Some people think Christmas in Harry Potter is about feasts and sweaters and found family around a table.
But in the seventh book, Christmas is a graveyard.
Itâs snow.
Itâs silence.
Itâs Harry standing in front of his parentsâ names for the first time in his life.
And the only person there with him is Hermione.
Not because she has to be.
Not because anyone asked her to.
But because she understands something very simple and very cruel:
you donât let someone face their dead alone on Christmas.
She doesnât reach for him to fix it.
She doesnât try to make it easier.
She lets him feel everything â the loss, the anger, the love that never got a future.
She stands there while he breaks in ways no spell can repair.
Harry doesnât say much.
He doesnât need to.
Hermione already knows.
She knows when to speak.
She knows when silence is mercy.
She knows that this moment isnât about courage or destiny, but about a boy who never got to be held by his parents.
And she stays.
Thatâs what undoes me every time.
Because Christmas is a family holiday.
And when Harry finally goes to the place where his family should have been, Hermione is the one who becomes it.
No grand confession.
No dramatic music.
Just the soft, devastating truth that when Harry faces the worst moment of his life, she is already beside him.
People can argue pairings endlessly.
But this scene isnât a debate.
Itâs a line in the sand.
When everything is stripped away â the war, the titles, the noise â Harry chooses to walk into his past with Hermione.
And Hermione chooses not to let him walk back alone.
Thatâs not a trope.
Thatâs not projection.
Thatâs love written in snow and silence.
And if that doesnât move you, maybe nothing ever could.
Love is not who you celebrate with.
Love is who stays when there is nothing left to celebrate.
If that isnât love, then love doesnât exist.
~Warnings: mentions of death and near-death experience, survivorâs guilt, emotional trauma, possessive/protective Neteyam, canon divergence (Neteyam lives), mutual pining, slow burn
~Description: ~Neteyam Sully was supposed to die.
He knows it. The clan knows it. Eywa knows it.
Instead, he lives â and something inside him doesnât.
You miss him.
You noticed it right away. He was distant.
Aloof.
Depressed.
It wasnât sudden. Not enough for anyone else to question. But you felt it immediately, like a shift in the air before a storm.
He would swerve out of the way as you walked towards him, striking up a conversation with whoever was closest and wasnât you. His voice would lift just slightly, like he was trying too hard to sound normal. Like he was performing distance.
You crave him.
You had come to lean on his presence. It had slipped into your life so naturally you hadnât realized it was happening until it was gone.
You want him near you. You want his smell, his touch, his affections. You want him wrapped around you, steady and grounding and always there.
But heâs gone.
Not truly gone. Not dead. Not lost.
Just not yours anymore.
________________________________
It was agony to do the right thing.
He thought he was doing the right thing.
He repeats it to himself the same way he repeats everything else, quiet, constant, like a rule he cannot break.
He still kept those pestering, demeaning men away from you. He still picked up tasks so you wouldnât have to. Still watched from the edges. Still made sure nothing touched you that shouldnât.
But he stopped touching you.
Stopped standing beside you.
Stopped letting himself exist in your space.
And in doing so, he freed up your time.
In freeing up your time, he opened the door for the Metkayina to court you.
Your father started sending men your way. Many warriors attempting to impress you with pretty words, strong tails, and big muscles. They spoke loudly. Confidently. They filled space in a way Neteyam never had to.
He watched from a distance.
Assessed them.
Measured them in silence.
None of them did all he did for you.
None of them noticed the small things. None of them anticipated your needs before you spoke. None of them watched you like you were something to protect, not something to win.
They are inadequate.
It settles in him, sharp and certain.
Itâs been a month.
A month without your smell. Your touch.
A month without you.
You had grown cold towards him.
Thatâs what he had wanted.
Thatâs what he told himself.
You started entertaining these men. At first, politely. Then more easily. To the point that they started to come back. To the point that they expected to.
He would constantly have to watch you with the same couple of men.
Watch as they fawned over you.
Watch as they fought for your affections.
Watch as they leaned too close. Spoke too softly. Laughed too easily at things that werenât funny.
He watched the gifts he wove for you, the ones you had worn daily without fail, slowly get replaced by jewelry and weavings from new men.
One piece at a time.
Like he was being peeled away from you.
He felt so alone.
It sits heavy in his chest, deeper than the wound ever did. Quieter, but worse.
Not at the edges. Not in the distance. Not watching. Not near.
Gone in a way that felt wrong.
You decided to give these men a chance.
Maybe one could live up to him.
Maybe one could feel like him.
Maybe that was the problem.
It didnât work.
Every touch feels wrong.
Every glance feels empty.
Every gift that isnât from him feels like something you have to pretend to appreciate.
You try. You really do.
But it never settles.
It never feels right.
Your light starts to fade.
You notice it slowly. In the way you laugh less. In the way things feel heavier. In the way your patience wears thin by the end of the day.
You once found happiness in everything. Brought a little light to everyone. It came easily. Naturally.
The only person that gave you light back is now gone.
And no one else knows how.
You sit, dejected, in your marui.
The woven walls feel smaller than they used to. The air feels still. You spend less time outside recently. It was hard to be happy all the time. To do othersâ work for them. To pretend you are important as the youngest daughter of Tonowari.
To pretend you donât feel the absence of something you never even named.
He comes to you then.
Your father.
âIt is time,â he says.
His voice is not unkind. Not forceful. Just firm in the way leaders are when something has already been decided.
Heâs invited other clans. Heâs invited his own warriors.
They will come.
They will stand before you.
They will be judged by you.
You had completed iknimaya ages ago. Proved yourself. Earned your place.
It was time.
You would choose a mate.
And you would get the next bead on your songcord.
One that was long overdue.
Your fingers curl slightly in your lap.
"Ok"
___________________________________
They come in waves.
Metkayina in all shades of blue.
From clans nearby and far off.
Some you recognize, some you pretend you do.
The marui are fuller than youâve ever seen them. Voices overlap, laughter rises and falls, the ocean air feels thick with expectation.
You put in more effort.
Your father asked you to dance, to hunt, to fish, to swim.
To show these men youâre strong, even as a later born child.
You do it.
You do all of it.
On stage you swirl, spin, drape, flow. Move like the ocean around you. Your body bends and follows the rhythm youâve known your whole life. You feel the sand crunch beneath your feet, grounding you, keeping you steady.
The beads on your weaving clink as you sway.
He made them for you.
Everything you wear, he made for you.
Your fingers brush against them mid-turn, a subconscious reminder. A tether.
Youâre calling out to him.
Begging him to see you.
He does not.
___________________________________________
Youâre there. He can't take his eyes off you.
Youâre up there dancing in garments he made you.
Youâre up there begging for him to save you.
The fanfare around him has been overwhelming.
The noise. The people. The constant talk.
Hearing these men here talk about you only makes him miss you more.
It sits wrong in his chest. Twists.
They speak like they know you.
Like they need you.
Like they deserve you.
He walks and fills his plate, barely looking at what he takes. His mind is elsewhere. Always elsewhere.
Heâs going to make any excuse to sit close and watch you dance.
He knows itâs unfair to be upset.
He started it.
He created this distance.
He told himself this is what was right.
But he canât help it.
He sits so close to you. Close enough that if you misstep, if your foot lands wrong, you could kick him.
He almost wants it.
Almost craves even a touch from you that causes him harm.
At least you would have touched him.
His eyes donât leave you.
Not once.
________________________________________________
It starts as murmurs.
Low voices behind him.
A group of men, gathered just far enough to think they arenât heard.
One of them laughs.
âYou see her? Tonowariâs daughter.â Another hums in agreement. âStrong alliance,â one says. âStrong blood.â Then another voice, sharper, more amused. âAnd a pretty one too. That is a bonus.â
Neteyamâs grip tightens around the edge of his plate.
They keep going.
âI wonder if sheâs got anything behind the smile,â one says, tone lazy. âNot that it matters." A chuckle. âDoesnât have to. Just needs to sit there and look pretty.â
More laughter. âWatching her pretty facial expressions as I fill her up over and over. Watching her stomach swell with my children. That's all I need her for.â Agreement ripples through them. Nods. Grins. Casual.
Like itâs nothing.
Like you are nothing.
Neteyam goes very still.
Something cold settles in him.
Not sharp.
Not explosive.
Just⊠final.
He sets his plate down slowly.
Stands.
No one notices at first.
He walks over, calm. Controlled. His expression unreadable.
He stops beside the one who spoke the most.
âCome with me,â he says quietly.
The man barely has time to react before Neteyamâs hand is on his arm, firm, unyielding.
They step away. Out of sight. Out of earshot.
The moment theyâre alone, it happens.
The punch is fast.
Clean.
It lands hard against the manâs face, snapping his head to the side.
He stumbles, curses, swings back.
They scuffle.
Sand shifts under their feet. Breath turns sharp. Hands grab, shove, strike.
Neteyam doesnât hold back.
Doesnât think.
He moves like he was trained to. Precise. Efficient.
It doesnât take long.
He gets him in a headlock, arm tight around his throat, forcing him still.
The man struggles, choking slightly.
Neteyam leans in, voice low, deadly calm.
âYou will not speak about her like that.â The man laughs weakly, trying to play it off. âSheâs meant to be chosen, is she not? That is the point of this.â Neteyam tightens his hold. âShe is not something you get to use.â
Silence.
Heavy.
The man stills.
Neteyamâs voice drops further.
âIf I hear you speak about her like that again, I will do more than this.â
It isnât a threat thrown out in anger.
Itâs a promise.
He lets him go.
The man stumbles forward, catching himself, breathing hard, shaken now.
Neteyam knows it would wound the man's pride to reveal that an Omitikaya brought him to the ground.
Neteyam doesnât look back at him.
He doesnât need to.
He stands there for a moment, chest rising and falling, something settled deep inside him.
Clear.
Certain.
He tried to step back.
Tried to let you choose.
Tried to do the right thing.
But thisâŠ
This is what happens when he isnât there.
When he isnât beside you.
When he isnât yours.
His jaw tightens.
No.
He wonât let this happen.
He wonât let them near you.
He wonât let them touch you.
He wonât let them think they can have you.
Not like this.
Not ever.
He makes the decision then.
He will fight for your hand.
And he will not lose.
___________________________________________
You go to bed drained.
You watched Neteyam watch you.
You watched him disappear into the crowd and not come back.
You thought he might stay. He made such a statement sitting so near you. You hoped this was a step forward.
You suppose it wasn't.
The night was long.
Men constantly pulling you to walk to them. Their hand resting on your lower back, almost respectful, but definetly daring.
You felt grimy.
As night fully fell and you tossed and turned you made a desision.
You trecked out into the night. Into the forests behind the ocean villiage. To a natural warm pool flowing in from ocean vents. It was clear and comforting.
Slowly you slip off your garments. they clink to the forest floor.
You slip into the water and dive under feeling your muscles relax.
You let yourself float your chest open to the air, your head resting buoyant on the water. The forest echoes around you. Song cherps and shrieks echo, and the sound of the beach waves nearby almost lulls you to sleep. It's the calmest moment you've had since Neteyam.
You start to think of your life that way. Before Neteyam. After Neteyam. It makes your soul sink. Your heart feels cold and empty without him.
You suppose your faather did this to help. He must've known, to some degree, your need for that male. That male who left you high and dry. You know he wanted to help fill that void, to bring back his happy cheery bright daughter. But every glance, every converstation had without him just made your worse.
You hear a crunch then and freeze sinking down so only your eyes poke over the water.
___________________________________________
He had been watching you.
He hadn't really meant to. He snuck out to listen to the calming noises from the forest. To clear his head. To get away from the noise of celebration and expectation and everyone looking at you like something to be won.
And he saw you.
Moonlight filtered through the trees in broken pieces, silver against the dark water. The air was damp and warm, filled with the sound of insects and the soft movement of waves against stone.
He watched as you shed your weavings.
Slowly. Casually. Unaware.
He watched the moon glint off your curves and drip down your body, accentuating every dip and curve. Water kissed your skin as you stepped deeper into the pool, your body glowing beneath the pale light. His skin flushed purple as he watched, knowing he should turn away.
He can't.
His chest rises slowly. His breath catches. Something heavy settles deep inside him.
He watches you float in circles. The water carries you gently, your hair spreading around you like ink, your eyes closed as though this is the only place you can finally breathe.
He had always craved you, but seeing this opened something inside him he had never thought of before.
He had been drawn to your energy, your warmth, the way you carried light even when the world tried to take it from you. But seeing you, floating there, exposed to the world, soft and trusting and completely unaware of him watching...
Something inside him snaps into place.
He wants you.
Body and mind.
Every piece of you.
You're his.
He'll show you.
He makes his decision then and steps out of the brush.
The leaves shift beneath his feet, quiet but enough for your ears to twitch toward him. Your eyes open slowly, immediately finding him standing there at the edge of the water.
He watches you relax and slip slightly lower in the water, enough that he can see your bare shoulders and nothing more.
He wants so much more.
Your eyes question him. He had been distant for so long but now he's sought you out in your most vulnerable time.
The moonlight catches his face now that he's closer. You can see the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion in his eyes. Something desperate sits beneath his skin.
He can see then your body isn't the only thing exposed.
Your energy is raw and fraying.
You're in pain.
He caused that.
Guilt twists inside him so sharply he almost stops moving altogether.
But he continues to walk forward, not bothering to shed his tweng. He wades in towards you, the water ripples and splashes as he descends. The water climbs slowly up his body, soaking the fabric clinging to his skin.
You think you would tense, would turn away.
You don't want to scare him off.
You want him to stay.
He's next to you now. You can feel the warmth from his body now radiating in your direction. Even surrounded by cool water, he feels warm. Solid.
Safe.
âI want to be yours,â he says, meeting your eyes with such intensity it almost steals the air from your lungs.
There is no hesitation in him now.
No distance.
No pretending.
You don't freeze, you don't tense.
Everything inside you releases.
The ache in your chest loosens all at once, sudden and overwhelming.
He reaches his arms out and you relax into him instantly, like your body had been waiting for this.
âI am already yours,â you say, echoing his sincerity.
Your voice cracks slightly at the end and his expression softens immediately.
He needs you close.
Closer than you are now.
He lifts your body, tugging you to him tighter. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist beneath the water as his arms secure themselves around you like he's afraid you'll disappear if he loosens his grip.
His head moves to rest in the crook of your neck.
He breathes you in deeply.
You smell clean, like a combination of ocean and forest, a combination of him and you. Saltwater and damp earth and something underneath that is entirely yours.
His eyes close.
For the first time in months, he feels calm.
Tears are running down your face as you hug. Warm against his skin. You finally feel him again. His touch all around you, overwhelming your senses.
You missed this.
Missed him.
Missed being held like he never wanted to let go.
You want him to claim you.
Fully.
You want everyone to know.
But he pulls away.
Not far. Never far.
He doesn't set you down, just moves his face from the crook of your neck to gently kiss your forehead. His lips linger there for a moment, soft and reverent.
âI will claim you properly. I will win clan favor and honor you,â he says, pulling back to meet your gaze.
The seriousness in his expression makes your chest tighten.
He means it.
Every word.
You groan slightly at the fact he's going to make you wait, but you understand he wants to do this right.
A quiet laugh leaves him then. Small. Breathless. The first real laugh you've heard from him in a long time.
His thumbs brush against your sides beneath the water absentmindedly, like he simply needs to feel that you're still there.
He stands there holding you a while longer.
The water moves gently around your bodies. The forest hums quietly around you. Somewhere above, the moon watches through the trees.
He's made his decision.
He will make everyone understand that you two deserve each other.
Can someone teach me how to put those cute little page breaks in, please, please, please? Guys, here's a little mini something something for all the Neteyam lovers.
~Word count: ~1.7k
~Warnings: mentions of death and near-death experience, survivorâs guilt, emotional trauma, possessive/protective Neteyam, canon divergence (Neteyam lives), mutual pining, slow burn
~Description: ~Neteyam Sully was supposed to die.
He knows it. The clan knows it. Eywa knows it.
Instead, he lives â and something inside him doesnât.
He knows that. Deep inside it continues to haunt him. Thank Eywa heâs alive, that his family doesnât have to deal with another loss. Heâs grateful. But something inside him did die.
He repeats it to himself every morning, I am alive, I am safe, I am with family.
Sometimes he says it out loud. Sometimes it sits heavy in his throat, unsaid but present, like the scar that aches when the weather shifts.
He feels trapped in a space unfamiliar to him after his fall. They hadnât been with the Metkayina long before he fell, and now it feels like the great divider of his life.
Before the gunshot.
And after the gunshot.
Before, he knew who he was.
He was supposed to take over the clan from his dad. He was trained from very young. That was all out the window now. He wants to throw himself into that training, feel like himself again. Feel strong again. Useful again. But the war would not stop. The tension never lifted. They would not go back. The ocean never truly quieted. All he could do was find moments of silence and try to live inside them.
And then there is you.
Loud. Giggly. Happy. Everything he canât find in himself to be anymore.
You glow and it lights up everyone around you. Even when youâre quiet, thereâs something warm about you. Something steady. People lean toward you without noticing theyâre doing it.
He starts becoming your shadow.
You donât notice at first. He simply is nearby. You see him in the corners of rooms, at the edge of feasts, his eyes always on you. It was sweet, he was learning the ways. Thatâs all you thought. The Omatikaya boy watching, learning, adjusting.
Slowly he starts to get closer.
He would insert himself without asking. If you needed to carry anything, it was out of your hands before you could even speak. He wasnât a shadow anymore. Heâs ever-present.
He helps with the kids of the tribe. He helps you gather. Carries anything youâve hunted back to the clan before you even sling it over your shoulder. He walks beside you in the water without making it obvious. Always just close enough.
He thinks you are the strongest warrior heâs ever known.
Youâre always calm, always happy, always loving. You speak gently but people listen. You laugh easily but never carelessly. Being by your side, that quiet part of him that died with the bullet to his side starts to come back to him. Itâs small. Fragile. But itâs there.
Spending more time around you, though, he starts to notice things.
You smile too wide towards the end of the day. Your shoulders drop when you think no one is looking. Metkayina males would ask you to do things for them and you would just bite your tongue and nod along.
You pick your battles.
You arenât happy-go-lucky. Youâre intelligent. You create happiness. You build it carefully, like a shelter, and invite others inside. You find it in things many wouldnât bother to notice.
He sees the effort now. The quiet strength it takes.
He wants to help. Wants to make sure you never feel the way he does on his bad days. The way he feels when he wakes in the early light, memories of pain and blood and loss flooding his dreams.
Your face is the one thing that keeps the pain at bay.
And he wants to be the same to you.
He decides then.
He will be your rock. He will get you to lean on him. He will be yours. Yours alone.
It isnât possessive in his mind. Not sharp. Not greedy. It feels steady. Certain. Like something he was always meant to do. Like protecting his family. Like breathing.
You donât notice at first.
He starts making it apparent to the other Metkayina. His tail finds its way around your leg when you arenât paying attention. Loose. Casual. Like it just ended up there by accident. If you notice, he simply laughs it off, flashing that soft, boyish grin that makes it hard to question him.
âSorry,â he says, not sounding sorry at all.
But others notice.
They see how he stands closer now. How his shoulder almost always brushes yours. How he answers dumb questions directed at you before you can speak. How his eyes follow anyone who lingers too long in your space.
He intercepts those males who are always trying to shirk their duties off onto you.
Before they can even ask, he steps forward.
âI will do it.â
Simple. Calm. Final.
He does them instead. Carries what they should carry. Fixes what they should fix. Volunteers before they can open their mouths.
Youâre proud of him.
Proud heâs healing. Proud heâs functioning in the tribe. Proud heâs smiling more. You think this is him finding his place. Finding purpose again.
You donât realize youâve become that purpose.
Next, he starts to ask for your help.
He wants you to teach him how to weave. He sits close when you show him, knees bumping yours, tail flicking in quiet focus. His fingers are clumsy at first, too used to weapons, to reins, to bows. But he listens carefully. Watches you like every movement matters.
Whatever he makes, though, he simply gives back to you as thanks.
âThis is yours,â he says, pressing the finished piece into your hands before you can refuse.
You laugh. Tell him he should keep it. He shakes his head.
âI made it for you.â
Like that explains everything.
He wants to learn to cook next.
He hovers beside you while you work, asking questions he probably already knows the answers to. Watches how you measure without thinking, how you move like youâve done this your whole life. When you go to taste it, he doesnât hand it to you.
He feeds you straight from his own hands.
You freeze for half a second, surprised, not uncomfortable, just caught off guard. His fingers are warm. His eyes locked on your face, searching for your reaction like it matters more than anything else in the world.
âWell?â he asks quietly.
Itâs good. Of course itâs good.
You tell him so, smiling, and something in his chest settles. Like a knot loosening.
Unconsciously, you start to shift towards him yourself. Your tail is too thick, being Metkayina, to wrap around him, but you always lean in his direction. Your body language is always open to him.
When he's not there you think of him. He would like this rock. Maybe I can teach him this weave. I think he would like the taste of this. I should gather more of this herb in case he wants to remake that dish I taught him.
His presense grows without him needing to do much about it.
He's touchy, you're touchy back.
It's natural.
It all halts one day.
Youâre at a fire pit and a member of the clan comes up to you. She enquires about you finding a mate soon. You are a child of Tonowari. You will not be tsahĂŹk, but you would be useful in other ways, made more so by having a mate.
The fire crackles softly between you. Voices hum around the circle. Someone laughs behind you. The smell of roasted fish hangs warm in the air.
You pause for a second.
You hadnât thought of anyone.
Not seriously. Not in that way. Your life feels full already, duties, family, the clan, the ocean. The idea of adding someone into it feels distant, like something meant for later.
Neteyam is unnaturally still beside you.
He had walked away for a moment to grab you both food and comes back to this line of questioning. The woven tray in his hands doesnât move. His ears tilt forward just slightly. His tail goes rigid behind him.
He doesnât interrupt. Doesnât speak. Just listens.
The woman keeps talking, gentle but persistent. About how strong alliances matter. About how the people notice things. About how many young warriors would be honored to stand beside you.
Your stomach twists a little.
Neteyam steps closer without meaning to.
He wants it to be him.
The thought lands heavy in his chest, sudden and undeniable. He wants you to see him that way. Wants to be the one who walks beside you not just out of habit, not just out of choice, but because it is his place.
But he could back off.
The thought tastes bitter.
Only if your mate could do everything he does for you and more. Only if they could keep you smiling the way he tries to. Only if they watched you the way he does. Only if they caught the small things, the tired looks, the quiet sighs, the way you carry too much without complaint.
Or else he would have to pick up the slack.
And if he has to do that⊠then he should just be your mate, right?
His jaw tightens slightly at the logic of it. It makes sense to him. Feels obvious. Simple.
His hand brushes yours as he finally crouches beside you again, setting the food down between you. He doesnât pull away right away.
You say nothing in response. You give her a smile, bright and fake, and dismiss her by turning fully to Neteyam, who has brought you food.
âThank you,â you say instead, like the conversation never happened.
He hands it to you carefully, watching your face more than your hands. Searching. Waiting. Your fingers brush when you take it and he feels it all the way up his spine.
You donât mention the question. Donât joke about it. Donât complain. You just start eating, quiet for a moment, staring into the fire like the answer might be somewhere in it.
Neteyam sits beside you, closer than usual, thigh pressed lightly against yours.
You start telling him about your day. Laughing at your own stories. Half of which he was present for. He doesn't care. He listens with the ghost of a smile on his face and his thigh against yours.
Loyalty is not fireworks or loud declarations.
Itâs the quiet decision to stay when every exit sign is blinking.
Itâs choosing their peace over my convenience, their growth over my comfort.
A love that doesnât keep score, doesnât run when it gets heavy, doesnât flirt with easier options.
Just steady hands and a stubborn heart that says:
âIâm still here. I will keep being here.â
Serving Without Sound: Quiet Ways I Offer Light to the World
Not all service is seen.
Not all devotion is spoken.Not all light makes noise.
I used to wonder:What can I give? Who am I to serve the world?
But now I know â I already am.
Service does not always mean action.Sometimes, it means alignment.
When I sit in OM and send light through my breath, I serve.When I bless my food with silent mantras, I serve.When I calm my heart before speaking to aâŠ
The Goddess Within Me Walks Quietly: Living as Divine Mother Daughter
I was not born into devotion. I was called into it â by love, not by fear.
I never planned to walk this path. I only wanted peace.But one day, in the stillness of chanting, I felt her.Not outside me â but within.
Divine Mother
The Eternal Mother.The one who called me her daughter in a vision so real, I can still feel the kiss on my forehead.
Since then, I have not needed loud rituals or grandâŠ
