Fic: The Best Man. PG-13.
Title: The Best Man.
Author: Danya/Serpentigena.
Characters Featured: Harry, Ron. Hermione.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Word Count: 610.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, characters, names and the sort are copyright to Warner Brothers and JK Rowling.
A/Ns: For the Unrequited Love Challenge.
Say Harry happened to like girls instead of boys, liked to fill his hands with voluptuous flesh instead of the flat expanse of a muscular chest. Say Hermione was in your place, seated on a bed with a skinny arm draped around her shoulders and two rough, but warm lips insistently bruising her neck. Would she allow him to clutch her, to coax forth the juices of intimacy with a fervent squeeze of his bloodstained hands? Would she coo and console, respond with assuring touches of her own, and would she return his kisses expecting you to understand?
When he raises his blurry, pain-riddled eyes, you wonder if he recognises the pity in your own. If he does, he either accepts or ignores it as he climbs into your lap and eyes your mouth longingly. After the victorious end of the second war, your world stole Harry’s name and left behind a deflated body. They painted it on banners and stretched it across the pages of history, but Harry can wear his given name no longer; it has left too many mouths and seen too many celebrations, now several sizes too big to fit the ruined boy you hold.
And now, with his hands in your ginger hair and his legs cradling your waist, he is asking you, pleading with you, but the breath of life is too much for you to give.
You like girls, but you love Harry. Just... not in the way that he wants you to love him. You’ve never been with a boy before, and the fact that you’ve let it go this far should be enough for him, it should.
Because Hermione wouldn’t cross the line, even for her closest friend. Hermione wouldn’t crawl beneath the sheets and allow him to introduce every centimetre of his skin to hers. “Harry,” you breathe, awkward and nervous when he starts to lift your shirt, and you can see his face in your mind, see it clearly as the blood rushes and you blush profusely beneath your freckles. “Harry… I can’t. Sorry, mate… I just, you know I’m not like that,” and the words hurt even leaving your throat, raspy and harsh though carried with an air of apology. You refuse to open your eyes to see the cruel rejection you’ve showered upon him.
“Ron...” he murmurs, voice cracking, and you shake your head quickly, nudging him out of your lap.
“Ron?” You turn away, mouth pressed into a tight line and you start to grab your cloak and toe on your loafers.
“Ron!” he’s angry now, as he should be. You shouldn’t have let him get that close to you. You shouldn’t have made him think you wanted to pluck the overripe fruit, squeeze it fresh, and share a glass. Toast to the world and all of its sticky fingers; drink of him and make him moan, make him cry, make him smile again. God, you would give anything to see him smile again…
“Harry, I’ve gotta go home. Hermione’ll be furious if I don’t pick a cake,” you shrug, laugh and clumsily back into the door. “Chocolate, vanilla, whatever. It’s all the same to me.”
Harry stares strangely at you from his bed, wand rolling back and forth between his wavering fingers. You’ve never seen him hold it like that before. You can't remember him ever being uncomfortable when toying with a potential weapon.
“Harry, look. I...”
Obliviate.
...Would she coo and console, respond with assuring touches of her own, and would she return his kisses expecting you to understand?
Author: Danya/Serpentigena.
Characters Featured: Harry, Ron. Hermione.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Word Count: 610.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, characters, names and the sort are copyright to Warner Brothers and JK Rowling.
A/Ns: For the Unrequited Love Challenge.
Say Harry happened to like girls instead of boys, liked to fill his hands with voluptuous flesh instead of the flat expanse of a muscular chest. Say Hermione was in your place, seated on a bed with a skinny arm draped around her shoulders and two rough, but warm lips insistently bruising her neck. Would she allow him to clutch her, to coax forth the juices of intimacy with a fervent squeeze of his bloodstained hands? Would she coo and console, respond with assuring touches of her own, and would she return his kisses expecting you to understand?
When he raises his blurry, pain-riddled eyes, you wonder if he recognises the pity in your own. If he does, he either accepts or ignores it as he climbs into your lap and eyes your mouth longingly. After the victorious end of the second war, your world stole Harry’s name and left behind a deflated body. They painted it on banners and stretched it across the pages of history, but Harry can wear his given name no longer; it has left too many mouths and seen too many celebrations, now several sizes too big to fit the ruined boy you hold.
And now, with his hands in your ginger hair and his legs cradling your waist, he is asking you, pleading with you, but the breath of life is too much for you to give.
You like girls, but you love Harry. Just... not in the way that he wants you to love him. You’ve never been with a boy before, and the fact that you’ve let it go this far should be enough for him, it should.
Because Hermione wouldn’t cross the line, even for her closest friend. Hermione wouldn’t crawl beneath the sheets and allow him to introduce every centimetre of his skin to hers. “Harry,” you breathe, awkward and nervous when he starts to lift your shirt, and you can see his face in your mind, see it clearly as the blood rushes and you blush profusely beneath your freckles. “Harry… I can’t. Sorry, mate… I just, you know I’m not like that,” and the words hurt even leaving your throat, raspy and harsh though carried with an air of apology. You refuse to open your eyes to see the cruel rejection you’ve showered upon him.
“Ron...” he murmurs, voice cracking, and you shake your head quickly, nudging him out of your lap.
“Ron?” You turn away, mouth pressed into a tight line and you start to grab your cloak and toe on your loafers.
“Ron!” he’s angry now, as he should be. You shouldn’t have let him get that close to you. You shouldn’t have made him think you wanted to pluck the overripe fruit, squeeze it fresh, and share a glass. Toast to the world and all of its sticky fingers; drink of him and make him moan, make him cry, make him smile again. God, you would give anything to see him smile again…
“Harry, I’ve gotta go home. Hermione’ll be furious if I don’t pick a cake,” you shrug, laugh and clumsily back into the door. “Chocolate, vanilla, whatever. It’s all the same to me.”
Harry stares strangely at you from his bed, wand rolling back and forth between his wavering fingers. You’ve never seen him hold it like that before. You can't remember him ever being uncomfortable when toying with a potential weapon.
“Harry, look. I...”
Obliviate.
...Would she coo and console, respond with assuring touches of her own, and would she return his kisses expecting you to understand?