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rarepair_shorts2016-08-25 10:28 am
lenaa1987.livejournal.com) wrote in rarepair_shorts2016-08-25 10:28 am
Entry tags:
Fic: To Know Her [Hermione/Luna] PG13
Author: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lenaa1987
Recipient:queenvandal
Title: To Know Her
Pairing: Luna/Hermione
Request/Prompt: Maybe the fact that it was so completely impractical was the reason that it worked so well?
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2106 (whoops!)
Summary: Hope in Edinburgh is quietness, summer nights and covert/overt glances.
Author's Notes: With endless thanks to SPAG catching witches:adelarchersnape & theimpossiblegl. Any errors are from my own tinkering.
The International Floo-call sets on her edge for a week. It wasn’t that she thought herself above asking for help—his help—but seeing him in her new flat, the flat that she’d decided to keep only for herself… Just his lanky body folding out of the fireplace was enough to force her to press her lips together to avoid instigating a fight.
Luna grinds her teeth as she stares at the stack of journals he left on the writing desk. The flat is full of the soft light of sunset. It should cheer her – the wide, open-plan living area is beautiful, and her bookcases arrived that morning, ready and waiting. There is a window along the side of the room that gives one of the best views of Edinburgh that she has seen in years. The kitchen gleams; the spare bedroom is empty of boxes, and her own bed now has fresh sheets.
Everything is as she wants it to be. And yet, she damn well wishes that Rolf hadn’t been so thoughtful as to magically lock her writing journals to a password of his own devising. He’d been agreeable during the separation, and her things had arrived from Chile as quickly as he could manage to have them sent. But her writing…
The new book, she’s estimated, should be ready within the month. He’s never seen it, and it isn’t even that his hands have touched her journals. It isn’t even that his excuse—‘I know they’re important to you, and I didn’t want to chance the journey or Customs with your year’s work’—holds up, because no matter how easy it may be to believe him malicious and spiteful, he is not. It isn’t even that he looked at her too closely, and it definitely isn’t that he left her with an offhand, well-practiced reminder to order herself dinner now so she wouldn’t forget tonight. He only stayed for a handful of minutes, but it is enough to make her search through the kitchen cupboards for a bottle and a tumbler.
It is the assistance. She needs this – the independence of her own flat, the secure knowledge that everything is hers and comes from her own money, her own time. To force herself to call him and accept his presence in her new space is infuriating.
.
.
She sits on the new balcony with a whisky in hand. She entertains the thought of a Silk Cut, then dismisses it. With her head resting on the back of the chair, Luna allows the post-separation quietness of the evening to sink into her bones until she is languidly lolling, completely uncaring.
No-one knows that she is here yet. She’ll write to her friends in time, and perhaps Dad will come home from his endless travels to see her.
For now, the silence is as golden as the sunset.
.
.
It is on the next night that everything changes, and she sees her, and her breath catches with a force that does not surprise her.
It’s a Magical building, Luna reminds herself. It’s a Magical building, and of course she would probably know a fair few of the inhabitants.
But she wasn’t…
That is to say, she didn’t think that…
She stares without reserve at the woman on the balcony below hers, slightly to the left. She’s leaning on the railing, staring out at the city; her dark hair is sprawling down her back; her jeans are… Her jeans are…
Luna swallows, uncomfortable with the awareness that her eyes are fixed on Hermione Granger, and the way her body looks, ten years since she’s last seen her.
She does not call out to her. She does not go downstairs and politely knock on the door of her once-friend, before she spent a decade in Chile losing touch with everyone.
What Luna does do, is take a step backwards until she is concealed by the wall on the side of the balcony. What Luna does do, is wet her lips and place a trembling, anxious hand over her mouth as she watches the dark-haired witch stretch her arms high above her body in a gesture that was surely meant for relaxation, but only causes Luna to track the curve of her breasts and backside with wide, ice-grey eyes.
.
.
Twelve hours later, birds greet the morning. Luna forces herself to sit at the desk and work on the book. She scribbles on a post-it and sticks it on the wall beside an ethereal illustration of a moon frog.
‘Don’t. Look.’
.
.
Perhaps it goes without saying that she fails.
.
.
She makes a game out of watching Hermione. She shouldn’t – it’s terribly rude, and her publisher has sent two owls over the course of the week. She does try to be productive; the flat is clean, and she’s already banished two Fairy Nargles from the storage boxes under her bed.
Rolf leaves a message, too, asking if she accidentally took a few of his shirts. Unperturbed, Luna ignores it as she stands in the kitchen cooking eggs in his too-large Quidditch team jumper. He was the one who got himself caught up in the spell of another witch – if she wants a comfortable (and free) set of pyjamas, then she’ll bloody well have them.
.
.
Hermione finds her the next week. She’s all smiles and questions as they meet downstairs, and Luna accepts that it is her new normal to blush around the older witch.
“Honestly!” Hermione exclaims, taking a bag of Luna’s shopping without asking. Luna doesn’t know where to look – she tries Hermione’s laughing brown eyes, then the smooth line of her shoulders that are bare in her short-sleeved blue blouse. At a loss, she gazes somewhere between her mouth and her enthralling hair.
“Here in the building!” she is saying. “You! And you didn’t say a thing! God – you know half the flats are taken up by veterans, don’t you?”
This is new. Luna doesn’t think of herself as a veteran. She uses the words young and green and pawns, but never… And not with such self-assurance…
Choosing honesty, she admits: “I haven’t gone out much since I arrived. There’s work left to be done on the new book. I’ve been busy with unpacking.” Her little speech sounds like a list – she supposes that it is. Hermione is staring at her evenly, not at all fooled by her half-truth. With a sigh, Luna adds, “You saw the newspaper, I’m sure.”
“I did,” the witch says gently. “I’m sorry for what he did. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.”
Luna nods slowly, unwilling to go into it. “It is that. But it’s just… time, I suppose. I wanted time, and I took it. So, here I am: taking time.”
Hermione’s smile as they reach Luna’s front door is careful and full of something that Luna does not understand. “Well,” she says, “now that you’re here, shall we see each other again? Drinks? Friday, perhaps? I won’t tell anyone you’re here if you don’t want me to.”
“Oh, tell them,” Luna responds, taking the bag from her hands. “I’ll bring the wine.”
.
.
Luna does not sleep that night.
Nor the next.
.
.
And then:
Hermione throws open the door in a black singlet and a long red skirt that ripples with each move of her hips. “You’re here! Good. Great!”
Luna flushes. “Yes; here with wine. And bells.”
“Are your bells on or in the bag?” Hermione laughs, pointing to the bag that holds more wine than they’ll ever need.
Luna gives a little titter, hearing something in Hermione’s tone that makes her wonder about…everything. “On. In the bag. Everywhere.”
.
.
It is impractical. After a month of weekly drinks, Luna is well-versed in the success that is Hermione Granger. She runs a two-woman law firm (Luna finds herself debating over being jealous of Padma Patil while brushing her teeth one fine Sunday morning), and lived through the scandal of being seen Apparating away from Lavender Brown’s flat in the dead of night six years ago, to emerge as the take-no-shit woman that she is today.
“Why Lavender Brown?” Luna finds herself asking as they sit on Hermione’s balcony. The witch has taken to gardening, though Luna privately thinks the roses have seen better days.
Hermione narrows her eyes; watches her steadily. Self-consciously, Luna runs a tongue over her teeth, searching for parsley, but then Hermione speaks and she forgets to wonder about her appearance.
“I like blondes,” she says slowly, drawing out the last word: blondes.
“Oh,” Luna says blandly. Processing this new knowledge leaves her feeling full; ripe. Then, because she has absolutely nothing else to offer: “There’s a Wrackspurt by your ear.”
Because, of course, there is.
.
.
She dreams of her body, and her skin, and her dark hair, and her laugh…
.
.
Hermione is so self-assured, see, and Luna…
Luna is the type of woman who hangs out her washing by hand on an airer on the balcony, then charms the incoming rain to hit it.
“Why?” Hermione asks laughingly the next day as she glances at the sopping wet clothes.
Luna frowns – isn’t it obvious? “Rain’s a natural fabric softener. Didn’t you know?”
“Oh. Ah. Well… No.” And suddenly Hermione is laughing, a real gale of light-sounding laughter, and Luna does not remember what it is that she wanted to say.
.
.
She decides that she is jealous of Padma Patil, for one evening she looks out to the balcony below and sees the two women entwined. Their mouths are fused together, and Hermione’s fingers are running through her lover’s long, silken hair of black lava.
She sits down at the table after that and scoffs a packet of half-stale custard creams.
.
.
Later in the year, Luna’s book is finished and she approves Hagrid’s charmingly worded missive that asks if he may add it to next year’s Care of Magical Creatures reading list.
“What an honour!” Hermione says over dinner. Somehow they have migrated from Friday drinks to Friday dinners, drinks and sweets. Always on Hermione’s balcony, always at the little table she keeps there, next to the wall, near the dying roses. She only waters them when Luna is there. Padma has not returned since the Night of the Custard Creams.
“Really,” she continues, smiling widely. “You’re going from strength to strength. I barely recognise you, compared to when you first moved back.”
Unsure and diffident, Luna runs a hand over her fair hair. The knotted waves, kinks and curls have never managed to settle themselves. The strands reach down past her waist, but in the heat of summer, it feels heavy on her back. Twisting a lock around her wrist, she takes in the way Hermione’s eyes are following her hands.
“Do you think so?” murmurs Luna, pleased. “Good. I don’t recognise myself either.”
Hermione grins, tossing back the last of her wine. “Isn’t that the best thing?”
She snorts inelegantly. “It is. Oh, it is.”
.
.
“Should I cut my hair? I’m going to cut my hair. Short, like. To here.” Luna points at her shoulder. Hermione makes an odd, choking sort of squeak.
“No!” She shakes her head of short brown curls. She’s got that red skirt on again, and Luna thinks she looks like one of those clever, sexy Bohemian women on magazine covers. There is a thought spinning through her mind about this skirt: about sliding her palms under it, then up, up, up, towards—
“Christ,” Hermione grumbles. “Don’t do that. Don’t cut your hair.”
“Why?” Luna demands, her belly full of drink and good humour. “I think it’ll suit me.”
“It will,” the witch says immediately, clearing her throat. “But… I mean…”
.
.
She does not cut her hair.
.
.
On New Year’s Eve, Luna falls in love. She falls in love with the woman who has dragged her out to the streets of Edinburgh to see in the fireworks and drunken, sloppy kisses. She hadn’t wanted to love again. She’d been quite content with her lingering affection for the witch – content to occupy her own space in life, and not want for another.
But on New Year’s Eve, the bells chime and they turn to each other. And Hermione’s smile is delicate and nervous and full of promise, and Luna cannot help but kiss her. Her mouth lands somewhere between Hermione’s lips and her cheek, and she might have been embarrassed, but there is soft skin under her lips, and she is hopeful.
.
Fin.
lenaa1987Recipient:
queenvandalTitle: To Know Her
Pairing: Luna/Hermione
Request/Prompt: Maybe the fact that it was so completely impractical was the reason that it worked so well?
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2106 (whoops!)
Summary: Hope in Edinburgh is quietness, summer nights and covert/overt glances.
Author's Notes: With endless thanks to SPAG catching witches:
adelarchersnape & theimpossiblegl. Any errors are from my own tinkering.It takes a lot to know a woman
A lot to understand what's humming
It takes a lot to breathe, to touch, to feel
The slow reveal of what another body needs
Damien Rice
A lot to understand what's humming
It takes a lot to breathe, to touch, to feel
The slow reveal of what another body needs
Damien Rice
To Know Her
The International Floo-call sets on her edge for a week. It wasn’t that she thought herself above asking for help—his help—but seeing him in her new flat, the flat that she’d decided to keep only for herself… Just his lanky body folding out of the fireplace was enough to force her to press her lips together to avoid instigating a fight.
Luna grinds her teeth as she stares at the stack of journals he left on the writing desk. The flat is full of the soft light of sunset. It should cheer her – the wide, open-plan living area is beautiful, and her bookcases arrived that morning, ready and waiting. There is a window along the side of the room that gives one of the best views of Edinburgh that she has seen in years. The kitchen gleams; the spare bedroom is empty of boxes, and her own bed now has fresh sheets.
Everything is as she wants it to be. And yet, she damn well wishes that Rolf hadn’t been so thoughtful as to magically lock her writing journals to a password of his own devising. He’d been agreeable during the separation, and her things had arrived from Chile as quickly as he could manage to have them sent. But her writing…
The new book, she’s estimated, should be ready within the month. He’s never seen it, and it isn’t even that his hands have touched her journals. It isn’t even that his excuse—‘I know they’re important to you, and I didn’t want to chance the journey or Customs with your year’s work’—holds up, because no matter how easy it may be to believe him malicious and spiteful, he is not. It isn’t even that he looked at her too closely, and it definitely isn’t that he left her with an offhand, well-practiced reminder to order herself dinner now so she wouldn’t forget tonight. He only stayed for a handful of minutes, but it is enough to make her search through the kitchen cupboards for a bottle and a tumbler.
It is the assistance. She needs this – the independence of her own flat, the secure knowledge that everything is hers and comes from her own money, her own time. To force herself to call him and accept his presence in her new space is infuriating.
.
.
She sits on the new balcony with a whisky in hand. She entertains the thought of a Silk Cut, then dismisses it. With her head resting on the back of the chair, Luna allows the post-separation quietness of the evening to sink into her bones until she is languidly lolling, completely uncaring.
No-one knows that she is here yet. She’ll write to her friends in time, and perhaps Dad will come home from his endless travels to see her.
For now, the silence is as golden as the sunset.
.
.
It is on the next night that everything changes, and she sees her, and her breath catches with a force that does not surprise her.
It’s a Magical building, Luna reminds herself. It’s a Magical building, and of course she would probably know a fair few of the inhabitants.
But she wasn’t…
That is to say, she didn’t think that…
She stares without reserve at the woman on the balcony below hers, slightly to the left. She’s leaning on the railing, staring out at the city; her dark hair is sprawling down her back; her jeans are… Her jeans are…
Luna swallows, uncomfortable with the awareness that her eyes are fixed on Hermione Granger, and the way her body looks, ten years since she’s last seen her.
She does not call out to her. She does not go downstairs and politely knock on the door of her once-friend, before she spent a decade in Chile losing touch with everyone.
What Luna does do, is take a step backwards until she is concealed by the wall on the side of the balcony. What Luna does do, is wet her lips and place a trembling, anxious hand over her mouth as she watches the dark-haired witch stretch her arms high above her body in a gesture that was surely meant for relaxation, but only causes Luna to track the curve of her breasts and backside with wide, ice-grey eyes.
.
.
Twelve hours later, birds greet the morning. Luna forces herself to sit at the desk and work on the book. She scribbles on a post-it and sticks it on the wall beside an ethereal illustration of a moon frog.
‘Don’t. Look.’
.
.
Perhaps it goes without saying that she fails.
.
.
She makes a game out of watching Hermione. She shouldn’t – it’s terribly rude, and her publisher has sent two owls over the course of the week. She does try to be productive; the flat is clean, and she’s already banished two Fairy Nargles from the storage boxes under her bed.
Rolf leaves a message, too, asking if she accidentally took a few of his shirts. Unperturbed, Luna ignores it as she stands in the kitchen cooking eggs in his too-large Quidditch team jumper. He was the one who got himself caught up in the spell of another witch – if she wants a comfortable (and free) set of pyjamas, then she’ll bloody well have them.
.
.
Hermione finds her the next week. She’s all smiles and questions as they meet downstairs, and Luna accepts that it is her new normal to blush around the older witch.
“Honestly!” Hermione exclaims, taking a bag of Luna’s shopping without asking. Luna doesn’t know where to look – she tries Hermione’s laughing brown eyes, then the smooth line of her shoulders that are bare in her short-sleeved blue blouse. At a loss, she gazes somewhere between her mouth and her enthralling hair.
“Here in the building!” she is saying. “You! And you didn’t say a thing! God – you know half the flats are taken up by veterans, don’t you?”
This is new. Luna doesn’t think of herself as a veteran. She uses the words young and green and pawns, but never… And not with such self-assurance…
Choosing honesty, she admits: “I haven’t gone out much since I arrived. There’s work left to be done on the new book. I’ve been busy with unpacking.” Her little speech sounds like a list – she supposes that it is. Hermione is staring at her evenly, not at all fooled by her half-truth. With a sigh, Luna adds, “You saw the newspaper, I’m sure.”
“I did,” the witch says gently. “I’m sorry for what he did. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.”
Luna nods slowly, unwilling to go into it. “It is that. But it’s just… time, I suppose. I wanted time, and I took it. So, here I am: taking time.”
Hermione’s smile as they reach Luna’s front door is careful and full of something that Luna does not understand. “Well,” she says, “now that you’re here, shall we see each other again? Drinks? Friday, perhaps? I won’t tell anyone you’re here if you don’t want me to.”
“Oh, tell them,” Luna responds, taking the bag from her hands. “I’ll bring the wine.”
.
.
Luna does not sleep that night.
Nor the next.
.
.
And then:
Hermione throws open the door in a black singlet and a long red skirt that ripples with each move of her hips. “You’re here! Good. Great!”
Luna flushes. “Yes; here with wine. And bells.”
“Are your bells on or in the bag?” Hermione laughs, pointing to the bag that holds more wine than they’ll ever need.
Luna gives a little titter, hearing something in Hermione’s tone that makes her wonder about…everything. “On. In the bag. Everywhere.”
.
.
It is impractical. After a month of weekly drinks, Luna is well-versed in the success that is Hermione Granger. She runs a two-woman law firm (Luna finds herself debating over being jealous of Padma Patil while brushing her teeth one fine Sunday morning), and lived through the scandal of being seen Apparating away from Lavender Brown’s flat in the dead of night six years ago, to emerge as the take-no-shit woman that she is today.
“Why Lavender Brown?” Luna finds herself asking as they sit on Hermione’s balcony. The witch has taken to gardening, though Luna privately thinks the roses have seen better days.
Hermione narrows her eyes; watches her steadily. Self-consciously, Luna runs a tongue over her teeth, searching for parsley, but then Hermione speaks and she forgets to wonder about her appearance.
“I like blondes,” she says slowly, drawing out the last word: blondes.
“Oh,” Luna says blandly. Processing this new knowledge leaves her feeling full; ripe. Then, because she has absolutely nothing else to offer: “There’s a Wrackspurt by your ear.”
Because, of course, there is.
.
.
She dreams of her body, and her skin, and her dark hair, and her laugh…
.
.
Hermione is so self-assured, see, and Luna…
Luna is the type of woman who hangs out her washing by hand on an airer on the balcony, then charms the incoming rain to hit it.
“Why?” Hermione asks laughingly the next day as she glances at the sopping wet clothes.
Luna frowns – isn’t it obvious? “Rain’s a natural fabric softener. Didn’t you know?”
“Oh. Ah. Well… No.” And suddenly Hermione is laughing, a real gale of light-sounding laughter, and Luna does not remember what it is that she wanted to say.
.
.
She decides that she is jealous of Padma Patil, for one evening she looks out to the balcony below and sees the two women entwined. Their mouths are fused together, and Hermione’s fingers are running through her lover’s long, silken hair of black lava.
She sits down at the table after that and scoffs a packet of half-stale custard creams.
.
.
Later in the year, Luna’s book is finished and she approves Hagrid’s charmingly worded missive that asks if he may add it to next year’s Care of Magical Creatures reading list.
“What an honour!” Hermione says over dinner. Somehow they have migrated from Friday drinks to Friday dinners, drinks and sweets. Always on Hermione’s balcony, always at the little table she keeps there, next to the wall, near the dying roses. She only waters them when Luna is there. Padma has not returned since the Night of the Custard Creams.
“Really,” she continues, smiling widely. “You’re going from strength to strength. I barely recognise you, compared to when you first moved back.”
Unsure and diffident, Luna runs a hand over her fair hair. The knotted waves, kinks and curls have never managed to settle themselves. The strands reach down past her waist, but in the heat of summer, it feels heavy on her back. Twisting a lock around her wrist, she takes in the way Hermione’s eyes are following her hands.
“Do you think so?” murmurs Luna, pleased. “Good. I don’t recognise myself either.”
Hermione grins, tossing back the last of her wine. “Isn’t that the best thing?”
She snorts inelegantly. “It is. Oh, it is.”
.
.
“Should I cut my hair? I’m going to cut my hair. Short, like. To here.” Luna points at her shoulder. Hermione makes an odd, choking sort of squeak.
“No!” She shakes her head of short brown curls. She’s got that red skirt on again, and Luna thinks she looks like one of those clever, sexy Bohemian women on magazine covers. There is a thought spinning through her mind about this skirt: about sliding her palms under it, then up, up, up, towards—
“Christ,” Hermione grumbles. “Don’t do that. Don’t cut your hair.”
“Why?” Luna demands, her belly full of drink and good humour. “I think it’ll suit me.”
“It will,” the witch says immediately, clearing her throat. “But… I mean…”
.
.
She does not cut her hair.
.
.
On New Year’s Eve, Luna falls in love. She falls in love with the woman who has dragged her out to the streets of Edinburgh to see in the fireworks and drunken, sloppy kisses. She hadn’t wanted to love again. She’d been quite content with her lingering affection for the witch – content to occupy her own space in life, and not want for another.
But on New Year’s Eve, the bells chime and they turn to each other. And Hermione’s smile is delicate and nervous and full of promise, and Luna cannot help but kiss her. Her mouth lands somewhere between Hermione’s lips and her cheek, and she might have been embarrassed, but there is soft skin under her lips, and she is hopeful.
.
Fin.
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Just lovely. :)
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"She does not cut her hair."
What a world of meaning in that short, seemingly prosaic sentence. This is a favorite pairing of mine, and I love what you've done here.
L