Obliviate -the lost week (Harmione)

Death of the year

"No way, Harry" the witch said, hands on her hips, while seeing him balance a dead bird in one hand. "I don't know how to cook those things"

It was hard to follow the calendar, but they were rather sure it was December 31th, and he had thought they deserved to celebrate. It had certainly been a hell of a year... not to speak about the last week, with all those experiences none of them had anticipated and still made both of their heads turn. How had he managed to find, not to say hunt the animal in winter, she wouldn't know.

"And we don't have spices!"

"Hermione, come on, would you tell me your library includes the recipe of a potion to detect basilisk venom, but you don't have a simple cookbook?!"

The girl's expression answered for her.

"Can't we summon one?"

"That's stealing, Harry!"

"Merely borrowing" he defended. "I'm sure Molly wouldn't mind..."

"We didn't take stuff from her when things got real rough, and Ron was with us; we won't start now"

"Then, let's go to a restaurant..."

She got suddenly ashen, a tic on her left eye, and he lowered the bird.

"Hermione..." he whispered, but found nothing else to say; instead, he walked towards her, uncertain.

The witch had hidden her face under her hands, trying to regain her wit.

"Harry..." she said at last, "last time we left, we almost died, and we had simply gone to the market; and not a week before that, we barely escaped from You-Know-Who..."

She had sit on the snow, and he joined, looking to the river, where the sunlight rippled happily. It reminded him of Hogwarts' lake. He would speak to the girl about all the risks they had faced successfully, but she already knew of those. The ones she feared were those yet to come.

"I'm sorry about the bird" she said. "Let's try to cook it with what we have"

It didn't taste that bad.

They even had the nerve to improvise some decorations for the tent.

Yet, by twilight, her mood hadn't improved. Harry sat in his chair, watching her, worrying about her. He knew she must be thinking of all she had lost this year –mainly her parents, with whom she had camped in this same forest–, and of how little she had now, and of how easily she could lose it too.

He stood, offered her his hand to make her stand, gently took the horcrux out of her neck –throwing it aside- and made her dance. It wasn't something fancy, he had long ago forgotten fourth year Yule Ball and she wasn't wearing a dress; but it was funny, and her face, terribly worn up at first, enlightened with a smile. It made her, if not forget, at least, put at rest her worries a little bit. Harry thought he loved that smile. He thought, if he forgot all of the rest, he would never, ever, forget this moment. And though they ended up dancing in each other's arms, he didn't dare kiss her. The witch was, in her own way, untouchable.

Hermione didn't dare kiss him. Maybe the girl knew what was to come.

"Hermione, dear" he joked. "Haven't you by chance packed a bottle of wine in that wonderful bag of yours?"

And that's how they sat under the twinkling stars, plastic glasses holding small amounts of vodka, pretending they were wine cups. Harry held Hermione's waist, caressing it nonchalantly.

In fact, she was rather ticklish tonight, and the vodka she had already swallowed made it hard to mask it. She gave him a chuckle once in a while, and each time, he would look at her, amused. Until his own vodka kicked in. Then, he approached her casually, and all of a sudden they were rolling over the snow under the silvery light of the moon, as he tickled her and she tried to defend herself and laughed, her wand forgotten on the tent entrance. She was so lovely and free, that he was tempted to stop breathing, and just stare at her. Or was it the vodka?