fic: easy as burning (hp)
Feb. 24th, 2011 05:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ever_neutraleasy as burning.
harry potter, hermione granger, ron/hermione
post-deathly hallows, 1,143 words.
a/n: a belated v-day gift for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mollivanders . hope it pleases! (this is domestic fic. what have I become.)
When the war is over, the first thing she does is buy enough books to fill a small library. She wants the keepsakes of harder times, the concrete words beneath her ink-stained fingers. Can’t forget the hours poring over defensive spells in the Common Room, preparing for the end that seemed inevitable back then.
But the climax was not an end. The pages keep turning.
She fills her home with proof of this, decorates every surface with books. No—she decorates the books with furniture. Makes Ron come over and help with the organising. Which is a joke in itself, but contrary to popular belief, she doesn't insist on taking everything dead seriously, especially not him and herself.
Jesus, Hermione. There’s only so much wall space a house can accommodate, he's saying, brow cocked in an expression that’s both disbelieving and impressed (in other words, the one he’s been wearing since they first met). He says it to get under her skin—she knows; she started it, after all—he likes to catch the ripple in her veneer, the near imperceptible shift from cool to simmer, marking the (usually narrow, if he has anything to say about it) period before boiling.
(The rest of the world merely catches the explosion.)
There’s always room for more books, she tells him as they’re putting up another bookshelf.
Ron groans dramatically and shoves the offending piece of wood into the last available gap. Stands back to appraise the room, every inch of which is lined with wood.
She eyes the remaining tower of books on the floor, knows without a doubt they won’t all fit.
We’re going to need another room, she declares, flushes slightly, checks to see how Ron’s taking it. He looks on the verge of laughter. She has to ask. Do you think it’s too much?
It’s insane, he says, matter-of-factly.
Oh, shut up, she replies. It’s… romantic. Feels herself turn a little pink at her own sentimentality.
There's a smile at the edges of his smirk. I never said they were mutually exclusive, he admits.
--
By the end of the day, he’s bemoaning fatigue and sore, sore muscles, and he just can’t work up the energy to Disapparate all the way back to The Burrow.
She graciously allows him sanctuary for the night—figures he deserves some sort of reward for his help, anyway.
--
His hair is a mess in the morning—much like everything else about him—fine tendrils of flame shooting out into sparks. And like the proverbial moth, she is rapt with the idea of controlling it.
Of course, she will never succeed, which is typical. She’d like to blame him, but she has to admit she’d loathe for him to be dull.
--
He keeps meaning to go home, but can never get around to doing it. Insists on being a gentleman and helping put her house together. She suspects he wants to be an integral part of the process, to know there will still be room for him when all the valuables have been unpacked.
She points out that leaving would save him a lot of trouble, but he only shoots back, Who says I don't like trouble? and she's suddenly reminded of trap doors and three-headed dogs and straying staircases leading her off her perfectly boring path. If she were a stronger person, she might have been able to resist.
She still bears the same weak spots after all this time, so naturally she lets him stay.
--
By the third day, they're arguing about drapes. He's irrationally furious at the lace she picks out. Still harbours bad memories of high school balls and great aunt-ly odours, she'd be willing to bet.
Honestly, Ron, you just don't get over anything, she gripes, because she apparently can't help herself.
He gapes at her, spits out, What does Victor Krum have to do with your curtains?
They finally agree on an inoffensive blue. It nearly matches the colour of his eyes. Though she doesn't tell him that while he's drinking coffee, lest he spray it all over their new purchase.
--
On the fifth day, she confronts the fact: Her life is inextricably messier with him in it.
This is, of course, a tale so old she knows it off by heart; yet still she's unable to predict where it'll go next. It's a story they're making up along the way, poorly planned and riddled with holes. She's a little too fallible to be queen of the castle; he's a little too transparent to pull off shining armour. This is the way they fit: seemingly not at all, unless you don't assume things are what they seem.
He has a habit of leaving every item he ever picks up on the floor. This is not a surprise to her—she's seen his enclave of The Burrow, seen the wreckage he's carelessly left in his wake like a miniature hurricane. And now the hurricane's here, inside of her walls, and she's invited it to stay for good.
For a moment she can only stare in panic and dismay, oh God what have I done. Her younger self is disowning her for the mess she's allowed herself to be complicit in.
But then a tumult of images rushes through her mind—images of levitating clubs and regurgitated slugs and self-sacrificial knights on checkered battlefields. This tale has always been chaotic—but she blinks, and she can see the patterns in the commotion, the long-lasting themes.
She’s survived war; she’s survived loss; she’s survived the cold grip of paralysis and the heated stabs of unjust hate.
She can survive a little disorder.
--
Later in the week, she comes home from the grocery store to find a package half her size blocking the front corridor.
Is this something I should be worried about? she calls out, without any sincere concern.
He steps out from the kitchen, hands and collar garnished with flour. Oh. It’s another bookshelf. Looked like you were running short, he teases.
She practically leaps over the box, and nearly bowls him over with the force of her embrace—which is quite an achievement, but then she was always good at that—and for a second they’re thirteen again, clumsy and off-balance from the sheer force of emotion, the tide that threatens to demolish the foundations on which they’re built (because when you’re thirteen and you know everything, there’s no room for emotion in the ivory tower of your intellect).
And then he draws his own arms up around her, completing the gesture. His hands are leaving floury prints on her the back of her shirt, she knows, but it only seems fair that now they're both a little in disarray.
(It’s an acquired dance, reciprocation. But they’re starting to get the hang of it.)
She steadies.
*
harry potter, hermione granger, ron/hermione
post-deathly hallows, 1,143 words.
a/n: a belated v-day gift for
mollivanders . hope it pleases! (this is domestic fic. what have I become.)When the war is over, the first thing she does is buy enough books to fill a small library. She wants the keepsakes of harder times, the concrete words beneath her ink-stained fingers. Can’t forget the hours poring over defensive spells in the Common Room, preparing for the end that seemed inevitable back then.
But the climax was not an end. The pages keep turning.
She fills her home with proof of this, decorates every surface with books. No—she decorates the books with furniture. Makes Ron come over and help with the organising. Which is a joke in itself, but contrary to popular belief, she doesn't insist on taking everything dead seriously, especially not him and herself.
Jesus, Hermione. There’s only so much wall space a house can accommodate, he's saying, brow cocked in an expression that’s both disbelieving and impressed (in other words, the one he’s been wearing since they first met). He says it to get under her skin—she knows; she started it, after all—he likes to catch the ripple in her veneer, the near imperceptible shift from cool to simmer, marking the (usually narrow, if he has anything to say about it) period before boiling.
(The rest of the world merely catches the explosion.)
There’s always room for more books, she tells him as they’re putting up another bookshelf.
Ron groans dramatically and shoves the offending piece of wood into the last available gap. Stands back to appraise the room, every inch of which is lined with wood.
She eyes the remaining tower of books on the floor, knows without a doubt they won’t all fit.
We’re going to need another room, she declares, flushes slightly, checks to see how Ron’s taking it. He looks on the verge of laughter. She has to ask. Do you think it’s too much?
It’s insane, he says, matter-of-factly.
Oh, shut up, she replies. It’s… romantic. Feels herself turn a little pink at her own sentimentality.
There's a smile at the edges of his smirk. I never said they were mutually exclusive, he admits.
--
By the end of the day, he’s bemoaning fatigue and sore, sore muscles, and he just can’t work up the energy to Disapparate all the way back to The Burrow.
She graciously allows him sanctuary for the night—figures he deserves some sort of reward for his help, anyway.
--
His hair is a mess in the morning—much like everything else about him—fine tendrils of flame shooting out into sparks. And like the proverbial moth, she is rapt with the idea of controlling it.
Of course, she will never succeed, which is typical. She’d like to blame him, but she has to admit she’d loathe for him to be dull.
--
He keeps meaning to go home, but can never get around to doing it. Insists on being a gentleman and helping put her house together. She suspects he wants to be an integral part of the process, to know there will still be room for him when all the valuables have been unpacked.
She points out that leaving would save him a lot of trouble, but he only shoots back, Who says I don't like trouble? and she's suddenly reminded of trap doors and three-headed dogs and straying staircases leading her off her perfectly boring path. If she were a stronger person, she might have been able to resist.
She still bears the same weak spots after all this time, so naturally she lets him stay.
--
By the third day, they're arguing about drapes. He's irrationally furious at the lace she picks out. Still harbours bad memories of high school balls and great aunt-ly odours, she'd be willing to bet.
Honestly, Ron, you just don't get over anything, she gripes, because she apparently can't help herself.
He gapes at her, spits out, What does Victor Krum have to do with your curtains?
They finally agree on an inoffensive blue. It nearly matches the colour of his eyes. Though she doesn't tell him that while he's drinking coffee, lest he spray it all over their new purchase.
--
On the fifth day, she confronts the fact: Her life is inextricably messier with him in it.
This is, of course, a tale so old she knows it off by heart; yet still she's unable to predict where it'll go next. It's a story they're making up along the way, poorly planned and riddled with holes. She's a little too fallible to be queen of the castle; he's a little too transparent to pull off shining armour. This is the way they fit: seemingly not at all, unless you don't assume things are what they seem.
He has a habit of leaving every item he ever picks up on the floor. This is not a surprise to her—she's seen his enclave of The Burrow, seen the wreckage he's carelessly left in his wake like a miniature hurricane. And now the hurricane's here, inside of her walls, and she's invited it to stay for good.
For a moment she can only stare in panic and dismay, oh God what have I done. Her younger self is disowning her for the mess she's allowed herself to be complicit in.
But then a tumult of images rushes through her mind—images of levitating clubs and regurgitated slugs and self-sacrificial knights on checkered battlefields. This tale has always been chaotic—but she blinks, and she can see the patterns in the commotion, the long-lasting themes.
She’s survived war; she’s survived loss; she’s survived the cold grip of paralysis and the heated stabs of unjust hate.
She can survive a little disorder.
--
Later in the week, she comes home from the grocery store to find a package half her size blocking the front corridor.
Is this something I should be worried about? she calls out, without any sincere concern.
He steps out from the kitchen, hands and collar garnished with flour. Oh. It’s another bookshelf. Looked like you were running short, he teases.
She practically leaps over the box, and nearly bowls him over with the force of her embrace—which is quite an achievement, but then she was always good at that—and for a second they’re thirteen again, clumsy and off-balance from the sheer force of emotion, the tide that threatens to demolish the foundations on which they’re built (because when you’re thirteen and you know everything, there’s no room for emotion in the ivory tower of your intellect).
And then he draws his own arms up around her, completing the gesture. His hands are leaving floury prints on her the back of her shirt, she knows, but it only seems fair that now they're both a little in disarray.
(It’s an acquired dance, reciprocation. But they’re starting to get the hang of it.)
She steadies.
*
