Post by jazzyjess on Nov 8, 2011 21:57:16 GMT -8
Title: Close-Mouthed
Rating: PG
Word Count: 222
Warnings:
Summary: Hermione reflects on her affair.
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You watch out the window as Hugo and Rose swoop and dive on their broomsticks. You’d be happier if they’d use the Weasleys’ old Cleansweeps – they don't go so fast – but Harry’s gift to your children each year is always the newest model of racing broom. Godric’s Hollow isn’t the same place it was when you visited with Harry all those years ago, but at least the wizarding community doesn’t put restrictions on letting the kids have fun.
“Worrying again, are you?” Ron slides his arms around you from behind and you breathe in his familiar scent. It’s tarnished in your nose, now, clean sweat and spice and leather tangled with guilt and self-loathing. You’re afraid you’ll confess to him, you’ll confess everything, if he doesn’t say anything, and so you bite down hard on your tongue and don’t answer.
“Y’think Hugo will make the Quidditch team this year?” he says after a moment. “He’s got better at hanging onto the ball now.”
You realise that’s what your children are doing outside – Rose is darting around Hugo, passing him the ball around obstacles like trees and your little gardening shed that rise up in the way, and for a change, Hugo doesn’t fumble the Quaffle.
And you realise that you’ve messed up. You’ve messed up big time.
You keep your mouth closed.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 222
Warnings:
Summary: Hermione reflects on her affair.
-
You watch out the window as Hugo and Rose swoop and dive on their broomsticks. You’d be happier if they’d use the Weasleys’ old Cleansweeps – they don't go so fast – but Harry’s gift to your children each year is always the newest model of racing broom. Godric’s Hollow isn’t the same place it was when you visited with Harry all those years ago, but at least the wizarding community doesn’t put restrictions on letting the kids have fun.
“Worrying again, are you?” Ron slides his arms around you from behind and you breathe in his familiar scent. It’s tarnished in your nose, now, clean sweat and spice and leather tangled with guilt and self-loathing. You’re afraid you’ll confess to him, you’ll confess everything, if he doesn’t say anything, and so you bite down hard on your tongue and don’t answer.
“Y’think Hugo will make the Quidditch team this year?” he says after a moment. “He’s got better at hanging onto the ball now.”
You realise that’s what your children are doing outside – Rose is darting around Hugo, passing him the ball around obstacles like trees and your little gardening shed that rise up in the way, and for a change, Hugo doesn’t fumble the Quaffle.
And you realise that you’ve messed up. You’ve messed up big time.
You keep your mouth closed.
...well written fic, though..... 
