, and indeed there was. A little golden tag dangling off the end that normally had a hook threaded through it. "Whistlepig's Finest Mistletoe," she read aloud, "for all of your decorative holiday needs."

"It must be from the party," he said, trying to sort through the very fuzzy memories from the night before. "Maybe it was for the Secret Santa and someone lost it."

"I s'pose," said Hermione, frowning down at it. "It feels like it's humming."

Harry's heart stuttered before he reminded himself that all the Horcruxes were gone and most Dark wizards were too egomaniacal to use a Christmas bauble, anyway. "Let me see."

She held it out, but his hand bumped into hers and she dropped the bauble onto the Monopoly board. Harry barely had a moment to register it before the bauble exploded.

A shower of golden sparks erupted into the air, shimmering and dancing, and Harry could only watch in muted horror as bushes upon bushes of mistletoe sprouted on his ceiling, growing as thick and dark as a forest within seconds.

Well. Wasn't this just perfect.

Silence reigned for several long moments in which Harry contemplated the various ways he could catapult himself from the room. The window seemed like a good option, though that would involve snow and ice. The Floo, perhaps, but where would he go? He couldn't just turn up on Ron's hearth and say, Hey, mate, I just did a bunk because I got stuck under some mistletoe with the woman I've been pining over for years, how's your Christmas Eve going?

"I'm really sorry, Harry."

Hermione's voice brought him back to the present. He glanced at her and was shocked to see that she was covered in gold glitter. It was stuck in her hair, on her nose, in the creases of her shirt. He looked down at himself and realized with a slowly-dawning horror that he was in much the same state. He pushed a hand through his hair and a shower of glitter followed. The Monopoly board was almost buried in it.

"It's all right," he found himself saying. "I'm sure we can get rid of it."

Hermione nodded, swaying a little as she leaned forward and started digging through the glitter. "There must be something on the tag—"

"Hold on." Harry managed to pull his wand out of the pocket of his jeans. He was probably too tipsy to be doing magic, but he was starting to get desperate because the sight of the mistletoe was doing strange things to his body — butterflies had taken up residence in his stomach, and he couldn't stop himself from imagining what it would be like to pull Hermione in close, to press his mouth to hers and— "Evanesco."

Nothing.

He tried several other spells, but none of them worked. The thick carpet of mistletoe stayed exactly where it was, leafy and green and far too smug for his liking. The glitter hadn't budged, either, which somehow made everything much, much worse. Meanwhile, Harry's stomach had traded butterflies for knots, because this seemed to be getting serious. He couldn't just live with a ceiling full of enchanted mistletoe forever.

"Here," murmured Hermione, finally managing to unearth the tag. She unfolded it and quickly scanned the contents. "A shake, a squeeze, when you just can't wait, are all fun ways to make me activate. Well we know that already, sodding thing— Above your heads, the green mistletoe will hang, and like all good things, it must go out with a bang. What on earth does that mean, do we have to hit it with a Bombarda? No, here, hang on— So be sure to grace your beloved with a kiss, whether it be a mister or a miss!" She blinked down at the label, blissfully unaware of Harry's inner crisis reaching devastating levels. "So the only way to make it vanish is by kissing underneath it? Good grief, how ridiculous—"

"Yeah," said Harry quickly, hoping his flushed face wasn't too noticeable in the glow from the fire. "Ridiculous."

Hermione dropped the tag and scooted closer to him, something in her face resolute. "Come on, then."

Harry blinked at her, the earth tilting beneath him. "Sorry?"

She sighed a little. "You want the mistletoe gone, don't you? It's just one kiss, Harry."

A roaring had kicked up in Harry's ears and he stared at her, uncomprehending. In the middle of the Horcrux hunt, waiting for her to come and get him out of bed to take the watch, he never would've guessed that nearly twelve years later they'd be here, on the floor in his sitting room, facing each other with so few and so many possibilities hanging in the air between them. Because here she was, less than a foot away, looking at him with those bottomless brown eyes, her face glowing and warm in the light from the fire, offering something he knew he couldn't take, even if he had to. "No," Harry found himself saying, before he knew he was saying it.

Her eyebrows went up, dislodging a small shower of glitter. "No?" When he didn't reply, she frowned and added, "Why not, Harry? I think we're old enough to know when a kiss is just a kiss—"

"Because that's not how it is for me," he said, again before he knew he was saying it. "Not with you."

Silence fell as she looked at him. Something in Hermione's gaze was so pointed, so searching, that it made him want to turn away. "Oh," she said, finally.

"Yeah," he said, dropping his gaze back to the ruined Monopoly board. "So we need to find another way."

"Why?"

"Because," Harry snapped, his frustration finally getting the better of him, "I don't want it to happen like this, Hermione, if it happens at all. Not like this."

"All right," she said, her voice still so calm and placating that it made him clench his fists. How could she be so reasonable about this? Her best friend of nearly twenty years had basically just confessed his feelings for her — how was she not panicking?

Then, then, his heart stopped, because Hermione's hand was on his arm and she was climbing on top of him, straddling his legs and staring down at him with a look that could burn him alive. And she was still covered in glitter. He stared up at her, speechless, his body singing in all the places that she was resting against him.

"Show me, then," she said, her hands on his hips, her touch light and heavy and warm all at once. "Show me how you want it to happen."

Hardly able to believe it, Harry reached up and cupped her cheek with his hand, running his thumb along her jaw. Her mouth parted as he watched, and she let out a little sigh that wrapped around his heart and squeezed it tight. Something in her eyes flickered, and he realized, with devastating clarity, that she wanted this as well.

And then, finally, he leaned in and kissed her.

It was simple, sweet, but then her lips parted and he took her with a moan, pulling her tight against his body and licking into her mouth, desperate and sloppy but better than any kiss he'd ever had in his life, and her hands were in his hair, his hands were slipping under her shirt and grazing the dip of her lower back, his body humming and singing from the sheer magic of her skin on his, and it was so much but not enough all at once—

Hermione broke away with a gasp. "That," she managed, "would in fact be a good way for it to happen."

Harry buried his face in her neck, mouthing at her collarbone, his fingers slipping through the tear in the back of her jeans to stroke the soft skin underneath. She smelled incredible, like vanilla and honey, but also, weirdly, like onions, and for some reason, it was hot instead of gross. He wanted all of her, here and now and every day beyond that, but he didn't know what she wanted, didn't know how far he could—

He got his answer when she yanked at his shirt, tearing it half-open and sending two of his buttons skittering across the floor, along with another half-pound of glitter. He chuckled against her skin, delighted by her insistence, but then her mouth was on his again and he quickly stopped thinking after that.

"Upstairs," Hermione gasped some time later, when Harry thought he might pass out if he didn't get the rest of the clothes off her, and quickly. He nodded, pushing her away only to swipe at her bum once she'd stood up, and she swatted at him in return, grinning and flushed and so delighted that it made his heart swoop.

They fell into his bed with a laugh, glitter raining down around them, and Harry made quick work of their clothes, still so giddy and so overwhelmed that he could barely keep his focus. He couldn't stop himself from kissing her again and again, from touching every inch of her body, from mapping her skin until she shuddered and sighed beneath his hands. It was only the beginning, so it wasn't enough, and he briefly wondered if it would ever be enough, if he would ever tire of this. He had a feeling he wouldn't.

In the end it was languid and hurried all at once, plush and warm and sweet in the dim light of his banked fire.

Afterwards, as they lay buried under the duvet, Hermione's head on his chest and his arm wrapped around her, Harry felt more at peace than he had in years. He stroked her hair, thrilled by the sweet little shiver he elicited in response, hardly able to believe that this was real.

"Just so we're clear," said Hermione, burrowing even further into the duvet. "I plan on never leaving this bed again."

Harry grinned. "That sounds perfect to me."

Downstairs, the mistletoe had disappeared.