Title: See
Ship: Harry/Hermione
Name/Pen Name: Mary/Ravenclaw
Word Count: 1,024
Theme #/Theme: #6 - Article with mistakes
Challenge count: 1/7 finished

Content: PG-13
Spoilers: Books 1-6
Warnings: N/A
Summary: (Post-War.) He reaches for it anyway, knowing she lied and knowing she's just trying to protect him.



Hermione hears him coming and quietly folds the newspaper she is reading.

"Is that the Prophet?" Harry asks. He falls gracelessly beside her, into her step and into her life.

"No," says Hermione.

He reaches for it anyway, knowing she lied and knowing she's just trying to protect him. Sometimes he can see the depth of her emotion, and sometimes he can't, but in a gesture as ordinary as turning away he sees the tears she refuses to let him see.

She withdraws her hand to her knees, and shrivels. "You know they don't tell the truth, Harry—"

"The truth won't sell itself," he replies. The newspaper opens with a papery snap, like a dragon unfurling its wings.

"And—and you know that it doesn't matter that they write that rubbish—"

He knows and she knows, but she talks anyway to ease the tension. Harry lets his face soften behind the paper. He can see without looking that she is wringing her hands because she thinks she can't say the right thing to him. He lets her talk and listens to her voice. The words stretch across his silence, a skin to his drum.

Harry finishes the article quickly. "They say I was at Knockturn Alley last night. Hunting Death Eaters."

She doesn't flinch anymore, even though he's as brusque as always. She doesn't tell him it's a pack of lies, because he knows that already. Quietly, "Harry, you know they're all gone."

He doesn't immediately disagree anymore. "Are they?" He inspects his knuckles. They were bloody once, and raw, from making absolutely certain there weren't any.

She takes his hand and lets her finger touch each knuckle. She wants to kiss them.

"They say I got into a fight."

"I know," she murmurs. Hermione laces her fingers through his to feel his warmth. She isn't cold, but she wants to make sure he's here with her.

"They say I used an Unforgivable, but they don't mention which."

"The Ministry would know if you did. They would know if you Crucio-ed somebody," she says heatedly. His warmth is leaking into her, and out of her eyes.

Sometimes he can see her depths, and now they are endless caverns that stretch into tomorrow and swallow him whole. He can see it all reflected in her eyes and the heat he gave her that's pouring out of them.

He says, "Hermione, they can't put me in Azkaban."

"I know," is her answer. It's the same answer as always. She finds it hard to speak because her tongue doesn't want to taste words.

Harry can't see her depths anymore. "It's terrifying, isn't it?" he whispers.

"That they're so desperate to prove their propaganda rubbish is working, they'd throw the Boy-Who-Lived in prison?" Her eyes are as shallow and empty as her voice. Her depths are invisible, and maybe that's the way they're supposed to be. Anyway, she isn't talking about Azkaban.

He breaks eye contact to glance at the newspaper article. "They say I was—"

Hermione grabs his shoulders and kisses his mouth more roughly than she's ever done before. He sinks into depths he can't see, but it isn't frightening. The warmth he gave her is searing to touch, and he wants to bury and burn his fingers in her hair until she's branded on them. They've always belonged to her anyway, just like the rest of him and whatever that becomes.

Harry kisses her back and she tells him the words she won't say out loud. Her sentences flow from her hands to his neck to the small of her back to the smooth skin under his sweater. She lets her fingertips write paragraphs on his shoulders and reads his replies as given. They taste sinful, more delicious than chocolate.

Hermione opens her mouth wide.

Later, she leans back into him with lips pressed tightly together and he mumbles into her hair, "It doesn't matter what they wrote."

"They don't know that." The top buttons of her blouse are undone and she deftly fastens them. "They oughtn't write about you, Harry, after everything you've done for them—"

"Hermione, they've already sold out their grandmothers. What's one more wizard to them?"

"Very attractive cannon fodder, I suppose."

His laugh lingers on her lips and she kisses him tenderly. Her hands were made for him to hold, and she braces her fingers against his. She can feel every line in his hand, each one a measure of his love. She isn't materialistic, but she is proud to singularly own that love. She is proud to feel his heartbeat so close to hers and know that he doesn't steal anyone else's toothbrush in the morning.

The newspaper lays happily forgotten on the floor, content to be nothing more than lies.

Harry falls asleep but she can't keep her eyes closed. Hermione can still see the aftermaths of the battles they fought and she thinks it's nothing the Ministry should use to further their puerile causes. She can still see the shattered Fountain of Brethren—wishful thinking, but still a beautiful ideal—and the dark shapes she stepped over in Diagon Alley, knowing each one had been an innocent person. And perhaps most clearly of all, when Harry burned the skeletal masks and jet robes in a bonfire near the Little Hangleton graveyard. She stood over the Riddles and cried.

She stands up and retrieves the newspaper and flings it into the depths of the dying fire. The flames sputter and Harry stirs. She flees into the rain, a doe trying to escape the vibrant green headlights that will make her freeze. She doesn't want to tell Harry that it does matter, and not just to her. She didn't tell him that when the Fountain was broken or when Diagon Alley was destroyed or when she watered the Riddles with her tears. If she had, the masks would never have burned and Harry would never have lived to use an Unforgivable.

When Harry opens his eyes, the fire is dead. Hermione isn't there, but he can see her depths somewhere nearby and he feels cold.

Wonderful.

I really liked this, the dark side of being a hero -- you have to kill the villains, who also happen to be people.

Four stars ;]]

Your writing is utterly superb. I am jealous of your gifts

Five stars just for the quality of your prose alone.

Thanks for saying that - it's exactly the mindset I was trying to capture!



That is so flattering! You have no idea how much I love you right now. Prose is my favorite part of writing, and probably the thing I work the most on. Glad to know you liked this!

Glad to know I'm loved

Seriously, though, this is the highest quality fic in terms of sheer writing excellence that I've read in this contest (and I've read them all). There are some exceptionally good stories by talented writers like Arm_Wild but the pure quality of your words in this just makes it far superior IMHO.

And I'm serious about the jealousy thing. if plagrism wasnt such a dirty word...

Only joking. Hope you write more stuff of similarly stella quality, I for one will be keeping an eye open for them

I was so excited about this competition because I'm not an author here at Portkey, so I'm definitely finishing this contest (unless for some insane reason I get a brickload of writer's block )! I can't wait to hopefully fulfill my author's application.

The application process does take a while. I applied for mine and forgot about it when I left fandom for a while after HBP came out. It was only when I had an email from PK that I remembered about it. Good luck with it and if you write longer fics as well as you've written this one I'm sure you'll have a lot of success here.

Thank you! It's so encouraging to read your comments, especially since this is really my first fic.

You'd never guess it. I write constantly and I've been a fanfic writer for about three years now, and my stories have done okay both here and elsewhere, but I aspire to write in the way you do. You have a beautiful, poetic style that I admire very much even though this is a short piece. Its what makes it stand out for me so far above most of what I've read so far, especially as I see those things lacking in my own writing. Your talent is quite breathtaking.

You have an unique talent, and you use your words very well into your prose. I especially love the last two paragraphs the description was brilliant I thnk Ill give you four stars and this is your first fic?

Thank you! Yes, this is my first fic.

Amazing story. A beautifully written piece. You have a true way with words and prose.

And this is your first story? Wow. I can't wait for more work from you.

Four stars

Gosh, i'm so not entering this challenge. This one is the best ficlet here i've ever read thus far. I'd praise you more efficiently, were i as eloquent as you are.

Quietly, "Harry, you know they're all gone."
He doesn't immediately disagree anymore. "Are they?" He inspects his knuckles. They were bloody once, and raw, from making absolutely certain there weren't any.

Also this:

She lets her fingertips write paragraphs on his shoulders and reads his replies as given. They taste sinful, more delicious than chocolate.

Do i sense a hint of implication? I bow to your excellence. Since there is no six stars, i'll have to give five.

S.

Great job!

Implication? (laugh) No, no implication intended. Chocolate is, quite, simply my favorite food. I regret to say that some shippers have cannibalized that fond delicacy, but I still love it.

You made my day with that, I didn't even realize it! Thanks so much for a great review!

I really liked this. What a wonderful job of description. Lovely.