A/N: Just a little something I wrote as I struggle with the relentless passing of time. Enjoy, and I hope 2020 is kind to you.

Her parents' timing had been impeccable. Almost like they'd known, when they had written in mid-November and asked if she would like to try to redo last year's aborted ski trip, that she felt like everything was crumbling around her. Like they'd known that she was eating every meal alone in the Great Hall and hiding in the library just so she wouldn't have to be in the common room and bear witness to the world's most repulsive public displays of affection. Like they'd known that she had to listen to the sordid details of such affection in her dormitory as she feigned sleep from behind the closed curtain of her four-poster.

Of course, she had written back from her favorite desk in the Transfiguration section of the library. The Italian Alps sound amazing, I would love to go.

Which was how, on the thirty-first of December, she found herself in one of Italy's finest ski resorts, watching news coverage of the waning minutes of 1996 with a cup of piping-hot tea in her hands and an all-encompassing ache that she wasn't convinced she could blame entirely on the skiing.

"Hermione," called Mum from the kitchenette area of their suite, "how about some champagne?"

"Champagne?" she repeated weakly, even as her words died in the popping sound of a bottle being opened.

"Of course, dear, one glass won't hurt you." Mum approached, three elegant flutes grasped precariously in her hands, and passed one to Dad, who was half-asleep in an armchair. "It's a special occasion, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded and took the glass. "You're right, it is. Thank you."

She inched over on the sofa to make room for her mum to join her, curiously eyeing the golden liquid in her glass.

"So what are Ron and Harry up to tonight?" asked Mum cheerfully. "Have they stayed at Hogwarts again this year?"

"Oh, er-" Hermione took a tentative sip, letting the bubbles crackle and fizz on her tongue to buy herself time. "No, they're spending the break at Ron's house."

She had never spent a holiday at the Burrow, but that didn't stop her imagination forcing vivid scenes to the front of her mind: hand-knitted jumpers; the twins setting off fireworks that spelled out crude words; a warm, crackling fire; Ron's broad, easy grin.

Enough, she told herself forcefully. There was no point in ruminating over a part of her life that was firmly in the past. Ron had made his choice - had made it quite clearly and publicly in front of everyone they knew, with no room for doubt - and his choice had not been her. There was simply no sense in thinking about what she might be missing, because she was never going to get it back.

"Well, I'm so glad you're here with us this year," continued Mum. "We really missed you last year-" She paused and turned her gaze toward Dad. "Simon," she said sharply, reaching out to swat his arm. "It's nearly midnight, now, don't sleep through the countdown."

"I'm awake," he mumbled, shifting up in his armchair.

Mum fixed him with a skeptical glare. "Mmhmm."

As Dad rubbed at his bleary eyes, Hermione focused intently on the telly opposite them. A countdown clock in the corner of the screen detailed the time until the new year down to the second. With each one that ticked away, Hermione found herself impatient for them all to speed by, eager to commit this miserable year to the annals of history where it belonged. The year that Umbridge had become Headmistress. The year that Sirius had died. The year that Katie Bell had been cursed. The year that Cormac MacLaggen had forced his tongue down her throat. The year that Ron had mocked her in class. The year that she'd felt her own heart torn out of her chest, the year she had let her own rage and pain overcome her and allow her to inflict violence against someone who had once been her favorite person in the whole world.

A fresh start was just what she needed. She craved it, was desperate for it, hungry for it. When the new year struck - in three minutes and forty-seven seconds exactly - she was done with all of it. She was not one for New Year's resolutions, but she was making one now: to move on, and never allow Ron Weasley to occupy space in her brain or her heart ever again.

"Happy new year!" cried Mum, clinking her glass against Hermione's and leaning over to kiss her warmly on the temple.

Pushing her lips into a smile, Hermione finished off her glass of champagne.

But when she woke in the morning, she found the ache in her muscles had only deepened, her limbs now stiff after hours of inactivity. She let Mum's relentless energy propel her from the warmth of the bed and allowed her parents to feed her tea and toast - and a shot of espresso, Mum insisted, "since you'll need the energy for skiing!" She pulled her hair back into a plait and dressed herself in all her warmest layers and pulled thick, woolen socks onto her feet.

"Beautiful morning," remarked Dad as the three of them tottered clumsily in their hard plastic boots to the base of the ski lift. "Perfect way to start the year."

Hermione set her skis down in front of her, arranged them in two tidy parallel lines, and stepped into them. The bindings clicked into place, and she bent to pick up her poles from the snow.

"Wait, really?" chuckled Ron, a lanky leg flung over the arm of his chair. "You just, you strap thin strips of wood to your feet and slide down a mountain? That's a sport?"

"It's actually quite difficult," began Hermione, not bothering to look up from her book. "It requires quite a lot of balance and strength, and-"

She looked up, momentarily arrested by the light of amusement on his features. His teasing of her was never malicious, never cruel. It was playful, friendly, born out of a trust that neither would ever veer into territory that might cause pain.

She raised her brows at him. "And it's actually rather a lot of fun."

"Yeah, right," Ron scoffed, though he still grinned at her. "No way do you think it's fun. You're telling me you really like going out into the snow and being cold all day?"

No, she didn't. Of course she didn't. But she also couldn't let him be right, she'd never hear the end of it.

"I do."

"Sure you do." He rolled his eyes at Harry, who was writing almost feverishly on a roll of parchment and pretending not to listen to them. "And I'm the next Minister of Magic."

Hermione looked up at the jagged outline of the snowcapped mountains before her, crisp white against pale blue, and let the cool wind rush over her face. And she was not particularly surprised to find that she didn't feel any different than the day before. No sensation of relief or rejuvenation or a clear mind. She had been foolish to think that she could simply snap her fingers and say that a clock striking midnight meant that she did not miss him, that she did not long for their demolished friendship. It had not even made it easier to bear the loss, or helped her adjust to the gaping chasm in her heart. All that had changed was the date she would write on her schoolwork. The new year - that symbolic turning of the page - had been just that, symbolic.

And ultimately, it had meant very little at all.