Author: Thalia Kendall
Category: General, Romance, Angst
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling. Characters and situations are used without permission, no infringement is intended.
Summary: Three separate Christmases in the space of fifteen years, delineating various points in the lives of Roger Davies and Cho Chang. Christmases come and go, some happier than others, but love remains the same.
Author's Note: Part Two of the Christmas fic... one more part to come! Happy
Christmas, y'all!
* * *
Roger shivered slightly in the cold, bitter winter wind, leaning more heavily than he wanted to admit on the petite, dainty-looking young woman next to him.
If they were to look in a purely Ravenclaw fashion at theories and technicalities, the war was over. Voldemort was dead, and dead for good. But things weren't quite so simple, black and white. There were still some dark factions, some loose ends, and the renegades kept the Auror Corps busy.
Cho, whose face remained delicately and exotically beautiful after all these years, unwarded the tent with a flick of her wand and guided him in.
Inside the tent was a pale, hurriedly constructed scene of Christmas cheer. Cho had transfigured a candlestick into a tiny Christmas tree, and decorated it with paper roses and hair ribbons.
"Lie down," she told Roger, her small hands supporting his back, and her voice was the music. She unbuttoned his shirt even as the room started to warm from the charmed fireplace. With the care of a nurse or a lover, she unwrapped the bandage around his torso.
He thought that it was probably slightly dishonourable to distract himself from the sting of the healing potion by focusing on the shape of her, bent over him, her hair falling over her shoulder. But she didn't seem to notice or mind, and when she fastened a new bandage on his wound, her eyes shone.
"You'll have a bit of a scar, but it won't affect your beauty," she said softly. It was an odd thing to say to a bloke, and Roger kept silent about the fact that he thought she was the beautiful one. He watched as his work partner and closest friend... still nothing more... drifted about the tent, brewing a cup of medicinal tea.
She brought it to him and he pushed himself into a sitting position, taking a sip of the bitter liquid. It had been two days ago that a routine patrol had turned vicious, and he'd taken a hex aimed at her. He'd been barely aware of how she'd fallen upon their attacker after that with the bright, blazing fury of an avenging goddess. He'd woken several hours later in their tent, sore and aching all over, dimly aware that the woman at his side had drying tearstains on her cheeks.
"What do you want for Christmas, Roger?" she asked, and it was an ironic sort of question. Neither of them were anywhere near any sort of store, and they'd not be home until after New Year's. He shrugged, taking another sip of his bitter drink, and kept silent. There WAS something, but he wasn't about to ask. It was enough for her to be as close to him as she was. They trusted each other completely. Half the time, they'd need no words to understand each other's thoughts.
And apparently this was one of the times. Cho leaned over even as he set the empty cup down, a world of meaning in her gentle brown eyes, and pressed sweet lips to his bitter ones for a long, warm moment.
"Next Christmas we'll do this again, at home, under the mistletoe," she whispered, her voice filled with promise. Unconsciously, his hand sought out hers. In the dim firelight, her robes tattered and her hair tangled and mussed by the wind, she looked like a ragged angel.
He squeezed her hand and realized that the medicine's acrid aftertaste had vanished from his mouth.