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rarepair_shortsAuthor: [didn't make it home from the Three Broomsticks last night]
Recipient: the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rarepair_shorts community
Title: Unwind
Pairing: Harry Potter/Susan Bones
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,500 words
Summary: Harry comes home after a hard day of training.
Author's Notes: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wantsunicorns and hechicera for the betas.
Unwind
Harry's tired when he comes home. She can tell as soon as he opens the door with a non-verbal Alohomora. The sound of his body as he sends his coat into the coat closet with a half-murmured command says it all: footsteps heavy and halting, and the rest of him relying on wandless magic to get rid of everything he doesn't need before stumbling his way into the living room where the chairs and the fire await. It's always made her laugh, that that form of magic comes so naturally to him that it feels less tiring than taking the steps and putting his coat away. It's reversed for her; she can do wandless magic best when she's awake and alert, and it becomes harder the foggier her brain gets. It never fails to make her glow a little with pride for him, that he's so one with his magic that it takes over for him now and then.
He falls into the sofa next to her with a heavy sound. “Hullo,” he breathes, then covers his eyes with his hands and sits there, still only for a split second before he starts lightly bouncing his right leg: excess energy, tension leaving him.
“Hi.” She dog-ears the page of her book about the secret witches' societies of the seventeen hundreds before closing it, and then feels a little guilty, so she caresses the cover as if it can feel her apology. “Bad day, was it?” she asks him, but he's smiling a little behind his hands.
“Mmm. Not really. But. Dementors,” he says, and he half-shudders with something that she supposes is memory rather than just today, just the training. “Don't think I'll ever really get used to it.”
“You kicked their arses, though,” she says warmly, and puts her book on the coffee table. “Harry Potter, Auror trainee extraordinaire.”
He shrugs, which means yes, and takes his hands away from his eyes. He looks at her with an expression that's going soft, that's starting to look like he's come home. She scoots closer to him so her legs end up in his lap and winds her arms around him. In the half-hug he lets his head fall sideways against her face, so her lips are in his hair; he smells of earth and new sweat.
“My hero,” she teases.
“Shut up,” he murmurs, without missing a beat, and hooks his hand around her elbow, his fingers still a little cold from outside.
“You taught me how to do a Patronus, do you remember?” she tells him after a few moments.
“'Course I do,” he says. “Fifth year. You... I don't think I saw yours then. Did I?”
“I don't think so. There were a lot of us,” she says. “And only one of you.”
He hums, and slumps against her; his leg stops twitching and she can feel him starting to relax.
“I could only do it after you taught us, did you know?” she murmurs into his hair. “Aunt Amelia told me so many times that it could be done at our age, that it wasn't impossible. I never believed her until I saw you do it.”
Harry huffs a chuckle that is half fatigue, half humour, and shakes his head. “Everyone always believed me,” he says, as though it's puzzling. He still does that sometimes, and it drives her spare, even if it also makes her love him. “I never needed any of you to believe me like that.”
“Don't be stupid, of course you – did,” she says, and she almost lets the final word drop in surprise as she hears herself, so stern even in that bubble of intimacy; it's her mother she hears, it's her aunt. It's conviction born from passion.
He seems to hear it too; stretches further into her with the tentativeness of someone who has been forced, time and time again, to step in front of everyone else and assume the form of something larger than human, and who is still learning, one moment after another, how to do things for himself. He's stubborn, still, probably always will be; he won't let her talk him into skiving off training even when it's a non-compulsory session for people who want some extra practice, and he can already beat all of his fellow students and some of his teachers. Won't let her finish when she begins to say he doesn't owe them anything anymore, and never really did. (He smiles when waving her concerns away, though. And Hermione, when they meet up, leaning over at Susan over her non-alcoholic drink, glowing with pregnancy and a maturity that no longer clashes with her age, tuts lovingly and talks about how she carried them through most of Hogwarts, Harry and Ron – the essays she used to write for Harry, and the potion ingredients she slipped Ron, and their staunch refusal – to this day – to read some of the books that saved their lives, back then, when... And she goes soft and still and thinking, in the way that is still impossible for Harry, even though he's getting there.)
She lets him do it, work himself until he comes home aching and thready at the edges, because even if he goes silent and tense sometimes, and he can never bear to stay in bed after he's had a nightmare, he doesn't look haunted anymore. Not in that way he sometimes had at Hogwarts, before he left, a way that even she, from the sidelines, caught and that Hannah and Zach and she talked about in hushed, worried tones during seventh year, when just saying his name was dangerous and felt like a declaration of loyalty, when really it was nothing of the sort.
“I never thought about you back then,” he says, as if wondering about it, and she smiles because she can hear his frown.
“It may surprise you, but I never thought about you that much either.”
He turns his head and presses his mouth against the skin of her cheek. “You're lying,” he says.
“Of course I am,” she mock-muses. She threads her fingers through his hair and holds his head where it is; in a contact of not-quite-a-kiss, just his mouth, breathing, near her. “I remember that at night there was a lot of thinking about you.”
“Was there now,” he says, voice low.
“No,” she laughs, and he squeezes her elbow in retaliation. His lips open a little; they trail over her cheek, warm and moist, just enough touch to introduce a little heat into the not-quite-kiss.
“I liked it, y'know,” he says into her skin, and she raises her eyebrows a little in pleasant surprise at his tone, dark and deep. “I liked that you didn't pretend you already knew me. After.”
“I know,” she says, relishing the slow flare of heat in her belly as the tip of his tongue comes to tease between his lips, turning a chaste cheek kiss into something full of expectation. She angles her face up so she can kiss his mouth; the position is a little awkward, his glasses get in the way a little, but the kiss is immediately deep and hot, full of a slow and languid promise.
“Thought you were tired,” she says, grinning at him when he pulls back.
“Am,” he murmurs. “But I missed you today.”
“Amidst all those dementors? I'm flattered.” She smiles.
“You should be,” he says seriously, and she goes quiet for a second. He never talks much about what most people want to know when they meet him, but she knows a few things about his worst memories, and she can guess at the memories he uses to combat them.
“So I am, then,” she says. She puts her hand on his shoulders and pushes back, so she can get loose from their embrace. “Lie back for a bit,” she says, and she flashes him another grin as he raises an eyebrow at her; he seems on the verge of saying something, but then just leans back in the cushions of the sofa, and lets out a steady breath when she starts to fiddle with the button of his jeans.
“The self-sacrificial nature of the Hufflepuff,” he says, with a crooked smile, and then his breath stutters as she cups him through his underwear. He's still mostly soft, but under her fingers the heat grows.
“Oh, I don't know if this counts as a sacrifice,” she breathes. “It's not entirely selfless.”
He reaches out for her, and slides his fingertips over her cheek, up into her hair. “Secretly Slytherin. I knew it,” he says, voice going scratchy.
“Relax,” she says, and feels a thrill like no other when under her hands his tension changes completely, becomes something that she put there and that she can take away, and he lets her, falls open before her, lets her see it, lets her know him in a way that is entirely theirs, and no one else's.
Recipient: the
rarepair_shorts communityTitle: Unwind
Pairing: Harry Potter/Susan Bones
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,500 words
Summary: Harry comes home after a hard day of training.
Author's Notes: Thank you to
wantsunicorns and hechicera for the betas.Unwind
Harry's tired when he comes home. She can tell as soon as he opens the door with a non-verbal Alohomora. The sound of his body as he sends his coat into the coat closet with a half-murmured command says it all: footsteps heavy and halting, and the rest of him relying on wandless magic to get rid of everything he doesn't need before stumbling his way into the living room where the chairs and the fire await. It's always made her laugh, that that form of magic comes so naturally to him that it feels less tiring than taking the steps and putting his coat away. It's reversed for her; she can do wandless magic best when she's awake and alert, and it becomes harder the foggier her brain gets. It never fails to make her glow a little with pride for him, that he's so one with his magic that it takes over for him now and then.
He falls into the sofa next to her with a heavy sound. “Hullo,” he breathes, then covers his eyes with his hands and sits there, still only for a split second before he starts lightly bouncing his right leg: excess energy, tension leaving him.
“Hi.” She dog-ears the page of her book about the secret witches' societies of the seventeen hundreds before closing it, and then feels a little guilty, so she caresses the cover as if it can feel her apology. “Bad day, was it?” she asks him, but he's smiling a little behind his hands.
“Mmm. Not really. But. Dementors,” he says, and he half-shudders with something that she supposes is memory rather than just today, just the training. “Don't think I'll ever really get used to it.”
“You kicked their arses, though,” she says warmly, and puts her book on the coffee table. “Harry Potter, Auror trainee extraordinaire.”
He shrugs, which means yes, and takes his hands away from his eyes. He looks at her with an expression that's going soft, that's starting to look like he's come home. She scoots closer to him so her legs end up in his lap and winds her arms around him. In the half-hug he lets his head fall sideways against her face, so her lips are in his hair; he smells of earth and new sweat.
“My hero,” she teases.
“Shut up,” he murmurs, without missing a beat, and hooks his hand around her elbow, his fingers still a little cold from outside.
“You taught me how to do a Patronus, do you remember?” she tells him after a few moments.
“'Course I do,” he says. “Fifth year. You... I don't think I saw yours then. Did I?”
“I don't think so. There were a lot of us,” she says. “And only one of you.”
He hums, and slumps against her; his leg stops twitching and she can feel him starting to relax.
“I could only do it after you taught us, did you know?” she murmurs into his hair. “Aunt Amelia told me so many times that it could be done at our age, that it wasn't impossible. I never believed her until I saw you do it.”
Harry huffs a chuckle that is half fatigue, half humour, and shakes his head. “Everyone always believed me,” he says, as though it's puzzling. He still does that sometimes, and it drives her spare, even if it also makes her love him. “I never needed any of you to believe me like that.”
“Don't be stupid, of course you – did,” she says, and she almost lets the final word drop in surprise as she hears herself, so stern even in that bubble of intimacy; it's her mother she hears, it's her aunt. It's conviction born from passion.
He seems to hear it too; stretches further into her with the tentativeness of someone who has been forced, time and time again, to step in front of everyone else and assume the form of something larger than human, and who is still learning, one moment after another, how to do things for himself. He's stubborn, still, probably always will be; he won't let her talk him into skiving off training even when it's a non-compulsory session for people who want some extra practice, and he can already beat all of his fellow students and some of his teachers. Won't let her finish when she begins to say he doesn't owe them anything anymore, and never really did. (He smiles when waving her concerns away, though. And Hermione, when they meet up, leaning over at Susan over her non-alcoholic drink, glowing with pregnancy and a maturity that no longer clashes with her age, tuts lovingly and talks about how she carried them through most of Hogwarts, Harry and Ron – the essays she used to write for Harry, and the potion ingredients she slipped Ron, and their staunch refusal – to this day – to read some of the books that saved their lives, back then, when... And she goes soft and still and thinking, in the way that is still impossible for Harry, even though he's getting there.)
She lets him do it, work himself until he comes home aching and thready at the edges, because even if he goes silent and tense sometimes, and he can never bear to stay in bed after he's had a nightmare, he doesn't look haunted anymore. Not in that way he sometimes had at Hogwarts, before he left, a way that even she, from the sidelines, caught and that Hannah and Zach and she talked about in hushed, worried tones during seventh year, when just saying his name was dangerous and felt like a declaration of loyalty, when really it was nothing of the sort.
“I never thought about you back then,” he says, as if wondering about it, and she smiles because she can hear his frown.
“It may surprise you, but I never thought about you that much either.”
He turns his head and presses his mouth against the skin of her cheek. “You're lying,” he says.
“Of course I am,” she mock-muses. She threads her fingers through his hair and holds his head where it is; in a contact of not-quite-a-kiss, just his mouth, breathing, near her. “I remember that at night there was a lot of thinking about you.”
“Was there now,” he says, voice low.
“No,” she laughs, and he squeezes her elbow in retaliation. His lips open a little; they trail over her cheek, warm and moist, just enough touch to introduce a little heat into the not-quite-kiss.
“I liked it, y'know,” he says into her skin, and she raises her eyebrows a little in pleasant surprise at his tone, dark and deep. “I liked that you didn't pretend you already knew me. After.”
“I know,” she says, relishing the slow flare of heat in her belly as the tip of his tongue comes to tease between his lips, turning a chaste cheek kiss into something full of expectation. She angles her face up so she can kiss his mouth; the position is a little awkward, his glasses get in the way a little, but the kiss is immediately deep and hot, full of a slow and languid promise.
“Thought you were tired,” she says, grinning at him when he pulls back.
“Am,” he murmurs. “But I missed you today.”
“Amidst all those dementors? I'm flattered.” She smiles.
“You should be,” he says seriously, and she goes quiet for a second. He never talks much about what most people want to know when they meet him, but she knows a few things about his worst memories, and she can guess at the memories he uses to combat them.
“So I am, then,” she says. She puts her hand on his shoulders and pushes back, so she can get loose from their embrace. “Lie back for a bit,” she says, and she flashes him another grin as he raises an eyebrow at her; he seems on the verge of saying something, but then just leans back in the cushions of the sofa, and lets out a steady breath when she starts to fiddle with the button of his jeans.
“The self-sacrificial nature of the Hufflepuff,” he says, with a crooked smile, and then his breath stutters as she cups him through his underwear. He's still mostly soft, but under her fingers the heat grows.
“Oh, I don't know if this counts as a sacrifice,” she breathes. “It's not entirely selfless.”
He reaches out for her, and slides his fingertips over her cheek, up into her hair. “Secretly Slytherin. I knew it,” he says, voice going scratchy.
“Relax,” she says, and feels a thrill like no other when under her hands his tension changes completely, becomes something that she put there and that she can take away, and he lets her, falls open before her, lets her see it, lets her know him in a way that is entirely theirs, and no one else's.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-11 11:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-12 01:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-12 03:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-12 04:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-12 05:51 pm (UTC)And yes, Harry is damn sexy. *g*
Nice job!
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Date: 2013-01-13 04:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-17 06:41 pm (UTC)