Assorted One-Shots and Drabbles

Inspired by my maternal grandparents… the ones who've been married 53 years, the ones who sit outside in the evenings, hand-in-hand, to watch the squashes grow. 348 words.

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He's hard of hearing now, hard of walking too, as it transpires. She has to warm up his tea two - three times before he finally drinks it down to the dredges. He wouldn't dream of reading the tea leaves now, for with old age their lives have settled into a comfortable rhythm. The inevitabilities await them now - no surprises, he hopes - and it doesn't take a Seer to tell him that this blissful interlude, this high watermark they've reached, won't linger forever. His knees creak and his eyes water and the lobes of his ears itch before it rains. These are the true signs he looks to. He watches her wistfully, quill dashing across the downs and acrosses, filling in The Daily Prophet's grueling crossword with ease.

“You always were the brightest witch of your age, Hermione.”

Were. For a moment, she feels as though the tide of life has surged ahead and left them stranded. Were.

They're elderly now, it's true. Their great pursuits are behind them: Voldemort vanquished and in his grave ninety years, two terms as the Ministry's first in command behind her - behind them, for her tenure as Minister of Magic was as joint a venture as any with Harry Potter ever by her side, children born and reared. Twelve children. “Just like Trelawney said,” Harry Potter murmurs into his now-empty cup of tea.

“Almost,” she says, nodding at the Minister's plaque on the wall: The Ministry wishes to recognize Madam Hermione J. G. Potter on the occasion of her retirement… “She pegged you for the Minister's post.”

“Almost,” he cedes, “but you must make allowances. Our fortunes have always been entwined.”

Hermione smiles. Perhaps she'd been too hard on the woman, for -- fraud or not -- she finally got something right - the happily ever after part of the famous Harry Potter's tale, because here they are in the autumn of their lives, with great deeds to their names, and children and grandchildren to keep the legend alive. Most importantly, they have each other.

Have, has, is, are. The present tense. They are.

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Book Five out-take. 860 words. Previously posted on LJ.

Does this fic accomplish anything? *shrugs* For the life of me, I can't tell if it does. All I know is that I wrote it at 3 AM last night because I Just Felt Like Writing Cho. So I wrote Cho. I don't know if I wrote anything deeper, but I was tired. Exhausted. Beat. As long as the whole thing is in English and doesn't lapse into Pig Latin, I'm at least marginally happy with it ;-) If it sporks itself, that'll teach me to write while I'm half asleep and lying in bed with a cat draped across my collarbone.

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“Tell me how it went - you promised,” Marietta Edgecombe pleads, elbowing Cho in the ribs and jerking her head towards the Gryffindor table, where Harry Potter sits beside the bushy-haired Hermione Granger.

“It was—” She stops on the verge of saying “fine,” because she's in the habit of saying she is just that, fine. Davies threatens to drop her from the Quidditch team roster and she is fine. Cedric is dead and she is fine. Her date with Harry goes belly up and she is fine. “—a nightmare,” she blurts out, surprising herself.

She wipes her dry eyes on the sleeve of her robes. It's been a tough - nay, a horrendous - year and allowances must be made. Until this moment, she never would have guessed that eight months later, dating someone new would be this hard.

The day had started out well enough, she thinks fairly and tells Marietta so, but the high point of the date had come about five minutes in, before Pansy Parkinson's unwelcome interruption:

“Urgh, Chang! I don't think much of your taste! At least Diggory was good-looking!”

“And, well, from there—” Cho flounders on the words, but Marietta knows: from there, it was all about Cedric Diggory.

“I came in here with Cedric last year.”

If only Cedric hadn't died…

“I've been meaning to ask you for ages— did Cedric - did he m-m-mention me at all before he died?”

“And my mind was just begging me, don't ask, don't ask, dontask…”

“You asked,” Marietta says. It's not a question but an affirmation of fact; Cho asked.

“Well - no - there - there wasn't time for him to say anything. Erm… so … d'you … d'you get to see a lot of Quidditch in the holidays? You support the Tornadoes, right?”

“I thought - I thought you'd u-u-understand! I need to talk about it! Surely you n-need to talk about it t-too! I mean, you saw it happen, d-didn't you?”

Marietta clucks her tongue disapprovingly. “No one knows exactly what happened that night,” she says, toeing the official Ministry line. “Maybe there was nothing to see and Harry's story's just be a desperate cry for attention—”

“Harry knows,” Cho says quellingly, stepping in to defend Harry despite how mad she is at him. No sooner has she spoken up than she realizes that it's Cedric's tale she's defending; she's defending his pride, his right to be remembered as he lived and as he died.

“Oh, you'll talk to Hermione Granger! But you won't talk to me! P-perhaps it would be best if we just… just paid and you went and met up with Hermione G-Granger, like you obviously want to!”

She has to keep reminding herself that he's chosen her, but it's hard to believe; his actions don't tally with his words and Marietta's reassurances are half-hearted at best.

“Go on, leave! I don't know why you asked me out in the first place if you're going to make arrangements to meet other girls right after me… how many are you meeting after Hermione?!”

“And he laughed?” Marietta echoes in disbelief. “Laughed-laughed or laughed?”

“Just laughed. Don't overanalyze,” Cho replies wearily. She, unlike Marietta, does not wish to dissect every aspect of the morning. As far as she's concerned, everything she needs to know is already painstakingly clear. One glance at the Gryffindor table is all the confirmation she needs: he's looking at Hermione Granger, his mouth hanging open slightly as he takes in every word she says. He's looking at her as though she's The Answer, whatever that means.

“It sounds like one big misunderstanding,” Marietta croons sympathetically, patting Cho's arm and casting an obligatory glare at the back of Harry's scalp.

“Does it, though?” she asks. As the Great Hall slowly empties, the whole atmosphere of the chamber lapses into a lull of gently clinking forks and knives and the hum of low conversation. Cho caught herself eavesdropping on the conversation carrying on across the aisle:

“—should have said it was really annoying, but I'd made you promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and you really didn't want to go, you'd much rather spend the whole day with her, but unfortunately, you thought you really ought to meet me and would she please, please come along with you and hopefully you'd be able to get away more quickly.” Hermione Granger pauses to draw a much needed breath. “And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am, too.”

“But I don't think you're ugly—”

He hasn't realized it yet -- typical boy, Cho thinks grimly - but soon - soon he will and she'll get over it, move on. She's been “moving on” for eight months now and she's no stranger to the course. Eight months, it's been. Eight months and precious little has changed, for she is still in love with Cedric, and as for Harry, his heart is where it's always been - with Hermione.

“Will there be a second date?” Marietta asks presently.

“You haven't really listened to a word I've said, have you?”

“You just keep telling yourself that. He'll come around.”

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FLUFF! Unbelievably fluffy. I am rather astounded and ashamed to have written something that so closely resembles a marshmallow.

Ronald Weasley kneels on the ground, huffing and puffing and scattering handfuls of dry leaves and pine needles, all in a decidedly half-hearted attempt to breathe life into the fire. Fire, he scoffs. Lone flickering flame would be a more apt description. He wonders - with no small degree of irritation -- how he let Luna Lovegood talk him into this -- watching a meteor shower on this blustery slope when he ought to be tucked into his warm bed, fast asleep.

She muses about the three forces of the universe: magic, gravity… love. He fidgets and feels guilty. It means so much to her, this night.

Luna begs him to put out the fire. “You can't see properly,” she says dreamily, squinting up the heavens. “When there are other sources of light - brighter light - you miss things. Sometimes you have to look harder to find what you're really looking for.”

He starts to mumble something about it being a “cooking fire” and doesn't she want to eat tonight, but the pleading look in her luminous eyes derails him.

“Aguamenti,” he says and douses the flames, plunging them into darkness. The effect is instantaneous - the stars brighten, basking in their own singular glory rather than drowning in a sea of blackness, and Luna scoots closer.

“There, do you see?”

And he sees it, a faint streak of purest light across the canopy of the sky. Half-an-hour ago, when they'd set out for this remote point, he'd have hoped for Something Flashier, some unmistakable sign that would scream “THIS. HERE. NOW.” Now he just gathers Luna closer. Sometimes you have to look harder to find what you're really looking for, he thinks with a smile, even if it's right under your nose.

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“It's dark,” Harry Potter says, stuffing his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the chill. He can scarcely begin to imagine what business Hermione Granger - his Hermione - has atop the Astronomy Tower at two o' clock on a windy night.

“Not when you've been out here as long as I have,” Hermione Granger replies, matter-of-factually. “Your eyes - see - it's the rhodopsin and—there's one, look! Astride Perseus and Cassiopeia.” She takes his cold hand in her gloved one and traces the meteor's path through the sky. “Did you see it?”

He shakes his head, his eyes locked on her instead: the silhouette of their joined hands against the star-spangled sky, her eyes, alight with happiness. He hasn't seen her this happy -- with her every care and worry gently wiped away -- in ages.

And then he thinks about Gryffindor courage, courage with a healthy dose of Slytherin opportunism, and slides in, wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her closer.

“You know, you're right,” he murmurs into the crook of her neck, “it's not so dark.”

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Prompt: Years (Five of Them)
Pairing: Ron/Luna
Word Count: 205
Rating: PG



{ Ron to Luna }

Five years later, I still wonder why we didn't kiss in the park that night. I still think about you. With ridiculous frequency. I can't help but wonder if maybe you don't think about me too sometimes. The moon is out, nearly full, and you always said that no matter where we go in life, no matter how far apart we are or what has come between us, we can still look up and see the same moon. A blessing and a curse, that moon we share. That's one of those things you left with me, when we called it off. We were too different, some said, two people living in separate dimensions and leading separate lives, and maybe we were. I still haven't met anyone quite like you, Luna. So many people, they go through life trying to fit in, to be like everyone else, but not you. You taught me everything I know about me… It would have been the logical thing to do, kissing you, and had I had my wits about me, I would have done, but wrackspurts must have infested my brain and made it go fuzzy and I let you go when I should have begged you to stay.

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Title: The Ladies “Weasley”
Author: herminia
Rating: PG-13
Ships: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione
Word Count: 478
Summary: “Frank” chats and other delusions.

Nothing special. Just a drabble.



Just a plot bunny that came to me while I was on the way home from Madison; Ginny misinterprets what Hermione's saying - or at least, whom she's speaking about. It's another fifteen-minute ficlet. Nothing special. Just a drabble.

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“Ginny?” she whispers, speaking to the cobwebby underside of Ginny Weasley's bunk.

“You're not exactly the person I want to talk to right now,” the younger girl replies stiffly, and Hermione can't blame her for holding back. She's at a loss for words herself. It's been a day unlike any other in recent memory; `surreal' is the first word that comes to mind, recalling the haunting lament of the Merman, the centaurs' final salute, the White Tomb gone up in flames, the dissolution of Harry and Ginny's flash-in-the-pan romance, the relief she felt at welcoming the old Harry back into the fold, the send-off.

It's also surreal being back at the Burrow and lying in the very same bunk in the very same room she's been happy to call a second - nay - a third home these many summers. Tonight, the muggy air seems to spark with electricity - with magic - a nod to the losses and triumphs and discoveries of the day.

This is where everything begins again.

It's Ginny who finally breaks the silence. “Why won't he let me in? Why does he push me away?” Then, the inevitable: “Doesn't he love me at all?”

“Ginny,” Hermione says pleadingly, “don't torture yourself like this.”

When it's become abundantly clear that no further reassurances are forthcoming, Ginny answers the question for herself, “He doesn't. I'm not stupid, you know.”

Hermione's mind scrambles for words of comfort - words to soothe a breaking heart - but comes up short.

“How d'you know when it's for real or if it's just a game of make-believe?”

At this Hermione smiles. “It's just right. There's no other word for it. You and him. Together. And it's what you've been through together. You'd die for him in a heartbeat but you'd rather live for him… It sounds like one horrendous soapy cliché, I know,” she adds, chiding herself.

“It sounds wonderful,” Ginny whispers back, sounding marginally happier.

“Trust me, it is,” Hermione rejoins, her mind drifting idly to thoughts of Harry.

“We're talking about you and Ron now, aren't we?” Ginny queries after a moment's pause, a note of amusement creeping into her voice.

“Ron - no - Ha-” she begins, but catches herself at the last possible instant and does an about-face, “—no kidding. Yes. Sure. This is about Ron and me.”

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Hermione murmurs, and though Ginny Weasley has already drifted off to sleep, Hermione Granger lies awake, torn between congratulating herself on a close save and disquieting unease, for masking the truth from an old friend.

Tonight, she tells herself, isn't the night to make such confessions. Better to let the shock wear off. Better to let Ginny pick up the pieces and move on with her life. What Harry and Hermione have - what Hermione has waited for all these years - can wait, for tonight.

But tomorrow is another day.

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