A/N: I would like to thank my amazing beta, Anitha. Without her wonderful suggestions and help, this story would not be what it is. Thank-you!!
Just A Kiss
Sometimes, a kiss is just a kiss.
Hermione had been reading for almost as long as she could remember, and before that her parents had set her on their lap, and fliped through the pages with her. Picture books, storybooks, history books, spell books. Her favourites, as a child, were always the fairy tales. The ones with dragons and a prince and a princess. And, of course, with magic. Magical stories that were completely implausible and illogical, that contradicted everything else she knew and read. Yet they had fascinated her back then, so that she would read them over and over again, until she could whisper the stories to herself as she snuggled under the covers, the night closing in around her. The kisses in those stories were the earth-shaking kind, the kind that would wake the princess from her sleep, and return the kingdom to its rightful state. The kind that Hermione slowly began to suspect existed only in books.
Because in all of Hermione’s eighteen years of experience, she had failed to yet come across one. She had come across other kisses, the ones everyone found. But not the fairytale kind.
There had been the kind that your father gives you, on your way off to bed at night. When he would sit in his armchair by the fire, and look down at you with your bushy brown hair and fluffy green pyjamas, and then give a great laugh that warmed you heart. He’d proceed to pick you up, and swing you onto his knee, and giving you three quick kisses – on your forehead, nose and lips – before sending you off to your innocent dreams. Wonderful, but the innocent dreams will one day fade.
There had been the kind that your mother gives you, as she pats your back and you cry your heart out onto her silk blouse. When your soul is full of pain, from a scraped knee, or hurtful words, or a stupid boy who has broken your heart. And she takes you in her arms, rocking you and whispering words of comfort in your ears as she wipes away your tears. Then she gives you a kiss that carries with it all the love she has for you, and smiles down at you to ease your pain. Beautiful, but some things are too big for even her to chase away.
There was the kind that you give to your best friend, to soothe a heart that is heavy with grief. When he’s lost so much, and hurt so much that it makes you want to cry for him. He has been wounded, forced to do things that no child should have to face, and it breaks your heart, for you want nothing more than to see him smile again. And as he picks up his trunk to go stay with people who don’t love him, who don’t care about what becomes of him, you step forward and kiss him quickly, to remind him there are still people who do. Admirable, but he still had to leave you.
There was the kind that a handsome older boy gives you, in the sparkling moonlight on Christmas Eve. When you feel like a princess, and look like one as well, in floating periwinkle cloth. He reaches out and takes your hand, and when you look into his face your throat catches at what you see there, in his eyes. And he leans in, and brushes a fallen curl from your cheek, and kisses you softly. Magical, but that prince is not your prince.
Hermione had given up on ever finding a kiss from a fairy tale, given up on believing the even existed. She didn’t know that it’s usually when you’re not searching for something that you find it.
Hermione’s mind had long since turned away from fairy tales and was now thrust deep into the depths of war. Now, instead of dragons and heroes, she read of new ways to fight, to stay alive. Now it was her turn to be the heroine, to be the one to protect those she loved. Now, instead of something exquisite, she searched for bits of tortured soul, concealed by magic. The wild hair that had made her father laugh when she was younger was pulled tightly away, with no hope of escape so as not to hinder her progress. The heart that her mother had mended countless times was hardening, walling itself off from the world. The princess had been left behind in the castle, leaving only Hermione to emerge into a world that had proved much harsher than the ones from the books.
She was researching, poring through text after text in search of answers, and he knocked on her half open door. He called her name, his voice soft with concern. When she turned to him, his eyes held an intensity that frightened her slightly and yet made her curious as to what could cause it. He had come before, with laughter, and then with angry words. Neither had worked, and Hermione did not know what he would try now. He crossed to her and lifted the huge tome, one of many, up away and out of her reach. When she started to protest, he placed a freckled finger on her lips, and whispered the one word, ‘Enough’. And then, there in that tiny room, so far away from anywhere she’d searched for it, he kissed her.
Sometimes, a kiss is just a kiss. And sometimes, a kiss can change a world.