Contact, G, R/Hr, 1540 words
My entry for vafizziks's Some Like It Het challenge. There was some discussion about hot G-rated het, so I thought I'd try, though I don't know that I succeeded.
Title: Contact
Summary: Hermione and Ron confess to each other, aloud and silently. "'It's just that everything changes,' Hermione says, looking over Ron's shoulder, out at the dark night. 'Most things,' he agrees."
Rating: G
Word Count: 1540
Notes/Warnings: A swerve out of H/G. But I'll swerve back :)
The kitchen of the Burrow is chilly at night, which seems in itself impossible. She has associated, since her first visit here, the Burrow with an inescapable warmth-the kind that permeates your body even when you don't want it to. When she was twelve she thought this house so welcoming, and yet, returning to it now, she can't help but feel disconnected from it.
Even when she arrived today, when the sunlight was streaming through the windows and the house was full of bustle, she didn't know it, didn't feel the same intimacy here as she did so many years ago. The idea of growing away from the one place that was a universal home is strange and incomprehensible, and she has felt slightly off-balance all night since making the discovery. She knows in retrospect that the change has been gradual, has nothing to do with the house but rather with her, with what she has overcome, but it seems nonetheless as though everything shifted overnight. She wants things to be normal here, if they are normal anywhere-next year will be her last at Hogwarts, Voldemort will strike soon, and with Harry so shuttered and Ron so inexplicable, she wants her life to resume its normal course here, at least.
Creak.
Footsteps on the stairs startle her out of her thoughts, and she presses her back up against the wall, fumbling for her wand in the pocket of her dressing gown. She has slept, as they all have, for months with her only defense within easy grasp, but it seems now as though it is taking her ages to pull out her wand.
Thump.
Whoever it is trips over something. A million spells are running through her head, but stupid ones, like Wingardium Leviosa and Alohomora. She hates herself for being off-guard and so unprepared, and for not handling the situation like she should, and-
"Oh bugger! Bugger the stupid bl-"
"Ron?" she asks disbelievingly, stepping out from the shadows. He is hopping on one foot, glaring at an overturned chair, and looks up at her very suddenly.
"Hermione?" he asks, jumping a little. "What are you doing down here?"
"I couldn't sleep." She adds defensively, "You frightened me."
"What? I-oh. Oh, sorry." He seems as though he wants to kick the chair, but he leans down and carefully rights it instead. She recalls a time in which he wouldn't have hesitated-in which his reactions were spur-of-the-moment, and so were hers-but it seems like a very long time since they have felt safe enough not to second-guess their every move.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"Er, living here."
"No," she says, exasperated. "Downstairs."
"Sorry, I didn't know you owned it, I'll go," he responds very sarcastically. She rolls her eyes and he admits, "I heard someone go down the stairs, so I thought I'd-" He nods his head as though she knows the rest. She does.
A silence falls over them, and she wishes it didn't-bickering with him has become like second nature to her, and she likes it because it means she doesn't have to look him in the eye with anything other than annoyance. Over the years, she fears her emotions have become more and more readable, though perhaps it is only that she has come more and more to want them to be obscure. When she was eleven it didn't matter if he knew her thoughts; all they were of were spells and discomforts and jealousies. As she has grown older, her thoughts have metamorphasized accordingly, and there are certain things in her gaze that she wishes she could keep inside.
"So-" she begins.
"Did you see the look on Harry's face today?" he asks very suddenly, cutting her off, words tumbling out of his mouth as though he can't quite contain them.
"What?"
"Harry's face-it was so weird, so horrible-he looked at the Burrow and before he's always had this expression when he visits, like he can't believe how wonderful it is-but now it's like he doesn't even notice-sometimes I reckon he just walks through life waiting to die, and it's all he's got, now-"
"Oh," she replies, feeling sick for not noticing. Taking care of Harry has become so central to their lives, and it feels so awful to not notice something. She feels overpowered by desperation, not only hers but others' as well, for the war to be over, for the world to return to some shadow of its former self.
"I'm so worried about July thirty-first," she admits quietly, almost heedlessly, refusing to guard her words because she is tired-so, so tired of skipping around things with Ron one minute and confessing everything the next-so tired of having to decide whether she will treat him platonically or not. Things have been strange between them the past few months, or possibly years. Their knees have bumped too often underneath the table. They have made excuses to walk to classes together, though they both know they don't need them. And although they should be friends first, it is hard for her to remember that when he is so close every second of the day.
"Worried?" he asks, concerned, pulling her out of her thoughts. "Why?"
"Well-" she says, voice cracking, "-it's-he'll be seventeen, you know? I mean, I know we are already, and it's not a hurdle or anything, but he-do you see? Before it was like people were supposed to protect him, but he'll be a full wizard now, and-this must sound so stupid-"
"I think I understand," he replies slowly.
"I think I just remember what we were like at eleven too well," she says haltingly. "I think I remember when Harry was still amazed at what this world had, and when I had to prove myself so much, and when you were-" she breaks off, not sure how to continue.
"You don't remember me at eleven?" he asks. He's trying to make it a joke but it is clear in his voice that he is genuinely curious.
"No, it's not that," she protests, because it's not: she remembers Ron at eleven very well, exceptionally well, but the ways he's changed are so strange and abstract that she doesn't know how to define them. Even if she could explain, she doesn't know if she would: everything with him is, for her, so entangled in her feelings for him, in what she has kept secret and what she hasn't, and the idea of explaining him to him seems like turning headlights on herself. "It's just that everything changes," she says, looking over his shoulder, out at the dark night.
"Most things," he agrees, and she looks back at him. There is something unexplainable in his gaze, something she's wanted to see for years but hasn't had the courage to look for. She puts a hand to her too-bushy hair and looks down, still not sure whether she wants things to change. The knuckles of her other hand are white from being clenched so tightly; her heartbeat is speeding up but she is pretending not to notice.
"Don't you-"
"Hermione, listen," he says breakingly. She has noticed the contours of his mouth before, and loved them before, but it is always strange to see them so near, in such high definition. "Listen, you're right, things're changing, and I don't want to lose-you know. I think that we both know that we've-we've been weird with each other, lately, and I think we both know why-"
He catches her clenched hand with his and pulls apart her fingers carefully, staring hard at his actions, as though he is afraid he will break her. She is afraid of the same thing, and begins to tremble a little.
Having wanted this for so long, she doesn't know how to take it, and so her voice wavers when she mumbles, "Ron, I'm not sure that-"
"I know, but we're never going to be sure," he says, and she can hear the anxiety in his tone. "And I-there are-"
"Tell me what you're thinking," she blurts out. Unable to wait, she wants him to explain it in words; she knows words, she knows thousands of words, she loves words, and they are so much easier to understand than sidelong glances and careful touches. Here, in the unplumbable depths of the Burrow's shadows, she knows words will make sense in ways that eye contact doesn't.
His thumb is rough with calluses when he presses it to the corner of her palm and runs it across the lines in her hand. Illogically, she thinks every last cell in her skin must be able to feel that insane pressure; her nerves feel oversensitized and more numerous than ever.
"I am thinking," he begins slowly, "about us. I have been, for a while."
Her gaze seems stuck to the motion of his thumb against her hand, so it takes her a minute to catch herself and look up to meet his eyes, and she understands at last what words can and cannot say.
Title: Contact
Summary: Hermione and Ron confess to each other, aloud and silently. "'It's just that everything changes,' Hermione says, looking over Ron's shoulder, out at the dark night. 'Most things,' he agrees."
Rating: G
Word Count: 1540
Notes/Warnings: A swerve out of H/G. But I'll swerve back :)
The kitchen of the Burrow is chilly at night, which seems in itself impossible. She has associated, since her first visit here, the Burrow with an inescapable warmth-the kind that permeates your body even when you don't want it to. When she was twelve she thought this house so welcoming, and yet, returning to it now, she can't help but feel disconnected from it.
Even when she arrived today, when the sunlight was streaming through the windows and the house was full of bustle, she didn't know it, didn't feel the same intimacy here as she did so many years ago. The idea of growing away from the one place that was a universal home is strange and incomprehensible, and she has felt slightly off-balance all night since making the discovery. She knows in retrospect that the change has been gradual, has nothing to do with the house but rather with her, with what she has overcome, but it seems nonetheless as though everything shifted overnight. She wants things to be normal here, if they are normal anywhere-next year will be her last at Hogwarts, Voldemort will strike soon, and with Harry so shuttered and Ron so inexplicable, she wants her life to resume its normal course here, at least.
Creak.
Footsteps on the stairs startle her out of her thoughts, and she presses her back up against the wall, fumbling for her wand in the pocket of her dressing gown. She has slept, as they all have, for months with her only defense within easy grasp, but it seems now as though it is taking her ages to pull out her wand.
Thump.
Whoever it is trips over something. A million spells are running through her head, but stupid ones, like Wingardium Leviosa and Alohomora. She hates herself for being off-guard and so unprepared, and for not handling the situation like she should, and-
"Oh bugger! Bugger the stupid bl-"
"Ron?" she asks disbelievingly, stepping out from the shadows. He is hopping on one foot, glaring at an overturned chair, and looks up at her very suddenly.
"Hermione?" he asks, jumping a little. "What are you doing down here?"
"I couldn't sleep." She adds defensively, "You frightened me."
"What? I-oh. Oh, sorry." He seems as though he wants to kick the chair, but he leans down and carefully rights it instead. She recalls a time in which he wouldn't have hesitated-in which his reactions were spur-of-the-moment, and so were hers-but it seems like a very long time since they have felt safe enough not to second-guess their every move.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"Er, living here."
"No," she says, exasperated. "Downstairs."
"Sorry, I didn't know you owned it, I'll go," he responds very sarcastically. She rolls her eyes and he admits, "I heard someone go down the stairs, so I thought I'd-" He nods his head as though she knows the rest. She does.
A silence falls over them, and she wishes it didn't-bickering with him has become like second nature to her, and she likes it because it means she doesn't have to look him in the eye with anything other than annoyance. Over the years, she fears her emotions have become more and more readable, though perhaps it is only that she has come more and more to want them to be obscure. When she was eleven it didn't matter if he knew her thoughts; all they were of were spells and discomforts and jealousies. As she has grown older, her thoughts have metamorphasized accordingly, and there are certain things in her gaze that she wishes she could keep inside.
"So-" she begins.
"Did you see the look on Harry's face today?" he asks very suddenly, cutting her off, words tumbling out of his mouth as though he can't quite contain them.
"What?"
"Harry's face-it was so weird, so horrible-he looked at the Burrow and before he's always had this expression when he visits, like he can't believe how wonderful it is-but now it's like he doesn't even notice-sometimes I reckon he just walks through life waiting to die, and it's all he's got, now-"
"Oh," she replies, feeling sick for not noticing. Taking care of Harry has become so central to their lives, and it feels so awful to not notice something. She feels overpowered by desperation, not only hers but others' as well, for the war to be over, for the world to return to some shadow of its former self.
"I'm so worried about July thirty-first," she admits quietly, almost heedlessly, refusing to guard her words because she is tired-so, so tired of skipping around things with Ron one minute and confessing everything the next-so tired of having to decide whether she will treat him platonically or not. Things have been strange between them the past few months, or possibly years. Their knees have bumped too often underneath the table. They have made excuses to walk to classes together, though they both know they don't need them. And although they should be friends first, it is hard for her to remember that when he is so close every second of the day.
"Worried?" he asks, concerned, pulling her out of her thoughts. "Why?"
"Well-" she says, voice cracking, "-it's-he'll be seventeen, you know? I mean, I know we are already, and it's not a hurdle or anything, but he-do you see? Before it was like people were supposed to protect him, but he'll be a full wizard now, and-this must sound so stupid-"
"I think I understand," he replies slowly.
"I think I just remember what we were like at eleven too well," she says haltingly. "I think I remember when Harry was still amazed at what this world had, and when I had to prove myself so much, and when you were-" she breaks off, not sure how to continue.
"You don't remember me at eleven?" he asks. He's trying to make it a joke but it is clear in his voice that he is genuinely curious.
"No, it's not that," she protests, because it's not: she remembers Ron at eleven very well, exceptionally well, but the ways he's changed are so strange and abstract that she doesn't know how to define them. Even if she could explain, she doesn't know if she would: everything with him is, for her, so entangled in her feelings for him, in what she has kept secret and what she hasn't, and the idea of explaining him to him seems like turning headlights on herself. "It's just that everything changes," she says, looking over his shoulder, out at the dark night.
"Most things," he agrees, and she looks back at him. There is something unexplainable in his gaze, something she's wanted to see for years but hasn't had the courage to look for. She puts a hand to her too-bushy hair and looks down, still not sure whether she wants things to change. The knuckles of her other hand are white from being clenched so tightly; her heartbeat is speeding up but she is pretending not to notice.
"Don't you-"
"Hermione, listen," he says breakingly. She has noticed the contours of his mouth before, and loved them before, but it is always strange to see them so near, in such high definition. "Listen, you're right, things're changing, and I don't want to lose-you know. I think that we both know that we've-we've been weird with each other, lately, and I think we both know why-"
He catches her clenched hand with his and pulls apart her fingers carefully, staring hard at his actions, as though he is afraid he will break her. She is afraid of the same thing, and begins to tremble a little.
Having wanted this for so long, she doesn't know how to take it, and so her voice wavers when she mumbles, "Ron, I'm not sure that-"
"I know, but we're never going to be sure," he says, and she can hear the anxiety in his tone. "And I-there are-"
"Tell me what you're thinking," she blurts out. Unable to wait, she wants him to explain it in words; she knows words, she knows thousands of words, she loves words, and they are so much easier to understand than sidelong glances and careful touches. Here, in the unplumbable depths of the Burrow's shadows, she knows words will make sense in ways that eye contact doesn't.
His thumb is rough with calluses when he presses it to the corner of her palm and runs it across the lines in her hand. Illogically, she thinks every last cell in her skin must be able to feel that insane pressure; her nerves feel oversensitized and more numerous than ever.
"I am thinking," he begins slowly, "about us. I have been, for a while."
Her gaze seems stuck to the motion of his thumb against her hand, so it takes her a minute to catch herself and look up to meet his eyes, and she understands at last what words can and cannot say.