HP: maybe we need an earthquake
The world is ending. I just wrote Harry Potter fic. *dies*
note: i never forget that rhod's always done it before, and better
After he kills Voldemort, Harry spends days in front of a mirror, curled up and casting healing spells on his forehead, as if because Voldemort is dead now, the scar would finally go away, and he could erase the eighteen or so years of history they've built up.
You watch him from the doorway until he finally collapses, exhausted from lack of sleep and starvation. Ron picks him up and deposits him on your bed, and you cry for the first time since he's returned. Because he's asleep, he can't refuse to let you take a look at him, so you strip off his clothing and heal all his other wounds, and Ron, who's never been good with these things, burns himself trying to make tea instead.
You leave his wand in his hand at first. An hour later, when you're passing by, you think you hear a snapping noise, so you rush in. In the end it's only the sound the bedsprings make when Harry turns over in his sleep.
Just to be safe, though, you put the wand on the bed stand, right on top of your old copy of "Hogwarts, A History". It's earmarked to the last place you reread to-- Edmund Wendlestone the Younger, a third year in Potions, who in his hurry to put out his cauldron, summons an almost interminable rainstorm in his classroom, and almost floods Hogwarts.
*
Being in love with Harry Potter is easy, even when you're in love with Ron at the same time. It's not a consuming love, or a love that obliterates all else. It's there on and off, like seeing him run his fingers through his hair when something goes wrong, or yelling at him that for the thousandth time, whether or not he likes it, you're both going with him, and yes Dumbledore died but that doesn't necessarily mean you will too, and even if you did you'd rather die with him, so for god's sake shut up and accept it.
Once Ron had said to you, "It's more like, you always want Harry's life to be okay, you know?" and you had said, "I know," and what you really did know was that Ron felt the same way you did, had the same love for Harry that you did, and did not mind that you did as well.
Harry wakes up that night after dinner, screaming. You drop the plate you're drying back into the sink and rush forward with dishwater hands full of suds on Harry's shoulders, bringing him to you, crying. Ron's there as well, with his cheek pressed up against yours, and it takes you a while to realize that it's only you and Ron crying, and that all Harry is doing is heaving big breaths of dry, sobbing air, keening high and soft, like he's going to break.
Afterwards, naked, you're sitting up in your bed, rubbing Harry's back, and Ron has his arm around your waist, his cheek on Harry's shoulder. Outside you can hear it's starting to thunderstorm, but the loudest sound is that of Harry's chest rising and falling, caught between the two of you, so wonderfully alive.
*
The next morning it's raining when you wake up. You leave Ron and Harry in bed to make breakfast, wearing only Ron's long shirt with the sleeves rolled up almost all the way to the elbow. Harry gets up after half an hour and spends a long time standing behind you, watching you cook, his breath tickling the strands of hair dangling from where you've wrapped your hair in a loose bun. When he finally sits down on the table, it gets so quiet you can hear the sound of the eggs and the bacon frying.
You listen to the silence until a smell of smoke suddenly shakes you, and he tells you in this shocked, small voice that he thinks the eggs are burning.
This is your cue to say you're sorry, or that you understand, or that it's okay, really, Harry, we don't mind. Instead Ron walks in and kisses you on the juncture between your neck and shoulder through the worn fabric of his shirt, and asks Harry if he would like some coffee or if he really does plan on sitting there with an empty cup for the rest of the morning.
Harry says, "Coffee would be nice." The look that he gives you when you turn around says 'we will never talk about this.' You pretend to be busy trying to scrape the last of the blackened eggs off the bottom of the pan.
*
The Burrow hasn't changed since you last saw it, which admittedly was only a year ago, for Fleur's wedding. Mrs. Weasley accosts all of you at the front door. There is so much hugging and kissing and celebrating; you think 'this is life', and you see it in Harry's eyes when he meets yours somewhere past the left of Ginny's head. Mrs. Weasley sets up dinner for all of you outside. It's like the summer before your fourth year all over again, this time with Fleur, and though Bill has scars all down his face no one minds. Ginny holds hands with Harry under the table and they kiss more than they eat.
Ron makes a disgruntled noise before you remind him, by stepping on his foot, that they haven't seen each other for almost a year.
The next day, Ginny tells you brazenly that she lost her virginity to Harry last night, in her bed. You stare at her, breathless, and your head must not be right because the first thing you almost ask her is whether or not Harry is okay. You question her about it lightly, the way girls do. Satisfied, you give her a brief, tight hug.
Then Harry walks down the stairs.
When he kisses you on the temple, whispering good morning, you are almost afraid to touch him. When he kisses Ginny and spins her around in the air, you can't see him at all, only his sunlit impression and Ginny's red hair a little whirl as they laugh.
The hand on your shoulder is Ron's. You reach for it, and there is so much love between the two of you that there is pain in that touch. There is so much love you almost feels tears.
*
It's because of Mr. Weasley, actually, that Draco visits; he came across Draco, who was now interning at the Ministry, and Draco had expressed some perverse desire to make it up to Harry now that everything was over. The only glance you get of their meeting-- Mrs. Weasley had ushered everyone away, frightened-- is of the two of them in the Weasley sitting room, surrounded by memorabilia of a family Draco hated, their teacups untouched, the two of them weeping silently. They are sitting rigidly opposite from another, their hands in their laps, and they are for once truly, truly looking each other, as what they were, as what they truly are to each other.
You don't hear them speak a word. They do not move. Yet you knew they understood each other, and though there was still hurt and pain and hate, there was mostly a deep sadness lingering there you felt only they could understand.
That day is the last time you sleep with Harry. When Draco leaves Harry goes up to Ron's bedroom, where they've pulled up an extra bed for him, to take a nap. You sneak in, closing the door firmly, as if to guard against any arguments he might have.
He says, "Maybe we shouldn't. Ron--"
"won't care," you say truthfully, and kiss him square on the lips. "This will be the last time," you promise him. "You need this," you lie, and close your eyes, touching his face.
Even though his mouth is muffled, you can tell he calls out your name.
*
"He's the only person still alive who saw Dumbledore die," Harry tells you, and runs his fingers through your hair thoughtfully. You wonder what Draco told him, or if they even said anything at all to one another even at the end. He presses your hair against his lips and sighs, and you know that even if Ron would understand, Ginny probably wouldn't. You feel horrible knowing that he'll have to keep this from her for all his life.
You lay there with him until he goes to sleep, your ear flat to his chest so that you can hear his heart beat, his lungs move, his stomach gurgle, all those intimate body sounds you need to hear to confirm his existence.
They're making supper downstairs. Ron is peeling the potatoes. You kiss him deeply, shamelessly, and when you draw back he's blushing. Fred and George cackle as they're levitating chairs around so they can all fit at the dinner table; Fleur takes this as an invitation to kiss each of Bill's scars prettily down his face. Ron draws you in close, close enough that you know he can smell Harry on you.
"How is he?" he murmurs, and you tell him, "He's okay. Tired."
You don't tell him that earlier you touched Harry's mouth with your lips and leaned over his sleeping face, your hair brushing his shoulder. That you thought of that little cottage the three of you had lived in for the stretch of time after Harry defeated Lord Voldemort. That you' remembered one moment when you woke up and your hand was thrown across Harry's chest and Ron had his nose buried in your neck and you were all twisted, tangled, woven, together, and you said, "Thank you" and "I love you", speaking to both of them, and you realized then that it would never be the same, because now it was over.
A/N: it's not as... finished as my HP fics used to be, but that's good and bad, you know? I feel like it's sort of more natural, but I know that's just me trying to justify writing this in about two hours and then posting it after the most elementary of lookovers. so .uh. comments? feedback? i haven't written HP fic in like forever.
note: i never forget that rhod's always done it before, and better
After he kills Voldemort, Harry spends days in front of a mirror, curled up and casting healing spells on his forehead, as if because Voldemort is dead now, the scar would finally go away, and he could erase the eighteen or so years of history they've built up.
You watch him from the doorway until he finally collapses, exhausted from lack of sleep and starvation. Ron picks him up and deposits him on your bed, and you cry for the first time since he's returned. Because he's asleep, he can't refuse to let you take a look at him, so you strip off his clothing and heal all his other wounds, and Ron, who's never been good with these things, burns himself trying to make tea instead.
You leave his wand in his hand at first. An hour later, when you're passing by, you think you hear a snapping noise, so you rush in. In the end it's only the sound the bedsprings make when Harry turns over in his sleep.
Just to be safe, though, you put the wand on the bed stand, right on top of your old copy of "Hogwarts, A History". It's earmarked to the last place you reread to-- Edmund Wendlestone the Younger, a third year in Potions, who in his hurry to put out his cauldron, summons an almost interminable rainstorm in his classroom, and almost floods Hogwarts.
*
Being in love with Harry Potter is easy, even when you're in love with Ron at the same time. It's not a consuming love, or a love that obliterates all else. It's there on and off, like seeing him run his fingers through his hair when something goes wrong, or yelling at him that for the thousandth time, whether or not he likes it, you're both going with him, and yes Dumbledore died but that doesn't necessarily mean you will too, and even if you did you'd rather die with him, so for god's sake shut up and accept it.
Once Ron had said to you, "It's more like, you always want Harry's life to be okay, you know?" and you had said, "I know," and what you really did know was that Ron felt the same way you did, had the same love for Harry that you did, and did not mind that you did as well.
Harry wakes up that night after dinner, screaming. You drop the plate you're drying back into the sink and rush forward with dishwater hands full of suds on Harry's shoulders, bringing him to you, crying. Ron's there as well, with his cheek pressed up against yours, and it takes you a while to realize that it's only you and Ron crying, and that all Harry is doing is heaving big breaths of dry, sobbing air, keening high and soft, like he's going to break.
Afterwards, naked, you're sitting up in your bed, rubbing Harry's back, and Ron has his arm around your waist, his cheek on Harry's shoulder. Outside you can hear it's starting to thunderstorm, but the loudest sound is that of Harry's chest rising and falling, caught between the two of you, so wonderfully alive.
*
The next morning it's raining when you wake up. You leave Ron and Harry in bed to make breakfast, wearing only Ron's long shirt with the sleeves rolled up almost all the way to the elbow. Harry gets up after half an hour and spends a long time standing behind you, watching you cook, his breath tickling the strands of hair dangling from where you've wrapped your hair in a loose bun. When he finally sits down on the table, it gets so quiet you can hear the sound of the eggs and the bacon frying.
You listen to the silence until a smell of smoke suddenly shakes you, and he tells you in this shocked, small voice that he thinks the eggs are burning.
This is your cue to say you're sorry, or that you understand, or that it's okay, really, Harry, we don't mind. Instead Ron walks in and kisses you on the juncture between your neck and shoulder through the worn fabric of his shirt, and asks Harry if he would like some coffee or if he really does plan on sitting there with an empty cup for the rest of the morning.
Harry says, "Coffee would be nice." The look that he gives you when you turn around says 'we will never talk about this.' You pretend to be busy trying to scrape the last of the blackened eggs off the bottom of the pan.
*
The Burrow hasn't changed since you last saw it, which admittedly was only a year ago, for Fleur's wedding. Mrs. Weasley accosts all of you at the front door. There is so much hugging and kissing and celebrating; you think 'this is life', and you see it in Harry's eyes when he meets yours somewhere past the left of Ginny's head. Mrs. Weasley sets up dinner for all of you outside. It's like the summer before your fourth year all over again, this time with Fleur, and though Bill has scars all down his face no one minds. Ginny holds hands with Harry under the table and they kiss more than they eat.
Ron makes a disgruntled noise before you remind him, by stepping on his foot, that they haven't seen each other for almost a year.
The next day, Ginny tells you brazenly that she lost her virginity to Harry last night, in her bed. You stare at her, breathless, and your head must not be right because the first thing you almost ask her is whether or not Harry is okay. You question her about it lightly, the way girls do. Satisfied, you give her a brief, tight hug.
Then Harry walks down the stairs.
When he kisses you on the temple, whispering good morning, you are almost afraid to touch him. When he kisses Ginny and spins her around in the air, you can't see him at all, only his sunlit impression and Ginny's red hair a little whirl as they laugh.
The hand on your shoulder is Ron's. You reach for it, and there is so much love between the two of you that there is pain in that touch. There is so much love you almost feels tears.
*
It's because of Mr. Weasley, actually, that Draco visits; he came across Draco, who was now interning at the Ministry, and Draco had expressed some perverse desire to make it up to Harry now that everything was over. The only glance you get of their meeting-- Mrs. Weasley had ushered everyone away, frightened-- is of the two of them in the Weasley sitting room, surrounded by memorabilia of a family Draco hated, their teacups untouched, the two of them weeping silently. They are sitting rigidly opposite from another, their hands in their laps, and they are for once truly, truly looking each other, as what they were, as what they truly are to each other.
You don't hear them speak a word. They do not move. Yet you knew they understood each other, and though there was still hurt and pain and hate, there was mostly a deep sadness lingering there you felt only they could understand.
That day is the last time you sleep with Harry. When Draco leaves Harry goes up to Ron's bedroom, where they've pulled up an extra bed for him, to take a nap. You sneak in, closing the door firmly, as if to guard against any arguments he might have.
He says, "Maybe we shouldn't. Ron--"
"won't care," you say truthfully, and kiss him square on the lips. "This will be the last time," you promise him. "You need this," you lie, and close your eyes, touching his face.
Even though his mouth is muffled, you can tell he calls out your name.
*
"He's the only person still alive who saw Dumbledore die," Harry tells you, and runs his fingers through your hair thoughtfully. You wonder what Draco told him, or if they even said anything at all to one another even at the end. He presses your hair against his lips and sighs, and you know that even if Ron would understand, Ginny probably wouldn't. You feel horrible knowing that he'll have to keep this from her for all his life.
You lay there with him until he goes to sleep, your ear flat to his chest so that you can hear his heart beat, his lungs move, his stomach gurgle, all those intimate body sounds you need to hear to confirm his existence.
They're making supper downstairs. Ron is peeling the potatoes. You kiss him deeply, shamelessly, and when you draw back he's blushing. Fred and George cackle as they're levitating chairs around so they can all fit at the dinner table; Fleur takes this as an invitation to kiss each of Bill's scars prettily down his face. Ron draws you in close, close enough that you know he can smell Harry on you.
"How is he?" he murmurs, and you tell him, "He's okay. Tired."
You don't tell him that earlier you touched Harry's mouth with your lips and leaned over his sleeping face, your hair brushing his shoulder. That you thought of that little cottage the three of you had lived in for the stretch of time after Harry defeated Lord Voldemort. That you' remembered one moment when you woke up and your hand was thrown across Harry's chest and Ron had his nose buried in your neck and you were all twisted, tangled, woven, together, and you said, "Thank you" and "I love you", speaking to both of them, and you realized then that it would never be the same, because now it was over.
A/N: it's not as... finished as my HP fics used to be, but that's good and bad, you know? I feel like it's sort of more natural, but I know that's just me trying to justify writing this in about two hours and then posting it after the most elementary of lookovers. so .uh. comments? feedback? i haven't written HP fic in like forever.