Fic Request Fulfilled for xfirefly9x
Title: Not Where I Expected
Author: naiad8
Beta: gwen1170 (thank you much!!!)
Rating: PG-13-15
Word count: 1940
Summary: Christmas at Grimmauld Place is not where Harry had thought he would be. He’d most definitely not wanted Ginny to be there at Christmas. Sometimes, you get not what you want, but what you need.
Warnings: some death, injury and angst
Disclaimer: Characters, locations and magic not mine…just the plotty stuff
Author's Notes: I’m not sure this is as much fluff as requested…difficult to find fluffy muse after the title release of book 7. I tried though…and you’ve got fire, candlelight, eggshells and pinecones. Happy Christmas!
Since he’d expected something entirely different this Christmas Eve, he supposed he shouldn’t be thinking how weak the fire in the large first-floor sitting room appeared to be. If someone had asked him about Christmas back in July, or even in October, he’d have thought he’d be out in the countryside somewhere, anywhere from Herefordshire to Hungary, cold and worn and alone and aching. Well, maybe not alone. His eyes flicked toward the sofa, where Ron had his eyes fixed with uncanny fidelity from beneath lowered lashes on their bushy-haired best friend, who seemed obviously to all but the book perched on her lap.
He probably would have had to sleep outside too. They’d have needed the tent. At least, he thought they’d have needed the tent. They’d been pretty discrete, and Harry wasn’t sure exactly how far their relationship had gone yet, given all that had happened; all whom they had lost. But they’d fought less; and there had been a few stray glances between them so blisteringly hot that Harry was really rather uncomfortable. He really tried not to be jealous, He tried not to want what they had, or would have soon enough.
Ron picked up one of the charmed pinecones from the basket the twins had left, and threw one into the small fire that never seemed to fill the room with warmth. For a moment, the fire broke into a happy dance of magenta and violet, with streaks of orange and coppery green, the snaps and crackles doing a passable rendition of “Centaurs We Have Heard on High”. Hermione’s hand had strayed from her side on to Ron’s knee, and she was tracing little circles on the worn wool. Harry observed Ron swallow, and take a deep breath. Harry understood that feeling. It happened every time he thought of Ginny.
Back in July, or October, if someone had asked him what Ginevra Weasley would be doing on Christmas Eve, he would have lovingly described a happy scene of a warm fire at the Burrow, surrounded by good food and family, maybe some hot cider and Celestina Warbeck playing on the wireless. That is, after all, exactly what he wanted for her: to be safe and happy.
He hadn’t really given thought to the fact that she would not be happy. He hadn’t really considered that she would not be at the Burrow this Christmas, because there was no Burrow. She would not be surrounded by family: because Bill was on some secret mission, Charlie was missing, the Twins were working for the Order and guarding the homes of Muggleborns tonight, trying to let them all keep Christmas. Molly was in St. Mungo’s recovering from burns, Arthur was upstairs and had been tricked into taking a sleeping draught by his resourceful daughter, and Percy…Percy was dead.
Crouched in a formal upholstered chair in the dark corner of the overlarge room, far from the fire, he watched her hair turn different shades of red in the reflected light of the Singing Pinecone enhanced fire. She was intent on her task, and held her wand with a calm sense of purpose as she charmed another egg from a simple potential omelet into a delicate thing of beauty, an eggshell ornament for the tiny Christmas tree Hermione had Transfigured from a dead bush in the garden. Even from this distance, the softly glowing light within the egg shone with warmth, and he could clearly see the thrumming beat of the Snitch etched into the shell. Her face turned to his suddenly, and the fierce defiant light in her eyes filled the monster in his chest with an almost unconquerable desire to leap from his uncomfortable seat and pounce upon her, kissing her until she could barely breathe and Ron threatened to beat him to a pulp. He wanted to make her happy. He wanted to be happy.
Hermione closed her book with a snap, breaking the spell that had had Harry eyes locked with Ginny’s. Hermione stood and stretched, and Harry briefly wondered if Ron’s eyes could pop out any further without permanent damage as he blatantly stared at their friend’s feminine assets. A thought flittered into Harry’s head that perhaps Hermione knew exactly what she was doing to Ron, but then Hermione turned and asked Ginny, “I think I’ll turn in early tonight, even with the holiday. Can’t waste this chance, can we?” Harry blinked, wondering if she meant..? “It’s rare to have a real bed to sleep in lately, after all.”
Oh. Still, it would have been quite comical how red Ron’s face was, and how he seemed to twitch slightly as Hermione bent over and packed up her weighty tomes into the school bag she still carried her copious research in. It would have also been funny to note how Hermione stole surreptitious glances at Ron through the menacing bulls-eye mirror over the mantle, to judge how each sway of her bottom affected him. But it wasn’t funny at the moment. Not when all Harry could think about was what he wanted to do in a bed upstairs with the youngest Weasley, how he wanted to worship her, to make it up to her for being a fool. How he couldn’t do a damn thing but sit in his corner and try to fight the demands of his body and his heart when his mind was still convinced he had to try and keep her safe.
Hermione muttered another goodnight, and paused in the doorway, giving Harry a look that was hard and accusing. The translation was obvious:
He was being a git.
He was more clueless than Ron (which, for Hermione, was a very bad insult).
Fix it.
Hermione let out a puff of breath, her eyes went soft for half a moment, with something resembling affection. No longer able to keep her eyes from darting toward Ron, still on the sofa, his eyes glued on the fire, she turned, and disappeared. A moment later her tread could be heard purposefully walking up the stairs.
Harry was still battling the nauseous feeling of uncertainly and indecision in his stomach, and so barely heard the huff of laughter from Ginny as Ron waited an entire forty two seconds before letting out an enormous, completely fake yawn. “Harry, mate, you wouldn’t mind if I went up to bed…to sleep, would you? I know you aren’t tired, you probably don’t want to come up for ages, right? Right?”
Harry struggled with the smirk that wanted to appear on his face. Ron hadn’t been this much himself in months. He’d been driven and purposeful after the first Horcrux had been found. He’d been cold and drawn since the Burrow’s destruction and Percy’s death a month earlier. Coming to Grimmauld, despite all the horrible memories and ghosts and shadows, had been good for him, if not for Harry. Ron needed to be close to his father, and his sister, to sneak into St. Mungo’s under invisibility cloak and see his mum.
“Oh, I won’t be up for hours. You go on ahead.”
Ron tried very hard not to run out of the room, simply turning and muttering a strained, “Happy Christmas” before exiting, but the unmistakable clod of huge feet up the steps as Ron ran to catch up to Hermione caused Harry to snort with laughter and his eyes to tear up. At least somebody would be happy tonight.
He gasped audibly when his darkness suddenly came alive with light, and the smell of flowers enveloped him. Ginny held his eyes again, this time with her standing only a few feet away, her wand still in her hand from lighting the candelabra that floated over the scratched lacquered side table next to him.
“I never thought you’d be a fan of the dark, Harry.” Her expression was guarded. Her eyes unreadable again as they had been for the fortnight they’d been here together.
“I’m not.” It was a stupid response, but frankly, he couldn’t think too clearly with her hair just inches from his fingertips, and the expanse of the too-pale skin of her neck calling to him.
Silence fell again, stretching between them, and she turned away, and walked back to the task she had assigned herself. He forced himself up out of the damned chair even though his legs seemed asleep, and walked toward her a bit wobbly. He stood behind her and watched as she once again flaunt defunct Ministry rules and picked up a clean white egg, banishing the liquid within and muttering a spell in a language Harry couldn’t identify to etch a sleeping dragon curled around the surface. With another flick of her wand, the egg glowed a soft blue reminding him of…
“Hermione taught me one of her bluebell flame spells. It comes in handy for more than just camping in the wilds and burning the robes of bloody traitorous potions professors.” Her voice sounded strained, as though she was trying as hard as he was to keep away from him. Was she trying not to throw herself at him, or trying not to pummel him and curse him to a wasteland in Finland?
He stepped around her, approaching the tree with care, not trusting himself to not break something, whether it was her work or her heart. Each of her eggs was beautiful, from the portrait of Crookshanks to the Eqyptian Horus eye that seemed to wink at him. They were her family, all that she was likely to have near her on Christmas. Even he wasn’t that clueless.
“Charlie taught me the spell you know. One of his girlfriends in Romania used to do this every Christmas, and when we went to visit, he taught me. She died not much later after that.”
He gasped. But she went on, reaching past him to hang up the little dragon that opened one eye and snorted a tiny puff of enamel smoke. “I think he loved her, but they were both dragon trainers, and things like that happen. It’s what happens when you do something dangerous.”
He caught her wrist, and she again locked brown eyes to his green. “I don’t want that to be you.”
“Do you think I want it to be me? Do you think I want it to be you? Do you think I have a bloody choice!” Her voice was cold and hard, but her eyes were hot. Molten bronze, and Harry wanted to pitch himself into them and be scalded.
He pulled her to him, and she thrust her hands in his hair, and he was kissing her. The fire that had seemed so weak only moments before seemed to roar out of control, and heat filled him, making him feel warmer than he had since Dumbledore’s death. Her lips were chapped, but so were his, and the taste of her was hot and sweet. She felt so small in his arms, but she gripped him with iron toughness, needing him as much as he needed her. The feeling of euphoria filling him was tempered only with the guilty knowledge of all that he had denied both of them by being a stupid noble git.
There was still a madman out there, with four remaining pieces of his soul to kill. No one was safe. But maybe sometimes, it was still possible to be happy. He ran his hands over the body of the woman who had haunted his dreams, and filled himself up with the reality of her: that he would not be alone this Christmas, and he would not let her be alone either.
------------------------
ORIGINAL REQUEST:
Briefly describe what you'd like to receive: Something with a mixture of angst and fluff, emphasis on the fluff
Preferred Rating: PG 15+
OBHWF Inclusion: Yes
Holiday Choice (Christmas, New Year's, Both, or Unimportant): Christmas
If both, when would you like the fic to be posted? n/a
Other Holidays to incorporate (optional, maximum of three): n/a
One to three specifics you want (optional): Fire(could be candlelight…or not), pinecones, eggshells
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): Bad characterization
Thank you for participating in the Winter Exchange! Happy Holidays!
Author: naiad8
Beta: gwen1170 (thank you much!!!)
Rating: PG-13-15
Word count: 1940
Summary: Christmas at Grimmauld Place is not where Harry had thought he would be. He’d most definitely not wanted Ginny to be there at Christmas. Sometimes, you get not what you want, but what you need.
Warnings: some death, injury and angst
Disclaimer: Characters, locations and magic not mine…just the plotty stuff
Author's Notes: I’m not sure this is as much fluff as requested…difficult to find fluffy muse after the title release of book 7. I tried though…and you’ve got fire, candlelight, eggshells and pinecones. Happy Christmas!
Since he’d expected something entirely different this Christmas Eve, he supposed he shouldn’t be thinking how weak the fire in the large first-floor sitting room appeared to be. If someone had asked him about Christmas back in July, or even in October, he’d have thought he’d be out in the countryside somewhere, anywhere from Herefordshire to Hungary, cold and worn and alone and aching. Well, maybe not alone. His eyes flicked toward the sofa, where Ron had his eyes fixed with uncanny fidelity from beneath lowered lashes on their bushy-haired best friend, who seemed obviously to all but the book perched on her lap.
He probably would have had to sleep outside too. They’d have needed the tent. At least, he thought they’d have needed the tent. They’d been pretty discrete, and Harry wasn’t sure exactly how far their relationship had gone yet, given all that had happened; all whom they had lost. But they’d fought less; and there had been a few stray glances between them so blisteringly hot that Harry was really rather uncomfortable. He really tried not to be jealous, He tried not to want what they had, or would have soon enough.
Ron picked up one of the charmed pinecones from the basket the twins had left, and threw one into the small fire that never seemed to fill the room with warmth. For a moment, the fire broke into a happy dance of magenta and violet, with streaks of orange and coppery green, the snaps and crackles doing a passable rendition of “Centaurs We Have Heard on High”. Hermione’s hand had strayed from her side on to Ron’s knee, and she was tracing little circles on the worn wool. Harry observed Ron swallow, and take a deep breath. Harry understood that feeling. It happened every time he thought of Ginny.
Back in July, or October, if someone had asked him what Ginevra Weasley would be doing on Christmas Eve, he would have lovingly described a happy scene of a warm fire at the Burrow, surrounded by good food and family, maybe some hot cider and Celestina Warbeck playing on the wireless. That is, after all, exactly what he wanted for her: to be safe and happy.
He hadn’t really given thought to the fact that she would not be happy. He hadn’t really considered that she would not be at the Burrow this Christmas, because there was no Burrow. She would not be surrounded by family: because Bill was on some secret mission, Charlie was missing, the Twins were working for the Order and guarding the homes of Muggleborns tonight, trying to let them all keep Christmas. Molly was in St. Mungo’s recovering from burns, Arthur was upstairs and had been tricked into taking a sleeping draught by his resourceful daughter, and Percy…Percy was dead.
Crouched in a formal upholstered chair in the dark corner of the overlarge room, far from the fire, he watched her hair turn different shades of red in the reflected light of the Singing Pinecone enhanced fire. She was intent on her task, and held her wand with a calm sense of purpose as she charmed another egg from a simple potential omelet into a delicate thing of beauty, an eggshell ornament for the tiny Christmas tree Hermione had Transfigured from a dead bush in the garden. Even from this distance, the softly glowing light within the egg shone with warmth, and he could clearly see the thrumming beat of the Snitch etched into the shell. Her face turned to his suddenly, and the fierce defiant light in her eyes filled the monster in his chest with an almost unconquerable desire to leap from his uncomfortable seat and pounce upon her, kissing her until she could barely breathe and Ron threatened to beat him to a pulp. He wanted to make her happy. He wanted to be happy.
Hermione closed her book with a snap, breaking the spell that had had Harry eyes locked with Ginny’s. Hermione stood and stretched, and Harry briefly wondered if Ron’s eyes could pop out any further without permanent damage as he blatantly stared at their friend’s feminine assets. A thought flittered into Harry’s head that perhaps Hermione knew exactly what she was doing to Ron, but then Hermione turned and asked Ginny, “I think I’ll turn in early tonight, even with the holiday. Can’t waste this chance, can we?” Harry blinked, wondering if she meant..? “It’s rare to have a real bed to sleep in lately, after all.”
Oh. Still, it would have been quite comical how red Ron’s face was, and how he seemed to twitch slightly as Hermione bent over and packed up her weighty tomes into the school bag she still carried her copious research in. It would have also been funny to note how Hermione stole surreptitious glances at Ron through the menacing bulls-eye mirror over the mantle, to judge how each sway of her bottom affected him. But it wasn’t funny at the moment. Not when all Harry could think about was what he wanted to do in a bed upstairs with the youngest Weasley, how he wanted to worship her, to make it up to her for being a fool. How he couldn’t do a damn thing but sit in his corner and try to fight the demands of his body and his heart when his mind was still convinced he had to try and keep her safe.
Hermione muttered another goodnight, and paused in the doorway, giving Harry a look that was hard and accusing. The translation was obvious:
He was being a git.
He was more clueless than Ron (which, for Hermione, was a very bad insult).
Fix it.
Hermione let out a puff of breath, her eyes went soft for half a moment, with something resembling affection. No longer able to keep her eyes from darting toward Ron, still on the sofa, his eyes glued on the fire, she turned, and disappeared. A moment later her tread could be heard purposefully walking up the stairs.
Harry was still battling the nauseous feeling of uncertainly and indecision in his stomach, and so barely heard the huff of laughter from Ginny as Ron waited an entire forty two seconds before letting out an enormous, completely fake yawn. “Harry, mate, you wouldn’t mind if I went up to bed…to sleep, would you? I know you aren’t tired, you probably don’t want to come up for ages, right? Right?”
Harry struggled with the smirk that wanted to appear on his face. Ron hadn’t been this much himself in months. He’d been driven and purposeful after the first Horcrux had been found. He’d been cold and drawn since the Burrow’s destruction and Percy’s death a month earlier. Coming to Grimmauld, despite all the horrible memories and ghosts and shadows, had been good for him, if not for Harry. Ron needed to be close to his father, and his sister, to sneak into St. Mungo’s under invisibility cloak and see his mum.
“Oh, I won’t be up for hours. You go on ahead.”
Ron tried very hard not to run out of the room, simply turning and muttering a strained, “Happy Christmas” before exiting, but the unmistakable clod of huge feet up the steps as Ron ran to catch up to Hermione caused Harry to snort with laughter and his eyes to tear up. At least somebody would be happy tonight.
He gasped audibly when his darkness suddenly came alive with light, and the smell of flowers enveloped him. Ginny held his eyes again, this time with her standing only a few feet away, her wand still in her hand from lighting the candelabra that floated over the scratched lacquered side table next to him.
“I never thought you’d be a fan of the dark, Harry.” Her expression was guarded. Her eyes unreadable again as they had been for the fortnight they’d been here together.
“I’m not.” It was a stupid response, but frankly, he couldn’t think too clearly with her hair just inches from his fingertips, and the expanse of the too-pale skin of her neck calling to him.
Silence fell again, stretching between them, and she turned away, and walked back to the task she had assigned herself. He forced himself up out of the damned chair even though his legs seemed asleep, and walked toward her a bit wobbly. He stood behind her and watched as she once again flaunt defunct Ministry rules and picked up a clean white egg, banishing the liquid within and muttering a spell in a language Harry couldn’t identify to etch a sleeping dragon curled around the surface. With another flick of her wand, the egg glowed a soft blue reminding him of…
“Hermione taught me one of her bluebell flame spells. It comes in handy for more than just camping in the wilds and burning the robes of bloody traitorous potions professors.” Her voice sounded strained, as though she was trying as hard as he was to keep away from him. Was she trying not to throw herself at him, or trying not to pummel him and curse him to a wasteland in Finland?
He stepped around her, approaching the tree with care, not trusting himself to not break something, whether it was her work or her heart. Each of her eggs was beautiful, from the portrait of Crookshanks to the Eqyptian Horus eye that seemed to wink at him. They were her family, all that she was likely to have near her on Christmas. Even he wasn’t that clueless.
“Charlie taught me the spell you know. One of his girlfriends in Romania used to do this every Christmas, and when we went to visit, he taught me. She died not much later after that.”
He gasped. But she went on, reaching past him to hang up the little dragon that opened one eye and snorted a tiny puff of enamel smoke. “I think he loved her, but they were both dragon trainers, and things like that happen. It’s what happens when you do something dangerous.”
He caught her wrist, and she again locked brown eyes to his green. “I don’t want that to be you.”
“Do you think I want it to be me? Do you think I want it to be you? Do you think I have a bloody choice!” Her voice was cold and hard, but her eyes were hot. Molten bronze, and Harry wanted to pitch himself into them and be scalded.
He pulled her to him, and she thrust her hands in his hair, and he was kissing her. The fire that had seemed so weak only moments before seemed to roar out of control, and heat filled him, making him feel warmer than he had since Dumbledore’s death. Her lips were chapped, but so were his, and the taste of her was hot and sweet. She felt so small in his arms, but she gripped him with iron toughness, needing him as much as he needed her. The feeling of euphoria filling him was tempered only with the guilty knowledge of all that he had denied both of them by being a stupid noble git.
There was still a madman out there, with four remaining pieces of his soul to kill. No one was safe. But maybe sometimes, it was still possible to be happy. He ran his hands over the body of the woman who had haunted his dreams, and filled himself up with the reality of her: that he would not be alone this Christmas, and he would not let her be alone either.
------------------------
ORIGINAL REQUEST:
Briefly describe what you'd like to receive: Something with a mixture of angst and fluff, emphasis on the fluff
Preferred Rating: PG 15+
OBHWF Inclusion: Yes
Holiday Choice (Christmas, New Year's, Both, or Unimportant): Christmas
If both, when would you like the fic to be posted? n/a
Other Holidays to incorporate (optional, maximum of three): n/a
One to three specifics you want (optional): Fire(could be candlelight…or not), pinecones, eggshells
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): Bad characterization
Thank you for participating in the Winter Exchange! Happy Holidays!