i haven't written any hp fanfiction in about 7 years. so I hope this is okay. and i deleted because i forgot to format it correctly.
i. The year after all the tears and deaths and devastation, they decided to run away. And, yes, it may have been cowardly and so un-Gryffindor, but they couldn’t help it. They needed to get away, if only for a summer. It may have been too soon (Ron wasn’t pleased one bit and refused to go. But what else was new?) but it didn’t matter. They finally had time.
ii. They’re on the sand, on a beach. They don’t know where, exactly; kind of just glanced at a map, pointed their wands and went. Not much clothes was packed, just a couple of essentials (they figured they could just buy what they needed. Besides, she was not high maintenance, after camping out in a tent for so long). On the sand, her hair spread out, and she’s smiling as the sun is setting in front of them, creeping slowly out of the horizon.
“You’re wonderful, y’know?”
He laughs, not really expecting it. “Hermione.”
iii. She sits up, the wine bottle clutched in her hand. They’re drunk. Maybe. Maybe he’s not so drunk. Maybe he could see so very clearly what’s in front of him, with the breeze blowing through her hair now.
“No, stop it. Seriously, you are. You’re a lovely person, Harry Potter,” she says. Her eyes are shining, so unlike the hollow ones he had grown so accustomed to a year ago (It may have something to do with the alcohol coursing through her veins, but he likes to think she’s nearly back to her old self; the self that was vibrant and happy and not so haunted).
iv. Leaning down, she stares at him. When he moves to sit up on his elbows, she doesn’t lean back (even though they’re faces are inches away from each other and they both have a pair of red-heads in the back of their minds but they don’t care, no, they don’t care) but instead keeps staring at him.
The breeze is picking up now and even though it’s summer and it’s meant to be hot (but it is England, after all), she’s wearing a dress. The strap is falling off her shoulder but she makes no move to push it back up.
Something’s shifting.
v. “Hermione,” he says again, a murmur this time.
“Harry,” she breathes out and he can smell the wine on her lips (he vaguely wonders if he’d be able to taste it, as well). He sits up fully and now their foreheads are touching and as he reaches up to push the strap up he can hear her sharp breath. And when he takes her mouth in his (he can taste the sweetness, he discovers) he wonders when they’d become so reckless.
He finds that he doesn’t mind.
vi. When they open their eyes, it’s night and the stars are twinkling above them. Their hands are intertwined, just like their bodies, and they’re still on the beach.
They have no images of redheads anymore. Just them, on the sand, on this summer night and they can’t help but think that everything is the way it should be. That everything is just right.
“Perfect.” It’s a whisper and he can’t be sure if he said it or if she did.
sand | harry/hermione
i.
The year after all the tears and deaths and devastation, they decided to run away. And, yes, it may have been cowardly and so un-Gryffindor, but they couldn’t help it. They needed to get away, if only for a summer. It may have been too soon (Ron wasn’t pleased one bit and refused to go. But what else was new?) but it didn’t matter. They finally had time.
ii.
They’re on the sand, on a beach. They don’t know where, exactly; kind of just glanced at a map, pointed their wands and went. Not much clothes was packed, just a couple of essentials (they figured they could just buy what they needed. Besides, she was not high maintenance, after camping out in a tent for so long). On the sand, her hair spread out, and she’s smiling as the sun is setting in front of them, creeping slowly out of the horizon.
“You’re wonderful, y’know?”
He laughs, not really expecting it. “Hermione.”
iii.
She sits up, the wine bottle clutched in her hand. They’re drunk. Maybe. Maybe he’s not so drunk. Maybe he could see so very clearly what’s in front of him, with the breeze blowing through her hair now.
“No, stop it. Seriously, you are. You’re a lovely person, Harry Potter,” she says. Her eyes are shining, so unlike the hollow ones he had grown so accustomed to a year ago (It may have something to do with the alcohol coursing through her veins, but he likes to think she’s nearly back to her old self; the self that was vibrant and happy and not so haunted).
iv.
Leaning down, she stares at him. When he moves to sit up on his elbows, she doesn’t lean back (even though they’re faces are inches away from each other and they both have a pair of red-heads in the back of their minds but they don’t care, no, they don’t care) but instead keeps staring at him.
The breeze is picking up now and even though it’s summer and it’s meant to be hot (but it is England, after all), she’s wearing a dress. The strap is falling off her shoulder but she makes no move to push it back up.
Something’s shifting.
v.
“Hermione,” he says again, a murmur this time.
“Harry,” she breathes out and he can smell the wine on her lips (he vaguely wonders if he’d be able to taste it, as well). He sits up fully and now their foreheads are touching and as he reaches up to push the strap up he can hear her sharp breath. And when he takes her mouth in his (he can taste the sweetness, he discovers) he wonders when they’d become so reckless.
He finds that he doesn’t mind.
vi.
When they open their eyes, it’s night and the stars are twinkling above them. Their hands are intertwined, just like their bodies, and they’re still on the beach.
They have no images of redheads anymore. Just them, on the sand, on this summer night and they can’t help but think that everything is the way it should be. That everything is just right.
“Perfect.” It’s a whisper and he can’t be sure if he said it or if she did.
Either way, it’s the truth.
Their truth.