"it goes without saying" Ron/Hermione, PG13
Title: it goes without saying
Ship: Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG-13 for dark elements, etc.
Word Count: 1430
Summary: Ron has lost count of the days.
It is probably February, but Ron has lost count of the days and Hermione has lost the leather-bound book in which she had crossed the days off. Even so, Ron can tell it is February by its cold: a sharper, heavier cold than in December or January-and in caves, dark ones in mountains with names Ron cannot pronounce (lost in a country that might be Ireland) the fireglow doesn’t reach as far as the darkness does.
Harry places more kindling in the fire and pulls a blanket around his shoulders, his face still and stoic even as shadows and firelight dance on it. He looks hollow and noble, but if asked, would say he only feels cold, and a little bit hungry.
"My birthday’s next month," Ron says, more to himself than to anyone else, and then there is the sound of rustling and Hermione has turned to face him. She looks strange with her face hidden behind the fur trim of her coat’s hood.
"Maybe we can find a cake somewhere," Hermione suggests, and it is the first hopeful thing she has said in quite some time. "We can find candles, too. I just wonder what day it is," she adds.
"Maybe it’s Valentine’s Day," Ron offers as Harry lies down. "I bet Cho’s sitting at home devastated. Lavender, too," he says with a snort.
Hermione bites her lip. She is afraid that girls at home with broken hearts might be a sore subject, but Harry chuckles and for a blissful moment, three laughs echo and ricochet across the jagged mouths of caves and edges of cliffs.
--
"Where do we go after this?" Ron asks.
Harry stops in his tracks, his hands in his pockets. He is silent for a few moments, and Ron doesn't think he will answer.
"I'm not sure," he says carefully, raising a hand to run through his hair. He stops and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose instead.
"Harry! Ron!" Hermione calls, her voice thin and small, stretched across a distance.
"We should go back," remarks Harry, but he is unmoving and still looking at Ron. Harry has shadows under his eyes and purpling bruises are blossoming near his cut and bleeding lips. There are always moments like these that make Ron feel very young and almost unwanted, and they always seem to occur around sunset when everything is still and Ron can really see Harry. He probably always looks this way, Ron thinks. He just looks older in the shadows.
"Want to race back?" Ron jokes, almost ready to start sprinting down the path.
Harry smiles, but he doesn't run.
--
"I hope you don’t mind that it’s mint," Hermione says, "and we haven’t any plates, so it’s going to be rather difficult to eat-you’re just lucky I found that mint leaf." Hermione smiles, her hair falling out of her clumsy updo.
The forest is quiet and all the trees seem to bend away so as not to intrude in this small celebration.
"Are there any candles?" Harry asks, leaning against a wet tree stump and carving designs in a piece of damp wood.
"I don’t care." Ron grins. "This is the best cupcake I’ve ever seen."
Even though it tastes vaguely of toothpaste.
--
CONDEMNED
The sign is hanging on a gate overgrown with weeds and covered in rust. Harry, Ron, and Hermione form a semi-circle around it and stare, as if staring could rebuild buildings and mend past wounds.
"Dammit!" Harry yells, his voice breaking and sending birds scattering towards bent powerlines and the skyline. He tears the sign down and it breaks easily into his hands. He drops it as if it is some dirty, tainted thing. A condemned thing.
"Are you going in?"
But Harry has kicked down the gate even before Hermione has time to finish her question, and he is walking towards the ruins with his head down. Ron is poised to follow.
"Don’t," Hermione demands through gritted teeth.
"We’re just going to let him go in alone then, are we?"
"We have to. We can’t go in."
"Hermione, we’re his best friends!" Ron snaps in an angry whisper. He shakes her hand off of his arm.
"This is a part of Harry that we can’t know. This is his past. If he wanted us to go with him, he would have told us to come. These-these are things he doesn’t know about himself." She looks tired and weak, the circles beneath her eyes gray and dark. (He wants to hold her and tell her that she should sleep or go home, but she never will.)
Ron and Hermione hold their hands over their heads to keep the rain from soaking their faces, and when Harry returns they are chilled to the marrow and Hermione is biting her swollen, blue lips, staring at the slate gray sky with eyes as blank as a Greek statue.
Harry falls to his knees and cries, his shoulders trembling as he sobs. (Yells; tears at the ground.) Hermione falls as well, wraps her arms around Harry and tries to quiet him. The two of them are completely still, and Hermione’s hair becomes dark with rain.
Ron shoves his hands in his pockets and closes his eyes, shifting his weight from one leg to another. Harry eventually dries his eyes and stands, waving for Ron and Hermione to follow him as he moves on. Harry doesn’t divulge what happened in the ruins of his home, and it never occurs to Ron to ask.
It goes without saying that Harry will tell them in time.
--
Hermione is slouched against the wall, and reflected in her eyes like moonlight is humiliation. She has been reduced to dullness and her skin is a shade of gray that fades to white near her tight, pale lips. Her breasts lay exposed; they hang and swing as she hunches over, staring at the moss-covered floor. Ron has never seen her without clothing before, but now it seems incredibly wrong, less sacred than all of the ways he had dreamed of her (lilac summer sky strewn with stars, sultry Hermione batting brown eyes).
"They gave me something," she says thickly.
"Huh?"
"A potion, Ron, a potion," and it’s almost like she is trying to yell but her voice is too weak and too hoarse. She closes her eyes and sucks in a rattling breath, trying to push herself up.
"Let me help," Ron offers dumbly, pulling her carefully from the wall and laying her on her side.
They are quiet for hours, Hermione’s breathing shaking and irregular. She has fallen asleep, Ron realizes, and when he turns he sees the gaunt face of Luna Lovegood staring back at him through the bars. Her face is dark and unmoving and with a jolt in his stomach, Ron sees she has died.
--
The liquid is cold and Ron drinks every bit of it unthinkingly, his dusty throat welcoming the wetness. He sleeps, and he dreams of Hermione. She is running and it is summer. Sun in her eyes. Sun in her hair.
--
It is in the dark violet hours closest to dawn when Hermione wakes. She has slept for days, languid sleep punctuated occasionally by moments of fitful consciousness spent crying and fearing things (like loss and pain and death).
"Hermione?" Ron begins tentatively, edging towards her with his hand out in front of him. "Hermione? It’s dark, are you here? I can’t see you."
The first few slanted lines of morning slide across Hermione’s face.
"It’s morning," she declares, as if morning is some foreign concept only dreamed of. Her voice unfolds from sleep; grows louder.
"It’s morning," Ron echoes dully.
But he isn’t sure.
--
Ron stumbles to the ground and skins his knee, crawling on all fours. He can hear Hermione’s sharp breathing loud near his face and he stares in the direction of where he thinks the window is.
"Feel, Ron. I want," Hermione begins abruptly, as if she were continuing a conversation. "I want you to feel."
Hermione’s skin is soft and moist with sweat. Her heart is quick beneath Ron’s fingers.
--
They lay, Ron holding Hermione’s limp form in his arms. He whispers to her, telling her that he thinks that things are beginning to look better and it hasn’t rained in days and won’t she eat something?
"I think I might die, Ron," she says, and then they are completely silent.
A door opens. Shadows tremble on the floor and on the walls.
fin
Ship: Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG-13 for dark elements, etc.
Word Count: 1430
Summary: Ron has lost count of the days.
It is probably February, but Ron has lost count of the days and Hermione has lost the leather-bound book in which she had crossed the days off. Even so, Ron can tell it is February by its cold: a sharper, heavier cold than in December or January-and in caves, dark ones in mountains with names Ron cannot pronounce (lost in a country that might be Ireland) the fireglow doesn’t reach as far as the darkness does.
Harry places more kindling in the fire and pulls a blanket around his shoulders, his face still and stoic even as shadows and firelight dance on it. He looks hollow and noble, but if asked, would say he only feels cold, and a little bit hungry.
"My birthday’s next month," Ron says, more to himself than to anyone else, and then there is the sound of rustling and Hermione has turned to face him. She looks strange with her face hidden behind the fur trim of her coat’s hood.
"Maybe we can find a cake somewhere," Hermione suggests, and it is the first hopeful thing she has said in quite some time. "We can find candles, too. I just wonder what day it is," she adds.
"Maybe it’s Valentine’s Day," Ron offers as Harry lies down. "I bet Cho’s sitting at home devastated. Lavender, too," he says with a snort.
Hermione bites her lip. She is afraid that girls at home with broken hearts might be a sore subject, but Harry chuckles and for a blissful moment, three laughs echo and ricochet across the jagged mouths of caves and edges of cliffs.
--
"Where do we go after this?" Ron asks.
Harry stops in his tracks, his hands in his pockets. He is silent for a few moments, and Ron doesn't think he will answer.
"I'm not sure," he says carefully, raising a hand to run through his hair. He stops and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose instead.
"Harry! Ron!" Hermione calls, her voice thin and small, stretched across a distance.
"We should go back," remarks Harry, but he is unmoving and still looking at Ron. Harry has shadows under his eyes and purpling bruises are blossoming near his cut and bleeding lips. There are always moments like these that make Ron feel very young and almost unwanted, and they always seem to occur around sunset when everything is still and Ron can really see Harry. He probably always looks this way, Ron thinks. He just looks older in the shadows.
"Want to race back?" Ron jokes, almost ready to start sprinting down the path.
Harry smiles, but he doesn't run.
--
"I hope you don’t mind that it’s mint," Hermione says, "and we haven’t any plates, so it’s going to be rather difficult to eat-you’re just lucky I found that mint leaf." Hermione smiles, her hair falling out of her clumsy updo.
The forest is quiet and all the trees seem to bend away so as not to intrude in this small celebration.
"Are there any candles?" Harry asks, leaning against a wet tree stump and carving designs in a piece of damp wood.
"I don’t care." Ron grins. "This is the best cupcake I’ve ever seen."
Even though it tastes vaguely of toothpaste.
--
CONDEMNED
The sign is hanging on a gate overgrown with weeds and covered in rust. Harry, Ron, and Hermione form a semi-circle around it and stare, as if staring could rebuild buildings and mend past wounds.
"Dammit!" Harry yells, his voice breaking and sending birds scattering towards bent powerlines and the skyline. He tears the sign down and it breaks easily into his hands. He drops it as if it is some dirty, tainted thing. A condemned thing.
"Are you going in?"
But Harry has kicked down the gate even before Hermione has time to finish her question, and he is walking towards the ruins with his head down. Ron is poised to follow.
"Don’t," Hermione demands through gritted teeth.
"We’re just going to let him go in alone then, are we?"
"We have to. We can’t go in."
"Hermione, we’re his best friends!" Ron snaps in an angry whisper. He shakes her hand off of his arm.
"This is a part of Harry that we can’t know. This is his past. If he wanted us to go with him, he would have told us to come. These-these are things he doesn’t know about himself." She looks tired and weak, the circles beneath her eyes gray and dark. (He wants to hold her and tell her that she should sleep or go home, but she never will.)
Ron and Hermione hold their hands over their heads to keep the rain from soaking their faces, and when Harry returns they are chilled to the marrow and Hermione is biting her swollen, blue lips, staring at the slate gray sky with eyes as blank as a Greek statue.
Harry falls to his knees and cries, his shoulders trembling as he sobs. (Yells; tears at the ground.) Hermione falls as well, wraps her arms around Harry and tries to quiet him. The two of them are completely still, and Hermione’s hair becomes dark with rain.
Ron shoves his hands in his pockets and closes his eyes, shifting his weight from one leg to another. Harry eventually dries his eyes and stands, waving for Ron and Hermione to follow him as he moves on. Harry doesn’t divulge what happened in the ruins of his home, and it never occurs to Ron to ask.
It goes without saying that Harry will tell them in time.
--
Hermione is slouched against the wall, and reflected in her eyes like moonlight is humiliation. She has been reduced to dullness and her skin is a shade of gray that fades to white near her tight, pale lips. Her breasts lay exposed; they hang and swing as she hunches over, staring at the moss-covered floor. Ron has never seen her without clothing before, but now it seems incredibly wrong, less sacred than all of the ways he had dreamed of her (lilac summer sky strewn with stars, sultry Hermione batting brown eyes).
"They gave me something," she says thickly.
"Huh?"
"A potion, Ron, a potion," and it’s almost like she is trying to yell but her voice is too weak and too hoarse. She closes her eyes and sucks in a rattling breath, trying to push herself up.
"Let me help," Ron offers dumbly, pulling her carefully from the wall and laying her on her side.
They are quiet for hours, Hermione’s breathing shaking and irregular. She has fallen asleep, Ron realizes, and when he turns he sees the gaunt face of Luna Lovegood staring back at him through the bars. Her face is dark and unmoving and with a jolt in his stomach, Ron sees she has died.
--
The liquid is cold and Ron drinks every bit of it unthinkingly, his dusty throat welcoming the wetness. He sleeps, and he dreams of Hermione. She is running and it is summer. Sun in her eyes. Sun in her hair.
--
It is in the dark violet hours closest to dawn when Hermione wakes. She has slept for days, languid sleep punctuated occasionally by moments of fitful consciousness spent crying and fearing things (like loss and pain and death).
"Hermione?" Ron begins tentatively, edging towards her with his hand out in front of him. "Hermione? It’s dark, are you here? I can’t see you."
The first few slanted lines of morning slide across Hermione’s face.
"It’s morning," she declares, as if morning is some foreign concept only dreamed of. Her voice unfolds from sleep; grows louder.
"It’s morning," Ron echoes dully.
But he isn’t sure.
--
Ron stumbles to the ground and skins his knee, crawling on all fours. He can hear Hermione’s sharp breathing loud near his face and he stares in the direction of where he thinks the window is.
"Feel, Ron. I want," Hermione begins abruptly, as if she were continuing a conversation. "I want you to feel."
Hermione’s skin is soft and moist with sweat. Her heart is quick beneath Ron’s fingers.
--
They lay, Ron holding Hermione’s limp form in his arms. He whispers to her, telling her that he thinks that things are beginning to look better and it hasn’t rained in days and won’t she eat something?
"I think I might die, Ron," she says, and then they are completely silent.
A door opens. Shadows tremble on the floor and on the walls.
fin