hp fic: you are who you thought you were and nothing more (harry/hermione)
title: you are who you thought you were (and nothing more)
character(s)/pairing(s): harry/hermione
word count/rating: 1,258
summary: She lets him take whatever he wants, whatever he needs. And it's just like everything else between them. It hits her - of course - when it's too late to avoid.
A/N: For lenina20 because her dedication to this pairing knows no bounds.
Hermione is sure she owes everything she knows to two women - her mother and grandmother. Their lessons came easy.
Her grandmother taught at universities. Educated the best and brightest on Writing and Rhetoric and suffered painfully having a dentist for a daughter. So of course, when Hermione came along, she couldn't be more delighted because her granddaughter loved words took to them like a plant took to sunshine.
Her grandmother was especially fond of colloquialisms. She had traveled the world, knew a handful in every language and used them just because she could, even when it sounded silly rolling off her tongue in that dreadfully posh British accent she claimed to be cursed with.
She never finished her adages - that was something else. They were always half thoughts. She'd say, you can lead a fish to water or the best defense and whoever was listening was supposed to fill in the rest.
And then there was Hermione's mother, Jean, whose lesson was something entirely different. She loved her husband, but her eye wandered to Andrew, the neighbor's brother who visited every other weekend with stories of whimsy and adventure wrapped in an ordinary man. Hermione knew of course that it was nothing more than hopeless pining. She knew too much already.
Her grandmother knew too, shook her head over tea and whispered in a voice she knew both ladies would hear, you're playing with fire, dear
And Hermione knows how this one ends.
---
There is no start.
There's progression. Small things that build. Hands that linger too long on her back and looks that reach deeper. Breath catches and there's something growing underneath all that sympathy and compassion. She tries to fear it but it feels so natural, like it's meant to adapt and flourish. A tree whose roots make home far below the surface.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
---
It hits her, of course, at the most inopportune time.
They've kissed twice already. The first was an accident, she turned her face and lips that were aiming for her cheek grazed hers instead and then pressed a little longer than necessary. He smiled and she pulled him into a hug and if there were pink tinged cheeks they were hidden quickly. That one could be shrugged of anyways.
The second involved alcohol and anniversaries of battles and loud music. A group of twenty survivors their age gathered in Hogsmeade drowning what they pretended weren't sorrows. Everyone was kissing anyone at some point. Hermione remembers very little but the drumming in her ears and the cackling of some Quidditch groupies two booths down from their party when Harry said what the hell and planted a sloppy kiss on her bottom lip. Ron was right there, two sheets to the wind and laughing like it was the silliest thing he'd ever seen. The next morning no one but Hermione remembered any of it.
It hits her when it's the third. Harry waits until her family is out of town, and backs her into a wall, one hand pressed firmly against her hip, the other working its way through her hair. He leans close, aim straight and he does not smell like alcohol. Ron is a thousand miles away and there is no excuse, no misunderstand. No mistake about the way his lips latch onto hers, tongue immediately prodding at her lips.
She lets him take whatever he wants, whatever he needs. And it's just like everything else between them.
It hits her - of course - when it's too late to avoid.
---
Distantly, she remembers the first funeral they attended after the war.
There were many more to come and Harry got better at it, but there was something important about the way his shoulders sagged. Something about the way they never lifted.
It gets lost.
---
Sins of the father are sins of the son.
Hermione was never fond of that one, but Hermione is not her mother.
She pushes the envelope until she's pushing against Harry, a hard line of tension, self loathing and bitterness. In need of fixing. He clings to her for reasons she'll never know, maybe it's partly because she'll never ask. She loves him in ways she will never talk about and believes she will be able to save him if she just gives into this thing between them. She never walks away from a challenge.
She's not her grandmother either.
She finishes things.
---
Somewhere along the way, she stops being his friend.
This is inevitable.
Logic dictates that: A friend is someone who cares deeply about the needs of their fellow friend. A best friend would go so far as to put their friend's needs ahead of their own.
He loves his wife. He loves his kids. He loves Ron and this friendship, this trust the three of them have built. He spent months in a tent with her, alone with raging teenage hormones and did not look at her this way once. There's more to it.
But Hermione doesn't dig, lest you count the fingernails pressed into his back or the moans she releases that seem to shake her to the very core and release something in his eyes - here and gone in a flash. Brief moments that tell her to say no.
Because a friend would know this wasn't good for him.
This revelation, like the others, comes later - once it's all gone to hell.
---
Of course, there comes a point where what he wants and what she can give no longer pretend to coincide. It's when his hands are wrapped too tightly against her hips, when just a look from him suffocates her. And of course, he has been drowning for years now so it's no matter to him. This is the usual way of things for him. How did she miss this?
"Run away with me," he whispers against her clavicle. The words are soft spoken but everything else is a push and a pull. Bruises and marks. Demands instead of questions.
Her hips falter. The rhythm is lost. They stumble towards a disappointing finish.
One more look shared between them before he leaves and she doesn't even need to say no out loud.
---
The affair ends, abrupt in a way the start wasn't.
He stops coming around all together and Hermione doesn't say anything until Ron starts to notice. Hermione gets Ron to agree to touch base with him. He gets him on the floo and Harry acts as if nothing's the matter, and he smiles in all the right places and promises to bring the kids and Ginny over for dinner soon.
If he never glances Hermione's way, not even once, well maybe it's just in Hermione's imagination.
---
Eventually, he divorces Ginny. The Weasleys disown him first, and then worry about him when six months pass and he’s become a recluse. Hermione feels too guilty to worry.
Then, there’s a book. One he wrote about himself, about claustrophobia and dead families and the lingering traces evil can leave on the soul. Luna publishes it and the world shudders collectively to learn what heroes really look like.
He dedicates the work to Hermione.
"She's a friend," he says, distantly, when an interviewer asks why. The words are just words. Empty of what they once meant.
Hermione burns her copy.
---
But the truth: Harry didn't run away from his problems and Hermione's finally learned a lesson the hard way.
All's well that end's well.
The moral of the story.
character(s)/pairing(s): harry/hermione
word count/rating: 1,258
summary: She lets him take whatever he wants, whatever he needs. And it's just like everything else between them. It hits her - of course - when it's too late to avoid.
A/N: For lenina20 because her dedication to this pairing knows no bounds.
Hermione is sure she owes everything she knows to two women - her mother and grandmother. Their lessons came easy.
Her grandmother taught at universities. Educated the best and brightest on Writing and Rhetoric and suffered painfully having a dentist for a daughter. So of course, when Hermione came along, she couldn't be more delighted because her granddaughter loved words took to them like a plant took to sunshine.
Her grandmother was especially fond of colloquialisms. She had traveled the world, knew a handful in every language and used them just because she could, even when it sounded silly rolling off her tongue in that dreadfully posh British accent she claimed to be cursed with.
She never finished her adages - that was something else. They were always half thoughts. She'd say, you can lead a fish to water or the best defense and whoever was listening was supposed to fill in the rest.
And then there was Hermione's mother, Jean, whose lesson was something entirely different. She loved her husband, but her eye wandered to Andrew, the neighbor's brother who visited every other weekend with stories of whimsy and adventure wrapped in an ordinary man. Hermione knew of course that it was nothing more than hopeless pining. She knew too much already.
Her grandmother knew too, shook her head over tea and whispered in a voice she knew both ladies would hear, you're playing with fire, dear
And Hermione knows how this one ends.
---
There is no start.
There's progression. Small things that build. Hands that linger too long on her back and looks that reach deeper. Breath catches and there's something growing underneath all that sympathy and compassion. She tries to fear it but it feels so natural, like it's meant to adapt and flourish. A tree whose roots make home far below the surface.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
---
It hits her, of course, at the most inopportune time.
They've kissed twice already. The first was an accident, she turned her face and lips that were aiming for her cheek grazed hers instead and then pressed a little longer than necessary. He smiled and she pulled him into a hug and if there were pink tinged cheeks they were hidden quickly. That one could be shrugged of anyways.
The second involved alcohol and anniversaries of battles and loud music. A group of twenty survivors their age gathered in Hogsmeade drowning what they pretended weren't sorrows. Everyone was kissing anyone at some point. Hermione remembers very little but the drumming in her ears and the cackling of some Quidditch groupies two booths down from their party when Harry said what the hell and planted a sloppy kiss on her bottom lip. Ron was right there, two sheets to the wind and laughing like it was the silliest thing he'd ever seen. The next morning no one but Hermione remembered any of it.
It hits her when it's the third. Harry waits until her family is out of town, and backs her into a wall, one hand pressed firmly against her hip, the other working its way through her hair. He leans close, aim straight and he does not smell like alcohol. Ron is a thousand miles away and there is no excuse, no misunderstand. No mistake about the way his lips latch onto hers, tongue immediately prodding at her lips.
She lets him take whatever he wants, whatever he needs. And it's just like everything else between them.
It hits her - of course - when it's too late to avoid.
---
Distantly, she remembers the first funeral they attended after the war.
There were many more to come and Harry got better at it, but there was something important about the way his shoulders sagged. Something about the way they never lifted.
It gets lost.
---
Sins of the father are sins of the son.
Hermione was never fond of that one, but Hermione is not her mother.
She pushes the envelope until she's pushing against Harry, a hard line of tension, self loathing and bitterness. In need of fixing. He clings to her for reasons she'll never know, maybe it's partly because she'll never ask. She loves him in ways she will never talk about and believes she will be able to save him if she just gives into this thing between them. She never walks away from a challenge.
She's not her grandmother either.
She finishes things.
---
Somewhere along the way, she stops being his friend.
This is inevitable.
Logic dictates that: A friend is someone who cares deeply about the needs of their fellow friend. A best friend would go so far as to put their friend's needs ahead of their own.
He loves his wife. He loves his kids. He loves Ron and this friendship, this trust the three of them have built. He spent months in a tent with her, alone with raging teenage hormones and did not look at her this way once. There's more to it.
But Hermione doesn't dig, lest you count the fingernails pressed into his back or the moans she releases that seem to shake her to the very core and release something in his eyes - here and gone in a flash. Brief moments that tell her to say no.
Because a friend would know this wasn't good for him.
This revelation, like the others, comes later - once it's all gone to hell.
---
Of course, there comes a point where what he wants and what she can give no longer pretend to coincide. It's when his hands are wrapped too tightly against her hips, when just a look from him suffocates her. And of course, he has been drowning for years now so it's no matter to him. This is the usual way of things for him. How did she miss this?
"Run away with me," he whispers against her clavicle. The words are soft spoken but everything else is a push and a pull. Bruises and marks. Demands instead of questions.
Her hips falter. The rhythm is lost. They stumble towards a disappointing finish.
One more look shared between them before he leaves and she doesn't even need to say no out loud.
---
The affair ends, abrupt in a way the start wasn't.
He stops coming around all together and Hermione doesn't say anything until Ron starts to notice. Hermione gets Ron to agree to touch base with him. He gets him on the floo and Harry acts as if nothing's the matter, and he smiles in all the right places and promises to bring the kids and Ginny over for dinner soon.
If he never glances Hermione's way, not even once, well maybe it's just in Hermione's imagination.
---
Eventually, he divorces Ginny. The Weasleys disown him first, and then worry about him when six months pass and he’s become a recluse. Hermione feels too guilty to worry.
Then, there’s a book. One he wrote about himself, about claustrophobia and dead families and the lingering traces evil can leave on the soul. Luna publishes it and the world shudders collectively to learn what heroes really look like.
He dedicates the work to Hermione.
"She's a friend," he says, distantly, when an interviewer asks why. The words are just words. Empty of what they once meant.
Hermione burns her copy.
---
But the truth: Harry didn't run away from his problems and Hermione's finally learned a lesson the hard way.
All's well that end's well.
The moral of the story.