Wanderer

A Christmas Appeal for Misfortunate Slytherins

Chapter Eighteen- A Christmas Appeal for Misfortunate Slytherins

The wind whipped at her cheeks, ragging her scarf from where she'd tugged it up over her nose and sending it flapping out behind her. Snow trickled to the ground, crunching underfoot, freezing on her eyelashes. Even so, the cold wasn't enough to douse the excitement growing inside of Hermione's heart as she made her way down the winding path to Hogsmeade; after not seeing them in months, she was finally going to see her boys.

Hermione ducked her head lower, shielding her pink, frost-bitten skin against the wind, and sped up. She had wrote Harry to tell them to meet her at lunchtime, Saturday, in one of the rooms above the Three Broomsticks pub. This matter of theirs was delicate and she did not want to risk prying eyes and listening ears. It would not do.

Slipping inside, the warmth of the pub swallowed her immediately, and she let out a soft sigh, pulling her frosty hat from her head and unravelling her scarf. The room was rowdy, groups of students and patrons alike crowded round small tables, shoved into booths, fires roaring, drinks sliding down the bar. Hermione ran a hand through her hair, casting her eyes over the scene. She noticed the staircase against the very back wall and began to weave her way through the sea of students, skirting back when someone's drink sloshed over her shoes, narrowly missing a man who'd clearly been drinking since breakfast as he swept Madam Rosmerta into his arms, dancing her around, their laughs swallowed by the din. She escaped upstairs, clutching her hat and scarf to her chest, all but running to Room 3. Hermione stole a breath and knocked.

When the door swung open, she felt the years slip away and she was an eleven year old girl again, swaying from side to side on the Hogwarts Express, asking two boys, one with a shock of red hair and explosion of freckles, the other a lightening scar, if they'd seen Neville's toad. Harry stood in front of her, no longer that scrawny boy from under the stairs. He'd grown out his hair, tucked it behind his ears, and a ragged beard clung to his chin. He wore the same glasses, framing his green eyes, and his grin was still that of a child's. Dressed in black slacks, a white shirt and grey waistcoat, his wand looped through his belt, scar faded but still visible, a crack of lightening across his forehead, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, looked grown up, different to how she remembered him last, more sure of who he was in this world.

Despite this, he still let out a little noise at the sight of her, drawing her into him, gasping her name into her hair. Hermione clung to him. Closing her eyes, she breathed him in, relishing in the fact that he still smelled like fresh air from a Quidditch practise and the smoke of the Gryffindor Common Room fire.

"I've missed you," he murmured, voice warm and low in her ear. "I've missed you so much."

"Oh, Harry," she breathed.

"How're you?" he asked, voice muffled in her hair. Hermione squeezed him tighter.

"Oh gosh, I'm fine! I'm fine," she replied, finally letting him go. "How are you?"

Harry grinned. "Good. Better now I've seen you."

"Blimey, and who am I? Great Aunt Muriel?"

Hermione peered over his shoulder. Her face split into a smile and she brushed past Harry, into the room, all but leaping into the open arms of Ron Weasley. He huffed a laugh and she squeezed her arms tighter around his neck. He was broader than she remembered, taller, firmer. His hair was still that shock of red, though it had darkened a little bit, his eyes were lighter, the colour of a sky in spring. Hermione leaned backwards, hands slipping to cup his cheeks and pressed a hard kiss to his forehead. "Ronald."

Ron rolled his eyes, arms draped loosely around her, but his grin and the way he flushed a deep red gave him away. "Honestly," he said, "You'd think we were still First Years not giving our homework in on time!"