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He did not remember which Christmas it was that he fell in love with her.
It may have been the Christmas of his fifth year, when she had charged into his room, red in the face, snow still in her hair, and pulled him out of his misery.
It may have been the Christmas of his sixth year, when he realised that he missed her when they spent that holiday apart.
It may have been that Christmas, when they were on the run, when he finally let himself break down in front of his parents’ graves, letting himself open his emotions to her.
It may have been the Christmas the year after, in the newfound peace, when he finally began to evaluate what she was to him now that he could.
Whichever Christmas it was, he had fallen hopelessly in love with her and had not stopped loving her every Christmas since.
They left Hogwarts behind and tried to live apart for a while. But both found that it was unnatural. They had shared so much together, fought through so much by each other’s side, that they could not separate, even if the imminent danger was all behind them.
So they had moved into this house halfway through her first year at Cambridge. And they had lived here ever since.
He went back to Hogwarts, teaching Defence, but he always came back here in the evenings. He liked to make her dinner, and loved seeing the smile on her face when she returned home for a hot meal. He liked to run her bathwater for her, and loved hearing her contented sighs as she soaked off her day’s tension.
She liked to tell him things that she had learned, and he loved listening to her, no matter how over his head what she was saying was. She liked to take him out, not on extravagant holidays, but simply down the street to a coffee house, and he loved just being with her.
It was never about the grand gestures for them, but always the little things.
The little things add up to big things, and that was why he loved her.
She joined the Wizengamot after her three years at Cambridge, working to secure rights for magical creatures and equal treatment for people of all blood statuses. When she came back tired and irritated, he simply hugged her, gave her a gentle massage, cuddled her. The tension seemed to go away every time, as if by magic.
They were married two years later, on Christmas Eve. Both agreed that there was no day that emblemised what they had better.
Three years after that, James Sirius was born. That Christmas was a memorable one. It was the first of many that they would spend with their new family. Holding a sometimes crying, sometimes cooing, but always happy baby in his arms made him feel more euphoric than anything else in the world. Except her, of course.
Two years later, Rose Iris was born. Despite having experienced it once before, he was more excited than ever to watch their family grow.
That Christmas proved to be even sweeter. James was three, walking, and could string random words together. Nothing made him happier than being called ‘papa’ by his own son while holding his infant daughter in his arms.
They agreed that two were already more than enough, and were content to just watch their children grow up. His love for her did not diminish or fragment when the two children came into the picture. It seemed only to grow and multiply. He knew that she felt the same.
James’s eleventh birthday came far too quickly, and before they even realised it, he was off to Hogwarts. They stood on the platform as the train departed, waving him off. She did not want to let him go at first, but tearfully kissed him goodbye and made him promise to not get into too much trouble.
A chapter of his life ended right then, but another chapter was just beginning. As long as he had her, he would never stop adding to his book of life.
Two years after that, Rose went off to Hogwarts, too. They missed them more than ever that year, despite him seeing them almost every day in his Defence classes. He did not feel lonely, however. As long as he had her, he would never feel lonely.
That Christmas was filled by Rose gushing over how much she had learned. She was so very much like her mother. He did not think it were possible, but he came to love them both – and James – more as a result.
In the blink of an eye, both had graduated and moved out. James became a Beater with Puddlemere United; Rose became an Unspeakable. That made him sad, for he would be seeing much less of them now, but also happy, for they were starting their own lives.
The Christmases passed year after year in a familiar rhythm. They would see their children – and before they knew it, their spouses and their children – over for dinner. Then, they would curl up on the sofa and enjoy the rest of the night in peace and quiet, in each other’s company. That was all they needed, really.
After a long and illustrious career, she retired from the Wizengamot to pursue her other interests. She did all manner of things – experimented with magic, wrote short stories, or sometimes just kept him company. He continued teaching for several more years, but eventually, he, too, simply wanted a quiet life, wanted to spend every waking moment with her.
They travelled the world together, not quite young but still filled with youthful energy. Age seemed to not matter, neither taking much of a toll nor leaving visible marks. Love was the strongest force in the world.
They worked on their little projects together, helping each other out when one of them encountered a difficulty that they could not solve on their own. Age seemed to only sharpen her mind. Love was the strongest force in the world.
Their love was the strongest force in the world.
And today, it was Christmas again. Their children and grandchildren had just left. He looked out of the window at the snow-covered King’s College Chapel, then turned to look at her. Her hair, chestnut brown in her youth, had greyed, though traces of that familiar colour were still visible.
She smiled. Her smile was still the same as ever. Tender, sweet, beautiful, warming. Her eyes still lit up with love and affection. Time had passed, but some things had never, and will never change.
He took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back. There was no need for verbal affirmations of love. They knew it instinctively.
Hermione is seventy-one this Christmas and Harry is seventy.