100 Moments
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,636
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
100
Views:
10,636
Reviews:
52
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Bittersweet
Title: Bittersweet
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: M/F
Summary: #44 – Bittersweet. His life would only ever taste bittersweet.
Word Count: 1,471 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words.
Prompt 44 – Bittersweet
The papers called it a bittersweet victory, and he had to agree. There were so many losses, and so many families torn apart, all because of the accident of his birth. He knew he would spend years wallowing in regret, self-hatred, and shock.
Harry Potter could not live with guilt. For seven years since learning he was a wizard it seemed guilt was piled upon him, weighing him down. And so, he left Britain, using as little money as possible, hiding his identity, and not using magic. He only planned to stay away for a short while, a time in which he could understand that not everything was his fault. He wanted to find a place where no one knew his name and no one cared.
America, a land of dreams, was where he went. He did not make it a secret to his friends that he was going to a country where no one cared about your name or the scar upon your forehead. If they needed him, they could find him if they so desired, and if he decided suddenly to return to Britain, he would and he could.
But he did not.
He travelled the ‘lower forty-eight’ by Muggle means. He could not drive a car, so he settled for buses and trains. Airplanes gave him chills, and he kept to the ground. He even hitchhiked a few times, not caring about a destination. With only a pack on his back, a pair of worn trainers on his feet, Harry Potter became a ‘leather tramp.’
He met witches and wizards on his way, and none of them cared that he had a funny accent or that he had a ‘funky’ scar on his forehead. Harry was desperate to lose the accent, and he did, for the most part after six months.
By the first year, he had settled in a place that no one would bother him, and no one would pry into his business. It was a place in the east, an old mountain chain that ran through a poor state with honest people, and a great deal of privacy.
It was a little town off the beaten track, surrounded by green mountains and miles of untouched nature. The only attraction was a large ski resort about fifteen miles north of town. Harry settled in Marlinton just after the ski season.
It was a strange little town, composed of Irish immigrant sheep farmers, outcasts, nature lovers, and eccentric astronomers who worked at an under funded observatory fifteen miles in another direction from the ski resort. Overall, it was a town where one could have their privacy.
Harry loved Marlinton; he even loved the ramshackle little house on the edge of town where the rent was low and the upkeep high. He could use magic to refinish the house, but he preferred the hard, bone numbing labour of repainting the house for the elderly landlady, even repapering the front room with something he found at the family owned hardware store on the main street.
At night, he listened to river that ran behind the house. He listened to the crickets and the quiet, and sometimes he would climb on the roof to look at a clear starry sky. He worked odd jobs for people in the neighborhood, and sometimes went to the little bar on the other side of town to drink beer with old farmers and loggers, watching American football or baseball on the large screen TV.
It was a simple life, no frills, no danger, and Harry relished it.
One year and eight months after destroying Voldemort in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, Harry was trudging through a foot and half of snow, trying to clean his landlady’s sidewalk in the better part of town. His landlady had told him that if he would keep the sidewalk to the mailbox clean, she would waive half of his rent. Harry simply did it to keep himself from going stir crazy in the snow-covered town.
He had never seen so much snow in one place in his life. A foot and half of snow was something he ever saw twice in the Highlands.
It was as he was walking down the salted streets back to his house with a snow shovel over his shoulder that he began to feel the weight of eyes upon him. It was not the usual weight of eyes, peeking between curtains to the street; it was the weight of eyes that was stalking him.
Harry did not pause in his walking, his heavy snow boots crunching salt crystals under heavy rubber tread. He adjusted his knit toboggan, rubbing his scar as he trotted across an intersection, slipping in some slush. There were few cars on the streets, even with ski season being in full swing, the amount of snow made it difficult to keep the roads up for buses of skiers.
His breath came out in white streams as he walked, his little yellow house in sight at the end of the street. Glancing to the frozen river, he could feel that someone was behind him. Propping the shovel next to the unlocked front door, he wiped his boots on the mat and pushed inside to warmth.
Automatically and naturally, his glasses fogged. Toeing out of his boots, Harry did not remove his glasses, waiting for the temperature of the glass to warm to the temperature of the front room. Pulling off his hat and stuffing it in the pocket of his arctic coat, he unzipped the garment and shrugged it off to hang it on a peg near the door.
When his glasses unfogged, he fell back, startled, against the front door.
Standing in the middle of the front living room was a cloaked figure, face obscured by a low cowl. He ran his hand to the pocket of his Muggle jeans, thinking his wand would be there, but it was not, it was in a shoebox in the closet of the upstairs bedroom, along with his Wizarding International passport and a handful of galleons.
“What are…” he began, but small, pale hands moved to push the cowl back.
Harry blinked rapidly at the face he saw, and then, propelled by some unknown compulsion, he took the cloaked figure in his arms, his cold lips devouring a warm, sweet mouth. His frozen fingers ran through soft crimson hair.
He had to bend down to kiss her face, had to flex his arms to crush her soft body into his. He could not believe she had come for him.
“Ginny…” he breathed when they parted.
There were tears in her lovely blue eyes, but they did not fall over her pale cheeks. Instead, she took a step back, and slapped him hard across the face. Harry stumbled, falling into his ragged sofa, grasping his burning cheek.
She stared at him, her eyes hard, and then, her face crumbled into laughter. Harry was gaping as she pounced on him, pinning him to the sofa, kissing his cold face, grasping his grey jumper, pulling it off him to kiss his chest. He did not understand, even when she unbuttoned his jeans, pulling the zipper down.
Harry could only stare incredulously up at her as she drew her wand and with a swish, magicked her cloak, her dress, tights, and shoes, to fold neatly on top of the old cabinet television. It was not until that she sank down on his cock that he knew what was happening, by then, however, it was too late.
He could only grasp her hips and slam her down onto his cock, kiss her clumsily, grope at her small, pert breasts. He remembered telling her that he needed time to figure out what he wanted in life now that he had a chance to live it. He remembered that she had been angry that he left for America. He remembered all those nights alone, thinking of her.
And she was there, suddenly, uninvited. Harry felt slightly angry. He was not ready to go back, but…
“Yes!” she shouted over his grunts and groans. It was the only thing she had said so far.
But… Only to be able to touch her again, fill her tight body again, he would almost consider going back. It was a bittersweet decision to make, just as it was a bittersweet sort of reunion for him. He loved her, obsessively, especially when she came around his cock, threatening to drain his very soul from his body.
He wanted to hate her for making him to decide so quickly, what it was he wanted in his life.
“I love you,” he whispered after he came with a gasping whimper. And so he did, and so he would, love her, even if it was a bittersweet love.
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: M/F
Summary: #44 – Bittersweet. His life would only ever taste bittersweet.
Word Count: 1,471 words.
Author's Notes: Drabble: a slice of fic in less than 1500 words.
Prompt 44 – Bittersweet
The papers called it a bittersweet victory, and he had to agree. There were so many losses, and so many families torn apart, all because of the accident of his birth. He knew he would spend years wallowing in regret, self-hatred, and shock.
Harry Potter could not live with guilt. For seven years since learning he was a wizard it seemed guilt was piled upon him, weighing him down. And so, he left Britain, using as little money as possible, hiding his identity, and not using magic. He only planned to stay away for a short while, a time in which he could understand that not everything was his fault. He wanted to find a place where no one knew his name and no one cared.
America, a land of dreams, was where he went. He did not make it a secret to his friends that he was going to a country where no one cared about your name or the scar upon your forehead. If they needed him, they could find him if they so desired, and if he decided suddenly to return to Britain, he would and he could.
But he did not.
He travelled the ‘lower forty-eight’ by Muggle means. He could not drive a car, so he settled for buses and trains. Airplanes gave him chills, and he kept to the ground. He even hitchhiked a few times, not caring about a destination. With only a pack on his back, a pair of worn trainers on his feet, Harry Potter became a ‘leather tramp.’
He met witches and wizards on his way, and none of them cared that he had a funny accent or that he had a ‘funky’ scar on his forehead. Harry was desperate to lose the accent, and he did, for the most part after six months.
By the first year, he had settled in a place that no one would bother him, and no one would pry into his business. It was a place in the east, an old mountain chain that ran through a poor state with honest people, and a great deal of privacy.
It was a little town off the beaten track, surrounded by green mountains and miles of untouched nature. The only attraction was a large ski resort about fifteen miles north of town. Harry settled in Marlinton just after the ski season.
It was a strange little town, composed of Irish immigrant sheep farmers, outcasts, nature lovers, and eccentric astronomers who worked at an under funded observatory fifteen miles in another direction from the ski resort. Overall, it was a town where one could have their privacy.
Harry loved Marlinton; he even loved the ramshackle little house on the edge of town where the rent was low and the upkeep high. He could use magic to refinish the house, but he preferred the hard, bone numbing labour of repainting the house for the elderly landlady, even repapering the front room with something he found at the family owned hardware store on the main street.
At night, he listened to river that ran behind the house. He listened to the crickets and the quiet, and sometimes he would climb on the roof to look at a clear starry sky. He worked odd jobs for people in the neighborhood, and sometimes went to the little bar on the other side of town to drink beer with old farmers and loggers, watching American football or baseball on the large screen TV.
It was a simple life, no frills, no danger, and Harry relished it.
One year and eight months after destroying Voldemort in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, Harry was trudging through a foot and half of snow, trying to clean his landlady’s sidewalk in the better part of town. His landlady had told him that if he would keep the sidewalk to the mailbox clean, she would waive half of his rent. Harry simply did it to keep himself from going stir crazy in the snow-covered town.
He had never seen so much snow in one place in his life. A foot and half of snow was something he ever saw twice in the Highlands.
It was as he was walking down the salted streets back to his house with a snow shovel over his shoulder that he began to feel the weight of eyes upon him. It was not the usual weight of eyes, peeking between curtains to the street; it was the weight of eyes that was stalking him.
Harry did not pause in his walking, his heavy snow boots crunching salt crystals under heavy rubber tread. He adjusted his knit toboggan, rubbing his scar as he trotted across an intersection, slipping in some slush. There were few cars on the streets, even with ski season being in full swing, the amount of snow made it difficult to keep the roads up for buses of skiers.
His breath came out in white streams as he walked, his little yellow house in sight at the end of the street. Glancing to the frozen river, he could feel that someone was behind him. Propping the shovel next to the unlocked front door, he wiped his boots on the mat and pushed inside to warmth.
Automatically and naturally, his glasses fogged. Toeing out of his boots, Harry did not remove his glasses, waiting for the temperature of the glass to warm to the temperature of the front room. Pulling off his hat and stuffing it in the pocket of his arctic coat, he unzipped the garment and shrugged it off to hang it on a peg near the door.
When his glasses unfogged, he fell back, startled, against the front door.
Standing in the middle of the front living room was a cloaked figure, face obscured by a low cowl. He ran his hand to the pocket of his Muggle jeans, thinking his wand would be there, but it was not, it was in a shoebox in the closet of the upstairs bedroom, along with his Wizarding International passport and a handful of galleons.
“What are…” he began, but small, pale hands moved to push the cowl back.
Harry blinked rapidly at the face he saw, and then, propelled by some unknown compulsion, he took the cloaked figure in his arms, his cold lips devouring a warm, sweet mouth. His frozen fingers ran through soft crimson hair.
He had to bend down to kiss her face, had to flex his arms to crush her soft body into his. He could not believe she had come for him.
“Ginny…” he breathed when they parted.
There were tears in her lovely blue eyes, but they did not fall over her pale cheeks. Instead, she took a step back, and slapped him hard across the face. Harry stumbled, falling into his ragged sofa, grasping his burning cheek.
She stared at him, her eyes hard, and then, her face crumbled into laughter. Harry was gaping as she pounced on him, pinning him to the sofa, kissing his cold face, grasping his grey jumper, pulling it off him to kiss his chest. He did not understand, even when she unbuttoned his jeans, pulling the zipper down.
Harry could only stare incredulously up at her as she drew her wand and with a swish, magicked her cloak, her dress, tights, and shoes, to fold neatly on top of the old cabinet television. It was not until that she sank down on his cock that he knew what was happening, by then, however, it was too late.
He could only grasp her hips and slam her down onto his cock, kiss her clumsily, grope at her small, pert breasts. He remembered telling her that he needed time to figure out what he wanted in life now that he had a chance to live it. He remembered that she had been angry that he left for America. He remembered all those nights alone, thinking of her.
And she was there, suddenly, uninvited. Harry felt slightly angry. He was not ready to go back, but…
“Yes!” she shouted over his grunts and groans. It was the only thing she had said so far.
But… Only to be able to touch her again, fill her tight body again, he would almost consider going back. It was a bittersweet decision to make, just as it was a bittersweet sort of reunion for him. He loved her, obsessively, especially when she came around his cock, threatening to drain his very soul from his body.
He wanted to hate her for making him to decide so quickly, what it was he wanted in his life.
“I love you,” he whispered after he came with a gasping whimper. And so he did, and so he would, love her, even if it was a bittersweet love.