(no subject)
Ficathon Assignment
LJ User: soapbox_queen
Title: Seven Years, Three Nights
Ship: H/Hr (Obviously)
It's three nights after his departure that she slides in next to you,
tangles her fingers with you and pulls more of the blankets towards
her. Her head is warm on your back and her breath is just ragged enough
to reveal that she's been crying.
Frankly, you're shocked. She hasn't done this since fifth year, since
Umbridge and Dumbledore's Army. You remember the night of Sirius's
death, the creeping feeling that his wouldn't be the last, and it's
intertwined with the smell of her shampoo. In your world, this makes
perfect sense; to anyone else, you'd seem mad. You've never fit well
under the description of "ordinary".
Her skin is rough, almost rough as yours. She claimed she never cared
about such things, always said her studies were more important. For a
time you believed her. All facades eventually drop, though, and by
fifth year you saw the truth: she cared. She cared quite a lot.
Your memory of that time is, you admit, selective. You've tried to
block out Cho and Umbridge and her horrid detentions. You try to focus
on the good: on Dumbledore's Army, and Sirius, and, of course, her. You
think of the soak she made you for your hands when you came back with
penance etched in blood and of her lie of her lifetime (and yours) in
the forrest that horrible night. You could have kissed her there, in
the middle of the forest surrounded by giants, and centaurs, and giant
spiders, and god knows what else.
The whole evening seems surreal,all fuzzy and out of focus like a
dream. There, are, however, things that stand out so clearly, they
almost hurt: the veil, Sirius, and her.
The first chance you two had to be alone was the first chance you
really had to cry. She held you the whole time, rubbed your back,
didn't try to shush you or tell you to brave. She was just there, like
she always had been. You had to apologize when you soaked her shirt
through; she just shook her head at you and tried to smile. All she
could manage was grimace.
You look back and wonder how things drifted away. Even now, you can't
answer that question, nor do you think you'll ever be able to. You
could have Ginny and she could have Ron and things could be fine; you
could all grow up and live happily ever after and reminisce about "the
good days".
You don't want that.
Part of you, the part you spend so much time trying to cut out, wants
to have her, no matter the consequences. Yes, you love Ginny; yes,
she's a lovely girl; you're just not in love with her. You watch the
mercurial state of her relationship with Ron, how mercurial and
explosive it can be, and wonder if and when it will break and what
she'll do. She's not the same girl you rescued from the troll in the
bathroom in first year, but she still most certainly has a heart, and
she most certainly feels emotions. The past seven years have proven
that to you over and over again.
For now, though, you won't think of that; you won't think of the war,
or Ron, or the fact that you have no bloody idea what you're doing.
You're just going to be here, with her.
LJ User: soapbox_queen
Title: Seven Years, Three Nights
Ship: H/Hr (Obviously)
It's three nights after his departure that she slides in next to you,
tangles her fingers with you and pulls more of the blankets towards
her. Her head is warm on your back and her breath is just ragged enough
to reveal that she's been crying.
Frankly, you're shocked. She hasn't done this since fifth year, since
Umbridge and Dumbledore's Army. You remember the night of Sirius's
death, the creeping feeling that his wouldn't be the last, and it's
intertwined with the smell of her shampoo. In your world, this makes
perfect sense; to anyone else, you'd seem mad. You've never fit well
under the description of "ordinary".
Her skin is rough, almost rough as yours. She claimed she never cared
about such things, always said her studies were more important. For a
time you believed her. All facades eventually drop, though, and by
fifth year you saw the truth: she cared. She cared quite a lot.
Your memory of that time is, you admit, selective. You've tried to
block out Cho and Umbridge and her horrid detentions. You try to focus
on the good: on Dumbledore's Army, and Sirius, and, of course, her. You
think of the soak she made you for your hands when you came back with
penance etched in blood and of her lie of her lifetime (and yours) in
the forrest that horrible night. You could have kissed her there, in
the middle of the forest surrounded by giants, and centaurs, and giant
spiders, and god knows what else.
The whole evening seems surreal,all fuzzy and out of focus like a
dream. There, are, however, things that stand out so clearly, they
almost hurt: the veil, Sirius, and her.
The first chance you two had to be alone was the first chance you
really had to cry. She held you the whole time, rubbed your back,
didn't try to shush you or tell you to brave. She was just there, like
she always had been. You had to apologize when you soaked her shirt
through; she just shook her head at you and tried to smile. All she
could manage was grimace.
You look back and wonder how things drifted away. Even now, you can't
answer that question, nor do you think you'll ever be able to. You
could have Ginny and she could have Ron and things could be fine; you
could all grow up and live happily ever after and reminisce about "the
good days".
You don't want that.
Part of you, the part you spend so much time trying to cut out, wants
to have her, no matter the consequences. Yes, you love Ginny; yes,
she's a lovely girl; you're just not in love with her. You watch the
mercurial state of her relationship with Ron, how mercurial and
explosive it can be, and wonder if and when it will break and what
she'll do. She's not the same girl you rescued from the troll in the
bathroom in first year, but she still most certainly has a heart, and
she most certainly feels emotions. The past seven years have proven
that to you over and over again.
For now, though, you won't think of that; you won't think of the war,
or Ron, or the fact that you have no bloody idea what you're doing.
You're just going to be here, with her.