It happens just once. It’s the night before the fifteenth anniversary of the war and both of your families have gone to the Burrow. It’s a Weasley tradition, this gathering, but you and Harry have your own traditions as well. On the day of the anniversary you are public heroes and you make all of the proper appearances, say all of the proper things, lay all of the proper flowers on the (too) many graves. But the eve of the anniversary is just for you. Just for the two of you.
“Fifteen years,” you muse quietly as you pull down a mug from the cupboard. “It seems like only yesterday.”
When you turn around Harry is standing mere inches from you, his eyes unreadable. You open your mouth to say his name but it dies on your lips as he takes another step forward, pressing your back against the countertop. His lips hover mere inches from yours, and the world feels upside down and (finally) right-side up all at once.
“Why now?” you manage to choke out after a moment, the time for pretenses and pretending long past.
“Because we are fools, Hermione,” he whispers, his eyes pained. “Because time is making fools of us.”
Then he is crushing his lips against yours and your fingers are weaving through his hair and you are both desperate (so desperate) to claim each other’s flesh as your own that it makes your bones ache. His lips and hands are everywhere as you shudder against him, your own hands pulling him closer with every ragged breath. It is passionate and frenzied and perfect.
It is over far too soon.
As you struggle to catch your breath you find yourself wishing for some sort of evidence of his hands on your skin -- some sort of mark. Your eyes are frantically (illogically) traveling over your unblemished flesh in disbelief when Harry speaks, his voice achingly tender.
“We could have been extraordinary,” he says, pressing one last kiss against your lips.
(You’ve got scars that the whole world can see. But this one is only for the two of you.)
Re: harry/hermione -- could you leave me with a scar? (3/3)
It happens just once. It’s the night before the fifteenth anniversary of the war and both of your families have gone to the Burrow. It’s a Weasley tradition, this gathering, but you and Harry have your own traditions as well. On the day of the anniversary you are public heroes and you make all of the proper appearances, say all of the proper things, lay all of the proper flowers on the (too) many graves. But the eve of the anniversary is just for you. Just for the two of you.
“Fifteen years,” you muse quietly as you pull down a mug from the cupboard. “It seems like only yesterday.”
When you turn around Harry is standing mere inches from you, his eyes unreadable. You open your mouth to say his name but it dies on your lips as he takes another step forward, pressing your back against the countertop. His lips hover mere inches from yours, and the world feels upside down and (finally) right-side up all at once.
“Why now?” you manage to choke out after a moment, the time for pretenses and pretending long past.
“Because we are fools, Hermione,” he whispers, his eyes pained. “Because time is making fools of us.”
Then he is crushing his lips against yours and your fingers are weaving through his hair and you are both desperate (so desperate) to claim each other’s flesh as your own that it makes your bones ache. His lips and hands are everywhere as you shudder against him, your own hands pulling him closer with every ragged breath. It is passionate and frenzied and perfect.
It is over far too soon.
As you struggle to catch your breath you find yourself wishing for some sort of evidence of his hands on your skin -- some sort of mark. Your eyes are frantically (illogically) traveling over your unblemished flesh in disbelief when Harry speaks, his voice achingly tender.
“We could have been extraordinary,” he says, pressing one last kiss against your lips.
(You’ve got scars that the whole world can see. But this one is only for the two of you.)