Harry Potter Fic: dust monsters
dust monsters
au. hermione. harry/hermione. absolution for the right-hands. 1486 words. r. written for cinnamon_kisses for anythingbutgrey’s h/hr ficathon.
several odd years later, she’s splitting herself into empathy and rationality, how things are processed, and what is ignored for the sake of keeping herself together.
-
but we're still on the payroll.
(radiohead) karma police
Headlines are printed against her arms, sliding over her palms, and inking to her fingertips; just like school, some say, whisper, and laugh, it can’t be helped, because Hermione Granger is still very much herself.
She tosses the paper to the waste, ignoring her miss and almost stopping to turn and watch; crazy, sure, but she’s been stuck, lately, on even appreciating the small, more mundane moments.
Her lips are pursed as she walks, her hands digging deeper into her pockets. It’s twenty-two steps from her flat to the corner, forty-seven plus twenty-two more for every six turns, until, nine steps or so, she arrives at the first destination.
But she’s only at step sixty-three.
London is too cold and she’s turning calendar pages, stopping between winter and spring and, for the spirit, just winter because it’s what she assesses out of habit. The scarf she’s still wearing is old and new, blue and tight over her throat. She pulls a little, winces, and stops at the crosswalk.
She’s late.
She’s late and it’s all, rather, it’s what you need to know; several odd years later, she’s splitting herself into empathy and rationality, how things are processed, and what is ignored for the sake of keeping herself together.
It is, however, year two of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lives No More.
Really, she thinks, walking faster, really - you reckon they’d change the headline at least. Year two. Year three. Happy Anniversary! even. But it’s all a bit of nonsense, the Prophet and the Quibbler, news is news and the news fumbles words like nothing else.
It’s been two years, so many days, and really, it’s begun to blur.
Somewhere between this and that, she’s erased her parents memory, flushing them to an island, far away, simply because it was something, the only something, she could think of without screwing it up.
No matter.
Her eyes remain half-closed as she rests in an indefinite pace, wandering faster to the point of her course. She stops for a second, turns as she thinks - oh, no, no, she’s not subjecting herself to another bout of paranoia.
She eventually comes to a corner of bricks, brushing her fingers along the wall. Her heels click in patterns too, one three two, two three one. It’s inevitable, she supposes, that she’d start to lose a bit of her sensibility. But when she comes to the end of the path, she sighs, frowning -
“You’re late.”
She snorts. “Viva la resistance.”
The man nods and turns, pulling her off into another direction. They duck through a hole, a small wire fence that twists and flutters with the crows. Hermione shivers, crossing her arms over her chest instead of her pockets, the weight was bothering her anyhow.
“I thought he was meeting me.”
The man snorts - a friend, she supposes, although he’s been nameless for quiet awhile and it’s better that way, she thinks, it’s always been better that way. There’s no need to change habits.
“He’s in a terrible mood,” he says, “Something to do with you, I suppose.”
She rolls her eyes, staying silent for the rest of the walk.
-
The house subsequently lies at the edge of the city.
It’s small, like the rest of the mundane, brick by brick, gold numbers and the still, same, colored cars. But it serves its purpose. Away from prying eyes. Far away. Until the need to move again arises.
“It’s still a fucking shack,” somebody says, in greeting, “a fucking shack. You think with the preaching of this and that, that Harry fucking Potter would at least get a nice house or two or three. Or booze, you reckon, booze.”
She snorts, but nods, ducking around the door and ignoring the crowd of three. Oh, yes. He’s been dead, Harry- it’s the third scheme, of the decade, easier to assume a position and tie up the loose ends left scattered by the war. She won’t say more than that, perhaps because it edges and opens things that she’s not used or rather, ready to talk about it.
“Where is he?”
The man, her escort, nods towards the stairs.
She shrugs and follows, sliding out of her coat. There’s hole in the knee of her trousers, the hem a bit loose. She’s lost some weight, but it expels itself into the list of menial things that she doesn’t pay attention to anymore. But she leaves the coat off, on the top of the stairs, draped as if she’s been here all along.
There are several rooms, seven or eight, and she moves down the hall, to the end, and ignores a knock as she steps inside.
Harry’s back is tense to her, his gaze falling over books and scrolls, maps that he pretends to have a grasp of - he’s always uneasy, always ready for action, and perhaps, this is why she’s here.
“So rumor is,” she murmurs, her lips turning slightly, “you’re an arse. And still dead.”
He scoffs, but says nothing.
They’re Ministry-free, you see, aurors, but not aurors in a sort of suspect-renegade way. Harry swears that he won’t miraculously rise from the dead until every corner, every man and snake - his words, not hers, over a bit of firewhiskey - is tossed off and killed. There’s the difference, however, as Harry nearly expected that fit of nostalgia and three, the three of them together as a side.
Not so much - Hermione hesitated, but she said yes. But it’s nothing to talk about, one those stories that will stay buried for the sake of focus.
She can still taste the yes.
“You’re late.”
Her eyes roll, her voice dry. “Where’s your sense of humor?”
His hands curl into fists and she watches them, over the pages. She winces, the poor books, and assures herself that she left the good ones at home. Out of his fits of, well, of being Harry, she’s always been less than precarious about some precautions.
He’s still grim. “We’re going to have to -”
“No.”
It’s the same damn thing. It’s always the same damn thing. Her eyes are dark and she pushes herself off the wall, shutting the door. She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at him. Her hair brushes over her eyes and she takes another step and then another, sliding in front of him because they’ve had this conversation in steps, before, and she really isn’t looking to have another row.
“They can’t know, Hermione,” he says quietly, looking up at her, “you do know that. You know that they can’t know.”
She throws her hands up.
“I know,” she snaps.
He’s up closer, then, his hands reaching for her. She smacks them away angrily, her eyes dark and that panic burning up her throat. There’s a dry sensation and she shifts, turning away but he’s pulling her back.
She spots the pictures, over his shoulder, the edge of faces. She can assume that they can be an assorted amount of people, her random checks on Mum and Dad, the lunches for the farce, old friends and new friends.
“I know.”
She steps away.
-
Later, her nails are bleeding.
She’s flushed against the door, his cock pressing against her arse. Her moans are low and she’s rubbing back - blind anger, inevitability; it leads to a certain moment, the end and the beginning of everything they refuse to talk about.
“I worry,” he hisses against her throat.
She ignores it for turning around, wanting to see him and his face. But that passes quickly, the eyes and the truth, the correlation something she’d rather not have right now. Her fingers curl in his hair and she crushes her mouth against his. There’s a lift and she moans, her legs wrapping around his waist.
“I don’t -” She’s wet, her teeth tugging at his lip, “I don’t want to talk.”
And it’s true; she’s merely imposing that non-verbal clause they have now, with this kind of job, with each other. There’s simply nothing to talk about until normal, until he’s happy and she’s happy with, well -
She doesn’t know.
He slams her back against the door and she growls, a crack as her nails scrap against the door again. She really doesn’t think about the semantics anymore, the at pass between them, because oh god, he’s sliding slowly inside of her, making sure she feels every thrust forward.
“Ahoh,” she hums breathlessly, “Bastard.”
He grunts, maybe a laugh, and there’s a rhythm, shaking but pushing forward as he grips her thighs. Her eyes start to close and his “no,” a breath and, “want to see you” are stroked across her throat for promise.
Always for promise, perhaps, a promise and something more - she wants to be an optimist, to hold the right moments accountable.
Or so she thinks.
She’s the better liar anyway.
+
1. 3 Things you want to see/prompts:
Steamy sex, preferably against a wall/tree/bookshelf - vertical, essentially. Harry and Hermione working in an extremely dangerous profession. Excessive protectiveness.
2. So, yes. It’s been quite a bit of time since I’ve even remotely touched H/Hr. So, um, I hope you enjoyed it?
au. hermione. harry/hermione. absolution for the right-hands. 1486 words. r. written for cinnamon_kisses for anythingbutgrey’s h/hr ficathon.
several odd years later, she’s splitting herself into empathy and rationality, how things are processed, and what is ignored for the sake of keeping herself together.
-
but we're still on the payroll.
(radiohead) karma police
Headlines are printed against her arms, sliding over her palms, and inking to her fingertips; just like school, some say, whisper, and laugh, it can’t be helped, because Hermione Granger is still very much herself.
She tosses the paper to the waste, ignoring her miss and almost stopping to turn and watch; crazy, sure, but she’s been stuck, lately, on even appreciating the small, more mundane moments.
Her lips are pursed as she walks, her hands digging deeper into her pockets. It’s twenty-two steps from her flat to the corner, forty-seven plus twenty-two more for every six turns, until, nine steps or so, she arrives at the first destination.
But she’s only at step sixty-three.
London is too cold and she’s turning calendar pages, stopping between winter and spring and, for the spirit, just winter because it’s what she assesses out of habit. The scarf she’s still wearing is old and new, blue and tight over her throat. She pulls a little, winces, and stops at the crosswalk.
She’s late.
She’s late and it’s all, rather, it’s what you need to know; several odd years later, she’s splitting herself into empathy and rationality, how things are processed, and what is ignored for the sake of keeping herself together.
It is, however, year two of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lives No More.
Really, she thinks, walking faster, really - you reckon they’d change the headline at least. Year two. Year three. Happy Anniversary! even. But it’s all a bit of nonsense, the Prophet and the Quibbler, news is news and the news fumbles words like nothing else.
It’s been two years, so many days, and really, it’s begun to blur.
Somewhere between this and that, she’s erased her parents memory, flushing them to an island, far away, simply because it was something, the only something, she could think of without screwing it up.
No matter.
Her eyes remain half-closed as she rests in an indefinite pace, wandering faster to the point of her course. She stops for a second, turns as she thinks - oh, no, no, she’s not subjecting herself to another bout of paranoia.
She eventually comes to a corner of bricks, brushing her fingers along the wall. Her heels click in patterns too, one three two, two three one. It’s inevitable, she supposes, that she’d start to lose a bit of her sensibility. But when she comes to the end of the path, she sighs, frowning -
“You’re late.”
She snorts. “Viva la resistance.”
The man nods and turns, pulling her off into another direction. They duck through a hole, a small wire fence that twists and flutters with the crows. Hermione shivers, crossing her arms over her chest instead of her pockets, the weight was bothering her anyhow.
“I thought he was meeting me.”
The man snorts - a friend, she supposes, although he’s been nameless for quiet awhile and it’s better that way, she thinks, it’s always been better that way. There’s no need to change habits.
“He’s in a terrible mood,” he says, “Something to do with you, I suppose.”
She rolls her eyes, staying silent for the rest of the walk.
-
The house subsequently lies at the edge of the city.
It’s small, like the rest of the mundane, brick by brick, gold numbers and the still, same, colored cars. But it serves its purpose. Away from prying eyes. Far away. Until the need to move again arises.
“It’s still a fucking shack,” somebody says, in greeting, “a fucking shack. You think with the preaching of this and that, that Harry fucking Potter would at least get a nice house or two or three. Or booze, you reckon, booze.”
She snorts, but nods, ducking around the door and ignoring the crowd of three. Oh, yes. He’s been dead, Harry- it’s the third scheme, of the decade, easier to assume a position and tie up the loose ends left scattered by the war. She won’t say more than that, perhaps because it edges and opens things that she’s not used or rather, ready to talk about it.
“Where is he?”
The man, her escort, nods towards the stairs.
She shrugs and follows, sliding out of her coat. There’s hole in the knee of her trousers, the hem a bit loose. She’s lost some weight, but it expels itself into the list of menial things that she doesn’t pay attention to anymore. But she leaves the coat off, on the top of the stairs, draped as if she’s been here all along.
There are several rooms, seven or eight, and she moves down the hall, to the end, and ignores a knock as she steps inside.
Harry’s back is tense to her, his gaze falling over books and scrolls, maps that he pretends to have a grasp of - he’s always uneasy, always ready for action, and perhaps, this is why she’s here.
“So rumor is,” she murmurs, her lips turning slightly, “you’re an arse. And still dead.”
He scoffs, but says nothing.
They’re Ministry-free, you see, aurors, but not aurors in a sort of suspect-renegade way. Harry swears that he won’t miraculously rise from the dead until every corner, every man and snake - his words, not hers, over a bit of firewhiskey - is tossed off and killed. There’s the difference, however, as Harry nearly expected that fit of nostalgia and three, the three of them together as a side.
Not so much - Hermione hesitated, but she said yes. But it’s nothing to talk about, one those stories that will stay buried for the sake of focus.
She can still taste the yes.
“You’re late.”
Her eyes roll, her voice dry. “Where’s your sense of humor?”
His hands curl into fists and she watches them, over the pages. She winces, the poor books, and assures herself that she left the good ones at home. Out of his fits of, well, of being Harry, she’s always been less than precarious about some precautions.
He’s still grim. “We’re going to have to -”
“No.”
It’s the same damn thing. It’s always the same damn thing. Her eyes are dark and she pushes herself off the wall, shutting the door. She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at him. Her hair brushes over her eyes and she takes another step and then another, sliding in front of him because they’ve had this conversation in steps, before, and she really isn’t looking to have another row.
“They can’t know, Hermione,” he says quietly, looking up at her, “you do know that. You know that they can’t know.”
She throws her hands up.
“I know,” she snaps.
He’s up closer, then, his hands reaching for her. She smacks them away angrily, her eyes dark and that panic burning up her throat. There’s a dry sensation and she shifts, turning away but he’s pulling her back.
She spots the pictures, over his shoulder, the edge of faces. She can assume that they can be an assorted amount of people, her random checks on Mum and Dad, the lunches for the farce, old friends and new friends.
“I know.”
She steps away.
-
Later, her nails are bleeding.
She’s flushed against the door, his cock pressing against her arse. Her moans are low and she’s rubbing back - blind anger, inevitability; it leads to a certain moment, the end and the beginning of everything they refuse to talk about.
“I worry,” he hisses against her throat.
She ignores it for turning around, wanting to see him and his face. But that passes quickly, the eyes and the truth, the correlation something she’d rather not have right now. Her fingers curl in his hair and she crushes her mouth against his. There’s a lift and she moans, her legs wrapping around his waist.
“I don’t -” She’s wet, her teeth tugging at his lip, “I don’t want to talk.”
And it’s true; she’s merely imposing that non-verbal clause they have now, with this kind of job, with each other. There’s simply nothing to talk about until normal, until he’s happy and she’s happy with, well -
She doesn’t know.
He slams her back against the door and she growls, a crack as her nails scrap against the door again. She really doesn’t think about the semantics anymore, the at pass between them, because oh god, he’s sliding slowly inside of her, making sure she feels every thrust forward.
“Ahoh,” she hums breathlessly, “Bastard.”
He grunts, maybe a laugh, and there’s a rhythm, shaking but pushing forward as he grips her thighs. Her eyes start to close and his “no,” a breath and, “want to see you” are stroked across her throat for promise.
Always for promise, perhaps, a promise and something more - she wants to be an optimist, to hold the right moments accountable.
Or so she thinks.
She’s the better liar anyway.
+
1. 3 Things you want to see/prompts:
Steamy sex, preferably against a wall/tree/bookshelf - vertical, essentially. Harry and Hermione working in an extremely dangerous profession. Excessive protectiveness.
2. So, yes. It’s been quite a bit of time since I’ve even remotely touched H/Hr. So, um, I hope you enjoyed it?