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The rain outside tapped a steady rhythm against the window panes, echoing the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Hermione Granger sat in her study, surrounded by the comforting silence of her books. The warm glow from the fireplace flickered across her cheeks, casting shadows that danced with the shelves of her magical library. She glanced at the clock again, noticing the hands hadn’t moved much since her last look. It was Christmas Eve, and she was alone.
Her husband was out in the wet, cold world, fighting battles from which she was temporarily sidelined. As the pregnant wife of a superhero, she had grown accustomed to his frequent absences, but it didn’t make the waiting any easier, especially when she was used to being out there helping and healing.
After finishing her Hogwart’s education, Hermione joined the ranks of the Ministry, but soon realised that working there wouldn’t be for her. So she left and started the healer program at St. Mungo’s, where she found a love for helping and healing others. She quickly became one of the hospital’s best healers, and they sent her to places near and far to learn new techniques of healing, both Magical and Muggle. On one of those trips to New York City, Hermione was introduced to Nick Fury and a little-known government agency that was Muggle but wasn’t. She took the stern-looking man, who she was pretty confident was related to Kingsley Shacklebolt, up on his offer and moved her life to Washington, D.C.
That was nearly eight years ago. Since then, Hermione joined S.H.I.E.L.D. as part of their medical team. When Director Fury learned of her battle experience, he brought her on as a field agent, which is where she met Clint.
Hermione took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of aged parchment and the faint lemony hint of her tea sitting on the table beside her. It was moments like these when she wished she could conjure him home with a flick of her wand, but she knew the rules. No magic outside the confines of their Muggle-proofed home. Or S.H.I.E.L.D. locations or missions as needed. M.A.C.U.S.A. had approved her the use of her magical abilities, especially since she could do most of her magic without a wand now, when necessary, and only in a protective or healing capacity.
The quiet was only broken by the occasional flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder. There were times now when she wondered if it was Thor when she saw lightning or heard the thunder. Since the blond god had a penchant for showing up at their secluded Virginian home when it suited him.
This storm had been a particularly nasty one that made the city streets of D.C. look like a scene from a grimy British detective novel. She had hoped that the villains would take a break tonight, just this one night. But she knew that wasn’t the life they had chosen. They were a team, even if her role was currently confined to the sidelines, mending wounds and patching up torn clothing.
Her eyes fell on a photo of the two of them, taken during one of their rare moments of peace. Their wedding day. Clint had his arm around her waist, grinning with the kind of joy that was usually reserved for the victory shots after a successful mission. Hermione had a soft smile, her wand tucked into the pocket of her robes, a reminder of the world she came from. They looked like any other couple, but Hermione knew the truth. He was Hawkeye, the sharp-eyed archer, and she was the witch who held his secrets.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. The wind howled through the front entrance, carrying in the scent of rain and the faint metallic tang of blood. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as her stomach rolled. She knew that scent. It was the scent of a fight, of a world that didn’t stop for holidays. She called out to him, her voice a mix of relief and concern. “Clint?”
He stepped into the room, his clothes soaked and his hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes searched hers, and Hermione knew he was checking if she was okay before he allowed himself to relax. “Hermione,” he said, his voice gruff with exhaustion. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s alright,” she replied, standing up to greet him. She didn’t bother asking about the blood. They had an unspoken rule about that. Instead, she reached out and took his hand, pulling him towards the warmth of the fire. “Come, dry off. I’ve got something to warm you up.”
She flicked her wand towards the kitchen for one of the few spells where she still needed her wand, and the kettle began to warm. Clint found it hilarious that she could do complex wandless magic, but she needed her wand for something simple, like warming a kettle.
He sat heavily in the armchair, and she began peeling off his drenched layers. Underneath, his body was tense with cold and the aftermath of battle. She couldn’t help but worry about the bruises she knew would be there, but she pushed the thoughts aside for now. “Tell me about your night,” she said, her voice gentle, as she helped him into warm clothes.
Clint leaned back, his eyes closing briefly as the warmth of the fire seeped into his bones. “Just the usual,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Saved a cat from a tree, stopped a bank robbery, the norm.” He offered a tired smile as she silently waved her wand over him, a diagnostic spell on her lips.
The tension in the room grew as they both pretended that this was a typical evening and she wasn’t repairing the injuries he’d sustained.
Hermione knew better than to press him, though. He would tell her what he needed to when he was ready. For now, she focused on the task at hand as she stood up to fix his cup of tea. Sitting beside him, she handed him a cup and watched as his grip tightened around it, the warmth seeping into his cold hands.
They sat in companionable silence for a while; the only sounds were the crackling of the fire, the drumming of the rain, and the occasional sip from a cup. It was in moments like these, when the world outside was at its darkest, that Hermione was reminded of why she had chosen this life. For all the fear and uncertainty, she loved him, and she knew he loved her too. And they both loved what they did.
As the grandfather clock struck midnight, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, they could carve out a little bit of happiness amidst the chaos.
She looked at her husband and smiled. “Happy Christmas,” she said, her voice a whisper.
Clint opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. “Merry Christmas, Hermione.”
And for a brief, shining moment, it was just the two of them, a world of their own against the backdrop of the never-ending fight for justice.
He pulled her close, and they shared a kiss. It was sweet and full of promise. They knew that soon, the weight of the world would settle back onto their shoulders and that their quiet night would be over. But for now, they had each other, and that was all that mattered.