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Apr. 18th, 2006 08:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
liptonrm_backupMy mental block re: the Ron prequel is still being testy. So I'm going to post some of the early stuff in hopes that the editing process will give me the courage shake some stuff lose to help me face the rest of it. One can only hope.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Title: All Stories End (AU Future-fic, Ron-centric)
Rated: R for implied sex, language, and more angst then is healthy for human consumption.
Prequel to Burn My Sins Away
Disclaimer: It's all Rowling's I'm just playing in her sandbox.
Ron and Hermione fucked for the first time the night of Harry’s funeral.
Afterwards they laid there, backs to each other, the rumble of mourners and friends filtering up through the draughty passages of the Burrow. Ron curled in on himself, pulling away from the searing heat of Hermione’s back, the euphoria of the preceding minutes slipping away before he even realized that he could hold on to it, if he so desired.
Ron didn’t move when Hermione got up. The bed shifted and the floorboards creaked as she stood up and he laid there, staring at the scars on his arms. The rustle of robes being readjusted and the soft squeak of the door opening and closing slipped past him unheard.
The lamp fluttered at the doors closing causing shadows to leap and scamper down his arms. He laid there, his eyes tracing patterns on his skin, not thinking about before or after or anything in between.
Within a month they were sharing a flat off of Diagon.
~ ~ ~
Hermione studied. She would return to their flat at the end of the day full of stories and ideas, her eyes bright and alive. She would bustle around the kitchen while Ron cut vegetables and tell stories of this professor or that student. Oxford suited her.
Somehow Ron found himself working at the Ministry. He wasn’t quite sure what his job was and more days then not he didn’t even bother showing up to sit in his empty, windowless office. Apparently war heroes got special provisions because the galleons never stopped coming.
Ron made a great show at normalcy. He knew he should carry on and do all the little things but some days he would stand in front of the fireplace, floo powder in hand, and realize he didn’t have it in him to leave. Those were they days he would spend in front of the wireless with a vacant face. Other days he would make it through the floo only to have his feet lead him upstairs and out the Ministry’s door. Those were the days when he wandered around Muggle London, part of the great throng of humanity, wizarding robes notwithstanding.
The details changed but all the days were the same. Either way he was always back to the flat before Hermione and always had dinner going. She would arrive and talk and talk and as long as he was chopping or stirring he never had to reply.
There were some nights when the kitchen would still and he would look up to see her staring at him, her heart in her eyes. “Are you happy, Ron?” She would always ask, her voice achingly vulnerable. He would always drop his knife or spoon or wand and go to stand in front of her.
He would take her hand, look deep into her eyes and smile and say, “Of course I am. I love you.” Tears would seep down Hermione’s face and they would kiss. The kisses were salty and sweet and desperate and neither of them could ever stop themselves with just one. They would cling to each other and kiss and kiss and soon dinner would be completely forgotten.
Later Hermione would cling to him in her sleep and Ron would stare at the patterns the street lamps made on the ceiling.
Part Two
Fandom: Harry Potter
Title: All Stories End (AU Future-fic, Ron-centric)
Rated: R for implied sex, language, and more angst then is healthy for human consumption.
Prequel to Burn My Sins Away
Disclaimer: It's all Rowling's I'm just playing in her sandbox.
Ron and Hermione fucked for the first time the night of Harry’s funeral.
Afterwards they laid there, backs to each other, the rumble of mourners and friends filtering up through the draughty passages of the Burrow. Ron curled in on himself, pulling away from the searing heat of Hermione’s back, the euphoria of the preceding minutes slipping away before he even realized that he could hold on to it, if he so desired.
Ron didn’t move when Hermione got up. The bed shifted and the floorboards creaked as she stood up and he laid there, staring at the scars on his arms. The rustle of robes being readjusted and the soft squeak of the door opening and closing slipped past him unheard.
The lamp fluttered at the doors closing causing shadows to leap and scamper down his arms. He laid there, his eyes tracing patterns on his skin, not thinking about before or after or anything in between.
Within a month they were sharing a flat off of Diagon.
~ ~ ~
Hermione studied. She would return to their flat at the end of the day full of stories and ideas, her eyes bright and alive. She would bustle around the kitchen while Ron cut vegetables and tell stories of this professor or that student. Oxford suited her.
Somehow Ron found himself working at the Ministry. He wasn’t quite sure what his job was and more days then not he didn’t even bother showing up to sit in his empty, windowless office. Apparently war heroes got special provisions because the galleons never stopped coming.
Ron made a great show at normalcy. He knew he should carry on and do all the little things but some days he would stand in front of the fireplace, floo powder in hand, and realize he didn’t have it in him to leave. Those were they days he would spend in front of the wireless with a vacant face. Other days he would make it through the floo only to have his feet lead him upstairs and out the Ministry’s door. Those were the days when he wandered around Muggle London, part of the great throng of humanity, wizarding robes notwithstanding.
The details changed but all the days were the same. Either way he was always back to the flat before Hermione and always had dinner going. She would arrive and talk and talk and as long as he was chopping or stirring he never had to reply.
There were some nights when the kitchen would still and he would look up to see her staring at him, her heart in her eyes. “Are you happy, Ron?” She would always ask, her voice achingly vulnerable. He would always drop his knife or spoon or wand and go to stand in front of her.
He would take her hand, look deep into her eyes and smile and say, “Of course I am. I love you.” Tears would seep down Hermione’s face and they would kiss. The kisses were salty and sweet and desperate and neither of them could ever stop themselves with just one. They would cling to each other and kiss and kiss and soon dinner would be completely forgotten.
Later Hermione would cling to him in her sleep and Ron would stare at the patterns the street lamps made on the ceiling.
Part Two
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Date: 2006-04-19 07:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 07:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-28 03:18 pm (UTC)Um, yeah. WOE. Poor everyone! You give the best angst, I swear. Poor Hermione, healing and recovering the way people do, and being all in love and Ron just faking his way through life. It breaks my heart into little pieces.
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Date: 2006-04-28 03:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-28 06:10 pm (UTC)Next time I'll be sure to coordinate ficcage with everyone's availability. *snerk*
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Date: 2006-04-28 06:08 pm (UTC)*sob* Why am I so hard on them? Why can't I let them be happy and in love? Why can't everything be fluffly and happy and full of rainbows?
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Date: 2006-04-28 06:20 pm (UTC)