wordsmithsonian (original) (raw)

urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:wordsmithsonian wordsmithsonian Ron and Hermione forever! wordsmithsonian 2011-09-18T20:15:23Z urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:wordsmithsonian:8053 Happy Birthday to one incredible woman! 2011-09-18T20:15:23Z 2011-09-18T20:15:23Z Happy Birthday, urbanmama1! 

I'm so glad that you were born and that the years have led you here, that you have taken the time to give us the gift of knowing you as you share so generously of yourself.  We are all better for it.

As you know, I have been in a writing black-hole for months now, but I tried to shake it off to write you a tiny birthday drabble. 
Pardon the rust, dear, I'm afraid my writing fingers were left out in the rain.

Thank you so much for everything that you are and that you have given to me and everyone around you.  I hope you have the happiest of Birthdays!

Dedicated to urbanmama1:

Love.

Love at first sight. 

Honestly, it had to be one of the silliest concepts she had ever encountered.  Love at first sight, indeed.  It was simply ridiculous, the notion that a person could truly fall in love just by looking at someone.  How much of one's true character is worn on the face, in the shape of the body?  How true could love be if it rested solely on such a shallow foundation?

Love was a seed, often planted without one's knowledge or consent.  It was watered with the slow trickle of discovery as one got to know a person, given light through the illumination of their soul in bits and pieces.  Love was carefully tended over the years, often tested by disasters and difficulties.  Love grew strong, overcoming all obstacles over time.

Love was not a fleeting glimpse of a handsome face.

Hermione remembered the first time she had seen him quite vividly.

It had been, at the time, the most monumental day of her short life.  She was going to a real wizarding school, to learn actual magic.  Gone were the days when she would spend her life watching her peers from over the top of a book, never fitting in.  Now her true life could begin.
The first person she met was a sniffling boy named Neville, who had lost his toad.  She immediately dismissed him as being ordinary, like her.  Nothing overtly magical about him.  She took it upon herself to find this lost toad, storming into car after car to look for it.

And so she had bustled into a car of two boys her own age to demand that they help look for poor Neville’s toad, only to discover them practicing magic.  Two boys, one small and far too thin, his features dominated by unruly black hair and broken glasses.  The other sat brandishing a wand with such casualness that she could tell she was looking at a true bred magical boy. She paused mentally, taking him in with her eyes.  So this was what a magical boy looked like.  Fascinating.  She was slightly disappointed, actually.  He was really quite … real, wasn’t he?  Not ethereal at all.  There was even … dirt streaked across his nose.  He was all lanky limbs in ill fitting clothing and offensively bright red hair, nothing majestic or even remotely impressive about him, from what she could see.

Love at first sight, it was not.

She scoffed lightly, discarding the novel she had been reading with disgust over the heroine's silliness in believing that infatuation with some nameless man's face could possibly equate with true love.

"A dead bore, then?  Never seen you toss a book on the floor like that.  I hope you aren't having some sort of fit.  Should I Floo St. Mungoe's d'you think?"

She was on her feet and across the floor before the last words had left his mouth.  His firm smiling mouth, lips tilted up at the corners as he leaned into her kiss, laughing as she moved to press frantic little kisses over the rest of his face, trying to get every freckle.

The sight of him was pure joy.  His face was love and beauty and wicked humor and liquid sex and she could spend hours staring at him. His face, his hair, his body, everything she saw when she looked at him sparkled through her chest with the strongest magic of all. 

He was finally back home after nearly a fortnight away, and now she could finally lay in their lazy bed with him and look her fill at her love.

Her anything but love-at-first-sight.

urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:wordsmithsonian:7587 My two favorite things! 2011-04-06T21:42:21Z 2011-04-06T21:42:21Z WHAT?  Someone has managed to beat me to combining my two favorite things:  Harry Potter and CUPCAKES!

These Butterbeer cupcakes are SO on the menu for all future Harry Potter Parties!

DELICIOUSNESS AWAITS

You're welcome. urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:wordsmithsonian:7221 Deathly Hallows Part 1 DVD 2011-04-01T16:37:11Z 2011-04-01T16:37:11Z I just pre-ordered my copy of the new Deathly Hallows DVD, I should get it on the day it comes out!!!

mugglemama  inspired me to get crackin' by posting the most ADORABLE deleted scene ever, so I knew that I had to get the DVD in my greedy little hands as soon as possible!

Agenda for the weekend of April 15th: Curling up on the sofa with some homemade butterbeer  and chocolate frogs (yes I bought a candy mold for them) and watching EVERY tiny bit of footage until I pass out! 

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:wordsmithsonian:7078 Birthday Ficlet for Mugglemama! We <3 You! 2011-03-23T21:05:40Z 2011-03-23T21:05:40Z urbanmama1  came up with the super-fantastic idea of doing a birthday fic for our beloved mugglemama  as a project together, each of us taking turns writing the characters' POV.
She wrote the Hermione bits and I wrote the Ron bits and it was heaps and heaps of fun!

She is of course a genius, which I have always known, but it was wonderfully fun to work with her on this project and I hope you enjoy it! 

Special thanks to tmblue  for pitching in with her Beta skills!

There used to be uncertainty every time he held my gaze for a beat too long. He would quickly look away, averting his eyes with a tell-tale flush creeping up his neck to his ears.

But not anymore.

Right now he's staring at me quite openly, cocking an eyebrow and letting his eyes sweep over my body from head to toe. It's ridiculous that after more than a year, this particular look of his -- a mixture of longing and knowing and awe -- can still unnerve me so.

"Hermione, you're here!" Ginny all but shouts from a few tables away, interrupting my Ron-induced reverie. "I thought you had to work late."

"Um, yes," I stammer eloquently, trying to keep the rosy glow Ron is causing from breaking into a full-on blush. "I, ah, finished earlier than I imagined."

I take one, two, three steps toward our regular table, and just as I'm close enough to give Ginny's shoulder a squeeze, Ron bolts upright, nearly knocks over his pint of butterbeer, and crushes me into a hug that buries my face in his chest.

"You're here," he mumbles directly into my hair, cupping my face with his right hand while his left arm remains tightly wrapped around my lower back. "I've missed you."

"Where else would I be?" I exhale, closing my eyes to everything but the welcome feel of him after such an exhausting day. "I missed you too."

"I'll go order you a drink," Ginny whispers, patting my back as she brushes past me -- us -- on her way to the bar.

Her voice reminds me that this lingering embrace could look suspicious to Ginny or any of our other friends and relatives who are surely here. But I don't care, and I don't even want a drink.

…

I hadn't exactly planned on attacking her as soon as she came within my reach, but I couldn't seem to help myself.

The moment that she walked into the pub, the center of my world shifted, everything revolving around her suddenly and naturally.  I knew that I was staring, but I couldn't be bothered to even try and hide it.  I had wasted so much time hiding already.

She rubs her face against my chest, her mad hair tickling my chin as she mumbles something I can't quite make out. 

Doesn't matter, really. Sometimes I don't have to hear what she says to catch her meaning.

One last tight squeeze, my fingers spread as far down her lower back as I would dare in front of so many people, my hands reluctant to let her go even as she steps away just enough to meet my eyes.

I saw this stone once, in a museum or something, and it had somehow managed to catch my attention after what had seemed like days spent sighing and stomping around the most boring display of magical artifacts any little boy had ever been forced to endure.  Not a single weapon in the whole sad lot.  But this stone, it was huge, cut into so many facets that it almost hurt to look at the bloody thing.

It was a deep brown, the light firing within casting golden highlights deep inside the glassy surface.  It was mesmerizing, the only thing that I remember from the trip other than a sense of crushing boredom.

Sometimes when she looks up into my eyes like this, she reminds me of that stone. Her eyes are just so brilliant, shining with so many facets that light seems to multiply within them until I can't tear myself away. 

"Must have been quite a day for you, Hermione."

I'm barely able to suppress my groan of disappointment as Ginny returns, a cold pint of butterbeer held out to Hermione as she smiles at the pair of us.

Hermione turns away to take her drink, and my hands reach out to follow her like an idiot, the scowl on my face doing nothing to hold back Ginny's knowing grin.

I snatch up my drink with one hand, shoving the other in my trouser pocket as I start to plot and scheme silently while the girls catch up.

We have got to get out of here.

…

"... He's actually not gonna join us tonight," Ginny explains, focusing on a napkin she's been fiddling with since she brought me my butterbeer. I think she's afraid to look up and accidentally catch Ron staring at me with that heavy-lidded gaze.

"He popped over to Andromeda's, and I think she prefers to have him to herself sometimes, so I told him I'd watch Ron sulk while you worked late. I swear, that woman fusses over him more than Mum," she snorts.

"Ginny," I start gently. "That woman lost her entire immediate family except for her grandson. Indulge her in spoiling Harry a bit. Besides, you know he loves the motherly attention."

"Yes, well, he's been mothered by Mum -- and you, for that matter -- for years," Ron adds, oh-so-amused, so I indulge him by laughing.

"Look, I really only came by because I thought you weren't coming, and I didn't want Ron to pout--"

"Oi! I don't pout," Ron interrupts poutily.

"When you're missing Hermione -- or a meal -- you do," Ginny narrows her eyes, "So as I was saying, now that you're here, Hermione, I'm going to call it a night. My pre-training workouts are brutal, and I'm knackered."

I debate asking her to stay, because I do love catching up, but one look at Ron, and it's clear he has other ideas, and none of them involve his sister.

"Plus, watching Ron look at you is positively obscene. I don't know how Harry put up with it for so long. Four summers were enough for me."

…

I cut my eyes to Ginny, glaring daggers while I start to slowly edge my way closer to Hermione.  I reckon that if I avoid making any sudden movements, I can sneak an arm lower around her hips than she'd usually allow in public.

"I thought you said you were leaving," I grumble, frustration adding a surly note to my voice as I continue to stare pointedly at my sister.

It feels like ages since I've been able to spend any time alone with Hermione.  Properly alone, without family or Harry or any other well-meaning wankers hanging about to bother us. Preferably within falling distance of a bed, or couch, or... really, any semi-flat surface would be enough for me.  To tell the truth, I've been eyeing Hermione's ridiculously large desk at her work for weeks at least...

"Alright, alright.  I can see that I'm not wanted."  Ginny interrupts my thoughts with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, laughing off Hermione's protests as she shrugs into her jacket, shoving her nearly empty butterbeer into my hand while she busses Hermione's cheek and finally, thankfully, leaves.

I toss back the rest of her butterbeer, turning away to set both glasses on a nearby table before returning my full attention to the object of my every waking thought.  Every sleeping thought, too, come to think of it...

Slipping my arms around her waist, I pull her closer, a grin tugging at my lips as she blushes and glances around to see if anyone is watching.

Her glass is cold, leaving a damp mark on my shirt as she presses her hands against my chest.

"Ron, perhaps we should-" She starts quietly, but something flares inside those mesmerizing eyes and she stops speaking abruptly, the pair of us staring at each other like absolute loons, caught in that strange sort of weightless feeling that hits us sometimes when our eyes are locked together.

"Oi, watch it!"  I shout, jumping away as cold butterbeer runs down the front of my shirt, Hermione gasping and holding her glass up and far away from me as though putting some distance between the sticky liquid and my shirt now would make a bit of difference.

"Oh, no, Ron! I'm so sorry! Here, let me-" She stammers a bit as she places her now almost empty glass on a table, searching frantically for a napkin.

"Naw, s'fine.  Really, Hermione, don't get fussed.  I think I'm fairly safe from drowning."  I try to suppress my laughter at her look of horrified mortification, but it's getting really difficult as she dabs at me with tiny useless napkins like I'm a length of parchment she's accidentally spilled her ink on.

She nibbles her lower lip, looking up at me through her eyelashes in that way that makes my trousers feel suddenly too small, a particularly uncomfortable sensation when paired with a cold and wet shirtfront.

"Look, lets just run back to my flat for a second and I'll throw on something a bit less... " I pluck the clinging material away from my chest, letting it fall back against my skin with a damp plop.

"... disgusting."

She nods, glancing away as she slips her hand into mine, somehow still a little shy about things like that, even after everything we've been through.  Then she's looking up at me and the shyness melts away like it had never been there at all, her eyes bold on my face before she turns to lead me through the maze of tables and chattering people to the door.

...

It's a miracle we Apparated without splinching, which is still a concern of mine every time I Apparate with Ron. As the thought of him bloodied and broken on the ground flashes in my mind, I involuntarily reach out to caress his shoulder, stroking the length of his arm. As I feel the wet fabric, I remember why we had to hurry here in the first place.

"We better get you out of this shirt," I whisper, my mind too foggy to register that what I've said could be construed as a proposition. Once I do realize what I've said, I can feel my face aglow with the kind of blush that is always associated with Ron. Not that I mind if that's what he thinks I mean, to be honest. "You should give it to me," I add before looking up to find Ron utterly amused.

"So, just to clarify, first you want me shirtless, and then you want me to give it to you," he says while unbuttoning his shirt, his eyebrow raised in that infuriating way I not-so-secretly find irresistible. He slips his arms out and just stands there smirking as I fix my eyes on his newly visible chest. "Here you go," he hands me the damp shirt, "or was there something else you wanted me to give you?"

Even 15 months after our first kiss, I am still in awe of how at ease Ron is with this side of himself, of us. I smile, remembering the days when even our fingers brushing accidentally would send my heart into overdrive, and how I kept a secret count of every hug, every flirtatious smile or compliment, every moment I caught one of his furtive glances in my direction -- all to prove a case that I wasn't alone in my affections -- that he really did see me as I saw him.

And now. My God. He was joking, but he is right. He's shirtless, and I want him so much I don't even know how to articulate it. I can't form it into words, this deep-seated, inexplicably overwhelming desire that starts somewhere in my middle and bubbles outward to my extremities so fast that I feel like my fingers tingle with the mere anticipation of his touch.

He's no longer smirking. He's waiting -- I can tell by how his breathing has changed. Waiting for my reaction. For me to decide what to do, where to go next. I raise my gaze from his chest, look straight at his face, and let him see his yearning reflected in my eyes.

"Yes," I choke out nervously, as I drop his shirt -- right on the floor! -- and begin to unbutton my top, even though we're in the lounge, and I've no idea if George is still out of town, or if he could materialize without notice. But I gather my nerve and remind myself that this is hardly our first time. I don't want him to always be the one to initiate. "Yes, there's something else I want."

"Hermione..." Ron starts, or maybe he just wanted to say my name and nothing more. It doesn't matter, because in the amount of time it took for him to say it, we've both crossed the short distance between us, and my top joins his by our feet, and our arms and legs wrap around each other's bodies like we're practicing a dance the two of us have choreographed and perfected.

Yes, I usually insist on conversation, on debriefing and decompressing and deconstructing our days and our work assignments and who we've met. But tonight, the way he looked at me so openly -- like I'm the sun, and he's a flower twisting and turning to bask in me -- or, OK, to shag me -- it just makes the cuddling and the foreplay unnecessary. Tonight, anyway.

…

I need to slow down, I-shit! She's doing that thing with her tongue behind my ear that turns my knees to treacle.

I'm always really careful to spend loads of time working up to it, getting her ready for me, but the way she's going right now... I'm not sure how much more I can take before I do something crude like rip her knickers off and fuck her up against the wall.

I try to pull back, to take a breath, but she's right there with me, rubbing herself all over me, her soft skin sliding against mine in ruthless perfection. I can't help it, my hands make their way to her amazing tits, rubbing and squeezing a bit more roughly than I probably should.  She's just so-and I can't--

"I want you. Now, Ron." She whispers in my ear, sending my blood whistling through me like a boiling kettle.

Thank Merlin that George is still in Spain with Lee, because there is no bloody way that we are going to make it to my bedroom.

I drop to my knees, burying my face between her tits as I unhook her bra, throwing the damn thing as far from us as possible. She actually pushes them against my mouth, and I obey with so much enthusiasm that she laughs, that kind of breathy, delighted sound that only I ever get to hear. Her laughter fades away as she runs her fingers through my hair, watching me with those beautiful eyes. I unfasten her trousers, pulling them down as well as her knickers until they catch on her shoes, making her laugh again as I curse under my breath until she's completely, gloriously naked at last.

If there is anything in the world more fantastic than a naked Hermione, it would take a fair amount of convincing for me to believe in it.

I run my hands up her legs, wrapping my arms beneath her arse as I stand, lifting her up with me, eliciting a little surprised gasp out of her that I somehow seem to hear with my cock. I throw her on the couch with more show than force, following quickly, my feet sticking out over the arm as I stretch out on top of her.

Every breath she takes echoes through me, my heart ringing within the bony cage of my ribs as her chest rises against mine, her lips brushing my temple while I taste the skin of her throat.

The taste of her is something I could never forget, subtle and haunting and altogether wonderful. I never imagined, before I had the unbelievably good luck to savor her skin beneath my lips, that a bloke could actually dream of a taste.  Not just the idea of a certain flavour -- chocolate had always been sweet in my dreams and chips salty -- but the character-- the core of a flavour, that had always escaped me, before her.  Before us.

Now I wake up with the taste of her lingering on my tongue, the scent of her teasing at the corners of my mind.  Maddening, that is, when she isn't around to test my memories against.

Tonight, though. Tonight she's here, all mine and no one else's.

"...mine..." The word escapes my lips in such a soft whisper that I actually allow myself the luxury of hope for a moment that perhaps she didn't hear.

She freezes beneath me, her body stilling as her hands stop searching the back pockets of my trousers and come to rest on my shoulders.

Shit.

I lift my head to meet her eyes, glistening up at me so brightly that I realize how mistaken I had been before in comparing them to that strange stone.  No shiny rock could ever compare to these eyes, no matter how many facets it may boast.

As I watch, holding my breath, something shifts in her face, something wild and satisfied, almost predatory. I'm a bit nervous, my hands shaking against her sides as I wait for her response.  I've never said that before, just blurting it out like that.  Thought it, yeah.  Only countless millions of times since far before I ever had any right to such an insane idea.  That she belonged to me.

She turns her face to nuzzle my arm, pausing for a moment before sinking her teeth lightly into my bicep.  I-I-I-- fuck!

Now she's grinning up at me like she hasn't just turned my brain to mush and my cock to stone.

"Mmm, mine." She doesn't whisper, her voice steady and sure as she looks directly into my eyes.

The rest of my clothing vanishes abruptly, my ears left burning after performing such strong nonverbal magic, such a revealing loss of control.

That laugh again, vibrating across my skin as she pushes me off of her, so easily commanding my body though I sometimes feel twice her size. Suddenly I'm sitting on the couch as she hovers over me, her knees pressed against my hips. 

She's different tonight - still Hermione, but...it's almost like she's finally channelling a bit of her innate bossiness into our shagging. I could not be happier with this development.  If I were any happier, I would also be considerably stickier.

Something flickers in her face -- hesitation, or uncertainty, or-- but then it's gone, and she's pressing her lips against mine as she lowers herself onto me, one of her hands holding me in position as I sink into her body.

My entire being is enveloped in the warm, wet heat of her as I devour her lips with mine and she rocks her hips against me, the pair of us rushing together like water to the shore. Sometimes she's the water and I'm the shore, and sometimes it's the other way 'round, but it doesn't really matter which is which as long as we're us. Fuck, love does funny things to a bloke's thought process.

I hold as still as I can while she moves above me, a bit timidly at first.  She's never done this before, just climb on top of me and have a go.  I'm trying really hard not to compare it to her learning to ride a broomstick, but I'm failing miserably.  

She's so fantastic, I can't help staring at her, my hands running all over her body, pausing in places that make her gasp and moan for a more thorough investigation.

She's just so-- I have to make her slow down, or I'm gonna--

"Hermione, love, I--" I rasp out the words, my voice mangled by the world-changing feeling of Hermione riding me.   She pauses for a moment, looking into my face before leaning in for a deep kiss, our tongues mimicking the motion of our bodies.

She takes one of my hands in hers and presses it between our bodies, my fingers sliding easily.  I nearly come from the bold move -- there's something really sexy about her telling me what to do.  It's one of the reasons I love to row with her so much.  Not that I'm enough of an idiot to ever admit that to her.

I move my fingers in time with our bodies until she's frantic, bouncing on top of me with her eyes squeezed shut, her lip caught in her teeth.

Even reviewing Quidditch plays in my head won't help me now, I'm so close.  I dip my head, pulling her tits into my mouth until she screams something that sounds like my name, her body clutching me tightly. I can't hold out, I'm already filling her, my lips crushing hers as I moan into her mouth.

Fuck.

Her hair tickles my nose as she collapses against my chest, her head resting on my shoulder while she catches her breath.  We're both trembling a bit, my hands less than steady on her perfect arse as I kiss the top of her head.

"Mmm.  S'good to finally get some real quality time with you," I tell her with a grin, waiting for that look she always gives me when I say shit like that after a good shag.  That "I think you're hilarious, but I'm too proud to show it" look.  Or, at least that's the way I interpret it.  Eye of the beholder and all that, right?

She doesn't disappoint, rolling her eyes at me before falling back on the couch, my body following hers automatically.  I think I'd follow her in my sleep.

We curl together like hot rolls in a pan, sticking together at the edges as I throw my arm around her, my hand resting on her heart. 

She mumbles something and scoots impossibly closer as I hold her tight, my eyelids already drooping shut.

I breathe deeply as I start to drift away, the scent and feel and taste of her following me into my dreams.

...

My body feels heavy. I can't move my arm, and as I shift my weight, I feel Ron's oversized arm press even tighter around my back. I can't believe we slept right on the sofa, when his room is just a few steps away. Actually, I can believe it. I basically lowered myself on top of him without thinking about it.

I've never done that before... All of the other times we've been together, I've saved that particular move for the very end, and usually it's because he's gently commanded "Get on top... Please," or more likely, because he's flipped us over so I end up right where he wants me. But last night, I didn't need him to ask or prompt, or anything. I wanted to do it straightaway; it was this oddly powerful feeling, knowing I could still surprise him even a year after our first time.

"Mmmmm," he groans into my hair. "What a way to wake up."

I consider lifting my face but think better of it and talk to the freckles on his chest, playing with the sparse patch of ginger hair. "Yes, I agree, although it would be nice if I could feel my right arm."

"You didn't seem to mind when we got into Favourite Position Number One last night," he chuckles, purposely pushing down on my arm that's trapped underneath his spine.

"I wasn't thinking properly. And I was all jelly legged."

"Jelly legged?" I can feel his eyebrow shoot up, even though I'm still talking to his freckles. "I thought that was only when I take you from behind."

"Well, I'm appropriating it for vigorous woman-on-top action as well," I purr, swirling my fingers around the hard planes of his stomach. "I was all floppy and knackered after.. you know."

"If you keep talking about jelly legs and you know, then I'll you know, and we won't make it out of bed ---"

"Sofa. We're not in the bed," I can't help but correct.

"OK then," he starts to say, before unceremoniously detaching my torso from his, swinging our legs over the side of the sofa, and grabbing my hand.

"What are you …?" I stand, still jelly legged, in fact, but this time from the pins and needles that result from sleeping in such a small space with a lanky giant pressed up against me.

"As you said, we're not in bed. I'm nothing if not a man of my word," he declares matter-of-factly as he leads me straight to his room.

Right before we cross the threshold, I pull my arm back and force him to turn around and face me. All of my self-confident playfulness melts away as I take both of his hands in mine. "Ron, about last night..."

"It was brilliant, Hermione," he rushes to say, urging me to look up instead of down at our interlaced fingers. "I loved that you... you..."

"Took control?" I whisper.

"Damn right," he whispers back, cupping my chin with both hands and caressing my face with his thumbs. It's comforting, intimate, and arousing all at once. I feel my eyes wanting to close against the warmth of his hands, but I don't want to miss whatever it is he's going to say next. "I love knowing that you want me as much as I want you. It's humbling... and hot as hell."

Then I do close my eyes, letting the strokes of his fingers lull me into that all-too-familiar haze of  our mutual desire. My whole body feels liquid under his touch. My eyes flutter open, and I decide to surprise him again the instant I feel how our nearness has affected him. He's ready. So am I.

I tug at one of his hands and lead him the necessary steps into his surprisingly cleaner-than-usual room. I kick a stray trainer out of the way as I walk us to the bed. But instead of jumping under the duvet like usual, I climb on all fours, look over my shoulder at him staring at me expectantly, and say, "C'mon, then, I believe I'm on your bed."

wordsmithsonian

urbanmama1

urbanmama1

tristelamar_23

urbanmama1

urbanmama1

The keys plunked awkwardly against their wooden framing under his heavy hands.  He was almost certain that whatever sound he was creating could not possibly have been classified as music.  Not that he gave a damn about his abilities as a pianist.  That wasn’t the point.

She shifted next to him on the bench, moving her body close enough that he could feel the subtle heat of her, the intoxicating scent of her hair wrapping around his senses like silken coils. He would gladly submit to an impromptu piano lesson for this.  Hell, he would have been just as happy to receive a bloody knitting lesson from her, churning out misshapen wooly bladders under her careful direction.  

His skin tingled as she lightly touched his hands, stopping the jumbled mess of sounds he had been dutifully beating out of the piano. He fell into her soft brown eyes as she glanced up at him, offering a little smile.

“You need to be gentler.”

Her breath was a warm puff against his neck as she leaned in to correct his hands. He could feel the blood rushing to his face as her softly spoken words ran about his head in dizzying circles, taking his mind to places it had no business visiting while she sat so close beside him.

Something that Bill had told him popped into his head. During one of those rare moments of peace in the middle of wedding preparations, he had finally worked up the courage to ask for some advice. Bill had looked at him appraisingly, the surprised grin on his face slowly fading into something that Ron may have mistaken for respect.

“So that’s the way of it.”

Ron had shrugged, his ears burning like embers as he met his brother’s eyes. Bill had nodded somberly, seeming to take a moment to work out precisely what he wanted to say. He leaned forward suddenly, gesturing with his hands like a professor beginning a lecture.

“Alright, well, a woman’s body is like a musical instrument.”

Ron had laughed a bit at that, nerves and embarrassment getting the best of him as he tried to sort out whether Bill was being serious. The intent look on his brother’s face dried up his laughter almost before it had escaped his throat.

“You can learn a … general technique, and you should be able to play most instruments adequately. But, each one is different in subtle ways, and so you need to…refine your technique according to the particular design of the instrument you’re trying to play.”

Ron had screwed up his face in concentration as he tried to soak in the metaphor.

“But we are still talking about women, right?”

Bill’s lips kicked up at the corners, a mischievous twinkle appearing in his eye that he may as well have stolen from one of the twins.

“Of course. Do keep up. Anyway, so in the case of your, shall we say, rather tightly strung instrument, you’ll want to start off slow and gentle.  There will be time for increasing the tempo later. At first you just want to find a cadence that works naturally with her design, and then with practice you should be able to reach a crescendo.”

Ron had nodded, wishing that Bill had chosen a more literal way of getting the message across. While the whole musical slant made it a bit easier to talk about, he really didn’t want to get confused about something this important. Luckily, Bill had proven ready to answer all of his more specific questions with a frank honesty that had verged on the embarrassing.

“Ron? Ron!”

 He snapped back to the present, mashing the keys down clumsily in an attempt to prove his attentiveness. She shook her head, looking up at him with a sort of tender exasperation he was fool enough to hope that she reserved only for him.

“Honestly, have you even been listening to a word I’ve said?”

He nodded fervently, putting emphasis behind the lie.

“Yeah, course I have.  I’m just rubbish, is all.”

She tapped the back of his hand lightly in reproach.

“Stop that.  You would play rather well with a bit of practice.  You just need to refine your technique.”

The back of his neck was on fire. Oh, why did Bill have to put everything in musical terms? Now Ron was going to feel like a bloody pervert every time she mentioned tempo and technique. Merlin, what if she said crescendo!?

Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice the glowing beacon his face had become.

“Keep your fingers light, like this.”

He watched as her fingers caressed the keys in effortless grace, his treacherous mind immediately bringing up vivid images of those elegant fingers dancing across her most secret places as she helped him refine his technique.

He jerked his gaze up to her face, berating himself for acting a randy beast when he should be appreciating the simple joy of sitting this close to her.  Her eyes fluttered closed as she coaxed a pretty song from the ancient piano, her lashes casting fascinating shadows along the soft curve of her cheek.  She was…just…she was so beautiful it made his chest ache.

A loud thumping noise behind them reminded him of Harry’s presence, and, from the way her spine stiffened as her eyes shot open, she had gotten a bit distracted as well. She pulled her hands away from the keys, closing the fall board softly.  He sat frozen in place until she stood with a regretful smile, turning to ask Harry if she could help with anything.

And there it was, really. One of the seemingly unbreakable chains binding them into this torturous limbo of not-quite-together. Harry needed them, and the world needed Harry.  And until they helped him to fulfill his destiny, there would be neither the time nor the place for them to make any kind of music together.

urbanmama1

wordsmithsonian

urbanmama1

It is astoundingly difficult to concentrate on properly revising one’s potions essay while carrying a broken heart.  This was a discovery I have found neither surprising nor especially enlightening. It is, however, a terrible inconvenience.

Of course, my feelings have been inconvenient for quite some time now.  It was inconvenient to wait and wish for an invitation to the ball which I knew was not forthcoming.  It was inconvenient to find myself reading hidden meaning within every one of his words, his actions, the tilt of his lips and the spark of his eyes.  It was inconvenient for my heart to rise as though enspelled with every smile, each unnecessary second his eyes remained on mine when they should have turned away.  Inconvenient to interpret deeper significance in his casually offered gifts … that perfume… Inconvenient to linger in the impression that our party date was meant to be anything more than a simple friendly outing.

And just really, terribly inconvenient to find myself sitting here on a cold wooden bench while across the room my roommate occupies the seat I have been eyeing for ages.

His lap.

It is probably not a particularly comfortable lap, but at this moment I would forfeit my OWLS score to trade places. 

He nearly always sits that way, knees splayed wide, feet firmly planted at the ends of his miles of leg. That unconsciously masculine pose which sends shivers through my belly at the most inconvenient times. I will admit to having considered the possibility of sitting there, perched atop one lanky thigh, my legs tucked neatly together between each of his. The warmth of him would seep in through my skirt and I would be able to feel the long muscles of his legs as he shifted and fidgeted the way he always does. 

I have considered it.

Her grating giggle assaults my ears and I am forced to look at him, entwined with her just as if she were a Devil’s Snare.  His lips are tilted to the left, in that fake smile used only when he is uncomfortable.  I hope she chokes him with her clinging arms.  Or perhaps he could suffocate on her perfume.  I wonder if he has given her perfume…

Potions.

I know there is a passage somewhere around the nineteenth inch I had intended to revise once I located that German text on seedpods.

I can feel his eyes on me, burning like the deep blue heart of a flame.  Why is he looking at me while he holds her in his arms?  All he can see from this angle is my pathetic mess of hair, and perhaps just the edge of my face. Nothing much to look at, unfortunately.  Even with the issue of my teeth resolved I have nothing to compete with her. She spends an hour every morning on her hair alone.  Her blonde, tamed, completely un-ridiculous hair.

Well.  Well, if that is what he wants, then…then he is simply not worth this malaise I have been fighting for weeks now.  He is not worth my time and tears.  He is not worth these coils of pain strangling my chest. He is not worth looking up at him, even if I could catch those eyes with mine, storing that flash of blue within the hidden bookshelves of my soul.  He is not worth speaking to or even acknowledging.

Now I must continue telling myself that until I finally believe it.

urbanmama1

mugglemama

redheadsarehot

tmblue

luvscharlie

tripperfunster

missgranger2

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mugglemama

 Summary: Everyone is putting back the pieces, working to accept their new reality in the wake of the final Battle.
Rating: K + (this chapter)
Pairings: Ron / Hermione, Harry / Ginny, Arthur/ Molly (this chapter)
Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Romance

Harry woke to the sound of screaming, high-pitched terrified bursts in rapid succession. 

He leaped from his bed, grabbing his wand and raising it in one smooth motion.  He squinted to see in the darkness, but it was useless without his glasses.  The screams ended abruptly as they were replaced by harsh breathing and quiet murmurs.  He turned and grabbed the wire frames from his nightstand, shoving them on his nose and relaxing his wand arm as he realized he was pointing it at his best friends. 

The pair of them were barely perceptible in the darkness of the attic.  Ron’s bulky form seemed to be rocking gently as he grasped Hermione tightly to his chest.  She looked impossibly small, curled into herself, recognizable only by the shadow created by her hair.  She was silent now, but her screams seemed to echo in the small room, loud beneath Ron’s quiet mumbling. 

Harry ran his free hand through his hair, causing the dark locks to stand on end.  He tucked his wand into the waist of his pajama bottoms and crossed to the door on silent feet.  Neither of his friends seemed to notice him. 

Opening the door carefully to minimize the squeal of ancient hinges, Harry found a wand shoved in his face, the wary eyes of Arthur Weasley close behind.  Arthur lowered his wand, but did not back down a step, so Harry was forced to squeeze though the opening sideways to avoid knocking them both down the stairs. 

Arthur looked up at him, the severity of his expression belying the softness of his voice. 

“Everything all right, Harry?” 

Harry shifted guiltily and adjusted his glasses, stalling for time.  Hermione had been sleeping with them in the attic since they had returned to the Burrow.  She had tried to follow Mrs. Weasley’s rules at first, but neither she nor Ron had been able to sleep apart.  After a few days of watching his friends suffer, Harry had declared them both ridiculous and demanded that Hermione stay with them.  And now it looked as though the gig was up.

“I erm, I had a nightmare Mr. Weasley, but I’m fine now.” 

Arthur stared at him incredulously. 

“I was sure I heard a girl screaming, Harry.” 

Harry did his best to conjure up an embarrassed blush.

“Yeah, well, I can’t help how I sound, can I?” 

Arthur held his gaze for a few tense moments and then sighed, rubbing one hand over his face in exhaustion. 

“Well, then, try to get some sleep.” 

He patted Harry’s shoulder absently and turned to descend the stairs in silence.

 Harry stood on the top step, weighing his options.  He could wait for Mr. Weasley to go back to his room and then attempt to sneak into Ginny’s, where Hermione supposedly slept.  That was most appealing, but his conscience was already pricked from lying to Mr. Weasley.  He could just go back to bed, but it felt intrusive to go back at the moment.  He decided to go down to the kitchen and get something to drink.

…

Arthur walked down the stairs slowly, trying to decide what he should tell his wife.  He was positive that he had heard Hermione, as he had checked Ginny’s room first and she was missing.  Ginny had told him that she was in the bathroom, lying just like Harry to protect their friend.

   Molly wouldn’t like this business of boys and girls sleeping together, but Arthur knew that far more was at play here than teenage hormones. 

He knew his youngest son, and he trusted him implicitly.  Besides, Harry was up there as well.  Arthur had suspected that this was going on for over a week, since he had seen Hermione come down the stairs and slip into Ginny’s room at dawn. 

He had been trying to keep it from Molly, but now it was unavoidable, as she had been awakened by the screams.  He blew out a breath, staring at his bedroom door, no closer to an answer now than he had been when he left Harry.  He turned the knob slowly, and stepped into the room.  Molly sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide in silent question.

 She held out her arms, and Arthur went to her.