Sinope's Fiction: Nutmeg and Snow

Title: Nutmeg and Snow
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating: PG
Pairing: Hermione/Luna
Summary: On Christmas Day, Hermione has a visitor. Sweet holiday fluff.
Author's notes: Graciously betaed on the fly by Peccavium. Credit to Switchknife for the flat-above-Flourish-and-Blotts idea.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.

When Voldemort is dead, and the Death Eaters have been imprisoned, and Harry Potter is rushing about giving interviews as the Hero of the Wizarding World, Hermione lives alone in her flat above Flourish and Blotts. Each day she writes her history of the War from nine o'clock to six o'clock, and each evening she reads journals and watches snow drifts piling in Diagon Alley. At first, Ron called on her every week, but the unanswerable plea in his eyes when he said good-night pained her so much that she began discouraging his visits long ago.

Hermione's parents were divorced in her sixth year, but she thinks that she stopped believing in romance well before that. Perhaps it was the day that she gave up her attempt to read Dr. Zhivago and returned to the logic of her Transfigurations textbook. Perhaps it was the night that Anthony Goldstein drew her aside in the rose garden and kissed her, his fingers like clammy paws on her the skin of her stomach. At any rate, Hermione knows that romance, like Father Christmas and the Muggle Protection Act, is naught but a fable for fools and children.

Hermione is neither fool nor child, but this Christmas, she still feels something twitch in her chest when someone knocks at the door. She tells herself that if it's Ron - as it certainly will be - she'll let him in and serve him coffee with cinnamon and nutmeg and whipped cream, and when he offers to hold her against the cold, she'll nod, close her eyes, and postpone her guilt until the morning.

Ron isn't at the door.

Luna Lovegood stands there instead, with a ridiculously purple scarf wrapped around her neck and a veil of white snow over her hair. "Happy Christmas," she says as if she's been coming by every day, and she hands Hermione a parcel wrapped in paper that glitters all colours of the rainbow.

Hermione doesn't know what to say, beyond a stuttered "Come in!", so she opens the present, and it's beautiful: a network of gossamer threads and metal limbs and hanging crystals that glitters and tinkles when she shakes it.

"It's an ancient Sanskrit charm to capture wisdom and ward away regrets," Luna says from the kitchen, where she has already poured herself coffee and spooned on a dollop of whipped cream. Hermione suspects that the hanging structure is neither ancient nor Sanskrit in any way, but it's Christmas and somebody remembered.

"Thank you," she says, and smiles.

"My family doesn't celebrate Christmas, you know," Luna says while sprinkling nutmeg and cinnamon over her whipped cream. "We're Jewish, and Hanukkah's already finished this year, though my father forgot to light the Hanukkiah on the first night anyway. But it seemed like a nice day for a walk, and the last time I saw you you had this look in your eyes as though you wanted a very long bath and a very large stuffed bear to hug, and sometimes I rather like being alone myself but I don't think that anyone likes that all the time."

Hermione sits on her sofa beside Luna and lets the words wrap around her like soft flurries of snow. The room is warmer when Luna pulls Hermione's blanket over the two of them, and several hours later when the candles are sputtering at the bottom of their wicks, Luna is running her fingers idly through Hermione's hair, pulling tangles out gently and patting down frizzy strands. "Do you have a boyfriend, Hermione?" Luna asks.

"No," Hermione says, and although she has trained herself not to add - and I doubt I ever will - her lips murmur it anyway.

"Good," says Luna softly, and then she kisses Hermione. Stray strands of hair mingle with Luna's tongue in Hermione's mouth, but Luna is gentle, so gentle, and when she finishes the kiss she smiles and rests her head on Hermione's chest.

Hermione slides her arms around Luna's thin body and squeezes harder than she intended, because Hermione who never cries is crying, crying deep choking tears with a relief that feels intensely and gloriously painful. She can't see snow in the window anymore, nothing but the wet glitter of candlelight on Luna's hair, and that's all right. Hermione still doesn't believe in romance, but in between the laughing sobs, she wonders whether she could believe in love.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione," Luna says, her voice warm and humid on Hermione's skin.

Hermione wipes dampness from her eyes and nose and nods, still hugging Luna tight. She doesn't feel like herself, but tonight, she doesn't seem to mind. "Yes," she whispers, "It is."

finis.