harry potter fic: every saint has a past, every sinner has a future.
every saint has a past, every sinner has a future. harry/hermione. ron/hermione. 1140 words. pg. Children of war, they're called.
Ron, dirt on his face and blood on his hands, asks, “What do we do now?”
Hermione is resting a head against his shoulder and watching the entrance, wondering where Harry is. Her bones ache and Ron sounds so tired. A couple of the paintings are drinking wine and hiccuping loudly. One little boy in the corner, in a gold frame, stares at the two of them.
She says, “I don’t know,” and the words startle them both into more silence.
Hermione found an apartment in Diagon Alley, perched atop a used bookstore and small enough for just her.
“Why don’t we live together?” Ron asked and Hermione just shook her head, pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips when his fingers grasped her waist. He rocked back on his heels for a moment. He seemed to have a lot of nervous energy ever since the war ended. He was always moving in some way, or touching her, fingers brushing over whatever bare skin they could find.
She said, “I’m sure we will, eventually,” and his smile was so wide she imitated it. He kissed her then, long and so intimately Hermione almost thought it was a goodbye.
“Help me pick out a comforter?” she asked, breathless, and Ron said, “Yes.”
He usually did.
Hermione spends her days and nights hidden away, with books and tea and a too-large armchair she brought from home. Ron visits often, bringing reports of the Reconstruction, eyes fever-bright and gesturing wildly with his hands. Ron is important now, leading the charge in the War Trials and rounding up leftover Death Eaters. He doesn't say it outright but part of him feels vindicated, feel like the little boy who only ever got hand me downs is finally getting what he deserves. He's happier for it. Peace has been good for him. Hermione realizes she can’t say the same for herself. She doesn't talk to anyone except for Ron and Harry. Sometimes, she talks to Ginny, but those conversations are always filled with awkward pauses and apologies, though Hermione's never quite sure what either of them are sorry about.
Diagon Alley hums beneath her and it’s how she learns to relax again. Her wand stays hidden underneath her bed in an unpacked cardboard box.
The first time Harry visited, he brought her an old-fashioned telephone, like something out of a movie.
“Housewarming present,” he said sheepishly with the shrug of one of his shoulders. His glasses were crooked and so was his smile. She leaned against the doorjamb, bare feet scratching at the back of her calf. Harry’s eyes crinkled around the edges.
Hermione smiles back and opened the door wider.
“That’s so sweet, Harry.”
“It’s nothing really.”
He sat down in her armchair and looked so at ease, one leg crossed over the other and casually reading the back of her book, that her heart ached a little, strained at its cage of bone and thumped harder.
Hermione brushed her hair behind her ear and scolded him.
“Don’t lose my place or I’ll hex you into next week.”
Harry laughed a little at that, and the sound spread over the entire room.
Hermione’s in the kitchen, making Harry’s tea the way he likes it and humming a lullaby as she pours it into a mug.
“You look good, Mione,” Harry shouts from the other room. Hermione yells back, “Always the tone of surprise,” and feels another smile spread wide on her face.
Harry laughs at that, and then after a moment of silence, says, “Isn’t that normally Ron’s line?”
Like always, the mention of Ron sends her heart soaring. It’s never been a question of which boy she loves, that’s for sure. It’s been a question of which one she can love best, which one needs her most, which one loves her better.
Ron wears his heart on his sleeve, easy to read, clear in every carefully placed kiss and I love you.
Harry looks handsome in his t-shirt, stretched tight against his back, and Hermione wonders what’s wrong with her. Her hand tightens it’s grip on the mug, chipped at one corner, and Hermione thinks there must be a metaphor in there somewhere.
“Thanks, ‘Mione,” he says when she hands him the mug. His hand brushes against hers and if he lets it stay there for a moment too long, neither of them mentions it.
He says, “I’m sick of everyone else except you.”
Hermione’s breath catches in her throat and her hands flutter nervously until one of them settles on the column of her throat.
She says, “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me, Harry,” half-joking. The moment passes, and Harry lets out a half-laugh.
“Mind if I stay here? Hide away for a while?” His tone is surprisingly eager; it reminds her of Hogwarts and professors and being too young.
Hermione admires the telephone on her table. It’s a lovely black thing with silver buttons - she thinks she saw one like it in that Audrey Hepburn movie her mother used to love. The name escapes her now, but so do a lot of things about her parents, she supposes.
The apartment is quiet, peaceful, unlike most moments she gets with Harry. She breathes, “Of course you can stay, Harry,” into the air around them. The room smells like parchment and Harry.
He stands up then, and Hermione realizes she’s been standing in front of him the whole time. She moves to sit down, but Harry stops her, a firm grasp on the inside of her wrist and a desperate kind of look in his eyes.
“Did I ever tell you…” he starts, licking his lips nervously and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He reminds her of Ron in that moment. She leans in closer without realizing, the smallest distance but just enough to matter. She remembers, so quickly she forgets right after, that Ginny was having dinner with Neville.
“Did I ever tell you,” he repeats, more sure this time, “that you are the most wonderful person I know?”
She nods her head, not trusting herself to speak.
He says, “Good.” Just the once, briefly, but his hand is still on hers and Hermione discovers she doesn’t know what will happen next. This has happened more and more, in this world without a war.
Harry kisses her first but her eyes were already closes, lips already pursed.
Ron calls three days later, asks, “Do you know where Harry is?”
Hermione, wrapped up tight in one of her sweaters and toes curled underneath her, looks over to Harry sleeping in her bed, shirtless and sprawled across the brisk white sheets. The air is stale and she coughs a little.
She says, “He’s with me,” and Ron seems to understand something unspoken.
It might be what she loves most about him.
Ron, dirt on his face and blood on his hands, asks, “What do we do now?”
Hermione is resting a head against his shoulder and watching the entrance, wondering where Harry is. Her bones ache and Ron sounds so tired. A couple of the paintings are drinking wine and hiccuping loudly. One little boy in the corner, in a gold frame, stares at the two of them.
She says, “I don’t know,” and the words startle them both into more silence.
Hermione found an apartment in Diagon Alley, perched atop a used bookstore and small enough for just her.
“Why don’t we live together?” Ron asked and Hermione just shook her head, pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips when his fingers grasped her waist. He rocked back on his heels for a moment. He seemed to have a lot of nervous energy ever since the war ended. He was always moving in some way, or touching her, fingers brushing over whatever bare skin they could find.
She said, “I’m sure we will, eventually,” and his smile was so wide she imitated it. He kissed her then, long and so intimately Hermione almost thought it was a goodbye.
“Help me pick out a comforter?” she asked, breathless, and Ron said, “Yes.”
He usually did.
Hermione spends her days and nights hidden away, with books and tea and a too-large armchair she brought from home. Ron visits often, bringing reports of the Reconstruction, eyes fever-bright and gesturing wildly with his hands. Ron is important now, leading the charge in the War Trials and rounding up leftover Death Eaters. He doesn't say it outright but part of him feels vindicated, feel like the little boy who only ever got hand me downs is finally getting what he deserves. He's happier for it. Peace has been good for him. Hermione realizes she can’t say the same for herself. She doesn't talk to anyone except for Ron and Harry. Sometimes, she talks to Ginny, but those conversations are always filled with awkward pauses and apologies, though Hermione's never quite sure what either of them are sorry about.
Diagon Alley hums beneath her and it’s how she learns to relax again. Her wand stays hidden underneath her bed in an unpacked cardboard box.
The first time Harry visited, he brought her an old-fashioned telephone, like something out of a movie.
“Housewarming present,” he said sheepishly with the shrug of one of his shoulders. His glasses were crooked and so was his smile. She leaned against the doorjamb, bare feet scratching at the back of her calf. Harry’s eyes crinkled around the edges.
Hermione smiles back and opened the door wider.
“That’s so sweet, Harry.”
“It’s nothing really.”
He sat down in her armchair and looked so at ease, one leg crossed over the other and casually reading the back of her book, that her heart ached a little, strained at its cage of bone and thumped harder.
Hermione brushed her hair behind her ear and scolded him.
“Don’t lose my place or I’ll hex you into next week.”
Harry laughed a little at that, and the sound spread over the entire room.
Hermione’s in the kitchen, making Harry’s tea the way he likes it and humming a lullaby as she pours it into a mug.
“You look good, Mione,” Harry shouts from the other room. Hermione yells back, “Always the tone of surprise,” and feels another smile spread wide on her face.
Harry laughs at that, and then after a moment of silence, says, “Isn’t that normally Ron’s line?”
Like always, the mention of Ron sends her heart soaring. It’s never been a question of which boy she loves, that’s for sure. It’s been a question of which one she can love best, which one needs her most, which one loves her better.
Ron wears his heart on his sleeve, easy to read, clear in every carefully placed kiss and I love you.
Harry looks handsome in his t-shirt, stretched tight against his back, and Hermione wonders what’s wrong with her. Her hand tightens it’s grip on the mug, chipped at one corner, and Hermione thinks there must be a metaphor in there somewhere.
“Thanks, ‘Mione,” he says when she hands him the mug. His hand brushes against hers and if he lets it stay there for a moment too long, neither of them mentions it.
He says, “I’m sick of everyone else except you.”
Hermione’s breath catches in her throat and her hands flutter nervously until one of them settles on the column of her throat.
She says, “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me, Harry,” half-joking. The moment passes, and Harry lets out a half-laugh.
“Mind if I stay here? Hide away for a while?” His tone is surprisingly eager; it reminds her of Hogwarts and professors and being too young.
Hermione admires the telephone on her table. It’s a lovely black thing with silver buttons - she thinks she saw one like it in that Audrey Hepburn movie her mother used to love. The name escapes her now, but so do a lot of things about her parents, she supposes.
The apartment is quiet, peaceful, unlike most moments she gets with Harry. She breathes, “Of course you can stay, Harry,” into the air around them. The room smells like parchment and Harry.
He stands up then, and Hermione realizes she’s been standing in front of him the whole time. She moves to sit down, but Harry stops her, a firm grasp on the inside of her wrist and a desperate kind of look in his eyes.
“Did I ever tell you…” he starts, licking his lips nervously and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He reminds her of Ron in that moment. She leans in closer without realizing, the smallest distance but just enough to matter. She remembers, so quickly she forgets right after, that Ginny was having dinner with Neville.
“Did I ever tell you,” he repeats, more sure this time, “that you are the most wonderful person I know?”
She nods her head, not trusting herself to speak.
He says, “Good.” Just the once, briefly, but his hand is still on hers and Hermione discovers she doesn’t know what will happen next. This has happened more and more, in this world without a war.
Harry kisses her first but her eyes were already closes, lips already pursed.
Ron calls three days later, asks, “Do you know where Harry is?”
Hermione, wrapped up tight in one of her sweaters and toes curled underneath her, looks over to Harry sleeping in her bed, shirtless and sprawled across the brisk white sheets. The air is stale and she coughs a little.
She says, “He’s with me,” and Ron seems to understand something unspoken.
It might be what she loves most about him.