A/N: I've been gathering such a large number of what I've been calling drabbles, that I've decided to move them to stand on their own. This was made from a writing prompt of simply 'Peaches.' I hope you enjoy!
PEACHES
by: carpetfibers
It's a ridiculous dare, and she's far too old now to pay mind to it, but the way his freckled, long-nosed face grins up at her, believing her incapable, convinced that she's too goody-goody, too swotty to follow through is grounds enough to push down her more reasonable thoughts and focus instead on the tree underhand. She can remember years earlier, having climbed the towering old elm in the pasture behind her grandmother's house; she can remember wanting only to get higher, to reach beyond the thick leaves and spiny branches and touch that patch of sky that winked down at her.
Too high she climbed then- too high to climb back down, and it was hours before her parents found her, long after the sun had set and the moon had risen. How frightened they had seemed then, by her silence and lack of concern. They hadn't known it then- nor, really, had she- but in her child's heart, she had known- had she fallen, had she crashed toward the hard earth and all the pain it might cause her, she had known that the ground would turn to pudding, the grass to soft cotton and she would feel only gentle earthen hands catching her to safety.
Hermione's learned too much magic now to rely on her reflexes, though, and should she fall, it will hurt.
Not that Ron will care; he'll crow and mock and bring it up every waking second for the rest of her life. Like he does with her failure to fly; like he does with her stupid hair. Like he does with her lack of a date for Slug's stupid party next week.
He is mean, and she hates how everyone dismisses it as teasing and joking and good-natured ribbing.
She pulls herself up to another branch, and then another, the limbs growing thinner and less hardy the higher she reaches. A thorn catches her hand and she winces, bringing the palm to her lips, licking the metallic tang of her blood away before swiping at her forehead, the perspiration there incongruent with the snow that falls beyond the greenhouse windows.
"Giving up, 'Mione?" Ron taunts, accompanying laughter following. A crowd has gathered, and this makes her more determined.
"No way!" she calls back down, not bothering to look below. "And don't call me that!"
She looks only upward, to the golden, blush-edged peach that beckons her closer. The tree sways heavily as she grows closer, the branches to support her feet falling way to thick stubs that she clings to, her climb less hand over feet now and more a tight embrace as she wiggles nearer. The jeering from below has grown quiet, the tree's trembling forcing a more real concern.
"Hermione?" calls Neville Longbottom's ever-hesitant voice. Hermione wonders how long he'd been part of the group, laughing up at her. She grimaces and closes her eyes, letting the tree straighten before crawling forward another inch. "Hermione? It's getting dangerous- you should stop now."
She ignores him; she can smell the peach now, smell the fragrant flesh, first tasted on a trip to southern France. The market there, she remembers, had filled her lungs and nose with thick bursts of sweetness, apricots pushed to her lips and plump, juicy peaches split apart for her to inhale.
Warm and wet, and heavy with the richness of the fruit, she had eaten without care, the sticky juices dribbling down her chin and her eyes wide with the loveliness of it.
Professor Sprout's golden peach, cultivated for the past thirteen years, was nearly mature, and Hermione could smell the promise of it and the wish it would grant upon ripening- or so the story went. The spirit Momotaro would wake from his long slumber, slip from his peach-womb and grant a favor to the first set of eyes to greet him.
Ron's dare wasn't to steal the wish, but now she longs for it. Better friends, kinder hearts, someone to truly care for her- her wishes are selfish things, she knows. The end of the war, safety for Harry, protection for the Order- these are the things Sprout intends the peach for.
If it's true; if there's such a thing as a lucky peach.
"Hermione!"
She pauses, her fingers just shy of the fruit's soft flesh. Far below, down past the sprawling branches with their thorns and threatening scorpions, Harry calls up to her, his distant face frowning with concern. "I'm almost there, Harry, it's fine!" she yells back to him.
His frown remains, but he nods, "All right then! Be careful!"
And she grins, wide and free and unduly pleased by the short piece of support. It takes so little, a small part of her realizes, to fill up her heart with happiness. Harry always has- he continues to- and she shuts the thoughts down, focusing instead on the bubble of pleasure that washes through her. Another shimmy forward, and her fingers graze the taut, golden skin-
-he's a horcrux, the last horcrux; they mean to let him die, a final sacrifice; all secrets and contrivances; the old man tells no one, plotting and moving and planting his pieces along the board; secrets never help; protect him, shining one, with love and your heart and your truth; a horcrux, but his soul is his own; protect him-
Hermione is falling, time no slower than the minutes taken for her climb, and the shouts and voices calling up and finding her do nothing to slow the descent. Her thoughts ring- horcuxhorcruxhorcrux- and the sudden stop to her fall is complete with a tangle of arms and warmth and a heartbeat that rushes too quickly against her ear.
Green eyes, heavy with concern, blink up at her, and she stares, the peach's words still repeating in her mind. She doesn't know this word that runs on repeat, chilling her blood and clenching her stomach in fear. She only knows that it poses risk.
She kisses his forehead carefully, lips gentle against the hard scar that mars his skin there. She feels his slight tremble under her touch, and then scrambles back to her feet, hand extended to help him to his.
A beat passes before he grips her hand, and once he's straightened, glasses still crooked along his nose, she glances back to the rest of the crowd, slowly converging. Hurriedly, she brushes past Harry's shoulder, voice low enough for him to catch and not to carry.
"Thanks Harry."
She near-dashes from the greenhouse, leaving behind her friend whose shaking fingers touch his still tingling forehead, the press of her lips a newly made scar.