FIC: Definitions (Roger/Various, PG13)
Title: Definitions
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger/Various
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 710 words
Summary: Roger Davies and his various love interests. :|
Additional Notes: Part of the fanfic100 challenge, for the prompt Heart, I suppose. (In retrospect, I should probably have signed up for Roger Davies instead of Ravenclaws.) Written for ccharlotte.
It was growing up with Laura from next door and going from setting frogs on her hair to letting her beat you up for yanking her pigtails free when she just wanted to say hello. It was wanting to see her long brown curls framing her face and finally, finally letting her make you play house so long as the other boys didn't know.
It was going off to 'boarding school' and writing her every day, coming back on holidays to find her taller, older, when you were big enough to kiss under the mistletoe in your third year, and small enough to turn seven shades of red while she giggled and ran away.
It was walking on cloud nine when you returned, soaring high enough to score goals you imagined she knew were for her. It was every sweet-smelling envelope that owls dropped onto your table at breakfast.
And then, it was reading her neatly printed apologies in fifth year and replying with a neatly printed forgiveness before you sat slumped in the owlery until morning came.
*
It was a pseudo-house rivalry that turned to a scuffle by the Quidditch shed that quickly degenerated into something a little bit entirely too surprising. It was awkard limbs fumbling for contact and hushed whispers and hissed curses chorused with monosyllabic interjections rising and rising until it dwindled to heavy breathing and flushed faces and then, and then it was--
It was split-second moments of eye-fucking and mumbled excuses and dark closets, empty classrooms, warded towers. It was private jokes and secret codes and sharing and being many tiny secrets of a whole that slowly, gradually, persistently insisted on turning into a lie.
It was pressure and expectation weighing in, shame and pride taking over. It was the refusal to meet your eyes anymore and the quickly muttered excuses to avoid speaking with you and the pointed effort to hold a girl's hand.
It was anger hot and burning first before it became silence cold and unforgiving.
And then it was dead.
*
It was asking Cho Chang out, being rejected, and finding yourself immeasurably relieved. It was late nights out at the pitch and even later nights by the common room fireplace sharing contraband Firewhiskey, slurring sentences together and raising your glasses high in salute for Ogden.
It was having Fleur Delacour in your arms and twirling her around just to see if Cho was having any fun with him. It was kissing Persephone Clearwater at Madam Puddifoot's while watching her from the corner of your eye to make sure her date with The Other Golden Boy was going fine.
It was moving back to London and looking her up first, crashing into her apartment until you found your own and letting her crash into yours when her apartment got infested with special law enforcer investigators looking out for her best interests and knowing you did that better than them. It was celebrating Cedric's birthday with wine and chocolates, and sharing a look that needed no words for the both of you to understand what the other meant.
It was going from awkward pats on the shoulder to fierce bear hugs with the one girl you're smart enough not to fuck and fuck over.
*
Then it was a scrawny, pretty boy with green and gold-speckled eyes who left his room in a too-large shirt, as nameless as he came in, like the thousand others that would follow, but not--never--as easily dismissed from memory.
The scrawny boy grew up, filled out, lost the stammer in his speech, charmed irreprehensibly, teased mercilessly, walked back into your world not like he had a right to be in it, but like he knew enough to turn it inside out.
It was his self-satisfied smirk and childlike beam and Slytherin grin and all the twenty-three other ways--and counting--that his face lit up. It was his cheek and petulance, the suggestive words that turned quiet and thoughtful, his doomed loyalty to childhood illusions.
It was realising you weren't sure what it was about him.
It was him getting underneath your skin, refusing to be forgiven with neat handwriting or killed with silence or boxed within the confines of friendship.
It was finding the godforsaken, proverbial exception to every painstakingly upheld rule, and realising you didn't mind one whit at all.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger/Various
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 710 words
Summary: Roger Davies and his various love interests. :|
Additional Notes: Part of the fanfic100 challenge, for the prompt Heart, I suppose. (In retrospect, I should probably have signed up for Roger Davies instead of Ravenclaws.) Written for ccharlotte.
It was growing up with Laura from next door and going from setting frogs on her hair to letting her beat you up for yanking her pigtails free when she just wanted to say hello. It was wanting to see her long brown curls framing her face and finally, finally letting her make you play house so long as the other boys didn't know.
It was going off to 'boarding school' and writing her every day, coming back on holidays to find her taller, older, when you were big enough to kiss under the mistletoe in your third year, and small enough to turn seven shades of red while she giggled and ran away.
It was walking on cloud nine when you returned, soaring high enough to score goals you imagined she knew were for her. It was every sweet-smelling envelope that owls dropped onto your table at breakfast.
And then, it was reading her neatly printed apologies in fifth year and replying with a neatly printed forgiveness before you sat slumped in the owlery until morning came.
*
It was a pseudo-house rivalry that turned to a scuffle by the Quidditch shed that quickly degenerated into something a little bit entirely too surprising. It was awkard limbs fumbling for contact and hushed whispers and hissed curses chorused with monosyllabic interjections rising and rising until it dwindled to heavy breathing and flushed faces and then, and then it was--
It was split-second moments of eye-fucking and mumbled excuses and dark closets, empty classrooms, warded towers. It was private jokes and secret codes and sharing and being many tiny secrets of a whole that slowly, gradually, persistently insisted on turning into a lie.
It was pressure and expectation weighing in, shame and pride taking over. It was the refusal to meet your eyes anymore and the quickly muttered excuses to avoid speaking with you and the pointed effort to hold a girl's hand.
It was anger hot and burning first before it became silence cold and unforgiving.
And then it was dead.
*
It was asking Cho Chang out, being rejected, and finding yourself immeasurably relieved. It was late nights out at the pitch and even later nights by the common room fireplace sharing contraband Firewhiskey, slurring sentences together and raising your glasses high in salute for Ogden.
It was having Fleur Delacour in your arms and twirling her around just to see if Cho was having any fun with him. It was kissing Persephone Clearwater at Madam Puddifoot's while watching her from the corner of your eye to make sure her date with The Other Golden Boy was going fine.
It was moving back to London and looking her up first, crashing into her apartment until you found your own and letting her crash into yours when her apartment got infested with special law enforcer investigators looking out for her best interests and knowing you did that better than them. It was celebrating Cedric's birthday with wine and chocolates, and sharing a look that needed no words for the both of you to understand what the other meant.
It was going from awkward pats on the shoulder to fierce bear hugs with the one girl you're smart enough not to fuck and fuck over.
*
Then it was a scrawny, pretty boy with green and gold-speckled eyes who left his room in a too-large shirt, as nameless as he came in, like the thousand others that would follow, but not--never--as easily dismissed from memory.
The scrawny boy grew up, filled out, lost the stammer in his speech, charmed irreprehensibly, teased mercilessly, walked back into your world not like he had a right to be in it, but like he knew enough to turn it inside out.
It was his self-satisfied smirk and childlike beam and Slytherin grin and all the twenty-three other ways--and counting--that his face lit up. It was his cheek and petulance, the suggestive words that turned quiet and thoughtful, his doomed loyalty to childhood illusions.
It was realising you weren't sure what it was about him.
It was him getting underneath your skin, refusing to be forgiven with neat handwriting or killed with silence or boxed within the confines of friendship.
It was finding the godforsaken, proverbial exception to every painstakingly upheld rule, and realising you didn't mind one whit at all.