Sometimes
Title: Sometimes
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Word Count: 477
Characters: Harry, Ginny
Pairings: Harry/Ginny
Warning: Spoilers for Deathly Hallows.
Summary: Drabble, post-war reflections.
Sometimes she doesn’t believe he’s real, really there, really here with her.
Sometimes she thinks she’s made it all up, dreamt it and will wake up without him beside her, back in the Burrow in that terrible time when love was dangerous and Harry was so very far away.
That’s around the time she opens her eyes, turns over and looks at him. There’s new scars now; a slice in the jaw, a collarbone bumpy from its latest shattering. His right earlobe is missing in a very Van Gogh kind a way, a somehow tribute to George. But it’s the only ones that get her; the slice from Pettigrew’s knife, Umbridge's words written in his own punctual hand, a block of white where the skin had been sliced off by Hermione’s magic to save him.
Oh, to save him. She doesn’t even count the lightning bolt upon his head though it seems most prominent of all. It’s become as much a part of him as his slight nose or soft snore.
It’s comforting to see him, to feel him, his warmth beside her. She feels the uncontrollable need to touch him, to trace him even though she knows his body as well as her own.
Then he moves, twitches, eyebrows furrow and lips part harshly. That’s when she gives in, slips a hand on to his shoulder or spread palm across the middle of his chest over the scar, over his heart, steadying him.
Then he opens his eyes.
What seemed so simple before, black hair against pale sheets and skin, ink blots on the moon’s face, seems even more stark now with the green of his eyes, a source of light on their own, bright and soft and strong. They look up, around, find hers. They watch her watch him.
And in that moment there is no one else.
+
Sometimes he’s afraid. He’s afraid his wife, his children are in danger, afraid someone will get hurt or taken away where he could not follow, save.
Harry doesn’t mind the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s just scared it might fall to someone else.
Sometimes he doubts his decisions, the paths he’s followed and new one’s he’s made. Sometimes he wonders what if, what if, what if she had it, what if he had survived. What could he have done, not do?
Ghosts are everywhere, in his mind and out.
Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night to see Ginny, sweet and soft, curled up like a small child sleeping, but nine times out of ten she’s there, watching over him, an angel of another kind, dusty auburn hair falling over her creamy complection, a perfect silhouette.
That’s when he reaches up, just to touch her, just to make sure she’s real.
She smiles. He smiles. And there is no one else.
Mood:
tired
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Word Count: 477
Characters: Harry, Ginny
Pairings: Harry/Ginny
Warning: Spoilers for Deathly Hallows.
Summary: Drabble, post-war reflections.
Sometimes she doesn’t believe he’s real, really there, really here with her.
Sometimes she thinks she’s made it all up, dreamt it and will wake up without him beside her, back in the Burrow in that terrible time when love was dangerous and Harry was so very far away.
That’s around the time she opens her eyes, turns over and looks at him. There’s new scars now; a slice in the jaw, a collarbone bumpy from its latest shattering. His right earlobe is missing in a very Van Gogh kind a way, a somehow tribute to George. But it’s the only ones that get her; the slice from Pettigrew’s knife, Umbridge's words written in his own punctual hand, a block of white where the skin had been sliced off by Hermione’s magic to save him.
Oh, to save him. She doesn’t even count the lightning bolt upon his head though it seems most prominent of all. It’s become as much a part of him as his slight nose or soft snore.
It’s comforting to see him, to feel him, his warmth beside her. She feels the uncontrollable need to touch him, to trace him even though she knows his body as well as her own.
Then he moves, twitches, eyebrows furrow and lips part harshly. That’s when she gives in, slips a hand on to his shoulder or spread palm across the middle of his chest over the scar, over his heart, steadying him.
Then he opens his eyes.
What seemed so simple before, black hair against pale sheets and skin, ink blots on the moon’s face, seems even more stark now with the green of his eyes, a source of light on their own, bright and soft and strong. They look up, around, find hers. They watch her watch him.
And in that moment there is no one else.
+
Sometimes he’s afraid. He’s afraid his wife, his children are in danger, afraid someone will get hurt or taken away where he could not follow, save.
Harry doesn’t mind the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s just scared it might fall to someone else.
Sometimes he doubts his decisions, the paths he’s followed and new one’s he’s made. Sometimes he wonders what if, what if, what if she had it, what if he had survived. What could he have done, not do?
Ghosts are everywhere, in his mind and out.
Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night to see Ginny, sweet and soft, curled up like a small child sleeping, but nine times out of ten she’s there, watching over him, an angel of another kind, dusty auburn hair falling over her creamy complection, a perfect silhouette.
That’s when he reaches up, just to touch her, just to make sure she’s real.
She smiles. He smiles. And there is no one else.
Mood:
tired