stir my heart
melt my heart
get my drift
be my hero
heart of gold
stir my heart
melt my heart
get my drift
be my hero
heart of gold
R/W: 1st-2nd years
Word Count: 441
It was just a fling. Just once, after the last Quidditch match that Fred had ever had. He swore to himself that it would never happen again. But as he swears to himself, he finds himself believing what he is promising less and less.
“Fred.” Neither of them can seem to forget the kiss.
A kiss in the rain was all Luna ever wanted for a first kiss. She wanted romance, belief, beauty. She wanted the two of them to hold close to each other and never let go.
“Look,” Fred says finally, “If that kiss…I didn’t…”
“It didn’t mean anything?” Luna says bluntly. “Because, Fred, I think it did for me.”
Fred takes a deep breath.
When he fell in love, he never expected it to be someone like Luna. Luna was nothing like him; she was misty and faraway, and he was down to earth, ready for whatever came next. But above all, Fred had realised that Luna was fearless, and he was still afraid of far too much.
“I’m sorry,” Luna continues. “I know that we weren’t under the mistletoe, and you weren’t expecting it, but…I’ve been waiting for it to happen.”
“You’ve been waiting for it to happen,” Fred repeats. “The thing is, Luna, I don’t know if I have.”
In all his life, Fred has never seen Luna cry. Although she is distant, she is powerful and strong, and she does not cry. Maybe this is why it breaks him so to see her like this.
“Luna,” Fred says, almost trying to salvage things. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Then how did you mean it?” Luna asks.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Just—just, when you do want to tell me why you kissed me if you didn’t even mean it, don’t tell me. Just write me a letter.”
“Write you…Luna,” Fred says, trying to turn her back.
“You know where I live,” she says, and she doesn’t turn around.
Luna does not know how or why people fall in love. All she has seen from it is heartbreak and sadness. So why face it? Why love someone and then let them turn you down?
I’m sorry for what I said. And I’m writing you, now, aren’t I? When I said I didn’t mean that kiss, I was wrong. I did mean to kiss you, I did mean to love you. But you aren’t the kind of girl I fall in love with just like that. Even if you want to be.
So maybe we could try again. Maybe I could fall in love with you.
Or maybe I already have.
Rating: 1st-2nd years
Word count: Perhaps around 800...
Author's Note: Heavily inspired by a particular song--you will know who I am if I say which. The numbered and italicised things are lines from the song. Sunshine was the tag used.
1. I have travelled past your window many times
Roxanne shivered. It was a horrible grey Sunday, but she’d needed to get out. She’d gone out with no intention of going anywhere in particular, but had soon realised where her feet were winding her, and turned in a different direction. However, when she stopped thinking about where she was walking, she found herself going back to his street. She had been warm while walking, but now she was standing outside his flat, staring up at the window, she was shivering.
Only a few years ago, it would have been perfectly normal for her to walk up the steps, go through that front door, walk up the stairs, unlock his flat with her key, and then, if he was there, kiss him. If not, perhaps sit by the window, perhaps read, occasionally glance out of the glass to see if he was there.
But then she’d left him.
2. You plague my mind
She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Her reasons for breaking up with him had been good, but external. He was perfect, or as close as she ever expected to get, but she hated being a Quidditch player’s girlfriend. She’d hated opening a paper and see a poll about how long they would last. Then there were photos. Of her and Oliver, of Oliver with any other woman. And even though she knew he loved her, there remained the niggling suspicion, inflamed inordinately by a crappy by-line.
She hated the way that, when she and Oliver were alone, they never discussed this. They talked, occasionally, about them, about whether they might, one day, have children, get married. Never about what was happening now.
And once she’d left him, she had found it easier. Somehow unattached Oliver Wood was less interesting than an attached one, and so she could ignore it. And it was nice to leave her house and not trip over a photographer.
But he still plagued her mind. And, from what their mutual friends said, she still plagued his.
3. I need shine, I need shine, I need shine
Step away from my light I need shine
People had started taking her seriously again. Before, as soon as she’d said she was with Oliver Wood, or, more often, as soon as they’d said, “You’re Foxy Roxy, aren’t you?” she had first to stop herself vomiting or punching them. Then they fulfilled the stereotype of a Quidditch groupie and just wanted intimate details of Oliver’s body, or they assumed she did, and found her dull.
It made her realise how few friends she actually had. Once she’d left him, they’d comforted her, and helped her through it, and when Lucy Weasley suggested they open a restaurant on Diagon Alley together, Roxanne had jumped at the chance, throwing herself into it, and making a success of it.
Some papers still called her ‘Foxy Roxy’ but now Oliver was interesting in his own right, having crossed the line from being a Quidditch player, to being someone for whom every season had the potential to be his last. He’d already had one of the longest professional careers in British Quidditch history. Roxanne felt sorry for him.
She still saw him occasionally but never alone. And, just occasionally, she’d find herself staring at him, and a faint tug at her heart. He was older than her, but that didn’t matter, had never mattered to her. She had been nineteen when they’d started going out, fresh and new and not yet fully formed. Now she was older, wiser, and now what mattered was the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, she caught him staring at her. Maybe, now, it could work.
5. And I’ve plagued your mind
Roxanne couldn’t move. A few beams of sunlight were breaking through the clouds, warming her face, so at least she wasn’t cold anymore. Someone would probably think she was a stalker, or a burglar, but then either of those would probably be more discreet. Suddenly a blast of sunshine illuminated the window, and for a brief second she was blind to it.
The clouds parted further, and the whole of the building was bathed in light. Then the front door opened and she felt her heart leap at the sight of the man standing there. He looked so nervous, in the fresh sunshine, biting his lip, before saying in the accent which had made her half-fancy him before she’d even turned around, “I’ve missed you.”
“Yeah,” she said, still standing on the street, looking up the steps at him. “I’ve missed you too.”
“Want to come inside?”
“Yeah.” She tried to hide the grin on her face. “Yeah I would.”
Then he grinned, and she ran up the steps, into his embrace, into his kiss, as the sunlight blazed onto their skin.
Title: Peace Offering
Rating/Warnings: 1st/2nd Years — None
Author’s Notes: Vaguely ‘stir my heart’. I know it was cut terribly short, but I couldn’t bear to cut what I had. I will finish this as a one shot soon. I didn’t think I’d like the pairing, but as a dynamic of mutual respect and platonic caring, it really intrigues me.
The night at Grimmauld Place was quiet for several reasons. There was much tension in the air due to the relative lack of success in recruiting people to the Order of the Phoenix and their cause. Sirius constantly struggled against his house arrest, and the enraged wailing of Mrs Black was a constant threat. Mrs Weasley was still quite shaken up over the boggart incident. And, of course, Harry’s plight was very much up in the air, with his hearing set for the next day. It made for a mixed bag of emotions for anyone who was staying in the house.
Perhaps that was why only one person actually made note that one of Grimmauld Place’s more frequent visitors hadn’t been around for a couple days. If anyone else besides Hermione marked the conspicuous absence of Remus Lupin, they didn’t betray that knowledge. That was, of course, before she realised that Remus had actually been in the house all day.
It was not much — just a tell-tale bump that Hermione immediately recognised as a rather large stack of books being set on a table. However, the noise came from the room that Remus often inhabited during his stays. She wondered if he was faring well after his transformation the night before. Without Snape to brew the Wolfsbane Potion, Remus was at the mercy of his lycanthropy’s savage nature. Deciding that her old professor could use some company whether he wanted it or not, she threw a kettle on and made some tea to offer him.
Holding the still-steaming cup in her left hand, Hermione gently rapped on the door. Where there had been the gentle rustle of pages, silence took over the second she knocked. Frowning, Hermione said softly toward the crack in the door, “Professor Lupin?”
After a minute, which seemed closer to an eternity, the door creaked open. Inside, the room was dark, save for the candle on the desk along the wall and the sliver of moonlight that managed to wheedle its way through the drawn curtains. Perhaps it was the eerie lack of light that gave Remus’s battered visage an almost hellish glow.
Unprepared for the sight, Hermione flinched, even though she immediately felt awful for doing so. Her involuntary response caused Remus to avert his eyes to avoid adding to the embarrassment that flaming on her cheeks. Voice wobbly, she said, “I . . . I brought you some tea.”
Remus’s gaze softened at the sound of her discomfiture, and he smiled tightly. “Much appreciated, Miss Granger.” Stepping aside, he gestured toward a tiny table in the corner and said, “Do come in.”
Inside, the room was the practical, minimalist domain that she would’ve expected. Besides the table with its single chair, there was the small desk she’d noticed before, bare save for a nearly-guttered candle and the stack of books she had heard earlier. The bed was covered with a serviceable grey blanket. Overall, there was not a scrap of colour besides the manky old pea-green wallpaper.
Realising that she was gawking, Hermione carried the cup in and set it on the table, wondering awkwardly if she was meant to sit. Her question was answered when Remus dragged over the high-back chair from the desk and sat in it. “Care to join me for a bit? I could use some company that’s not Molly fussing over me.”
Hermione felt ridiculous at that moment for only bringing one cup, but just as she had started toward the door to retrieve more tea, Remus flicked his wand and Summoned a second teacup. She watched in appreciation when he halved the tea she had brought between the two vessels and cast Refilling Charms to top them both off, but it caught her unawares when he chuckled softly.
“It’s not quite that impressive of magic.”
It was then that Hermione realised that she had been nodding in approval during the whole process, a habit she had picked up while helping Neville with Potions and keeping Harry and Ron on track with their studies. Her hands flew to her mouth in mortification. “Oh, I am so sorry!”
Shaking his head, Remus smiled. “Don’t be. After years of making do with what I had, I daresay I am a dab hand at making a good cup of tea last for a while. Better than most, maybe.”
Though Hermione could detect the hint of bitterness in his voice, his smile bore no hint of it as he sipped. “Not quite as good as what you brought, but it’s not bog water, at least.”
Her own cup to her lips, Hermione appreciated how close the diluted tea was to the original, which was far better than she had done herself in the past. It reminded her of how much she wished that the students of Hogwarts had got the chance to learn from this man, that she could learn from him.
Setting down his cup, Remus said, “Now, let’s get down to business. . . .”
Title: Old Friends
Rating/Warnings: 3rd/5th Years—A bit of drunkenness, Epilogue? What Epilogue
Author’s Notes: It was probably bad of me to break of Ron and Hermione, but it was necessary. Salut!
“Miss Granger, do you have anything to add this week?”
The eyes of the group turned expectantly to one of their newest members. This was the fourth week Hermione had attended meetings, but she had yet to share anything of consequence. She knew she needed help, as well as the healing that came with getting things off her chest, but she wasn’t used to being the one in need. It was a difficult hurdle to pass.
Almost as difficult as it had been to join a support group for recent divorced people.
It was healthy to talk about these things rather than bottle them in — she knew that — so Hermione decided that an attempt was in order, if only just an attempt. “Well, it’s been about two months since my husband moved out,” she started out, her voice wobbling, “and it’s been —”
Before she could continue, the door swung open with a loud creak, and one person Hermione had not expected to see stumbled through the door. Ron.
“Sorry I’m late, but the shop was manic, and —” He stopped short when he saw his ex-wife staring at him. “I . . . must have the wrong room. Excuse me.”
And, with that, the interaction was over before it had started. Any motivation Hermione had mustered to tell the group what it was like to think about the pain of being separated immediately deflated. Any of them who didn’t know anything about her former husband besides his name finally had a face to put to it, as well as a fairly accurate gauge of how badly he could hurt her just by being in the same room. It consequently kept anyone from calling on her in the sharing circle again for the rest of the session.
Afterward, Hermione felt the need to bolt out the door, and she was fairly certain she wasn’t coming back. With that, she strode purposefully down the hallway toward the exit, keeping her face as devoid of the pain she was feeling as possible. That feat required a lot of her effort, so it was with a measure of surprise that she felt a hand close around her arm.
One of the men from the support group, a fellow named Jamie, gave her a sad smile. “You want to go out for a drink or twelve?”
At that moment, alcohol-induced oblivion sounded fantastic, but Hermione shook her head. “I’m not sure that would be appropriate.” Feeling embarrassed by the comment and how it might be taken, she quickly added, “Besides, I wouldn’t be very good company right now, anyway.”
Unperturbed by her refusal, Jamie said, “Not even for a couple old friends?” He frowned slightly. “Not old friends, but acquaintances, at least.”
He suddenly pulled her into a stairwell after checking to see if anyone was coming. Satisfied with the relative vacancy of the hallway, he took out his wand and tapped it to the top of his head. The person she knew as Jamie melted away, and before Hermione stood none other than Oliver Wood. Her jaw dropped in surprise.
“So, it’s really been you this whole time?”
Nodding, Oliver said, “Yeah. Not good for the team to have my dirty laundry aired in public, so I agreed to a quick, discreet divorce and seeking any necessary help under an assumed name.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, understanding the necessity of the guise. “I take it things didn’t work out with Alicia, then?”
“We tried, but she’s not been all right since Fred died. When I found out she was sneaking around, sleeping with any guy she could convince herself was him in the dark . . .”
Sighing, Hermione said, “I’m so sorry. That would feel awful.” Right then, her issues over Ron belittling her life goals seemed slightly petty in comparison.
Another thought entered her head. “I don’t know if the offer is still out there, but how about that drink . . .”
* * *
“And then —” Oliver said between chuckles, “— then he grabbed the Quaffle and said, ‘So that’s where it went. I thought I was walking a bit crooked’.”
Hermione found herself giggling at the rather ribald anecdote, not thinking about Ron for the first time in a long time. In fact, it was the first time in months that she didn’t feel close to tears for a span of more than an hour.
“That is so bad,” she said in a half-hearted attempt at propriety. Forcing herself into a straight face, she said, “I needed this.”
Nodding, Oliver said, “So did I. It’s been ages since I’ve been around someone who doesn’t give a toss about Quidditch. It’s kind of nice.”
They drank a few more rounds — Hermione with her Butterbeer and Oliver with his Scotch — and traded inane stories until she called for the bill, only to find that Oliver had paid in advance. Drunkenly, he extended an arm to her and said, “Let me walk you home.”
Hermione felt genuinely touched by the offering and said, “I think I’d like that.” She took his arms, and they strolled away rather wobbily into the night.
Oh, you guys are so, so lovely, especially with all my wonky pairings. I really liked them all, they were all wonderful in their own ways, so thank you!