California
Title: California
Pairing: Sam/Hermione, implied Harry/Ron/Hermione
Fandoms: Harry Potter/Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1640
Summary: No matter where you go, there you are.
A/N: Written for dream_mancer. Merry Christmas, my dear brain twin ♥ Not betaed, so if there are any annoying errors, please let me know.
Hermione tells Professor McGonagall first.
This is one part strategy, one hundred parts terror at the mere thought of telling Harry and Ron, and if the expression on the professor's face is any indication, she isn't anymore thrilled about the idea than they would be.
Professor McGonagall stares searchingly at her, eyes narrowed, but she agrees to contact the American Ministry, pull some strings and find her somewhere to go.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" she asks, and Hermione nods. Her bags are already packed.
Professor McGonagall presses her lips together, but she hands over the contact information for a liaison at the Ministry, and the portkey - a broken mirror - that will take her to California.
"Hogwarts will always be here to welcome you home," she whispers, and Hermione turns away so she doesn't see the tears in her eyes.
The day before Hermione leaves, she sits Harry and Ron down on the ridge where Hagrid’s hut used to be. A large tent city has been erected in its place, witches and wizards of all ages coming together to rebuild.
Harry looks stricken, hands clenched in his lap, but he closes his eyes, says he understands.
Ron loses it.
"You think the rest of us don't want to run away? We all lost someone in the war, Hermione."
"I'm not running away, I'm-"
"Yes you are!" he yells, and Hermione steps back in the wake of his anger. "And as usual, you're too stubborn to admit it.”
Ron storms off down the hill; Hermione watches his back and lets the tears fall.
That night, she enters their tent hesitantly, feet barely making a sound on the floor. She stands at the edge of the camp bed, expanded to fit three, shifting her weight.
Harry doesn't turn around but sticks an arm out towards her.
"Come here," he mutters, still half asleep, and she crawls under the covers, curling close.
He turns over, wraps his arms around her waist, and she presses her face into his neck.
The bed dips again, and Ron presses up against her back, buries his face in her hair, holds her close.
"Don't leave," he says, and Harry stiffens.
She sighs. "I have to," she whispers.
Ron tightens his arms around her, but he doesn't argue.
+ + +
Her first night in California, Hermione takes one look around her room - the empty walls, the small, college-issue bed only large enough for one - and collapses onto the bare mattress with her head in her hands.
She pulls herself together the next morning, casts several protective and anti-Apparition spells (because Voldemort may be dead, but he isn't forgotten), then greets her roommate, Becky, with a smile.
She adjusts. She knows how to survive.
Latin is the only class she's looking forward to, despite only taking the course as a joke, a nod to the life she left behind.
Becky groans when her alarm goes off at 7:15, pulls her pillow over her head, grumbling about what the hell possessed Hermione to take an 8AM class, "On a Thursday, no less, which everyone knows is the new Friday."
Hermione shrugs because no, she doesn't know. There are too many idiosyncrasies about the Muggle world she's still figuring out, learning anew. She feels like she's back at Hogwarts, a small, terrified First Year.
The only person in the room (besides herself, of course) who doesn’t stare blankly at the professor is a tall student with shaggy, brown hair that reminds her of Harry.
He takes notes diligently, lips quirking every now and again, as if he finds the given translations exceedingly funny. He looks over his shoulder, catches her eye, and she gives him a small smile then buries her head in her notebook.
He approaches her at the library (because some things never change), fringe falling into his eyes, a notebook crooked under his arm rather than the laptop most of the other students seem to favor.
She likes him already for that alone.
"Hey, you're - um -"
"Hermione," she says, smiling because he isn't the first person here (or the second, or the third) unable to pronounce her name on the first try, and she doubts he'll be the last.
"Sam," he says, and his smile makes her warm all over.
They meet for regular study sessions, pick a table at the back of the library far away from the constant, droning buzz of students chatting.
In between verb conjugations, Sam starts up a conversation that turns into a volley of questions where neither of them tells the whole truth. They circle around the answers, give little peeks into each other's lives.
She wonders what Sam is hiding.
"So, why Stanford? Why not a college closer to home?"
It's the question she's been dreading, and she bites her lip, trying to figure out an answer that would make sense, one that makes no reference to wizards or Voldemort or the shattered pieces of her world.
"I just... had to get away for a while. Learn how to be alone."
She expects him to say something mocking, but instead he laughs softly, stares down at his notebook.
"I know the feeling," he say quietly, and he smiles, warm and soft with just a hint of mystery, a riddle for her to solve.
She might actually get through this, she thinks to herself, smiles back.
It's the middle of the night when an owl taps at her window. She freezes as Becky mumbles in her sleep but she rolls over, goes back to snoring.
Hermione breathes a sigh of relief, opens the window just enough for the owl to fly through. He lands on her knee, and she recognizes it as one of the school owls. He hoots quietly, shakes out his ruffled feathers and sticks out a leg.
"Wait a minute," she says softly, unseals the letter, immediately recognizing Professor McGonagall’s handwriting. She leans over to grab the notebook sitting on the edge of her desk, tears out two sheets from the back and scribbles a hasty response, then a lengthier, more in-depth letter addressed to Harry and Ron.
She tells them all about her classes, about Becky and Sam, imagines the two of them bickering as Ron relays everything she says to Harry but refuses to relinquish the note.
Hermione takes a deep breath, bites back a sob. Adds I miss you to the very bottom, then quickly ties the letters to the owl's leg.
As she watches him fly away, she hopes they hear the words she doesn't say.
"What do you miss most?" Sam asks quietly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. It's just the two of them, studying in his dorm room, music playing quietly from his roommate's computer in the background.
Hermione doesn't need to ask what he means.
She misses quills and parchment, the smell of burning firewood in the winter, but most of all, she misses Harry and Ron.
"Everything," she says, quiet and uncertain, but Sam puts an arm around her, pulls her close. She swallows against a sob crawling up her throat, but then Sam tips his head down so his gaze meets hers, eyes widening and heart racing a mile a minute as he leans in.
His lips are hairsbreadth away from hers when she ducks her head. "I can't," she whispers, and he sighs against her hair. When she finally lifts her head, he gives her a half smile, squeezes her shoulder - not like he's hurt, but like he understands.
+ + +
Sam is talking to a girl named Jess the next time they meet, a friend of Becky's who Hermione only knows in passing.
"It's just - we've been here for weeks, and I still feel like I know nothing about you," Jess is saying, raising her eyebrows with suspicion.
Sam shrugs, hunching down into his jumper. "Nothing to tell," he mutters; she knows that expression - knows he's lying.
Hermione clears her throat before she sits down, apologizing for her lateness. Jess purses her lips, annoyed with the interruption, but Sam shoots Hermione a grateful smile.
She stands in front of the mirror that night, stares at her reflection for long, silent moments. Her wand is a heavy, accusing weight in her hands, lights up with barely a thought, bathing her side of the room in a soft glow.
"I'm a witch," she practices saying, and the words sound awkward, stilted. She can't remember the last time she had to tell someone, was with people who didn't already know.
She wants someone to know the truth. She needs someone to know, almost told Sam a hundred times, wonders if maybe they could confide in each other, but the words stick in her throat, refusing to come out.
The light goes out, and she shuts her eyes.
"What do you want, Hermione?" She whispers to herself, wand clenched tightly in her fist. "What do you want?"
"I want to go home," she confesses quietly; the morning sun feels warm against her back, and the words feel like a release she didn't know she needed.
"I knew you would leave eventually," Sam says, gives her a rueful smile. There are a thousand things she wants to say, a thousand explanations she wishes she could give.
Instead, she stands up, reaches out to squeeze his hand.
"I belong somewhere else," she whispers, then stands on her toes to kiss his cheek.
She doesn't say goodbye; just turns and walks away.
The bag Hermione slings over her shoulder is small and beaded, scorched at the corners, but still sturdy. Still strong. It carries all of her baggage.
She takes one last look around, then smiles, closing her eyes with the warm, California wind at her back.
California - Sarah Slean
I know better, I know better, still I wish I was by your side
Seven English Girls - Ron Pope
And sleeping leads to nightmares, cause I never can forget
Cherry Tree - The National
Don't look at me, I'm only breathing
Tall Tales For Spring - Vanessa Carlton
Color stained glass cathedrals, confess a past that will let you go
The Stable Song - Gregory Alan Isakov
And I ran back to that hollow again, and I ached for my heart like some tin man
[.zip]
Pairing: Sam/Hermione, implied Harry/Ron/Hermione
Fandoms: Harry Potter/Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1640
Summary: No matter where you go, there you are.
A/N: Written for dream_mancer. Merry Christmas, my dear brain twin ♥ Not betaed, so if there are any annoying errors, please let me know.
Hermione tells Professor McGonagall first.
This is one part strategy, one hundred parts terror at the mere thought of telling Harry and Ron, and if the expression on the professor's face is any indication, she isn't anymore thrilled about the idea than they would be.
Professor McGonagall stares searchingly at her, eyes narrowed, but she agrees to contact the American Ministry, pull some strings and find her somewhere to go.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" she asks, and Hermione nods. Her bags are already packed.
Professor McGonagall presses her lips together, but she hands over the contact information for a liaison at the Ministry, and the portkey - a broken mirror - that will take her to California.
"Hogwarts will always be here to welcome you home," she whispers, and Hermione turns away so she doesn't see the tears in her eyes.
The day before Hermione leaves, she sits Harry and Ron down on the ridge where Hagrid’s hut used to be. A large tent city has been erected in its place, witches and wizards of all ages coming together to rebuild.
Harry looks stricken, hands clenched in his lap, but he closes his eyes, says he understands.
Ron loses it.
"You think the rest of us don't want to run away? We all lost someone in the war, Hermione."
"I'm not running away, I'm-"
"Yes you are!" he yells, and Hermione steps back in the wake of his anger. "And as usual, you're too stubborn to admit it.”
Ron storms off down the hill; Hermione watches his back and lets the tears fall.
That night, she enters their tent hesitantly, feet barely making a sound on the floor. She stands at the edge of the camp bed, expanded to fit three, shifting her weight.
Harry doesn't turn around but sticks an arm out towards her.
"Come here," he mutters, still half asleep, and she crawls under the covers, curling close.
He turns over, wraps his arms around her waist, and she presses her face into his neck.
The bed dips again, and Ron presses up against her back, buries his face in her hair, holds her close.
"Don't leave," he says, and Harry stiffens.
She sighs. "I have to," she whispers.
Ron tightens his arms around her, but he doesn't argue.
+ + +
Her first night in California, Hermione takes one look around her room - the empty walls, the small, college-issue bed only large enough for one - and collapses onto the bare mattress with her head in her hands.
She pulls herself together the next morning, casts several protective and anti-Apparition spells (because Voldemort may be dead, but he isn't forgotten), then greets her roommate, Becky, with a smile.
She adjusts. She knows how to survive.
Latin is the only class she's looking forward to, despite only taking the course as a joke, a nod to the life she left behind.
Becky groans when her alarm goes off at 7:15, pulls her pillow over her head, grumbling about what the hell possessed Hermione to take an 8AM class, "On a Thursday, no less, which everyone knows is the new Friday."
Hermione shrugs because no, she doesn't know. There are too many idiosyncrasies about the Muggle world she's still figuring out, learning anew. She feels like she's back at Hogwarts, a small, terrified First Year.
The only person in the room (besides herself, of course) who doesn’t stare blankly at the professor is a tall student with shaggy, brown hair that reminds her of Harry.
He takes notes diligently, lips quirking every now and again, as if he finds the given translations exceedingly funny. He looks over his shoulder, catches her eye, and she gives him a small smile then buries her head in her notebook.
He approaches her at the library (because some things never change), fringe falling into his eyes, a notebook crooked under his arm rather than the laptop most of the other students seem to favor.
She likes him already for that alone.
"Hey, you're - um -"
"Hermione," she says, smiling because he isn't the first person here (or the second, or the third) unable to pronounce her name on the first try, and she doubts he'll be the last.
"Sam," he says, and his smile makes her warm all over.
They meet for regular study sessions, pick a table at the back of the library far away from the constant, droning buzz of students chatting.
In between verb conjugations, Sam starts up a conversation that turns into a volley of questions where neither of them tells the whole truth. They circle around the answers, give little peeks into each other's lives.
She wonders what Sam is hiding.
"So, why Stanford? Why not a college closer to home?"
It's the question she's been dreading, and she bites her lip, trying to figure out an answer that would make sense, one that makes no reference to wizards or Voldemort or the shattered pieces of her world.
"I just... had to get away for a while. Learn how to be alone."
She expects him to say something mocking, but instead he laughs softly, stares down at his notebook.
"I know the feeling," he say quietly, and he smiles, warm and soft with just a hint of mystery, a riddle for her to solve.
She might actually get through this, she thinks to herself, smiles back.
It's the middle of the night when an owl taps at her window. She freezes as Becky mumbles in her sleep but she rolls over, goes back to snoring.
Hermione breathes a sigh of relief, opens the window just enough for the owl to fly through. He lands on her knee, and she recognizes it as one of the school owls. He hoots quietly, shakes out his ruffled feathers and sticks out a leg.
"Wait a minute," she says softly, unseals the letter, immediately recognizing Professor McGonagall’s handwriting. She leans over to grab the notebook sitting on the edge of her desk, tears out two sheets from the back and scribbles a hasty response, then a lengthier, more in-depth letter addressed to Harry and Ron.
She tells them all about her classes, about Becky and Sam, imagines the two of them bickering as Ron relays everything she says to Harry but refuses to relinquish the note.
Hermione takes a deep breath, bites back a sob. Adds I miss you to the very bottom, then quickly ties the letters to the owl's leg.
As she watches him fly away, she hopes they hear the words she doesn't say.
"What do you miss most?" Sam asks quietly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. It's just the two of them, studying in his dorm room, music playing quietly from his roommate's computer in the background.
Hermione doesn't need to ask what he means.
She misses quills and parchment, the smell of burning firewood in the winter, but most of all, she misses Harry and Ron.
"Everything," she says, quiet and uncertain, but Sam puts an arm around her, pulls her close. She swallows against a sob crawling up her throat, but then Sam tips his head down so his gaze meets hers, eyes widening and heart racing a mile a minute as he leans in.
His lips are hairsbreadth away from hers when she ducks her head. "I can't," she whispers, and he sighs against her hair. When she finally lifts her head, he gives her a half smile, squeezes her shoulder - not like he's hurt, but like he understands.
+ + +
Sam is talking to a girl named Jess the next time they meet, a friend of Becky's who Hermione only knows in passing.
"It's just - we've been here for weeks, and I still feel like I know nothing about you," Jess is saying, raising her eyebrows with suspicion.
Sam shrugs, hunching down into his jumper. "Nothing to tell," he mutters; she knows that expression - knows he's lying.
Hermione clears her throat before she sits down, apologizing for her lateness. Jess purses her lips, annoyed with the interruption, but Sam shoots Hermione a grateful smile.
She stands in front of the mirror that night, stares at her reflection for long, silent moments. Her wand is a heavy, accusing weight in her hands, lights up with barely a thought, bathing her side of the room in a soft glow.
"I'm a witch," she practices saying, and the words sound awkward, stilted. She can't remember the last time she had to tell someone, was with people who didn't already know.
She wants someone to know the truth. She needs someone to know, almost told Sam a hundred times, wonders if maybe they could confide in each other, but the words stick in her throat, refusing to come out.
The light goes out, and she shuts her eyes.
"What do you want, Hermione?" She whispers to herself, wand clenched tightly in her fist. "What do you want?"
"I want to go home," she confesses quietly; the morning sun feels warm against her back, and the words feel like a release she didn't know she needed.
"I knew you would leave eventually," Sam says, gives her a rueful smile. There are a thousand things she wants to say, a thousand explanations she wishes she could give.
Instead, she stands up, reaches out to squeeze his hand.
"I belong somewhere else," she whispers, then stands on her toes to kiss his cheek.
She doesn't say goodbye; just turns and walks away.
The bag Hermione slings over her shoulder is small and beaded, scorched at the corners, but still sturdy. Still strong. It carries all of her baggage.
She takes one last look around, then smiles, closing her eyes with the warm, California wind at her back.
California - Sarah Slean
I know better, I know better, still I wish I was by your side
Seven English Girls - Ron Pope
And sleeping leads to nightmares, cause I never can forget
Cherry Tree - The National
Don't look at me, I'm only breathing
Tall Tales For Spring - Vanessa Carlton
Color stained glass cathedrals, confess a past that will let you go
The Stable Song - Gregory Alan Isakov
And I ran back to that hollow again, and I ached for my heart like some tin man
[.zip]