HP: Staying There (Hannah/Susan, PG-13)
Title: Staying There
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hannah/Susan
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1340
Summary: I've never written a sequel before! Ahh, this is so exciting. :)) Usually my fics are all purposefully written to be one-shots but this one was begging to be written. It carries on from Coming Home.
They can’t fix the dripping tap. At night they curl up together and just as Susan is beginning to drop off the door swings open with a low-pitched creak. She hears the drip-drip-drip coming faintly from the kitchen and the whine of the wind as it squeezes through the cracked window frame.
If I were a Muggle, Susan says, I’d swear this place was haunted.
I think it is haunted, Hannah mumbles into the pillow. But then, I’m practically a Muggle myself.
Don’t say that, Susan protests, biting gently at Hannah’s neck. Hannah rolls over and Susan grins, saying, let’s give the ghosts a show, shall we?
There are no ghosts. Hannah’s eyes are troubled; she bites her lip even as she begins to unbutton her nightshirt. Just a bad feeling.
Well, Susan says. How about we try and feel something else for a while?
The double entendre in her words makes them both start to giggle and they can’t quite meet each other’s eyes. Hannah pulls off her nightshirt; it brushes against her breasts as softly as a sigh and Susan reaches out to touch her, their skin tinged orange in the glow from the streetlight on the corner.
In the morning they pull the duvet off the bed and stumble into the kitchen together, wrapping it around them as they slide onto the stools in front of the breakfast bar. (Susan disagrees with the name since they also have to eat lunch and dinner at it, but Hannah won’t call it anything else.) It was cold in Amsterdam too, Susan says, rubbing her feet together and wishing she had thought to put on a pair of socks. It wouldn’t take ten seconds to walk back to the bedroom and yet the tiled floor is coldly forbidding.
You went to Amsterdam? Hannah asks, a little wistfully.
I went to lots of places.
Is it true what they say? About the prostitutes in the windows like living shop dummies?
I never went into the red light district, Susan says.
Where did you go? Tell me what it was like.
Susan thinks for a minute, stirring her cereal round and round with the same repetitive motion of her wrist. There’s this science museum... It’s called NEMO, which means nothing. Quite literally - nothing. Funny name to call a building, especially a museum... It’s built like a ship, a great green ship rising up out of the water, and you can walk up onto the roof and see right across the city. When you’re down in the streets it’s wonderful, all those tall narrow houses leaning out over the canals, but from the top of that ship, from the top of NEMO, Amsterdam just looks like any other city, all cars and roads and industrial buildings on the outskirts.
Still, Hannah says, after a pause. Anywhere’s better than here, right?
Susan says, only in some ways.
When Hannah gets back from work she finds Susan sat on the floor reading the Daily Prophet.
Find anything? she asks, shaking the rain off her coat and hanging it over the back of a chair. She sits down beside Susan, whose hair is slightly damp, wisps of it curling around her ears. Did you go out?
Yes, Susan says vaguely.
In the rain?
It stopped for a while. And then it caught me again. I wish spring would hurry up and arrive.
Don’t we all, Hannah sighs.
Susan looks up, concern and sympathy in her face. You should learn to Apparate, she says, then we could move somewhere different.
I can’t, Hannah says. I just - I can’t, Susie. I’m terrified of Splinching.
It’s not that bad, Susan lies. She remembers that heart-stopping moment in the Great Hall when she realised she’d Splinched her leg and bites her lip. I could teach you!
Hannah shakes her head - then suddenly she stills, caught by an idea. Hey. You could become an Apparation instructor!
No. Susan turns away from her.
Why not? I bet the pay would be really good, it always is at the Ministry. And you just said -
I’m never working for the Ministry, Susan says bitterly.
There is an uncomfortable pause. Hannah thinks of all the things that they could do if Susan worked too. Maybe if they paid someone to come in and fix the tap it would stop dripping. (Predictably, just by thinking about it, the drip-drip-drip noise filters through to her consciousness.) So, she finally says, what did you find? Anything promising?
Susan flicks to the back pages of the Prophet and shows her the jobs section. She has ringed two of the ads.
Impressive, Hannah says sarcastically, then regrets it.
Those were the only ones that sounded interesting, Susan says coldly. If I’m going to work forty hours a week I want to be doing something I actually like.
Beggars can’t be choosers, Hannah snaps. Or maybe you’d like to wait on tables at the Leaky Cauldron?
Susan flings the newspaper away: a harsh, angry motion. Hannah watches as it slides to a halt up against the wall. She can’t look at Susan’s face.
I don’t even have to work! Susan says impatiently. I don’t - I just -
She makes an angry noise and stands up in one fluid motion, her long legs unfolding from underneath her. Her fingers twitch in and out of fists as she paces up and down the small living room. There is a tenseness to her like a coiled spring and Hannah stays sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa, a little bit afraid to get up and go to her.
Susan continues, I could probably live off what’s in my bank account for the rest of my life if I were careful enough. Or what the hell, why don’t I splurge! I could buy you a fireplace and we could have it connected to the Floo - would you like that?
Not really, Hannah whispers. Using the Floo makes me sick.
All that money. Susan sounds so bitter, her mouth screwed up as she pauses to reflect. All that fucking money. She shoves her hands into her pockets and stares out through the rain-streaked windows. Carefully, Hannah stands up.
Are you going to run away again? she asks, and there’s no accusation in her voice, just a heaviness. Susan sighs and tilts her head back.
No, she says. No, I’m not.
Hannah reaches out and brushes her hands against Susan’s shoulders, and with a sudden motion Susan falls back against her like a puppet with its strings cut.
I didn’t think it would be this hard, Susan says, her voice cracking. I forgot how awful everything was.
Hannah can see a ghost of Susan’s reflection in the glass, broken up by the raindrops. She doesn’t know what to say. I wanted you to be strong for me, she thinks.
Where’s Harry Potter? asks Susan, sounding hopelessly lost. Where is he? What’s going on? I’ve been so out of the loop - I knew the War hadn’t ended, I’d have heard about that - but I didn’t know anything else. Isn’t he supposed to be saving us all? We put our faith in heroes, but it’s not enough, is it, not when we still have to get up each morning and carry on even though it could be the last time we ever wake up.
I put my faith in you, Hannah says quietly. (Maybe we can be strong for each other.)
Susan turns round. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her lower lip is wet and swollen from where she’s been chewing on it. You trust me that much? She sounds a little uncertain - and with good cause. She was never the reliable one.
Hannah nods. I’ve nothing else to put my faith in, not now. I’m sorry, she says suddenly, if you don't - I mean, if that’s unsettling -
Susan places a finger on Hannah’s lips. It’s inspiring, she whispers.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Hannah/Susan
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1340
Summary: I've never written a sequel before! Ahh, this is so exciting. :)) Usually my fics are all purposefully written to be one-shots but this one was begging to be written. It carries on from Coming Home.
They can’t fix the dripping tap. At night they curl up together and just as Susan is beginning to drop off the door swings open with a low-pitched creak. She hears the drip-drip-drip coming faintly from the kitchen and the whine of the wind as it squeezes through the cracked window frame.
If I were a Muggle, Susan says, I’d swear this place was haunted.
I think it is haunted, Hannah mumbles into the pillow. But then, I’m practically a Muggle myself.
Don’t say that, Susan protests, biting gently at Hannah’s neck. Hannah rolls over and Susan grins, saying, let’s give the ghosts a show, shall we?
There are no ghosts. Hannah’s eyes are troubled; she bites her lip even as she begins to unbutton her nightshirt. Just a bad feeling.
Well, Susan says. How about we try and feel something else for a while?
The double entendre in her words makes them both start to giggle and they can’t quite meet each other’s eyes. Hannah pulls off her nightshirt; it brushes against her breasts as softly as a sigh and Susan reaches out to touch her, their skin tinged orange in the glow from the streetlight on the corner.
In the morning they pull the duvet off the bed and stumble into the kitchen together, wrapping it around them as they slide onto the stools in front of the breakfast bar. (Susan disagrees with the name since they also have to eat lunch and dinner at it, but Hannah won’t call it anything else.) It was cold in Amsterdam too, Susan says, rubbing her feet together and wishing she had thought to put on a pair of socks. It wouldn’t take ten seconds to walk back to the bedroom and yet the tiled floor is coldly forbidding.
You went to Amsterdam? Hannah asks, a little wistfully.
I went to lots of places.
Is it true what they say? About the prostitutes in the windows like living shop dummies?
I never went into the red light district, Susan says.
Where did you go? Tell me what it was like.
Susan thinks for a minute, stirring her cereal round and round with the same repetitive motion of her wrist. There’s this science museum... It’s called NEMO, which means nothing. Quite literally - nothing. Funny name to call a building, especially a museum... It’s built like a ship, a great green ship rising up out of the water, and you can walk up onto the roof and see right across the city. When you’re down in the streets it’s wonderful, all those tall narrow houses leaning out over the canals, but from the top of that ship, from the top of NEMO, Amsterdam just looks like any other city, all cars and roads and industrial buildings on the outskirts.
Still, Hannah says, after a pause. Anywhere’s better than here, right?
Susan says, only in some ways.
When Hannah gets back from work she finds Susan sat on the floor reading the Daily Prophet.
Find anything? she asks, shaking the rain off her coat and hanging it over the back of a chair. She sits down beside Susan, whose hair is slightly damp, wisps of it curling around her ears. Did you go out?
Yes, Susan says vaguely.
In the rain?
It stopped for a while. And then it caught me again. I wish spring would hurry up and arrive.
Don’t we all, Hannah sighs.
Susan looks up, concern and sympathy in her face. You should learn to Apparate, she says, then we could move somewhere different.
I can’t, Hannah says. I just - I can’t, Susie. I’m terrified of Splinching.
It’s not that bad, Susan lies. She remembers that heart-stopping moment in the Great Hall when she realised she’d Splinched her leg and bites her lip. I could teach you!
Hannah shakes her head - then suddenly she stills, caught by an idea. Hey. You could become an Apparation instructor!
No. Susan turns away from her.
Why not? I bet the pay would be really good, it always is at the Ministry. And you just said -
I’m never working for the Ministry, Susan says bitterly.
There is an uncomfortable pause. Hannah thinks of all the things that they could do if Susan worked too. Maybe if they paid someone to come in and fix the tap it would stop dripping. (Predictably, just by thinking about it, the drip-drip-drip noise filters through to her consciousness.) So, she finally says, what did you find? Anything promising?
Susan flicks to the back pages of the Prophet and shows her the jobs section. She has ringed two of the ads.
Impressive, Hannah says sarcastically, then regrets it.
Those were the only ones that sounded interesting, Susan says coldly. If I’m going to work forty hours a week I want to be doing something I actually like.
Beggars can’t be choosers, Hannah snaps. Or maybe you’d like to wait on tables at the Leaky Cauldron?
Susan flings the newspaper away: a harsh, angry motion. Hannah watches as it slides to a halt up against the wall. She can’t look at Susan’s face.
I don’t even have to work! Susan says impatiently. I don’t - I just -
She makes an angry noise and stands up in one fluid motion, her long legs unfolding from underneath her. Her fingers twitch in and out of fists as she paces up and down the small living room. There is a tenseness to her like a coiled spring and Hannah stays sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa, a little bit afraid to get up and go to her.
Susan continues, I could probably live off what’s in my bank account for the rest of my life if I were careful enough. Or what the hell, why don’t I splurge! I could buy you a fireplace and we could have it connected to the Floo - would you like that?
Not really, Hannah whispers. Using the Floo makes me sick.
All that money. Susan sounds so bitter, her mouth screwed up as she pauses to reflect. All that fucking money. She shoves her hands into her pockets and stares out through the rain-streaked windows. Carefully, Hannah stands up.
Are you going to run away again? she asks, and there’s no accusation in her voice, just a heaviness. Susan sighs and tilts her head back.
No, she says. No, I’m not.
Hannah reaches out and brushes her hands against Susan’s shoulders, and with a sudden motion Susan falls back against her like a puppet with its strings cut.
I didn’t think it would be this hard, Susan says, her voice cracking. I forgot how awful everything was.
Hannah can see a ghost of Susan’s reflection in the glass, broken up by the raindrops. She doesn’t know what to say. I wanted you to be strong for me, she thinks.
Where’s Harry Potter? asks Susan, sounding hopelessly lost. Where is he? What’s going on? I’ve been so out of the loop - I knew the War hadn’t ended, I’d have heard about that - but I didn’t know anything else. Isn’t he supposed to be saving us all? We put our faith in heroes, but it’s not enough, is it, not when we still have to get up each morning and carry on even though it could be the last time we ever wake up.
I put my faith in you, Hannah says quietly. (Maybe we can be strong for each other.)
Susan turns round. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her lower lip is wet and swollen from where she’s been chewing on it. You trust me that much? She sounds a little uncertain - and with good cause. She was never the reliable one.
Hannah nods. I’ve nothing else to put my faith in, not now. I’m sorry, she says suddenly, if you don't - I mean, if that’s unsettling -
Susan places a finger on Hannah’s lips. It’s inspiring, she whispers.