In This Light, Teen, George/Hermione
Title: In This Light
Author: kitsuko_san
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and related things are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's and various big corporations. I borrow them to lay on the angst.
Pairing: George/Hermione.
Rating: A light Teen, I guess.
Summary: In this light, they're whole again.
Warnings: Erm, some mentions of sex. It's rather tame. And angst. And first go at G/H. So it may be dreadful. Also, DH spoilers.
Genre: Angst.
Author's Notes: The first attempt to write George/Hermione. The first posting of anything here. The first thing I've written in nearly a year and a half. Hopefully, it's not atrocious. If it is, do tell me so. I'd like to know how badly I suck, thanks very much.
They are lost in one another, with caresses filtered through the hazy film of moonlight.
In this light, he is not half of a set. He is George, a boy both broken and complete. He is only a boy who buries his pain inside the quivering form of a girl; he is only a boy who whimpers in loneliness.
By moonbeams, she is not a girl who hides behind books and knowledge to cover up her fears. She is Hermione, a girl strong and frail. She is only a girl with a mane of hair tumbling over the shoulder of the boy she loses her pain with; she is only a girl with the memory of war too close to forget.
He spills into her, their sex quiet yet all-consuming. She pants his name; it’s a far more pleasant sound whispered off her tongue than the curses she has had to scream. George loses himself in the feel of her, the taste of her, the understanding no one has given him besides his other half.
They are such polar opposites, her straightforward manner and bookishness contrasting against his mischievous and playful nature. After the war, they are bonded by an unlikely factor.
She suffers from insomnia; her dreams are filled with green light and screams. She understands, in a sick sort of way, how Harry must feel, must have felt for so long. He cannot sleep, because in those hours, he forgets his brother is gone. When he wakes up, it’s like losing Fred again, so he doesn’t sleep. She spends her nights in the kitchen, sipping at bitter tea in the dark and tracing scratches on the table’s surface with her fingernails. He roams through the orchards, slipping silently into the house as dawn begins to break.
He creeps into the kitchen, shuffling past the boots and closing the door behind him.
“George?” she asks, her voice breaking the solemnity of the night. “What are you doing?” She sits in shadows and takes another sip of tea. Her dressing gown gaps in the front, but he is so consumed by surprise that he barely notices. “I know you’re there, you can at least answer me.” The matter-of-fact tone of her voice summons images of happier times and he closes his eyes against them.
“Yes, well, the apples were lonely and I thought I’d go visit them,” he tells her, and he can’t see her smirk. “Now they’re just smashing.” Another invisible smirk and a barely audible snort are his reply.
“Do shut up, George. That was a dreadful joke.” It is a strike at normalcy for them, and for a moment, it feels right.
At night, when he comes back, she is waiting for him, and they speak. At first, it is hesitant talks of tasteless jokes and “remember that time” stories. He tells her of when they were children, the embarrassing things that Ron did, and carefully skims over Fred.
Over time, in some awkward way, he lets her in. He cries to her one night after coming home. He tells her of his ache, the missing part of himself, the way he feels incomplete without Fred. She tells him of her nightmares, of her parent’s terror and the memory charms she placed on them. They grow close, and he begins to realize he’s fallen in love with her.
It all changes the day his mum sent her up to prod him to come to dinner and eat with the rest of the family. He refuses, and in that one moment of vulnerability, she sees a boy who has lost everything and nothing and doesn’t know how to go on.
A hesitant embrace turns into a hesitant kiss morphs into frantic removal of clothes and sex full of tears and groans and apologetic whispers. She cries in his shoulder, he hisses as his hot tears slip into her hair.
They shag by moonlight on a twin bed he won’t let go of, with moonlight highlighting their sheen and his tears. “I love you,” he murmurs to her one night, and she smiles and cries and whispers it back and things don’t hurt quite as much after that, knowing that she loves him and that there is someone who needs him back as desperately as he needs them.
A week, a month, six months, a year, they all come to pass, the days highlighted with stolen caresses in the garden and snogging behind the broom shed in the afternoon.
They only make love by moonlight, though. In this light, she loves him most. In this light, he comes to realize he has replaced the empty part of his heart with the softness of her.
In this light, they are whole again.
Author: kitsuko_san
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and related things are not mine, they're J.K. Rowling's and various big corporations. I borrow them to lay on the angst.
Pairing: George/Hermione.
Rating: A light Teen, I guess.
Summary: In this light, they're whole again.
Warnings: Erm, some mentions of sex. It's rather tame. And angst. And first go at G/H. So it may be dreadful. Also, DH spoilers.
Genre: Angst.
Author's Notes: The first attempt to write George/Hermione. The first posting of anything here. The first thing I've written in nearly a year and a half. Hopefully, it's not atrocious. If it is, do tell me so. I'd like to know how badly I suck, thanks very much.
They are lost in one another, with caresses filtered through the hazy film of moonlight.
In this light, he is not half of a set. He is George, a boy both broken and complete. He is only a boy who buries his pain inside the quivering form of a girl; he is only a boy who whimpers in loneliness.
By moonbeams, she is not a girl who hides behind books and knowledge to cover up her fears. She is Hermione, a girl strong and frail. She is only a girl with a mane of hair tumbling over the shoulder of the boy she loses her pain with; she is only a girl with the memory of war too close to forget.
He spills into her, their sex quiet yet all-consuming. She pants his name; it’s a far more pleasant sound whispered off her tongue than the curses she has had to scream. George loses himself in the feel of her, the taste of her, the understanding no one has given him besides his other half.
They are such polar opposites, her straightforward manner and bookishness contrasting against his mischievous and playful nature. After the war, they are bonded by an unlikely factor.
She suffers from insomnia; her dreams are filled with green light and screams. She understands, in a sick sort of way, how Harry must feel, must have felt for so long. He cannot sleep, because in those hours, he forgets his brother is gone. When he wakes up, it’s like losing Fred again, so he doesn’t sleep. She spends her nights in the kitchen, sipping at bitter tea in the dark and tracing scratches on the table’s surface with her fingernails. He roams through the orchards, slipping silently into the house as dawn begins to break.
He creeps into the kitchen, shuffling past the boots and closing the door behind him.
“George?” she asks, her voice breaking the solemnity of the night. “What are you doing?” She sits in shadows and takes another sip of tea. Her dressing gown gaps in the front, but he is so consumed by surprise that he barely notices. “I know you’re there, you can at least answer me.” The matter-of-fact tone of her voice summons images of happier times and he closes his eyes against them.
“Yes, well, the apples were lonely and I thought I’d go visit them,” he tells her, and he can’t see her smirk. “Now they’re just smashing.” Another invisible smirk and a barely audible snort are his reply.
“Do shut up, George. That was a dreadful joke.” It is a strike at normalcy for them, and for a moment, it feels right.
At night, when he comes back, she is waiting for him, and they speak. At first, it is hesitant talks of tasteless jokes and “remember that time” stories. He tells her of when they were children, the embarrassing things that Ron did, and carefully skims over Fred.
Over time, in some awkward way, he lets her in. He cries to her one night after coming home. He tells her of his ache, the missing part of himself, the way he feels incomplete without Fred. She tells him of her nightmares, of her parent’s terror and the memory charms she placed on them. They grow close, and he begins to realize he’s fallen in love with her.
It all changes the day his mum sent her up to prod him to come to dinner and eat with the rest of the family. He refuses, and in that one moment of vulnerability, she sees a boy who has lost everything and nothing and doesn’t know how to go on.
A hesitant embrace turns into a hesitant kiss morphs into frantic removal of clothes and sex full of tears and groans and apologetic whispers. She cries in his shoulder, he hisses as his hot tears slip into her hair.
They shag by moonlight on a twin bed he won’t let go of, with moonlight highlighting their sheen and his tears. “I love you,” he murmurs to her one night, and she smiles and cries and whispers it back and things don’t hurt quite as much after that, knowing that she loves him and that there is someone who needs him back as desperately as he needs them.
A week, a month, six months, a year, they all come to pass, the days highlighted with stolen caresses in the garden and snogging behind the broom shed in the afternoon.
They only make love by moonlight, though. In this light, she loves him most. In this light, he comes to realize he has replaced the empty part of his heart with the softness of her.
In this light, they are whole again.