Chapter Text
On the right side of the fence where Santa and His Jolly Elves are singing their carols, a majestic pine tree has been planted in a corner. Plastic reindeers circle it, stiff in their pause that suggests they are probably dancing. The one with a red nose is nudging a pile of kaleidoscopic, sparkling card boxes.
The row of heavily decorated backyards extends itself infinitely, along Puddifoot Street. Some feature three feet tall angels holding out bowls of candies -- that must undoubtedly be real --, other have a miniature, feisty city that takes half of their space. Red, green, and gold colors are everywhere, sprinkled with snow from yesterday night’s fall. There are even some Santas hanging from gutters, or half-stuck in chimneys.
A loud whistling sound calls Hermione back to her kitchen, and she is glad to tear her stare away from the scene.
If asked about herself, Hermione would say there is not much to say.
She works at an elementary school where most of the kids ignore her, except when they need to go to the bathroom and have to raise their hands to get permission. Her fellow professors, which are more experienced -- a professional way to say old as mummies -- tend to avoid her too, except when favors need to be granted.
She has lost contact with her university friends after moving to the south, and has struggled for a time to find other mates, before abandoning the hope on behalf of her job. Getting up at six and leaving your workplace at seven in the afternoon doesn’t really leave you any time to do anything.
The only reason she actually likes Durmstrang Elementary School is the Christmas break. It starts on December 13th, for no other reason than the institution’s tradition of sending everybody home for the twelve days before Yule.
A thick column of vapor rises from the beak of the kettle, and Hermione pours the boiling water in the color washed teapot with a hum of approval.
Her kitchen, like the rest of the house, is bare, empty of decorations.
She doesn’t hate Christmas.
She has some amazing memories of eggnog evenings with her father, or of opening the Advent Calendar with her mother. Winter was her favorite time, as a child.
She mechanically walks toward her desk, in an angle of the living room, and puts her steaming cup down. Rolling her sleeves up her wrists, she tucks her tongue out, looking for the bookmark she set yesterday. And ends up irritating herself.
With her bad habit of falling asleep on her documents, she never remembers what her bookmark looks like, let along in what book she puts it.
“I know you're here somewhere,” she whispers, turning her Advanced Psychology of the Human Species manual in her hands.
Outside, the wind flirts with the naked branches, swooping over the fresh snow to carry its coolness under the doors and in the little cavities of the houses. The road is quiet, respectful of the concentration that the woman needs to-
Wait.
The road is not quiet.
A light laughter spreads itself over the fences that delimit the perfectly aligned gardens, and reaches Hermione's ears. So used to live in total silence during Christmas break, she's taken aback by the simple sound of it.
Except for the Lupin family, which owns the house right next to hers, nobody has children at home at this time of the year. And, every Christmas break, the Lupins send their Teddy -- who’s enrolled in the same school where Hermione works -- to Center London, to spend the first part of the holidays with his godfather.
Hermione stretches her ear, but the laughter has vanished. Maybe she just daydreamed about it. After all, her last class was only yesterday.
She gets back at fighting with her pile of books.
Studying is her way to get out of reality, to forget the world around. It used to be reading, before. She loved when Aunt Marjorie took the time, at the end of her day, to go through a couple of fairytale chapters with her. She would do se when her parents were too busy to come home before she went to bed. She used to love those moments, those stories.
But she has grown up. Tales of princes on their white horses and fighter princesses are over for her. Getting her Psychology degree is her main goal at the moment.
She has always dreamed of opening her own studio, to help kids who struggle with familiar issues. She has seen so many. Has been one herself.
The few people with whom she still has some interactions have told her countless times that, unless she becomes a mother, it will be impossible for her to understand the intricate reasonings of families.
That’s bullshit.
Women do not have to have children to be useful.
Plus, her classroom has become her field of observation, and she has gotten used to pre-teen mindsets.
Still, one point on which she agrees with those uninvited opinions is that she won’t be very skilled to treat couple problems, even after passing the exam. She absolutely has no experience on the matter.
“About darn time,” she mutters, finally getting a grip on the plastic wrapping that she stuck in the chapter 7 of Psychology of Women .
The title of page 164 reads: The Early Stages of Falling In Love .
A groan escapes her throat.
Not the topic she wanted to work on today.
She grabs her cup of tea, resigning herself to today’s subject, but chokes on the liquid when a muffled thud echoes from her roof, followed by several others and loud shouting.
Definitely, Teddy hasn’t gone to Center London this year.
Ignoring the noise seems the best to do, but she has to give up after five minutes of trying.
The wooden floor, stiff because of the cool weather, creaks under her steps.
Pushing the curtains aside, she peeks at Puddifoot Street. Behind her empty flower pot, there is a coat of snow on the little alley that links her house to the next one, and some blurry people seem to get great advantage of it.
She had never witnessed Mr. Lupin playing with Teddy during winter. She had assumed that the man with scars like tattoos all over his face suffered from a rare health condition, preventing him from staying outside too long in a cold climate.
Pulling her woolen sleeve to the window, she erases the mist that gathered on the glass panel.
When the transparent surface is finally clean, she leans forward, but only has the time to catch a glimpse of a pair of glasses framing green eyes -- that most certainly don’t belong to Mr. Lupin -- before a loud crash makes her start.
The fragments of the pot that was resting on the window frame two seconds earlier are now decorating the concrete floor that borders the house, the only place not reached by the snow last night.
Shit. Aunt Marjorie’s pot.
With hurried steps, Hermione exits the warmness of her interior. The atmosphere attacks her through her light clothes, stinging her ribs with its icy claws. Wearing only slippers and a pajama under her sweater, she does not dare to kneel down, but her constatation of the disaster is still the same.
She feels a bit dizzy. Not because of the cold.
It was a horrible pot, heck yes. But her and Aunt Marjorie had had a good laugh when they had bought it. And this was what mattered.
She feels like crying, but the dryness of the air doesn’t allow her to.
Her Advanced Psychology of the Human Species manual would probably define her as slightly deranged because she’s mourning a flower pot.
Lost in her illogical reverie, she doesn’t hear the steps behind her, crushing the snow in a prudent cadence. She only gets out of her trance when something heavy falls on her shoulders.
“I’m sorry.”
Hermione turns around, and the jacket that the boy had put on her back falls down. He bends to retrieve it, and shakes it before offering it again to her. “You’ll get one hell of a cold if you stay out here with barely a-”
His voice trails down, and Hermione suddenly remembers that she’s wearing pajamas bottom. She grabs the coat, and wraps herself in the hot leather, blushing madly. It’s a relief to feel the soft texture of faux-fur around on her neck.
She looks up at the man, about to mutter a ‘thank you’, but his embarrassed expression is a reminder of why she’s outside while it’s below zero.
“You-”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
He tries to scratch his neck, but his muffles make it awkward. Hermione could almost smile, but-
“Blimey,” the boy whispers, noticing her chattering teeth. “You should get inside and have a hot chocola-”
“Yeah, I’ll do.”
He narrows his eyes a little, as if thinking that she’s not the type of girl that would make herself some hot chocolate.
“I- I was about to make some,” he adds. “And, I want to apologize for-” He gestures toward the reddish bits on the floor. “But make sure you decide quickly, because you’re about to turn into an ice cube.”
Hermione scrutinises him, his face, his green eyes that seem to send sparkles into the fizzy weather. She doesn’t know him. Where’s he from, first of all? He just materialized from thin air. The only thing she knows is that he was having a snowball fight with the Lupin child, two minutes ago.
The wind lifts some snow around them, and the tip of her nose seems to turn an awful blueish color.
Questions for later.
“Ok for the hot chocolate.”
It’s weird, isn’t it.
Hermione, the plain-life psychology student and model teacher, drinking a hot Christmas beverage in the house of a stranger. And doing so while wearing pajamas.
“Remind me of your name?”
The guy is leaning backwards on the kitchen counter, cuping his mug with both hands. His glasses’ lenses are whitish, reflecting the cold light of the window. He observes her from behind them.
“I haven’t told you.”
He looks down. “Right.”
She doesn’t remember his, even if he told her.
He had opened the door of the house next to hers, letting her in before him.
Once inside, he had held his hand out, muttered his name and something like “we forgot to present each other properly,” but she had not paid much attention. Hurried steps had scuttled away on the floor above.
He had led her to the kitchen, and started breaking down some cocoa bars, almost suffocating in the awkward silence.
The only bit of conversation was the “here you are,” “thanks,” exchange of courtesy.
The breaking of Aunt Marjorie’s pot hit her hard, but now she forces herself to look at him with less resentful eyes.
She had already noticed his deep green eyes, but her stare trails on his fine traits, brown pigment, and messy hair. Something about his shyness makes him appear skinnier than he actually is: there is no way to ignore his broad shoulders after a second glance.
Common people would describe him as being very cute.
She sees him more as… interesting.
“It’s Hermione.”
Both of them look to the door. A frail, blue-haired kid is eyeing carefully from behind the frame.
“What, buddy?” Interesting guy lays his cup on the table, and kneels down, so Teddy has to look down at him.
“Her name,” he points at her face. “Is Hermione.”
Messy-hair looks up at Hermione with his intense stare. She hasn’t seen him smile yet, but she guesses that he terribly wants to. And finds herself wishing he would.
For science’s sake, of course.
“Your secret is revealed, I guess,” he says.
For some reason, the kid’s presence makes her much less angry. Or is it Green-eyes’ dimple, which he’s finally showing with a wide grin?
She shrugs, and can’t avoid to reflect his expression. “It was not a secret.” She takes a short sip of the hot drink, turning to Teddy. “So, Lupin, who’s the man who broke my pot?”
And she nods toward Dimple-smile.
Teddy’s mouth contracts in a grimace. After looking better at his hair, Hermione notices the purple points. She knew that the Lupins were- quite original, but she would have never guessed that… it would be at this level.
“I broke the pot, Ms. Granger,” he admits, wrinkling his nose, as if he was gulping down something bitter. “But my godfather likes to take the blame for me.”
Hermione’s lips part in surprise. She had always assumed that Teddy’s godfather was a 50-years-old greyish man, passionate about bridges, and with an enormous collection of old stamps and creased plaid shirts. Not somebody like Broad-shoulders.
Not somebody as cu- interesting.
“He takes the blame for you?”
Teddy nods, recovering his mischievous expression. “Yeah, a lot. Especially if it’s an excuse to invite a pretty lady to dr-”
“Do you want some cocoa, buddy?”
Chocolate-skin, who had been silent until then, quickly rose, before his godson could finish the sentence. But the kid’s laughing eyes are enough for Hermione to get the whole meaning.
Teddy shakes his head, and sprints out in the corridor.
“Little pain in the neck,” the godfather whispers, before calling out, “Teddy, you forgot-”
“Sorry, Ms. Granger!” shouts the kid, already halfway up the stairs.
Then, he bursts in a wave of giggles, and his steps echo on the floor above.
Interesting-guy turns to Hermione, his face skin a darker shade of brown.
Coffee, she thinks, is a beautiful shade.
A cherub ‘awwws’ from a corner of her mind, but she shakes him away very quickly.
“I guess your secret is uncovered now,” she teases. Her host looks very confused, as if fearing that she’d believed what his godson said. “About always covering up Teddy’s little mistakes.”
“Oh! Er- yeah.” Relief can really be seen in histhe eyes , Hermione thinks. “Well, what’s the point of being a godfather, if not?” They smile together. “I’m- very sorry for your pot.”
For a second, she had forgotten about it.
“Don’t worry,” she shrugs it away. “I can’t hide that I was very attached to it, but- it was just an object, right?”
Green-eyes nods, and offers her an encouraging grin. “Do you want some more chocolate?”
And, Hermione still wearing pajamas, and Messy-hair melting more nectar of Christmas, they resume their drinking, slowly getting deep in a conversation about anything and everything.
“Don’t you like the holiday?”
Ugh. The question she dreaded.
“It’s not-” The bottom of her cup, with its little grains of cocoa swimming in a puddle of brownish milk, suddenly seems very interesting. “It’s not that I don’t like it.”
It’s just too hurtful.
The man feels that the question makes her uneasy, but how can somebody not like Christmas? Maybe there is something he can do for her. “Your house is the only one empty of decorations on the street, and your sweater,” he points his spoon at the blue wool under his leather jacket, “Is obviously not Christmassy.”
Even if she knows her old jersey by heart, Hermione still grabs the textile between two fingers, and frowns at it, “I don’t see what you can reproach to my sweater. It’s very good and warm-”
“But it’s not Christmassy.” His spoon falls back inside his cup, sending drops of the beverage in the air like little fireworks. “Something needs to be done to fix that. And what about your front yard? I brought a lot of light garlands that we can’t use here, we’d overcharge the house. I can help you to-"
“It’s very nice of you,” she stops him with a sigh, “But I don’t have time for mistletoes or golden ribbons in my living room. Plus, the only other organic form of life that would enjoy them is my cat, and he would throw everything to the floor anyway.” He’s about to reply, but she doesn’t let him. “Where are Teddy’s parents?”
The green eyes twinkle with a special glint, the one that sparks up when somebody accepts a challenge. This topic’s conversation is over. But just for now.
“They have gone to France for a few days, visiting Dora’s family. They’ll be back on the 17th.”
It’s nice to celebrate with someone , thinks Hermione. But the thought is gone as quickly as it had manifested itself. A red light in her mind flashes: SWITCH TOPIC.
“Is Teddy’s hair- bicolor?”
To her hesitant question, Interesting-guy bursts in a loud laughter.
“He just dyed it, two days ago, before his parents left.” He shrugs, lessening the importance of the action. “He wanted to look like his favorite character from this- wizarding book. And Dora’s quite young and open minded, you know. She dyed hers too, bubblegum pink.”
It’s hard for Hermione to imagine her neighbour with a neon mane. “Did Mr. Lupin-?”
The man has to spit his drink in the sink, coughing and laughing simultaneously. “Oh, that would the best gift I’d received in years. But unfortunately no, he hasn’t dyed his hair too.”
Hermione would have found his behavior disgusting, in other circumstances, but she smiles. It’s true that imagining Mr. Lupin with green or red hair would let no one impassible.
A draught runs along Puddifoot Street, precipitating snow down from the roofs, shaking the windows, and moving the decorations in the backyards. The 24-carats-smile Santa is now facing the house number 34, also known as the Lupins house.
At Hermione’s home, the bookmark is still laying open on chapter 7 of Psychology of Women.