HP FIC: all for a few hundred yards of useless mud :: what was left
Title: all for few hundred yards of useless mud :: what was left
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: MA for language, adult situations, sexual references
Pairings: Ron/Harry, Hermione/Neville, Fred/George, Ron/Hermione
A/N: Posted about a year ago. Mind the quality. The pairings in this story are polyamorous where they overlap.
Summary: In war, shit happens, people die, and nobody stays the same. Or,
It was Ron, it was Harry, it was Hermione, it was the twins, it was Neville, and it was Ginny, and it was all that was left.
"You gotta admit," Ginny slurred, and leaned into the firelight. "The minger's not half good at giving it up the ass. No offense," she added, waving a hand in Ron's direction, "to those of us who like it up the ass."
Ron opened his mouth to retort, but Harry intercepted. "Eh, eh," he soothed, patting his best mate's shoulder. "The girl has a very fine point here."
The twins nodded. "Yep, Ron does like it up the ass," they said, earning laughs from the circle.
Harry turned an obviously half-hearted glare in their direction. "That was not what I meant. I meant... The fuck is brilliant about making it hurt."
"--No lube is bad lube!"
"Aw, shut it." Harry gave up, chucking a pebble in their direction. They giggled as Harry's intoxicated aim sent it square at Neville's forehead.
"Sorry there, Nev," he called as everyone turned back to their cliques of conversation.
"Really, though," Hermione finally said over the noise, carrying but soft, Hermione-soft. Hermione-soft that made people still and quiet and listen. "He does like to make it more than personal, doesn't he?"
Ron clinked his glass against one of the twins', raised it. "And what's more personal--"
"--than killing off everyone in the entire army--"
"--except for us?"
Glasses lifted, Neville let out a laugh on the side of hysterical, and they tipped their heads back. Hermione followed suit with a second of hesitation. Ron caught it; he closed his eyes to feel the burn of the alcohol down his throat, thinking of how he was still underage in the States, but when he opened them again his vision was zeroed on that sad face like a Sighting Charm. The skin between his eyebrows furrowed a notch as she trailed a finger round the lip of the bottle's neck. "I thought we'd talked about this after South Creek," he said. After Parvati's death, he didn't say.
Warm brown eyes that would never stop caring flickered up at him. Neville set his cup behind the log they sat on and scooted sideways, straddling the wood, and put hands around her unresisting form. He drew her against his chest.
"Make light of it or die in the dark," Hermione whispered. Neville kissed her neck.
"'Nough of this, 'nough of it. I'm sick of all ya'll sobbing like a bunch of nancy freshers." Ron would have placed bets that Ginny didn't even realize she had started using her favorite American oddity when she talked. Returning to the U.K. after his op in America, Ginny had been fascinated by the slang he'd learned. Southern speech was her absolute favorite.
"Ya'll--"
"--Ya'll," the twins parroted.
"Shut up! Now I want to hear something funny! Sick of your doom and gloom."
"Right, right she is," one of the twins smirked while the other nodded. "This is probably our last day on this beautiful Earth." A freckled arm indicated the scorched, grass-bald land surrounding them. "Who wants to talk about silly things like the obvious?"
"That we're all gonna die!"
"That we'll be tortured--"
"--and burned probably--"
"--and buried alive--"
"--or Kedavra'd if we're lucky."
"Silly bird," they said. But it was bland. They had been impossible to read since Mum and Dad's death, when Fred came out of the battle with wound that spared his eye in exchange for a ragged scar and two days later George was in the med tent with a mirror image, gushing blood down his face. He'd done it himself. That was the time people had stopped being able to tell Fred from George, and cheer from sarcasm.
Ginny staggered half-upright, looking menacing in the moment before she fell back down. "Fine, you pissers," she snapped, and threw her empty beer bottle at them. One raised a hand; with silent, wandless magic, and the glass's course changed, breaking on a stone somewhere to the right of them. Ginny's mouth twisted, but it wasn't like anyone was expecting the throw to hit. "Bugger it all, then. You want to wallow, go right a-bloody-head." She stumbled up, toppled over, and crawled hands-and-knees the few paces to the whiskey, knocking the top off blindly. She lifted it to her lips, eyes still on her scarred siblings, and chugged resentfully, not caring to move back.
And for a few minutes a lifetime too long, it seemed that was what they did.
Ron watched the others watching each other. One twin at the other, one at Neville, Neville at Harry, Harry at Hermione, and Hermione at Ginny, who was looking at nothing.
"Reasons," Harry spoke. Ron lifted his head off the man's shoulder to get a better look; his mind wasn't there, his eyes were distant.
Ron pressed his lips close to the shell of his ear. "Harry," he said softly, shifting his arms that held the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry blinked, and the resting hand he had on Ron's forearm tightened.
Harry turned his head, looking up into his lover's eyes. "Who do you think He got best?"
The Weasley shook him gently. "Hey, now, mate. That's no line of thought."
"No, it's a good one." Harry was firmly set in the present now, sitting up, sliding his legs to the ground, and out of Ron's hold. "Reasons. And don't just say me. I want to hear proper ones."
A pregnant pause, and then Fred and George raised their glasses. "Miss Granger, our precious, because she will no longer be able to use a Calming charm on her hair." Ron could feel the hesitation hanging in the air, the palpable unsurety like a wet rag. Did they dare laugh about this? Laugh?
But just like that, grins made shaky stands on the faces of his friends. Ron felt vaguely nauseas.
"Oh, no," said Ginny, perking up slowly, liking this turn in conversation. "I have to say Harry--" the man frowned, opening his mouth, "--because," Ginny shot him a pointed look. "Because he's had to wear that shag rag hairstyle to cover his forehead since he was eleven. Being entirely out of fashion for six years can wreak havoc on a teen's self-confidence." She waved her bottle in the air dismissively. "So I hear."
Even Ron couldn't help but chuckle as well when Ginny reached up and ruffled the unruly length of dark hair. Harry's foot twitched, though his face remained normally stony. He's having a good time, Ron realized, and tightness in his chest he hadn't even realized he felt gave way like a kneaded muscle.
Neville's gentle eyes twinkled in firelight. "Six years was my limit," he joked. "I told myself that was all I could take. Then I would have to go batty on you."
"Completely right. You were--"
"--pushing it, ducky."
Ron smirked at his brothers and raised his glass. They mirrored him and all three took a healthy swig. He wanted to laugh, barely feeling the alcohol's burn, but cherishing the warmth as it hit his belly while they waited for the next person to speak.
He was getting nervous, as the silence went from a minute to several. Harry was starting to stiffen and Ginny was averting her eyes again.
Firewhiskey sloshed over the mug, it shot up so fast. "Um," Ron flushed as he floundered for something to say. Now that there had been real laughter, he couldn't stand the thought of more silence. "Ginny!" He latched onto his sister's name like a life raft. "My dear sister, Ginny." The twins were settling in, mouths curled and waiting for the teasing. Ron stared into his sister's brown eyes--they reminded him of hardwood--as she titled her head and met his eyes. "Ginny," his mouthed moved. "We ignored her for five years."
In the dead silence, while Ron rocked slightly in his seat with shock as his mind caught up to his mouth, six glasses slowly lifted and were drunk.
Ginny kept her eyes on Ron as she titled her head back, throat swallowing. She took a deep breath, and exhaled noisily. The only thing Ron could do was mimic her, outside his own body.
Then Neville raised a shaking glass. "Hermione," he said. She jerked, surprise across her face.
"Oh, Neville, not me," she said softly, shaking her head.
"--who," he continued, mouth set fast, "came from a world in which she was accepted into one she was persecuted. I'm sorry, Hermione," he said quieter. "I wish it had been better for you."
Ron watched Hermione teeter on the brink of the broken sobbing her lips suggested and the unquenchable fortitude in her eyes. Her lips stilled. "To Neville," she raised her glass. "Who was really a pacifist at heart."
They drank.
"The twins, who spent five weeks in captivity."
They drank.
"Ginny, who had been an innocent bystander."
They drank.
"Ron, who never, ever, ever got enough credit."
They drank.
"Hermione, who thinks if she had only been smarter, she could have saved more people."
They drank.
"Ginny, who spent a year undercover--"
"--George, who intercepted the Crucio so his brother could get away--"
"--Harry, who had once been a boy, not a legend--"
"--Harry's friends, who won't be legends."
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: MA for language, adult situations, sexual references
Pairings: Ron/Harry, Hermione/Neville, Fred/George, Ron/Hermione
A/N: Posted about a year ago. Mind the quality. The pairings in this story are polyamorous where they overlap.
Summary: In war, shit happens, people die, and nobody stays the same. Or,
It was Ron, it was Harry, it was Hermione, it was the twins, it was Neville, and it was Ginny, and it was all that was left.
"You gotta admit," Ginny slurred, and leaned into the firelight. "The minger's not half good at giving it up the ass. No offense," she added, waving a hand in Ron's direction, "to those of us who like it up the ass."
Ron opened his mouth to retort, but Harry intercepted. "Eh, eh," he soothed, patting his best mate's shoulder. "The girl has a very fine point here."
The twins nodded. "Yep, Ron does like it up the ass," they said, earning laughs from the circle.
Harry turned an obviously half-hearted glare in their direction. "That was not what I meant. I meant... The fuck is brilliant about making it hurt."
"--No lube is bad lube!"
"Aw, shut it." Harry gave up, chucking a pebble in their direction. They giggled as Harry's intoxicated aim sent it square at Neville's forehead.
"Sorry there, Nev," he called as everyone turned back to their cliques of conversation.
"Really, though," Hermione finally said over the noise, carrying but soft, Hermione-soft. Hermione-soft that made people still and quiet and listen. "He does like to make it more than personal, doesn't he?"
Ron clinked his glass against one of the twins', raised it. "And what's more personal--"
"--than killing off everyone in the entire army--"
"--except for us?"
Glasses lifted, Neville let out a laugh on the side of hysterical, and they tipped their heads back. Hermione followed suit with a second of hesitation. Ron caught it; he closed his eyes to feel the burn of the alcohol down his throat, thinking of how he was still underage in the States, but when he opened them again his vision was zeroed on that sad face like a Sighting Charm. The skin between his eyebrows furrowed a notch as she trailed a finger round the lip of the bottle's neck. "I thought we'd talked about this after South Creek," he said. After Parvati's death, he didn't say.
Warm brown eyes that would never stop caring flickered up at him. Neville set his cup behind the log they sat on and scooted sideways, straddling the wood, and put hands around her unresisting form. He drew her against his chest.
"Make light of it or die in the dark," Hermione whispered. Neville kissed her neck.
"'Nough of this, 'nough of it. I'm sick of all ya'll sobbing like a bunch of nancy freshers." Ron would have placed bets that Ginny didn't even realize she had started using her favorite American oddity when she talked. Returning to the U.K. after his op in America, Ginny had been fascinated by the slang he'd learned. Southern speech was her absolute favorite.
"Ya'll--"
"--Ya'll," the twins parroted.
"Shut up! Now I want to hear something funny! Sick of your doom and gloom."
"Right, right she is," one of the twins smirked while the other nodded. "This is probably our last day on this beautiful Earth." A freckled arm indicated the scorched, grass-bald land surrounding them. "Who wants to talk about silly things like the obvious?"
"That we're all gonna die!"
"That we'll be tortured--"
"--and burned probably--"
"--and buried alive--"
"--or Kedavra'd if we're lucky."
"Silly bird," they said. But it was bland. They had been impossible to read since Mum and Dad's death, when Fred came out of the battle with wound that spared his eye in exchange for a ragged scar and two days later George was in the med tent with a mirror image, gushing blood down his face. He'd done it himself. That was the time people had stopped being able to tell Fred from George, and cheer from sarcasm.
Ginny staggered half-upright, looking menacing in the moment before she fell back down. "Fine, you pissers," she snapped, and threw her empty beer bottle at them. One raised a hand; with silent, wandless magic, and the glass's course changed, breaking on a stone somewhere to the right of them. Ginny's mouth twisted, but it wasn't like anyone was expecting the throw to hit. "Bugger it all, then. You want to wallow, go right a-bloody-head." She stumbled up, toppled over, and crawled hands-and-knees the few paces to the whiskey, knocking the top off blindly. She lifted it to her lips, eyes still on her scarred siblings, and chugged resentfully, not caring to move back.
And for a few minutes a lifetime too long, it seemed that was what they did.
Ron watched the others watching each other. One twin at the other, one at Neville, Neville at Harry, Harry at Hermione, and Hermione at Ginny, who was looking at nothing.
"Reasons," Harry spoke. Ron lifted his head off the man's shoulder to get a better look; his mind wasn't there, his eyes were distant.
Ron pressed his lips close to the shell of his ear. "Harry," he said softly, shifting his arms that held the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry blinked, and the resting hand he had on Ron's forearm tightened.
Harry turned his head, looking up into his lover's eyes. "Who do you think He got best?"
The Weasley shook him gently. "Hey, now, mate. That's no line of thought."
"No, it's a good one." Harry was firmly set in the present now, sitting up, sliding his legs to the ground, and out of Ron's hold. "Reasons. And don't just say me. I want to hear proper ones."
A pregnant pause, and then Fred and George raised their glasses. "Miss Granger, our precious, because she will no longer be able to use a Calming charm on her hair." Ron could feel the hesitation hanging in the air, the palpable unsurety like a wet rag. Did they dare laugh about this? Laugh?
But just like that, grins made shaky stands on the faces of his friends. Ron felt vaguely nauseas.
"Oh, no," said Ginny, perking up slowly, liking this turn in conversation. "I have to say Harry--" the man frowned, opening his mouth, "--because," Ginny shot him a pointed look. "Because he's had to wear that shag rag hairstyle to cover his forehead since he was eleven. Being entirely out of fashion for six years can wreak havoc on a teen's self-confidence." She waved her bottle in the air dismissively. "So I hear."
Even Ron couldn't help but chuckle as well when Ginny reached up and ruffled the unruly length of dark hair. Harry's foot twitched, though his face remained normally stony. He's having a good time, Ron realized, and tightness in his chest he hadn't even realized he felt gave way like a kneaded muscle.
Neville's gentle eyes twinkled in firelight. "Six years was my limit," he joked. "I told myself that was all I could take. Then I would have to go batty on you."
"Completely right. You were--"
"--pushing it, ducky."
Ron smirked at his brothers and raised his glass. They mirrored him and all three took a healthy swig. He wanted to laugh, barely feeling the alcohol's burn, but cherishing the warmth as it hit his belly while they waited for the next person to speak.
He was getting nervous, as the silence went from a minute to several. Harry was starting to stiffen and Ginny was averting her eyes again.
Firewhiskey sloshed over the mug, it shot up so fast. "Um," Ron flushed as he floundered for something to say. Now that there had been real laughter, he couldn't stand the thought of more silence. "Ginny!" He latched onto his sister's name like a life raft. "My dear sister, Ginny." The twins were settling in, mouths curled and waiting for the teasing. Ron stared into his sister's brown eyes--they reminded him of hardwood--as she titled her head and met his eyes. "Ginny," his mouthed moved. "We ignored her for five years."
In the dead silence, while Ron rocked slightly in his seat with shock as his mind caught up to his mouth, six glasses slowly lifted and were drunk.
Ginny kept her eyes on Ron as she titled her head back, throat swallowing. She took a deep breath, and exhaled noisily. The only thing Ron could do was mimic her, outside his own body.
Then Neville raised a shaking glass. "Hermione," he said. She jerked, surprise across her face.
"Oh, Neville, not me," she said softly, shaking her head.
"--who," he continued, mouth set fast, "came from a world in which she was accepted into one she was persecuted. I'm sorry, Hermione," he said quieter. "I wish it had been better for you."
Ron watched Hermione teeter on the brink of the broken sobbing her lips suggested and the unquenchable fortitude in her eyes. Her lips stilled. "To Neville," she raised her glass. "Who was really a pacifist at heart."
They drank.
"The twins, who spent five weeks in captivity."
They drank.
"Ginny, who had been an innocent bystander."
They drank.
"Ron, who never, ever, ever got enough credit."
They drank.
"Hermione, who thinks if she had only been smarter, she could have saved more people."
They drank.
"Ginny, who spent a year undercover--"
"--George, who intercepted the Crucio so his brother could get away--"
"--Harry, who had once been a boy, not a legend--"
"--Harry's friends, who won't be legends."