fic repost: "Marley Was Dead" Harry/Ron/Hermione
Title: "Marley Was Dead"
Fandom: Harry Potter
Grouping: Harry/Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Timeline: Book 1, Book 5, and post-series, with explicit spoilers through Book 6
Disclaimer: JKR's, not mine.
Notes: Written for ctorres in 3_ships 2008. Originally posted here.
Summary: Marley was dead (this wild ride is never over).
Wordcount: 2359
Marley Was Dead
They'll never tell anyone. They don't need to discuss it; the three of them tumble together into the central spinning room that leads to all the other Mysteries and share a wild, three-way glance that means there's no way. It can't've happened so there's no need to talk about it or to deny it. No need to say, where did you go? because they didn't go anywhere. They took a wrong turn and saw nothing, and nothing changed between them.
"You've gone quite pale," Luna says. "Did you see yourselves in a mirror?"
"Don't be ridiculous," says Hermione, too sharply. "We've loitered too long, anyhow."
"Prophecy or bust," Ron agrees.
Harry doesn't say anything. He's too busy not talking about it.
"It's tonight, I think," says Hermione, a bit awkwardly.
"Your birthday? Yes, we remembered," Harry tells her over the top edge of the Prophet. "This is bunk, all of it. You aren't getting another subscription to this trash, so if you want one you'd best renew it yourself."
"Not that," Hermione says. "Ron! You'll be late!"
He emerges from the bedroom still straightening his robes and trying to pat down his hair.
"Oh, let me do it," Hermione says, and directs a few practiced tidying spells at him. "I was trying to tell Harry, it's tonight."
"Yes, I know, we've already made reservations at --"
"It's meant to be a surprise," Harry mumbles.
"Right, but if she thinks we've forgotten --"
"No, no! You boys are -- tonight's the night I saw."
"When did you see a night?" Ron asks. "You've never had a prophecy in your life, Hermione."
"In the Department of Mysteries," she says, rolling her eyes.
Oh. Ron looks at his feet, and Harry directs his gaze more steadily at an editorial about Belgian goblins' financial mishaps.
"Well, listen, I'm only saying, if it happens recursively, that is, if the loop is finite, then --"
"Talk quickly," Ron says. "I'm late, remember?"
"Only, try not to shag teenaged me," Hermione says. "I was sixteen and terribly confused and couldn't understand how I could love both of you and I was afraid Sirius was dying or Harry was going mad! And they were, weren't they? So please, be gentle."
"I wonder what will happen to you, though," Harry says. "You you."
What happens is, she settles deep into the recesses of her own soul, which is like a comfortable library, lined with books that are full of memories and hopes and carefully categorized spells, and the other Hermione takes over the rest of the body, filling it out awkwardly with adolescent gangling, discomfort at the length of her legs and the size of her breasts. Hermione is used to Apparating home, but her younger self walks, quick, arrogant steps that mask the terror in her heart. She has to get back to them, to her Ron and Harry, to her own time and her own place, but this Ron and this Harry won't have any of that. It's her twenty-sixth birthday, and they've planned a fancy meal, made reservations at Newt's Eye & Newton's Apple, the best restaurant they know of, and have looked ahead at the menu and picked out something vegetarian for her -- she wasn't vegetarian, then, and her stomach is growling for meat, acidy with fear.
Tell them, she whispers. They should know. They shouldn't treat her this way -- but they do. They laugh, they tease her. They tell her, haven't they earned a shag, paying for this meal? They tell her, work was terrible today, nothing but paperwork, and the Minister wants to send Harry to Belgium for diplomatic work. Has she ever heard of anything that's a worse idea?
She is afraid of them, though. Hermione can't figure out why, can't remember the anxiety that's now eating up her whole body, hot and cold, revealing itself in brusque, rude words, terse sentences, eyes rolling and body language closed off. (Well, at least they won't try to have sex with that. Even Ron can surely tell when a woman isn't putting out as obviously as Hermione isn't.)
"Are you all right, Hermione?" asks Harry, which is as emotional as he'll be. "You're awfully nervous."
"It's -- it's nothing for you to worry about," she says.
"Aren't I your boyfriend? Aren't I supposed to? You're always telling us to be more considerate and now you're -- well --"
"She's being ungrateful," Ron puts in. "And the food's wonderful, so it must be the company."
"Midlife crisis, probably," Harry says knowledgeably (oh, why did she give him that pile of Muggle pop psych? Did she really think he would understand? The younger Hermione knows; she would never do something so foolish, never make herself this vulnerable. Younger Hermione may have fallen in love with her boys, but she wouldn't want to marry these men. She was too wise and wary for that, then).
At least she sleeps on the couch. Ron was that clever, to remember (finally) what she said in the morning, and though they're skeptical ("she looks" all right, she hears them whisper, though her younger self, less attuned to men's emotions, doesn't notice the hurried discussion). She's on the couch when she dreams of yesterday and her other self dreams of tomorrow and they part ways in the infinity of today.
"You are completely daft," she tells them, shaking them awake. "I told you and you still didn't --"
"It's because you're just the same as always," says Harry. "Did you see any difference?"
"None," says Ron. "You've not changed a bit since we fell in love with you."
++
Hermione's brain whirls faster than the room does. Prophecy? Time travel? Or delusion? She catches Ron's eye for a moment, and sees Harry examining his shoes, and she can't imagine that it's not real.
++
"Shove over."
"What?"
"Shove over."
"Can't hear you. What?"
"Shove over, for Merlin's sake, Ron!" Lucky Harry's so weak; he doesn't hit harder than a baby. Also lucky he's lost his wand again (somewhere in the sitting room, but it's floor-to-ceiling with Hermione's pamphlets, so that doesn't help).
"Tell Hermione," Ron says. "She's taking up three time as much space as me, her and her damned kneazles," and that's when he disappears with a squelch inside himself and someone entirely else takes over the body with sharp, jerking motions and disgusted sounds.
"Hermione, shove over," Harry yells, and the boy in Ron's body says, "Harry, mate, you've aged something fierce."
"You're one to talk. You'd better consult a Healer about your hearing or else we'll talk about you behind your back."
"I don't care! Just get me out of this bed." And he hurls the body out of bed, but he misjudges its weaknesses and lands on the floor.
"Here," Hermione says, rolling her eyes. "You really should see a Healer, Ron. The quality of life for centenarians is really much improved if you'd only try the potions."
Never had potions when I was young Ron thinks, and "Potions to keep me young? You're barmy," says Ron, fifteen years old and trying not to spew at the sight of a 120-something (they've stopped counting) witch in a tatty dressing gown that smells strongly of potions and cats.
"You smell like Snape," he says.
There's a gentle gasp from Harry's spot in the bed that turns into a fit of coughing.
"Ron, you're being absolutely unmanageable today," Hermione tells him, and Ron smirks inside, glad that for once he's not the source of Hermione's scorn, though she thinks that he is. Her voice softens, though. "It's because it's been ten years, isn't it? I know it's hard, but you know that your mind would have gone completely if you'd faced down another Cruciatus."
Ron feels his eyes widen, hears himself stutter, "Cruci -- how many times did I -- face down? What does that mean?"
"Harry!" Hermione says, sharply. "I know you're tired, but you need to go out to the apothecary. I can make him another mind-strengthening unction, but we're nearly out of ginger and unicorn tears."
"Can't one of the owls go?"
"Not for unicorn tears! Go on, then."
"Bossy," Harry mumbles. Ron wants to smile, but young Ron is having none of it. Oh, one day, Ron thinks. One day you'll be in love with them, and then you'll know real feeble-mindedness.
But, Ron thinks, with a charity that reaches back almost to the dawn of history, he was completely feeble when he was fifteen. Oh, he knew he was -- what's Hermione's fancy word? Omnisexual? -- "half poof" was what he thought then, though -- he knew it, but Quidditch stars like Harry (and like he was going to be, one day) didn't fancy blokes, and besides, he was mad over Hermione, wasn't he? Wasn't that why she drove him so batty? Because she had breasts, didn't she? And that was where his reflection had ended, because he was fifteen and thoughtless and had never kissed anyone, not even Lavender Brown.
And then you saw your future, and you went mad with panic, didn't you?
Well, it isn't exactly pretty, he decides, while fifteen-year old Ron is deciding that he doesn't care if he had to leave school like his brothers, run away to America like his uncle Merc did, set Harry's broom on fire and acquire a dozen house elves -- he will be free of Harry and Hermione and this horrible old age, nasty smells and... and probably butt-fucking and cock-sucking and, worse, kissing. Ron is amused to realize how vivid and apparently appalling his image of men kissing was, and wishes Harry would kiss him, just to show young Ron what it's like. Not that he'd mind a reminder, himself. They are old and comfortable, but they have forgotten passion.
"Oh, good, you're back," Hermione says to Harry, and that's when Ron's himself again. He shakes with laughter.
"What's wrong?" Hermione gasps. "Have you gone 'round?"
"No, no -- you'd think you've never seen someone possessed before. No, that was just my Ministry experience."
"The Department of Mysteries?" Hermione is suddenly full of understanding.
"But that -- but you've kept it secret forever!" Harry says. "And I went all the way to the shop for you when you weren't insane at all, only fifteen?"
"Yes," Ron says. "Yes, that's about it. But it was worth it, really. To remember."
"To remember how young and virile we all were? I'd rather forget," Harry says.
"To remember that I stayed," Ron says. "Even though I knew we'd end up here, I stayed, didn't I?"
++
Ron is going to spew, and then he's going to choke on his vomit. The room is spinning, and he's a faggot. He can't stop wanking off about Harry (and Hermione, yeah, and Harry and Hermione doing obscene things together, but Harry. His best mate, who's male). He's going to be sick just when he needs to be not sick, because the room's stopping, and they need to save Sirius.
++
One moment, Harry's in the Department of Mysteries, and the next he's lying by the lake with one hand carelessly resting on Ron's and the other somewhere near Hermione. He might be trying to cop a feel, but he feels instinctively he's not. He stretches his legs out, glances at his friends, and knows his instincts are right. He's not him at all. He's eleven years old, and his first year at Hogwarts is almost over, but his life is just beginning. He hasn't met Sirius yet. He hasn't -- he hasn't thought about fancying anyone, not Ron, not Hermione, certainly not Cho Chang. He squeezes Ron's hand, bites his own lip.
He won't say anything, of course. They don't need to know -- they don't need to know that people will die, that Voldemort will return, that they're going to be idiotic and brave and risk their lives for him, that Ginny will be possessed, that Snape's a Death Eater, that the world that seems so bright today is heading into a war.
Instead he closes his eyes and lets his left hand find Hermione's right. It wouldn't be right to kiss them -- they're first years, and he hasn't even been brave enough to kiss them in fifth year -- but he wants to hold them, for a minute, to pretend that he's young again and that all the strength and bravery he needs comes from the soft hands and shining eyes of these friends. He doesn't want to go back, doesn't want to see Sirius being tortured. Ron or Hermione might be killed in a minute, and yet they're lying here so peacefully, glad that exams are over. He isn't crying, of course, but he holds their hands as tightly as he dares before he feels himself slipping back into his future. One spell, Lockhart's -- Obliviate! -- so that the body he reinhabited, the body that used to be his, will remain innocent a little longer, will wait a few more years until it knows lust, quakes with fear, sees Thestrals.
++
"You never told us yours," Ron says that evening over Hermione's grueliest gruel. "Hermione's was the worst birthday ever, and mine was today, but what was yours, Harry? It couldn't be as frightening as mine."
"Or mine," says Hermione. "You were the most immature -- no. Bygones are gone, but I think that set us back ten years, seeing you seem so attentive when you were really so selfish."
"Not selfish, just twenty-five," Ron says defensively.
Harry says nothing. He realizes now that he'll never have the words to name the moment he first had friends, or the first moment when they meant more to him. You don't need words for everything, not when you're one hundred twenty-seven years old and growing older, when your lovers know all the words you've ever said and share all the adventures you've ever had and will retire to your bed, tonight, the same bed you've been crowded happily into since the Second War ended and your life began
Fandom: Harry Potter
Grouping: Harry/Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Timeline: Book 1, Book 5, and post-series, with explicit spoilers through Book 6
Disclaimer: JKR's, not mine.
Notes: Written for ctorres in 3_ships 2008. Originally posted here.
Summary: Marley was dead (this wild ride is never over).
Wordcount: 2359
Marley Was Dead
They'll never tell anyone. They don't need to discuss it; the three of them tumble together into the central spinning room that leads to all the other Mysteries and share a wild, three-way glance that means there's no way. It can't've happened so there's no need to talk about it or to deny it. No need to say, where did you go? because they didn't go anywhere. They took a wrong turn and saw nothing, and nothing changed between them.
"You've gone quite pale," Luna says. "Did you see yourselves in a mirror?"
"Don't be ridiculous," says Hermione, too sharply. "We've loitered too long, anyhow."
"Prophecy or bust," Ron agrees.
Harry doesn't say anything. He's too busy not talking about it.
"It's tonight, I think," says Hermione, a bit awkwardly.
"Your birthday? Yes, we remembered," Harry tells her over the top edge of the Prophet. "This is bunk, all of it. You aren't getting another subscription to this trash, so if you want one you'd best renew it yourself."
"Not that," Hermione says. "Ron! You'll be late!"
He emerges from the bedroom still straightening his robes and trying to pat down his hair.
"Oh, let me do it," Hermione says, and directs a few practiced tidying spells at him. "I was trying to tell Harry, it's tonight."
"Yes, I know, we've already made reservations at --"
"It's meant to be a surprise," Harry mumbles.
"Right, but if she thinks we've forgotten --"
"No, no! You boys are -- tonight's the night I saw."
"When did you see a night?" Ron asks. "You've never had a prophecy in your life, Hermione."
"In the Department of Mysteries," she says, rolling her eyes.
Oh. Ron looks at his feet, and Harry directs his gaze more steadily at an editorial about Belgian goblins' financial mishaps.
"Well, listen, I'm only saying, if it happens recursively, that is, if the loop is finite, then --"
"Talk quickly," Ron says. "I'm late, remember?"
"Only, try not to shag teenaged me," Hermione says. "I was sixteen and terribly confused and couldn't understand how I could love both of you and I was afraid Sirius was dying or Harry was going mad! And they were, weren't they? So please, be gentle."
"I wonder what will happen to you, though," Harry says. "You you."
What happens is, she settles deep into the recesses of her own soul, which is like a comfortable library, lined with books that are full of memories and hopes and carefully categorized spells, and the other Hermione takes over the rest of the body, filling it out awkwardly with adolescent gangling, discomfort at the length of her legs and the size of her breasts. Hermione is used to Apparating home, but her younger self walks, quick, arrogant steps that mask the terror in her heart. She has to get back to them, to her Ron and Harry, to her own time and her own place, but this Ron and this Harry won't have any of that. It's her twenty-sixth birthday, and they've planned a fancy meal, made reservations at Newt's Eye & Newton's Apple, the best restaurant they know of, and have looked ahead at the menu and picked out something vegetarian for her -- she wasn't vegetarian, then, and her stomach is growling for meat, acidy with fear.
Tell them, she whispers. They should know. They shouldn't treat her this way -- but they do. They laugh, they tease her. They tell her, haven't they earned a shag, paying for this meal? They tell her, work was terrible today, nothing but paperwork, and the Minister wants to send Harry to Belgium for diplomatic work. Has she ever heard of anything that's a worse idea?
She is afraid of them, though. Hermione can't figure out why, can't remember the anxiety that's now eating up her whole body, hot and cold, revealing itself in brusque, rude words, terse sentences, eyes rolling and body language closed off. (Well, at least they won't try to have sex with that. Even Ron can surely tell when a woman isn't putting out as obviously as Hermione isn't.)
"Are you all right, Hermione?" asks Harry, which is as emotional as he'll be. "You're awfully nervous."
"It's -- it's nothing for you to worry about," she says.
"Aren't I your boyfriend? Aren't I supposed to? You're always telling us to be more considerate and now you're -- well --"
"She's being ungrateful," Ron puts in. "And the food's wonderful, so it must be the company."
"Midlife crisis, probably," Harry says knowledgeably (oh, why did she give him that pile of Muggle pop psych? Did she really think he would understand? The younger Hermione knows; she would never do something so foolish, never make herself this vulnerable. Younger Hermione may have fallen in love with her boys, but she wouldn't want to marry these men. She was too wise and wary for that, then).
At least she sleeps on the couch. Ron was that clever, to remember (finally) what she said in the morning, and though they're skeptical ("she looks" all right, she hears them whisper, though her younger self, less attuned to men's emotions, doesn't notice the hurried discussion). She's on the couch when she dreams of yesterday and her other self dreams of tomorrow and they part ways in the infinity of today.
"You are completely daft," she tells them, shaking them awake. "I told you and you still didn't --"
"It's because you're just the same as always," says Harry. "Did you see any difference?"
"None," says Ron. "You've not changed a bit since we fell in love with you."
++
Hermione's brain whirls faster than the room does. Prophecy? Time travel? Or delusion? She catches Ron's eye for a moment, and sees Harry examining his shoes, and she can't imagine that it's not real.
++
"Shove over."
"What?"
"Shove over."
"Can't hear you. What?"
"Shove over, for Merlin's sake, Ron!" Lucky Harry's so weak; he doesn't hit harder than a baby. Also lucky he's lost his wand again (somewhere in the sitting room, but it's floor-to-ceiling with Hermione's pamphlets, so that doesn't help).
"Tell Hermione," Ron says. "She's taking up three time as much space as me, her and her damned kneazles," and that's when he disappears with a squelch inside himself and someone entirely else takes over the body with sharp, jerking motions and disgusted sounds.
"Hermione, shove over," Harry yells, and the boy in Ron's body says, "Harry, mate, you've aged something fierce."
"You're one to talk. You'd better consult a Healer about your hearing or else we'll talk about you behind your back."
"I don't care! Just get me out of this bed." And he hurls the body out of bed, but he misjudges its weaknesses and lands on the floor.
"Here," Hermione says, rolling her eyes. "You really should see a Healer, Ron. The quality of life for centenarians is really much improved if you'd only try the potions."
Never had potions when I was young Ron thinks, and "Potions to keep me young? You're barmy," says Ron, fifteen years old and trying not to spew at the sight of a 120-something (they've stopped counting) witch in a tatty dressing gown that smells strongly of potions and cats.
"You smell like Snape," he says.
There's a gentle gasp from Harry's spot in the bed that turns into a fit of coughing.
"Ron, you're being absolutely unmanageable today," Hermione tells him, and Ron smirks inside, glad that for once he's not the source of Hermione's scorn, though she thinks that he is. Her voice softens, though. "It's because it's been ten years, isn't it? I know it's hard, but you know that your mind would have gone completely if you'd faced down another Cruciatus."
Ron feels his eyes widen, hears himself stutter, "Cruci -- how many times did I -- face down? What does that mean?"
"Harry!" Hermione says, sharply. "I know you're tired, but you need to go out to the apothecary. I can make him another mind-strengthening unction, but we're nearly out of ginger and unicorn tears."
"Can't one of the owls go?"
"Not for unicorn tears! Go on, then."
"Bossy," Harry mumbles. Ron wants to smile, but young Ron is having none of it. Oh, one day, Ron thinks. One day you'll be in love with them, and then you'll know real feeble-mindedness.
But, Ron thinks, with a charity that reaches back almost to the dawn of history, he was completely feeble when he was fifteen. Oh, he knew he was -- what's Hermione's fancy word? Omnisexual? -- "half poof" was what he thought then, though -- he knew it, but Quidditch stars like Harry (and like he was going to be, one day) didn't fancy blokes, and besides, he was mad over Hermione, wasn't he? Wasn't that why she drove him so batty? Because she had breasts, didn't she? And that was where his reflection had ended, because he was fifteen and thoughtless and had never kissed anyone, not even Lavender Brown.
And then you saw your future, and you went mad with panic, didn't you?
Well, it isn't exactly pretty, he decides, while fifteen-year old Ron is deciding that he doesn't care if he had to leave school like his brothers, run away to America like his uncle Merc did, set Harry's broom on fire and acquire a dozen house elves -- he will be free of Harry and Hermione and this horrible old age, nasty smells and... and probably butt-fucking and cock-sucking and, worse, kissing. Ron is amused to realize how vivid and apparently appalling his image of men kissing was, and wishes Harry would kiss him, just to show young Ron what it's like. Not that he'd mind a reminder, himself. They are old and comfortable, but they have forgotten passion.
"Oh, good, you're back," Hermione says to Harry, and that's when Ron's himself again. He shakes with laughter.
"What's wrong?" Hermione gasps. "Have you gone 'round?"
"No, no -- you'd think you've never seen someone possessed before. No, that was just my Ministry experience."
"The Department of Mysteries?" Hermione is suddenly full of understanding.
"But that -- but you've kept it secret forever!" Harry says. "And I went all the way to the shop for you when you weren't insane at all, only fifteen?"
"Yes," Ron says. "Yes, that's about it. But it was worth it, really. To remember."
"To remember how young and virile we all were? I'd rather forget," Harry says.
"To remember that I stayed," Ron says. "Even though I knew we'd end up here, I stayed, didn't I?"
++
Ron is going to spew, and then he's going to choke on his vomit. The room is spinning, and he's a faggot. He can't stop wanking off about Harry (and Hermione, yeah, and Harry and Hermione doing obscene things together, but Harry. His best mate, who's male). He's going to be sick just when he needs to be not sick, because the room's stopping, and they need to save Sirius.
++
One moment, Harry's in the Department of Mysteries, and the next he's lying by the lake with one hand carelessly resting on Ron's and the other somewhere near Hermione. He might be trying to cop a feel, but he feels instinctively he's not. He stretches his legs out, glances at his friends, and knows his instincts are right. He's not him at all. He's eleven years old, and his first year at Hogwarts is almost over, but his life is just beginning. He hasn't met Sirius yet. He hasn't -- he hasn't thought about fancying anyone, not Ron, not Hermione, certainly not Cho Chang. He squeezes Ron's hand, bites his own lip.
He won't say anything, of course. They don't need to know -- they don't need to know that people will die, that Voldemort will return, that they're going to be idiotic and brave and risk their lives for him, that Ginny will be possessed, that Snape's a Death Eater, that the world that seems so bright today is heading into a war.
Instead he closes his eyes and lets his left hand find Hermione's right. It wouldn't be right to kiss them -- they're first years, and he hasn't even been brave enough to kiss them in fifth year -- but he wants to hold them, for a minute, to pretend that he's young again and that all the strength and bravery he needs comes from the soft hands and shining eyes of these friends. He doesn't want to go back, doesn't want to see Sirius being tortured. Ron or Hermione might be killed in a minute, and yet they're lying here so peacefully, glad that exams are over. He isn't crying, of course, but he holds their hands as tightly as he dares before he feels himself slipping back into his future. One spell, Lockhart's -- Obliviate! -- so that the body he reinhabited, the body that used to be his, will remain innocent a little longer, will wait a few more years until it knows lust, quakes with fear, sees Thestrals.
++
"You never told us yours," Ron says that evening over Hermione's grueliest gruel. "Hermione's was the worst birthday ever, and mine was today, but what was yours, Harry? It couldn't be as frightening as mine."
"Or mine," says Hermione. "You were the most immature -- no. Bygones are gone, but I think that set us back ten years, seeing you seem so attentive when you were really so selfish."
"Not selfish, just twenty-five," Ron says defensively.
Harry says nothing. He realizes now that he'll never have the words to name the moment he first had friends, or the first moment when they meant more to him. You don't need words for everything, not when you're one hundred twenty-seven years old and growing older, when your lovers know all the words you've ever said and share all the adventures you've ever had and will retire to your bed, tonight, the same bed you've been crowded happily into since the Second War ended and your life began