all in all, we still roll. harry potter.
Temporarily FO, as it was written for an anonymous exchange; the request asked for smut/pwp involving Hermione/any Weasley boy, but I sort of melted everything in angst. It's what I do for a living, actually.
Title: All In All, We Still Roll
Genre: Angst. Drama. Rating: R; sexual intercourse (suggested), dark thoughts and general angst.
Pairing(s): (implicit) Fred/Hermione. George/Hermione.
Summary: Taking place after the Battle of Hogwarts, when Hermione tries to adjust to a world without Fred, and his twin brother finds his comfort in firewhisky. Implies that Fred and Hermione have been an item previously, and doesn’t take the epilogue into consideration.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work.
Warning(s): Suggested sexual situations. Angst. Dealing with death. DH spoilers.
Word Count: 2220; more or less.
Author's Notes: Written for
ellie_kat89 , with all my consideration; here’s hoping that it’ll meet her expectations, at least partially. Hermione POV. George POV. Joined POV.
.
… we all thought that;
The world would be better off without their thoughts; it would be better off without any thoughts, moreover. Luckily, there are still traces of plain old good memories if you dig deep enough, memories that make her admit that alright, perhaps thinking is not a curse, in the end.
Of curses, she knows quite a great deal. She spends her time muttering under her breath; choices, circumstances and cravings, her whole life so far, mouthed in empty rooms. A whole lot of cursing material, of chewing her lips and pushing the tips of her fingers against sweaty temples, in futile hopes to chase the other thoughts away.
If good memories are buried so deep that only prolonged efforts can make them sprout, malign images, and sounds, and scents are shallow; they float around the mere closing of her eyes, quickly summoned by batting eyelashes. They’re one call, one word away, at the ready, longing to poison her mind and murder her conscience, inch by inch, with every second swallow.
“He’s dead”, she says one day; her mirrored image purses its lips.
He really is, the shallow thoughts go on, startled by the grievous admittance. As if she isn’t trying to move on. As if she hasn’t pushed all things away, hidden them in closets, under beds, sealing them with tears and a whispered It was beautiful while it lasted.
Pretending that she’s busy living her life, she visits her parents. Their memories back, their faces still pale, Mum and Dad greet her merrily by the door. They fuss around her, and food looks inviting, but nausea always grasps her entrails in the end; she finds her way upstairs, to her old room, where every neatly folded corner of her childhood knows the bitter story of how it ended. Her mother soon follows, and there are kind hands patting her hair, trying to tame it. There’s Hush, child, there was nothing you could do - and it makes her sick again.
“He’s dead”, she tells Crookshanks one day; the flicker in her eyes is almost gone, and she has to use every single cell of her weary body to pull herself out of bed. The tomcat, now showing his age, doesn’t bother to answer. Perhaps he knows, too, that soothing sounds of any origin have long been dismissed from her perception.
ii.
… perhaps you should think again;
It has never crossed his mind. When there was still the two of them, they reckoned death to be nothing else than yet another challenge; they’d accept it, of course, and they’d do it together, like laughing, and pranks, and risky experiments. Reinforced one through the other, breathing through four lungs and standing up on four feet, they’d make death feel the taste of double trouble. Facing it was a potential game, a sudden distraction from their important future plans.
Surprise!, death had yelled at them; it hasn’t even been funny.
Now George spends his days wandering on the streets, eyes wide open to taste the freedom they’ve fought for. He survives with chocolate and energy bars, when he remembers he should eat; those times when lunch or supper should be served remind him of splashing pumpkin juice and exploding lollipops, his twin’s grin widening over every single image. He’s dead, he tries to persuade his heart, his brain, when they keep sending him memories of what could never be again.
One Sunday afternoon, he shuts the door behind him. It mourns at the close, voice of a wooden banshee calling for second thoughts. But George stands still, merciless gaze pinning the frame, not seeing it; all that he sees is colourful smoke, and Fred’s bouncing at the discovery of some secret recipe for dung bombs. Those were times of joy, and they used to live lightheartedly, in a manner the door now closed should keep away from the world. The store looks - is - deserted, and he can hear his footsteps echoing far from it; He’s dead, each step stamps, and he takes another, just to pretend that he didn’t hear it right.
They’re following their natural inner rhythm around him: his mother scolds, his father listens; one brother gone, one regained, there is a difference but they pretend not to notice it. There’s talk of children and four-posters and the cheapest milk, and he thinks he can forget when his first niece cradles in his arms. But darkness prevails, a blur engulfing his conscience, and he finds himself wondering whether Fred and him would have ever had kids of their own; annoying brats to spoil their grandmother’s peaceful hours, not a miniature angel to soothe her wounds. George still hugs little Victoire carefully, but there’s a short struggle to fight tears back.
Another Sunday afternoon, for he knows days by the sounds on the street, he buys the first bottle; it’s not the firewhisky of their - of his - childhood that fills his throat, but a stronger, livelier consistence. For a while, his limbs don’t feel numb anymore; for a while, the specter of his dead brother finds its peace, at last.
iii.
… feel free to touch my grief, it’s so familiar;
She still feels a bit uncomfortable each time she decides to gather her courage and visit the Burrow. Half afraid of reproachful looks that insist she would have been better off with Ron, half worried at the thought of all the usual teary moments - tears falling in teacups, tears crawling behind books held as shields, she knows she has to go this time; an engagement party might not be the best way to conceal the infamous bad memories, but it could as well keep them at bay for a while.
In so many months, she managed to bring her art of ducking to the highest rank. She curls between feigned compliments and avoids pitiful looks, answering politely and, sometimes, biting her lips to a forced smile. Speaking with people safe to talk to, pretending to chew a cookie she feeds the family pet with, she ends up dragging her feet upstairs; there is a room that serves her of shelter, like it had often done before.
“Hullo”, she utters, just in case. She’s startled when there’s movement about, and her heart almost fails her when there comes an answer.
“Couldn’t keep away, could you?”
She doesn’t want to see him, not here, not now. She’s not sure if she can bear the resemblance, the voice tone, each and every tiny gesture that comes along. He looks older, somewhat shrunk, and the folds under his eyes speak of white nights and white lies; he can’t deny the strong scent of alcohol, he can’t argue the slight wobble in his walk. Yet, they hug, and she allows herself a moment of oblivion.
“They’re having fun downstairs, you reckon?”
She plays her fingers along her skirt folds, not daring to look around, yet.
“Hermione.”
His voice is shaking; it’s not the firewhisky, nor the exhaustion. She knows how to recognize the pang of unwanted memories, the reluctant acknowledgement of times long gone.
“I miss him too, you know”, she whispers, eyes blank, staring. He reaches for her hand and holds it, while she still doesn’t dare to look at him.
“Perhaps we could -“, he starts, his fingers suddenly restless, but she pushes him away and stands up. The moment’s gone, the darkness - back, and too many vivid memories are still filling this room, for her to feel at ease.
“We might”, she finally admits, before slowly closing the door behind her.
-
A couple of days later, he feels sober enough. He’s out of ideas of how to contact her; she must have a job or something, but he’d never bothered asking before. Cornering a family member would bring up suspicions, and choosing Ron would be the worst. Yet, he’s the only who might answer without wondering, so he braces himself for an awkward conversation, weird pauses and rolling eyes all along.
“Don’t tell her you know this from me”, his brother finishes the last sentence. His blue eyes wander to gray, and George swallows the comforting words; with a curt nod, he grabs his jacket and walks out, avoiding to make anything out of Ron’s reaction. Still loves her, he reluctantly thinks; He did too.
Of course that he had noticed her as well. For sure, he had lived many moments through Fred’s giddy confessions, and had filled the gaps with rich imagery and various suppositions. He knows she’s tender, and curious, and easy to love; he knows she likes some Muggle music of the ‘80s, and always eats her popcorn with a double coat of coconut butter. He’s well aware of her small collection of dresses - there’s only three of them, and his twin was the only one to see them all. He also feels like he could finish her sentences, for his mind works in the same way as Fred’s did; they have been one, a whole, an entity, feelings, and thoughts, and all; since they have been split, he spends his vague days closing the separation wounds with firewhisky, melting tender edges in its liquid stingy clutch.
“It’s you” - she doesn’t greet him. She knows he takes the pouches under her eyes for granted, along with the slight tremble of her hands. Letting him in, she’s well aware of what will come next, but she can’t, she doesn’t want to help herself.
“Were you expecting someone else?”, he tries, realizing too late that his tentative of a joke wakes bitter resonances in her mind. Lost in connections, Hermione doesn’t answer, sparing him the awkwardness of an explanation. Instead, she serves him tea; distracted, she’d added too much sugar for his taste, and his lips scorch when touched by the hot liquid.
He never asks, she remain silent. Her eyes travel quickly along his arms, lingering upon his wide shoulders; she can almost feel the body heat, the way it used to engulf her before. This is not Fred, her thoughts chant, the last remnant of sense worried. Avoiding his eyes, she stretches her fingers, brushing his back in a tentative comfort pat. Her hand slides down his spine, and before she knows, before she figures it out, he turns, her waist now captive in his strong grasp, the arch of her neck prickling under moist, clumsy kisses.
“Stop me”, he mutters, muffled words pressed against her skin.
“Don’t -“ she replies before gasping, as his fingers find her nipple through the soft tissue of her blouse; he rolls it between thumb and index, and she knows there’s a way to keep memories at bay.
Hermione makes no connection whatsoever; she loosens, she just forgets herself. Bright shadows dancing restlessly before her eyes, she grabs a handful of George’s hair while he reaches inside her with the tip of his tongue, rolling it fervently until she bites her tongue not to scream. Her back arching, her hips inviting, she welcomes his first thrust with a gasp. She keeps breathing harshly, in rushed reprises, while he goes deeper and deeper, all the frustration melting in a passion he wasn’t aware he could spread. And when he feels her nails tracing a fiery curve along his burning skin, he comes; she does too, in spite of calling the wrong name.
-
“You should have told me”, he frets; she almost flinches at the sound of sheer concern in his voice. Daring a glance, she meets his eyes: their blue is slightly darkening, and there’s a frown shadowing it. He cares, she wonders, and she knows she’s scared.
“I though that you and - well, that you just …”
She shakes her head slowly, denying the tears that prickle at the corner of her eyes. Their taste so familiar makes its way up her throat, but she digs her nails in her open palm, putting a stop to what might have ruined it all; if there is something left to ruin.
George knows it’s not the right time for another silly joke; it’s not appropriate to ask whether she was saving it for when they would be married. All is gone now. He’s dead, they both think, not knowing they’re united in the consciousness of their minds. Gone, he knows, gone, she admits, he’s dead and, what now - I’ve taken over - the hysterical idea almost makes him snort.
She decides not to take a shower, not yet. There’s something reassuring in the scent of her skin, in the way she walks now; her body aches, yet it feels shamelessly good. All tension gone, all muscles relaxed, it’s a pleasure to enter the kitchen and feel like prancing. From sheer respect, she doesn’t. He’s dead, the voices start -
“ - but George is so alive”, she finishes, recalling the night’s events to prove her point. There’s finally something to brood over, something to care about. There’s finally someone who can take over, who can take care and maybe - just maybe - love her as he did. She knows he did; she still does.
On her way to the bedroom, the breakfast tray heavy in her arms, she decides not to tell George about her past months research; having him by her side, fully alive, seems like a better choice then trying to revive a past lover, an once-friend who has already found his peace.
The End
Title: All In All, We Still Roll
Genre: Angst. Drama. Rating: R; sexual intercourse (suggested), dark thoughts and general angst.
Pairing(s): (implicit) Fred/Hermione. George/Hermione.
Summary: Taking place after the Battle of Hogwarts, when Hermione tries to adjust to a world without Fred, and his twin brother finds his comfort in firewhisky. Implies that Fred and Hermione have been an item previously, and doesn’t take the epilogue into consideration.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work.
Warning(s): Suggested sexual situations. Angst. Dealing with death. DH spoilers.
Word Count: 2220; more or less.
Author's Notes: Written for
ellie_kat89 , with all my consideration; here’s hoping that it’ll meet her expectations, at least partially. Hermione POV. George POV. Joined POV.
.
… we all thought that;
The world would be better off without their thoughts; it would be better off without any thoughts, moreover. Luckily, there are still traces of plain old good memories if you dig deep enough, memories that make her admit that alright, perhaps thinking is not a curse, in the end.
Of curses, she knows quite a great deal. She spends her time muttering under her breath; choices, circumstances and cravings, her whole life so far, mouthed in empty rooms. A whole lot of cursing material, of chewing her lips and pushing the tips of her fingers against sweaty temples, in futile hopes to chase the other thoughts away.
If good memories are buried so deep that only prolonged efforts can make them sprout, malign images, and sounds, and scents are shallow; they float around the mere closing of her eyes, quickly summoned by batting eyelashes. They’re one call, one word away, at the ready, longing to poison her mind and murder her conscience, inch by inch, with every second swallow.
“He’s dead”, she says one day; her mirrored image purses its lips.
He really is, the shallow thoughts go on, startled by the grievous admittance. As if she isn’t trying to move on. As if she hasn’t pushed all things away, hidden them in closets, under beds, sealing them with tears and a whispered It was beautiful while it lasted.
Pretending that she’s busy living her life, she visits her parents. Their memories back, their faces still pale, Mum and Dad greet her merrily by the door. They fuss around her, and food looks inviting, but nausea always grasps her entrails in the end; she finds her way upstairs, to her old room, where every neatly folded corner of her childhood knows the bitter story of how it ended. Her mother soon follows, and there are kind hands patting her hair, trying to tame it. There’s Hush, child, there was nothing you could do - and it makes her sick again.
“He’s dead”, she tells Crookshanks one day; the flicker in her eyes is almost gone, and she has to use every single cell of her weary body to pull herself out of bed. The tomcat, now showing his age, doesn’t bother to answer. Perhaps he knows, too, that soothing sounds of any origin have long been dismissed from her perception.
ii.
… perhaps you should think again;
It has never crossed his mind. When there was still the two of them, they reckoned death to be nothing else than yet another challenge; they’d accept it, of course, and they’d do it together, like laughing, and pranks, and risky experiments. Reinforced one through the other, breathing through four lungs and standing up on four feet, they’d make death feel the taste of double trouble. Facing it was a potential game, a sudden distraction from their important future plans.
Surprise!, death had yelled at them; it hasn’t even been funny.
Now George spends his days wandering on the streets, eyes wide open to taste the freedom they’ve fought for. He survives with chocolate and energy bars, when he remembers he should eat; those times when lunch or supper should be served remind him of splashing pumpkin juice and exploding lollipops, his twin’s grin widening over every single image. He’s dead, he tries to persuade his heart, his brain, when they keep sending him memories of what could never be again.
One Sunday afternoon, he shuts the door behind him. It mourns at the close, voice of a wooden banshee calling for second thoughts. But George stands still, merciless gaze pinning the frame, not seeing it; all that he sees is colourful smoke, and Fred’s bouncing at the discovery of some secret recipe for dung bombs. Those were times of joy, and they used to live lightheartedly, in a manner the door now closed should keep away from the world. The store looks - is - deserted, and he can hear his footsteps echoing far from it; He’s dead, each step stamps, and he takes another, just to pretend that he didn’t hear it right.
They’re following their natural inner rhythm around him: his mother scolds, his father listens; one brother gone, one regained, there is a difference but they pretend not to notice it. There’s talk of children and four-posters and the cheapest milk, and he thinks he can forget when his first niece cradles in his arms. But darkness prevails, a blur engulfing his conscience, and he finds himself wondering whether Fred and him would have ever had kids of their own; annoying brats to spoil their grandmother’s peaceful hours, not a miniature angel to soothe her wounds. George still hugs little Victoire carefully, but there’s a short struggle to fight tears back.
Another Sunday afternoon, for he knows days by the sounds on the street, he buys the first bottle; it’s not the firewhisky of their - of his - childhood that fills his throat, but a stronger, livelier consistence. For a while, his limbs don’t feel numb anymore; for a while, the specter of his dead brother finds its peace, at last.
iii.
… feel free to touch my grief, it’s so familiar;
She still feels a bit uncomfortable each time she decides to gather her courage and visit the Burrow. Half afraid of reproachful looks that insist she would have been better off with Ron, half worried at the thought of all the usual teary moments - tears falling in teacups, tears crawling behind books held as shields, she knows she has to go this time; an engagement party might not be the best way to conceal the infamous bad memories, but it could as well keep them at bay for a while.
In so many months, she managed to bring her art of ducking to the highest rank. She curls between feigned compliments and avoids pitiful looks, answering politely and, sometimes, biting her lips to a forced smile. Speaking with people safe to talk to, pretending to chew a cookie she feeds the family pet with, she ends up dragging her feet upstairs; there is a room that serves her of shelter, like it had often done before.
“Hullo”, she utters, just in case. She’s startled when there’s movement about, and her heart almost fails her when there comes an answer.
“Couldn’t keep away, could you?”
She doesn’t want to see him, not here, not now. She’s not sure if she can bear the resemblance, the voice tone, each and every tiny gesture that comes along. He looks older, somewhat shrunk, and the folds under his eyes speak of white nights and white lies; he can’t deny the strong scent of alcohol, he can’t argue the slight wobble in his walk. Yet, they hug, and she allows herself a moment of oblivion.
“They’re having fun downstairs, you reckon?”
She plays her fingers along her skirt folds, not daring to look around, yet.
“Hermione.”
His voice is shaking; it’s not the firewhisky, nor the exhaustion. She knows how to recognize the pang of unwanted memories, the reluctant acknowledgement of times long gone.
“I miss him too, you know”, she whispers, eyes blank, staring. He reaches for her hand and holds it, while she still doesn’t dare to look at him.
“Perhaps we could -“, he starts, his fingers suddenly restless, but she pushes him away and stands up. The moment’s gone, the darkness - back, and too many vivid memories are still filling this room, for her to feel at ease.
“We might”, she finally admits, before slowly closing the door behind her.
-
A couple of days later, he feels sober enough. He’s out of ideas of how to contact her; she must have a job or something, but he’d never bothered asking before. Cornering a family member would bring up suspicions, and choosing Ron would be the worst. Yet, he’s the only who might answer without wondering, so he braces himself for an awkward conversation, weird pauses and rolling eyes all along.
“Don’t tell her you know this from me”, his brother finishes the last sentence. His blue eyes wander to gray, and George swallows the comforting words; with a curt nod, he grabs his jacket and walks out, avoiding to make anything out of Ron’s reaction. Still loves her, he reluctantly thinks; He did too.
Of course that he had noticed her as well. For sure, he had lived many moments through Fred’s giddy confessions, and had filled the gaps with rich imagery and various suppositions. He knows she’s tender, and curious, and easy to love; he knows she likes some Muggle music of the ‘80s, and always eats her popcorn with a double coat of coconut butter. He’s well aware of her small collection of dresses - there’s only three of them, and his twin was the only one to see them all. He also feels like he could finish her sentences, for his mind works in the same way as Fred’s did; they have been one, a whole, an entity, feelings, and thoughts, and all; since they have been split, he spends his vague days closing the separation wounds with firewhisky, melting tender edges in its liquid stingy clutch.
“It’s you” - she doesn’t greet him. She knows he takes the pouches under her eyes for granted, along with the slight tremble of her hands. Letting him in, she’s well aware of what will come next, but she can’t, she doesn’t want to help herself.
“Were you expecting someone else?”, he tries, realizing too late that his tentative of a joke wakes bitter resonances in her mind. Lost in connections, Hermione doesn’t answer, sparing him the awkwardness of an explanation. Instead, she serves him tea; distracted, she’d added too much sugar for his taste, and his lips scorch when touched by the hot liquid.
He never asks, she remain silent. Her eyes travel quickly along his arms, lingering upon his wide shoulders; she can almost feel the body heat, the way it used to engulf her before. This is not Fred, her thoughts chant, the last remnant of sense worried. Avoiding his eyes, she stretches her fingers, brushing his back in a tentative comfort pat. Her hand slides down his spine, and before she knows, before she figures it out, he turns, her waist now captive in his strong grasp, the arch of her neck prickling under moist, clumsy kisses.
“Stop me”, he mutters, muffled words pressed against her skin.
“Don’t -“ she replies before gasping, as his fingers find her nipple through the soft tissue of her blouse; he rolls it between thumb and index, and she knows there’s a way to keep memories at bay.
Hermione makes no connection whatsoever; she loosens, she just forgets herself. Bright shadows dancing restlessly before her eyes, she grabs a handful of George’s hair while he reaches inside her with the tip of his tongue, rolling it fervently until she bites her tongue not to scream. Her back arching, her hips inviting, she welcomes his first thrust with a gasp. She keeps breathing harshly, in rushed reprises, while he goes deeper and deeper, all the frustration melting in a passion he wasn’t aware he could spread. And when he feels her nails tracing a fiery curve along his burning skin, he comes; she does too, in spite of calling the wrong name.
-
“You should have told me”, he frets; she almost flinches at the sound of sheer concern in his voice. Daring a glance, she meets his eyes: their blue is slightly darkening, and there’s a frown shadowing it. He cares, she wonders, and she knows she’s scared.
“I though that you and - well, that you just …”
She shakes her head slowly, denying the tears that prickle at the corner of her eyes. Their taste so familiar makes its way up her throat, but she digs her nails in her open palm, putting a stop to what might have ruined it all; if there is something left to ruin.
George knows it’s not the right time for another silly joke; it’s not appropriate to ask whether she was saving it for when they would be married. All is gone now. He’s dead, they both think, not knowing they’re united in the consciousness of their minds. Gone, he knows, gone, she admits, he’s dead and, what now - I’ve taken over - the hysterical idea almost makes him snort.
She decides not to take a shower, not yet. There’s something reassuring in the scent of her skin, in the way she walks now; her body aches, yet it feels shamelessly good. All tension gone, all muscles relaxed, it’s a pleasure to enter the kitchen and feel like prancing. From sheer respect, she doesn’t. He’s dead, the voices start -
“ - but George is so alive”, she finishes, recalling the night’s events to prove her point. There’s finally something to brood over, something to care about. There’s finally someone who can take over, who can take care and maybe - just maybe - love her as he did. She knows he did; she still does.
On her way to the bedroom, the breakfast tray heavy in her arms, she decides not to tell George about her past months research; having him by her side, fully alive, seems like a better choice then trying to revive a past lover, an once-friend who has already found his peace.
The End