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rosequartzstarswrites · 3 years ago

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20 Questions for Writers

Thank you @cheesyficwriter for the tag!

How many works do you have on AO3?

What's your total AO3 word count?

351,699

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

As of now, I have only written for Harry Potter; however, in February I began several LOTR/Hobbit WIPs that I have not yet published. The first one is due out at the start of September though!

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

In Another Universe: Hermione Granger is brilliant: she completed her PhD in Linguistics at 25, and is the youngest faculty member at the University. Ron Weasley, an unruly quantum physicist... well, he's getting there. But when Granger gets stacked with a project she hates and has to talk to other scholars at the University, their paths cross and become permanently intertwined in a way neither of them could've ever anticipated. (Slow Burn Multichap Muggle Uni AU) Rated T.

Rosebury Grounds: Lady Hermione Granger has been reared up in society, to marry well and be a good housewife, like any good Edwardian lady, but that's far from what she wants. When a handyman by the name of Ronald Weasley joins the house staff, utterly disarming her from the moment they first meet, he might just be the opportunity she needs to break loose and choose her own destiny.Lord Draco Malfoy has a secret— a secret he knows would cost him everything if it ever saw the light. But it's getting harder and harder to keep it from his father, because Draco keeps bumping into a pair of emerald eyes and a head of lush black hair, and he can't pretend his knees don't buckle at the sight. Which would be quite alright, if not for one small problem: it's not a woman they belong to.Two tales of forbidden love, set in Edwardian England. (Multichap Muggle AU) Rated M.

Something Growing: Hermione’s pregnant— and she’s freaking out. She’s always been good at everything, but she’s not sure that’ll hold for being a mother; however, when Ron gets home earlier than expected, she realizes she doesn’t need to be great at everything so long as she’s got him beside her. (Oneshot) Rated G.

Big in Japan: Harry Potter is a famous rockstar out on a world tour— but when one too many meet-and-greets threatens to drive him insane, he takes an escapade out into the streets of Tokyo, where he ends up at an expat bar with a captivating redhead that seems totally unaware of who he is, or why she should know him at all, for that matter. (Muggle AU oneshot) Rated E.

Teaspoon Vindication: After escaping Malfoy Manor, Ron comes to visit Hermione in her room at Shell Cottage, and does the one thing that may be the hardest for him— talking about his feelings. (Romione oneshot)

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try my best, though I don’t always get to all of them! My reasoning is that if folks are kind enough to tell me how much they enjoyed my writing, the least I can do is thank them for their lovely words.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

The Last Farewell! It’s a Wolfstar oneshot, set in canon universe, where Remus comes to Sirius’s grave to ask for his blessing (and forgiveness) to marry Tonks. It was angst central from the start and I even wrote it while listening to an angsty song.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

I generally write happy, fade-to-black endings, but if I had to choose I’d say Truth or Dare. This is a male!Hermione x Ron summer camp AU born of a game of spin-the-bottle/truth-or-dare that ends with them figuring out their feelings go beyond friendship. I say it is the happiest ending because I think the “boy figuring out he likes boys” scenario has been overdone in angst a bit too much, and the fact that the feelings are reciprocated and they decide to stay in touch would make me giddy if I was their age and in their shoes. Anyway, it’s just a sweet ending.

Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you've written?

Not at all— I actually don’t like crossovers at all, so I have never even entertained reading, let alone writing, one. (No hate at all to those with imaginations large and strong enough to conjure up awesome crossovers— I am in awe of you all, they’re just not for me!)

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Never, luckily, since the Romione community is so lovely and supportive! But, though not outright hate, for a while I had an anonymous FFN reviewer who left reviews on every chapter of Rosebury Grounds saying that my title was a porn/sex act...? I was distraught and scoured Google to see if they really were right and this was some obscure euphemism I’d entirely missed, but turns out it wasn’t, and they had gotten confused with a vulgar but similar term. So I ignored those reviews but they kept coming and then eventually one time I found a 500 word very graphic description of the sex act in question in my reviews, so desperate was the reviewer (apparently) to get their (wrong) point across. Yikes.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes! I’ve written a lot and of many kinds— explicit, implied, just foreplay, fade-to-black, referenced... I’ve written both M/F and M/M.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No— I didn’t even know that was something I should worry about!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but I speak fluent Spanish, so I’m planning on translating In Another Universe and Rosebury Grounds myself once I’ve finished the latter.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, the most I’ve done is beta from the plot-building stage!

What's your all-time favorite ship?

Gahhhh don’t make me pick! Romione (HP) is first in my heart because I see so much of myself and what I want in it, but Samfro (LOTR) is, to me, the truest depiction of love in all of literature, ever. I will forever come back to it.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I hope to finish my Hogwarts Actually series that I started for Romionecom (hi, Discord friends!) inspired by Love Actually. I have it all planned out, translating all the relationships in the movie to HP pairings and friendships, and all I need to do is write— but I think I’ll come back to this periodically and unoften. Hopefully I’ll finish it!

What are your writing strengths?

I like to think that I write good and witty dialogue. I’m a theatre person, so I think my dialogue sounds mostly natural when spoken. I also have a good sense of beginning and ending, so most of my works/chapters start and end with a memorable phrase of some sort. I also have excellent grammar and spelling, so except for a few occasional typos, that makes the job of proofing much easier!

What are your writing weaknesses?

I think I sometimes write sentences that are waaaay too long and convoluted. I use words that are too big sometimes and just take approachability from my writing. Fanfic has been excellent to practice correcting this, though!

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

As a bilingual writer myself— don’t write dialogue in other languages unless you speak it well or get it translated directly through someone who speaks it well. Though I appreciate the effort, I can always tell when something was put through Google Translate, and that kind of dialogue most often ends up lacking the context clues/colloquial familiarity of real language speakers, and ends up sounding stiff and forced.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

I’m not proud of it, but I used to write MCR RPF back when I was 13 or so. It was a very brief stint and I have since deleted the works in their entirety, since my principles have evolved to the place where RPF to me seems disrespectful and invasive. Plus, it was on Wattpad.

What's your favorite fic you've written?

Again, don’t make me pick please!! I truly have had a lot of fun with Rosebury and I think it is a testament to how much I love it that I was able to keep the idea on hold for a full six months before I started writing it. I love the Downton setting and the Edwardian dialogue is a lot of fun to me. But I also have a soft spot for the In Another Universe original oneshot I submitted to the RFF2020— that work awoke my love for Muggle AUs (which I like to think I’m most known for), inspired me to start work on my first multichap fic, and keeps me coming back to it anytime I have doubt in my ability to write swoonworthy scenes. It was the oneshot that started it all.

Tagging: @accio-broom @be11atrixthestrange @folk-melody (and anyone else who would like to!)

#fanfiction #fanfic writer #rosequartzstars #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #fanfic author

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chudleycanonficfest · 3 years ago

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Washing Machine Heart

Day 22, Story #2 is by @rosequartzstarswrites

Title: Washing Machine Heart Author/Artist: rosequartzstars - @rosequartzstarswrites (Because of Tumblr settings, this is posting from my main blog, but it’s me!) Pairing: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley (and background Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger) Prompt: 5+1 Rating: T (only for some strong language and non-explicit insinuations) Trigger Warning(s) (if any): none apply!

“I can’t believe I’m going through with this,” huffed Hermione, struggling to keep up the brisk pace Ron was marking on the sidewalk.

“You never believed you’d have to, did you?” Ron said gleefully, seemingly unaware of just how hard his long-legged strides were to keep up with.

“You never told me you were that good at chess!”

“No, more like you never thought anyone could be better than you at anything!”

Despite only having been friends, close friends, with them for a semester, Harry had already become accustomed to the constant bickering between Ron and Hermione, to the point even of endearment. Coming from the Dursleys’, arguments and rebukes were something he was used to, but the undertone of friendship with which Ron and Hermione faced off was a welcome change (and a very entertaining one). Still, he tended to side quietly with Ron, and this particular time was no exception: part of him was delighted at the prospect of seeing Hermione get a tattoo.

This had all started from a ridiculous bet, born of boredom in the lounge of their dorm building. Ron had eyed the communal chessboard, battered and chipped from years of usage, and challenged Hermione to a match.

Hermione had scoffed: “Only if you want to lose, Ron.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ron had said, exchanging a look with Harry as a sly smile crept onto his lips.

“I’m completely certain.”

“Certain enough to bet?” Ron had prodded her.

The competitiveness that, before becoming friends, was all Harry had known of Hermione had flared up in her eyes. “I’m listening.”

“When you lose—”

“If I lose, and I won't—”

“When you lose,” Ron had reiterated, “you have to get a tattoo of my choosing.”

Hermione had smirked. “Game on.”

In Hermione’s defense, Harry thought, she hadn’t ever considered she might lose. There really was no way of expecting how good Ron had turned out to be at chess, especially since —Harry thought— Hermione had based her certainty on how abysmal his grades were, against her own straight A’s, in their proofs-based mathematics class, which relied entirely on strength of reasoning. But, as it turned out, Ron was actually a master logician, if only somewhat lazy at his math classes, and this he had proved by absolutely obliterating Hermione with the fastest checkmate Harry had ever borne witness to.

And that is how they had come to find themselves out on the streets of their little college town that night, wrapped in their scarves and their winter coats to battle the first of the December chill, walking to a tattoo parlor Ron knew in the area so Hermione could be forever reminded of her loss by a tattoo Ron would choose. And if Harry knew Ron well, and knew how much he relished teasing Hermione, the reminder would be a strong one.

“I didn’t even want a tattoo,” Hermione was mumbling, more to herself than at either of them. “I never wanted one— did you know that you might not be eligible to donate blood if you have a tattoo? I mean, not that it’s impossible, but it’s a factor against you, like your weight and your age. And my family has a history of needing transfusions— oh, God, what if my grandfather needs a donation, like, tomorrow? The three-month period of eligibility won’t have elapsed, and my father can’t donate, and– and–” She froze in the middle of the sidewalk. “Oh, God, have I killed my grandfather?”

“Relax, Hermione,” Ron said, throwing a fraternal arm around her shoulders and squeezing her half in an attempt to get her walking again. “You’re halfway across the country from home. You wouldn’t be able to fly out on such short notice anyway.”

Harry had to stifle a laugh at how Hermione gaped at Ron then, a billion other dire possibilities to worry about racing through her head now. Ron, however, was less successful at keeping down a chuckle. “I’m kidding, Hermione. Besides, a tattoo will make you look badass.”

“I don’t want to look badass!” Hermione squeaked shrilly. “I’ve never been remotely interested in looking badass!”

“Well, interested or not,” Ron said as they came up to a dark brick building with a neon sign reading LOVEGOOD’S flickering above the door, “it seems like you don’t have much of a choice, because we’re here.”

Hermione let out a noise that sounded somewhere between a gasp and a whine as she looked up at the storefront that, to her, was synonymous not only with her doom but apparently that of her grandfather.

“Ron, please?” she said meekly.

Ron, however, looked gleeful and would not be deterred. “A bet’s a bet,” he declared, grabbing her wrist and beginning to march her up the three or so stairs that led up to the door of the tattoo parlor from the sidewalk. Harry lingered behind for an instant, watching the backs of his two friends as they waddled up the stairs, smiling as he listened to Ron debate whether he would make Hermione get a skull or a sailor’s “Mom” arrow-pierced heart, and Hermione pleading shrilly with him not to do either of those things. Watching them, Harry’s smile widened. He was lucky to have them as friends, that much he knew, despite the short time he’d spent knowing them. Why he hadn’t found them his freshman year was beyond him— but now, now that he had these wacky outings and constant bickering to enjoy, he felt overwhelmingly lucky that they had found him.

“Harry, are you coming in or what?” Ron beckoned him. He had stopped on the topmost step and was still gripping Hermione, whose face was a mask of pure, crystallized terror.

“Absolutely,” Harry said, hurrying up the steps with a little hop. “This I’ve got to see.”

Ron pushed open the door to the parlor with a little too much gusto, and Hermione cringed at the metallic sound of the chimes above the door as they tinkled with the announcement of their entrance. The front of the shop, sealing off the rest with a counter that had seen better days, was empty, the backroom separated by a beaded curtain.

“Hellooo?” Ron called into the backroom, marching right up to the counter. “Is anybody here? We bring a very eager customer!”

Hermione began to protest, but just as she did, an employee came out of the backroom to stand behind the counter. Catching a glimpse of her, Harry felt as if the wind had been knocked out of his chest: she was stunning. She was tall and slender, her toned arms visible through the ripped-off sleeves of her vintage Hole tee, with a curtain of straight orange hair pulled back into a long high ponytail. Her bright brown eyes glimmered atop a button-like nose that matched her small, round mouth perfectly, the pale fine face finished by a spattering of freckles. Even before she had spoken a single word, Harry felt the confidence coming off of her in waves, simply by how she propped her elbows up on the counter and eyed their party somewhat playfully. He was frozen to his place with the sight of her, hoping his jaw hadn’t dropped as low as it had felt in the wake of his awe.

Upon seeing her, however, Ron had had exactly the opposite reaction. “Ginny?” he said incredulously.

“What are you doing here?” the woman —Ginny— said without any greeting, returning Ron’s frown.

“I thought you weren’t working today!”

“I’m covering a shift for Demelza, she had a gyn appointment today.”

“Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t have come in,” grumbled Ron. The tips of his ears were beginning to pink, a sign Harry had learned to recognize as a hint of extreme emotion in his friend.

“Well, you’re here now, so… what can I do for you?” Ginny said. “I mean, you can’t possibly be the one getting inked, Ron. You’re too much of a wimp.”

“Shut up, or I’m telling mom you got your helix pierced. That’ll make for a fun Christmas greeting when we’re back home, I’ll wager.”

Then the similarity became apparent to Harry: the freckles, the aggressive red of their hair, the same glint in their eyes… Ginny was Ron’s sister. Somehow, he didn’t know whether that was something he should feel good or bad about.

“Tattletale,” Ginny said, swatting at him. “And it’s called an industrial piercing. Not that you’d know.” Only then did she seem to remark on the rest of the party.

“Harry Potter,” she said, and Harry gulped as she crossed her muscular arms over her chest and leaned back, surveying him. “Come to get a sixth tattoo?”

“A sixth— how do you know?” Harry said, befuddled. Out of all the opening lines he would’ve expected her to use, this had not been one of them.

“You can credit the rumor mill at school,” Ginny shrugged, still eyeing him with interest. “You’re a topic of interest. Or at least among the soccer teams.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Romilda swore you had a griffin tattooed on your chest, but I told her I’d heard it was a dragon. Much more macho, I thought.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dully. What else was he supposed to say?

“Don’t mention it,” Ginny gave him a conspiratorial wink. “And if I were you, I’d find out who on the boys’ team has been giving you the eye in the shower enough to count your tats. I bet it’s Ron.”

“It’s not!” Ron said angrily, the red from his ears bleeding out onto his cheeks.

“I bet it is,” Ginny mouthed to Harry, giving him another wink. “But it’s not you?”

“Pardon?” said Harry, for whom the ‘it-is-it’s-not’ exchange had grown somewhat confusing.

“For the tattoo?” Ginny said, and Harry felt like an idiot. “It’s not you who’s getting it?”

“No, ah, actually— it’s Hermione,” Harry was knocked back into his senses as he gestured toward Hermione, who had stood, utterly baffled, throughout that whole exchange.

“Hermione Granger?” Ginny said, and Harry was almost glad when she turned her gaze away from him and toward Hermione. “As in, Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger?”

“The one and only,” Ron declared proudly, happy to be back off a topic that bothered him (teasing Ron) and back on a topic that delighted him (teasing Hermione).

“I wouldn’t have chalked you up to the tattoo type,” Ginny said.

“Oh, she’s not,” Ron said, his face lighting up as if Christmas had come early.

Ginny’s eyes darted between the dismal face of Hermione and the cheerful face of Ron, her eyebrows rising as she took it in. “Okay, I’m not going to ask about whatever this is. What am I doing on you?”

“I’m designing it,” Ron said brightly. And if Harry had thought that Hermione’s face couldn’t get more desolated, he’d been wrong.

“Christ, Hermione, what has he got on you?” Ginny said, already opening a drawer on the counter to pull out a sketchpad and a pen.

“I’m such an idiot,” Hermione grumbled.

Ron pored over the sketchpad, shielding the paper from Hermione’s eyes as he sketched. When he was done, he handed it to Ginny with a quick flick of the wrist that, much to Hermione’s dismay, ensured she couldn’t even catch a glimpse of what was on it. Ginny looked over whatever it was Ron had drawn and then looked up at her brother with a frown.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, then,” Ginny shrugged. She lifted the counter to open a gap through which Hermione could walk. “Follow me.”

Looking like a lamb led to the slaughter, Hermione looked up to heaven as if making one last, futile plea before scrunching up her nose and following Ginny through the beaded curtain to the backroom. Because yes, she hated the idea of getting a tattoo, but she hated the idea of letting Ron hold one over her even more.

Ron watched her leave delightedly, relishing in the jangle the beaded curtain made as it swallowed Ginny and Hermione into the backroom. “This is going to be good,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “Oh, this is going to be so good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister?” Harry blurted out all of a sudden. He startled himself as much as Ron when he said it, though he was glad he’d been able to pare down the question from what was actually swirling around in his head: Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister that looked like THAT?

Ron looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t know. It never came up.”

“You told me about every other one of your five brothers, but not the sister.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age and plays soccer.“ And is hot.

"Nope.” Ron paused and frowned. “She’s a year below us, anyway.”

“Oh, then that explains it,” Harry said sarcastically.

“It seemed like more of a second-semester-of-friendship revelation.”

“I see.”

Harry held the silence between them for a few moments more before he allowed the next question out. “She plays soccer?”

“One more of the long line of Weasleys that get athletic scholarships to Hogwarts College. Except for Percy— no, he was a disgrace, he got in on an academic grant.”

“The family disappointment, truly.”

Harry wanted to ask more about Ginny, but he held his tongue. His friendship with Ron was the most precious thing his sophomore year of college had yielded him, and he didn’t want to jeopardize it by prying further or making it seem like he had the hots for his sister. Even though he did. He suffocated that small voice at the back of his mind: he hadn’t even spoken properly to Ginny, just stood there like an idiot and let her quip freely about his tattoos— which, mind him, apparently were fodder for locker talk back at Hogwarts.

The buzz of the needle in the backroom as it started up brought Harry out of his thoughts, just in time to see a shit-eating grin appear on Ron’s face.

“I wish I could see her face right now,” he said gleefully, and Harry let himself stop thinking about Ginny to join Ron in picturing what Hermione Granger must look like seated in a tattoo parlor chair.

“It really wasn’t so bad,” admitted Hermione as they exited the tattoo parlor and went down the little steps back onto the sidewalk.

Despite his pretensions of malice, Ron’s nobility (which had never been in question, even despite his teasing) had shone through and yielded a considerably modest tattoo: a small, capital “R” in his own handwriting. Hermione, who had almost cried with relief after Ginny showed her the design, had chosen to get it on her left thigh, on the side and at the very top, right under her hipbone.

“Why did you get it there?” Harry asked as they resumed their brisk walk back to campus.

“It’s not a place you usually show. That means if a sleeve shifts or an interviewer sees, I don’t know, my ankle or something, they won’t notice it.”

“As if a tiny ‘R’ would disqualify anyone from a job, let alone you,” snorted Ron.

“Professionalism is a virtue, Ronald,” Hermione huffed, though her cheeks had gone red. “Besides, since that part of me is always covered, I’ll save myself from having to explain the story behind it to anyone that spots it.”

“Yeah, except the bloke that eventually undresses you and sees you in your panties. Try explaining what that 'R’ means to him,” said Ron. But Harry suspected Hermione wouldn’t have to: from how Ron’s eyes had widened and his gaze had lingered when Hermione had pulled down the side of her jeans ever so slightly to show them the finished product, exposing a sliver of her underwear, Harry could almost wager that Ron would be the bloke in question.

They walked in animated chatter for the rest of the way, the tattoo forgotten until Ron made a quip about Hermione now having crossed the gateway to joining a biker gang and Hermione going positively beet-red in the face with outrage. Then Harry, his hands in his pockets, simply smirked to himself and resigned himself to their bickering for the rest of the walk, knowing he was no longer needed in their exchange. Instead, he let his mind drift to Ginny. She hadn’t really spoken to him again, merely ducking out from the beaded curtain backroom and instructing Hermione on how to take care of her tattoo, saying only a general goodbye to the three of them as they exited the shop. There had been nothing in Ginny’s manner to suggest that she might be thinking of him as strongly, as irremediably, as he was of her, and yet there he was.

The main quad was mostly deserted, except for a few scattered groups of late-night library frequenters or sneaking couples, as the three of them crossed it to get to their dorm. Ron and Hermione didn’t stop arguing as they climbed the four flights up to their floor (the elevator, as usual, was broken), and only broke it off because Hermione reached her room before the boys reached theirs, slipping inside it and shutting the door before Ron had a chance to get the last word in.

“Well, that went well,” Ron shrugged as he and Harry kept walking down the hall to their room.

“You actually got her to get a tattoo,” Harry said with some admiration as they reached their door.

Ron grinned as he swiped the key card. “I may drive her crazy, but if anyone was going to get her to do something like that, it was going to be me.”

Ron pushed the door open and let them into their dorm room. He closed the door and, without taking off his coat, immediately flopped onto his bed— or, well, what could be seen of the bed under mountains of dirty or otherwise discarded clothes. Away from his mother’s chore-mongering for the first time, Ron had let himself go wild and go to the other extreme, but even Harry had to admit that the army of socks draped over the foot of his bed was beginning to smell a little stale.

“So,” Ron said, propping his head up, “no parties tonight?”

“Well, it’s a Wednesday,” Harry said.

“So what? There’s no party spirit around here?”

“Ron, it’s the last Wednesday before final exams. People are studying.”

“I wasn’t aware I was rooming with Hermione,” Ron grumbled. Harry had to admit she might have gotten to him a little. However, Ron’s irritation was short-lived, a grin appearing on his face again. “Wait, but we’re not people. We’re not studying.”

Harry surveyed the room and, despite his desire to throw in the towel for the night and have fun with Ron, felt a pang of dismay at just how much grosser it would be if they caved and did that (last time they had, they’d had a Pringle-eating contest, with devastating results for their sheets, which still had some crumbs). “No, Ron. We’re doing laundry.”

Ron groaned. “Jeez, now I’m rooming with my mother.”

“Okay, fine, you don’t have to do the laundry. I’ll do it for the both of us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go hang out with Dean and Seamus or whatever, see if you can get Hermione to do her second wild-card act of the day and make her stop studying to hang out with the guys.”

“Now I’m a man with a mission,” Ron said, perking up in delight at the prospect of teasing Hermione, or even seeing her once more that night.

“Just shove your clothes in the laundry bag before you go, won’t you? I don’t want to touch your nasty briefs more than I have to.”

Ron obliged, tossing all the clothes on and around his bed into his orange laundry bag and pulling the drawstring to close it. “I’ll update you on the Hermione thing,” he said cheerfully, hurrying out of the room and down the hall to the left to the room they’d left Hermione in.

Harry laughed to himself, wondering how long it was going to take Ron to realize why exactly he always seemed so eager to do anything Hermione-related, as he too threw his dirty clothes into a checkered drawstring laundry bag. Then, he hoisted one sack over each of his shoulders and opened the door using his ankle and leg to let himself out, his hands full with the laundry bags. He stifled a smirk as he passed Hermione’s room and heard the familiar bubbling sound of she and Ron rowing. If Harry knew her at all, he knew however much she might argue she’d be out of that room in an hour tops.

He groaned as he looked down the stairs, and rued the day he had been placed in the dorm with the shittiest elevator on campus. Resigning himself, he began to walk slowly down the poorly-lit stairs to the basement, where the laundry room was. However inconvenient this descent was, Harry was at least comforted with the knowledge that the laundry room would not be crowded, which would be the greater inconvenience once the elevator was fixed.

The basement was even dimmer, the white lights flickering and buzzing with electricity as Harry walked to the laundry room almost at the end of the hall. Sure enough, the laundry room was deserted, oddly quiet with none of the familiar hum and rattle of the machines as they worked. Harry knelt in front of a washing machine and began unloading the contents of the laundry bags into it, cramming them in so they’d fit because he sure as hell wasn’t shelling out quarters for two washers. When he’d made it all fit (which had involved the use of force to jam the door shut), he went to the shelf that held the communal detergent and poured it into the soap compartment. With that done, he dug out eight quarters from his pocket and inserted them into the washer’s slot, pressing the “Start Cycle” button when he heard the clink that let him know his quarters had been accepted. The washer rumbled slowly to life, jets of water trickling out as it began to spin in one direction and then the other, and it was a couple minutes before it was spinning at a hearty pace.

Rising from his crouch (he had always liked to watch the washing machine as it booted up to wash in earnest), Harry took the laundry bags and turned to head back upstairs, already thinking of what he might do to pass the time in the hour he had before he had to switch the clothes to the dryer.

He was so caught up in thinking of this that he didn’t see the person entering the laundry room at the same time as he was exiting, which ended in an awkward clash between them.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry blurted.

“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry too— Harry?”

Only then did Harry realize who he had bumped into, and only because she kept standing there did he believe it. “Ginny?”

She still wore her Hole shirt, but had discarded the ripped jeans, combat boots, and round-the-waist flannel he’d seen at the tattoo parlor. Instead, she wore frayed gray sweatpants and flip-flops, her hair pulled up from the long ponytail into a messy bun. She, however, somehow still managed to look almost unbearably beautiful. What’s happening to me?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the only thing he could think of right that second. Spotting the laundry basket she was cradling, he added: “No laundry in your dorm?”

“No, yeah, there is one, but it’s always too crowded, it being a freshman dorm and all.” Harry nodded: his first year, he too had done entirely more laundry than he had to, and was thankful by the quarters he saved just by realizing he could wear a pair of pants more than once before they were dirty. “So I use the one here. Much quieter. I know Ron’s ID and password—”

“You do?”

“He gave it to me once so I could pick up his books from the library. And my memory’s great.” She gave him a half smile and looked beyond him at the laundry room. “Doing laundry?”

“No, I just like the ambience down here. The shitty lighting and bleach smell are really my style,” said Harry. Ginny laughed, and Harry felt a rush of pride at what was probably the first witty thing he’d ever said to her. “Need a hand?”

“I’d appreciate one, sure,” Ginny said, again smiling at him. Harry moved so she could walk into the laundry room, and watched her pick one of the washing machines that lined the wall. When she’d settled on one, he crouched down next to her and help her lob the clothes into the maw of the machine.

“Tattoo parlor let out early?” he asked as they placed the clothes inside.

“More like you guys came in really late. You were my last customers— I just cleaned up and closed after you left.”

“And you work there?”

“Sure beats a regular work-study, doesn’t it?” Ginny grinned. She tossed in a Tide pod that was left at the bottom of the basket, closed the door to the machine, and rose to find the quarters needed to activate it. “Oh, shoot, I left my wallet in my other pants—”

“I got you,” said Harry, digging for eight more quarters in his pocket. For once, he was glad of his bad habit of carrying an excess of loose change in his jeans, something Hermione already got on to him about (sometimes, like when she’d gifted him a money purse, not too subtly).

“Thanks,” Ginny said, picking the laundry basket up from the ground.

Harry listened for the telling clink and then pressed the button. The washing machine whirred to a start, but for once, Harry didn’t feel compelled to watch it boot up: instead, he turned to Ginny. “So how did you come to work there?”

“At the tat shop?” Ginny asked, hopping to sit on the top of the washer where her clothes were spinning. “My friend Luna’s dad, Xenophilius—”

“Gesundheit.”

“Shut up,” Ginny said, but the hint of a laugh was (to Harry’s satisfaction) visible on her lips again. “Anyway, Xenophilius owns the place. He set up in a college town because he knows college is the first time kids are truly free to make rash, impulse decisions.”

“Like getting a tattoo?”

“Exactly. And besides, all the college students love his New Age bullshit, they think it’s very 70s, so his shop is always full. He got a big boost after he started placing crystals in the shop windows.”

“He’s in with the kids, then?”

“Don’t tell him that, he’ll be mortified. But he’s great, really. A little eccentric, but great. He knows me from when Luna and I took an art class together in 10th grade, and he’s always complimented my art, so he helped me get my tattoo artist license as soon as I turned 18 and hired me.”

“Is Luna the girl with the shaggy blond hair and the weird glasses?”

“That’s her. Though I’m surprised you didn’t know her by her bottlecap necklaces. That’s usually what people comment on.”

“Does she work there too?”

“Yeah, though not as an inker, she’s useless with a needle. She designs a big chunk of the tattoos, though, both original designs and commissions or requests.”

“That’s awesome,” Harry said. He realized that was the first time through the whole conversation that he had stopped. He’d never hesitated on what to say next: conversation with Ginny had flowed easily, naturally, and he hadn’t had to think too hard to keep it going. Still, he was a little disappointed that it had stopped. Ginny, however, seemed to share in this, because rather than say goodbye and take her leave, she opened up a new topic.

“So how long have you and Ron been friends?”

“Er– since the start of this school year, actually.”

“Really? You’d think from how he talks about you, he’d known you forever.” Harry felt a flush of happiness at hearing that Ron talked about him.

“Well, I got him for a roommate this year, and we just clicked. Then it turned out we had a lot of the same classes. And we’re both on the soccer team, so it just got better from there.”

“It seems strange that you never crossed paths your freshman year.”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, freshman year is weird for everyone. I certainly felt like I was just bouncing from one place to another. I still hang out with a lot of the guys from last year, but my friends have changed. It makes sense— the first year, everyone is trying to meet as many people as possible, as if it’s a race, but by sophomore year you know more of what you want and what you’re looking for. In a way, I’m glad I met Ron now that I’m in a more stable place, now that I know my way around the college and have a better grip on things. I have a feeling he’s a friend I’m gonna keep.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sticking around the Weasleys,” Ginny said, and Harry felt a tingle run up his spine. Was she… flirting with him? “And Hermione?”

“Oh, Hermione’s great, Ron and I would be dead by now if not for her— I don’t know how I got through a full year without her.”

“But she’s very different from you guys, isn’t she?”

“Well— on the surface, sure, but not in the things that matter. The fact that she went through with the tattoo tonight when she could’ve kicked up a fuss and bailed out tells you all you need to know.”

“So what I’m hearing is that Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger is as much of a bonehead as my brother at heart?”

“Stubborn, is the word I’d use. And only when Ron’s involved, actually.”

Ginny smirked. “Idiots. They haven’t even realized it.”

Harry knew exactly what she meant. “You think it too?”

“Oh, I’d bet on it. Ten bucks says they’re together by the end of the year.”

“Hey, did our visit by the parlor today teach you nothing about bets? They can be dangerous.”

“But I’m betting against you, aren’t I?” The way she said you made Harry’s heart skip a beat. “Fine, not ten bucks. But I’ll bet you a load of laundry, how’s that?”

“Deal,” said Harry, taking Ginny’s extended hand to shake it. The touch of her palm, with its long, slender fingers, sent warmth coursing down from his hand and the length of his arm. They let go and dropped hands, and perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but Harry thought he detected a certain reluctance in Ginny as they did.

Harry leaned against the washer, his propped elbow almost brushing up against her thigh. “How about you? How’s your first year going so far?”

Ginny winced. “As well as you’d expect, I suppose. Lots of people still behave like it’s an extension of high school, and I’m very much over that. But as things go, I’m having a blast. Being on the soccer team certainly helps.”

“Congratulations on that scholarship, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Ginny said, her wide smile revealing a row of perfect, square white teeth. “You’re on a scholarship too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. My aunt and uncle would’ve never paid a single cent for me to go to college, so it was the only way. But I’m sure they were glad to be rid of me anyway.”

“They sound like lovely people,” Ginny said sarcastically.

“I should introduce them to this Xenophilius sometime. My uncle Vernon would have a stroke just walking into that shop.”

“Well, if you ever swing by, you have an insider contact,” Ginny offered, and Harry loved the implication of something, even something as simple as an 'insider contact’, between just the two of them. “I’d be happy to arrange a meeting, especially for such esteemed patrons.”

“I might take you up on that, if I ever planned on seeing them again,” Harry said. The words came out a bit more harshly than he’d expected, and the second silence in their talk set in, brought on by the darker implications of his family situation. Desperate to break it, Harry cleared his throat and geared up to talk again: “So, do you have any tattoos?”

He was relieved to see the smile, that coy, almost lopsided smile, appear on Ginny’s face again. “Actually, no, not a single one.”

“Do you think you’d ever get one?”

Ginny thought for a second. “I might, if something meaningful enough came around. And only if I was 200% sure. But really, I feel like one tattoo would lead to another, and then I’d never stop and run out of room on my skin. So it’s more of a containment mechanism, really.”

Harry smirked. “Hm. Interesting.”

Ginny broke out onto a full grin as she watched him. “What?” she asked, but when Harry’s smirk only deepened, she shoved him playfully, her touch on his shoulders eliciting the same warm sensation as the handshake. “What, Potter, tell me! Why is it interesting?”

“I mean, since you work at a tattoo shop, and you’re wearing a Hole t-shirt, I just thought you might be the type—”

“The Hole tee? Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna gatekeep it, like you’re the type of guy who’d be like 'name three songs'—”

“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I don’t know a lot of music by Hole. I really only know who they are because of that one Fall Out Boy song Courtney Love was featured in—”

Ginny winced. “Not Fall Out Boy, please.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Fall Out Boy?”

“Harry—”

“I know they get a lot of shit, but really, their first albums are pretty good—”

“Harry, you’ve gotta stop right here, or you’re going to make me stop finding you so attractive.”

And just like that, there it was, out in the open. Harry felt stun: he felt his mouth open to offer a witty retort, but no words came out. Because the girlish grin had evaporated from Ginny’s face and turned into a different, more mature look, her eyes smoldering slightly and her mouth slightly pouted.

“What about you?” she asked, her words slower, as if she was choosing each one individually. “If the soccer team gossip is true, I know you have five tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice having dropped as well. “Yeah, there were a few tat shops around my neighborhood where the rules were pretty lax.”

“What are they?” Ginny asked.

“The tattoos? Well, the first ones I ever got were my mom and dad’s birth and death dates, on my wrist,” Harry said, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to display two small lines of numbers, in plain black ink, on his forearm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ginny said softly.

“Don’t be, I was really small when it happened. But I still wanted to pay them homage. Anyway, I’ll not bore you with my family history right now.”

“But tell me sometime?”

Harry was ecstatic at the implication that Ginny wanted to spend even more time with him. “Yeah,” he said, smiling at her. “Yeah, I will.” He moved on to the second tattoo, shifting the other sleeve up a bit to show Ginny a small black paw print in the center of his wrist. “This was my third one. My godfather was the only person my aunt and uncle would let me see while I was growing up, and even then only because he threatened them. And he had this huge, black shaggy dog, I think it was a Newfoundland, that looked almost like a bear, named Padfoot. I loved that dog, and every time I think of the happiest moments growing up, Padfoot’s in a lot of them. So when he died when I was sixteen, I got this to remember him by. It seems like a tribute to my godfather, too, so I like it doubly.”

He didn’t need encouragement from Ginny to keep going. He raised his left leg and propped it up on the washing machine by where Ginny’s legs hung, rolling his sock down a bit to show a green, line-art tuft of grass snaking above his ankle. “I got this when I got the soccer scholarship to come here. I wanted something to commemorate soccer, seeing as it’s not only, y'know, my passion, but also what got me out of that damn house for good. But I thought something like a soccer ball or a net or even the pitch outline would be too cheesy, so I got a bit of grass, y'know, as in the field…”

“Tasteful,” Ginny nodded her approval, and Harry felt newfound appreciation for that tattoo. “That’s three down, Potter.”

“I’m getting there.” Harry brought his leg down from the washer and turned his back to Ginny, taking his hand up to the nape of his neck and using it to shift the hair there upward to reveal the back of his neck where it turned into his back. “Can you see it?”

“The little lightning bolt?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the story of that?”

“That was my second one. To be honest, I was a little ink-happy after my first one, so a couple of weeks after I got it I went back and got this.”

“But why a lightning bolt?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, turning back around to face her. “I guess it was just cool.”

“Oh, very,” Ginny said, and the edge in her voice let him know she was teasing him. “That leaves us with one, then. The emblematic chest tattoo.” Again, the playfulness disappeared from her face and was replaced by that strange look, the one Harry couldn’t really decipher but really, really liked. “Tell me, then, Harry— is Romilda Vane right?”

It was only because of the suggestiveness in Ginny’s voice and the permanence of that look on her face that Harry did what he did next. His movements slow, he pulled his shirt off over his head, setting it on the washing machine right by where Ginny sat. He heard Ginny draw in a breath and it hitch in her throat as she saw him, her eyes moving over his bare skin to spot the ink blot that had brought this all on. Curled above his right pec was a small, S-shaped dragon, colored in red and gold.

“I win,” Ginny said, her voice still husky, as she extended her left hand to touch the dragon with her fingertips.

“Are you going to tell Romilda?” Harry said, his own right hand settling lightly on Ginny’s thigh.

“No, actually,” Ginny said, her palm now coming down flat on Harry’s chest. Her other hand had also drifted to him, and she had placed it on Harry’s left side, right below his ribcage, as if to hold the side of his torso. “I think I’d rather keep this moment to myself.”

And then she was leaning in and kissing him, touching her lips to his first with tentative softness that turned into a stronger, more determined fire as the kiss deepened. With both of Ginny’s hands on Harry, and one of Harry’s on Ginny’s thigh and the other supporting the weight of the kiss against the solidity of the washer, they leaned into one another. Harry’s mouth sought out Ginny’s eagerly, overcome by the fiery feeling pooling in his stomach and rising up to his throat through his chest, by the fact that everything he’d thought about on their walk back from Lovegood’s was coming true much sooner (and much better) than he’d expected. He felt Ginny’s tongue nudge at his lips and opened his mouth to let her in, engulfing more of her lips with his as he did so. Ginny kissed passionately, her tongue meeting Harry’s even as her teeth dug lightly into Harry’s lower lip, making him kiss her more deeply. With her this close, he was invaded by the flowery smell of her hair, by the soft feel of her skin, by the low humming sound she made as she kissed him. And everything was coming together, making the fire in his chest grow, and it was a good kind of burn, better than whiskey, better than anything—

The loud ding of the washer as it announced it had concluded its cycle startled them, and they pulled back from the kiss looking a little dazed, that one upbeat chime having been all they needed to bring them reluctantly back into the real world. Still Ginny didn’t take her hands off Harry, and Harry felt less than inclined to move his from her leg.

“I should, uh, switch to the dryer,” he said, the only thing that popped into his mind there.

Ginny tightened her hold around his middle and moved her hand from his chest, wrapping it around his upper back to draw him closer. “Oh, let it wait,” she said, and then she was kissing him again, and Harry was finding that the dryer could wait for hell to freeze for all he cared.

The sleepy sound of the chimes above the door didn’t even make Ginny raise her gaze from her stats study guide, which she’d pulled out to make the best of the not-too-busy lull at Lovegood’s. “We’re almost closed,” she announced to whoever had come in.

“You can’t make room for one last customer?” a familiar voice said, and only then did Ginny perk up immediately.

“Harry!” she said brightly, shutting the stats book as it became all-but-forgotten. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to add one more tattoo to the five I’ve already got,” said Harry. “Think you can give me my sixth?”

Ginny didn’t even need to say yes, just opened up the lift-up counter door and disappeared through the beaded curtain. “Flip the door sign to 'closed’ before you come through, will you?”

Harry obliged and flipped the sign before following Ginny to the backroom. He sat patiently on the tattoo chair as Ginny milled about, getting the supplies ready.

“Y'know, you never did tell me the story behind your dragon tattoo,” Ginny commented as she went through the sterilization procedure for the needles. “Seeing as we were, um, otherwise occupied…”

The memory of the kiss flooded through Harry with the same fire that he’d held in his chest ever since, the flame growing to engulf his whole body just hearing Ginny mention it. “Should I tell you now?”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“I got it as a tribute to my old headmaster back home, Albus Dumbledore. Funny old man, and incredibly cryptic, but he’s the one that first gave me the idea of applying for the scholarship and helped me get all my grades and papers in order so I could make it here. We were very close, and he had this saying that he used to tell me whenever I ended up in his office for getting into trouble— 'never tickle a sleeping dragon’, he’d say.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Harry laughed briefly and shrugged. “Hell if I know. But it was his catchphrase. So after I graduated, I wanted to get something to commemorate him, so I got the dragon from his favorite saying. He came with me and got it too.”

Ginny turned to him and eyed him quizzically. “Your headmaster got the tattoo along with you?”

“I told you he was a funny old man.”

Ginny pulled a pair of black latex gloves over her hands and rolled a wheeled office chair over to Harry, the needle in hand. “So by what I’m hearing, you only ever get tattoos of things that are extremely meaningful to you, right?”

“That’s right,” said Harry.

“So, Mr. Meaning, what’ll it be this time?”

Harry smiled. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it slightly upward, just enough to uncover his lower trunk. He pointed to a spot on the left side of his torso, right under his ribcage— right where Ginny’s hand had been, where her touch had been burned into his skin. “Right here,” he said. “I’d like a little washing machine.”

#chudleycanonficfest2021 #HP fest #hp canon pairings #canon fest platonic #canon fest romantic #submission #hinny #harry x ginny #side romione

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yambits · 3 years ago

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Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins & Sam Gamgee Characters: Sam Gamgee, Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Frodo Baggins Additional Tags: Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Slice of Life, Sick Character, Domestic Fluff, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Established Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, First Kiss, Second Kiss, Pre-Quest, Rivendell | Imladris, During Canon, Fellowship of the Ring, Pre-the Fellowship of the Ring, Illnesses, Artwork #98, TRSB21, Conversations, Emotional Conversation, Emotional, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sharing a Bed, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sleepy Cuddles, Couch Cuddles, Major Character Injury, Injury, after weathertop, Parallels, Caring Bilbo Baggins, Caring Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins Returns to Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies Summary:

When Frodo is sick in time for Bilbo and Thorin's visit from Erebor, they spend an evening watching over him, along with a presence that has never left his side: Sam Gamgee. It is Sam who finally puts Frodo on the road to recovery with the unlikeliest of remedies— a kiss.

Eleven years later, Frodo is recovering at Rivendell, after being mortally wounded by the Witch King at Weathertop. He has been asleep for three nights, and already Sam fears he might never awaken. But when all looks dire, the same cure might be the thing to restore Frodo to life.

A story of two parallel evenings, years apart, created from art by YamBits (#98) for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2021.

#it's live you guys!

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hpdrizzle · 4 years ago

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Drizzle 2020: Flaming Tears (Draco/Hermione)

Title: Flaming Tears Author/Artist: @emmemadris Prompt: # 43 Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione Word Count/Art Medium: 2300 Rating: M/ R Warning(s): Angst, not HEA Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Notes: Thank you to captaingoodwin, amurray, rosequartzstars, and Elebelle for beta-ing. Summary: He set fire to the rain and watched it pour as it touched her face. He let it burn while he cried because he heard it screaming her name. Hermione...

(Flaming Tears)

#drizzle 2020 #type: fic #pairing: draco/hermione #dramione #character: draco malfoy #character: hermione granger #harry potter fandom #drizzle fest entry #fest entry #hp drizzle #hp drizzle fest

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ao3feed-deamus · 5 years ago

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In Another Universe

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2M3yvUG

by rosequartzstars

Hermione Granger is brilliant: she completed her PhD in Linguistics at 25, and is the youngest faculty member at the University. Ron Weasley, an unruly quantum physicist... well, he's getting there. But when Granger gets stacked with a project she hates and has to talk to other scholars at the University, their paths cross and become permanently intertwined. (Romione Muggle Uni AU)

Words: 3043, Chapters: 2/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi

Characters: Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Draco Malfoy

Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas

Additional Tags: romione, romione au

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2M3yvUG

#harry potter fanfiction #deamus #dean thomas #seamus finnigan

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rosequartzstarswrites · 4 years ago

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The Last Farewell

Summary: It is July of 1997, and it's been a year since Sirius slipped beyond the veil. Tomorrow, in the midst of a Wizarding War, Remus is getting married to Tonks, but there's something he must do first: he has to say one last goodbye to Sirius, and he has to ask for his blessing (and his forgiveness) for this next chapter of his life. (Wolfstar oneshot)

Some Wolfstar angst for the soul, because sometimes you just need to hurt. :)

Find it on: AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478989 FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13651855/1/The-Last-Farewell

The only sound breaking the still calm of the early-summer afternoon is of his soft feet padding on the leaves, rustling them up into whirlwinds like memories in an idle mind. Around him, at a far distance, the voices of playing children rise from the neighboring cottages, and Remus can't help but smile to himself: despite the war, despite everything, the riot of childhood continues to be an ingredient in the recipe for a July day. He continues treading lightly along the cobblestone street, careful to stay as quiet as he possibly can. He's shrouded himself in protective spells, but even then, the trek he's making is reckless, so it never hurts to take additional precautions.

Tonks begged him not to come. She ran him through the risks over and over again, her voice rising, pleading with him to stay, to play it safe. But he had to come. In his mind, there was never an option. Even as fear ripples down his spine and every bone in his body seems to whisper a silent command to go back, to turn around, because this is a bad idea.

But he had to come.

And as the small, nondescript stone comes into view, the eleven letters and eight numbers carved simply onto it, he's glad he did.

Sirius hadn't wanted a luxurious funeral. He'd told him that, whispered it, when one of their late night talks had bled into the wee hours and into the realm of the heart's deepest chasms. They'd talked about death, and dying, and what came next, and Remus remembers clearly how adamant Sirius had been about straying from anything pompous. "It'd be my mother's greatest joy," Sirius had scoffed, "to have her son buried like a king. And I can't please her, not even —literally— over my dead body."

He'd wanted to be cremated (an absurdity for any self-respecting member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, with its own mausoleum), his ashes scattered in a place he loved. But his time had run out before he could pinpoint the place. Which was just as well, because there hadn't been a body to burn anyway. Which makes it all the more stupid that he's kneeling here, in front of the symbolic stone he had placed for him in Godric's Hollow, because the truth is Sirius isn't anywhere near, not even six feet under, and there's nothing to tangibly justify his being here.

But he had to come.

"Hello, my love," he mumbles as he kneels in front of the stone. The grass in front of it has sprouted nicely, and even boasts a few assorted flowers. He'd have liked that, Remus thinks, because as dark a portrayal as Sirius liked to paint of himself, he was one to pick out beauty wherever it bloomed, however small it may be. He'd certainly done it with Remus. "It's been a while since we've talked."

He looks now at the taller, wider gravestone next to Sirius's, and the size difference is more than understandable, because it's Lily and James's in the flesh (or in the bones, by now, rather) that actually rest beneath it. "I hope you don't mind," he tries to justify himself to Sirius now. "We couldn't get a body, and I thought this was a good substitute." The corner of his mouth twitches up in sad amusement. "Padfoot and Prongs, side by side even in the great beyond. And it's just as well, really, because— well, you could use some company, because in all likelihood I won't end up here next to you."

He swallows now, and it's hard, and it's not only saliva that goes down his throat but also the sorrow of knowing what comes next, mixing with the pooling guilty in a gloomy cocktail at the pit of his stomach. This is stupid. Sirius can't hear him, of course he can't, because there's nothing to assure him that there's an afterlife, and even if there were, Sirius would probably have much better things to do in the beyond than follow Remus's every step. Wouldn't he? And even without an afterlife, his body isn't even resting here. This is stupid.

But he had to come.

He braces himself for what comes next, and he blurts it out clumsily, the words spilling out as if somehow their hurry will steamroll over the guilt they carry: "Because I'm getting married, Sirius. I'm getting married tomorrow." His eyes flood with tears, but he lets them flow, because these are tears he can't allow himself to cry in front of anyone else. "I'm getting married, and it's not to you. And I need..." he wipes furiously at the tears now, angry at himself for breaking down before he's even really gotten into it. "It'll be a small affair. Just a few members of the Order, if they can make it, and nothing larger than a regular dinner. But still, I... I need your blessing."

He laughs bitterly now, aware of how ridiculous it is. But Sirius's headstone, and his name etched on it, the name under which he was sure his would eventually be carved as well, stares him in the face. So he makes himself continue.

"I hope it's alright with you," he sighs. "It's Tonks. But that probably doesn't surprise you. She was there for me in the most wonderful way after you..." he can't bring himself to say it, because even a year later, the image of Sirius's last, gaunt smile as he falls back through the veil haunts him, and it's too painful to muster up again. "Anyway, she was a tremendous help. And she was respectful, too. She hurt for you, too, and I suppose we found each other along the way. But I can promise you, there was never anything there before..." And there it is, again! That horrible knot in his throat! He wills it untied and forces himself onward. "It all happened after, and it happened so fast. I suppose it's the war that's got us living in the moment. So I will be marrying into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, after all," he chuckles dryly, but all the humor drains from his voice as he ekes out the next words, "just not in the way I'd originally thought."

His thighs are burning with tension now, and he allows himself some relief, sitting down with his legs crossed before the gravestone. He reaches a hand out and touches it gently to the top of the stone, brushing it lightly, as he did so many times with Sirius's cheek. He feels the tears coming on again at the mere memory of his touch, at the slight rasp of Sirius's stubble tickling at his fingertips, which he'll never feel again. He pushes himself through it, and ventures to speak with a choked voice.

"I think I love her. I think I might, in time." He thinks about the words, and they ring true in his head. And yet he feels like he's just made a confession, and his chest doesn't feel any lighter. He finds what's weighing it down, and he pushes it out, his words quivering with the tears he's holding back. "But never as much as you. Please, Sirius, I need you to know that." And he fully breaks now, his voice crashing down in an ocean of tears, struggling to get the words out through the sobs that rack his thin frame. "It's always been you, and it always will be. And... and however much I may come to love her, just know that it will always, always be you."

And now it all bears down on him, the weight of time lost and time wasted. The years they spent tiptoeing around each other at Hogwarts, that were years they could've spent together; the years Sirius spent rotting in Azkaban and Remus spent wandering in abject, solitary misery, twelve years they will never get back now; the months he spent in hiding, far from him, unreachable, when he could've returned to his arms. The insufficient nights spent that final summer in a shared bed at Grimmauld Place, arms around each other as if they'd forgotten what it was supposed to feel like. If only they'd had more time to melt back into one another's comfort! If only they'd had more time to relearn their ways around each other's bodies, to stop shivering at the lightest brush of a hand, to remember what a good, long kiss was supposed to feel like. If only they'd had more time to rediscover, truly, what it meant to love.

"Please forgive me," Remus whispers desperately, and his words shake out laden with the deepest, blackest guilt. Sirius would get it, Sirius wouldn't want to live out the rest of his life alone, and he would've been glad that it's Tonks. But still the guilt claws at him, eats at him, scratches him from the inside out. "Please forgive me, Sirius," he pleads again so softly it almost goes unheard, almost gets lost in the murmur of the dying afternoon.

He falls forward and presses his head to the soft earth, wishing ardently it would swallow him. Because he loves Tonks, or at least he might, but it gets harder and harder each day to exist in a world without Sirius. Because he'd give anything to see Sirius flash him another one of his roguish grins, with a toss of the hair over the shoulder and a wink to match. Because he'd give anything for a last exchange of shaky breaths before their lips collide, for the instant of tension where everything seems to hang on who's going to lean forward first and satisfy the desire pounding in their chests. Because he'd give anything for a last time, a last time of anything, a last time that would make their parting easier, that would eradicate the reality that Sirius was brutally ripped from him without a chance to say a proper farewell.

This is, he supposes, the most proper farewell he's getting to bid him. And it can't end like this, with him weeping onto the earth, a crumpled heap of a miserable soul, with no desire to keep going. But, ever the fighter, Sirius would want him to. And that's the thought that pulls him upright again, like a marionette on slow strings, that Sirius would want him to move on, to push through. And in his honor, he must.

"Goodbye, Padfoot," he says slowly, his voice wavering with the last resides of his desolated cry. He brings two trembling fingers up to his tearstained lips and sends a shaky hand forward, to press the most final kiss he gets to give him onto the surface of a gravestone he's not even under. "We'll meet again," he promises, and he feels his chest constrict with the weight of his oath. "Not in this life, but in the next."

He can't bring himself to say the words. They might just be the thing to destruct him. So he must content himself with mouthing them, hoping the breath he puts into them will carry them to the place beyond the veil. I love you. His mouth forms the rings and slopes, the necessary motions, and he allows himself one last glance at the tombstone before he turns around to trudge back up the street, back to life, back to Tonks— away from Sirius.

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