Translation, R, 1385 words, H/G
So here you go, guys. Jeez, my first finished fic after HBP. At last. Anyway, I hope you like it.
Title: Translation
Summary: "She realized as soon as she met him that he was no good at saying what he meant to say."
Rating: light R
Word Count: 1385
Notes/Warnings: Thanks so much to antosha_c for the beta!
Oh, also, please review! :)
She realized as soon as she met him that he was no good at saying what he meant to say. Years after that first encounter, when they are older in body and older than that in mind, he still can't express himself quite right. He doesn't know where to begin, and worries that, once he begins, he won't be able to stop. He tries to get them out, but never succeeds; they always get lost somewhere in his throat, pushed back by regret and emptiness. They are translated, instead, into other words, shuffling feet, sideways glances. His motion is a foreign language.
She is learning to read.
*
St. Mungo's has never seemed so crowded, even though it is midnight and there is really practically no one here. The sound of her trainers as she runs down the corridor echoes off the tiled walls. She bumps into a Mediwizard but forgets to apologize. She is wearing her nightgown and an old leather jacket. People are pointing and giving her skeptical looks. She doesn't care.
It takes two tries before she finds the correct room. She bursts in, breathing hard, exhausted, and finds that she is the only one there. He is lying alone in the cold room, looking at the ceiling. His arm is bandaged. She sees blood soaking through. His face is ashen. He turns his head to look at her and manages to smile a little.
"Where is everyone?" she asks, startled. She realizes how little she is wearing and wraps her coat tightly around her. "Where's Ron? And Remus?"
Harry smiles a little wider. His brow is creased with pain.
"Hi," he says roughly, eyes trained on her. Her heart jumps in her chest as she figures it out. "Hi" splinters outwards, grows branches, metamorphoses into a thousand other words. And he is still looking at her.
He isn't saying "hi". He is saying, He's gone. He is saying, You're the first one I told.
*
A week later, when he is recuperating at the Burrow, she runs into him in the corridor as he comes out of Bill's old room. His smile is wider. His eyes are still haunted.
"Hey," she says. She doesn't move. Neither does he. She feels his breath on her face.
"Hey," he says back.
Before she knows exactly what she is doing, she has pushed him back into Bill's old room and kicked the door shut and is kissing him. She wraps her arms around him. He bites her neck. Her skin is electric; her pulse is sky-high. Hand up her shirt. Hips against his. Oh.
Then, suddenly, it is over. He is backing away from her, embarrassed, smiling, but not quite smiling.
"Thank you," he says uneasily.
Except he isn't exactly saying "Thank you". He is saying, Me, too. He is saying, But I can't do this right now. It's too soon. He is saying, Wait.
"Okay," she says, stomach twisting. She sees his black eye, his mutilated arm, his shadows, his heartbreak, his grief. "Okay, fine."
And she leaves. And they don't talk about it anymore. But the hickey he left stays on her neck for days, purplish-red, hurting to touch, giving her a beautiful leer.
*
Two weeks later, her mother hosts a party. The entire Auror contingent of Great Britain floods into their living room. There is laughter and drinks and gossip and yet, behind it all, there is a terrible wall of sadness. She feels it in herself and escapes into the kitchen to collect herself.
"Hi," he says, before she's even noticed him standing there. He turns to look at her, leaning on the counter, eyes dark and quiet in the shadowed room.
"Hi," she says, startled. The idea of being alone with him makes her anxious and sick. She's avoided him ever since the kiss, knowing he needs time and knowing she won't be able to give it to him if he is too close. "How are you?"
His lips twist in an ironic smile. "Well," he says. "I've been better."
She smiles and, against her better judgment, walks closer. She can hear her own heart beating. She wipes her hands on her skirt. Inside, she is screaming.
"So have I," she whispers. She stands next to him and just looks at him, eyes sliding over the familiar angles, wanting them to be hers again.
"I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head. "I shouldn't be-this is all wrong. I keep trying to leave you alone but-"
"I don't want that," he says forcefully. "I don't want you to leave me alone at all."
She swallows and looks over his shoulder, out the window, at the cloudy sky and the yellowing grass. She feels heavy with responsibility and love, and wants him with an intensity that she can barely comprehend.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have said that. It's just..." He trails off, but it doesn't matter; she already knows what he is trying to tell her.
He is saying, I'm sorry. He is saying, I just don't want to mess this up. He is saying, Just a little longer. He is saying, Please.
He leaves. She is glad. Even alone, it takes her forever to recover from the heat of his gaze, from the force of his love.
*
She and Ron are playing chess when he comes down the stairs. She tries not to look at him. It's been three weeks since she kissed him, but she still can't quite erase his mouth from hers.
"Who's winning?" he asks. She looks up at him through her hair and smiles despite her frustration. He looks so much better. His face is filling out again. He took his arm out of the sling yesterday. She is more in love than ever.
"Who do you think?" she asks. Ron laughs and checkmates her.
"I shouldn't have asked," Harry says. He sits down beside her. His hip touches hers. She thinks, Oh God.
As she replaces her pieces into their starting positions, he says, almost inaudibly, "I think you'll win this time."
He is saying, Ready. The chessboard blurs before her eyes. She focuses on the sound of his breathing, on the brush of his arm against hers. He is saying, Get set. The low, sultry afternoon light smooths his worry lines. Daringly, she presses her ankle against his. The warmth slices through her skin. He is saying, Go.
She loses the game. She doesn't even notice.
*
The night is cold for September. She wraps her blankets around her tightly, staring into the darkness, unable to fall asleep. Her mind is set on replay. Words, images, feelings come rushing back to her in a noisy blur. She doesn't even realize that the door has been opened until she sees him standing there, backlit by the light from the corridor.
She struggles to sit up. He hovers uncertainly in the doorway until she beckons him in. He closes the door behind him. Her heart begins to beat three times as fast.
She can barely see him in the darkness as he approaches, but she senses him, and so when he sits on the edge of her bed, it is no surprise. She exhales too loudly. He grabs her hand.
"I came here to say something," he tells her quietly, watching their linked fingers as he runs a thumb over her palm. He laughs awkwardly. "I don't remember what it was."
He is leaning closer. The air temperature seems to be skyrocketing. She can't believe she was freezing a few minutes ago. She takes his arm and pulls him down so that he is lying next to her on her skinny little twin bed, and tugs the covers over him.
"It doesn't matter," she says, realizing suddenly how true it is. He kisses her mouth briefly, then again. His hands move towards the hem of her nightdress. Her pulse moves downwards. She feels the heat of his gaze sliding across her, leaving goosebumps in her wake. It's gasoline on a fire. His hand feels alien and incredible on her thigh. She says again, breathlessly, pulling him down on top of her, "It doesn't matter what you say."
So he doesn't say anything at all. And she understands him perfectly.
Title: Translation
Summary: "She realized as soon as she met him that he was no good at saying what he meant to say."
Rating: light R
Word Count: 1385
Notes/Warnings: Thanks so much to antosha_c for the beta!
Oh, also, please review! :)
She realized as soon as she met him that he was no good at saying what he meant to say. Years after that first encounter, when they are older in body and older than that in mind, he still can't express himself quite right. He doesn't know where to begin, and worries that, once he begins, he won't be able to stop. He tries to get them out, but never succeeds; they always get lost somewhere in his throat, pushed back by regret and emptiness. They are translated, instead, into other words, shuffling feet, sideways glances. His motion is a foreign language.
She is learning to read.
*
St. Mungo's has never seemed so crowded, even though it is midnight and there is really practically no one here. The sound of her trainers as she runs down the corridor echoes off the tiled walls. She bumps into a Mediwizard but forgets to apologize. She is wearing her nightgown and an old leather jacket. People are pointing and giving her skeptical looks. She doesn't care.
It takes two tries before she finds the correct room. She bursts in, breathing hard, exhausted, and finds that she is the only one there. He is lying alone in the cold room, looking at the ceiling. His arm is bandaged. She sees blood soaking through. His face is ashen. He turns his head to look at her and manages to smile a little.
"Where is everyone?" she asks, startled. She realizes how little she is wearing and wraps her coat tightly around her. "Where's Ron? And Remus?"
Harry smiles a little wider. His brow is creased with pain.
"Hi," he says roughly, eyes trained on her. Her heart jumps in her chest as she figures it out. "Hi" splinters outwards, grows branches, metamorphoses into a thousand other words. And he is still looking at her.
He isn't saying "hi". He is saying, He's gone. He is saying, You're the first one I told.
*
A week later, when he is recuperating at the Burrow, she runs into him in the corridor as he comes out of Bill's old room. His smile is wider. His eyes are still haunted.
"Hey," she says. She doesn't move. Neither does he. She feels his breath on her face.
"Hey," he says back.
Before she knows exactly what she is doing, she has pushed him back into Bill's old room and kicked the door shut and is kissing him. She wraps her arms around him. He bites her neck. Her skin is electric; her pulse is sky-high. Hand up her shirt. Hips against his. Oh.
Then, suddenly, it is over. He is backing away from her, embarrassed, smiling, but not quite smiling.
"Thank you," he says uneasily.
Except he isn't exactly saying "Thank you". He is saying, Me, too. He is saying, But I can't do this right now. It's too soon. He is saying, Wait.
"Okay," she says, stomach twisting. She sees his black eye, his mutilated arm, his shadows, his heartbreak, his grief. "Okay, fine."
And she leaves. And they don't talk about it anymore. But the hickey he left stays on her neck for days, purplish-red, hurting to touch, giving her a beautiful leer.
*
Two weeks later, her mother hosts a party. The entire Auror contingent of Great Britain floods into their living room. There is laughter and drinks and gossip and yet, behind it all, there is a terrible wall of sadness. She feels it in herself and escapes into the kitchen to collect herself.
"Hi," he says, before she's even noticed him standing there. He turns to look at her, leaning on the counter, eyes dark and quiet in the shadowed room.
"Hi," she says, startled. The idea of being alone with him makes her anxious and sick. She's avoided him ever since the kiss, knowing he needs time and knowing she won't be able to give it to him if he is too close. "How are you?"
His lips twist in an ironic smile. "Well," he says. "I've been better."
She smiles and, against her better judgment, walks closer. She can hear her own heart beating. She wipes her hands on her skirt. Inside, she is screaming.
"So have I," she whispers. She stands next to him and just looks at him, eyes sliding over the familiar angles, wanting them to be hers again.
"I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head. "I shouldn't be-this is all wrong. I keep trying to leave you alone but-"
"I don't want that," he says forcefully. "I don't want you to leave me alone at all."
She swallows and looks over his shoulder, out the window, at the cloudy sky and the yellowing grass. She feels heavy with responsibility and love, and wants him with an intensity that she can barely comprehend.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have said that. It's just..." He trails off, but it doesn't matter; she already knows what he is trying to tell her.
He is saying, I'm sorry. He is saying, I just don't want to mess this up. He is saying, Just a little longer. He is saying, Please.
He leaves. She is glad. Even alone, it takes her forever to recover from the heat of his gaze, from the force of his love.
*
She and Ron are playing chess when he comes down the stairs. She tries not to look at him. It's been three weeks since she kissed him, but she still can't quite erase his mouth from hers.
"Who's winning?" he asks. She looks up at him through her hair and smiles despite her frustration. He looks so much better. His face is filling out again. He took his arm out of the sling yesterday. She is more in love than ever.
"Who do you think?" she asks. Ron laughs and checkmates her.
"I shouldn't have asked," Harry says. He sits down beside her. His hip touches hers. She thinks, Oh God.
As she replaces her pieces into their starting positions, he says, almost inaudibly, "I think you'll win this time."
He is saying, Ready. The chessboard blurs before her eyes. She focuses on the sound of his breathing, on the brush of his arm against hers. He is saying, Get set. The low, sultry afternoon light smooths his worry lines. Daringly, she presses her ankle against his. The warmth slices through her skin. He is saying, Go.
She loses the game. She doesn't even notice.
*
The night is cold for September. She wraps her blankets around her tightly, staring into the darkness, unable to fall asleep. Her mind is set on replay. Words, images, feelings come rushing back to her in a noisy blur. She doesn't even realize that the door has been opened until she sees him standing there, backlit by the light from the corridor.
She struggles to sit up. He hovers uncertainly in the doorway until she beckons him in. He closes the door behind him. Her heart begins to beat three times as fast.
She can barely see him in the darkness as he approaches, but she senses him, and so when he sits on the edge of her bed, it is no surprise. She exhales too loudly. He grabs her hand.
"I came here to say something," he tells her quietly, watching their linked fingers as he runs a thumb over her palm. He laughs awkwardly. "I don't remember what it was."
He is leaning closer. The air temperature seems to be skyrocketing. She can't believe she was freezing a few minutes ago. She takes his arm and pulls him down so that he is lying next to her on her skinny little twin bed, and tugs the covers over him.
"It doesn't matter," she says, realizing suddenly how true it is. He kisses her mouth briefly, then again. His hands move towards the hem of her nightdress. Her pulse moves downwards. She feels the heat of his gaze sliding across her, leaving goosebumps in her wake. It's gasoline on a fire. His hand feels alien and incredible on her thigh. She says again, breathlessly, pulling him down on top of her, "It doesn't matter what you say."
So he doesn't say anything at all. And she understands him perfectly.