Fic: "Hands," Ron/Hermione, R
Title: Hands
Author: scythia
Pairing: Ron/Hermione, et al.
Length: 911
Notes: For hp_literotica's "Ides of March" challenge. Crossposted to my personal journal and hp_classic.
Summary: After the war, the unkindest cut of all. A companion piece to "Before and After."
i.
“I wish you’d get rid of that,” said Ron.
Their parents’ hands had long since stilled; the twins were distant and therefore content; the twins were elsewhere. Percy’s hand jutted out from the wall like an accusing finger. She had tried to tear it off but it wouldn’t budge, would only bend, would only hang askew. A violent act, and it had dislodged some of the charms on the clock, for Ginny’s hand spun round the whole clock feverishly, chasing after itself, and Ron’s was stuck between two notches and quivered like a hunting dog. She kept it up there like a battle cry.
“It’s important to remember who we are, Ron.” Ginny, earnestly. It made Ron sick. “To remember who we were, before…”
He stood up. His movements were quiet, controlled, professional, he thought, he knew, but the chair clattered behind him to the floor. One rough edge snagged on his new robes and he cursed beneath his breath.
“This was a mistake,” he told her, and left.
ii.
“Well, hello, Ronald,” said Narcissa Malfoy, a shaft of light in the darkness of the house. “How lovely to see you. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” said Ron. “I just… I just… I wanted to deliver this to Mr. Malfoy,” he said, worrying the parchment between his hands.
“Ah,” she said. “So good of you to drop by. Alas, he is otherwise occupied at the moment. If you will leave it with me, I shall make sure that he receives it,” said Narcissa, holding out one hand for the parchment.
Ron hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering up the stairs. Narcissa followed his eyes and her perfect lips unfurled to show her perfect teeth and her perfect fingers unfurled to take his much-blotted parchment.
“I promise I shall see that everything is taken care of, Ronald,” voice light and sharp like a stiletto. And so he handed her the parchment, almost before thinking, then retracted his hand to stroke his lapels anxiously.
“Such lovely robes,” said Narcissa as she led him to the door. “Are they new?” He felt himself flush. “Yes,” he said, proudly. “Yes, they are.”
iii.
Narcissa’s skin was like porcelain but Hermione’s was merely wan and pale and he told her so. “Do you really think so?” she said, neutrally, a wariness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. He scowled at her lack of a reaction and tossed her his robes. “These are torn. Could you…” he caught himself. “I need you to mend them.”
“Oh, Ron, another set of robes?” Words before she could catch herself. “Really, for someone who went through entire school years with the same jumper, you certainly…”
The slap startled even him, or only him, for she only looked at him and there was nothing in her eyes, and so he kissed her because once something had been there when he was nobody and now he was somebody and it should still be there, that something, and she would just have to find it again, because now there was a reason for her to love him.
Her skin was soft and smooth and he imagined that it was Narcissa Malfoy stretched beneath him and Hermione towards the end saw something in his face because she knew him so well and reached out to touch his face (pity, Hermione?) and he flinched because her hands were chapped and she pulled into herself like a starfish, as cold, as touched with brine and Ron flushed and thought of the cleverest witch of their generation mending his robes and he waited for his happiness to come.
iv.
“The most irritating things, these little incursions, these petite rebellions,” said Narcissa, and poured him more tea. He looked at her, an unspoken question in his eyes. “He’s resting, dear.” Narcissa always knew what he was thinking. “I fear he’s still quite weak. I shudder to think what would have happened if your brother had not stepped in when he did, valiant lad - why, we might have lost our dear Lucius as we lost our Lord and then where would we be? Well, true blood will out, as they say.”
One hand on top of his, electric comfort, diamonds shattering the room, dust in flight. She looked at his face and he worried that she could see Hermione’s hands on him, her cheap chapped hands, and he hoped that she would look down deeper through his flesh, his tainted guilty flesh, to his blood which was pure like hers, strong like hers. His mother’s hands had been chapped like Hermione’s, from washing, but Narcissa had no need of washing, for she was pure
“Nuisances, really, more than anything, but my husband simply can’t abide nuisances.” He nodded. She smiled. De haut en bas. “Men need their stability. Women - we learn to be more - accommodating.” A sphinx in her eyes, a hunting cat. “It’s a woman, you know,” said Narcissa, and the cucumber sandwich stilled between his teeth. “I can feel a woman’s mind behind it. My husband’s patience, as I said, has run out, and mine is near its end… if I only knew who this woman was…” She shrugged, an arpeggio of diamond lights singing from her ears. “You must tell me if you like those sandwiches, Ronald, dear. You mustn’t hold back from me, not at all.”
Ginny and her earnest eyes, her broken chair, her broken clock. One more broken hand, thought Ron. “Of course not,” said Ron, and swallowed.
Author: scythia
Pairing: Ron/Hermione, et al.
Length: 911
Notes: For hp_literotica's "Ides of March" challenge. Crossposted to my personal journal and hp_classic.
Summary: After the war, the unkindest cut of all. A companion piece to "Before and After."
i.
“I wish you’d get rid of that,” said Ron.
Their parents’ hands had long since stilled; the twins were distant and therefore content; the twins were elsewhere. Percy’s hand jutted out from the wall like an accusing finger. She had tried to tear it off but it wouldn’t budge, would only bend, would only hang askew. A violent act, and it had dislodged some of the charms on the clock, for Ginny’s hand spun round the whole clock feverishly, chasing after itself, and Ron’s was stuck between two notches and quivered like a hunting dog. She kept it up there like a battle cry.
“It’s important to remember who we are, Ron.” Ginny, earnestly. It made Ron sick. “To remember who we were, before…”
He stood up. His movements were quiet, controlled, professional, he thought, he knew, but the chair clattered behind him to the floor. One rough edge snagged on his new robes and he cursed beneath his breath.
“This was a mistake,” he told her, and left.
ii.
“Well, hello, Ronald,” said Narcissa Malfoy, a shaft of light in the darkness of the house. “How lovely to see you. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” said Ron. “I just… I just… I wanted to deliver this to Mr. Malfoy,” he said, worrying the parchment between his hands.
“Ah,” she said. “So good of you to drop by. Alas, he is otherwise occupied at the moment. If you will leave it with me, I shall make sure that he receives it,” said Narcissa, holding out one hand for the parchment.
Ron hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering up the stairs. Narcissa followed his eyes and her perfect lips unfurled to show her perfect teeth and her perfect fingers unfurled to take his much-blotted parchment.
“I promise I shall see that everything is taken care of, Ronald,” voice light and sharp like a stiletto. And so he handed her the parchment, almost before thinking, then retracted his hand to stroke his lapels anxiously.
“Such lovely robes,” said Narcissa as she led him to the door. “Are they new?” He felt himself flush. “Yes,” he said, proudly. “Yes, they are.”
iii.
Narcissa’s skin was like porcelain but Hermione’s was merely wan and pale and he told her so. “Do you really think so?” she said, neutrally, a wariness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. He scowled at her lack of a reaction and tossed her his robes. “These are torn. Could you…” he caught himself. “I need you to mend them.”
“Oh, Ron, another set of robes?” Words before she could catch herself. “Really, for someone who went through entire school years with the same jumper, you certainly…”
The slap startled even him, or only him, for she only looked at him and there was nothing in her eyes, and so he kissed her because once something had been there when he was nobody and now he was somebody and it should still be there, that something, and she would just have to find it again, because now there was a reason for her to love him.
Her skin was soft and smooth and he imagined that it was Narcissa Malfoy stretched beneath him and Hermione towards the end saw something in his face because she knew him so well and reached out to touch his face (pity, Hermione?) and he flinched because her hands were chapped and she pulled into herself like a starfish, as cold, as touched with brine and Ron flushed and thought of the cleverest witch of their generation mending his robes and he waited for his happiness to come.
iv.
“The most irritating things, these little incursions, these petite rebellions,” said Narcissa, and poured him more tea. He looked at her, an unspoken question in his eyes. “He’s resting, dear.” Narcissa always knew what he was thinking. “I fear he’s still quite weak. I shudder to think what would have happened if your brother had not stepped in when he did, valiant lad - why, we might have lost our dear Lucius as we lost our Lord and then where would we be? Well, true blood will out, as they say.”
One hand on top of his, electric comfort, diamonds shattering the room, dust in flight. She looked at his face and he worried that she could see Hermione’s hands on him, her cheap chapped hands, and he hoped that she would look down deeper through his flesh, his tainted guilty flesh, to his blood which was pure like hers, strong like hers. His mother’s hands had been chapped like Hermione’s, from washing, but Narcissa had no need of washing, for she was pure
“Nuisances, really, more than anything, but my husband simply can’t abide nuisances.” He nodded. She smiled. De haut en bas. “Men need their stability. Women - we learn to be more - accommodating.” A sphinx in her eyes, a hunting cat. “It’s a woman, you know,” said Narcissa, and the cucumber sandwich stilled between his teeth. “I can feel a woman’s mind behind it. My husband’s patience, as I said, has run out, and mine is near its end… if I only knew who this woman was…” She shrugged, an arpeggio of diamond lights singing from her ears. “You must tell me if you like those sandwiches, Ronald, dear. You mustn’t hold back from me, not at all.”
Ginny and her earnest eyes, her broken chair, her broken clock. One more broken hand, thought Ron. “Of course not,” said Ron, and swallowed.