|
I do have a problem with pacing; originally I wasn't even going to separate it into chapters but I ran out of time for the day. It'll be at least three, one for each day I suppose, and aw heck, might as well have a gratuitous shag at the end. The reason for the brashness in the latter half of chapter 1 was that that was when I started drinking too. I wasn't going to beat around the bush, and the contextual assumption of already having slight affections ended up being a rushed mistake; I couldn't bring myself to get them in bed together, and now I find myself doubting my ability to pace it sweetly. That wasn't my original intention, but I suppose it is now, and I have to slow his testosterone; thanks for the reviews, I'll try and pull them apart long enough to give them time to think. I recognized they were out of character, but I've never tried to write with other people's characters before, so tramping them around is second nature to me. My favorite characters of my own creation were usually brash and gritty with their innocence locked away; having to present the opposite is a challenge. Glad you all seemed to like what I did so far though; the encouragement is gas on the fire. Wouldn't be doing this without you guys; fanfiction is a truly unique process. All of which are American dreams. A dream, and nothing more. He had a slight headache and a cramp in his belly that lead him to believe otherwise, and sure enough, his sensitive eyes slowly focused on the ceiling of the old room, lined with all sorts of things he hadn't bothered to take in the night before. It was still dark outside; only the slightest sign of daylight peeked from under clearly visible stars. The air was cool and fresh against his cold sweat; the window was ajar and so was the door to the hall. He took it in soothing breaths, coaxing his headache out from behind his eyes. He had really done it now. Nothing felt the same; the Christmas spirit escaped him entirely. He felt like a Judas. A mildly hung-over martyr to the cause of being a douche bag. Lord of douche-baggery. Mayor of asshole-villie. How did she feel about all this? Would she be as angry as him as he was at himself? How could he toss six years of devotion aside for a Christmas fling? What was he thinking? In a corner of the room which Harry couldn't see, still on his back with his legs asleep, knees hung gracelessly over the foot board, Hermione was waiting to answer his questions. She approached the bed hesitantly, still in her clothes just like he was. Where was Ron to make a comic crack when you needed him? He felt positively awful, thoughts of his betrayal flooding back to him as she moved noiselessly to the bed. He made to hoist himself into a respectable position, but she sat down in such a way as to prevent this. He felt violated, as though he'd been watched for a long time. She looked down at him with doe eyes, oddly reproachful but full of unmistakable adoration. He looked up at her sideways, still on his back. She was upside down to him, which seemed to bring a fresh pang from his light headache. She doubled over and kissed his lips in a way that pressed his nose to her chin; brief but not sharp. Instead it was a hesitant exchange that replayed itself in his achy mind in a whir, making him dizzy with the same adoration. His eyes were closed, and he didn't want to open them again. His head was just short of being propped on her thigh; he shifted his legs uncomfortably but Hermione paid him no notice. She was bent over him, breathing slowly just shy of his mouth, reluctant to sit up. When she did, she had already begun flirting over his hair, her warm fingers brushing his cool forehead lightly while she parted and smoothed and gathered small fingerfulls of it. His head lolled side to side against her leg, though barely enough to be noticed. His anger at himself seemed to subside along with the pressure behind his eyes. The queasy feeling in his stomach, however, persisted. He realized he was smiling. His leg muscles began to have the unmistakable pins and needles of suffocation, and he winced sharply and quickly pulled himself into that dignified pose he was talking about, gathering himself into an involuntary fetal position. Hermione was still beaming at him when his eyes focused again. Giving Harry a reassuring tingle that he had done nothing wrong at all in the past twelve hours, she slid down into bed opposite him, curling into a similar position so that her knees bumped his. The blood begging to flow through his legs gave him its sharp reminder and he struggled momentarily to return her pacified stare. "Hi," he said, very deep and groggy, stifling a yawn now that the faux pain had subsided. She smiled at him softly in a kind way that revealed her magical dental work. Her smile might've melted his heart before, had he been as enthralled with her then, but her face was so picturesque and her smile so beautiful that it turned his soul to gelatin. "Hi," she returned, not ceasing her innocent smile which, met by one of Harry's, transformed to a grin. They chuckled briefly about nothing. He glanced down to her hand, around which she promptly assisted his fingers. They held hands across from each other for ten years, dawn still only threatening to break. Harry dared to speak first, ("Hermione, -") but she cut him off with: "Harry. There're some things I have to tell you." Gee, what could she possibly have to say? Everything that needed to be said now loomed before him like an accusatory finger. There was so much; books full. Harry hadn't formed a train of thought before he spoke up anyway, and he supposed what he was about to hear had been rehearsed to some degree. Grateful for being able to play the audience, he let her begin. With obvious difficulty, she started, "Ever since I found out - ever since you told us in this room - what you have to do," She almost trailed off but found her voice and spoke slowly: "Harry, I've been so worried. You just couldn't know. I know, that sounds so selfish but, (was that a sniffle?) but it's made me think of what could happen. It's so unfair; it's a self fulfilling prophecy now; no matter what happens - whether it was rubbish before, now it's real. Each of you has made it real." She didn't seem finished, but she still stopped speaking. Harry looked at her with six years of skewed friendship quickly realigning in his eyes. He hadn't expected quite this. The shift in his awareness seemed to be her cue: "I know what you have to do, Harry, and I fought the losing battle to tame how I feel about you. But I know there will only be one thing that will give me any resolution. I'm so scared of losing you," (she whimpered something about 'so special' but 'not invincible' before picking up with: ) "But I've decided, that if the worst did happen; if I had to live life without you; I'd regret not having memories of being close to you like this." Her feelings seemed to resolve with her speech, though it didn't come through in her voice, which still pitifully implored him to perform some impossible feat. What was he doing here? His last memories of consciousness were already somewhat fuzzy, and he struggled to obtain a conclusive reason he should be lying across from his best friend, hands held, having kissed before sunrise. The catch twenty two of Trelawney's prophecy seemed dwarfed by theirs. How could things ever be the same? One thing or another would have to happen from this point, because, was he terribly mistaken, or was that time-hardened love in her voice? She fidgeted her hand in place to force his to do the same, giving him another smile through the dark. He smiled too, wondering why seconds ago he was searching for an argument. Would he confess his love? Would he say the four letter word just now? Maybe it would be romantic. Maybe they'd get to - "Oh Harry? Last night? I wasn't drinking." She drew him into a kiss, one that they shared for nearly a minute, which seemed to expunge every ounce of stress and worry between them. He didn't even dwell on the mention of his so-called Fate; his future with Hermione was infinitely more important to him at this moment. They inched closer together, swapping legs to overlap in a (supremely comfortable) lower body embrace, each playing with the other's fingers and squeezing the back of the other's hand. Both their eyes were closed, and they kissed again. The Christmas spirit came back to him. They broke apart at the lips and gazed at each other with all the relative depth of six years of love and friendship. Who would dare accuse him of not knowing what love was in this moment? Who would challenge his untold -? Untold?, he thought. Now was the time for him to say: "I love you." She didn't open her eyes, but he had moments ago. Instead she smiled in an exhausted way, as though a tremendous weight had been lifted from her. The smile brimmed over into her second too-wide grin as she opened her eyes and said, "Well duh." He made to tickle her but it would've been redundant, as she laughed at his mock frustration and said in a way fitting a marriage vow, "I do too." ("Love you, I mean," - which got more laughter.) Apparently wee morning had hung on too long, because Mr Sun chose this moment to cast warm light over their bodies. They were wrapped up too tightly to notice. Nor did they notice breakfast some hour later. Nor did anyone else notice, or least of all investigate, their absence. You know the drill, I do enjoy those reviews, so as long as someone reviews, I'll probably have no choice but to keep doing fanfiction with Portkey. Thanks for the advice, stretching it out a bit & conversing may make the difference in the caliber, though now I don't know how to follow it up yet. It's late, and I've run out of time again, because in that situation, I'm afraid I'd have locked the door and skipped to the NC-17 part. Yours, |
|