harry/hermione; leave me your stardust
leave me your stardust
..........|harry potter; harry/hermione; pg; He thinks maybe they could stay here, grow old. He thinks maybe they could stay here and grow young, too, if they even remember how.
She sighs, and Harry feels it on the side of his neck, warm and moist and inexpliciably her.
It's Christmas and he swears if it wasn't for her hot breath on his skin, the mist she made when she spoke, he'd be questioning the existance of the here-and-now. (Or maybe, the here-and-now would be questioning the existance of him.)
She nuzzles his neck and grabs a tighter hold of his arm as they walk, listless and wandering like two abandoned parachutes gliding to the ground, and it's his turn to sigh. He thinks maybe they could stay here, grow old. He thinks maybe they could stay here and grow young, too, if they even remember how.
The haunting lights of the church engulf him in warmth, and for one split second he almost asks her to go inside. He wants to celebrate the real kind of Christmas. (The kind where he'll remember farm animals and stables, big, bright stars and men much wiser than himself, and some sort of awesome savior Harry thinks just might have been his godfather in the flesh.)
They walk past the church, the singing, and the bright star lights until they come across a graveyard, and Harry makes this trip even harder than it already was.
"I want to see them," he says, and they make their way through the graves.
High tombs and headstones litter the gated area, and snowflakes fall over abandoned names almost as if to cleanse the tragedy from their age.
For a moment, Harry forgets his own name.
It's half an hour later before they leave--battered, broken, bodies closer than before--and even then he can't shake the feeling that somewhere, someone wants him to stay.
The next day comes, and he lies in the cold just to listen her voice as she talks to herself, to her books, to him.
"We could just stay here, Harry... grow old," Hermione says, and he understands completely.
(Or he wants to, rather.)
..........|harry potter; harry/hermione; pg; He thinks maybe they could stay here, grow old. He thinks maybe they could stay here and grow young, too, if they even remember how.
She sighs, and Harry feels it on the side of his neck, warm and moist and inexpliciably her.
It's Christmas and he swears if it wasn't for her hot breath on his skin, the mist she made when she spoke, he'd be questioning the existance of the here-and-now. (Or maybe, the here-and-now would be questioning the existance of him.)
She nuzzles his neck and grabs a tighter hold of his arm as they walk, listless and wandering like two abandoned parachutes gliding to the ground, and it's his turn to sigh. He thinks maybe they could stay here, grow old. He thinks maybe they could stay here and grow young, too, if they even remember how.
The haunting lights of the church engulf him in warmth, and for one split second he almost asks her to go inside. He wants to celebrate the real kind of Christmas. (The kind where he'll remember farm animals and stables, big, bright stars and men much wiser than himself, and some sort of awesome savior Harry thinks just might have been his godfather in the flesh.)
They walk past the church, the singing, and the bright star lights until they come across a graveyard, and Harry makes this trip even harder than it already was.
"I want to see them," he says, and they make their way through the graves.
High tombs and headstones litter the gated area, and snowflakes fall over abandoned names almost as if to cleanse the tragedy from their age.
For a moment, Harry forgets his own name.
It's half an hour later before they leave--battered, broken, bodies closer than before--and even then he can't shake the feeling that somewhere, someone wants him to stay.
The next day comes, and he lies in the cold just to listen her voice as she talks to herself, to her books, to him.
"We could just stay here, Harry... grow old," Hermione says, and he understands completely.
(Or he wants to, rather.)