There’s an ache in her bones, creases in the corners of her eyes, moments when she stops, exhales, forgets what she’s doing.
Age comes before its time.
So much else comes after.
Too late.
For the first time the rules don’t make sense.
(She knows she’s going to break them.)
She smokes her first cigarette on a park bench, snow melting in her hair, ring cold on her finger. She can feel his eyes on her before he speaks a word.
“Congratulations.”
“It was inevitable.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
(No.)
Sheets do not tangle around limbs, champagne does not bubble in flutes, whispers of love do not leave lips.
Instead—as if it is some sort of alternative—they wait. Wait for phantom brushes between backs of hands, letters written in code (love your dear friend, love what could have been), dark corners smelling of dust and betrayal.
They attend family dinners at the burrow, avoiding eye contact and lingering gazes and pools of blue behind wide pupils. There is discussion of family vacations and how to use muggle appliances and all things trivial.
They have (treacherous) silent conversations: secrets clink with glasses, thighs press together on not-so-crowed couches, bodies melt together in false goodbyes.
There are some (many) words they do not (cannot) speak.
There are quiet moments (all his moments), hot breath evoking goosebumps, moans caught in her throat, fingers against her clit, eyes wide open, but all she sees is black.
Everything else is loud, thumping in her ears.
Always ready to deny, prepared to avoid, dying to run.
“You proposed.”
(The reasons are wrong.)
“I thought it was time.”
(This is what defeat feels like.)
“Ginny’s great.”
(She’ll never love you best.)
There are nights when she lays awake—Ron snoring beside her—thinking of forbidden, warm nights in a cold, damp tent. Sinful afternoons against stacks of books, legs hooked around his best friend’s waist. Wakeful dreams of running.
harry/hermione - those who admit defeat too late
(But did it ever really begin?)
There’s an ache in her bones, creases in the corners of her eyes, moments when she stops, exhales, forgets what she’s doing.
Age comes before its time.
So much else comes after.
Too late.
For the first time the rules don’t make sense.
(She knows she’s going to break them.)
She smokes her first cigarette on a park bench, snow melting in her hair, ring cold on her finger. She can feel his eyes on her before he speaks a word.
“Congratulations.”
“It was inevitable.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
(No.)
Sheets do not tangle around limbs, champagne does not bubble in flutes, whispers of love do not leave lips.
Instead—as if it is some sort of alternative—they wait. Wait for phantom brushes between backs of hands, letters written in code (love your dear friend, love what could have been), dark corners smelling of dust and betrayal.
They attend family dinners at the burrow, avoiding eye contact and lingering gazes and pools of blue behind wide pupils. There is discussion of family vacations and how to use muggle appliances and all things trivial.
They have (treacherous) silent conversations: secrets clink with glasses, thighs press together on not-so-crowed couches, bodies melt together in false goodbyes.
There are some (many) words they do not (cannot) speak.
There are quiet moments (all his moments), hot breath evoking goosebumps, moans caught in her throat, fingers against her clit, eyes wide open, but all she sees is black.
Everything else is loud, thumping in her ears.
Always ready to deny, prepared to avoid, dying to run.
“You proposed.”
(The reasons are wrong.)
“I thought it was time.”
(This is what defeat feels like.)
“Ginny’s great.”
(She’ll never love you best.)
There are nights when she lays awake—Ron snoring beside her—thinking of forbidden, warm nights in a cold, damp tent. Sinful afternoons against stacks of books, legs hooked around his best friend’s waist. Wakeful dreams of running.
Farther, Farther, Farther.
Never quite away.
Never reaching her destination.
The war is over.
(Why didn’t he fight?)