Title: Gorgeous
Author: greymalkin
Summary: What makes a woman gorgeous? Harry explains.
Spoilers: DH but completely ignores epilogue
Disclaimer: Still not mine. Danggit.
Author notes: Hi everyone! I know it's been a while since I wrote anything. I've been bogged down with RL issues and so forth. Anyway, this is my tiny step back into writing fanfic. For anyone who read my fic "Just Another Day", I am still working on the sequel to that. Also, big whooping THANKS to all who reviewed my first two fanfics. All of your kind words really made my day *wibbles*. Thank you guys so much!!!
About this piece…just a little ficlet written in Harry's POV which answers the question what would Harry do when confronted with an insecure Hermione that doesn't think she's pretty enough for him. Written in an hour and totally unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Most of the ideas are taken from an old article I read in Glamour magazine and some are inspired by the stupendous male mind of my friend John. Don't know if you're reading this but thanks mucho, J! *grins*
Oh and fair warning to readers: FLUFF ALERT!!!
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I once told you long ago that I didn't think you were ugly. Allow me to rephrase that.
No, you are not ugly.
You are not pretty.
You are not cute.
You are gorgeous.
I know you don't think so. I know that to your eyes, you are just passably pretty. I know that sometimes you look in the mirror and see nothing more than your 11 year old self, all bushy hair and teeth.
Stop.
You may think I'm crazy but you were gorgeous then and you are gorgeous now.
You think I'm lying. I guess that's partially my fault. I have never been good with words or with women and I can only thank the gods that somehow, despite my excellent imitation of a prat from time to time, you love me. I really should have told you all of this before.
True gorgeousness - as opposed to prettiness or cuteness - defies convention. It isn't planned. It has nothing to do with the dress you wear, the shape of your nose or the "assets" you show, no matter what those slags last night said. Forget them. They wouldn't know gorgeous if it bit them on the arse.
I can almost see your nose scrunch and your forehead wrinkle. I know you. You need proof, solid evidence, good hard facts. Well, all right then. What is gorgeousness? I'll tell you. It is…
You, just after a shower, naked and carefully applying lotion to more skin that I can ever imagine. It's fascinating to watch.
You, on a case, in knee high boots and a body-hugging suit. It's clear from the body language that you are the complete intellectual equal - make that superior - to the men around you.
When you smile that beautiful Mona Lisa smile of yours, the close-lipped one that is second-nature from years of having buckteeth, because it only makes me want to work harder to make you grin.
You on that tatty old couch, your legs tucked under you, reading another book. A cozy picture but it's the reading glasses and the way you absentmindedly twirl a curl that kills me.
You, doing the crossword every morning, the single-mindedness of your resolve to finish it before the coffee gets cold and the gleam in your eye when you fill in the last box. Smart is sexy.
You, in jogging pants, still sweating from your morning run. I can practically feel the heat of your body as you fold in half toward your shoe, stretching…OK, that's enough. I need to stop now.
You, getting ready to go out with the girls. Wearing jeans but only a bra on top, fixing your hair, totally unaware of the fact that I'm turning on the WWN to keep from touching you.
When you sing and dance barefoot to old Beatles songs while cleaning. You don't think I notice but when you twirl around with dust bunnies in your hair, you are beautiful.
You, during the dog days of summer, wearing that old green sundress which you refuse to give up and which I adore if only for it's sheerness.
You, playing with Teddy, holding him easily on your hip in a way that makes me imagine you as a mother…which scares me, kills me and excites me all at the same time.
When you eat ice cream on a cone and you try so hard to keep it from dripping on your fingers but inevitably it drips and then you lick…I have to stop again.
You, when you argue/debate/bicker with someone (me, your mom, Ron, etc.) The fire in your eyes, the fight in your stance…sometimes I just want to grab you and snog you senseless.
When you walk in wearing those blue dress robes that I like so much, with your hair up and that sparkly stuff on your eyes, and the only thought in my head is, "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou…"
You, wearing my shirt in the mornings, all mussed and drowsy. I grumble that you keep stealing my clothing but secretly I'm pleased because they come back smelling like you.
You, absorbed in your work, absently mussing your hair and trailing some ink across your cheek. It only serves to remind me of your passion for your job and your causes…and your passion for other things.
You, whether you're all made up or bleary from a long day, when you look at me with that smile on your face because it tells me you are not just any gorgeous woman. You are mine.
Love,
Harry