Fic: Better Here in London
This is for Kirsten (augustepiphany) - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and I hope you enjoy it!
Title: Better Here in London
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Pairing: Slight Hermione/Luna, slight Ron/Hermione.
Rating: PG.
Words: 523.
Author’s Note/Disclaimer: Characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Also, this is more Luna/Hermione than Ron/Hermione, but it’s pretty slow-developing, or so I think anyway.
- - - - - - -
i. sixteen.
It’s warm and stuffy in the Library and they’re all seated together, studying for exams.
She’s hunched over her books and trying to decipher the runes on the page in front of her.
“Hermione?”
The voice is soft and wondering.
She makes the mistake of looking up, and finds herself staring into bright blue eyes.
Her heart skips a beat, but it’s not until years later that she knows what that means.
ii. seventeen.
It’s just the two of them that night, in front of the Lake.
Her hand is warm in his palm, almost too warm.
But she kisses him anyway, and runs her hands through his beautiful red hair and tells herself she doesn’t mind.
Because she loves him.
She does.
iii. eighteen.
It’s her very last day here and she’s sitting in the Courtyard, reminiscing the days gone by.
There’s laughter all around her, the chatter of graduates and students and professors alike.
She smiles when she catches the familiar glint of blonde hair in the sunlight, and the smile is returned.
Not long later she finds herself with company.
“Congratulations.”
She smiles at the sentiment in thanks, trying to shake the feeling that she’s losing something by leaving the school.
“Spain may be far, but the Blibbering Buznit won’t let me forget you.”
She’s not sure what to make of the strange words, and she knows that there’s no such thing as a Blibbering Buznit, but there’s a gnawing at her heart and a flutter in her belly, and somehow she thinks that there are no better words for the moment.
iv. nineteen.
It’s six in the evening and the heat is unbearable.
But here he is anyway, in his dress robes, down on one knee and asking for her hand in marriage.
She knows it would be the right thing to do.
It’s hot, he’s uncomfortable in his clothes and going out on a limb for this proposal, and they’ve been together for years.
It would be the nice thing to do.
She moves to respond, but the words come out all wrong.
I can’t.
v. twenty.
It’s a nice day out and they’re sitting at a café by the streetside.
They haven’t seen each other in two years, but she finds it easy to connect with the blonde in front of her - it was as though she never left.
There’s a moment where they’re both quiet, and she takes a sip of her tea.
“See?” the younger woman says when she sets her cup down.
Then the blonde leans in towards her, so close that she can see the individual wisps of light hair framing her face, so close that she can smell her flowery scent.
“The Blibbering Buznit didn’t let me forget you.”
Even though years later, she still thinks that it’s a completely ridiculous thing to say, it makes her colour.
A soft hand is placed on hers, and all she can do is to reciprocate with a small smile.
“The Blibbering Buznit didn’t let me forget you, either.”
Spain was nice, she thinks, but she likes it better here in London.
- - - - - - -
Title: Better Here in London
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Pairing: Slight Hermione/Luna, slight Ron/Hermione.
Rating: PG.
Words: 523.
Author’s Note/Disclaimer: Characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Also, this is more Luna/Hermione than Ron/Hermione, but it’s pretty slow-developing, or so I think anyway.
- - - - - - -
i. sixteen.
It’s warm and stuffy in the Library and they’re all seated together, studying for exams.
She’s hunched over her books and trying to decipher the runes on the page in front of her.
“Hermione?”
The voice is soft and wondering.
She makes the mistake of looking up, and finds herself staring into bright blue eyes.
Her heart skips a beat, but it’s not until years later that she knows what that means.
ii. seventeen.
It’s just the two of them that night, in front of the Lake.
Her hand is warm in his palm, almost too warm.
But she kisses him anyway, and runs her hands through his beautiful red hair and tells herself she doesn’t mind.
Because she loves him.
She does.
iii. eighteen.
It’s her very last day here and she’s sitting in the Courtyard, reminiscing the days gone by.
There’s laughter all around her, the chatter of graduates and students and professors alike.
She smiles when she catches the familiar glint of blonde hair in the sunlight, and the smile is returned.
Not long later she finds herself with company.
“Congratulations.”
She smiles at the sentiment in thanks, trying to shake the feeling that she’s losing something by leaving the school.
“Spain may be far, but the Blibbering Buznit won’t let me forget you.”
She’s not sure what to make of the strange words, and she knows that there’s no such thing as a Blibbering Buznit, but there’s a gnawing at her heart and a flutter in her belly, and somehow she thinks that there are no better words for the moment.
iv. nineteen.
It’s six in the evening and the heat is unbearable.
But here he is anyway, in his dress robes, down on one knee and asking for her hand in marriage.
She knows it would be the right thing to do.
It’s hot, he’s uncomfortable in his clothes and going out on a limb for this proposal, and they’ve been together for years.
It would be the nice thing to do.
She moves to respond, but the words come out all wrong.
I can’t.
v. twenty.
It’s a nice day out and they’re sitting at a café by the streetside.
They haven’t seen each other in two years, but she finds it easy to connect with the blonde in front of her - it was as though she never left.
There’s a moment where they’re both quiet, and she takes a sip of her tea.
“See?” the younger woman says when she sets her cup down.
Then the blonde leans in towards her, so close that she can see the individual wisps of light hair framing her face, so close that she can smell her flowery scent.
“The Blibbering Buznit didn’t let me forget you.”
Even though years later, she still thinks that it’s a completely ridiculous thing to say, it makes her colour.
A soft hand is placed on hers, and all she can do is to reciprocate with a small smile.
“The Blibbering Buznit didn’t let me forget you, either.”
Spain was nice, she thinks, but she likes it better here in London.
- - - - - - -