Count your blessings...
After weeks of being MIA, it appears my muses are back!! (*knock on wood*) With one specific plot-bunny, admittedly, but I am hopeful that they'll decide to stick around for a little while so I can put them to work finishing up everything else on my plate. ;-)
The next of the fanfict00bs V-Day Drabbles. Not entirely sure how much I like it but this is what came out. Pure fluff.
For my very dear avidbeader.
Prompt (for avidbeader): H/Hr: Post-Voldemort; Hermione's watching Harry play Quidditch again and thinking about the very odd contrast of a "clean" fear for Harry. He's risking himself in playing the difficult sport, but the risk is completely free of threat.
The Things That Stay The Same
Some things never changed.
Everything else, it seemed, had changed. It was a different world now, a different time, with Voldemort gone and the war over and the world being rebuilt.
Harry was changed. He seemed older now. He was still very much the Harry she’d always known-but he was not a boy any more. He’d left boyhood behind him, become a man.
And she loved him-as she always had-and miraculous as it still sometimes seemed to her, he loved her too.
That almost seemed like the biggest change of all, the way their relationship had changed. Still best friends but she’d found that the love she’d always had for him was nothing to what she felt for him now-now when she knew he loved her, now when she knew his kiss and his touch and his tenderness, now when she knew what it was like to fall asleep beside him and wake up beside him, now when he was, quite simply and starkly, everything to her.
But with all that had changed, one thing hadn’t changed.
She still worried about him.
She held him back for one second before he was going to head into the locker rooms to change into his Quidditch gear and she was going to head to the stands.
It was going to be something of an exhibition game. Professor McGonagall had thought it would be a nice gesture to begin the new Hogwarts year with, the first real, official re-opening of the school after the War. The last year hadn’t been quite right; the school had needed to rebuild and recover. Enough students had been kept back by parents who were still somewhat fearful that it had been something of a skeleton student group who had been there, so this year was the first.
Harry, of course, had been the first person Professor McGonagall had asked to return to the school to play and Harry, entirely aside from anything else, never turned down an opportunity to play Quidditch.
“Be careful, Harry.”
Harry looked at Hermione, seeing the familiar flicker of worry in her eyes-less intense than what he remembered seeing before, in the worst moments of the war, but still there, always present with all the steadfastness of her caring. He wasn’t overly given to analyzing these things but he knew quite well that her worry stemmed entirely from her love-and that was one thing he could never take for granted. He hadn’t grown up without affection for so many years not to appreciate it now, all the more because he knew that her affection and love were entirely unconditional-and he loved her for it.
But, boy-like, he wouldn’t say it, didn’t know how to say it.
So he fell back into humor, as he tended to do. “What do you think will happen-‘here lies Harry Potter, who defeated the Dark Lord, only to be defeated by a bludger’?”
He saw his mistake in her wan attempt at a smile, even as she swatted at his arm half-playfully. “That isn’t funny.”
He sobered. He knew she hated his making light of his possible injury or worse; it was a blind spot in her humor, which he fully understood, because he knew better than anyone that for too long, his being injured or worse had been too serious a possibility to joke about. (Oddly-or not-he tended to have the same reaction to any mention of her being hurt in any way, in a sort of mirror reaction to hers.)
“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he said softly, seriously.
She managed a smile now. “Ok, good. Now you can go and have fun.”
He returned her smile and gave her a quick kiss before he headed into the locker room.
Hermione headed into the stands where she’d watched so many of his Quidditch games-although she couldn’t help reflecting, with a smile, that that was one thing that had drastically changed from all those earlier games. Before, he’d never left her with a kiss.
The match began and, even if she hadn’t been watching for him, she would have known when Harry flew out onto the pitch from the roar that arose around her, all the current students of Hogwarts excitedly pointing him out.
For most of them, especially the younger ones, it was their first chance to watch Harry fly and from the sounds of it, they had been keenly looking forward to it. She heard bits and pieces of conversation in which the phrase, “youngest Seeker in a century,” featured prominently and she allowed herself to smile.
It still surprised her sometimes-because she herself never thought of Harry in those terms-how famous he was, what a celebrity he was, and his vaunted flying skills were only a very small part of his fame.
The match itself was not very interesting to her. She didn’t watch the Quaffle or any of the other players, nor did she even try to keep track of the score. Her interest was-as always-solely focused on Harry and in watching him, she derived as much pleasure as she could from a Quidditch match.
She didn’t share his love for the game but she did love to watch him fly-even as her pleasure was somewhat mitigated by worry.
Worry-it was a very familiar feeling. She’d spent the better part of the past eight years worrying about him and it wasn’t going to change. And yet, she was conscious that this worry, at least, was very different from the one she was used to feeling. This worry was softer somehow, less searing, less intense. Given that she was so used to fearing for his life, this worry over him and any possible injuries was much more casual, for the obvious reason.
But even as she thought it, she abruptly caught her breath as she saw a bludger come streaking towards Harry, off the bat of one of the Beaters. A cry strangled in her throat-but then at the last possible second, Harry swiftly flipped over until he was upside down, the Bludger barely nicking him instead of knocking him entirely off his broom.
He stayed upside down for a few seconds before he dove into a graceful, almost leisurely loop to turn right side up again.
And she breathed again. Her heart was still clattering in her chest, her muscles still tense from those endless seconds of fear-but she could breathe again and slowly, muscle by muscle, she tried to make herself relax.
But even in her fear, she was conscious of something halfway between mild irritation and amusement. Because she’d caught a glimpse of his face after he’d righted himself again and even at that distance, she could see the sheer exhilaration on it.
He was loving this.
Not just the flying aspect of it but everything-he loved the game of Quidditch, in spite of the risks, and perhaps even because of the risks. It wasn’t that Harry was some sort of reckless thrill-seeker; after all these years of real danger, that part of him which tended towards recklessness had been tamed so he no longer leaped without looking quite as often as he had. But she knew some part of it remained, enough that he could enjoy this, the narrow escapes from injury and close calls. There was an exhilaration about it, in addition to his joy in flying.
She didn’t quite understand it-but she knew it was part of him. She was always going to be more cautious than he was-but then he balanced her out.
And she did love to see him so happy. She couldn’t begrudge the risk when she saw the exhilaration in his face. In the last year, she’d realized that she was almost as protective of his joys and his laughter than she was of his safety. She had seen him at his worst, in the darkest days of the war, and felt for him too deeply not to rejoice even more over every laugh, any evidence of his happiness…
She was roused from this reverie when she saw Harry dive sharply, letting go of his broom with one hand and snatching a small glittering object with his free hand-he’d caught the Snitch!
The stadium erupted into a cacophony of shouts and cheers and whistles, as Ron and all the other members of Harry’s team-which included Oliver Wood and several other old team-mates of his-swooped down on him.
The next few minutes were chaotic but Hermione managed to make her way through the crowd and onto the pitch, partially swept along by the current students.
She was suddenly reminded of all those other Quidditch games she’d watched, having to fight her way out of the stands afterwards-but then she saw him, met his eyes through the people separating them and his grin widened.
She couldn’t help but return his smile and somehow-as if by some sort of silent consensus-a small path was cleared between them.
Special privilege of being his girlfriend, she thought with some amusement, but then she was in his arms and he kissed her quite thoroughly, right there in front of everyone, and she forgot to think.
When he drew back, she was breathless and blushing. “Harry!”
He grinned at her, unrepentantly, his eyes sparkling down at her, clearly still too exhilarated to be as reticent about his feelings as he usually was in public.
She was suddenly swamped with a wave of poignant joy-she loved seeing him like this, loved seeing him when his eyes were so bright and clear…
“See,” he teased lightly, “I did it and there’s not a scratch on me.”
She smiled into his eyes and for a fleeting second, all the noise, all the people around them, faded into nothingness and for that moment, she and Harry were the only two people there.
His eyes and his smile softened and for a moment, she thought he would kiss her again…
But then Ron came up and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Nice job, mate. Come on; didn’t McGonagall say something about having a feast in the Great Hall?”
Harry blinked as he glanced at Ron, his smile widening. “Yeah, she did.”
“Well? Let’s go.”
Ron set off and they followed, after one amused glance at each other, Harry keeping his arm around her shoulders.
And Hermione smiled to herself. Some things really didn’t change.
~The End~
The next of the fanfict00bs V-Day Drabbles. Not entirely sure how much I like it but this is what came out. Pure fluff.
For my very dear avidbeader.
Prompt (for avidbeader): H/Hr: Post-Voldemort; Hermione's watching Harry play Quidditch again and thinking about the very odd contrast of a "clean" fear for Harry. He's risking himself in playing the difficult sport, but the risk is completely free of threat.
The Things That Stay The Same
Some things never changed.
Everything else, it seemed, had changed. It was a different world now, a different time, with Voldemort gone and the war over and the world being rebuilt.
Harry was changed. He seemed older now. He was still very much the Harry she’d always known-but he was not a boy any more. He’d left boyhood behind him, become a man.
And she loved him-as she always had-and miraculous as it still sometimes seemed to her, he loved her too.
That almost seemed like the biggest change of all, the way their relationship had changed. Still best friends but she’d found that the love she’d always had for him was nothing to what she felt for him now-now when she knew he loved her, now when she knew his kiss and his touch and his tenderness, now when she knew what it was like to fall asleep beside him and wake up beside him, now when he was, quite simply and starkly, everything to her.
But with all that had changed, one thing hadn’t changed.
She still worried about him.
She held him back for one second before he was going to head into the locker rooms to change into his Quidditch gear and she was going to head to the stands.
It was going to be something of an exhibition game. Professor McGonagall had thought it would be a nice gesture to begin the new Hogwarts year with, the first real, official re-opening of the school after the War. The last year hadn’t been quite right; the school had needed to rebuild and recover. Enough students had been kept back by parents who were still somewhat fearful that it had been something of a skeleton student group who had been there, so this year was the first.
Harry, of course, had been the first person Professor McGonagall had asked to return to the school to play and Harry, entirely aside from anything else, never turned down an opportunity to play Quidditch.
“Be careful, Harry.”
Harry looked at Hermione, seeing the familiar flicker of worry in her eyes-less intense than what he remembered seeing before, in the worst moments of the war, but still there, always present with all the steadfastness of her caring. He wasn’t overly given to analyzing these things but he knew quite well that her worry stemmed entirely from her love-and that was one thing he could never take for granted. He hadn’t grown up without affection for so many years not to appreciate it now, all the more because he knew that her affection and love were entirely unconditional-and he loved her for it.
But, boy-like, he wouldn’t say it, didn’t know how to say it.
So he fell back into humor, as he tended to do. “What do you think will happen-‘here lies Harry Potter, who defeated the Dark Lord, only to be defeated by a bludger’?”
He saw his mistake in her wan attempt at a smile, even as she swatted at his arm half-playfully. “That isn’t funny.”
He sobered. He knew she hated his making light of his possible injury or worse; it was a blind spot in her humor, which he fully understood, because he knew better than anyone that for too long, his being injured or worse had been too serious a possibility to joke about. (Oddly-or not-he tended to have the same reaction to any mention of her being hurt in any way, in a sort of mirror reaction to hers.)
“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he said softly, seriously.
She managed a smile now. “Ok, good. Now you can go and have fun.”
He returned her smile and gave her a quick kiss before he headed into the locker room.
Hermione headed into the stands where she’d watched so many of his Quidditch games-although she couldn’t help reflecting, with a smile, that that was one thing that had drastically changed from all those earlier games. Before, he’d never left her with a kiss.
The match began and, even if she hadn’t been watching for him, she would have known when Harry flew out onto the pitch from the roar that arose around her, all the current students of Hogwarts excitedly pointing him out.
For most of them, especially the younger ones, it was their first chance to watch Harry fly and from the sounds of it, they had been keenly looking forward to it. She heard bits and pieces of conversation in which the phrase, “youngest Seeker in a century,” featured prominently and she allowed herself to smile.
It still surprised her sometimes-because she herself never thought of Harry in those terms-how famous he was, what a celebrity he was, and his vaunted flying skills were only a very small part of his fame.
The match itself was not very interesting to her. She didn’t watch the Quaffle or any of the other players, nor did she even try to keep track of the score. Her interest was-as always-solely focused on Harry and in watching him, she derived as much pleasure as she could from a Quidditch match.
She didn’t share his love for the game but she did love to watch him fly-even as her pleasure was somewhat mitigated by worry.
Worry-it was a very familiar feeling. She’d spent the better part of the past eight years worrying about him and it wasn’t going to change. And yet, she was conscious that this worry, at least, was very different from the one she was used to feeling. This worry was softer somehow, less searing, less intense. Given that she was so used to fearing for his life, this worry over him and any possible injuries was much more casual, for the obvious reason.
But even as she thought it, she abruptly caught her breath as she saw a bludger come streaking towards Harry, off the bat of one of the Beaters. A cry strangled in her throat-but then at the last possible second, Harry swiftly flipped over until he was upside down, the Bludger barely nicking him instead of knocking him entirely off his broom.
He stayed upside down for a few seconds before he dove into a graceful, almost leisurely loop to turn right side up again.
And she breathed again. Her heart was still clattering in her chest, her muscles still tense from those endless seconds of fear-but she could breathe again and slowly, muscle by muscle, she tried to make herself relax.
But even in her fear, she was conscious of something halfway between mild irritation and amusement. Because she’d caught a glimpse of his face after he’d righted himself again and even at that distance, she could see the sheer exhilaration on it.
He was loving this.
Not just the flying aspect of it but everything-he loved the game of Quidditch, in spite of the risks, and perhaps even because of the risks. It wasn’t that Harry was some sort of reckless thrill-seeker; after all these years of real danger, that part of him which tended towards recklessness had been tamed so he no longer leaped without looking quite as often as he had. But she knew some part of it remained, enough that he could enjoy this, the narrow escapes from injury and close calls. There was an exhilaration about it, in addition to his joy in flying.
She didn’t quite understand it-but she knew it was part of him. She was always going to be more cautious than he was-but then he balanced her out.
And she did love to see him so happy. She couldn’t begrudge the risk when she saw the exhilaration in his face. In the last year, she’d realized that she was almost as protective of his joys and his laughter than she was of his safety. She had seen him at his worst, in the darkest days of the war, and felt for him too deeply not to rejoice even more over every laugh, any evidence of his happiness…
She was roused from this reverie when she saw Harry dive sharply, letting go of his broom with one hand and snatching a small glittering object with his free hand-he’d caught the Snitch!
The stadium erupted into a cacophony of shouts and cheers and whistles, as Ron and all the other members of Harry’s team-which included Oliver Wood and several other old team-mates of his-swooped down on him.
The next few minutes were chaotic but Hermione managed to make her way through the crowd and onto the pitch, partially swept along by the current students.
She was suddenly reminded of all those other Quidditch games she’d watched, having to fight her way out of the stands afterwards-but then she saw him, met his eyes through the people separating them and his grin widened.
She couldn’t help but return his smile and somehow-as if by some sort of silent consensus-a small path was cleared between them.
Special privilege of being his girlfriend, she thought with some amusement, but then she was in his arms and he kissed her quite thoroughly, right there in front of everyone, and she forgot to think.
When he drew back, she was breathless and blushing. “Harry!”
He grinned at her, unrepentantly, his eyes sparkling down at her, clearly still too exhilarated to be as reticent about his feelings as he usually was in public.
She was suddenly swamped with a wave of poignant joy-she loved seeing him like this, loved seeing him when his eyes were so bright and clear…
“See,” he teased lightly, “I did it and there’s not a scratch on me.”
She smiled into his eyes and for a fleeting second, all the noise, all the people around them, faded into nothingness and for that moment, she and Harry were the only two people there.
His eyes and his smile softened and for a moment, she thought he would kiss her again…
But then Ron came up and clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Nice job, mate. Come on; didn’t McGonagall say something about having a feast in the Great Hall?”
Harry blinked as he glanced at Ron, his smile widening. “Yeah, she did.”
“Well? Let’s go.”
Ron set off and they followed, after one amused glance at each other, Harry keeping his arm around her shoulders.
And Hermione smiled to herself. Some things really didn’t change.
~The End~