This Is Now fic for Kara
Jan. 24th, 2011 11:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
laliandraToday I am celebrating meeting one of my very dearest friends, the lovely, most lovely in fact, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brimtoast , in a thing we like to call Campfireaversery because we met in a campfire chatroom. And became the kind of ridiculous middle school BFFs that warranted me making her a friendship bracelet. Because I like an extended metaphor. Also we are dorks.
Clearly I am No Good with words without Kara to beta me, which she has done tirelessly and wonderfully and if I've ever written anything you've liked, you should thank her, because otherwise I would still be comma splice happy and too unsure and flaky to post anything.
Plus, you know, she rocks in many ways and I am attempting to repay her for everything, the understanding and hilarity and all the amazing TV shows and music and fandoms and people she has brought me, the only way I know how. Which is to say, with ridiculous fic in which nothing much happens and people make history jokes. This may or may not be better than that time I rewrote an AVPM song...
This is a fic for This Is Now, a SUPERB Harry Potter RPG that Kara archived and then got me to read. It took me a while, maybe a month all told but it was amazing. Worth every second. And I really, really recommend it. If you are even considering this, DO NOT READ THIS FIC because it is set after the end of the game and so the spoilers, they are EPIC. If not, this is a pretty damn sad Harry Potter AU. I really don't mind if all y'all skip over it, don't worry.
Because really, this one is forbrimtoast . I'll see you soon, bb!
And Here We (Almost) All Are...
In the end Luna says, "I'm taking Ron for a walk."
Ron says, "I'm not your dog, Luna," and she smiles at him, raises her eyebrows a little. Like a challenge - Say you aren't mine, Ronald Weasley. And he smiles back, smiles for the first time that day. It's not the all-out thousand-watt beam that Hermione loves but it's a start. They shouldn't dim their lights today, it's not what Harry would want. Hermione could have used the past tense there and it's not like she has so much difficulty with that these days. Slipping into "Harry was" has been jarringly easy, as if her brain had always been preparing for the day Harry fell out of the present. It's just that this is continuous. There's no end to Harry wanting them to be happy.
"Hermione," Luna says, and oh dear, one of them must have been talking to her. "We're all trying so hard to be normal that we're being strange. So I'm taking Ron outside to be crazy. You can do that in here." She smiles at her. "If you like."
"I'll try not to break any furniture this time," Hermione promises them. Ron looks like he's about to laugh and then stops, stares at her, trying to read if that's a joke or not. If he's allowed to. He's mocked her endlessly about the day that she smashed all the plates in their kitchen but today he's been so wary, too much grief, too much love, too much. They shouldn't be dealing with this and clearly, they are not.
She makes a shooing gesture, says, "Go, go. Be crazy together." Ron catches Luna's outstretched hand without looking and they link fingers as they leave. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it comforts her to see them, strange and messy and easy and right.
Hermione wanders round the flat a couple of times. There's no point in trying not to think about it. A year ago exactly she sat in a stupid uncomfortable fold out chair and tried to remember that her boyfriend was dead. There's no getting away from it. She just doesn't look at the bookshelves.
The flat is small, crammed full of their things, piled on top of each other and not quite unpacked. It's not what she'd been expecting, not quite the perfect, perfectly mundane future she'd planned. It already feels theirs, though - the furniture that doesn't match at all, the walls alive with posters and photographs, the fishbowl in the corner. It's usually more of a mess than this, but Hermione had gone on a cleaning jag in the kitchen the night before and Ron had spent this morning absent-mindedly putting things away, not knowing what else to do with his hands, his time.
It must be like watching the blind trying to lead the blind, the pair of them stumbling round, trying so very hard not to upset the other with their grief or their lack of it and just tripping each other up all the time.
Maybe it's the thought of tripping that makes her do it, but Hermione has the phone in her hand, dials one of the few numbers that she uses these days, before she even thinks about it.
Justin always takes forever to pick up the telephone. "Hello, Justin Finch-Fletchley speaking," he answers, because apparently some things stick.
"Hi, it's Hermione."
"Oh!" Justin's voice does the vocal equivalent of slipping into something more comfortable. "Hello, love. To what to I owe the pleasure?"
"Um, I'm not sure. Just felt like a chat?"
"Do you want small talk?" Justin offers. "I have all the necessary small talk skills. I was practically bred for them. Should I make polite enquires about the weather?"
And maybe that's why her brain knew to call Justin, Hermione thinks, because he knows her, and he can do this, just be there for her, charming and silly and dear.
"It's a perfect day here," she tells him, looking out of the window at the leaves glinting green-gold in the sun.
Justin laughs.
"Honestly, has no-one ever heard of pathetic fallacy?" He laughs a little more. It's nice to hear, even if he's only doing it on a reflex, a nervous tick he couldn't outgrow.
"We were going to go out but... we couldn't be arsed in the end. Terry wasn't in a people mood, I mean, when is he ever, but even less so than usual. So we're just hanging out at home."
"Having 'God aren't we lucky' sex," she says without thinking, used to talking to Justin without limits.
The pause goes on long enough that Hermione decides so save Justin from it. When a silence gets too deep he can get in over his head.
"Are you worried about me finding whatever you want to say inappropriate? Or that Terry will hear and slap you upside the head?"
Justin makes a noise like the bastard child of a snort and a sigh. "Bit of both. Although he's more likely to give me a horrible talk about how the Greeks had this whole sex and death thing down years ago, which will inevitably lead to discussion of eye gouging and incest. You know how it goes. So I don't worry about inappropriate. Insensitive, though..." he adds, voice softening, stupid cut-glass vowels sanded off.
Hermione settles down in the armchair, phone tucked into the crook of her shoulder, curling her feet underneath her. Her father always says she's like a cat, addicted to sunspots. She doesn't remember ever telling Ron about that but when she'd arrived at the flat, a little shaken, a little pleased, the chair had been here. Right where the sunlight streams through the window in the afternoon and paints a bright square on the floor. Maybe she'd told Harry who'd told Ron. Maybe Ron just figured it out at some point over the years. The history of the three of them is so vast and tangled now as to be unknowable, even to her.
She says, "I don't mind that you're happy. God knows you deserve it. I don't want to stop being happy that you're together, not today, not any day. I'm sick of people treating me like I'm made of glass, like I might smash if they're happy or sad or angry or anything else apart from careful and quiet."
"So you thought, who do I know who is never careful or quiet..." Justin is clearly trying for injured but there's too much warmth left in his tone.
Hermione says, "There's something pleasant about talking on the telephone, don't you think? It's different to flooing. Or am I being nostalgic?" If she was flooing Justin would be able to see her smile at him, but then he knows that she is. This just feels so relaxed, warm sunshine and a warm voice in her ear.
Justin hums a little under his breath, considering. He says, "Maybe it's like always wanting the food you remember from when you were young. Do you think they're great because you liked them as a child and have fond memories, or do you have fond memories of them because they were great? Or have I just spent too much time with Terry and we should just eat the jammie dodgers and be happy..."
Hermione groans. "Oh, well there's a craving I didn't know I had. God, they are the best kind of biscuit ever. Why did the wizarding world decide to shun jam in favour of pumpkin as a filling?"
"It's a example of all that is wrong with that society," Justin says loftily. "More jam, less Dark Arts, I've always said."
"If I end up spending the rest of the day pigging out on jammy dodgers and party rings, I am blaming you entirely," Hermione tells him. It's not too far to the shop, she could be hopelessly English and have afternoon tea.
Justin says, "I think you can get away with it today. Might as well make the most of it."
"There do have to be some perks," Hermione agrees. Maybe it's because they were basically soldiers for so long, living with death until it became routine. You joke about it, or else you go under. It's not something she wants anyone else to have to learn to do, but having other people do it too is a relief.
Something crashes faintly, and Hermione thinks that she can hear someone swear. Justin snorts a little.
She asks, "What is going on there? It's all got a little 'noises off'."
"Terry, god save us all, is cooking," Justin says, with some relish. "Or at least he calls it cooking," he adds, much louder.
There's that warmth in his voice again, wrapped around the mockery. Like when Terry mimics Justin and says, "Dearest", equal parts sarcasm and helpless sincerity.
There is a much louder crash. "Stop pulling that face," Hermione hears Terry call. "Don't think I can't hex you from in here."
"Terrance Ian Redacted Boot, don't make me come over there," Justin yells. Hermione laughs without even thinking about it and she says, "Oh, go over there."
"Hmm, what?" Justin asks. "Terry is wingardium leviosaing things at me right now, it's a little hard to focus."
"I said, go over there. Go check he's okay and not trying to stubborn it out. Or not poisoning you. Both."
"It's a sad refection on our relationship when those are two very feasible options," Justin sighs. There's a pause, which is unusual. "I hate to ask. So cliché and all but. Will you be okay?"
It's felt like a normal day, which Hermione didn't think was even close to being possible. For the last 10 minutes or so it's felt like all the other days, she lives, she's fine, she misses Harry. So she says, "Actually, yes."
Justin starts to speak, gets about a syllable out. He takes a breath. "Good. And we are, you know. Happy, I mean."
"I know," Hermione says, and they both hang up at the same time. Hermione goes to put the telephone back onto its receiver, and then she starts to make plans for the day.
brimtoast , in a thing we like to call Campfireaversery because we met in a campfire chatroom. And became the kind of ridiculous middle school BFFs that warranted me making her a friendship bracelet. Because I like an extended metaphor. Also we are dorks.Clearly I am No Good with words without Kara to beta me, which she has done tirelessly and wonderfully and if I've ever written anything you've liked, you should thank her, because otherwise I would still be comma splice happy and too unsure and flaky to post anything.
Plus, you know, she rocks in many ways and I am attempting to repay her for everything, the understanding and hilarity and all the amazing TV shows and music and fandoms and people she has brought me, the only way I know how. Which is to say, with ridiculous fic in which nothing much happens and people make history jokes. This may or may not be better than that time I rewrote an AVPM song...
This is a fic for This Is Now, a SUPERB Harry Potter RPG that Kara archived and then got me to read. It took me a while, maybe a month all told but it was amazing. Worth every second. And I really, really recommend it. If you are even considering this, DO NOT READ THIS FIC because it is set after the end of the game and so the spoilers, they are EPIC. If not, this is a pretty damn sad Harry Potter AU. I really don't mind if all y'all skip over it, don't worry.
Because really, this one is for
brimtoast . I'll see you soon, bb! And Here We (Almost) All Are...
In the end Luna says, "I'm taking Ron for a walk."
Ron says, "I'm not your dog, Luna," and she smiles at him, raises her eyebrows a little. Like a challenge - Say you aren't mine, Ronald Weasley. And he smiles back, smiles for the first time that day. It's not the all-out thousand-watt beam that Hermione loves but it's a start. They shouldn't dim their lights today, it's not what Harry would want. Hermione could have used the past tense there and it's not like she has so much difficulty with that these days. Slipping into "Harry was" has been jarringly easy, as if her brain had always been preparing for the day Harry fell out of the present. It's just that this is continuous. There's no end to Harry wanting them to be happy.
"Hermione," Luna says, and oh dear, one of them must have been talking to her. "We're all trying so hard to be normal that we're being strange. So I'm taking Ron outside to be crazy. You can do that in here." She smiles at her. "If you like."
"I'll try not to break any furniture this time," Hermione promises them. Ron looks like he's about to laugh and then stops, stares at her, trying to read if that's a joke or not. If he's allowed to. He's mocked her endlessly about the day that she smashed all the plates in their kitchen but today he's been so wary, too much grief, too much love, too much. They shouldn't be dealing with this and clearly, they are not.
She makes a shooing gesture, says, "Go, go. Be crazy together." Ron catches Luna's outstretched hand without looking and they link fingers as they leave. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it comforts her to see them, strange and messy and easy and right.
Hermione wanders round the flat a couple of times. There's no point in trying not to think about it. A year ago exactly she sat in a stupid uncomfortable fold out chair and tried to remember that her boyfriend was dead. There's no getting away from it. She just doesn't look at the bookshelves.
The flat is small, crammed full of their things, piled on top of each other and not quite unpacked. It's not what she'd been expecting, not quite the perfect, perfectly mundane future she'd planned. It already feels theirs, though - the furniture that doesn't match at all, the walls alive with posters and photographs, the fishbowl in the corner. It's usually more of a mess than this, but Hermione had gone on a cleaning jag in the kitchen the night before and Ron had spent this morning absent-mindedly putting things away, not knowing what else to do with his hands, his time.
It must be like watching the blind trying to lead the blind, the pair of them stumbling round, trying so very hard not to upset the other with their grief or their lack of it and just tripping each other up all the time.
Maybe it's the thought of tripping that makes her do it, but Hermione has the phone in her hand, dials one of the few numbers that she uses these days, before she even thinks about it.
Justin always takes forever to pick up the telephone. "Hello, Justin Finch-Fletchley speaking," he answers, because apparently some things stick.
"Hi, it's Hermione."
"Oh!" Justin's voice does the vocal equivalent of slipping into something more comfortable. "Hello, love. To what to I owe the pleasure?"
"Um, I'm not sure. Just felt like a chat?"
"Do you want small talk?" Justin offers. "I have all the necessary small talk skills. I was practically bred for them. Should I make polite enquires about the weather?"
And maybe that's why her brain knew to call Justin, Hermione thinks, because he knows her, and he can do this, just be there for her, charming and silly and dear.
"It's a perfect day here," she tells him, looking out of the window at the leaves glinting green-gold in the sun.
Justin laughs.
"Honestly, has no-one ever heard of pathetic fallacy?" He laughs a little more. It's nice to hear, even if he's only doing it on a reflex, a nervous tick he couldn't outgrow.
"We were going to go out but... we couldn't be arsed in the end. Terry wasn't in a people mood, I mean, when is he ever, but even less so than usual. So we're just hanging out at home."
"Having 'God aren't we lucky' sex," she says without thinking, used to talking to Justin without limits.
The pause goes on long enough that Hermione decides so save Justin from it. When a silence gets too deep he can get in over his head.
"Are you worried about me finding whatever you want to say inappropriate? Or that Terry will hear and slap you upside the head?"
Justin makes a noise like the bastard child of a snort and a sigh. "Bit of both. Although he's more likely to give me a horrible talk about how the Greeks had this whole sex and death thing down years ago, which will inevitably lead to discussion of eye gouging and incest. You know how it goes. So I don't worry about inappropriate. Insensitive, though..." he adds, voice softening, stupid cut-glass vowels sanded off.
Hermione settles down in the armchair, phone tucked into the crook of her shoulder, curling her feet underneath her. Her father always says she's like a cat, addicted to sunspots. She doesn't remember ever telling Ron about that but when she'd arrived at the flat, a little shaken, a little pleased, the chair had been here. Right where the sunlight streams through the window in the afternoon and paints a bright square on the floor. Maybe she'd told Harry who'd told Ron. Maybe Ron just figured it out at some point over the years. The history of the three of them is so vast and tangled now as to be unknowable, even to her.
She says, "I don't mind that you're happy. God knows you deserve it. I don't want to stop being happy that you're together, not today, not any day. I'm sick of people treating me like I'm made of glass, like I might smash if they're happy or sad or angry or anything else apart from careful and quiet."
"So you thought, who do I know who is never careful or quiet..." Justin is clearly trying for injured but there's too much warmth left in his tone.
Hermione says, "There's something pleasant about talking on the telephone, don't you think? It's different to flooing. Or am I being nostalgic?" If she was flooing Justin would be able to see her smile at him, but then he knows that she is. This just feels so relaxed, warm sunshine and a warm voice in her ear.
Justin hums a little under his breath, considering. He says, "Maybe it's like always wanting the food you remember from when you were young. Do you think they're great because you liked them as a child and have fond memories, or do you have fond memories of them because they were great? Or have I just spent too much time with Terry and we should just eat the jammie dodgers and be happy..."
Hermione groans. "Oh, well there's a craving I didn't know I had. God, they are the best kind of biscuit ever. Why did the wizarding world decide to shun jam in favour of pumpkin as a filling?"
"It's a example of all that is wrong with that society," Justin says loftily. "More jam, less Dark Arts, I've always said."
"If I end up spending the rest of the day pigging out on jammy dodgers and party rings, I am blaming you entirely," Hermione tells him. It's not too far to the shop, she could be hopelessly English and have afternoon tea.
Justin says, "I think you can get away with it today. Might as well make the most of it."
"There do have to be some perks," Hermione agrees. Maybe it's because they were basically soldiers for so long, living with death until it became routine. You joke about it, or else you go under. It's not something she wants anyone else to have to learn to do, but having other people do it too is a relief.
Something crashes faintly, and Hermione thinks that she can hear someone swear. Justin snorts a little.
She asks, "What is going on there? It's all got a little 'noises off'."
"Terry, god save us all, is cooking," Justin says, with some relish. "Or at least he calls it cooking," he adds, much louder.
There's that warmth in his voice again, wrapped around the mockery. Like when Terry mimics Justin and says, "Dearest", equal parts sarcasm and helpless sincerity.
There is a much louder crash. "Stop pulling that face," Hermione hears Terry call. "Don't think I can't hex you from in here."
"Terrance Ian Redacted Boot, don't make me come over there," Justin yells. Hermione laughs without even thinking about it and she says, "Oh, go over there."
"Hmm, what?" Justin asks. "Terry is wingardium leviosaing things at me right now, it's a little hard to focus."
"I said, go over there. Go check he's okay and not trying to stubborn it out. Or not poisoning you. Both."
"It's a sad refection on our relationship when those are two very feasible options," Justin sighs. There's a pause, which is unusual. "I hate to ask. So cliché and all but. Will you be okay?"
It's felt like a normal day, which Hermione didn't think was even close to being possible. For the last 10 minutes or so it's felt like all the other days, she lives, she's fine, she misses Harry. So she says, "Actually, yes."
Justin starts to speak, gets about a syllable out. He takes a breath. "Good. And we are, you know. Happy, I mean."
"I know," Hermione says, and they both hang up at the same time. Hermione goes to put the telephone back onto its receiver, and then she starts to make plans for the day.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 06:52 pm (UTC)Justin laughs.
"Honestly, has no-one ever heard of pathetic fallacy?" He laughs a little more. It's nice to hear, even if he's only doing it on a reflex, a nervous tick he couldn't outgrow.
I hear this part in your voice, because you read it to me in a VL at one point when you were working on the story, and it is maybe my favorite part of all. It's just so so so very THEM, and so very TIN, and also so very LAL. It is smart and lovely and perfect in every way.
voice softening, stupid cut-glass vowels sanded off.
I know I already mentioned this to you before, but this detail is so cool to me, because you actually know how Justin's accent sounds and so you can use it and give me a sense of the effect of it (even if I don't know the exact sound still, but you can do the voice for me when you are here!).
Her father always says she's like a cat, addicted to sunspots. She doesn't remember ever telling Ron about that but when she'd arrived at the flat, a little shaken, a little pleased, the chair had been here. Right where the sunlight streams through the window in the afternoon and paints a bright square on the floor. Maybe she'd told Harry who'd told Ron. Maybe Ron just figured it out at some point over the years. The history of the three of them is so vast and tangled now as to be unknowable, even to her.
There are about fifty-million beautiful examples in this story of showing-not-telling, using an image to express something way better than you could ever explain it. And this is one of my favorites. Because yes, that's the three of them, right there.
warm sunshine and a warm voice in her ear.
I love this image
Maybe it's like always wanting the food you remember from when you were young. Do you think they're great because you liked them as a child and have fond memories, or do you have fond memories of them because they were great? Or have I just spent too much time with Terry and we should just eat the jammy dodgers and be happy...
But he was actually always like that, which is why he and Terry connected so much right away. I just love all the layers and pieces of them that you fit in to this little story. Because there is so much of Justin, and of Terry, and of Justin's relationship with Terry, inside this one line that on surface is barely about them at all. And I love how him jumping to jammy dodgers implies that this is a line of thought he's had before. Of course he has. &Justin;
"More jam, less Dark Arts, I've always said."
I want a bumper sticker, or at least a refrigerator magnet, of this.
"There do have to be some perks," Hermione agrees. Maybe it's because they were basically soldiers for so long, living with death until it became routine. You joke about it, or else you go under. It's not something she wants anyone else to have to learn to do, but having other people do it too is a relief.
I am a little bit out of words by this point, but YES to so many things in this, about what they've lived through and the complicated way they feel about it, and how nobody who hasn't lived through it can really understand. And the complicated way they feel about that.
There's that warmth in his voice again, wrapped around the mockery. Like when Terry mimics Justin and says, "Dearest", equal parts sarcasm and helpless sincerity.
My shippery heart cannot even handle this line. Just, ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Terrance Ian Redacted Boot
:) :) :) :)
It's felt like a normal day, which Hermione didn't think was even close to being possible. For the last 10 minutes or so it's felt like all the other days, she lives, she's fine, she misses Harry. So she says, "Actually, yes."
Okay, again Kaz pulled this one out first and talked about it better than I could, so I will just let this comment end with it, because it is such a perfect line.