#harrypotterhere

Send me one and see how my muse reacts.

The words just laid there, hastily scrawled in jet black ink on a bit of rough cream parchment. Deep creases had formed along the folds, proof of how many times in the fortnight since that note had been dropped from the claws of an owl in the Great Hall her eyes had scanned that sentiment.

No concerted thought was put into figuring out who would be sending her mail before opening the letter that had fallen on her eggs. Instead of a friendly letter from home she was greeted with a bomb. Sure it was small in stature but its sentiment was enough to raze the Gryffindor right there at the breakfast table. Without a word she crumpled the paper in her tiny fist and swung her leg over the bench, hastily making her way out of the room, not stopping until her feet had carried her all the way back to her dormitory. Once there she curled up on her four poster, drawing the curtains closed, and uncurled the paper.

She had finally done it. She’d pushed and shoved, twisted and hurt those around her to the point that the man she loved more than anything hated that he felt the same way. The truth, all of it, not just the cherry picked portions she shared with him when she met him in Hogsmeade a month ago, that would have caused him to hate her. Maybe it would have been easier that way. Knowing that she could not have him because he knew. Knew about her finding comfort in another man’s arms, losing herself in another man’s bed. Surely that would rid him of the toxic poison loving her apparently was.

The running ink, now dried, served as a painful reminder of how much sorrow had been felt. However, she had continued to read it, over and over, and each time it shred her heart less. Whether it was because the hurt was truly stopping or if there was barely anything left to mangle at this point she did not know.  A few days ago Ginny had run dry of tears dedicated to Harry Potter, the years had seen too many shed and now they were all gone. 

If the young witch could go back and tell her ten year old self that not only had she dated The-Boy-Who-Lived but that she had willingly let him go she would surely be childishly chastised. But as she folded back the parchment and laid it on tops of the packed contents of her trunk she knew it had been the right decision. The red head needed to find herself and she could not do that with Harry.

Closing the heavy wooden lid she knew she was doing more than tucking away her school things, she was instead packing away a portion of her life. A very important portion but one she was eager to leave behind. 

Put one of the following in my inbox for my muse's reaction.

Harry was holding out the white mens undershirt she had just tossed at him. The article of clothing had been bunched up on the floor underneath the edge of the bed. Ginny had seen it as she grabbed the lace knickers that had been quickly discarded when they had arrived back at her flat. Without giving it a second thought she had assumed it was Harry's. Was he even wearing an undershirt last night? Apparently not.

Checking the clock Ginny realized that it was less than a half an hour until her guest was set to arrive. After one final stir of the sauce with a wooden spoon she turned the burner to low to simmer some more and left the kitchen to get ready. 

As threw on a short, flowing dress she wondered how did she get here? How after all of these years was she preparing Harry Potter his favorite meal on birthday? They had separated those years ago for very clear reasons, she could still distinctly recall them. But almost a month ago she saw that messy raven hair in the bar and could not resist approaching him. Somehow during the weeks since then the reasons for the break up did not matter. They both had done a lot of growing apart, but the young witch could not help but wonder if perhaps it was time for them to grow together. 

She was just putting on her lipstick, a dark red, when she heard the bell. Pulling open the door she leaned against the frame and shot him a smile. “You smell that," she asked pointing behind her, “You better be glad I like you because it took hours." 

An hour later they were finishing up their spaghetti at the tiny table that so rarely saw use in the flat. Ginny grabbed the near empty wine glass, her second, and drank the last sip before asking. “So, how was it?"

Harry slurped up one last noodle, clearing his plate. Pushing his chair back from the table his brow furrowed pensively. “Very good. Though where is the cake? Did you get lazy on me Weasley?"

The red head threw her head back in a laugh. When she looked back at him a mischievous glint flashed in her brown eyes. Standing up she took the few steps from her chair to his and easily slid the dress over her head, revealing a form fitting teddy made of black mesh and lace. She swung a leg over his and settled on his lap, the toes of her high heels firmly on the floor. “I had a different idea for dessert," she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Not much had changed in Diagon Alley over the years. It was still as crowded and busy as ever. Shops were pressed tightly together and it had to be the work of magic that allowed for some of them to be so much larger inside than they appeared from the street. 

Madam Malkins always felt cramped to Scorpius no matter what. The racks of robes cramped the shop and the young man was glad to be free of it. He paused on the stoop, raking a hand through his platinum blonde hair and sighed. 

He'd outgrown another set of school robes and dress robes. Mother joked that he was going to be taller than his father soon and in the back of his mind he prayed it'd be so. Everyone said he looked just like Draco and that small bit of difference, no matter if it was merely a centimeter, would be a welcome bit of individuality for the young man.

9 - Drunk Voice Mail

Ginny Weasley was sitting in the living room of her flat. It was a new moon outside and the only illumination was from the flickering flame in the grate of the fireplace. It was late at night and Ginny was on the couch in her knickers and an oversized sweatshirt. A bottle of whiskey, now with a fourth of it’s contents emptied, was resting in between her and the arm of the couch. 

She had just kicked out some muggle man she had brought home from a bar, thinking she could momentarily find some escape in another meaningless one night stand but tonight it did not work. The heat from his body, his lips against her throat, the feel of his fingers on her bared skin, none of it served as a satisfying distraction. Frustrated she had stopped his as his hand had begun to slide underneath her knickers and told him that he had to go, now. He stormed out, saying things like “tease” and “bitch” under his breath, and the red head could care less.

On the coffee table, just past where her feet were resting on its edge, laid the source of her relapse: The Daily Prophet from this morning. On its front page was a huge picture of Harry, the article below detailing some act of bravery. Ginny had spent years building up a defense against her former love. Carefully avoiding situations in which they would have to say more than a passing greeting to one another. Usually she was fine but sometimes, on days when she was feeling low or numb, all it would take was a brief mention of the-boy-who-lived and it would come alive, that part of her that would forever love him. And then Ginny would flee. She would escape to practice, to alcohol, to men and usually it worked but for some inexplicable reason, today none of her coping mechanisms served any help.

It was 3am and Ginny was feeling desperate and reckless. She grabbed her wand off the table and with difficulty conjured up her familiar horse patronus, performing the spell that allowed her to use it as a means of communication.

“Hey Harry,” she slurred out, “It’s been awhile.” Silence fell as she sat there, unsure of what to say and so inebriated that her impulse was to say everything. “I miss you. I always miss you… How did we turn out like this? Or maybe its just me. Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t know how to move on. I know. I know. It’s been too long for you to be getting a message like this from me. It’s just…” She took in a deep breath, fighting to hold back tears that threatened to consume her. “I still love you. And I’ve tried to love other people and it doesn’t work. And even though everything is fine now it’s actually not, you know? All our lives are still so fucked up.” Grabbing the bottle beside her she took another swig of the liquor, “I don’t know why… I just… Shit…” No other words were coming to mind and she could feel herself on the edge of unconsciousness. “I love you,” she whispered and then quickly sent the horse away, off to find Harry, wherever he may be.