hp fic: and we did not know it but we had already lost (harry/hermione)
and we did not know it but we had already lost
he’s not perfect. she forgets this sometimes. slightly au. set in book 7 during the tent scenes.
pg-13. 1211 words.
A/N: Written for the non canon ficathon
prompt: tell me now where was my fault//in loving you with my whole heart
Also, this is for lenina20. She's the reason I keep on writing these two.
They dance more than once.
It gets harder and harder for Hermione to slip away. Harder to pretend she’s not here, to slide into a different time, a false world - one called normal - where she is just seventeen and worried about school and boys, laughing more than crying and not looking over her shoulder every time a twig cracks.
He keeps trying, and each day he does, she feels herself attaching to this world. This is becoming normal. Weeks and months of just them. Silent reflection. Some strange sense of peace, which has eluded her for far too long. She knows that’s on him, but silent reflection taught her quickly she could not picture her life without him so what would it matter to blame him now.
He sways them to a tempo of his own making, miles off from what it should be, and she’s supposed to laugh, supposed to smile at the earnest glee on his face. But the happiness would be a betrayal. She cannot reconcile the two. Instead she buries her face against his shoulder.
“Help me forget,” she whispers, turns her face into the crook of his neck. “Please.”
She doesn’t realize what she’s asking until she pulls back and looks him in the eyes, sees them lock with hers and then steal a glance at her lips.
Maybe she should have known better. And maybe somewhere in her mind, she did.
---
She asks once. Just once. A trembled breath against his clavicle, trailing off against his pulse. Her arms curled up around his back, hands cupping his shoulders, cradling him like he’s something precious.
He’s used to being worshipped, used to being put on a pedestal and adored, but it’s always at arm’s length. They draw an invisible circle around him, a barrier he can’t see, but he can feel every time someone lays a hand upon him. They’re not touching him. They’re going through motions. Their gestures are never about him. They’re about something bigger, grander.
Hermione holds him and he feels it all the way through his body. The warmth of that embrace fuses to his bones, flows through his veins, settles inside his chest so it’s in tune with the rhythm of his heart. It’s a part of him.
She touches him, -his cheek this time- and he cannot refuse her. If circumstances were different, it could be a dangerous thing. She could be Delilah in some other world, but in this world, she only brings good faith where she treads. The few places he can call safe are the ones she leads him to.
He leans in, and she paints on bravery, but he can see the chips in the armor at this distance. She continues to be one-hundred steps ahead, sees their downfall before he’s even committed the first error. A good man might concede.
He’s not perfect. She forgets this sometimes. It’s the reason her surprised huff of breath gets swallowed by the brush of his lips against hers. He was supposed to know better.
----
She forgets and sometimes she miscalculates. It’s rare, and now is one of those times where it could haunt her. The light press of his lips becomes firmer. It’s more powerful than she expected, harder to resist. Her hand is still cradling his cheek. Her fingertips can feel his pulse, no longer steady. It becomes an experiment, which becomes a rationalization. She moves her lips, parts them just slightly, and tries to focus on measuring his pulse. His tongue darts out, traces the inside of her lip.
She loses focus quickly.
---
The record starts to skip, somewhere in the time he spends undoing the first and second buttons of her blouse. It stops when his hands reach for the button of her jeans. The whole process plays out in slow motion, long kisses thrown in-between what becomes a delicate procedure. He wants to ask her why she packed these records in the first place. Wants to but knows the answer might crush them.
Instead he doesn’t say a word. Strips the layers away, one by one, until there’s nothing left between them.
He waits for the protest, but it never comes.
---
He has scars.
She tries to ignore the one on his forehead. There are a few nicks and scrapes on his chest and knees. The back of his hand makes her eyes fill with tears, even now. Some of them aren’t visible, but she can feel them when her lips ghost over the skin.
She knows this isn’t his first time. Ginny made sure he wouldn’t die a virgin - her own contribution to the Cause. It’s a petty thought that disappears when she finds his eyes again. He looks at her and all those shallow, idle thoughts are quelled. Every time she grazes another silent scar, he looks at her and knows.
She’s making her mark.
---
She has no scars.
Not yet. But every inch of her skin seems destined to be marred. Someday, he thinks, there will be knotted skin somewhere. He’ll see it and flinch. Or someday they will just take her too. It’s a morbid thought to carry with you to the bedroom.
The guilt he feels has always been perpetual, even now.
He knows it’s her first time. Knows it is reason one-thousand and one to stop. This guilt doesn’t weigh as heavily as it should. Maybe because they’re past the point of rationalization. Maybe because they’ve gotten this far and neither one of them has mentioned a Weasley’s name outloud.
Mostly though, he’s too worried about what will inevitably happen to her because she loved him. Because she’s just as bad at saying no.
There’s a first push and she cries out and then sighs as his mouth latches onto place where her shoulder and neck meet.
It’s one mark he’ll be glad to call his doing.
---
Afterwards, she realizes she’s going to break his heart and the worst part is he won’t even realize it until it’s far too late.
She expects for shame and regret to creep over her skin. It’s there. How could it not be? But it’s faint, like a whisper at the back of her head. She can ignore it. Harry has taken so much from her, and she has asked for nothing in return, until now.
She opens her eyes - when she closed them, she couldn’t tell you - and finds Harry staring at her.
She clings to the idea that it’s still justified.
---
He asks if she meant it, growing old together. She smiles but it’s distant. Something inside him chips away.
She turns away from him, pulls his arm around her waist, clutches it like a child would a teddy bear. She whispers they don’t have time for that.
He realizes it isn’t an answer.
---
The next morning she wakes up with his arm still curled around her waist and his breath against the back of her neck. She smiles and frowns before she slides out of bed to make breakfast.
Later she realizes she’s not sure which happened first.
----
The next morning he wakes up alone.
Nothing’s changed.
It never will.
Someday he’ll figure out whether that’s good or not.
he’s not perfect. she forgets this sometimes. slightly au. set in book 7 during the tent scenes.
pg-13. 1211 words.
A/N: Written for the non canon ficathon
prompt: tell me now where was my fault//in loving you with my whole heart
Also, this is for lenina20. She's the reason I keep on writing these two.
They dance more than once.
It gets harder and harder for Hermione to slip away. Harder to pretend she’s not here, to slide into a different time, a false world - one called normal - where she is just seventeen and worried about school and boys, laughing more than crying and not looking over her shoulder every time a twig cracks.
He keeps trying, and each day he does, she feels herself attaching to this world. This is becoming normal. Weeks and months of just them. Silent reflection. Some strange sense of peace, which has eluded her for far too long. She knows that’s on him, but silent reflection taught her quickly she could not picture her life without him so what would it matter to blame him now.
He sways them to a tempo of his own making, miles off from what it should be, and she’s supposed to laugh, supposed to smile at the earnest glee on his face. But the happiness would be a betrayal. She cannot reconcile the two. Instead she buries her face against his shoulder.
“Help me forget,” she whispers, turns her face into the crook of his neck. “Please.”
She doesn’t realize what she’s asking until she pulls back and looks him in the eyes, sees them lock with hers and then steal a glance at her lips.
Maybe she should have known better. And maybe somewhere in her mind, she did.
---
She asks once. Just once. A trembled breath against his clavicle, trailing off against his pulse. Her arms curled up around his back, hands cupping his shoulders, cradling him like he’s something precious.
He’s used to being worshipped, used to being put on a pedestal and adored, but it’s always at arm’s length. They draw an invisible circle around him, a barrier he can’t see, but he can feel every time someone lays a hand upon him. They’re not touching him. They’re going through motions. Their gestures are never about him. They’re about something bigger, grander.
Hermione holds him and he feels it all the way through his body. The warmth of that embrace fuses to his bones, flows through his veins, settles inside his chest so it’s in tune with the rhythm of his heart. It’s a part of him.
She touches him, -his cheek this time- and he cannot refuse her. If circumstances were different, it could be a dangerous thing. She could be Delilah in some other world, but in this world, she only brings good faith where she treads. The few places he can call safe are the ones she leads him to.
He leans in, and she paints on bravery, but he can see the chips in the armor at this distance. She continues to be one-hundred steps ahead, sees their downfall before he’s even committed the first error. A good man might concede.
He’s not perfect. She forgets this sometimes. It’s the reason her surprised huff of breath gets swallowed by the brush of his lips against hers. He was supposed to know better.
----
She forgets and sometimes she miscalculates. It’s rare, and now is one of those times where it could haunt her. The light press of his lips becomes firmer. It’s more powerful than she expected, harder to resist. Her hand is still cradling his cheek. Her fingertips can feel his pulse, no longer steady. It becomes an experiment, which becomes a rationalization. She moves her lips, parts them just slightly, and tries to focus on measuring his pulse. His tongue darts out, traces the inside of her lip.
She loses focus quickly.
---
The record starts to skip, somewhere in the time he spends undoing the first and second buttons of her blouse. It stops when his hands reach for the button of her jeans. The whole process plays out in slow motion, long kisses thrown in-between what becomes a delicate procedure. He wants to ask her why she packed these records in the first place. Wants to but knows the answer might crush them.
Instead he doesn’t say a word. Strips the layers away, one by one, until there’s nothing left between them.
He waits for the protest, but it never comes.
---
He has scars.
She tries to ignore the one on his forehead. There are a few nicks and scrapes on his chest and knees. The back of his hand makes her eyes fill with tears, even now. Some of them aren’t visible, but she can feel them when her lips ghost over the skin.
She knows this isn’t his first time. Ginny made sure he wouldn’t die a virgin - her own contribution to the Cause. It’s a petty thought that disappears when she finds his eyes again. He looks at her and all those shallow, idle thoughts are quelled. Every time she grazes another silent scar, he looks at her and knows.
She’s making her mark.
---
She has no scars.
Not yet. But every inch of her skin seems destined to be marred. Someday, he thinks, there will be knotted skin somewhere. He’ll see it and flinch. Or someday they will just take her too. It’s a morbid thought to carry with you to the bedroom.
The guilt he feels has always been perpetual, even now.
He knows it’s her first time. Knows it is reason one-thousand and one to stop. This guilt doesn’t weigh as heavily as it should. Maybe because they’re past the point of rationalization. Maybe because they’ve gotten this far and neither one of them has mentioned a Weasley’s name outloud.
Mostly though, he’s too worried about what will inevitably happen to her because she loved him. Because she’s just as bad at saying no.
There’s a first push and she cries out and then sighs as his mouth latches onto place where her shoulder and neck meet.
It’s one mark he’ll be glad to call his doing.
---
Afterwards, she realizes she’s going to break his heart and the worst part is he won’t even realize it until it’s far too late.
She expects for shame and regret to creep over her skin. It’s there. How could it not be? But it’s faint, like a whisper at the back of her head. She can ignore it. Harry has taken so much from her, and she has asked for nothing in return, until now.
She opens her eyes - when she closed them, she couldn’t tell you - and finds Harry staring at her.
She clings to the idea that it’s still justified.
---
He asks if she meant it, growing old together. She smiles but it’s distant. Something inside him chips away.
She turns away from him, pulls his arm around her waist, clutches it like a child would a teddy bear. She whispers they don’t have time for that.
He realizes it isn’t an answer.
---
The next morning she wakes up with his arm still curled around her waist and his breath against the back of her neck. She smiles and frowns before she slides out of bed to make breakfast.
Later she realizes she’s not sure which happened first.
----
The next morning he wakes up alone.
Nothing’s changed.
It never will.
Someday he’ll figure out whether that’s good or not.