So This Is

Marian

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 11/07/2003
Last Updated: 12/07/2003
Status: completed

[Finished!] Childhood friends, turned husband and wife, reflect on what has kept them together. [a vignette]

Chapters

1. So This Is

2. Something Called Love

1. So This Is

S O . T H I S . I S

Summary: Childhood friends, turned husband and wife, reflect on what has kept them together.
Timeline: (AU) Future fic, with mentions from First Year onward
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

So this is...

At age eleven, you fell in love with her laugh.

It was the first memory you ever created of the place you would soon call home because it was the only true home you had ever known in all your years of life. You had taken a seat with the perpetually perplexed-looking red-haired boy called Ron Weasley, who immediately introduced you to the marvels of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

You heard the sound long before the scatter of light footsteps across carpet, the swish of long hair against thick black wool, the skidding of shoes to stop at your doorframe. Perhaps you are particularly sensitive to laughter because you heard it so rarely at the Dursley’s and relish every time you experience it, but in this noise you detected an admonishing sort of tone lined with mothering assurance.

And when she appeared slightly short of breath before your compartment, you knew you were right.

You watched her giggle after pointing out the smudge of dirt on Ron’s face, and he had blushed furiously to wipe it off. Her nose wrinkled delicately as her mouth widened into a dazzling smile; but catching herself, she sniffed pointedly and simply stared with bemusement sparkling in her eyes.

From that moment on, you were determined to make her laugh as often as you could.

You realized soon afterwards that she had more types of laughter than you could possibly count. You and Ron had once begun creating a list just to mortify her - and how it had worked - but as a result she would run out of the room to prevent you two from discussing her idiosyncrasy.

You never teased her again after that.

There was the embarrassed giggle she offered as you gaped at her during the Yule Ball. You weren’t the only one surprised by her transfiguration that night - Ron held the honors of the person most stunned - but you know that the accompanying blush was real. She felt no haughtiness with her slender arm linked through that of Viktor Krum.

You had never seen her so beautiful.

There was the surprising snicker that sprang from her throat when Snape admonished his Draco Malfoy for a job badly done in Potions class. As Draco squirmed under the professor’s sneering, squinty-eyed glare, she would bite her lip and kick you and Ron under the table, not because she no longer found it ironic but because she understood the wrath of Snape and pitied anyone who had to suffer it.

You always wished you were as kind of a person as she was.

There was the hoot of glee that threw its stranglehold around you when the Gryffindors won the championship last year. You had seen her grip Hagrid’s arm in anticipation, and witnessed the joy diffuse across her face the instant your hand curled around the twitching golden ball. She was the first to run up to you after the game, while your body was still aching and perspiration stuck to your clothes; but she didn’t seem to mind, calling out congratulations and triumph.

You certainly did not mind that.

There was the chortle of doubt when Professor Trelawney announced to the class that she saw a future for the two of you in her tealeaves. But it was short-lived as she brought her eyes up to yours, saw something in them that you couldn’t yet describe at that time, and slightly turned her head to one side as she stared at you in amazement. You barely heard Professor Trelawney sweep from your table with a satisfied tsk.

You quieted your heart, fearing she would be able to hear its erratic tempo.

There was the nervous flutter that seeped into your mouth the first time you kissed, after sitting silently beside her for hours by the lake. You had helped her to her feet, just draped your cloak around her shivering shoulders and insisted you weren’t cold although your fingers were turning an uncommon shade of blue. She had raised a brow, smiled with gentle exasperation, and cupped your hands with her smaller ones. Finding them shaking, you only had a second to breathe before she leaned forward to touch her lips to yours.

You could only blink at her afterwards, observing the bright flush of red seep into her cheeks and to her ears as she swallowed down the awkwardness.

You weren’t so confused when you returned her kiss, arms reaching beneath the cloak to wrap around her waist. Her thin blouse did nothing to conceal the heat that emanated from her skin, and the warmth rushed straight to your head and erupted in a shower of burning sparks that reached your toes.

You had never seen her so carefree, and you relished it.

There was the breathless relief she sighed into your neck when you told her you loved her the night before your graduation from Hogwarts. The scent of peaches and chrysanthemum drowned you in its crest as she pressed her body against you, laughing that you were a fool for waiting so long but nonetheless, she loved you.

She loves you. She loves you. She loves you.

There was the uninhibited happiness she cried on your wedding night, when all the guests had gone and presents were thrown across the floor. It was finally the two of you alone, not yet out of your formal attire, with your bare feet wrapped in the folds of her gown and her head resting against your heart. And when you touched her there, or kissed her like this, or whispered words like so, her rich laughter lost its strength until it was nothing more than a thrilled gasp.

Even now, her laughter can still destroy you, and you allow yourself to be ruined time and time again.

-end-

AN:The companion piece Something Called Love will be posted soon.

2. Something Called Love

S O . T H I S . I S

Summary: Childhood friends, turned husband and wife, reflect on what has kept them together.
Timeline: (AU) Future fic, with mentions from First Year onward
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

...Something called love.

At age ten, you fell in love with his smile.

It was the first time you ever saw him, on the train to Hogswarts years ago, before you realized that he was the famous Harry Potter you had read page after page the previous summer. Even then, before the oddity of hormones and matchmaking roommates, you knew there was something about his face that would keep it in your mind for a long, long while.

Forever, it turned out.

You absorbed his thin frame, which made the bones in his face more distinct and cut his jawline in sharp angles. His eyes were too large then, perhaps from the amazement of everything he was experiencing; they were a brilliant, unusual shade of green, shadowed by the unruly black hair that created a contrast with the pallor of his skin.

Before rounding the corner to speak to him and the person slouched in the opposite seat, you saw him grimace at the taste of one of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans before smiling in response to the red-haired boy’s chuckle. At this, the most incredible transformation came over his face, bringing with it a wealth of humor and painstaking surprise, as if he had never been able to feel such lightness before.

He had managed to grow into his features over the course of your fifth year, his face becoming slightly fuller, though it remained lean like the rest of his body. He became more and more tan with each Quidditch game, so that his scar was no longer as discrete, and each minute in the sun sprayed matching flints of gold in his irises.

But most of all, he smiled more, with greater frequency and less reservation.

You found something unbearably endearing in his brightened expression, as if his happiness arrived with such strength and abundance that it spilled onto your own face as well. It was impossible to feel any amount of gravity whenever he was in a cheerful mood, saturating the world with playful banter and spontaneous laughter.

Though you would never admit such a thing to him, you never minded when he teased you.

There was the unabashed grin he flashed when you and Ron found him slipping into Hogsmeade your third year. You had pleaded with him to hand in the map, although Ron was of no assistance in your requests, and he turned to you with utter mischief in his eyes. It was the simple, yet respectful confidence you saw, the underlying guilt from his act of rebellion, and the inexplicable searing heat in your stomach that caused you to relent.

You wondered if he knew he could make you melt, even then.

There was the unexpected smirk that slowly formed when Draco’s spell backfired during Potions class, sending the latter boy’s wand dashing about the room, fastening everything it touched to the ground. Snape was the first to the hit by the spark of white, and suddenly he was frozen in mid-step with his hand inches from his own wand. The professor’s mouth was not affected by the hex, and he continued shouting curses at Draco while this unfortunate student scrambled over chairs and under tables in attempts to control his error.

He dragged all the students he could out of the classroom, peering through the keyhole to survey the damage. Ron was in a state of unsympathetic delight, and you had to admit that you hoped this would teach Draco a lesson. And yet, for all the misery Draco had imparted on him, he shook off your cautious grasp to bolt back inside, helping the golden-haired boy chase after the wayward wand.

You always wished you possessed a fraction of his selflessness.

There was the beam that exploded on his face as he sought out certain patrons in the roaring Gryffindor crowd that year, fingers tightened protectively over the quivering snitch. You watched him echo Ron’s fisted hand thrust into the sky, two comrades sharing the thrill of victory. He waved to Hagrid beside you, who commented on how much he looked like his father at moments like this. You saw the subtle pleasure that Dumbledore, despite his waning strength, emitted without qualm, and knew he felt the power of this as well.

At last, his gaze fell upon you; you were frozen now, oblivious to the ecstatic jumping that surrounded you. You were, quite simply, captivated, with your throat dry (though not from screaming) and your ears trilling (though not from the clapping and cheering).

You believed that maybe, just maybe, it was only the two of you then, sharing his silent joy.

There was the gape that greeted you when you met him at the top of the stairs by the entrance to the Gryffindor house. It was the night of the Seventh Year Ball, and he wasn’t supposed to knock on your door for another fifteen minutes. You were already dressed in your satin gown, hair done up in a mass of curls, perfect except for the two red shoes in your hand; they were borrowed from a Hufflepuff because your own pair had broken minutes before.

He lowered you onto top of the stairs, where you drew up your dress ever so slightly to reveal your small, white feet. Bending onto one knee several rungs below you, he slipped on each shoe with shaking hands, reminding you of a scene from a fairytale your parents had read you when you were younger. When he was done, you placed your hands on his shoulders while his curled around your waist and he drew you upright; with the staggered steps that separated you two, you were perfectly eye-level with him.

Carefully, you leaned forward to kiss the furrowed space between his brows. You allowed your mouth to linger there, inhaling his familiar smell of soap and pine, and nodded contently to find that the wrinkle had disappeared when you drew away.

You were thrilled to discover that you, you had the ability to fluster him.

There was the tearful, but never wavering smile that rested on his lips, growing ever wider with each step forward that you took down the aisle. All nervousness was gone when you reached his side; the room was aglow with white flowers, sunshine, and the opulent melody played by the lone cello. For whatever words were being spoken, you paid no attention until you felt his mouth lower over yours, catching your breath and tucking it away.

You were forever his, and he forever yours, always in spirit but now in name as well.

There was the awe scattered across his face when you showed him his new daughter, almost invisible in the blanket of soft pink. You wondered if her hair would follow your chestnut brown or her father’s raven black, but you didn’t care because either would be beautiful with the brilliant jade of her eyes. You were conscious of his short intake when her lashes lifted, infusing green with green; she was her father’s daughter.

You understood that you finally had competition for his heart, but you don’t mind in the least.

And it was then that he looked up at you, with the same achingly sweet smile that greeted you each year in Diagon Alley, signaling the end of summer and the beginning of new possibilities. You knew that you would never have to doubt his love, no matter how much time had passed.

Even now, his smile can still destroy you, and you allow yourself to be ruined time and time again.

-end-
May 26, 2003