Untangled (Harry/Hermione)
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Title: Untangled
Charactes: Harry/Hermione
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,350
Summary: A little patience can straighten most things out.
Harry had never been so glad to see a campsite in his life. He squelched into the sandy circle and stepped out of his saturated trainers with relief.
“Nothing like an unexpected swim in the middle of October to get the blood flowing, eh?” he tried to joke.
Hermione said nothing, her sense of humor had been flagging the last couple of weeks, he’d noticed. The arduousness of travel had been telling the most on her.
“What’s Ron going to say, I wonder?” he went on. “He leaves us alone for two days and we end up in the river.”
Hermione fished mechanically through her bags for dry clothes, then disappeared behind the blanket they were using for a screen.
Harry changed his own clothes quickly, then sat down on the fallen tree trunk they were using as a sofa and used another shirt to tousle violently through his hair. He knew it would dry after a few swipes of his comb and a bit of time, but Hermione’s hair was going to be another matter. It was thick, long, and tangled. She couldn’t go to sleep in this cold air with her hair wet, and they were unable to use magic because of the risk of detection.
He looked up as she emerged from behind the blanket. She’d let her hair down, and it looked every bit as bedraggled and sodden as he’d feared it would.
She looked… defeated. She took the blanket down from the line and wrapped it around herself, still shivering in the chill of the late afternoon air.
“I need a knife,” she said bluntly, gathering a handful of hair to explain why, and he realized she’d come to the same conclusions about nightfall and the cold weather, probably long before he had. Her jump to the most drastic solution, however, was a clear indication of just how exhausted she was.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione. Sit down, we’ll brush it out so it can dry." He held out his comb, used it to make a waving motion towards himself.
She stared at him as if he hadn’t spoken English.
“Hermione, come on.”
She took a couple hesitant steps forward. “It’s really….I don’t think it will… “
“Sit down.” He had to take her by the arm and steer her; she was hard to maneuver, uncertain and strangely reluctant. “Sit down.” She folded herself down onto the sand in front of him, but still not quite within easy reach.
“Could you come a little closer?”
She edged back carefully until she was between his knees.
“Thanks,” he said, leaning forward and gathering up the wild fall of her hair to assess the situation. He’d never actually touched it before. There was rather a lot of it.
“It’s a mess,” she said despondently. “You’ll never get it set to rights.”
“Well, let’s try, all right?”
“What do you know about hair, anyway?”
“I helped groom out a pony at the Weasleys’ once,” Harry chuckled. “At least you don’t have any burrs in your mane.”
“It’s not funny,” Hermione snapped.
“Hermione, I know you’re tired. Just let me work on this a minute, OK?”
“You’re setting yourself up for hours of work, Harry, not minutes.”
“Let me just try.”
He soon found out what she was talking about, it was indeed a slow and meticulous process. He had to separate out groups of no more than a few strands at a time, but it seemed like they were all connected, no matter where he started it led into somewhere else. He quickly figured out it was best to start at the ends and work up, though every time he moved up a bit the part he’d just done would need redoing on the trip back down. On top of it all, he was keenly conscious that all this hair was attached to somebody, so he had to approach the task using more wits than force. The knack of holding the hair tightly at the top so he could tug at the bottom came instinctively enough, and he started to make some progress.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?”
“No,” she murmured. “Not yet.”
“Well, not ever, I hope. Tell me if I am.”
He was about three quarters up when he encountered the first mat. It was a strange pad of hair under the surface, with wiry ends threaded through, he explored it with his fingers a moment before trying to do anything with the comb.
“Rat’s nest,” she said, voice dull.
“That’s a pleasant name for it,” he said facetiously.
“That’s what my mother called them.”
“Did your mother brush your hair then?” he asked, trying to make conversation as he picked at the edge of the mat with the corner of the comb.
“She didn’t like to,” Hermione said, very quietly.
Harry wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“She pulled,” Hermione added.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I don’t blame her for getting overwhelmed with it, I used to get overwhelmed with it, too. Then I wouldn’t brush it and it would get… well, like this. One time she got so mad she cut it all off. I cried for days.”
Harry smiled a little. “Ah, the home hair cut, I remember it well. Mine always grew out fast, though.”
He couldn’t see Hermione’s smile but he could sense it, hear it in her voice. “Mine, too.” she said.
Harry had to admit that it was a daunting job, it would be easy to slip into roughness, so he took his time, careful when his fingers brushed against the back of her neck, or swept down above her ear to collect the thinner strands that started there.
“Maybe we should just cut it off,” she said suddenly, voice rising as the darkness gathered around them and the crickets began to pitch their songs.
“Maybe you should just be a little more patient,” Harry said calmly.
“Harry, even if you get all the knots out, my hair takes hours to dry without magic!”
“It’s almost dry now,” he pointed out.
“What?” She reached up with both hands and seized two handfuls of hair, squeezing it to gauge for herself. “But… how?”
“Um,” Harry searched his mind for a possible explanation. “It just decided to behave?”
Hermione swiveled around and looked up at him, her dark eyes fixing him with a long stare. “Sometimes I don’t think you do magic, I think you are magic.”
Harry felt his face grow a little warm under the intensity of her focus. “Turn around and let me finish, OK?” he said, touching the comb to her shoulder.
He continued to brush long after the last tangle was gone, just for the pleasure of it, the reward for both of them after the work, the feel of it running through his hands, through the tines of the comb. It still wasn’t entirely cooperative, the comb still snagged even in places he’d been over smoothly three or four times before, but it was tame enough for civilization, as Sprout liked to say about the gardens, and beautiful, besides.
“There,” he said, at last, smoothing it down her back, and drawing the comb away.
“Thank you, Harry.” she said quietly. There was a very earnest note of gratitude in her voice, for not only saving her hair, he suspected, but for being gentle about it.
He started to wave it off or dismiss it as nothing, but finally settled on, “You’re welcome.”
For someone who’d been so difficult to coax over, she didn’t seem to want to leave. “Can I confess to something?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“I forgot to pack a hairbrush.”
Harry gave a short bark of surprised laughter.
“I made so many lists, I brought so much equipment. What kind of person forgets to pack a hairbrush?” she asked in exasperation.
Harry, still chuckling, handed her the comb. “Don’t worry about it, Hermione. You can always borrow mine.”
Title: Untangled
Charactes: Harry/Hermione
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,350
Summary: A little patience can straighten most things out.
Harry had never been so glad to see a campsite in his life. He squelched into the sandy circle and stepped out of his saturated trainers with relief.
“Nothing like an unexpected swim in the middle of October to get the blood flowing, eh?” he tried to joke.
Hermione said nothing, her sense of humor had been flagging the last couple of weeks, he’d noticed. The arduousness of travel had been telling the most on her.
“What’s Ron going to say, I wonder?” he went on. “He leaves us alone for two days and we end up in the river.”
Hermione fished mechanically through her bags for dry clothes, then disappeared behind the blanket they were using for a screen.
Harry changed his own clothes quickly, then sat down on the fallen tree trunk they were using as a sofa and used another shirt to tousle violently through his hair. He knew it would dry after a few swipes of his comb and a bit of time, but Hermione’s hair was going to be another matter. It was thick, long, and tangled. She couldn’t go to sleep in this cold air with her hair wet, and they were unable to use magic because of the risk of detection.
He looked up as she emerged from behind the blanket. She’d let her hair down, and it looked every bit as bedraggled and sodden as he’d feared it would.
She looked… defeated. She took the blanket down from the line and wrapped it around herself, still shivering in the chill of the late afternoon air.
“I need a knife,” she said bluntly, gathering a handful of hair to explain why, and he realized she’d come to the same conclusions about nightfall and the cold weather, probably long before he had. Her jump to the most drastic solution, however, was a clear indication of just how exhausted she was.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione. Sit down, we’ll brush it out so it can dry." He held out his comb, used it to make a waving motion towards himself.
She stared at him as if he hadn’t spoken English.
“Hermione, come on.”
She took a couple hesitant steps forward. “It’s really….I don’t think it will… “
“Sit down.” He had to take her by the arm and steer her; she was hard to maneuver, uncertain and strangely reluctant. “Sit down.” She folded herself down onto the sand in front of him, but still not quite within easy reach.
“Could you come a little closer?”
She edged back carefully until she was between his knees.
“Thanks,” he said, leaning forward and gathering up the wild fall of her hair to assess the situation. He’d never actually touched it before. There was rather a lot of it.
“It’s a mess,” she said despondently. “You’ll never get it set to rights.”
“Well, let’s try, all right?”
“What do you know about hair, anyway?”
“I helped groom out a pony at the Weasleys’ once,” Harry chuckled. “At least you don’t have any burrs in your mane.”
“It’s not funny,” Hermione snapped.
“Hermione, I know you’re tired. Just let me work on this a minute, OK?”
“You’re setting yourself up for hours of work, Harry, not minutes.”
“Let me just try.”
He soon found out what she was talking about, it was indeed a slow and meticulous process. He had to separate out groups of no more than a few strands at a time, but it seemed like they were all connected, no matter where he started it led into somewhere else. He quickly figured out it was best to start at the ends and work up, though every time he moved up a bit the part he’d just done would need redoing on the trip back down. On top of it all, he was keenly conscious that all this hair was attached to somebody, so he had to approach the task using more wits than force. The knack of holding the hair tightly at the top so he could tug at the bottom came instinctively enough, and he started to make some progress.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?”
“No,” she murmured. “Not yet.”
“Well, not ever, I hope. Tell me if I am.”
He was about three quarters up when he encountered the first mat. It was a strange pad of hair under the surface, with wiry ends threaded through, he explored it with his fingers a moment before trying to do anything with the comb.
“Rat’s nest,” she said, voice dull.
“That’s a pleasant name for it,” he said facetiously.
“That’s what my mother called them.”
“Did your mother brush your hair then?” he asked, trying to make conversation as he picked at the edge of the mat with the corner of the comb.
“She didn’t like to,” Hermione said, very quietly.
Harry wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“She pulled,” Hermione added.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I don’t blame her for getting overwhelmed with it, I used to get overwhelmed with it, too. Then I wouldn’t brush it and it would get… well, like this. One time she got so mad she cut it all off. I cried for days.”
Harry smiled a little. “Ah, the home hair cut, I remember it well. Mine always grew out fast, though.”
He couldn’t see Hermione’s smile but he could sense it, hear it in her voice. “Mine, too.” she said.
Harry had to admit that it was a daunting job, it would be easy to slip into roughness, so he took his time, careful when his fingers brushed against the back of her neck, or swept down above her ear to collect the thinner strands that started there.
“Maybe we should just cut it off,” she said suddenly, voice rising as the darkness gathered around them and the crickets began to pitch their songs.
“Maybe you should just be a little more patient,” Harry said calmly.
“Harry, even if you get all the knots out, my hair takes hours to dry without magic!”
“It’s almost dry now,” he pointed out.
“What?” She reached up with both hands and seized two handfuls of hair, squeezing it to gauge for herself. “But… how?”
“Um,” Harry searched his mind for a possible explanation. “It just decided to behave?”
Hermione swiveled around and looked up at him, her dark eyes fixing him with a long stare. “Sometimes I don’t think you do magic, I think you are magic.”
Harry felt his face grow a little warm under the intensity of her focus. “Turn around and let me finish, OK?” he said, touching the comb to her shoulder.
He continued to brush long after the last tangle was gone, just for the pleasure of it, the reward for both of them after the work, the feel of it running through his hands, through the tines of the comb. It still wasn’t entirely cooperative, the comb still snagged even in places he’d been over smoothly three or four times before, but it was tame enough for civilization, as Sprout liked to say about the gardens, and beautiful, besides.
“There,” he said, at last, smoothing it down her back, and drawing the comb away.
“Thank you, Harry.” she said quietly. There was a very earnest note of gratitude in her voice, for not only saving her hair, he suspected, but for being gentle about it.
He started to wave it off or dismiss it as nothing, but finally settled on, “You’re welcome.”
For someone who’d been so difficult to coax over, she didn’t seem to want to leave. “Can I confess to something?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“I forgot to pack a hairbrush.”
Harry gave a short bark of surprised laughter.
“I made so many lists, I brought so much equipment. What kind of person forgets to pack a hairbrush?” she asked in exasperation.
Harry, still chuckling, handed her the comb. “Don’t worry about it, Hermione. You can always borrow mine.”