111. this bird has flown
Title | this bird has blown
Chapter | 1/1
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Harry. Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ginny.
Summary | I once had a girl. Or should I say, she once had me.
Notes | Written for the hp non-canon comment ficathon.
Everything is different in the aftermath, when they are no longer an army, when the dust finally settles and it comes with the realization that now they are friends - just friends - and the only goal to work towards is happiness.
His memory gets a little blurry. There were too many things - too many silent, cold nights in the woods, too many difficult conversations, too many Horcruxes to find, too many obstacles to overcome -
She says it’s a coping mechanism. That’s how the brain works, Harry, it protects you from too much trauma all at once. I, for one, am surprised you haven’t felt like this before… Psychology textbook, the Muggle kind, open on her knees and her hair loose around her face, cleverest girl he’s even known and it makes him feel eleven years old just to look at her.
Now they’re older and the war has made them men and women. He winds a curl of her hair around his index finger and smiles. It’s almost nice, the way there’s nothing to do now and he has all the time in the world to watch the slow way she comes to smile back at him.
For a while, he goes away. He travels, tries to have a vacation, leaves half of his heart behind and waits for the other shoe to drop.
Ginny writes to him occasionally, scribbles on paper that start off as love letters and fade into updates. It’s from her words, loopy writing that he used to love, that he finds out that Ron asked Hermione to marry him and she said no.
War changes people.
He scowls. No shit, ’Mione.
The way her eyelashes flutter, heavy over her eyes, and the way her body shifts against his - her thigh, and her knee, and the muscles of her calf and then her ankle, hooked over his; those are the signs that she’s waiting for him to kiss her.
She is too much memory.
Too many moments in the woods, in that tent and around it.
When he’s around her he can remember, vividly, clearly the sparkle in her eyes, the curve of her lips when she gave him those reluctant, endless smiles. He can remember her dancing - with him, that first time, her plaid shirt and crackling radio and the feel of her chin perched on his shoulder, the rumble of her laugh in his chest. And he remembers the last time, her all alone and wearing one of his jumpers, pale moonlight painted over her skin, dancing like he wasn’t even watching.
I think I might love you, Hermione. They were laughing about something beforehand and it had sounded like a joke to his own ears. He remembers the look of her bare shoulder, the line of her neck. She’d unbuttoned her own jeans but he’d been the first one to kiss her.
It hadn’t felt like a loss of anything, her shaky little gasps by his ear and scratchy wool blankets.
He stills dreams about it sometimes.
Mittens on her hands and snowflakes in her eyelashes. His glasses fogged up by his own breath and the words he never said cluttering his throat, yes, sure, please let’s stay here and grow old, you always have the best ideas…
She helps him study for his - their - Auror exam.
Flashcards and the lilt of her voice that she never lost from their Hogwarts days, studying for their OWLs. Her frown, pay attention, Harry.
She helps him - her mouth soft against his and her dress kicked aside.
The fire dies in the fireplace at the old headquarters of the Order, Hermione stretched out on the rug in front of it.
Chin tilted up, she looks oddly defiant and particularly beautiful. Tell me.
He thinks hard, back to her last flashcard, and tries to answer. The light dies in her eyes.
Ginny leans against the windowsill next to him, red hair and flowery shampoo.
I wasn’t going to come.
She shrugs. He’d never give up on her.
Pachelbel’s Canon sounds like a death march to his ears.
She dances with him, her dress ivory and her smile soft.
When she lifts a bare shoulder in what is almost a shrug it looks like an apology for something that’s hardly her fault. They’d both like to pretend that this is his choice.
He touches his nose to the side of her head, brushing against her hair. He’ll love you better.
One last dance, seared into his brain - she’s too much memory.
fin
Chapter | 1/1
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Harry. Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ginny.
Summary | I once had a girl. Or should I say, she once had me.
Notes | Written for the hp non-canon comment ficathon.
Everything is different in the aftermath, when they are no longer an army, when the dust finally settles and it comes with the realization that now they are friends - just friends - and the only goal to work towards is happiness.
His memory gets a little blurry. There were too many things - too many silent, cold nights in the woods, too many difficult conversations, too many Horcruxes to find, too many obstacles to overcome -
She says it’s a coping mechanism. That’s how the brain works, Harry, it protects you from too much trauma all at once. I, for one, am surprised you haven’t felt like this before… Psychology textbook, the Muggle kind, open on her knees and her hair loose around her face, cleverest girl he’s even known and it makes him feel eleven years old just to look at her.
Now they’re older and the war has made them men and women. He winds a curl of her hair around his index finger and smiles. It’s almost nice, the way there’s nothing to do now and he has all the time in the world to watch the slow way she comes to smile back at him.
For a while, he goes away. He travels, tries to have a vacation, leaves half of his heart behind and waits for the other shoe to drop.
Ginny writes to him occasionally, scribbles on paper that start off as love letters and fade into updates. It’s from her words, loopy writing that he used to love, that he finds out that Ron asked Hermione to marry him and she said no.
War changes people.
He scowls. No shit, ’Mione.
The way her eyelashes flutter, heavy over her eyes, and the way her body shifts against his - her thigh, and her knee, and the muscles of her calf and then her ankle, hooked over his; those are the signs that she’s waiting for him to kiss her.
She is too much memory.
Too many moments in the woods, in that tent and around it.
When he’s around her he can remember, vividly, clearly the sparkle in her eyes, the curve of her lips when she gave him those reluctant, endless smiles. He can remember her dancing - with him, that first time, her plaid shirt and crackling radio and the feel of her chin perched on his shoulder, the rumble of her laugh in his chest. And he remembers the last time, her all alone and wearing one of his jumpers, pale moonlight painted over her skin, dancing like he wasn’t even watching.
I think I might love you, Hermione. They were laughing about something beforehand and it had sounded like a joke to his own ears. He remembers the look of her bare shoulder, the line of her neck. She’d unbuttoned her own jeans but he’d been the first one to kiss her.
It hadn’t felt like a loss of anything, her shaky little gasps by his ear and scratchy wool blankets.
He stills dreams about it sometimes.
Mittens on her hands and snowflakes in her eyelashes. His glasses fogged up by his own breath and the words he never said cluttering his throat, yes, sure, please let’s stay here and grow old, you always have the best ideas…
She helps him study for his - their - Auror exam.
Flashcards and the lilt of her voice that she never lost from their Hogwarts days, studying for their OWLs. Her frown, pay attention, Harry.
She helps him - her mouth soft against his and her dress kicked aside.
The fire dies in the fireplace at the old headquarters of the Order, Hermione stretched out on the rug in front of it.
Chin tilted up, she looks oddly defiant and particularly beautiful. Tell me.
He thinks hard, back to her last flashcard, and tries to answer. The light dies in her eyes.
Ginny leans against the windowsill next to him, red hair and flowery shampoo.
I wasn’t going to come.
She shrugs. He’d never give up on her.
Pachelbel’s Canon sounds like a death march to his ears.
She dances with him, her dress ivory and her smile soft.
When she lifts a bare shoulder in what is almost a shrug it looks like an apology for something that’s hardly her fault. They’d both like to pretend that this is his choice.
He touches his nose to the side of her head, brushing against her hair. He’ll love you better.
One last dance, seared into his brain - she’s too much memory.
fin