H/G, PG, The Seasons
V'la. I do not know how much you guys will like this; I wrote parts of it last night and finished it this evening, so. But I am really proud of it.
Feedback very appreciated.
Title: The Seasons
Summary: "He learned of a thousand things the summer he turned seventeen, none of which were obtainable, or even nearly so."
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,332
Notes/Warnings: Harry/Ginny (what a shock!)
He learned of a thousand things the summer he turned seventeen, none of which were obtainable, or even nearly so. But the stifling heat of the August sun compressed his brain and made boundaries hazy, and the clear blue sky stretched forever and he felt limitless, and so it was that he kissed her, for the first time, and possibly the last.
It was nothing to write home about, if he had had a home. It was over quickly, and very shocking, and all he remembered was a wet pressure against his mouth and the smell of her sweat from playing Quidditch. Nevertheless he clung to it, not knowing whether it had really happened or was just a memory, and thought of it lying twisted in his sheets at night, and built a wall around it, keeping it separate from fear.
She never mentioned it again, and neither did he, because there were some things that didn't need mentioning. He saw the look in her eyes; she must have seen the same look in his; and yet, despite her acres of freckles and her sunny smile, he knew that there was nothing there that he could hold. Being with her would take bravery; he was tired of being brave.
The shadows shifted steadily as the sun moved overhead, like a machine, in the long and useless days. There were sharp bursts of laughter puncturing the heavy atmosphere of dread, but they grew more infrequent as time pressed on. On the horizon he knew the thunder of war must be creeping closer, rolling over the hills with thick clouds the color of charcoal, but he pretended not to hear.
*
The torches in the corridors seemed dimmed somehow, when he returned; the shadows played menacingly off the walls and all he could think about was the future, or lack thereof. He moved from room to room as if in a trance. Person after person tried to talk. Their lips moved but he could understand nothing that came from their mouths. He wanted desperately to care, but wanted more desperately not to. He spoke and laughed but could not understand why.
She grabbed him by the hand one sunny day, and pulled him into the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where the leaves were green and gold and brown. It felt as though he was in a vacuum, so that when she whispered Here and placed his hand on her ribcage, just below her breast, it seemed as though she were yelling.
I don't expect anything, she said, and he knew what she meant, but it was an exhilarating feeling, having someone say that to him. Expectations weighed him down; he didn't know how he could be so many things. She said it again, more softly, and so he kissed her again, and for a long while he thought about nothing but the feel of her body pressed up against his.
When they began to walk back to the castle, looking at each other and not at each other, and she wiped her mouth on her sleeve but did not blush, he noticed that her hair was the same color as the leaves of the maple trees, and he felt as though he had been missing something for a very long time and only just found out what it was.
*
Winter was everything. It was the attack, from the inside out, as he had thought it might be. It was snow covering the bodies of those who had tried to escape by way of the lake and had only met with Bellatrix Black and her followers. It was pain but also an unbearable ache, splitting out a hole deep inside of him, at the thought of the blood stilled in the veins of the dead.
There were so many he didn't remember all their names, and was afraid he didn't want to. He was selfish and stupid-he knew he had to be, because half the time that he was dragging himself from wand to wand, he thought only of himself, and the other half he thought only of people he couldn't live without.
She found him out in the snow a few days after You-Know-Who had disappeared, for good (or was it for good? He worried he would never know, would always check over his shoulder, and didn't know if he could cope with that for the rest of his life). He was not wearing his cloak, and when she came she brought it out.
He looked at her warily, and felt too old and too young for his body all at once-awkward in it, and yet resigned to the awkwardness, knowing it didn't matter. He possibly said something, or possibly he did not; he didn't remember; it was too quiet to think.
She said his name quietly, and then again, more forcefully, and he looked at her, finally, because there was nothing else to do. Her hair was in braids. Her face and neck were bruised. He didn't know his own mind.
Start talking again, she said.
I do talk, he answered sharply. She focused her gaze on something behind him. He could tell by the flush of her face that she was upset.
Speaking isn't the same as talking, she replied.
He wanted, desperately, to kiss her, and he also didn't. Her skin seemed pale, against the snowy backdrop, but her cheeks were red from cold and embarrassment and anger. He thought maybe he could never touch her, didn't know how to run his fingers along the underside of her arm without contaminating her with these hates, these murders, that boiled up inside him.
She must have known what he was thinking, because she said levelly, looking him straight in the eye, I killed too.
And he knew this, logically, factually, but he knew also that there was something different between the two of them. There was some base emotion welling inside his chest cavity that she could never imagine, could never come close to touching.
Stop thinking you're something you're not, she said, and then, even more angrily, Stop thinking I'm something I'm not. She turned and walked away, and he felt miserable inside, because he had thought the same thing so many times.
*
The ache of death in him did not disappear, but nor did it intensify. They returned to the Burrow, where there were no shadows of death, where there was warm apple pie to assuage their fears. He learned some things, and forgot some, and so the cold months wore on.
The day the first crocus bloomed, he saw her out in the backyard, gazing at the blue flower. He went out, gangly and young, and tried to be quiet on the cobbled path, but failed. When he approached her, he could see she was smiling a little.
It's the first crocus of the year, she said.
I know, he replied, even though he didn't.
It's the most beautiful flower I've ever seen, she sobbed. She stood there clutching herself, and he knew she didn't want to have to cry into his shoulder, so he waited awkwardly until her tears subsided, then began to lean down to pick it.
No! she cried, and he jerked upwards. Seeing the look of shock on his face, she gave him a small, awkward smile of apology, and said, I want to let it live. It's the first one this year.
He understood, and so he was silent for a long time, until he finally told her, unbearably sad and not knowing why, I'd pick it for you. I would.
She said, I know, and then, again, I know, as she reached for his hand, linking loosely her fingers in his. And so they stood there, barely touching, six inches apart, for a long time, until her lips were the color of the budding crocus and the sun slid over the horizon.
Feedback very appreciated.
Title: The Seasons
Summary: "He learned of a thousand things the summer he turned seventeen, none of which were obtainable, or even nearly so."
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,332
Notes/Warnings: Harry/Ginny (what a shock!)
He learned of a thousand things the summer he turned seventeen, none of which were obtainable, or even nearly so. But the stifling heat of the August sun compressed his brain and made boundaries hazy, and the clear blue sky stretched forever and he felt limitless, and so it was that he kissed her, for the first time, and possibly the last.
It was nothing to write home about, if he had had a home. It was over quickly, and very shocking, and all he remembered was a wet pressure against his mouth and the smell of her sweat from playing Quidditch. Nevertheless he clung to it, not knowing whether it had really happened or was just a memory, and thought of it lying twisted in his sheets at night, and built a wall around it, keeping it separate from fear.
She never mentioned it again, and neither did he, because there were some things that didn't need mentioning. He saw the look in her eyes; she must have seen the same look in his; and yet, despite her acres of freckles and her sunny smile, he knew that there was nothing there that he could hold. Being with her would take bravery; he was tired of being brave.
The shadows shifted steadily as the sun moved overhead, like a machine, in the long and useless days. There were sharp bursts of laughter puncturing the heavy atmosphere of dread, but they grew more infrequent as time pressed on. On the horizon he knew the thunder of war must be creeping closer, rolling over the hills with thick clouds the color of charcoal, but he pretended not to hear.
*
The torches in the corridors seemed dimmed somehow, when he returned; the shadows played menacingly off the walls and all he could think about was the future, or lack thereof. He moved from room to room as if in a trance. Person after person tried to talk. Their lips moved but he could understand nothing that came from their mouths. He wanted desperately to care, but wanted more desperately not to. He spoke and laughed but could not understand why.
She grabbed him by the hand one sunny day, and pulled him into the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where the leaves were green and gold and brown. It felt as though he was in a vacuum, so that when she whispered Here and placed his hand on her ribcage, just below her breast, it seemed as though she were yelling.
I don't expect anything, she said, and he knew what she meant, but it was an exhilarating feeling, having someone say that to him. Expectations weighed him down; he didn't know how he could be so many things. She said it again, more softly, and so he kissed her again, and for a long while he thought about nothing but the feel of her body pressed up against his.
When they began to walk back to the castle, looking at each other and not at each other, and she wiped her mouth on her sleeve but did not blush, he noticed that her hair was the same color as the leaves of the maple trees, and he felt as though he had been missing something for a very long time and only just found out what it was.
*
Winter was everything. It was the attack, from the inside out, as he had thought it might be. It was snow covering the bodies of those who had tried to escape by way of the lake and had only met with Bellatrix Black and her followers. It was pain but also an unbearable ache, splitting out a hole deep inside of him, at the thought of the blood stilled in the veins of the dead.
There were so many he didn't remember all their names, and was afraid he didn't want to. He was selfish and stupid-he knew he had to be, because half the time that he was dragging himself from wand to wand, he thought only of himself, and the other half he thought only of people he couldn't live without.
She found him out in the snow a few days after You-Know-Who had disappeared, for good (or was it for good? He worried he would never know, would always check over his shoulder, and didn't know if he could cope with that for the rest of his life). He was not wearing his cloak, and when she came she brought it out.
He looked at her warily, and felt too old and too young for his body all at once-awkward in it, and yet resigned to the awkwardness, knowing it didn't matter. He possibly said something, or possibly he did not; he didn't remember; it was too quiet to think.
She said his name quietly, and then again, more forcefully, and he looked at her, finally, because there was nothing else to do. Her hair was in braids. Her face and neck were bruised. He didn't know his own mind.
Start talking again, she said.
I do talk, he answered sharply. She focused her gaze on something behind him. He could tell by the flush of her face that she was upset.
Speaking isn't the same as talking, she replied.
He wanted, desperately, to kiss her, and he also didn't. Her skin seemed pale, against the snowy backdrop, but her cheeks were red from cold and embarrassment and anger. He thought maybe he could never touch her, didn't know how to run his fingers along the underside of her arm without contaminating her with these hates, these murders, that boiled up inside him.
She must have known what he was thinking, because she said levelly, looking him straight in the eye, I killed too.
And he knew this, logically, factually, but he knew also that there was something different between the two of them. There was some base emotion welling inside his chest cavity that she could never imagine, could never come close to touching.
Stop thinking you're something you're not, she said, and then, even more angrily, Stop thinking I'm something I'm not. She turned and walked away, and he felt miserable inside, because he had thought the same thing so many times.
*
The ache of death in him did not disappear, but nor did it intensify. They returned to the Burrow, where there were no shadows of death, where there was warm apple pie to assuage their fears. He learned some things, and forgot some, and so the cold months wore on.
The day the first crocus bloomed, he saw her out in the backyard, gazing at the blue flower. He went out, gangly and young, and tried to be quiet on the cobbled path, but failed. When he approached her, he could see she was smiling a little.
It's the first crocus of the year, she said.
I know, he replied, even though he didn't.
It's the most beautiful flower I've ever seen, she sobbed. She stood there clutching herself, and he knew she didn't want to have to cry into his shoulder, so he waited awkwardly until her tears subsided, then began to lean down to pick it.
No! she cried, and he jerked upwards. Seeing the look of shock on his face, she gave him a small, awkward smile of apology, and said, I want to let it live. It's the first one this year.
He understood, and so he was silent for a long time, until he finally told her, unbearably sad and not knowing why, I'd pick it for you. I would.
She said, I know, and then, again, I know, as she reached for his hand, linking loosely her fingers in his. And so they stood there, barely touching, six inches apart, for a long time, until her lips were the color of the budding crocus and the sun slid over the horizon.