The Clock Struck Eleven - 1/7 - All Ages - Bill/Hermione
Title: The Clock Struck Eleven (1/1)
Author: silvernatasha
Rating: All Ages
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Drunken wedding karaoke isn't to everyone's taste. Bill/Hermione.
Word Count: 756.
A/N: Written in response to 7spells prompt a drinking song. My prompt table can be found here.
The drink flowed. The clock chimed. Eleven o’clock, eleven long, slow chimes from the grandfather clock in the hallway. The clock chimed to itself, though; anyone who could have heard it was busy elsewhere. Preoccupied with other things.
This was hardly surprising, though. It was not every day that Harry Potter got married.
When the clock was striking eleven, Harry was crooning along to the band, serenading his new bride. He had a peculiar fascination with karaoke, and was intent on expressing his love for his wife through music.
He missed the top notes: no-one minded because the guests had had just as much to drink as the bridegroom. As he picked up the chorus, the guests took up the song, carrying the tune with varying degrees of success. Many didn’t hit any of the notes, unable to hear anything beyond their own drunken fuzziness.
Stifling her giggles at the riotous sound, Hermione retook her seat, smoothing down the skirt of her pale blue dress. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, she thought wryly. She glanced at the man next to her. “You’re not enjoying yourself.” Hermione did not even bother phrasing it as a question - it was not worth it, considering Bill’s history.
“I hate weddings.”
She bit her lip, her lip gloss long since worn off. There was no point in reapplying it as there was no-one sober enough to appreciate how she looked.
Looking at Bill was enough to dampen her mood. It was not, however, the scars that marred his handsome face - it was strange but, after a while, you did not even notice them - but the look of sadness in his eyes. They seemed almost glossy with tears, though Hermione knew he would never cry in public. Especially not at a wedding.
“So I take it you won’t be joining the karaoke?” she asked dryly, trying to lighten their exchange.
She could not bear to see him like this.
“No.” His tone was sullen.
Hermione sipped her drink, determined to do something. A part of her just could not let Bill sit in his misery through the rest of the wedding reception.
They had become friends during the war. They had worked together, his active knowledge of ancient curses proving immensely useful for all sorts of reasons. Hermione had become fascinated with his career, his easy personality endearing him to her. What was more; he had not treated her like someone who was at school, but as more of an equal than many of the other adults.
Not that Bill was an adult, exactly. No, he could not be called an adult. Hermione never thought of him as such. Now that they were older, especially, the age gap between them was completely irrelevant. She hoped.
She reached across the table, covering Bill’s hand with her own. “I’m sorry.”
He sniffed. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Bill’s marriage had lasted less than a year. Hermione hated the word ‘lasted’. It seemed to suggest to her that Bill and Fleur had decided to go their separate ways. A mutual agreement, perhaps. It was not mutual. Not in the slightest. Not when Fleur was murdered.
Fifty dead. Fifty people had died that day in Diagon Alley. A massive attack. Fifty dead. That was what the Daily Prophet reported. That was the headline. Fifty Dead. A number. A quantity. Dozens of individuals reduced to just two words.
FIFTY DEAD.
“Do you want to leave?” Hermione asked as Harry launched into another song. She squeezed Bill’s hand reassuringly.
“That would be rude.”
Glancing at Harry, Hermione shrugged. “I don’t think Harry would mind.” She wrinkled her nose, seeing how Harry was clinging to the band’s singer as he tried to stay upright. “Or notice.”
Bill downed the rest of his drink. Hermione could not tell what it was in the dim, atmospheric light, but she had a feeling it was something strong by the way that Bill seemed to shudder involuntarily. He looked at her and their eyes met; Hermione found her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, she felt claustrophobic, trapped despite the size of the room.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Bill said; his voice was rough.
Hermione nodded mutely as Bill’s hand twisting, taking hold of hers. His palm was rougher than hers was - the skin of someone who worked with his hands. She stood, following him out of the ballroom, their hands linked.
Following him. Where was she following him exactly? Did it matter?
She would follow him anywhere.
Author: silvernatasha
Rating: All Ages
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Drunken wedding karaoke isn't to everyone's taste. Bill/Hermione.
Word Count: 756.
A/N: Written in response to 7spells prompt a drinking song. My prompt table can be found here.
The drink flowed. The clock chimed. Eleven o’clock, eleven long, slow chimes from the grandfather clock in the hallway. The clock chimed to itself, though; anyone who could have heard it was busy elsewhere. Preoccupied with other things.
This was hardly surprising, though. It was not every day that Harry Potter got married.
When the clock was striking eleven, Harry was crooning along to the band, serenading his new bride. He had a peculiar fascination with karaoke, and was intent on expressing his love for his wife through music.
He missed the top notes: no-one minded because the guests had had just as much to drink as the bridegroom. As he picked up the chorus, the guests took up the song, carrying the tune with varying degrees of success. Many didn’t hit any of the notes, unable to hear anything beyond their own drunken fuzziness.
Stifling her giggles at the riotous sound, Hermione retook her seat, smoothing down the skirt of her pale blue dress. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, she thought wryly. She glanced at the man next to her. “You’re not enjoying yourself.” Hermione did not even bother phrasing it as a question - it was not worth it, considering Bill’s history.
“I hate weddings.”
She bit her lip, her lip gloss long since worn off. There was no point in reapplying it as there was no-one sober enough to appreciate how she looked.
Looking at Bill was enough to dampen her mood. It was not, however, the scars that marred his handsome face - it was strange but, after a while, you did not even notice them - but the look of sadness in his eyes. They seemed almost glossy with tears, though Hermione knew he would never cry in public. Especially not at a wedding.
“So I take it you won’t be joining the karaoke?” she asked dryly, trying to lighten their exchange.
She could not bear to see him like this.
“No.” His tone was sullen.
Hermione sipped her drink, determined to do something. A part of her just could not let Bill sit in his misery through the rest of the wedding reception.
They had become friends during the war. They had worked together, his active knowledge of ancient curses proving immensely useful for all sorts of reasons. Hermione had become fascinated with his career, his easy personality endearing him to her. What was more; he had not treated her like someone who was at school, but as more of an equal than many of the other adults.
Not that Bill was an adult, exactly. No, he could not be called an adult. Hermione never thought of him as such. Now that they were older, especially, the age gap between them was completely irrelevant. She hoped.
She reached across the table, covering Bill’s hand with her own. “I’m sorry.”
He sniffed. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Bill’s marriage had lasted less than a year. Hermione hated the word ‘lasted’. It seemed to suggest to her that Bill and Fleur had decided to go their separate ways. A mutual agreement, perhaps. It was not mutual. Not in the slightest. Not when Fleur was murdered.
Fifty dead. Fifty people had died that day in Diagon Alley. A massive attack. Fifty dead. That was what the Daily Prophet reported. That was the headline. Fifty Dead. A number. A quantity. Dozens of individuals reduced to just two words.
FIFTY DEAD.
“Do you want to leave?” Hermione asked as Harry launched into another song. She squeezed Bill’s hand reassuringly.
“That would be rude.”
Glancing at Harry, Hermione shrugged. “I don’t think Harry would mind.” She wrinkled her nose, seeing how Harry was clinging to the band’s singer as he tried to stay upright. “Or notice.”
Bill downed the rest of his drink. Hermione could not tell what it was in the dim, atmospheric light, but she had a feeling it was something strong by the way that Bill seemed to shudder involuntarily. He looked at her and their eyes met; Hermione found her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, she felt claustrophobic, trapped despite the size of the room.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Bill said; his voice was rough.
Hermione nodded mutely as Bill’s hand twisting, taking hold of hers. His palm was rougher than hers was - the skin of someone who worked with his hands. She stood, following him out of the ballroom, their hands linked.
Following him. Where was she following him exactly? Did it matter?
She would follow him anywhere.