fic for tulleskirt: and tomorrow, we stretch on forever (Trio, various, G)
Title: and tomorrow, we stretch on forever
Author: noticeably
Recipient: tulleskirt
Rating: G
Character(s): Trio, various.
Summary: It is what makes them different that makes them the same.
Warnings: Pre-Hogwarts (as requested).
Word Count: 1,032
Author's Notes: The request was: A fic about all three of them, maybe at a set moment when they were younger and just contrasting their situations would be ideal. It took me awhile to come up with something that I thought would fit your request, and I hope that you like it! Many thanks to B for all of her encouragement, and to K for the quick and speedy beta. This never would have been finished without their help! ♥♥♥
--
When the afternoons are long and the rain is heavy, Hermione spends her afternoons inside, curled up beside the window, reading. Fingers wrapped tightly around the slightly yellowed, curling pages of her books, she lets herself drift away to the steady sound of the rain. She loses herself in worlds of fantasy, in stories of good and evil, of magic and mayhem. The characters are her friends, the settings her home, the plots her story as much as theirs.
The musty, dusty scent of an old book is a familiar one to Hermione. "It's calming," she tells her father one day when he asks her why she likes to go to bed with a book in her arms. Her father smiles then, a pleased look spreading across his face, and gives her a small pat on her head before turning back to his work.
Her mother, while fully approving of her love of reading, doesn’t seem as pleased with her spending all of her free time alone. "Why don't you see if that girl next door would like to come over this afternoon?" her mother asks from the kitchen, leaning through the doorway to stare at Hermione.
"Lucy?" she replies, glancing up from her book. "We're not even friends anymore, Mum."
"Oh?" a slight frown turns at the corner of her mother’s lips. "I thought you were?"
Hermione shakes her head, turning the page in her book as she does so. "The only thing she likes to do is to play dress up. That's boring."
The frown, now full-fledged, deepens just slightly. "I see," her mother murmurs quietly. "What about your other friends, then? Surely they can’t all be busy, Hermione."
She shrugs, an uninterested look on her face. "I'm fine, Mum."
"Hermione, I really think -"
"I like reading," Hermione says, cutting her mother off. Glancing up from her book again, she smiles. "I can go out and play later, when it's not raining."
Sighing, her mother finally nods. "If you're really sure," she says. "I just hate to see you alone all the time."
Still smiling, she shrugs. "I'm fine."
(Hermione loves to be alone.)
ii.
Ron likes to spend his afternoons outside, lazily sprawled out in the warm summer grass, fingers resting lightly across his eyes in a half-hearted attempt to block out the sunlight. Eyes closed and head tilted back, he listens to the sounds of his brothers and sister shouting and playing all around him.
Somewhere off to the side he hears an explosion, and opening his eyes, he watches as Fred and George set a tree on fire. It spreads quickly, and Ron can barely bring himself to tear his eyes away from the bright, burning flames as they engulf the tree quickly and efficiently. A moment later, his mother runs outside, arm raised, fingers clenched tightly around her wand, mouth opening to shout at them as she crosses the yard.
Tilting his head lazily to the other side, he watches as Bill and Charlie huddle near the house, heads tilted close together as they whisper hurriedly to one another. A second later, they're glancing curiously towards their mother to see if she's still yelling at the twins. Apparently satisfied, they dash past Ron and into the woods, two old broomsticks clenched in their grasps.
The sound of giggling catches his attention. Turning his head back towards the bright, fiery tree he watches as Ginny chases what looks like butterflies, eyes sparkling as she runs across the yard, hands reaching up and out towards them. A moment later Percy runs past him, an irritated look on his face as he chases after their younger sister. "Ginny! Don't touch those!" he shouts, waving frantically. "You don't know what they are!"
"Ron," his mother says, stopping next to him on her way back to the house. Behind her, Ron can see the black, charred remains of the tree. "Don't fall asleep out here," she warns, giving him a pointed look.
"I won't," swears Ron earnestly.
His mother walks away smiling. A moment later Ron leans his head back and closes his eyes, a small smile playing around his lips.
The Burrow is noisy and it’s hectic and it’s home.
(Ron hates to be alone.)
iii.
Harry spends his afternoons sitting inside his cupboard, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, fingers gently tracing the outlines of the shadows. Above him, the small light sways back and forth, flickering on and off. The cupboard is small and cramped, dusty and damp, but Harry has been there so long that he doesn't notice anymore.
If he leans his head back against the door, he can just vaguely hear the Dursleys having lunch. It's then, when he's sure that he won't be interrupted, that he lets his imagination wander.
Sometimes, Harry wonders what it would be like to be a Dursley. He wonders if they would like him more then, if he would be able to sleep upstairs and eat with them if he were their other son, if he were little Harry Dursley. It's a fantasy that never lasts long, though - as much as he wishes to be a part of the family (of any family), Harry can't at all imagine himself being anything like his horrible relatives.
Other times, he lets himself entertain thoughts of what he'll be when he grows up. When that isn't enough to keep his attention, he'll remember a flash of bright green light, and spend hours pondering it's meaning.
For the most part, though, Harry thinks about his parents. He'll lean back in his cupboard, arms brushing up against spider webs, and wonder what they were really like. Was his mother really as horrible as his Aunt says? Harry thinks that she wasn’t, that she must have been a very smart, beautiful woman. He knows that they're wrong about his dad, too. His dad was probably smart and kind and although Harry has never met them, he knows that someday, he wants to be just like them.
It is with these thoughts that he curls up under his cover, fingers tightening around the half-ripped blanket, and falls into a deep sleep.
(Harry is never alone.)
Author: noticeably
Recipient: tulleskirt
Rating: G
Character(s): Trio, various.
Summary: It is what makes them different that makes them the same.
Warnings: Pre-Hogwarts (as requested).
Word Count: 1,032
Author's Notes: The request was: A fic about all three of them, maybe at a set moment when they were younger and just contrasting their situations would be ideal. It took me awhile to come up with something that I thought would fit your request, and I hope that you like it! Many thanks to B for all of her encouragement, and to K for the quick and speedy beta. This never would have been finished without their help! ♥♥♥
--
When the afternoons are long and the rain is heavy, Hermione spends her afternoons inside, curled up beside the window, reading. Fingers wrapped tightly around the slightly yellowed, curling pages of her books, she lets herself drift away to the steady sound of the rain. She loses herself in worlds of fantasy, in stories of good and evil, of magic and mayhem. The characters are her friends, the settings her home, the plots her story as much as theirs.
The musty, dusty scent of an old book is a familiar one to Hermione. "It's calming," she tells her father one day when he asks her why she likes to go to bed with a book in her arms. Her father smiles then, a pleased look spreading across his face, and gives her a small pat on her head before turning back to his work.
Her mother, while fully approving of her love of reading, doesn’t seem as pleased with her spending all of her free time alone. "Why don't you see if that girl next door would like to come over this afternoon?" her mother asks from the kitchen, leaning through the doorway to stare at Hermione.
"Lucy?" she replies, glancing up from her book. "We're not even friends anymore, Mum."
"Oh?" a slight frown turns at the corner of her mother’s lips. "I thought you were?"
Hermione shakes her head, turning the page in her book as she does so. "The only thing she likes to do is to play dress up. That's boring."
The frown, now full-fledged, deepens just slightly. "I see," her mother murmurs quietly. "What about your other friends, then? Surely they can’t all be busy, Hermione."
She shrugs, an uninterested look on her face. "I'm fine, Mum."
"Hermione, I really think -"
"I like reading," Hermione says, cutting her mother off. Glancing up from her book again, she smiles. "I can go out and play later, when it's not raining."
Sighing, her mother finally nods. "If you're really sure," she says. "I just hate to see you alone all the time."
Still smiling, she shrugs. "I'm fine."
(Hermione loves to be alone.)
ii.
Ron likes to spend his afternoons outside, lazily sprawled out in the warm summer grass, fingers resting lightly across his eyes in a half-hearted attempt to block out the sunlight. Eyes closed and head tilted back, he listens to the sounds of his brothers and sister shouting and playing all around him.
Somewhere off to the side he hears an explosion, and opening his eyes, he watches as Fred and George set a tree on fire. It spreads quickly, and Ron can barely bring himself to tear his eyes away from the bright, burning flames as they engulf the tree quickly and efficiently. A moment later, his mother runs outside, arm raised, fingers clenched tightly around her wand, mouth opening to shout at them as she crosses the yard.
Tilting his head lazily to the other side, he watches as Bill and Charlie huddle near the house, heads tilted close together as they whisper hurriedly to one another. A second later, they're glancing curiously towards their mother to see if she's still yelling at the twins. Apparently satisfied, they dash past Ron and into the woods, two old broomsticks clenched in their grasps.
The sound of giggling catches his attention. Turning his head back towards the bright, fiery tree he watches as Ginny chases what looks like butterflies, eyes sparkling as she runs across the yard, hands reaching up and out towards them. A moment later Percy runs past him, an irritated look on his face as he chases after their younger sister. "Ginny! Don't touch those!" he shouts, waving frantically. "You don't know what they are!"
"Ron," his mother says, stopping next to him on her way back to the house. Behind her, Ron can see the black, charred remains of the tree. "Don't fall asleep out here," she warns, giving him a pointed look.
"I won't," swears Ron earnestly.
His mother walks away smiling. A moment later Ron leans his head back and closes his eyes, a small smile playing around his lips.
The Burrow is noisy and it’s hectic and it’s home.
(Ron hates to be alone.)
iii.
Harry spends his afternoons sitting inside his cupboard, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, fingers gently tracing the outlines of the shadows. Above him, the small light sways back and forth, flickering on and off. The cupboard is small and cramped, dusty and damp, but Harry has been there so long that he doesn't notice anymore.
If he leans his head back against the door, he can just vaguely hear the Dursleys having lunch. It's then, when he's sure that he won't be interrupted, that he lets his imagination wander.
Sometimes, Harry wonders what it would be like to be a Dursley. He wonders if they would like him more then, if he would be able to sleep upstairs and eat with them if he were their other son, if he were little Harry Dursley. It's a fantasy that never lasts long, though - as much as he wishes to be a part of the family (of any family), Harry can't at all imagine himself being anything like his horrible relatives.
Other times, he lets himself entertain thoughts of what he'll be when he grows up. When that isn't enough to keep his attention, he'll remember a flash of bright green light, and spend hours pondering it's meaning.
For the most part, though, Harry thinks about his parents. He'll lean back in his cupboard, arms brushing up against spider webs, and wonder what they were really like. Was his mother really as horrible as his Aunt says? Harry thinks that she wasn’t, that she must have been a very smart, beautiful woman. He knows that they're wrong about his dad, too. His dad was probably smart and kind and although Harry has never met them, he knows that someday, he wants to be just like them.
It is with these thoughts that he curls up under his cover, fingers tightening around the half-ripped blanket, and falls into a deep sleep.
(Harry is never alone.)