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“When did you finally figure it out?” Ginny asks. Her hair is fanned out around her, the red a shocking contrast to the green of the Quidditch pitch.
They’d been mucking about - flying, tossing a Quaffle, racing, perhaps brushing up against each other in the sky more than was strictly necessary for a casual scrimmage. They had finally headed for the ground as the sun made its lazy descent below the line of trees. Ginny had flopped down on the grass to watch it and Harry had joined her, the thrill of flying still singing in his chest. Or maybe that was just Ginny.
“Hmm?” Harry hums contentedly, watching the sky transition to a brilliant orange.
“When did you finally figure out that you fancied me?” Ginny asks, trailing her fingers through the grass.
The question startles him, because it seems to him now that he must’ve always fancied her, at least a bit, even if he was too thick to realize or too wrapped up in other things to notice. He’s still thinking when he answers, “When I wanted to throttle Dean.”
She laughs, which was what he’d intended. “Jealous, were you?”
“Mm,” he agrees, still mulling the question over.
Looking back on it, there are a great many glaring signals that Harry hadn’t recognized for what they were at the time. The way he’d longed for his summer with her to stretch on, the twinge of regret as she walked away on the train…
“That first Potions lesson, you were what I smelled in the Amortentia,” he muses. “That probably should’ve been a clue…”
He’d been thinking out loud, and only after he’s said it does he realize that was perhaps a more vulnerable confession than he’d intended to make. That’s a bit much, probably, when they’ve only been together a week.
“What?” Ginny says, and Harry wishes he could snatch the words back, wishes he could chew them up and swallow them to be buried somewhere deep in his gut where they belong.
“Yeah,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.
Ginny rolls over and props herself up on her elbows, her expression a mixture of incredulity and mischievousness. “Did you really? What did it smell like?”
“A few things,” he says, unable to look at her and instead pretending to be utterly entranced with the sunset. “Treacle tart. Something that smelled like my Firebolt. And…”
He finally looks at her, and finds that her eyes are glowing brighter than the sun ever could. “You.”
She seems to be struck uncharacteristically speechless, and the moment hangs for several panicked heartbeats. Then, she shuffles closer and presses her sweet lips down to his urgently, and Harry reckons he can’t have mucked it up too badly, as she runs her fingers through his hair and presses herself against him.
She pulls away suddenly and stares down at him, her eyes pressing him down into the earth, and then she lets out a bark of laughter.
“What?” he asks, smiling.
“You–” she cuts herself off, rolling back over and letting out a loud breath that floats up into the darkening sky. “You can’t say shite like that to me.”
He has no idea what to say to that, but luckily she spares him by continuing. “You can’t, it isn’t fair. I already like you too much.”
Harry wonders whether the sun has set directly into his chest. “Well, me too. Clearly.”
Ginny snorts, and Harry reaches for her hand. He breathes in deeply, wanting to drink in the moment, and he thinks he catches the faint flowery scent of her lingering traitorously in the air.
@ginnystrophyhusband microfics, prompt from yesterday (Aug 11): Fighting.
The Butterbeer is bubbly and sweet, and doing its very best at evoking the innocent nostalgia Harry had craved while falling just short of achieving it.
He and Ginny are huddled together at a table in the back corner of the Three Broomsticks. It had seemed like a good idea, when he’d suggested it - coming here. They could finally go on a normal Three Broomsticks date like every other Hogwarts couple in existence, and share a cheeky butterbeer and a snog at a corner booth like they would’ve done last year if everything hadn’t gone to shit.
In retrospect, perhaps making him feel normal again was a heavy lift for a butterbeer.
“How’s Selwyn’s case coming?” Ginny asks, in a sporting attempt to combat the pall that seems to permeate the pub.
He tells her – shit – and they spend a few minutes abusing the crap system that had allowed Selwyn to become so influential in the first place. She updates him on Quidditch and classes and the new ridiculous meetings Slughorn has organized to encourage them to talk about their feelings or some other rubbish that Ginny clearly finds distasteful.
“--nobody says a word, unless it’s bloody Zacharias Smith trying to act as though he was integral to the war effort, the twat.”
“I supposed they’ve got to do something, haven’t they?”
Ginny raises an eyebrow. “Oh, and I suppose you’d be spilling your guts to Slughorn?”
“No need,” Harry says, lifting his drink again. “I already have a standing appointment with Ron on Tuesdays.”
She doesn’t laugh like he expects her to. She offers a tight smile, a beat too late. “What’re Ron and Hermione up to, then? I can’t believe they haven’t joined us.”
In truth, Harry does not want to imagine what his two friends might be doing in some hidden corner of Hogsmeade, a courtesy that he sincerely hopes Ron extends to him and Ginny as well. “Dunno. Enjoying themselves, I’m sure.”
“I’d’ve thought you’d want to, you know. Be together. The three of you haven’t been all together in months, have you?”
Harry furrows his eyebrows, perplexed by her question. “Well, I see Ron nearly every day…”
“Yes, but not Hermione.”
“Well, no.”
He’s not quite sure what she’s getting at, and fights the sinking sensation and the thought perhaps she hasn’t been looking forward to this time alone quite as much as he had, that she’d rather have hung round with everyone together.
“I just… I know the three of you have a… a bond, or whatever,” Ginny says, gesturing vaguely as though to illustrate it, and Harry finds that she won’t quite meet his eye. “They can join us, if you like. That’s all I’m saying.”
Harry opens his mouth to respond but realizes he hasn’t a clue what to say to that. “What? I mean yeah, I suppose…”
Ginny has started to peel the label off of her bottle of butterbeer. “Hermione misses you both. Loads. I can tell.”
“I’m sure she misses Ron a bit more.”
She looks frustrated by his attempt at a joke, and Harry’s concern heightens. She presses again. “You know what I mean.”
“I… really don’t, actually,” he says.
Ginny looks up from her tattered label and has something like resolve in her eyes. “If you wanted to see them, so you can, I dunno, talk or whatever, I get it–”
“What the hell would I need to talk to Ron for?” he laughs, though it sounds sharp even to his own ears.
“I don’t know. Whatever you talk about at your standing appointment on Tuesdays–”
“Hang on,” Harry says, stung. “You know I was joking.”
“Do I?”
Harry stares at her, a leaden, sick sort of feeling in his stomach. Her mouth is pressed together in a defiant line, and her normally warm eyes are wary, defensive. The thought occurs to him far too late.
“You’re angry with me.”
He can see the way she tries to wipe it from her expression, but the anger clings stubbornly to the furrow in her brow, the aversion of her eyes. “No. It’s– look, we haven’t seen each other in months, let’s–”
Harry wants to be sick. This isn’t how today was meant to go. God, he’d spent every day thinking of her, missing her, trying to pretend to be the version of himself that she brought out - lighter and funnier and more carefree. But he’s not any of that shit, not without her. He’s never really considered the prospect of losing her before, but the thought hits him bodily now.
What’s the point of any of this if he doesn’t have her?
“Gin,” he pleads. “What’s going on? Please just tell me, so I can fix it.”
Ginny flinches irritably, and his stomach sinks further. “Tell you? That’s rich.”
“Wh–”
“How about you tell me for a change?” Ginny snaps, setting down her butterbeer rather forcefully. “Anything about what happened with you last year, how you’re coping with it, I dunno, anything.”
He’s never been on the receiving end of her ire before, and it cuts deeper than he cares to admit. He lowers his drink to the table and says, “Alright.”
But the words don’t come. He stares at her, eyes burning in a way that stings, and he realizes all at once how it all must seem to her: that she was shut out, that he reserved his private thoughts exclusively for Ron and Hermione, his more trusted confidants. But he hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t wanted that - or at least, not for the reasons she must think.
Frustration bubbles at his inability to communicate what he thought had been utterly obvious. But perhaps it hasn’t been fair of him. They understand each other so well – she so often can read him better than he can read himself – that he’s taken it for granted that she knows what she means to him without spelling it out.
He can try to spell it out. He can try.
So, he does. “Look, there were some things I couldn’t tell you before because it was dangerous, and–”
“Harry, I know that–”
“Please,” he begs, reaching out and gripping her hand. “Let me say it.”
She looks for a moment like she might argue – that little stubborn crease appears between her eyebrows – but she relents.
He takes a breath, realizing as he says it how unfair he’s been to her. “But the truth is, even if it wasn’t dangerous, even if Dumbledore had said I could… I didn’t want to tell you before.”
He regrets the way the hurt sweeps across her face so immediately, so clearly, and he rushes to explain. “My life hasn’t been really… well… you know. The Dursleys. And then… Voldemort, and everything that came with it…”
He finds he cannot look at her directly, as though she’s the sun, and stares after an excitable crowd of third years passing by their table instead. “You were the best thing that had ever happened to me,” he says baldly, truthfully. “It felt like… like I got this taste of what my life might’ve been without Voldemort. Like I could be normal. Happy. With you.”
He looks up and she’s still staring at him intently, though her eyes seem a bit softer. “I didn’t want to tell you about any of it, because when I was with you I got to pretend there wasn’t anything to tell. And that’s bollocks.”
Ginny blinks.
“I hate it if… if I made you feel like I didn’t trust you. I did. I do. You just… made me so happy. Make me so happy. I didn’t want to… to spoil it. But you… you’ve got to know that I don’t give a fuck if we see Ron and Hermione today, because all I’ve been thinking about for the last two months is getting to see you.”
She lets out a breathy laugh, her eyes blazing in the way he loves so much. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She grips his hand and stares down at the table. Harry can’t quite read her expression, but he desperately wants to know whether he’s botched it all with this admission. Whether he’s hurt her.
“You make me so happy,” Ginny says, finally looking up and squeezing his hand. “But I want to be with you, all of you.”
“I want to be with–”
“I won’t be a holiday from your real life anymore, alright?” she says firmly, her eyes flashing. “I want to know all of it. Even the bad stuff.”
His heart stutters, and warms. “I don’t want you to be a holiday.”
“Well, good,” Ginny sniffs. “Because I’m ginger, I burn to a crisp in the sun.”
He chuckles and pulls her toward him around the booth, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. She wraps an arm around his middle, and it’s tempting, so tempting to breathe in the comforting scent of her; to crack a joke and lift her chin so that he might steal a kiss from her soft lips like he’s been aching to do for months. But he doesn’t.
“What do you want to know?”
There’s so much to say, and yet it strikes him they have all the time in the world in which to say it. It’ll take more than one conversation to undo the dynamic he’s unwittingly fostered with her, but it’s a start. And really, that’s all he’s ever wanted with her, much better than a holiday in a life that's felt destined for nothing but endings: a beginning.
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It's Bulgaria's sweetheart Vicky 🇧🇬🤍💚❤️
Viktor is surprisingly hard to draw. I wanted him to be an athlete, but a little awkward, because that's how he's described in the books. He's a little unimpressive off the Quidditch pitch.. I don't think I managed to do that. I just drew him hot, I'm so sorry to disappoint :) (Not really, tho😌)
He does have his signature grumpy expression. That is a distinctive feature. I added the 'comic-y' stripes in the background, which wasn't planned but works really well with the character. Viktor is used to being put on a pedestal, and this looks like a poster. I like that effect :)
All in all, I'm happy with the result. Viktor is an interesting character to work with. He and Fleur are both so different. All of the Triwizard Champions are. That's cool to draw :)
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"Goodbye Peter" is singularly the most unhinged, chilling Remus dialogue of all time. But there is not enough discussion on the quote preceding it?
For contrast:
PETER: You don't understand - he would have killed me Sirius!
SIRIUS: Then you should have died! Died rather than betray your friends as we would have done for you!
REMUS: You should have realised - if Voldemort didn't kill you, we would. Goodbye Peter.
What Sirius is asking from Peter is an equivalent exchange of loyalty that is expected in the Marauder dynamic - he is asking for a sacrifice that they would have also done for him.
Remus, in contrast, is saying - the punishment for your disloyalty to us, to James, is death. Goodbye Peter.
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There was a clatter as the basilisk fangs cascaded out of Hermione’s arms. Running at Ron, she flung them around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was holding and responded with such enthusiasm that he lifted Hermione off her feet.
"Is this the moment?“ Harry asked weakly.
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