Free

vanillaparchment

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 29/04/2009
Last Updated: 29/04/2009
Status: completed

Freedom may sound difficult to define, but sometimes you don't need to.

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

A/N: This is a short (well, it is me), almost plot-less little piece. It's more of an exercise than anything. I hope you enjoy!

Freedom tasted of melting vanilla ice cream and tangy, smoky air. It was the smart of sunburns and the sound of laughter; it was the crackling of fire as another marshmallow tumbled into its orange, brilliant depths. It was the feeling of a breeze ruffling your hair, a heated game of chess. It was watching girls whisper and giggle like war never existed; it was the feeling of trying to outdo your mates by sending a ball streaking down the lawn of the Weasleys' backyard.

Freedom filled the space in between the stars and trickled into whispered rooftop conversations. It was in the tick of the clock downstairs and the soft snores of the others sleeping below them.

Freedom was being with her.

“How late is it?”

“I don't know.”

“You have a watch, Harry.”

“It broke ages ago, Hermione. It doesn't matter, anyway.” A sticky smudge faintly glinted on her cheek, reflecting the gentle moonlight. It felt grainy against his thumb, a contrast to the smooth, warm surface of her cheek.

“What are you doing?”

A smile spread slowly across his face; a feeling strangely similar to the cold, refreshing spray of a sprinkler gone awry growing in his chest. There was a science to removing the remains of a s'more from a dimpled cheek. A circular, careful motion against the cheekbone—never mind that the marshmallow was completely gone…

“You had marshmallow on your cheek.”

Curiously, her chin tilted. Harry was reminded of a mirror catching the moonlight directly—had her eyes always done that? His thumb had slipped as she moved, brushing against the soft curve of her mouth. Simultaneously she instinctively slipped the tip of her tongue to gloss across her lip. The soft, moist surface grazed his thumb as the sprinkler feeling returned; his heart suddenly hammered at full speed.

“Sorry.” A blush slipped onto her cheeks, a soft flush of a light pink. “Is it gone?”

“Yes. It is.” He hadn't meant to sound so disappointed.

“Thanks.” Her curious eyes searched their surroundings—the tiny square of flat rooftop, the dark, velvety sky, pinpricks of twinkling stars... him. “Are you sure we ought to be up here?”

A breeze stirred up, catching her unruly brown ponytail and whipping it across his face. She laughed, tugging the end of it away.

“Sorry,” she said unnecessarily. He grinned back, the echo of her laughter ringing in his mind like a resounding, clear sound of a bell.

“It's okay.”

She sent her hair swinging against her back, hanging free and wild against her shoulder blades, and quirked another smile.

“I'm glad you got me up here, Harry,” she said after a moment. “It's so beautiful… and to think I've been to the Burrow a million times and never noticed.”

I know what you mean, he almost said. But then he didn't, and she went on.

“I mean, all it took was a different perspective,” she said, with almost child-like awe. Her eyes were wide, as if she were trying to capture the entire sky in her dancing brown gaze. Harry knew for a fact that she couldn't: her eyes were too bright for the dark sky, but the stars… that was a different story. “A lot of things are like that, don't you think?”

“Yes.” He wondered if she noticed the meaning lacing his voice, the involuntary smile crossing his face. “A lot of people, too.”

She glanced at him, surprise and pleasure flickering across her features like the faint glow of a candle. “You're right. I suppose you'd know that, putting up with me as you do,” she added, laughing again.

“'Putting up with you' isn't how I'd phrase it.” How he would put it, he wasn't sure. It had to be something beautiful—new… wild… free—

“And… how would you put it?” A different tone… nervous… curious.

He looked at her, her faded T-Shirt and jeans, her neatly tied trainers and open, innocent expression. His eyes journeyed across the infinitely beautiful valleys of her face, dove into the warm pools of her gaze…

Before he knew it, his hands were cupping her cheek—it was still sticky from marshmallows, and his breath had suddenly hitched upon his next few words. He could see her eyes widen again, could see her shy, glistening lips part in surprise as he leaned forward, a nervous grin catching the corners of his own mouth.

“You know I'm no good with words, Hermione.” His voice was trembling so much he wondered if the tremors rippling gently across his heart had somehow reached his vocal chords.

“That's—that's…” her voice trailed off as she tilted her face slightly to the side. “That's fine… Harry—Harry…”

Her hands pressed against his chest as she allowed him to kiss her.

And that was all the freedom Harry needed.

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