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[Jul. 30th, 2007|01:49 am] |
title: moments in second person (1/12)
rating: r
pairing(s): ron/hermione
summary: a year of romance, in song lyrics and sotto voices. because you never really know what's going on inside a person, do you? [rxhr, hxg, nxl]
spoilers: many. be warned!
a/n: this is to satisfy my yearning for romance in deathly hallows. it says 12 chapters, but dont worry, most of them are written already. i refuse to work on anything else until it's done. *furtively finishes work in other fandom* this chapter is for ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) crackers4jenn, who has reawakened her ron and ron/hermione love. here you go, lover!
- - -
i. may
my body is a cage that keeps me
from dancing with the one i love
but my mind holds the key
---
The turning point came years ago, if you care to think hard enough.
The Yule Ball in fourth year, though not for the obvious reasons of hormones running amok, of blushing and making a fool of oneself in front of girls who were suddenly women.
It was the moment you realized you didn't want anyone else having her, that she was yours in some primal, possessive way that's sure to get you slapped should you ever tell her of it. It was the first time Hermione actually frightened you--made something inside you fall away so all that was left was something fragile and tenuous and inches away from shattering.
Her beauty doesn't blind you so much as leave you unsettled, and the night she descended the stairs to dance on Krum's arm is the night it all started.
You were unsettled by Hermione's otherness, you reckon--
--her strangely sleek hair, her swishy blue dress, her downcast lashes, like a doll, or a picture, nothing so real as a best mate with big teeth and cat hair sticking to her jumper--
--unsettled by the hope lighting her face like a bright, fiery candle built to rage on even in utter darkness. Unsettled by the dips and curves of her body, the way she was so alien from the bookish girl beneath heavy robes and school uniforms. Unsettled by the tears that slipped down her red, red face as both of you were shouting, screaming, her hair escaping that ridiculous twirly-thing atop her head, your fists clenched at your sides to keep from strangling (touching) her. Rowing at the bottom of the stairs and it was the same as all your fights before but different, so different, and you didn't know why.
You weren't quite ready for her, though, not back then, were you? All of fourteen, you were trying too hard not to lose your mind over what you were feeling in the first place--there was no time or space in the dizzying day-to-day of your life to obsess over why.
But now you're older, and a little wiser (thanks to a certain book Fred and George recently gifted to you), and you understand exactly where your desires, your protective urges, your restless dreams come from. And looking at her, really looking at Hermione Granger for the first time since you were eleven and you wondered where the bloody hell this infuriating, maddening, brilliant girl came from, all you can think is she's the most gorgeous young woman you've ever seen.
The curve of her lips, the pale of her skin, even the frothy cloud of her curls tumbling every which way. You've watched her for so long without really seeing, watched her lips press into a thin line in deep thought, watched her expressive brows climb to her hairline in exasperation. Watched her cheeks round when she smiles, beams at you with a pride that sinks low in your belly, spreads warmth to your bones. She's no Veela, really, but Hermione bewitches you far better and far more than any of Fleur's relatives ever could. You sometimes think, especially at times like these, that you could stare at her forever.
Yeah, you could stare at her forever, or at least till her gaze meets yours and she's looking at you in the same way you're looking at her--her eyes burning into you, finding things she never even knew she was looking for. Wanting you. Needing you. It'd complete that puzzle inside, getting that look from her. It'd push some piece in and lock it in place with the others, make a picture that looks something like a future separate from Hogwarts and Horcruxes and, much as you love the bloke, Harry.
The train jerks you out of your reverie, makes you stumble and catch hold of her hand. Her skin is hot, dry, soft. Fingers like bird bones, delicate and tiny, tips stained with ink, decorated with paper-cuts she always forgets to heal--like some sort of badge of honor. You never make fun, though, it's the same with your Quidditch callouses, the ones she'll sometimes trace with that Oh, honestly, Ronald look in her eyes. You think there are probably more gratifying things in this world than that look, but bullocks to anyone who tries to prove it.
"I think rounds are done, don't you?" she asks now, and her voice is absent. You can tell she is already making lists inside that vast brain of hers, noting supplies and books and spells and more books that you'll all need for your journey come July. It's a rare first--a day when Prefect checks come second to adventure. You take no glory or joy in it, though. If you could, you'd keep her home and safe for the rest of her life, even if it meant dying far away from her, even if it meant never seeing her again. You sort of understand now how Harry could have broken things off with Ginny.
But the selfish part of you is very, very glad that Hermione is more stubborn than even Ginny, and of age besides, and no one could ever make her sit in a tower while her friends fight a war without her.
"Yeah," you say, "I think rounds are done." Of course rounds are done. Dumbledore is dead and Hogwarts may never reopen--checking the train for troublemakers is a bit like making the rounds of the gallows. Everyone is silent, scared, expressions black and voices ominous. But there is Hermione again, impervious to the encroaching darkness, thinking only of hope and triumph and what needs to be done. Of what's to come, of what's ahead.
You notice she's not dropped her hand from yours, though. Whatever else she is, this brave girl, she is not in it alone. And she knows. Something in your heart swells, because somehow, this confidence of hers has always daunted you, always stirred some forgotten insecurities. Are you smart enough? Strong enough? Good enough?
And, to Hermione, by the way her hand fits into yours, you think that you just might be. It's comforting in a mildly terrifying way. Because you do want this, but you want so much more. And you're still frightened to ask. Frightened to presume.
Unsettled.
Her hand squeezes yours.
You squeeze back, and Hermione, unremarkable to most, in her Hogwarts robes and skirt and jumper, looks at you. The world sharpens, your skin heats, and you almost feel like throwing an arm over your eyes at the way her smile shines, lights the whole train around you.
The year ahead is bound to be fraught with danger, with daring, with death. All you want, however, is a chance to tell Hermione the truth. That you think she's beautiful, and smart, and exasperating, and completely off her rocker. That you want to spend the rest of your life with her, even if--especially if--it happens to only be about as long as this mission to kill bits of You-Know-Who's soul.
You may have missed it when it happened all the way back in fourth year--
(and if you're honest with yourself, you'll see it happened long before that, when trolls invaded bathrooms and slugs came out of your mouth and she slapped Draco Malfoy across his stupid face)
--but you sure as hell won't miss it now.
You sit next to her for the entire ride home, watching the Highlands disappear, and the sun sink below the hills. And when you arrive at King's Cross, as your hands disentangle, as her eyes catch yours with something foreign, a desperate fear, an unwillingness to let go, you give her the most reassuring smile you can. You say goodbye and you tell her, quietly, that you have faith in her. And she says, "Put faith in yourself, Ronald. Put faith in tomorrow."
You watch her go, her shoulders slightly less rigid than a second before, your fingers still tingling from touching hers. And it's a sort of triumph.
You think when the moment next comes, you'll take it.
[2: hermione] |
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