Madness [PG] for Jodylips
Title: Madness
Author/Artist: rosweldrmr
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling // Quote: "There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." -Friedrich Nietzsche
Warnings: first person, present tense
Summary: Even as much as she loves order and structure, there's still a part of her that's trying to prove she's just as good, just as brave, just as dangerous. And in that way, she brings reason to all this madness.
Notes: The giftee specifically requested no "Tragedy or Complete Angst" -- which pretty much put in out of my element. Combine that with a time-crunch and HELL-A crazy work schedule lately, and spontaneous First Person POV and present tense may ensue. Mai Bad. Plz forgive. Also, massive doses of candy and Cat Macros may make the situation worse. (Trust me.)
This is for Jodylips, I hope this is at least close to what you were expecting.
ALSO TO KYRA4, you sexy beast-of-a-BETA. This wouldn't be possible without you. (Or intelligible). Anything positive about this fic you may find, I credit to her. And on the other hand, anything negative you find is solely my responsibility.
Thank you.
"And this," she turns to me and says, "is nothing like what I expected." Her voice is soft as she leans into me, the ridge of her back pressed against my hip, the dew-moist blades of grass snap as she moves.
I like it when she's like this. Hushed in the midnight hours. She keeps the portkey close by, just in case.
It's been a year now, a year of sneaking and hiding. A year of whispers and fleeting glances across the Ministry Library or in crowded courtrooms. But she's careful never to let her eyes linger too long, or let her lipstick smear when I catch her in a dark alcove between cases. I can't help it. It’s the way her skin, and neck, and tufts of hair call to me - beckon me to her, like magic.
She laughed the first time I told her this.
---
"What is it about me that appeals to you?" She looks up from the book nestled in her lap. She holds a page in between her fingers, half-way turned, like the thought just occurred to her that she might be appealing to me.
"Nothing." I tell her, because really, it wasn't supposed to be like this. The way she moves, the way she breathes, the way she always looks me in the eye. Even when she's pissed and hurt because I've done or said something I shouldn't have. She's brave that way. And stubborn, and everything a proper Pureblood would never dream of being.
She smiles at the answer, like she knew it's what I'd say. "Then why do you look at me like that?" There is something in her voice that makes me think she's beautiful at this moment. She's so far removed from the girl she was in school that I forget who I'm supposed to be. And it's her and me and books and a fire in the hearth. And it's perfect when it's like this.
When there's no memories of war, or tracing the scars she carries like precious family jewels, and recounts one by one all the ways my family, my kind have cost her.
When I'm just me and she's just a girl who loves the quiet and marvels at the collection of musty, old books in my library.
"Like what?" I ask, and try to keep the awe from my voice.
"Like you're afraid I might disappear." her lips are soft and upturned at the tips. I'm caught. Under her gaze, she scrutinizes every look, every touch, every time I think of reaching over and taking her hand in mine. She knows me better each day. I suppose this should unnerve me. It doesn't.
"You already vanished once." I remind her, lightly, the sorrowful humor already tickling my throat as I pretend the memory of a year without her doesn't ache.
"Yes." she concedes, and folds the book shut as if she was never reading it. (I wonder: will she fold me up the same way when this is through?) "But I came back." She smiles and it’s like the prestige of a spell: when the beetle turns into a bard; and all is right in the world.
"In the end." I say.
"Not the end." she tells me, in that way. That calming, confident, teacherly sort-of-way that makes me feel 14 again. "Just the middle." And just like that, it’s okay.
It’s okay that I used to hate her. It’s okay that the scars she carries are from my Aunt. It’s okay that my side lost, and her best friend is my sort-of nemesis. It’s okay that I tormented her, and she slapped me. It's okay that things will never be normal with us. It’s okay that someday, this will have to end. (She knows this better than I, the way she twirls the ring around finger, absentmindedly when we lay in bed together.) It’s okay that there is no logic in this. Because even as much as she loves order and structure, there's still a part of her that's 11-years-old and trying to prove that she's just as good, just as brave, just as dangerous.
And in that way, she brings reason to all this madness.
"Do you love me?"
It's the first time she's ever asked, and part of me is ashamed to feel pity. Poor little Gryffindor, so naive.
But she already knows the answer, otherwise she wouldn't have asked. Because this isn't the type of question that you 'Ooo, ooo, ooo' over. It's the kind that you ask because you already know and you want them to know you know. A sort-of 'Ah-ha' when you've caught someone red-handed.
I'm caught, again.
"I'll never understand you, why you look at me the way you do."
"Would you like me to stop?" I ask, already forming a smile for the pout she will undoubtedly give me.
"No. I just want to know why?" And there it is, that indignant pout. The way her lip buckles under the weight of her disappointment until it puckers up and out and Merlin, there's nothing I want to do more than to run my thumb over that lip, and when she tries to suck it back I'd lean in and take it gently between my teeth. The feel of her skin against mine, soft and moist. The feel of her breath coming in short puffs, just a hitch when I nibble it a little.
It occurs to me then, as I catch myself already leaning in, half-way between where I was a moment ago, and the irresistible allure of that damn lip, this is why. But how do I explain that? How do I show her this, this part of me inside that acts outside of logic and reason? How do I tell her what it's like to think of her and feel hope, freedom, autonomy for the first time in my life? Would she understand what it means to someone like me? Born and bred, bought and paid for, she gives me a reprieve from a life that was already laid out for me when I was born. Just waiting for me to fill out, like an expensive dress robe my mother bought for me when I was too little, and when it didn't fit, she just told me, 'I'd grow into it.'
She is the culmination of the gaps between stitches in the fabric of my life. She is everything I shouldn't want, but do. And she wants to know why? Why I want her, why I feel like I can't breathe until she's with me, wrapped up together. How do I tell her I don't know who I am without her?
She's watching me, waiting. And there's only one thing that comes to mind when I'm this close to her, the way her eyes catch the light of the fire, the dull-peach of her skin against the vibrant red in the collar of her robe.
"Magic, I suppose."
And she laughs.
---
"What did you expect?" I pull her closer to me, so that the arch of her spine tucks neatly into the curve of my side, almost like we were always supposed to sit just like this. Her hair tickles my cheek as she turns in my grasp to look up at me.
In the moonlight, the feel of her leg wrapped around mine, our bare feet buried in the grass, thin blades between my toes - she is ethereal.
"Dunno." she says and settles back. "Just, not this."
I know what she means. Tomorrow isn't just another day. There will be a wedding when the sun rises. She probably thinks tonight is the end. The end of this, thing, whatever it is between us. She was expecting something grand. Something that could only happen once in a lifetime.
And if this were really the end, if even a sliver of me thought I wouldn't still have a piece of her in the morning, if I actually believed that a ring and a ceremony were going to change anything, then maybe I would've done just what she expected. But this isn't the end. Not for me, not for us. This is only the middle. And the middle is always the hardest. So when it comes time to leave her tonight it might be more difficult than usual.
I never minded sharing her. That's not what this is about. I don't think I could handle her all at once anyway. It's nice to have a buffer, sometimes. Especially when she's working too hard and all wound up about someone doing something wrong and puffs out her chest with a squawk of outrage and declares that she 'won't let it stand' or when she's on one of her tangents about 'the rights of every magical creature, great and small', it's on those occasions that I'm glad she has someone else to go home to.
It isn't the first time I've brought her to the enchanted garden on my family's estate. And, although it's a beautiful place, there is nothing about it that gives that kind of final goodbye that she was expecting.
"This isn't the end."
I can feel her cheeks shift against my shoulder as she smiles. "Is that so, Mr. Malfoy."
"It is, Ms. Granger."
"You're mad, you know that?" she asks, and just like that, she doesn't think it's over either. I can feel the change in her. The way she sighs and touches my hand.
"There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness"
ferretbush_post is the account the mods use to post gifts, it has not authored or created any of the gifts.
Mod note: This story was generously written by one of our fantastic pinch-hitters - name to be revealed at the end with the regular participant reveals.
Author/Artist: rosweldrmr
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling // Quote: "There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." -Friedrich Nietzsche
Warnings: first person, present tense
Summary: Even as much as she loves order and structure, there's still a part of her that's trying to prove she's just as good, just as brave, just as dangerous. And in that way, she brings reason to all this madness.
Notes: The giftee specifically requested no "Tragedy or Complete Angst" -- which pretty much put in out of my element. Combine that with a time-crunch and HELL-A crazy work schedule lately, and spontaneous First Person POV and present tense may ensue. Mai Bad. Plz forgive. Also, massive doses of candy and Cat Macros may make the situation worse. (Trust me.)
This is for Jodylips, I hope this is at least close to what you were expecting.
ALSO TO KYRA4, you sexy beast-of-a-BETA. This wouldn't be possible without you. (Or intelligible). Anything positive about this fic you may find, I credit to her. And on the other hand, anything negative you find is solely my responsibility.
Thank you.
"And this," she turns to me and says, "is nothing like what I expected." Her voice is soft as she leans into me, the ridge of her back pressed against my hip, the dew-moist blades of grass snap as she moves.
I like it when she's like this. Hushed in the midnight hours. She keeps the portkey close by, just in case.
It's been a year now, a year of sneaking and hiding. A year of whispers and fleeting glances across the Ministry Library or in crowded courtrooms. But she's careful never to let her eyes linger too long, or let her lipstick smear when I catch her in a dark alcove between cases. I can't help it. It’s the way her skin, and neck, and tufts of hair call to me - beckon me to her, like magic.
She laughed the first time I told her this.
---
"What is it about me that appeals to you?" She looks up from the book nestled in her lap. She holds a page in between her fingers, half-way turned, like the thought just occurred to her that she might be appealing to me.
"Nothing." I tell her, because really, it wasn't supposed to be like this. The way she moves, the way she breathes, the way she always looks me in the eye. Even when she's pissed and hurt because I've done or said something I shouldn't have. She's brave that way. And stubborn, and everything a proper Pureblood would never dream of being.
She smiles at the answer, like she knew it's what I'd say. "Then why do you look at me like that?" There is something in her voice that makes me think she's beautiful at this moment. She's so far removed from the girl she was in school that I forget who I'm supposed to be. And it's her and me and books and a fire in the hearth. And it's perfect when it's like this.
When there's no memories of war, or tracing the scars she carries like precious family jewels, and recounts one by one all the ways my family, my kind have cost her.
When I'm just me and she's just a girl who loves the quiet and marvels at the collection of musty, old books in my library.
"Like what?" I ask, and try to keep the awe from my voice.
"Like you're afraid I might disappear." her lips are soft and upturned at the tips. I'm caught. Under her gaze, she scrutinizes every look, every touch, every time I think of reaching over and taking her hand in mine. She knows me better each day. I suppose this should unnerve me. It doesn't.
"You already vanished once." I remind her, lightly, the sorrowful humor already tickling my throat as I pretend the memory of a year without her doesn't ache.
"Yes." she concedes, and folds the book shut as if she was never reading it. (I wonder: will she fold me up the same way when this is through?) "But I came back." She smiles and it’s like the prestige of a spell: when the beetle turns into a bard; and all is right in the world.
"In the end." I say.
"Not the end." she tells me, in that way. That calming, confident, teacherly sort-of-way that makes me feel 14 again. "Just the middle." And just like that, it’s okay.
It’s okay that I used to hate her. It’s okay that the scars she carries are from my Aunt. It’s okay that my side lost, and her best friend is my sort-of nemesis. It’s okay that I tormented her, and she slapped me. It's okay that things will never be normal with us. It’s okay that someday, this will have to end. (She knows this better than I, the way she twirls the ring around finger, absentmindedly when we lay in bed together.) It’s okay that there is no logic in this. Because even as much as she loves order and structure, there's still a part of her that's 11-years-old and trying to prove that she's just as good, just as brave, just as dangerous.
And in that way, she brings reason to all this madness.
"Do you love me?"
It's the first time she's ever asked, and part of me is ashamed to feel pity. Poor little Gryffindor, so naive.
But she already knows the answer, otherwise she wouldn't have asked. Because this isn't the type of question that you 'Ooo, ooo, ooo' over. It's the kind that you ask because you already know and you want them to know you know. A sort-of 'Ah-ha' when you've caught someone red-handed.
I'm caught, again.
"I'll never understand you, why you look at me the way you do."
"Would you like me to stop?" I ask, already forming a smile for the pout she will undoubtedly give me.
"No. I just want to know why?" And there it is, that indignant pout. The way her lip buckles under the weight of her disappointment until it puckers up and out and Merlin, there's nothing I want to do more than to run my thumb over that lip, and when she tries to suck it back I'd lean in and take it gently between my teeth. The feel of her skin against mine, soft and moist. The feel of her breath coming in short puffs, just a hitch when I nibble it a little.
It occurs to me then, as I catch myself already leaning in, half-way between where I was a moment ago, and the irresistible allure of that damn lip, this is why. But how do I explain that? How do I show her this, this part of me inside that acts outside of logic and reason? How do I tell her what it's like to think of her and feel hope, freedom, autonomy for the first time in my life? Would she understand what it means to someone like me? Born and bred, bought and paid for, she gives me a reprieve from a life that was already laid out for me when I was born. Just waiting for me to fill out, like an expensive dress robe my mother bought for me when I was too little, and when it didn't fit, she just told me, 'I'd grow into it.'
She is the culmination of the gaps between stitches in the fabric of my life. She is everything I shouldn't want, but do. And she wants to know why? Why I want her, why I feel like I can't breathe until she's with me, wrapped up together. How do I tell her I don't know who I am without her?
She's watching me, waiting. And there's only one thing that comes to mind when I'm this close to her, the way her eyes catch the light of the fire, the dull-peach of her skin against the vibrant red in the collar of her robe.
"Magic, I suppose."
And she laughs.
---
"What did you expect?" I pull her closer to me, so that the arch of her spine tucks neatly into the curve of my side, almost like we were always supposed to sit just like this. Her hair tickles my cheek as she turns in my grasp to look up at me.
In the moonlight, the feel of her leg wrapped around mine, our bare feet buried in the grass, thin blades between my toes - she is ethereal.
"Dunno." she says and settles back. "Just, not this."
I know what she means. Tomorrow isn't just another day. There will be a wedding when the sun rises. She probably thinks tonight is the end. The end of this, thing, whatever it is between us. She was expecting something grand. Something that could only happen once in a lifetime.
And if this were really the end, if even a sliver of me thought I wouldn't still have a piece of her in the morning, if I actually believed that a ring and a ceremony were going to change anything, then maybe I would've done just what she expected. But this isn't the end. Not for me, not for us. This is only the middle. And the middle is always the hardest. So when it comes time to leave her tonight it might be more difficult than usual.
I never minded sharing her. That's not what this is about. I don't think I could handle her all at once anyway. It's nice to have a buffer, sometimes. Especially when she's working too hard and all wound up about someone doing something wrong and puffs out her chest with a squawk of outrage and declares that she 'won't let it stand' or when she's on one of her tangents about 'the rights of every magical creature, great and small', it's on those occasions that I'm glad she has someone else to go home to.
It isn't the first time I've brought her to the enchanted garden on my family's estate. And, although it's a beautiful place, there is nothing about it that gives that kind of final goodbye that she was expecting.
"This isn't the end."
I can feel her cheeks shift against my shoulder as she smiles. "Is that so, Mr. Malfoy."
"It is, Ms. Granger."
"You're mad, you know that?" she asks, and just like that, she doesn't think it's over either. I can feel the change in her. The way she sighs and touches my hand.
"There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness"
ferretbush_post is the account the mods use to post gifts, it has not authored or created any of the gifts.
Mod note: This story was generously written by one of our fantastic pinch-hitters - name to be revealed at the end with the regular participant reveals.