She began to cry.
Harry released her completely, his eyes knowing as he watched her. “We’ve been calling her ‘Dita’.”
Hermione nodded. Perdita. Her baby.
"Is it love?"
She cried a little harder, understanding now. She’d thought he hadn’t answered because he hadn’t known, either. But he had known, and he knew that she did, too—whether she realized it not.
And it was, you know. It was.
It was like winter; cold and harsh and painful in the barren field it left the world. Yet it was necessary. Spring couldn’t come until winter had passed. It was simply another part of the cycle.
It was love.
A flurry of snow fell onto her nose and, as if she hadn’t already been thinking of him, she thought of him more. This was what he’d meant, she realized, as Harry guided her into the house, Dita’s hand on hers. She whispered his name as Harry closed the front door, and just like that, she was in a new place with new people and a new life.
This time, though, she didn’t want to forget.
She’d promised him before that she wouldn’t allow him to let her go, and she’d hold on to that promise for as long as it took for him to grab hold of her again, too. He’d saved her, and she was going to save them. For him.
Because. Just because.
It was love.
LOVE LIKE WINTER