fic: this veil across my heart.
this veil across my heart
harry potter. harry; hermione. (harry/hermione, ron/hermione) r. au (post deathly hallows.) title from the cheap trick song "the flame". 2,067 words. destiny plays her cards and harry tosses his ace out the window, hands in the air. some battles aren't for winning, even if he could ever have had the nerve to fight. so this is my first fic for the fandom and i haven't really thought about this pairing very much, but i attempted them and i'd love some feed back on how i managed, since i'm sort of very nervous about it? also, thank you to morningslugger who is wonderful to me. this is dedicated to a certain h/hr shipper i know.
o time! thou must untangle this, not i;
tis too hard a knot for me to untie!
twelfth night. [shakespeare]
A part of him dies in the war.
This isn't very important, not really. But it's a part of him that's gone and he doesn't know if he can stand whole again. So he picks up his wand (his wand) and tries an old trick of being invisible. Without a cloak and he scales castle walls and dissapears.
It doesn't anything like it felt before. Running away pulls at his lungs and his heartstrings, fist clenched empty in the air as he runs away from nothing at all.
For the first time, he feels like he runs alone.
There is no hurry to get anywhere, arrival chasing him at every spot. He thinks of home, mind flitting back to a cupboard in Privet Drive, a godfather that once promised him one and a whole host of people that no longer walk the earth. His shoulders are light oddly so, fingers itching, with the skin stretched tight over the bone.
He ends up in Muggle London, standing outside Foyles with his palm pressed to the glass and he thinks of a girl he once knew.
Pages turning in the narrow tent, her knee pressed against his. Just her and him and the quiet settling in on their shoulders. Her shoulders are stiff, mouth pursed, heart locked tight till she spills. One tear against the leaf of her book.
Harry moves his leg, hand rising and falling from the small of her back.
"I'll make some tea, shall I?"
She nods, presses her hand to the curve of her cheek and his body unfolds, straightens. Even without him, they get along. It isn't easy, no. But it's possible.
Even then, with the kettle steaming, fogging his glasses till he sees her blurred form wiping at her eyes- even then, he wondered.
Harry stand in front of the book store. Breathes. Steps into the smell of paper and words, runs a finger along the spine of a book before opening it. She mentioned it once; fifth grade, Ron wanted to know what a metaphor was and she'd spoken about this in clipped syllables like a teacher. He falls down to a chair, finding pieces of himself between each page like a note hidden by a lover.
It almost feels like home.
He has breakfast in a cafe at Tottenham Court Road, where they once had lunch with those who ate death. He feels like he's tracing some sort of path, but there's nothing left to find. The world feels different, shifting uncertainly around him. There is glory, waiting for him to claim it but he isn't needed. Not at all- not any more.
Takes a train out of the city and he stops chasing ghosts. Closes his eyes, head tipped back and wonders which of them will find him first.
It rained earlier, he got soaked to the skin, the grey cotton of his shirt stuck down against the flesh. He's pulling his hair out of his eyes when he sees her, one arm jerked upwards in a wave. The ground is spread out flat between them like a moss covered tabletop.
Her mouth stretches wide, silent scream and then, she's running. His legs feel heavy, stiff and awkward but they serve him well enough. They meet in the middle, her head bumping into the crook of his neck and fitting there and his hands sliding under her elbows as their knees hit the ground.
They fall amongst the corn and the field sways around them, the wet soil sinking under their weight and he is concious of her every touch- for the first time since the war, he feels like he is taking up space, existing, pushing air out of the way with his movement and claiming it.
Their bodies bend into each other, like two fallen trees and all of his space is colliding with hers- so fast and so indelicately that he just stops thinking.
They wake up the next morning, with her hair spread out over the grass and his head buried beside hers, legs pulled away from each other till their bodies form a constellation in the field.
"So, how've you been?" Her voice carries off with the wind, fingers working languid, discreetly pulling up the straps of her dress.
"Good." His mouth curves, the corners turning up and the sky is blue this morning, blue and grey and he can feel the sun drawing up the dregs of water from his skin.
"I read a book," he adds, neck turning slightly towards her.
Her laughter is light, catching in the air between them and the pollen and the grass and he sneezes. Their chests rise and fall, heavy and tight against the air and they watch the clouds float away.
Sobriety doesn't hit them till the late afternoon, the sun growing warmer and seeping past their clothes. She stiffens beside him, spine straight like that of a book when the pages are forced shut.
"Were you ever planning on coming home?" she asks, voice laced tight like she can only just breathe.
He pulls himself up on his elbows and looks her straight in the eye.
"Don't know. Were you?"
Her gasp is frozen between the line of her jaw and his mouth. Back pressed against the ground again and time is still their enemy.
Wars don't end, not really.
They just change shape and form. Sneak up on you like a snake.
His shoulders are heavy, hand twisted in the curls at the nape of her neck and the extra weight turns the world right back where it's supposed to be.
They walk down the street, with her hand tucked into the bend of his elbow. He pretends, they're just skipping school and this village is Hogsmeade and every time her head flicks back, he doesn't expect his best friend to be at his shoulder.
Ten days, his hands skimming under her blouse, fingers playing at the skin of her stomach. They seem to eat nothing but the sunshine, let it seep into their bones and she cries every night.
Every night. Till one night, she doesn't and he leans against the wall of their tiny hotel room, fingertips pressed to his temples.
(Brushes over the scar and he almost wishes it would hurt.)
She shifts her weight on the edge of the bed, letting the mattress sigh beneath her.
"Are we ever going home?"
He told her once that she was far, far better- far stronger a person than him. Hermione laughed then, watery smile but he wasn't joking.
He's always known it to be true. Hearts heavy, itching hands kept apart and she goes home and so does he.
Harry plays best man well, not a dry eye in the house.
Holds up his glass with one hand and keeps the other in his pocket, hiding flexing fingers. He doesn't need notes; he witnessed their courtship first hand. First meeting, first ball, first fight.
If he were the one at the altar today, the dates of the story would be much the same, wouldn’t they? His mind flicks over the years like pages in a book, mind’s eye seeking out the shape of her waist in the pink Yule Ball dress, the way her lips curled just a little when her fist collided with Malfoy’s nose and just how she’d smelt when she’d hugged him, so glad, so relieved that he was still alive with her fingers fluttering over his face to check he was still in one piece. He tries hard not to think about that. Jaw clenched and he isn't jealous.
Ron's arm swings over her shoulder, smiles painted across their faces and his breath stutters out between his lips because it's all so perfectly normal. So sensible.
Such a fairytale.
There are certain choice advantages to having had an affair with your very best friend. Understanding each other, for one.
Awkward communications need not take place. Never speak of it again. They nod and turn away.
Destiny plays her cards and Harry tosses his ace out the window, hands in the air. Some battles aren't for winning, even if he could ever have had the nerve to fight.
"Walk with me?"
She's standing at his doorstep and seven in the morning; Sunday morning, pouring rain and he's got nothing but a pair of shorts on, Ginny upstairs in his bed.
Hermione's eyes are dark, cloudy, feet shuffling awkwardly on the ground. His head bobs down in a nod.
They walk side by side, shoulders aligned under her umbrella. (Proper gentleman's one, she has. He thinks it was her father's.) The rain patters hard against their fragile shield of smiling mouths and carefully preserved breath. She talks about work and he talks about life and it's like a stroll by the lake before breakfast, with a piece of toast in each hand.
The length of her hair brushes against his arm, lips skimming skin as she says goodbye and his heart clenches tight like a fist.
After that it plays out quietly, some sort of Austen-esque romance traded in secret glances across crowded rooms, his hand sliding against hers when passing a plate and her knee pressed into his thigh under the table.
High strung emotion forced into abruptly cut syllables and small talk and he's shocked at how well they manage, with keeping up appearances. Polite, formal and doesn't last long.
His mouth against her clavicle, tucked away out of sight with their clothes sliding off to the floor and he thinks it was never meant to be this way. Not at all.
In some ways, it's the scariest thing he's ever done. Harry's looked death in the face, bit back and all but the mere mention of his best friend's name sends blood rushing to his ears, quickened breath and a slow, sly flush creeping along the length of his mouth. He finds himself always on edge, addicted still to the taste of adrenaline.
(On her tongue or his and he's forgotten how to distinguish between the two. Most days her body feels merely like an extension of his own, pulled painfully apart.)
Once they walked together, always three. Sometimes- he thinks they still are.
Steps change but the dance stays the same. The partners stay the same.
It was always going to be three, wasn't it and bite that with your death card, Trelawney.
Fighting with 'Mione feels wrong, somehow.
She's been many things to him over the years, everything a woman can be to a man. (Mother, sister, lover- never wife, though. Call it best of five.)
Played each part as naturally as breathing but fighting with her feels rather useless- like he's yelling a some part of his own body, chiding it for disobedience.
"You just picked the easy way out," he accuses, hard voice.
Hermione won't take the bait, folds her hands and stares down at her lap. Leaves him alone to weather out the storm and she hadn't a choice, not really. He never offered more than nine nights in a hotel room and one under the stars.
It's not enough. He buries his head in his hands and waits for the world to blow up, again.
Some people walk through life without ever knowing what they want, what they really need.
Harry finds himself envying them, stepping across their lives like a stranger. Ron’s arm around Hermione’s waist and nothing fits where it should. Not his heart in its chest and not Ginny’s fingers in the crook of his elbow.
Trouble is- he and Hermione don’t fit exactly right either. They tried once. She packed her bags, put her ring in a drawer, her skirt pulled down below the knees and she stood by his side at the train station, tickets in one hand and the other wrapped tightly in his but they still didn’t fit quit right.
Not even when they’re tangled between the sheets, skins pressed tightly against each other. The space between their bodies and the air smells of guilt.
It’s a heavy sort that they can’t seem to shake, no matter how far they go, how fast they run. Hermione’s legs cramp and she misses him, misses Ron when he isn’t there and so does Harry but he kisses her, kisses her hard, mouth stretching clumsily across the line of her jaw and their breath becomes a knot that they can’t unravel.
Lines on a map and borders change nothing. Three hearts travel entwined.
Always.
harry potter. harry; hermione. (harry/hermione, ron/hermione) r. au (post deathly hallows.) title from the cheap trick song "the flame". 2,067 words. destiny plays her cards and harry tosses his ace out the window, hands in the air. some battles aren't for winning, even if he could ever have had the nerve to fight. so this is my first fic for the fandom and i haven't really thought about this pairing very much, but i attempted them and i'd love some feed back on how i managed, since i'm sort of very nervous about it? also, thank you to morningslugger who is wonderful to me. this is dedicated to a certain h/hr shipper i know.
o time! thou must untangle this, not i;
tis too hard a knot for me to untie!
twelfth night. [shakespeare]
A part of him dies in the war.
This isn't very important, not really. But it's a part of him that's gone and he doesn't know if he can stand whole again. So he picks up his wand (his wand) and tries an old trick of being invisible. Without a cloak and he scales castle walls and dissapears.
It doesn't anything like it felt before. Running away pulls at his lungs and his heartstrings, fist clenched empty in the air as he runs away from nothing at all.
For the first time, he feels like he runs alone.
There is no hurry to get anywhere, arrival chasing him at every spot. He thinks of home, mind flitting back to a cupboard in Privet Drive, a godfather that once promised him one and a whole host of people that no longer walk the earth. His shoulders are light oddly so, fingers itching, with the skin stretched tight over the bone.
He ends up in Muggle London, standing outside Foyles with his palm pressed to the glass and he thinks of a girl he once knew.
Pages turning in the narrow tent, her knee pressed against his. Just her and him and the quiet settling in on their shoulders. Her shoulders are stiff, mouth pursed, heart locked tight till she spills. One tear against the leaf of her book.
Harry moves his leg, hand rising and falling from the small of her back.
"I'll make some tea, shall I?"
She nods, presses her hand to the curve of her cheek and his body unfolds, straightens. Even without him, they get along. It isn't easy, no. But it's possible.
Even then, with the kettle steaming, fogging his glasses till he sees her blurred form wiping at her eyes- even then, he wondered.
Harry stand in front of the book store. Breathes. Steps into the smell of paper and words, runs a finger along the spine of a book before opening it. She mentioned it once; fifth grade, Ron wanted to know what a metaphor was and she'd spoken about this in clipped syllables like a teacher. He falls down to a chair, finding pieces of himself between each page like a note hidden by a lover.
It almost feels like home.
He has breakfast in a cafe at Tottenham Court Road, where they once had lunch with those who ate death. He feels like he's tracing some sort of path, but there's nothing left to find. The world feels different, shifting uncertainly around him. There is glory, waiting for him to claim it but he isn't needed. Not at all- not any more.
Takes a train out of the city and he stops chasing ghosts. Closes his eyes, head tipped back and wonders which of them will find him first.
It rained earlier, he got soaked to the skin, the grey cotton of his shirt stuck down against the flesh. He's pulling his hair out of his eyes when he sees her, one arm jerked upwards in a wave. The ground is spread out flat between them like a moss covered tabletop.
Her mouth stretches wide, silent scream and then, she's running. His legs feel heavy, stiff and awkward but they serve him well enough. They meet in the middle, her head bumping into the crook of his neck and fitting there and his hands sliding under her elbows as their knees hit the ground.
They fall amongst the corn and the field sways around them, the wet soil sinking under their weight and he is concious of her every touch- for the first time since the war, he feels like he is taking up space, existing, pushing air out of the way with his movement and claiming it.
Their bodies bend into each other, like two fallen trees and all of his space is colliding with hers- so fast and so indelicately that he just stops thinking.
They wake up the next morning, with her hair spread out over the grass and his head buried beside hers, legs pulled away from each other till their bodies form a constellation in the field.
"So, how've you been?" Her voice carries off with the wind, fingers working languid, discreetly pulling up the straps of her dress.
"Good." His mouth curves, the corners turning up and the sky is blue this morning, blue and grey and he can feel the sun drawing up the dregs of water from his skin.
"I read a book," he adds, neck turning slightly towards her.
Her laughter is light, catching in the air between them and the pollen and the grass and he sneezes. Their chests rise and fall, heavy and tight against the air and they watch the clouds float away.
Sobriety doesn't hit them till the late afternoon, the sun growing warmer and seeping past their clothes. She stiffens beside him, spine straight like that of a book when the pages are forced shut.
"Were you ever planning on coming home?" she asks, voice laced tight like she can only just breathe.
He pulls himself up on his elbows and looks her straight in the eye.
"Don't know. Were you?"
Her gasp is frozen between the line of her jaw and his mouth. Back pressed against the ground again and time is still their enemy.
Wars don't end, not really.
They just change shape and form. Sneak up on you like a snake.
His shoulders are heavy, hand twisted in the curls at the nape of her neck and the extra weight turns the world right back where it's supposed to be.
They walk down the street, with her hand tucked into the bend of his elbow. He pretends, they're just skipping school and this village is Hogsmeade and every time her head flicks back, he doesn't expect his best friend to be at his shoulder.
Ten days, his hands skimming under her blouse, fingers playing at the skin of her stomach. They seem to eat nothing but the sunshine, let it seep into their bones and she cries every night.
Every night. Till one night, she doesn't and he leans against the wall of their tiny hotel room, fingertips pressed to his temples.
(Brushes over the scar and he almost wishes it would hurt.)
She shifts her weight on the edge of the bed, letting the mattress sigh beneath her.
"Are we ever going home?"
He told her once that she was far, far better- far stronger a person than him. Hermione laughed then, watery smile but he wasn't joking.
He's always known it to be true. Hearts heavy, itching hands kept apart and she goes home and so does he.
Harry plays best man well, not a dry eye in the house.
Holds up his glass with one hand and keeps the other in his pocket, hiding flexing fingers. He doesn't need notes; he witnessed their courtship first hand. First meeting, first ball, first fight.
If he were the one at the altar today, the dates of the story would be much the same, wouldn’t they? His mind flicks over the years like pages in a book, mind’s eye seeking out the shape of her waist in the pink Yule Ball dress, the way her lips curled just a little when her fist collided with Malfoy’s nose and just how she’d smelt when she’d hugged him, so glad, so relieved that he was still alive with her fingers fluttering over his face to check he was still in one piece. He tries hard not to think about that. Jaw clenched and he isn't jealous.
Ron's arm swings over her shoulder, smiles painted across their faces and his breath stutters out between his lips because it's all so perfectly normal. So sensible.
Such a fairytale.
There are certain choice advantages to having had an affair with your very best friend. Understanding each other, for one.
Awkward communications need not take place. Never speak of it again. They nod and turn away.
Destiny plays her cards and Harry tosses his ace out the window, hands in the air. Some battles aren't for winning, even if he could ever have had the nerve to fight.
"Walk with me?"
She's standing at his doorstep and seven in the morning; Sunday morning, pouring rain and he's got nothing but a pair of shorts on, Ginny upstairs in his bed.
Hermione's eyes are dark, cloudy, feet shuffling awkwardly on the ground. His head bobs down in a nod.
They walk side by side, shoulders aligned under her umbrella. (Proper gentleman's one, she has. He thinks it was her father's.) The rain patters hard against their fragile shield of smiling mouths and carefully preserved breath. She talks about work and he talks about life and it's like a stroll by the lake before breakfast, with a piece of toast in each hand.
The length of her hair brushes against his arm, lips skimming skin as she says goodbye and his heart clenches tight like a fist.
After that it plays out quietly, some sort of Austen-esque romance traded in secret glances across crowded rooms, his hand sliding against hers when passing a plate and her knee pressed into his thigh under the table.
High strung emotion forced into abruptly cut syllables and small talk and he's shocked at how well they manage, with keeping up appearances. Polite, formal and doesn't last long.
His mouth against her clavicle, tucked away out of sight with their clothes sliding off to the floor and he thinks it was never meant to be this way. Not at all.
In some ways, it's the scariest thing he's ever done. Harry's looked death in the face, bit back and all but the mere mention of his best friend's name sends blood rushing to his ears, quickened breath and a slow, sly flush creeping along the length of his mouth. He finds himself always on edge, addicted still to the taste of adrenaline.
(On her tongue or his and he's forgotten how to distinguish between the two. Most days her body feels merely like an extension of his own, pulled painfully apart.)
Once they walked together, always three. Sometimes- he thinks they still are.
Steps change but the dance stays the same. The partners stay the same.
It was always going to be three, wasn't it and bite that with your death card, Trelawney.
Fighting with 'Mione feels wrong, somehow.
She's been many things to him over the years, everything a woman can be to a man. (Mother, sister, lover- never wife, though. Call it best of five.)
Played each part as naturally as breathing but fighting with her feels rather useless- like he's yelling a some part of his own body, chiding it for disobedience.
"You just picked the easy way out," he accuses, hard voice.
Hermione won't take the bait, folds her hands and stares down at her lap. Leaves him alone to weather out the storm and she hadn't a choice, not really. He never offered more than nine nights in a hotel room and one under the stars.
It's not enough. He buries his head in his hands and waits for the world to blow up, again.
Some people walk through life without ever knowing what they want, what they really need.
Harry finds himself envying them, stepping across their lives like a stranger. Ron’s arm around Hermione’s waist and nothing fits where it should. Not his heart in its chest and not Ginny’s fingers in the crook of his elbow.
Trouble is- he and Hermione don’t fit exactly right either. They tried once. She packed her bags, put her ring in a drawer, her skirt pulled down below the knees and she stood by his side at the train station, tickets in one hand and the other wrapped tightly in his but they still didn’t fit quit right.
Not even when they’re tangled between the sheets, skins pressed tightly against each other. The space between their bodies and the air smells of guilt.
It’s a heavy sort that they can’t seem to shake, no matter how far they go, how fast they run. Hermione’s legs cramp and she misses him, misses Ron when he isn’t there and so does Harry but he kisses her, kisses her hard, mouth stretching clumsily across the line of her jaw and their breath becomes a knot that they can’t unravel.
Lines on a map and borders change nothing. Three hearts travel entwined.
Always.