The Greatest Gift
Title: The Greatest Gift
Characters: Ron, Hermione
Era: Post-Hogwarts
Rating: 12+
Summary: Hermione receives a gift like no other that surely brightens her holiday spirit.
Author's Note: Written for Melanie(RonsGirlFriday) over on TGS for this year's Secret Santa. I really hope you like it =]
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Christmas.
She always loved Christmas. But now, as she watched the tiny, white specks continue their feather-like descent to the already covered earth floor, she began to wonder how much more bleak the holiday would become. Sighing, she absently smoothed the invisible wrinkles on the quilt she had covered herself in and sipped the hot cider from her mug.
Laughing quietly, she lowered it from her lips and placed it on the window sill instead. She’d forgotten what it was supposed to taste like or rather how to taste it...how to taste anything. Rest assured, Mrs. Weasley was a wonderful cook but at the moment, Hermione Granger wasn’t in the mood for enjoying it. Not this year.
The war had taken many things away from them and over the past year, they were slowing rebuilding their lives and Hermione considered herself to be one among them. Despite all that had happened, she knew she shouldn’t dwell; life goes on, as they say.
Of course it did!
She was well aware of that fact being the sensible girl she was. So why could she not enjoy the only one thing that made her happy above everything else?
She sank back into the soft pillows of her little niche, tucking her legs further under herself. Sometimes it still amazed her how quickly the evenings came during this time of year, with the darkness close on their heels. She glanced around the room, quietly taking in its new additions - some decorations that she herself had helped Ginny and Mrs. Weasley put up the week before. Then there was the Christmas tree, it stood out majestically in the corner, weighed down with several homemade decorations and bows. Under it sat a decent number of gifts, all reminders of what they all should be thankful for. Her eyes narrowed sceptically at the tiny gift at the front which quivered every two seconds; she was sure it was from George and sincerely hoped it wasn’t for her. But then, she could do with a good laugh.
Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She had managed to get away from everyone for most of the afternoon to sit in the comfortable silence with just the Christmas tree for company. At her feet sat a tiny, worn blue-covered book and shifting her body to the right, she managed to scoop it up into her palm. Her index finger followed the fading, gold letters on the front before removing it abruptly, leaving a small scratch from her nails.
Before her eyes, memories of old flickered past her, memories which had no choice but to be forgotten. The child-like laughter which echoed loudly in her ears felt like a lifetime away from her, perhaps it was. As it stood now, these memories, her past, it never really existed. Under the national registry of the United Kingdom, there was no one by the name of Hermione Jean Granger born to Mr and Mrs Granger of Bath, on September 19th, 1990. If she was going to be completely honest with herself, Mr and Mrs Granger were also non-existent, except for one small thing: the book she held tightly in her fist.
She distinctly remembered sitting in front of the fire at her mother’s side, laughing as her father recited the lines of the book with wild gesticulations at certain points of emphasis. It was the laughter that pained her. She missed it. She wasn’t used to going for so long without hearing from them but it was for the best.
The soft tap did not go unheard of by her keen ears and sure enough, there it was again, and again. She was surprised to find the hardened surface of her keepsake covered with tears. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes quickly before propping her face in her hand.
“Hermione?”
Her head jerked upwards to see Ron staring curiously at her. He stood awkwardly at the door before taking those few tentative steps inside.
“What’s wrong?”
Hermione’s lips lifted up into a half smile. Uncurling her legs to set her feet on the floor, she patted the space beside her. The weight on the couch grew as he sank down beside her, filling her cold, empty space with his warmth. He repeated his question much softer this time but she couldn’t find it within herself to use her words. For once, Hermione Granger could not find the right words. Groaning, she buried her head into his shoulder. She was so much better at this with Harry. With Harry, she always knew what to say and he would always know how to respond.
“You know you can talk to me, don’t you?” Ron whispered.
Actions always spoke louder than words ever did so she pressed the book into his hands, nodding in encouragement at his bewildered expression.
“Read it,”
His larger fingers fumbled over the delicate pages until he found the beginning. “Twas the night before Christmas,” he murmured. “Hermione, what is this?”
“Just keep reading, Ron,”
She felt herself drifting at the low hum of his voice. It was soothing and she could hear the laughter again but this laughter was a bit too loud compared to the echoes she heard before. Her eyes snapped open and she raised her head to look at him in irritation.
“What’s so funny?” she wrapped her arms around her chest and moved slightly away from his shaking form.
“This is!” Ron chuckled. “Who is this Saint Nick character anyway?”
“In the eyes of many Muggle children, he is the epitome of all that is Christmas. The poem explains it.” She finished, gesturing to the book he was holding.
“Is this who the Muggles call Santa Claus?”
“Yes.”
Ron grinned at her. “Do you believe in Santa Claus, Hermione?”
To be fair, it was a good question. Ask that to most children and they’d say yes but not her, not anymore. She shook her head, muttering a quiet ‘no’. She knew better now, she had grown up. Make-believe becomes horribly insignificant when you’ve had that bitter dose of reality. Suddenly, she found herself wanting to go back there, to that place where it was safe. Where the most difficult decision she ever had to make was picking a colour crayon. She wanted to return to the days where she would run out at the end of school, straight into her father’s arms. Gasping, she let out a soft cry and as the tears flowed, she found that she couldn’t stop them.
Ron placed a firm hand on her shoulder, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish, not being able to understand what exactly had happened. “All this for Santa Claus?”
“No,” Hermione sniffed, peering up at him through red, rimmed eyes. “For everything.”
She gazed almost wistfully at the book in his hand. “My parents read me this poem every Christmas Eve for as long as I could remember.
“Dad would stand in the middle of our sitting room, dressed in an old pair of pyjamas and a nightcap, playing the role of the narrator while Mum and I would sit and watch him.” Hermione smiled, “Then, we would settle down for the night, listening to the carollers out in the street until it was time for bed.”
“Every year?” Ron asked.
“Every year.”
Hermione rubbed her red nose with the back of her hand and Ron smiled. “You can call yourself Rudolph now,”
Despite herself, her face broke into a watery grin. “Oh be quiet; how do you know about Rudolph anyway?”
“From Harry,” he said, considering her with a thoughtful look.
“Harry? How did that come - why are you looking at me like that?”
Ron rose slowly from his seat, “I was going to save this until tomorrow but I think its best you have it now.”
“Have what?”
“It’s something that me and Harry got for you, sort of a surprise but I don’t think he’d mind me showing you now.” He stepped towards the direction of the backdoor and turned around, reaching for her hand, “Come with me.”
Tentatively, she slipped her fingers across his palm, curling them around his hand. Her eyes danced with child-like wonder at his secrecy and he returned her questioning curiosity with a sly smirk that perhaps would be worthy of Draco Malfoy. As an afterthought, he took out his wand and pointed it at her face. Before her eyes, a shimmering scarf materialised and wrapped itself around her face, shielding everything from view.
“Ron,” Hermione laughed, “what are you doing?”
“You’ll see.”
“Well can I at least put my coat on?” she asked.
“Oh, oh right, sorry!”
“Honestly,” she shook her head.
Her veins flooded with adrenaline as Ron guided her out the door and through the snow, so much so that the cold did not affect her; with every step, her heart thumped loudly against her ribs. As his pace quickened, she found herself becoming overwhelmed at this drastic change in her own behaviour. Her walls were falling in and finally, she was allowing herself to enjoy the present.
“Hold on tight,” Ron whispered in her ear, wrapping an arm around her waist.
A familiar hold had attached itself to her gut and pulled her away, dispelling a sharp crack as they disappeared. Moments later, her feet hit something solid and Ron removed his arm, instead, placing both hands on her shoulders to steady her. He let out a relieved sigh and gently pushed her forwards.
“You’re going to have to step up here, alright?” he muttered. “There are about four steps.”
“Alright,” she climbed the steps without much difficulty under Ron’s guidance. “This isn’t illegal, is it?”
“For once in your life, Hermione, stop worrying.” Ron grumbled, “Besides, it’s not like it would be the first time.”
“I don’t worry,” Hermione huffed, “I just show concern,”
Ron snorted and released her. “Ok, we’re here,”
“Where’s here?” she wondered, feeling bare without him standing beside her. “Ron?”
“I’m still here.” He came into her space again, this time, much closer than he had for the entire trip. She let out a small sigh as his lips grazed her cheek. “Happy Christmas, Hermione.”
It was as if scales had fallen out of her eyes and all her senses activated. Her cheek still tingled where he had kissed her and then there was that smell. It reminded her of the biscuits her mother would bake around this time.
Mum.
The door clicked shut behind her and it was only then that she realised Ron had disappeared, leaving her alone in the semi-darkness of this place. Walking forward a few paces, she found herself in the hallway. She ran her fingers along the walls in a manner reminiscent of her five year old self. She could hear that laughter again.
“Hermione, dear, is that you?” a voice called from down the corridor.
“Mum,” she breathed, as much as she wanted to move from her spot, she couldn’t.
“Hermione?” the greying brown head of a middle-aged woman poked out from a lit doorway and smiled at the frozen figure a few feet away from her. “There you are!”
“So she’s here then?” called a much more masculine voice from behind the woman.
Dad.
Wrenching herself away from the wall, Hermione found use of her legs again and stumbled awkwardly down the corridor, crashing into her parents’ unexpected arms. She squeezed her eyes shut as her father’s rich baritone laugh filled the air.
“You’ve only been away for a few hours, dear,” Mrs. Granger laughed, “No need for all this,”
“Yes Mum, yes there is.” Hermione pulled away, her face shining with tears. “Wait, a few hours?”
“Yes,” Mr. Granger guided her into the sitting room, “don’t you remember? You went out with some friends of yours from school: a boy with untidy, dark hair and glasses and another one with red hair. They promised to get you home by six.”
Hermione laughed, still unable to hide her shock. “It’s just I - never mind.”
“Now, my dear,” her father held up a copy of ‘Twas the Night before Christmas’, “May we begin?”
It was just as it should be. Her father standing by the fireplace with his overly-enthusiastic hand gestures and she at her mother’s side cheering him on. It made the past few hours insignificant. She didn’t know how she would ever repay Harry and Ron for what they did, she wasn’t even sure if this had a price.
“Is that an owl?”
Hermione was jolted out of her thoughts when her father stopped reading to point at the window. A tiny owl tapped excitedly at the window, holding a scrap of paper that was much larger than him.
“That’s Pig,” she rushed past her parents to the window, allowing the tiny bird to fly in. “Alright, alright calm down!”
She took the note from its beak and unfolded it; there in Harry’s scratchy handwriting were two words: You’re welcome.
Beaming, she placed the note in her pocket and turned back to her parents. “I’m sorry, that was from one of my friends.”
“Would you like to read the last part?”
She nodded, ushering Pig back through the window.
“But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" **
** - Taken from Twas the Night before Christmas by Clement Clarke Moore or Henry Livingston Jr.