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I fear James Potter is actually the hit girl the fandom depicts. Bro used to hex people for fun and people still liked him. He dated and married Lily Evans who's literally described as Wizard Jesus. By the way he was in love with her since he met her so he literally got exactly what he wanted at eleven years old, that brat. Sirius fucking Black was obsessed with him to the point of breaking out of AZKABAN to avenge him. Every teacher seem to like him despite bro getting more detention than anyone else. He's also a Quidditch star, in the top of the class, rich, and loved by his parents.
Honestly I understand why he would strut, I would strut if I was James Potter.
She had gotten very good at all of it. Looking back without flinching. Not becoming twelve again in her own skin. Being effortless around Harry Potter. She wished it helped more than it did. OotP missing moment. Ginny POV.
Read it below the cut
The Room of Requirement smelled like effort — warm bodies and nervous energy and the particular staleness of air that had been breathed in and out by thirty people who were all trying very hard not to embarrass themselves in front of Harry Potter.
Ginny was partnered with Michael, which was fine. Michael was a competent partner and a decent boyfriend and she had absolutely no reason to be looking across the room at Cho Chang.
She looked across the room at Cho Chang anyway.
It wasn't difficult to find them. Harry had a gravitational pull in enclosed spaces even when he wasn't doing anything interesting, and he was currently doing something interesting, which was standing very close to Cho with his hand on her wrist, adjusting her grip on her wand. Patient. Focused. Speaking too quietly for Ginny to hear across the noise of the room.
Cho laughed at something he said.
Ginny's Expelliarmus hit Michael squarely in the chest and sent him staggering back two steps.
"Bit strong," he said, blinking.
"Sorry," she said. She was not particularly sorry.
She knew what this feeling was. She'd had enough time over enough years to map every corner of it, and she was not thirteen anymore and she was not going to do it the indignity of pretending it was something else — irritation, competitive instinct, general principles. She was jealous. Specifically, she was jealous of Cho Chang, who was pretty and sad-eyed and had actually managed to speak to Harry Potter without losing the ability to form sentences, which Ginny had once found impossible and now found effortless, which was exactly the problem, because it turned out being effortless around Harry had done precisely nothing to fix the underlying situation.
She reset her stance. Michael raised his wand again, game if a little wary.
Across the room, Harry was demonstrating the motion himself now, slow and deliberate, and Cho was watching his wand hand with an expression of concentration that Ginny found personally offensive. He corrected something, and she tried again, and he nodded — that particular nod he had, economical and genuine, the one that meant he actually meant it — and something in Ginny's chest did a thing she categorically refused to acknowledge.
The worst part was that there was nothing to be angry at. Harry wasn't doing anything wrong. Teaching someone in the DA was, in fact, the entire point of the DA. Cho was holding her wand incorrectly and Harry was correcting it in the patient, slightly awkward way he corrected everything, probably thinking about nothing except the spell, the grip, the angle of the elbow. He was not, almost certainly, thinking about Cho Chang's hair or her laugh or the way she looked at him like he was something remarkable.
He never thought about those things. That was also, Ginny had decided, the problem.
Expelliarmus.
Michael's wand skittered across the floor. He went to retrieve it with a look that suggested he was quietly reconsidering their relationship.
She exhaled. Pushed her hair back. Across the room, Harry had stepped away from Cho now — some distance recovered, professional, oblivious — and was scanning the room the way he always did mid-session, checking who was struggling, who needed a word, who was about to hex themselves by accident. It was a good instinct. It was deeply annoying.
His gaze moved across the room in a sweep and then, for no particular reason that she could identify, it stopped.
On her.
Just for a moment. A second, maybe two. Long enough that it wasn't accidental and short enough that it wasn't anything, except that Harry's brow did a complicated thing — not quite a frown, not quite the opposite — like he'd noticed something he hadn't expected to notice and wasn't sure what to do with it.
Ginny held his gaze.
She was good at this now. She had practiced it the same way she'd practiced everything else — stubbornly, repeatedly, until the thing that used to undo her became just a thing she could do. She looked back at Harry Potter across a crowded room and she did not flush, did not look away, did not become twelve years old again in her own skin.
Harry looked away first.
He moved on to someone else — Neville, who was having some difficulty — and the moment closed behind him like water, and Ginny turned back to Michael.
"Again," she said.
Michael sighed. Raised his wand. She disarmed him so fast he didn't see it coming.
She was very good at this, she thought. At all of it.
I drank wine. This seemed like a good idea. This is what happened...
@ginnyw-potter @starlingflight
Ginny likes looking at the stars. They’re constant. Comforting.
They never change. They never disappear. They never leave her. No matter what shit is threatening to overwhelm her, there they are, exactly where they should be.
It’s ironic, really, given how much she fucking hated Astronomy.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, signing up for an OWL in a subject that basically gave her carte blanche to break curfew twice a week, but the fact of the matter is that Ginny does not do well without sleep, and being forced to stay awake into the small hours on a regular basis was essentially torture.
That’s more true now than ever. She’d much rather be asleep than lying out here, on a blanket in the garden at the Burrow, but she hasn’t been able to sleep since the battle, and it’s better to be staring up at the stars than the ceiling at her bedroom.
Now, when she stares at the stars, she can lose herself in the enormity of the universe. She can wonder at the vastness and the infinity and the absolute insignificance of her and her tiny life. She can pretend that it doesn’t matter that her brother is dead, and she thought her boyfriend was too because in the grand scheme of the never-ending void of space what does any of it matter, really?
Except that’s all bollocks too, isn’t it? Because Fred did die. And she did have to watch Hagrid carry Harry’s lifeless body up to the doors of the castle.
And it did matter.
It will never stop mattering.
She feels the tears prick at her eyelids again as the memories force their way back into her consciousness and her breath catches in her throat, a hard, reedy little gasp that stings like acid.
He must have heard it, because he squeezes her hand.
It anchors her, tethering her to the ground below, and to him beside her, warm and solid and breathing, because against all odds, Harry didn’t die.
Fred did. Fred is cold and dead and under the earth, but Harry is alive and right here with her. She lurches wildly from utter despair to delighted delirium so quickly it gives her whiplash.
She feels him shift, rolling on his side to face her.
“You okay, Gin?” he asks.
He can’t sleep either. He’s haunted by his own demons, she knows that, but the stars seem to help him too, so they lie here together, gazing up at the night sky, hand in hand, letting the enormity of it all soothe them.
Letting the proximity of one another soothe them too.
“Not really.” It isn’t much of a confession, but it feels like peeling the skin from her bones nonetheless.
“Me neither.”
It helps, actually, knowing that he isn’t any more okay than she is. Misery likes company, but torment absolutely fucking loves it.
She rolls onto her side to face him, all wild hair, wilder eyes and vivid scars, inside and out.
All hers.
“I love you,” she tells him. Because she does. Because he’s here. Because this time, she thinks—knows—he’s staying.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” He’s quiet for a long time. Long enough for her to start to worry, to doubt, to regret. And then, “Me too.”
Ginny likes the stars. And she likes being here underneath them, with him. Because he didn’t die, And she loves him.
Harry flopped himself onto the sofa in the living room of the Burrow, the familiar sag of the old cushions cradling him as he let his head rest against the back.
He’d promised to stay up with the rest of them for New Year’s Eve and to help testing Fred and George’s new line of Valentine’s Day products. But as the fire crackled on and soft holiday music mingled with the sound of laughter, he wasn’t convinced he’d last until midnight.
He yawned, his eyes slipping shut, one hand spread over his stomach. He allowed himself to appreciate the feeling of fleeting complete freedom from school work, tracking Malfoy, and drawing up Quidditch plays. Instead just feeling lazy and stuffed with the overabundance of comfort food.
He might’ve fallen asleep entirely if he hadn’t heard the sound of Ginny’s shuffling footsteps or felt the dip of the cushion as she sat down beside him.
Normally that would’ve done it.
His heart would’ve spiked into a sprint, his chest feeling tight and arms clumsy. But tonight, it only gave a slow, steady thump, like it was content to simply be aware of her.
“Sure you’ll make it to midnight?” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“N-no,” Harry managed through another yawn.
“Just so you know, if you fall asleep now, we’ll all draw on your face,” she said, finally making him open his eyes to look at her. “I wonder what you’d look like with a mustache.”
She was smirking at him over the rim of a lopsided, cylinder-shaped mug, its uneven ridges covered in splotchy painted shapes that if he squinted looked something like insects.
“Your mug is missing a handle,” he said, nodding toward it.
“That’s because I made it when I was ten,” she replied, lifting it to admire before resting it on her knee, her legs curled up toward her chest. “One of my hobbies when Ron left for Hogwarts. Some people read or cook… I had a beginner’s pottery kit and a glow-in-the-dark bug colony.”
“That explains the - er - paintings.”
“I can make you one, if you like. Can’t guarantee you a handle, though. Or an even bottom.”
“Sorry,” Harry said, grinning up at her. “I like my bottoms even.”
“How superficial of you.”
He tried to suppress the smile tugging at his face, just like earlier when he’d tried not to admire how good she’d looked when she came down in those pajama bottoms, or how easy it was to joke with her like this. He wondered if Dean had ever seen her in her pajamas or if they ever talked like this. Ever laughed like this.
Before his thoughts could spiral further he tore his eyes away, fixing them on the floor where Ron, Fred, and George were sniggering over a spread of cards from their game DoubleTaire: A Card Game for Couples Who Dare.
“So,” Ginny said, nudging him back into the moment, “do you have any New Year’s resolutions?”
“Same as usual,” Harry said, waiting until she took a sip from her lopsided mug. “Don’t die.”
Ginny snorted hot cocoa up her nose.
Harry’s chest warmed at the feeling of making her laugh, even if from the morbid joke. She wiped her nose with her sleeve, lips pressing and sliding together to catch the spill of chocolate, and Harry once again deliberately forced his eyes back to the card game happening below them.
“That’s shitty,” she said once she recovered. “You should pick a new one.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Hm.” She hummed, thoughtful. “Mix it up. Go full positivity. Bright side, cheery, happy-go-lucky Harry. Total personality makeover.”
“You know how to make a bloke feel good about himself, don’t you?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I like your personality,” she said, one hand pressed to her chest as she shifted. Her leg slid over the edge of the sofa, stopping only inches from his. “But some say a positive outlook makes all the difference. Who knows? Maybe this’ll be the year you ace your classes, win the Quidditch Cup, discover the cure for Dragon Pox, fall in love, and win the Grand Prize Galleon Draw.”
Harry huffed. “That’s it, is it?”
“You never know,” she shrugged. “Even one or two would be worth it.”
“Glass half full,” Harry said.
Ginny grinned at him over the rim of her mug. “Exactly.”
She lifted it again, both hands wrapped around the chipped ceramic and took another sip and Harry felt he must be going mad for being jealous of a cup.
“So what’s your resolution?” he asked.
Maybe ditch your boyfriend?
“Resolutions are stupid,” Ginny said. “They never stick.”
“There’s the silver lining.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
Harry leaned back into the cushions again, eyes drifting shut, smiling despite himself and his whole body humming with comfort, almost as if he’d tasted chocolate.
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A/N I wrote this for @ginnystrophyhusband September microfics day 12 but I am over the word count and simply unwilling to cut a single ounce of potter family fluff so this is a microfail.
Prompt: kettle
The kettle whistled loudly, breaking the tentative silence that had settled over the kitchen.
‘She almost had it then,’ Harry said through a disappointed sigh.
His grip tightened beneath Lily’s arms, holding her steady. One of her pudgy hands remained clutched around the arm of the ancient wooden rocking chair that lived beside the fireplace. It was not rocking currently, thanks to the stabilising charm Harry had placed on it a few days ago, when it had become clear every piece of furniture in the house was to be fair game to be used as support for Lily’s determined attempts to take her first steps.
“She’s still quite young for it,” Ginny said, lifting the kettle from the stove. The whistling was silenced, but her words were almost lost beneath Lily’s wail of frustration as she attempted to wriggle out of Harry’s grasp.
“Try telling her that,” he said, obligingly removing his hands from his daughter, but allowing them to hover mere inches away just in case something else distracted her and she lost her balance again.
“Oh no,” Ginny shook her head vehemently. “I’m not having that argument with her again.”
Lily removed her hand from the rocking chair so that she was standing – or rather, wobbling – independently.. Her bright brown eyes looked up expectantly at Harry.
“Very impressive,” he assured with a smile of encouragement. His next words were directed at Ginny. “If we can’t win an argument with her now, what are we going to do when she can actually talk?”
Ginny directed both of the now-full teacups to the table behind Harry with her wand before turning to face him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m moving out.”
“Good idea.” They smirked at each other across the kitchen. “Take me with you?”
“I’ll think about it.” Ginny pushed off the counter. “If you promise to cook me dinner every night.”
Harry’s smile grew wider. “I do that already.”
“True.” Ginny crossed the kitchen, stopping when she was a few feet in front of Lily. She dropped to her knees, holding her arms out to their daughter. “Maybe it's not so bad here after all.”
Lily’s little face set into a look of determination. Her eyes fixed on her mother filled with the same blazing look Harry was used to seeing in Ginny’s.
“Come on, Lils,” Ginny encouraged. “Come to Mummy.”
Lily’s left foot lifted just infinitesimally off the floor. Harry’s heart leapt in anticipation. The tiny toes of her right foot curled, gripping the ground for purchase. There was a collective intake of breath as she wobbled unsteadily and –
BANG!
Everyone moved at once. Shocked at the loud noise, Lily’s balance failed her. Her face scrunched into a cry of displeasure and she would’ve fallen right to the floor if not for Harry’s fast reflexes. His arm shot forward, curling around her and pulling her to him even as his head turned towards the disturbance.
Ginny, obviously confident in Harry’s catching abilities, was already moving towards the source of the noise: the brass gramophone shaped instrument that passed for the magical equivalent of a baby monitor.
“I think your brothers are done with their nap,” she said to Lily, though her eyes were locked on Harry’s. “I’ll go and get them before they tear the house down, shall I?”
Ginny headed for the door. Her footsteps receded down the long hallway beyond while Harry placed a squirming Lily back on the floor. She sat for less than a second before grabbing the rocking chair and pulling herself back to a standing position.
“You don’t have to grow up quite so quickly, you know?” Harry told her, fearing his words would fall on deaf ears even if she did have a full grasp of the English language.
It had become apparent very shortly after she was born, and was becoming clearer with each passing day, that striking red hair and rich brown eyes were not the only things she’d inherited from her mother.
They remained like that for a few minutes. Lily testing her balance, while Harry’s hand hovered protectively behind her until Ginny re-entered, carrying a sleepy-eyed Al in her arms. James, who preceded her into the kitchen, was practically bouncing with each step. Evidently the nap had re-energised him with great success.
Lily’s eyes brightened at the sight of her brothers. Harry watched with mingled apprehension and excitement as she let go of the rocking chair again.
“That’s it,” he said quietly.
Lily, however, didn’t appear to be listening. Her gaze was fixed on James, who had watched enough of Ginny and Harry’s attempts at encouragement over the past few days to know to open his arms invitingly.
The first step happened slowly. The next three came in quick succession, so quick even Lily was taken by surprise. Her eyes widened and her knees buckled beneath her, but Harry's arm was there to catch her, to scoop her up into a triumphant hug.
The kitchen was filled with celebratory cries from Harry, Ginny and James, and disorientated ones from Al, who had not quite adjusted to being awake yet and didn't appreciate the clamour.
The noise quietened swiftly in the face of Al's displeasure and Lily's eagerness to be placed back on the floor. Harry lowered her to James’ side, but had no choice but to remain close as Lily immediately used his leg to pull herself back up.
“She's going again,” Ginny observed, rocking Al soothingly from side to side.
“There's no stopping her now,” Harry agreed. He reached out and ran a gentle hand over Al's downy head. “You're going to have to be on your guard from now on. You're about to learn what having a little sister is really like.”
Ginny's eyebrows shot upwards. “Know a lot about having a little sister do you?”
“Not me.” He shot her a smirk before returning his attention to Lily, who was taking another tentative step on shaking legs. “But my best mate has a little sister and she's a total menace.”
Ginny's laughter seemed to soothe Al more effectively than anything else, a feeling Harry could well relate to. “You should probably steer clear of her then.”
“Probably,” Harry agreed, nodding his head at Lily who he was still following slowly around the kitchen. “But we Potters are far too formidable to be scared off like that.”
I'm just rereading your wonderful collection of Hinny Missing Scenes and got stuck on chapter 9 "Love".
Hence my prompt (but make it Harry style): The moment it happened: the moment he went from liking her to loving her
They were ignoring the omnipresent cloud of OWLs hanging over Ginny’s head, snatching hours from the clutches of the library and spending them instead outside: basking in the unseasonable warmth of the sun (ostensibly–Harry held a secret suspicion that the warmth in fact belonged to Ginny).
They’d gathered as many pastries and meat pies as their hands could hold and thrown themselves down on a blanket beneath the beech tree by the lake, shielded from OWLs and Horcruxes by a bubble of joy.
Ginny was laid flat on her back, staring up at the deep blue sky, her hands waving animatedly, illustrating and punctuating her story about the time she’d stolen and eaten every last bite of her Mum’s coveted Christmas pudding and blamed it on her brothers.
“They still don’t know it was me,” Ginny laughed. “Fred and George think it was Ron, Ron thinks it was Percy, and Percy thinks it was Fred and George. Don’t bring it up at Christmas, it always causes a fight.”
“You’re diabolical,” Harry said, grinning.
“Hey, it was rough out there, being the youngest and the only girl,” Ginny said. “I had to take my victories where I could.”
“Oh, I’ve got a feeling you took a lot of victories.”
“Naturally,” Ginny replied with a wink. “It’s in my blood. Can’t be helped.”
Harry smirked. “I can’t believe after all these years of silence you’ve just gone and confessed to me. What’s brought this on, d’you think I won’t use it against you?”
Ginny shot him a warning look. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Huh. This must be what the Prophet’s been on about all this time,” Harry joked. “I really am The Chosen One.”
Ginny let out a great, surprised bark of laughter that left him with the vestiges of smugness. She pushed herself up to her elbows and leveled him with an evaluative, appraising sort of look. Then, “You’re witty, you know.”
“Yeah well, The Witty One wouldn’t sell as many papers,” Harry shot back. “Have to keep a low profile.”
“No,” Ginny said through a laugh, pushing herself up to a seated position and turning to face him more directly, crossing her legs beneath her and rolling up to sit on her ankles. “I’m being serious. You are.”
Not quite sure what she was getting at, Harry squinted at her. “I manage.”
“You’re always so… dry, and quick with it,” Ginny mused, her gaze quite even but the slight flush of pink on her cheeks betraying a hidden sincerity. “So people don’t always… they miss it.”
Harry felt his heartbeat acutely at the bottom of his sleeve, all the sudden. “Er… do they?”
“Oh just ask Romilda Vane, or any other girl in the loo. They’re always going on and on about how brooding and serious you are,” Ginny teased, reaching out and poking at his arm. “But you’re not. Not really. You’re… you always make me laugh.”
Harry stared at her. He didn’t think he could’ve strung any sentence together at the minute, never mind a witty one. No, his insides screamed. That’s you. That’s all you. You’re the one who makes me laugh, makes me light enough to joke like this.
“You’ve got good banter, Potter,” Ginny continued, her cheeks a rosy pink. “That’s all I’m saying.”
It was strange how powerfully this simple little compliment impacted him. She might as well have nailed him with a Bludger. He attempted to speak, though it was a challenge around the breath that was caught in his throat. “Thanks. I think.”
“You think?”
“Well,” Harry countered, heart still panging like mad, “It was a bit backhanded, wasn’t it? You did sort of imply that no one else thinks I’m funny.”
Ginny let out that gleeful cackle of hers that he adored, the one that lit up her whole face from the inside. “That is not what I meant. But, even if I had,” she said, that glint in her eye sparking in his chest, “Is that really so terrible? If you’re only funny for me?”
Her tone was light and teasing, so obviously a joke. But nonetheless, the words washed over him, the letters printing on his skin and the meaning seeping into his bones. So what if I am? he thought madly. What if I only get to be this way with you?
The image of his father, messing about with his hair, joking around with his mates under the very beech tree he was now leaning up against, flashed through his mind. He’d watched that memory and come to the conclusion that he and his father couldn’t have been any more different. But now he sat here, Ginny’s words steeping in his bloodstream, and wondered whether it was personality or circumstance that carved the chasm between him and his father. Like a ghostly spectre, he peered through some invisible curtain of which he’d only just become aware, separating the version of Harry that existed now and the one that might’ve been without all the tragedy.
Maybe witty would’ve been the first thing people said to describe him, in that other version of reality.
For this single moment, he felt the two planes intersect, like he and who he might’ve been were one and the same: witty, under the warm honey-brown gaze of the girl sprawled on the blanket before him.
He stared at Ginny, his eyes tracing over every inch of her face like she might be a subject of his upcoming exams. The constellation of freckles that adorned her face, a little more concentrated around her nose and cheeks – those places that caught the sunlight. Her nose, small and turned up a bit at the end. Her lips, always pursed together in some impression or attempting to conceal the smirk that lived on them. Her eyes, so warm and expressive; he felt he could read the joy and mischief in them as automatically as though it were spelled out on her face.
Eyes that cut straight to the truth in things: in him, in everyone. He recalled a chocolate egg and words of action in the library, a lucky you to slice through his selfish spiral, harsh words flung at Ron that cut to the core of his jealousy. She possessed some powerful, innate ability to see people, he thought.
And he was lucky enough to be understood by her.
“No,” he said, and he knew he sounded far too serious for their exchange, but he couldn’t fix it. “No, I don’t mind if I’m only funny for you.”
Ginny’s eyes were soft, and he thought madly that she somehow understood, though she couldn’t possibly. “Well, good,” she agreed. “Who else are you trying to impress, anyway?”
No one. Ever. “Only Romilda Vane.”
Ginny laughed, and then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. It was perfect: this moment, her.
She pulled back, the sunlight streaming down through the leaves of the beech tree and catching the planes of her cheeks, planting the seeds of more freckles for him to count later. The glowing feeling swirled in his chest, forming until it gathered and coalesced on the tip of his tongue.
I love you.
It was true. He did. He loved her, he loved her banter and her loyalty and how brave she was, and how she saw the version of himself he wished he could be. He knew it to be true as soon as the feeling formed into words. But just as quickly, something like fear invaded his chest. For, he was not the version of Harry that got to be witty first and nothing else. He was not the version of Harry that she had conjured from a different, better world.
He was this version, and his love was sharp; cursed, dangerous. He couldn’t hand it over to her and watch as it sliced her open.
Ginny’s eyes searched his. He begged her to uncannily read in them the truth he couldn’t bear to say, like she always did.
“Don’t let it go to your head though,” she whispered. “I’ve got to maintain my reputation as the funny one in this relationship.”
“Don’t go telling everyone how hilarious I am, then,” he countered. “I’ve got to maintain my reputation as serious and brooding, haven’t I?”
Ginny grinned, and so did he, their eyes still lingering, far softer than they should be for such a joking exchange.
She’d managed to see a version of him that didn’t exist, so surely she could read the love for her that was hammering at his ribcage like the bars of a prison, desperate for release. He needed her to see it, to know without words.
If he put it to words then he’d be forced to reckon with their impact. But if she just figured it out on her own, he couldn’t be held responsible for it, could he? He could go on loving her, could go on making her laugh while pretending he was the version of Harry that was free to.
“You’re quite perceptive,” he said, to help her along. “People don’t realize because you’re so funny, but you are.”
Ginny’s gaze burned. He saw his words reach her, hoped she felt as laid bare by his proclamation as he had by hers. She swallowed, and then a small, knowing smile unfolded across her lips. “Only for you.”
For @ginnystrophyhusband September micro fics day 8.
Prompt: gooey
“The Three Broomsticks?” Harry proposed half heartedly.
The final Hogsmeade weekend of Ginny’s final year at school was marked by glorious sunshine and she wasn’t sure if his grimace was from the glare or his dislike of his own suggestion.
Her nose wrinkled; she suspected her reservations aligned with his. “Too crowded.”
“Yeah,” Harry sighed in agreement. “Ron said he thought that was where he and Hermione were going.”
While Harry undoubtedly counted that as a pro for the establishment, Ginny’s frown deepened. “Well, that’s definitely one too many people.”
She may appreciate Ron’s company more now than she had before his months of total absence from her life, she might even be willing to admit as much aloud under certain circumstances, but Ginny would never consider his presence conducive to the romantic atmosphere one usually expected from a date.
“The Hog’s Head?” Harry tried instead.
“Possibly more of a mood killer than Ron."
Even if the mere thought of the Hog’s Head didn’t bring to mind the long walk from the pub into the Room of Requirement, and the final opportunity she’d had to spend with Fred before they’d been engulfed in the horror of the battle – one she’d always regret not appreciating enough at the time – The Hog’s Head’s dank, grimy interior could only be unwelcome compared to the sunlit day they were currently experiencing.
“You might need to lower your expectations of normal date locations within the boundaries of Hogsmeade,” Harry informed her with a smirk. “Unless you have a suggestion?”
Ginny tucked her bottom lip thoughtfully between her teeth. In truth, she’d given the matter quite a lot more thought than she was lettting on. “I might have an idea…”
Harry’s eyebrows rose expectantly. “Go on…”
Unconsciously, her fingers tightened around his. “It’s incredibly lame.”
Harry’s smile curved further upwards; Ginny couldn’t tell if the swarm of butterflies set loose in her stomach was a result of that or what she was preparing herself to say.
“Sounds great already,” he said dryly.
Her gaze wandered purposely away from his face and fixed on the brick wall behind him. “We’d be going ironically, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Harry agreed, nodding seriously, before adding, “going where ironically exactly?”
The question barely penetrated the nervous haze that had begun to cloud Ginny’s mind. “I know it’s usually filled with disgusting, gooey couples, but we’re not like that so, if we went, it would just be a joke, a laugh, you know?”
“I might,” Harry said, his voice brimming with barely contained amusement. “If you told me what you were suggesting?”
“Madam Puddifoot’s,” the name escaped her in a rushed breath.
Resolutely, unwilling to watch Harry’s reaction, her gaze remained fixed so determinedly on the wall that the bricks began to blur.
For a moment there was silence; Ginny couldn’t blame him for his lack of response. She couldn’t quite believe she’d suggested it either.
“Forget it,” she said quickly, still not daring to look at him. “It was a stupid idea, I don’t know what made me say it.”
She’d never wanted to be one of those simpering girls who became all doe-eyed while her boyfriend poured tea for her in a sickeningly cosy cafe, their hands clasped together on the table top, so little space between them that their knees touched, and, maybe Harry’s arm would fall over the back of her chair, and, of course, for the sake of privacy, they’d have no choice but to speak in soft whispers, with their heads bent closely together, staring deeply into one another eyes…
“Ginny?” Harry’s voice recalled her from the vision she’d accidentally begun to construct in her mind. His fingers landed softly on her chin, guiding her face back to his.
“Yes?” She tried to sound indifferent but the word escaped her on a shaky breath.
“Do you want to go and be – how did you put it? – disgustingly gooey in Madam Puddifoot’s with me?”
*Merlin, yes,” she said before she could stop herself. She cleared her throat, determined to return to some semblance of her usual cool demeanour. “I mean, if that’s what you want, I won’t make fun of you for it.”
“Thanks,” Harry said through a laugh he was clearly trying to suppress. “Very considerate of you.”
Beginning of DH, sometime before Bill and Fleur’s wedding . Harry walks into the Burrow‘s kitchen early in the morning, only to find Ginny there wearing his shirt he thought he had misplaced.
It was a hand-me-down of Dudley’s, some free t-shirt he’d gotten from a boxing competition that had been far too small for him to ever wear.
It’s a cream, off-white. There’s a red coat of arms with three lions on the front. England Boxing. Seamus had asked about it once, when Harry’d worn it to bed one night, and Harry had made some joke about moonlighting as a boxer at the weekends.
“Reckon that’ll be what does in You-Know-Who, then?” Seamus had laughed. “A right hook?”
“Nah,” Harry had said. “It’s all about the footwork.”
It wasn’t anything particularly precious or prized, but it was comfortable. It was made of a soft cotton that wasn’t too stiff or starchy, and had been worn enough to be that perfect level of comfort. Plus, it was one of the few Muggle clothing items he possessed that actually fit him, and for that alone it ranked high enough, as old t-shirts went.
He recognizes it instantly when he walks into the kitchen.
It’s far too large on her. More of a dress really, skimming the tops of her freckled thighs as she reaches up to retrieve a mug from the cupboard.
He stares at the expanse of skin of her legs. Wonders whether his old shirt is the only thing she’s wearing. Either alternative sounds like torture.
She turns, and her eyes - still heavy with sleep - widen as she sees him.
He swallows.
He remembers now.
It had been raining, a truly miserable practice. Ginny had just broken up with Dean, and Harry was evaluating various methods of incapacitating Ron so as to properly get Ginny alone. The entire Quidditch team had been loitering in the locker room, showering and changing, hoping for the rain to let up before they made the trek back up to the castle for dinner.
“Bollocks,” Ginny had said, rifling through her bag. “Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.”
“Alright?” Harry had asked, smirking.
“Yeah…” she’d said, still searching. “What d’you reckon is better to wear to dinner, my disgusting, sweaty Quidditch robes, or nothing?”
Harry had nearly choked. He’d glanced over to make sure Ron was still embroiled in a conversation with Katie Bell about the formation they’d been practicing, before he turned back to Ginny, heart hammering.
“Depends,” Harry had said. “Can the Fat Friar die again?”
Ginny had snorted. “Good shout. Wouldn’t want him to have another heart attack, would we?”
“Is that how he died the first time?”
“Seeing a fit Chaser topless at dinner?” Ginny had asked, grinning evilly. “Don’t think so.”
It wasn’t fair. She was practically inviting him to picture her topless. Which, of course he had before, but she certainly didn’t know that. Harry felt his cheeks grow warm and hoped she ascribed it to general embarrassment at the topic.
“I take it that you forgot to bring a change of clothes, then?” he asked, his voice slightly strangled as he batted away subconscious images of her without a shirt on.
“Only forgot a shirt. The Auror department will be lucky to have you, with deductive reasoning skills like those.”
“Shut it,” Harry had said, laughing. “D’you want to borrow one, or not?”
Ginny had paused then, and Harry wondered whether he was showing his cards too obviously. Whether it would make more sense to ask Katie or Demelza whether they had a spare shirt Ginny could wear. But, he held her gaze, and she smiled.
“Yeah alright. What’ve you got?”
Harry turned to his locker and pulled out the England Boxing shirt. It was clean, at least. He tossed it to her and she caught it.
She held it out and evaluated it.
“You box?”
“Dudley does.”
“Ah.”
She smiled at him, and Harry’s heart stopped.
“Thanks, captain. Maybe Zacharias Smith will see me wearing this and finally be appropriately afraid that I might punch him.”
“I think he fears you plenty.”
“Not enough,” she joked, and then she waltzed causally back into the stall and came back out wearing his shirt.
He couldn’t stop staring at her at dinner. There was surely something awful and caveman-like in how much it pleased him to see her wearing his clothes, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care.
He supposed, thinking back on it, she’d never returned it.
Couldn’t have. Because she’s wearing it now, in the early morning hours in the kitchen at the Burrow on the morning of Bill and Fleur's wedding, holding a mug in her hands like a lifeline.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Ginny says to him, and it sounds defensive. “Wedding nerves,” she adds, with a smirk.
“It’s normal to get cold feet…,” Harry jokes, hoping he sounds more sane than he feels, “...when your brother is getting married.”
“Right,” Ginny smiles. “Want some tea?”
Harry nods, and he sits at the table, trying valiantly not to think about the fact that she’s almost definitely not wearing a bra. Tries not to think about his shirt touching her, the way he had before in hidden corners of the castle, when he’d belonged to her more than that shirt did. The way he can’t anymore.
She finishes, and hands him the mug. Upon the first sip he can tell she’s made the tea just the way he likes it, but he wishes she hadn’t. Wishes she wasn’t wearing his shirt, looking beautiful, casually handing him a cup full of I know you.
She sits across from him. The early morning light is creeping through the yellow curtains, casting a warm glow in the room. Harry can hear the sound of faint footsteps from the floors above, and he knows the time he has alone with her - today, ever - is rapidly disappearing.
“This is yours, isn’t it?” Ginny says, glancing down at herself, pulling at the sleeve of the shirt, as though he needs any clarification about what she is referring to.
“Oh,” Harry says. “Yeah.”
“D’you want it back?”
No, Harry thinks. I want you back.
“Keep it.” Harry says instead, because everything is shit, and he was stupid to think he could ever have had her in the way that shirt implies. “Looks better on you anyway.”
They’ve stolen down to the Quidditch pitch after dinner to fly. The season’s over, no need to practice any longer, but Harry reckons they’ve both managed to intertwine freedom and flying, both made it their little form of escape.
Ginny's diving and looping and toeing the line of recklessness with the dangerous maneuvers she’s pulling, and Harry watches her at a safer speed. Her bright red hair is streaming behind her in the wind, her legs wrapped expertly around her broom, and he likes that he’s free to appreciate her unabashedly now, unlike during those furtive moments at practice when he stole looks at her like a fucking criminal.
But then she pulls up, slams to such an abrupt halt that Harry sucks in a breath, and turns to him with a wicked gleam in her eye.
“Are you going to concede, yet?” she calls.
Harry didn’t know there’d been anything to concede. “What?”
“That I’m the better flyer.”
Harry stares at her - all freckles and bluster and mischief - and thinks she’s the best everything: flyer, girlfriend, thing that’s ever happened to him. But doesn’t say it, not yet. “I didn’t realize we were competing.”
She grins. “Life’s a competition, Potter.”
He likes the way she calls him that. And then it hits him all at once as he looks at her - Chaser, show off, competitiveness baked into her bones, banter that lives on her lips. My dad would’ve liked you, he thinks. No, he knows.
He chokes on it, the knowing. Because he’s never known anything about his father before, not really. His father’s just an idea of a person, cooked up from snippets of anecdotes from Sirius, photographs from Hagrid, memories from Snape. He doesn’t have anything of his father that isn’t ambiguous, wasn’t given to him by someone else, but this - this.
He would’ve liked you.
This, he knows.
She’s still staring at him, hovering midair, and he wants to close the distance between them, wants to press his thanks into her lips for giving him this tiny piece of James Potter, but doesn’t know how to bridge the gap. Instead, he says, “Reckon I’d better keep you on your toes, then.”
And he flashes forward with a burst of speed, past the sound of her delighted cackle.
She chases after him, heckling, and Harry grins toward the purpling sky. Glad you approve.
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Ginny is such a fascinating character when you peel back her layers: beneath her bold, confident exterior is a girl fighting to carve out her own identity in a family where it’s easy to get lost. Being the youngest and the only girl in a family full of loud, opinionated boys? That’s a battle for space, for attention, for agency. And the way she navigates that pressure (sometimes through defiance, sometimes through sharpness) reveals both her strength and her wounds.
The Weight of Being "The Only Girl"
Ginny grows up in a household where gender roles, while never explicitly rigid, definitely shape how she is treated. Her mother dotes on her and clearly wants to protect her in a way she doesn’t with the boys. Molly’s love is fierce, but also stifling, especially for someone as independent as Ginny. Imagine how frustrating that must be when all your brothers are given more freedom while you’re constantly being watched.
This is a girl who grew up watching her brothers play Quidditch but was never invited to join them. She had to sneak out and practice on her own. Even from an early age, Ginny learned that if she wanted something, she had to take it for herself, no one was going to offer her a seat at the table.
And that kind of environment breeds a specific kind of defiance: I will not be ignored.
Why She’s So Sharp with Ron
Her relationship with Ron is especially charged because, in many ways, they’re both fighting for the same thing: respect. Ron feels like the overshadowed youngest brother, constantly compared to the successful older ones. Ginny feels like the invisible baby sister, struggling to be seen as more than a fragile little girl. When those frustrations collide? Fireworks.
• Ginny’s Insults to Ron: There’s a meanness in how Ginny talks to Ron sometimes, calling him immature, mocking his romantic failures. But isn’t that rooted in her own frustration? She sees herself as stronger and more mature because she’s had to grow up faster under the weight of being underestimated. To Ginny, Ron represents everything she’s trying not to be: uncertain, insecure, and overshadowed. Maybe tearing him down is her way of asserting her own independence.
• Ron’s Dismissiveness of Ginny: On the flip side, Ron tends to treat Ginny like a child long after she’s proven she isn’t one. He’s protective in a way that’s both loving and condescending. From Ginny’s perspective, it must feel infuriating, especially when she’s lived through things (like the Chamber of Secrets) that none of them fully understand.
Their friction isn’t just sibling rivalry, it’s a fight for autonomy, for recognition. They’re both clawing to be seen as themselves, not as the roles their family casts them in.
Her Distance from the Older Brothers
Ginny’s relationship with Bill, Charlie, and Percy is more distant, partly because they were already grown or gone by the time she came into her own, but also because she probably felt like she had to perform around them.
• Bill and Charlie: They’re the “cool, successful” older brothers, and it’s easy to imagine Ginny hiding parts of herself when they’re around. She likely admires them but knows they don’t see her fully. With them, she probably leans into the role of the “feisty little sister”, a persona that is real, but not the whole truth.
• Percy: This relationship is particularly interesting because, in some ways, Ginny might understand Percy more than the others. Both of them want to be taken seriously in a family that doesn’t always make room for that. But where Percy chose rules and ambition to carve out his identity, Ginny chose rebellion and strength. You could imagine her feeling a mix of pity and judgment toward him, maybe she sees his rigidness as a cautionary tale.
Molly’s Suffocating Expectations
Molly’s love for Ginny is intense. As her only daughter, Ginny represents all of Molly’s hopes and all of her fears. There’s a sense that Molly wants to protect Ginny in a way that feels both maternal and controlling.
• Overprotection After the Chamber: After Ginny’s trauma in her first year, I imagine Molly becomes even more protective. But for someone as strong-willed as Ginny, that kind of coddling feels like a prison. It probably explains a lot about why Ginny pushes boundaries, dating older boys, joining the DA, fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts. She needs to reclaim her power after losing it so completely to Tom Riddle.
• The “Perfect Daughter” Ideal: Molly also likely has a vision of who Ginny should b (kind, ladylike, the future wife and mother) and Ginny pushes against that every chance she gets. Her boldness, her sarcasm, her refusal to be "sweet" in a conventional sense is a direct rejection of Molly’s expectations.
I imagine Ginny feels both loved and trapped by her mother. She’s proud to be a Weasley but unwilling to be defined by her family’s image.
Ginny’s Hard Edges – A Defense Mechanism
A lot of Ginny’s harshness, especially toward her brothers, can be read as self-defense. She’s had to be tough to survive:
• The Chamber of Secrets: Ginny’s first year is marked by profound isolation and violation. No one, not her family, not even Harry, really understands what she went through. That trauma likely shapes her fierce independence. She won’t let herself be vulnerable like that again.
• Living in the Shadows: Imagine being the seventh Weasley. By the time Ginny reaches Hogwarts, every teacher, every student has already met a Weasley sibling. She’s probably constantly compared: to Bill’s brilliance, Charlie’s bravery, Percy’s ambition, the twins’ humor, Ron’s friendship with Harry. Being tough, being bold, and refusing to conform is her way of saying: I am not just another Weasley.
Why This Makes Her Relationships More Complex
Ginny’s complexities make her relationships richer and more meaningful:
• Her Love for Harry: With Harry, Ginny starts as an infatuated child but grows into an equal partner. Part of why she doesn’t coddle or chase him is because she’s tired of being dismissed herself, she refuses to play the role of "adoring girlfriend." She demands to be seen as an equal, not a prize.
• Her Bond with Fred and George: They treat her with the most respect, maybe because they also reject the family’s rigid roles. But even here, Ginny’s wit is a weapon. She has to be sharp to survive their teasing. In some ways, her humor is an armor she learned from them.
• Her Loyalty to the Family: For all her rebellion, Ginny loves her family fiercely. She stays and fights in the DA. She risks her life in the Battle of Hogwarts. She pushes back against her family’s labels not because she doesn’t love them, but because she wants them to love the real her.
The Heart of Ginny’s Story
At its core, Ginny’s arc is about fighting to be herself in a family where it’s easy to be swallowed whole. She’s bold because she has to be. She’s sharp because the world won’t make space for her softness. And beneath all that fire? A girl who wants to be loved for who she truly is, not the image others impose on her.
And maybe that’s why she’s so fascinating because in her struggle to be heard, we see both her strength and her vulnerability
part i: The thing was, that Ginny Weasley had always been — pretty. This was an undisputed fact, in Harry’s eyes. A known truth. But seeing her like this; ripples of laughter falling from her lips, fair yet sunkissed skin, collecting more freckles by the day, all curves and long legs — was different, was staggering.
(Or, the one where Harry and Ginny become more than friends).
CanonCompliant, Set in and around HBP, Missing Scenes, Harry/Ginny
Prompt: Sirius being a massive Hinny shipper, please and thank you ♥️♥️♥️
This was supposed to be a drabble. Read below or on AO3 here:
He had first noticed it in the summer.
At first, Sirius had thought Harry to have a particularly strong affection for Crookshanks, a sentiment that Sirius only found wholly sensible and had not questioned further.
It had taken a few weeks to realise it was not the charming bandy-legged cat that Harry’s eyes were subconsciously following. Likewise, the cat wasn’t the recipient of an increasingly frequent number of silent, secretive shared smiles whenever someone was unfortunate enough to do something that garnered Harry’s amusement; no, the honour of that bestowment fell to the equally charming — and equally ginger — young lady who had devoted a great deal of her summer to entertaining Crookshanks.
Again, Sirius couldn’t find anything to disagree with in the object of Harry’s attention, indeed, his good opinion of Ginny had been formed immediately upon meeting her, when, one balmy evening, at the very beginning of summer, she had come bounding into Grimmauld Place’s dank kitchen, flashed a bright grin at Sirius across the old wooden table and declared, “It’s nice to meet you, but I don’t think much of your family’s choice in interior decoration.”
Sirius’ smile was no longer familiar to him, but it had risen easily at the sentiment. “Was it the house-elf heads that put you off?”
The girl's eyes had widened in alarm; her nose had wrinkled in distaste. “House-elf heads?”
“Ah, so you haven't taken a trip upstairs yet?”
With that scant piece of information, she'd turned on her heel and marched straight back out of the kitchen, a harried-looking Molly Weasley calling “for Heaven's sake, Ginny,” behind her, but Ginny had only continued striding her path, set on inspecting the most gruesome spectacles lining the hallways of Grimmauld Place.
Harry hadn’t arrived at the Order's gloomy headquarters until weeks later. By that time, everyone but Sirius seemed to have accepted the chafing captivity offered by his parents' old house with, if not good humour, a grudging attempt at it.
And then Sirius had found his already-conflicted emotions torn once more as he'd reckoned with exactly what the task James and Lily had charged him with really meant.
Protecting Harry, keeping him safe, giving him enough information to protect himself in the face of direct orders from Dumbledore and the teenaged ire being thrown at him across the dining room table from his beloved Godson; his guilt not eased by the scorn that was being directed at him from a perfect replica of Lily's eyes, ones that silently assured him he'd already failed, otherwise, he wouldn't be in this situation to begin with.
It wasn't a new guilt though, Sirius had been living with it for fourteen years now, and it was certainly a lighter burden than it had been all those interminable days locked up with the Dementors. Though he’d exchanged Azkaban for another prison, one he'd thought he'd escaped at age sixteen, at least there were moments of levity now.
There was the Weasley family's easy affection with one another, and their warmth which seemed to fill the frigid house despite its determination to remain unwelcoming. There were hearty dinners and good conversation, and a sense of community that, while welcome, made Sirius ache for the best friends he would never share a meal with again.
There was also Ginny's bright, unrestrained laughter and the way Harry seemed to seek it out. There was the way his Godson's eyes seemed to soften on the youngest of the Weasleys, an occurrence which accomplished the seemingly impossible task of making all traces of James disappear from his face, leaving only Lily.
If Harry was aware of Ginny’s effect on him, however, he did an excellent job of hiding it. None of Sirius’ thinly veiled attempts at suggestion yielded the desired results.
After one of Molly’s delicious — and uncomfortably filling — meals, Sirius had tried to broach the subject in as delicate a manner as possible.
“Ginny’s very funny,” he’d said quietly to Harry, leaning across the small expanse of table that separated them.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed absently, ducking to avoid the dessert bowl Fred had just summoned, and that had gone soaring wildly towards Harry’s head. “She’s a laugh.”
Without giving the matter any further consideration, Harry pushed his chair back from the table, apparently intent on following Ron, who was already heading for the door, and Sirius, who was glad to see Harry in a rare congenial mood where his friends were concerned, had no heart to try and stop him.
Yet Sirius was only deterred temporarily; house arrest did not offer many opportunities for entertainment, and he seized upon this one.
His next attempt to force the matter occurred just days later.
Molly, persisting in her crusade to wipe away years of rot and decay that Sirius privately thought was likely weaved into the very foundations of the house, had seen fit to direct Harry to clear out an ancient wardrobe in one of the guest bedrooms; Sirius immediately volunteered to join the endeavour.
“I think your mum had a hoarding problem,” Harry informed him, removing a sinister-looking, ghostly white Venetian mask from one of the shelves and tossing it unceremoniously into the rubbish bag awaiting at their feet.
Sirius hummed in agreement. “You know, Ginny made a similar observation — she wasn’t very taken with the decor.”
“I’d think there was something seriously wrong with her if she was.”
“But you don’t,” Sirius prompted with forced nonchalance.
“Don’t what?” Harry frowned down at the pair of ancient — and hideous — buckled shoes he’d just collected from the wardrobe floor.
“You don’t think there’s something seriously wrong with Ginny.”
“No,” Harry replied, brow still furrowed as he turned to look at Sirius directly. “Do you?”
“No, of course not!” Sirius waved away the accusation. “I think she’s a charming girl.”
“Right,” Harry discarded the shoes and began flicking through the dusty garments hanging from the rail.
Sirius waited a moment but no other thoughts came forth. He swallowed a sigh. “And you already agreed she’s funny.”
Harry’s only response to this reminder was a noncommittal hum and Sirius was forced to forge ahead without any assistance from his impervious Godson.
“The prank she played on Ron last night with the fake spider was very amusing.”
In truth, Sirius was being generous with this compliment. While he appreciated Ginny’s dedication to the bit, and her willingness to provoke her mother’s ire, he had some notes on how her practical application could be improved that he planned to share with her later.
“Ron didn’t think so,” Harry replied, giving away nothing of his opinion on the matter. “He made me check every inch of our room three times before he’d go to bed.”
“He needn’t be so worried,” Sirius replied. “Crookshanks is dedicated to the task of keeping the house pest-free.”
Harry shook his head, whether at Sirius’ reassurance or the ghastly acid-green lace robes he’d just removed from the wardrobe, it was impossible to say.
There was no opportunity to ask, for at that moment Molly’s voice came calling from the corridor outside the room, beckoning them down to yet another dinner where Sirius was forced to watch Harry’s eyes wander to Ginny with painful obliviousness.
This pattern continued for the rest of the summer holidays, a period that was woefully short and allowed Sirius no further chance to help Harry reach the obvious conclusion. Indeed, any attempts he did make were met with little more than teenaged grunts and abrupt changes of subject and before Sirius knew it, Harry was boarding the Hogwarts Express, Ginny was swallowed by a group of her friends on the crowded platform and even this simple self-given mission had evaded success.
After that passed interminably long, lonely months locked up in the drafty old house with nothing but the fleeting company of Order members flitting in and out; Sirius’ only constant companion was Kreacher, possibly the only being he considered worse company than a dementor.
Undoubtedly, Sirius had not considered himself overcome with festive spirit in the run-up to Christmas. Nor could he find himself cheerful at the circumstances that brought house guests to him for the holidays, but once it was ascertained that Arthur would survive the terrible attack he’d sustained at the hands — or rather, fangs — of Voldemort’s snake, Sirius could not deny himself glad of the company provided once more by Harry and the Weasley’s.
By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, Sirius was in a rare state of high spirits.
Grimmauld Place remained stubbornly bleak but the festoons of holly and glittering ribbons he’d draped from every available surface — helped by Ginny who certainly proved she had more of an eye for decoration than most of Sirius’ relatives — went some way to brightening the place up; as did the spectacularly impressive fireworks Fred and George had set off around the house well before the clock had begun to approach midnight.
By chance, a small party had gathered in the kitchen owing to Remus and Tonks’ unexpected early return from a mission, and Kingsley’s appearance with a collection of bottles of Ogden’s, which were quickly passed around the adults.
“I’ll have mine to go,” Sirius said as Kingsley poured him a generous measure of the amber liquid. “I really should make sure Buckbeak’s settled before things get too raucous.”
“I can go,” Harry offered from beside Sirius as he leaned to collect one of the bottles of butterbeer Kingsley had brought for the kids. “I haven’t seen him much since I’ve been back.”
“We’ll come with you,” Hermione offered, popping the cap on her own bottle of butterbeer.
Before Harry could think to respond, he was cut off by a groan from Ron who had been surveying the platter of mince pies, sausage rolls and various other finger foods Molly had just set out on the table. “I was just about to eat,” he protested.
Hermione’s lips pursed in unimpressed exasperation but Sirius was already formulating a plan, prepared to seize an opportunity that had not presented itself since the kids had returned from Hogwarts.
“Ginny can go with you,” he said quickly, eyes fixed on Harry even as he raised his voice loud enough for Ginny to hear from the opposite side of the kitchen where she was presently occupied ensuring Crookshanks didn’t burn his paws as he attempted to bat at the still-whizzing fireworks. “Ginny, could you go and check on Buckbeak for me, please?”
Her response was immediate. She scooped Crookshanks up into her arms as she stood, nodding enthusiastically at the suggestion.
“I can go alone,” Harry protested sullenly. “No one is going to attack me between here and the landing.”
“Of course not,” Sirius agreed, waving away his protests with the hand still clutching his whiskey glass. “But you don’t want to be alone on New Year’s, do you?”
Harry shrugged nonchalantly. “I think I’d survive for ten minutes.”
“Yes,” Sirius continued as Ginny’s form grew closer in his peripheral vision. “But Ginny is excellent with Buckbeak — she’s very good with animals, have you noticed?”
Harry shrugged again. “I suppose.”
Ginny paused her approach to deposit Crookshanks into Hermione’s waiting arms.
“Well, that’s settled then.” Lightly, Sirius nudged Harry towards her. “The two of you will go together.”
Ginny joined them just in time to hear this conclusion; her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I didn’t realise it was a two-person job.”
“Apparently Sirius thinks I need supervision,” Harry informed her.“
“And he chose me to supervise?” Ginny frowned in horror. “I’m disappointed in myself for giving a false impression of responsibility.”
Right on cue, Sirius watched as her eyes met Harry’s and identical smirks bloomed on both their faces.
“Come on,” Harry inclined his head towards the door. “We‘ll try not to get into too much trouble on the way upstairs.”
“Maybe you will,” Ginny countered, already following him out of the room. “I never made any such promises.”
Sirius watched them go with a self-satisfied smile of his own. His triumphant mood, however, did not last long before being quickly burst by the pointed sound of a throat clearing behind him.
He turned to find Remus and Tonks staring at him in amusement.
“What was that about?” Remus asked, his arms folded expectantly over his chest.
“What was what?” Sirius asked innocently.
Remus shook his head wearily. “Need I remind you I’ve witnessed that exact manoeuvre before, minutes prior to the Great Venomous Tentacula Debacle of 1976.”
Sirius huffed dismissively. “This is nothing like that,” he disagreed. “I’m quite confident neither Harry nor Ginny are going to attempt to feed the other to Buckbeak.”
Which was almost exactly what had happened when Sirius had schemed to have Lily and James partnered in Herbology at the beginning of their sixth year. Of course, Lily had assured Professor Evergreen that she had meant no harm to James when she’d shoved him into the awaiting jaws of the predatory plant; she had only meant for it to ‘take a few bites out of his over-inflated head’.
“That’s not what I meant,” Remus disagreed with his practised look of weak disapproval that was so easy to ignore. “As you well know.”
Sirius sighed, chancing a glance over his shoulder to confirm no one was nearby before stepping closer to Remus and Tonks and saying in a voice too low for anyone else to overhear over the revellers of the night. “They simply need a nudge in the right direction, one that I’m more than willing to provide.”
Remus’ frown deepened. “A nudge in which direction?”
“A romantic one,” Sirius responded imploringly, surely that much was obvious to anyone with eyes. “Don’t you see it? They’re perfect for one another.”
“Harry and Ginny?” Remus attempted to clarify, his voice dripping with scepticism.
Any answer Sirius might have made was abruptly drowned out by Tonks’ unbridled laughter.
“What?” Sirius demanded, immediately disliking the smug shake of her head. “What’s so amusing?”
“Oh, nothing,” Tonks replied as she brought her laughter back under control. “Only that you’re obviously completely out of the loop.”
“I am not,” he protested at once, indignance flaring at the suggestion he might be uninformed. “Out of the loop regarding what?”
“So many things,” Tonks replied, sighing with superiority. “But, in particular, Ginny’s boyfriend and Harry’s preferred choice of snogging partner.”
“Harry’s what?” Sirius demanded, feeling rather as though one of Fred and George’s fireworks had just struck him directly in the face. Surely, if Harry was seeing someone, he would at least bother to tell Sirius as much.
“Sounds like you have all the teenage gossip,” Remus said, encouraging Tonks to share the details while Sirius reeled from the revelation that he, apparently, knew nothing.
“I only know what Ginny tells me,” Tonks replied, shrugging as she took a sip of her firewhiskey. “Six brothers haven’t really left her with much in the way of female influence, and Hermione’s always off with Harry and Ron, she gets quite lonely, not that she’d ever admit as much out loud.”
“Evidently not that lonely if she’s cavorting around with this secret boyfriend you mentioned,” Sirius replied haughtily.
Remus and Tonks’ eyebrows rose in surprise at his uncharitable tone and Sirius took a sip of firewhiskey to burn away the faint pang of guilt surfacing within him.
“She’s not keeping him a secret,” Tonks disagreed. “She’s just protecting herself from meddling big brothers—“
“And interfering godfathers,” Remus added.
Tonks nodded in agreement. “At any rate, I don’t think they’re cavorting — which, by the way, isn’t a word anyone has used in the last century — by her own admission, she’s quite fed up with Michael.”
“Michael,” Sirius repeated brusquely. “Of course she is, how could anyone not be fed up with someone named Michael.”
Even with Sirius’ limited knowledge, it was entirely evident Harry was superior in every way that could possibly matter.
“Michael Corner?” Remus asked, ignoring this last pointed remark, his expression still perfectly, annoyingly genial. “I remember him from teaching — he seemed a perfectly pleasant young man.”
“More pleasant than Harry?” Sirius demanded, failing to see how that could possibly be true.
“Of course not,” Remus replied evenly. His eyes wandered to Tonks and they both shared a look of amusement not unlike the smirks Sirius was now used to witnessing pass between Ginny and Harry.
Sirius took note of the moment to question both Remus and Tonks about later. Separately.
“Anyway,” Remus said abruptly, tearing his eyes away from Tonks as a red flush worked its way across his cheeks. “It sounds like Harry has his sights set elsewhere.”
At the reminder, Sirius looked to Tonks expectantly. “What do you know?”
“Like I said, only what Ginny tells me.”
“Which is?” Sirius asked, schooling his features into a look of mild interest. Clearly, Tonks was enjoying holding the information over him, and he simply wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of having him beg for it.
“Just that Harry was kissing some Ravenclaw girl on the last night of term — she didn’t elaborate further, other than to say Cho’s whispering skills left a lot to be desired.”
“Cho?” Sirius directed the question at Remus.
“She’s in the year above him,” Remus replied at once. “She plays seeker for Ravenclaw — she was very popular from what I remember.”
Sirius shook his head in vehement denial. “Harry’s not going to marry a Ravenclaw.”
“He’s fifteen,” Tonks reminded him through a laugh. “I don’t think marriage is his main priority right now.”
Before Sirius could argue, a course he was quite set on taking, the door to the kitchen opened and a flash of bright red caught his eye.
Ginny re-entered first, closely followed by Harry; the two of them were deep in conversation, both of them smiling at one another in a way that, in Sirius’ opinion, proved his point for him.
He, Remus and Tonks, all fell silent, watching the young couple intently as they grabbed fresh bottles of butterbeer.
Ginny headed over to the table, eyes surveying the spread laid out upon it; Harry remained at her heels. She paused not at the food, but at a pile of glittering red and gold party hats Fred and George had laid out earlier, the ones which had caused quite a stir when the one resting jauntily on Kingsley’s head had started to sing loudly and woefully out of tune.
Ginny picked up one of the hats and beckoned Harry closer with a crooked finger. His weak attempts to refuse her obvious demand did little to deter; Ginny took a definitive step forward; Harry made no attempt to duck away as she rose up on her tiptoes and secured the eye-catching hat to the top of his head where it sparkled brilliantly in contrast with his dark hair. Upon seeing Ginny’s triumphant smile, an identical one bloomed upon Harry’s face.
Sirius was also grinning victoriously as he turned back to Remus and Tonks.
“I’m not telling you you’re right,” Remus said stubbornly, but the stiff manner in which he knocked back the remainder of his firewhiskey was confirmation enough for Sirius.
Tonks sighed, her eyes still glued to the pair, watching as Harry attempted to force a hat onto Ginny’s head and she stubbornly — and speedily — ducked out of his way.
“I’m sure they’ll figure it out eventually,” Tonks said, a small smile appearing on her face.
Sirius nodded, unable to stop his thoughts from wandering to James and Lily and the many occasions upon which he’d been forced to watch them refuse to see what was plainly right in front of them.
He cleared his throat against the sudden emotion that swelled within, a strange mixture of longing for what had already passed and what was still yet to come. “They always do in the end.”
Can you please write a fic for the prompt “late night chats”?
The sound of Ron’s footsteps treading up the stairs to the dormitory slowly fades, and they’re finally alone in the Common Room.
Ginny makes a show of checking to make sure the coast is clear, and then she burrows happily into Harry’s side, snuggling deeper into the squashy sofa by the fire. His arm snakes around her waist to pull her in closer. They should probably go to bed, too, but it seems wasteful not to eke out every moment she can, to wring this weekend completely dry of moments with him.
“Thought he’d never leave,” Ginny says with a sly grin. “I was ready to sit on your lap just so he’d get the hint.”
“Were you?” Harry says with interest. Then, he turns his head toward the stairs, and calls, “Ron?” as though to summon him back.
Ginny snorts and pokes him in the side, and he turns that devastating smirk back at her - flashing green eyes, crooked lips, the hint of a dimple - the one that’s had her slowly losing her mind for months.
She still can’t quite believe she’s allowed to kiss the smirk off his lips, now. She does, just to prove it’s real.
Every moment alone they’ve stolen has taken on this oxymoronic tone: bodily tangible, like she can reach out and grasp their growing tangle of feelings as easily as a Quaffle, but wholly surreal, like they’re some elaborate daydream snatched from her subconscious. Both, and neither.
She pulls back and smiles at him, and he does too, something wry creeping into their expressions, something that seems to say, we’re nauseating but I can’t help it.
He’s made her so quickly greedy for more, the git. It’s been two days of kissing and banter and touches, overwhelming and not enough.
“Tell me something,” she says, suddenly, “that you haven’t told anyone before.”
His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, and Ginny’s plunged immediately into the vulnerability of her question, the implication of it. I want to be closer, she’s asking, do you? But, she’s not in Gryffindor for nothing, and so she holds his gaze and withstands his onslaught of silence.
“Hm,” he says, looking thoughtful. “About what?”
“Anything,” she shrugs. “Whatever.”
Harry furrows his brow, stares ahead into the middle distance, and Ginny holds her breath, waiting to find out whether he’ll hand her a key or if she’ll have to keep knocking, knowing already she’s succumbed to knocking at his door until her knuckles bruise.
“I dunno if my dad was a good person,” Harry says without preamble.
Ginny doesn’t know what she’d expected him to tell her, but it hadn’t been that. “What makes you say that?”
He stares at his knees and explains about the Occlumency lessons with Snape. The memory he was never supposed to see. His father, every bit the bully Snape had always claimed.
“--that’s why I wanted to talk to Sirius, last year,” Harry admits. “When you helped distract Umbridge. Stupid, I know–”
“It’s not stupid,” Ginny says fiercely. She feels the weight of it, what he’s told her. Wondering about someone who isn’t around to ask. Grieving someone and the idea of them at once. “What did Sirius say?”
“He said he grew out of it,” Harry says, though his tone says loud and clear that this explanation hadn’t been satisfactory to him. “But, I dunno. Means he was still a git before, doesn't it?”
“Maybe,” Ginny agrees. “Or maybe that was his worst moment.”
“Pretty shit moment.”
“Yeah,” Ginny admits, leaning her head on her hand, propped up on the back of the sofa so that she’s turned to face him. “Pretty shit. But I’d hate it if my future children only got to see me… oh, I dunno. Hex Zacharias Smith. Or slip that itching powder into Romilda Vane’s pumpkin juice.”
Harry shoots her a look. “When did you do that?”
“She tried to give you a love potion and got my brother poisoned, Harry.”
Harry snorts. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
“Well, that’s what I mean. We’ve all had shit moments that’d look terrible without proper context. My future children wouldn’t have any idea what Romilda had done to get on my bad side, would they?”
“I suppose,” Harry says, though he still sounds unconvinced. “But I don’t reckon there’s any context that’d make him look much better. I’m not saying Snape was a saint, I’m sure he gave as good as he got. But it… my dad was humiliating him. On purpose.”
“Mm,” Ginny hums slowly, mulling it over. “Do you reckon Sirius was right? That he did grow out of it?”
Harry swipes a hand through his messy hair. “He must’ve. My mum married him. Sirius and Lupin said he was better. But, I dunno. Maybe he did. I’ll never know, anyway.”
Ginny reckons that’s the real problem - the never knowing. Forgiveness is a difficult thing to offer when the person isn’t around to ask for or receive it.
“I wish,” she says wistfully, “you’d got to see more. People can’t be all bad, I don’t think. I’m sure Sirius and Lupin have hundreds of memories that you would’ve liked him in. Makes it easier not to like him in that one.”
Harry’s lips part, and then he nods. “Yeah. Me too.”
She’s still thinking about it when Harry shocks her. “What about you, then?”
“Hmm?” she asks, confused.
Harry jerks his head at her and nudges her knee with his own. “Your turn. Something you’ve never said to anyone.”
Ginny meets his eye, the warmth billowing through her chest like a cloud of candyfloss. He wants to know her, too. The thought - I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone - threatens to spill from her lips, but she holds her tongue, wanting to offer him something of equal weight.
“I use the bathroom on the second floor whenever I can,” she says, knowing he’ll understand which one she means. “Just to prove I’m not bothered by it. Only, it does bother me. Maybe that’s why I keep using it.”
He looks stricken. “Do you still think about it a lot? The Chamber?”
Ginny shrugs, perhaps a bit more nonchalant than she actually feels. “A bit. Still get nightmares sometimes, but not as often as I used to.”
“Yeah,” he says, and she’s struck for a moment by the fact that they might be haunted by the same ghost. “Me, too.”
She shoots him a commiserating look, and continues. “But it’s not about… about Riddle, really. I mean, it is. But it’s more about… me.”
“What do you mean?” His stare is so piercing, like he’s trying to see straight through to her soul. She imagines he can.
“I dunno. It was awful, obviously, what happened. But when I think back on it, what actually bothers me…” she chews on her words, trying to articulate the vague shame that always clings to these memories, “is that I was so stupid.”
“What?” Harry says sharply. “You were eleven. That diary… it’s… you weren’t stupid.” His words are so firm that it steals her breath. “That was a powerful bit of Dark Magic, you couldn’t have done anything.”
“No, I know that. Logically, I know that. But, I dunno. I wrote so many pathetic things in that diary.” She tries to laugh, but it comes out a bit scratchy. “I was so lonely, after Ron left for school. So desperate to go off to Hogwarts and have mad adventures and play Quidditch and… meet you.” She stares down at her hands, the embarrassment threatening to overwhelm her. “I just hate that he knows all that, that I was this pathetic, desperate little girl–”
“He doesn’t,” Harry says. “The version of him you wrote to is gone. The real one doesn’t know any of it.”
“Oh,” she replies, coming up short. “How do you…? Well, never mind, you haven’t got to answer that, I suppose–”
“It’s not that I don’t want to–”
“No, I know,” Ginny says quickly, unable to bear some platitude, not from him, “Really, you haven’t–”
“Whatever you wrote in that diary died with it,” Harry says firmly. “I promise.”
Ginny nods, and lets the words sink in. Ever since Riddle had come back, she’d wondered whether pathetic little Ginny Weasley was somewhere in the back of his mind. Weak. Stupid. An easy target, close to Harry. The relief that she might just be anyone – no one, even – to this version of Riddle, is palpable.
“Thanks,” Ginny breathes. “That makes me feel a bit… better.”
“You weren’t pathetic,” Harry says, like the thought is so absurd he’d never considered she might feel that way. “It’s quite impressive you managed to resist it for so long, actually.”
Everything that had happened with that diary has been so tinted with shame, with weakness, that Harry might consider her brave for it… it feels so antithetical to everything she’d ever thought, she nearly laughs.
“Right,” Ginny says, deflecting away with a joke. “I’m sure all those roosters thought I was very impressive.”
To his credit, Harry doesn’t laugh. “That wasn’t you. It was him.”
Easy to say, harder to feel. “The Department of Mysteries wasn’t you, either.”
Harry stares at her, and she holds his gaze unwaveringly. She can see she’s made her point, can read in the pull of his brow that Harry understands exactly the weight of a guilt so heavy that words can’t lighten it. Just as plainly, though, she can see that he hates that she’s carrying it at all.
Fair enough, really. She hates that he is, too.
She breaks eye contact and nestles back into his side. She lifts up his hand with hers, plays absently with his fingers. “Why haven’t you ever told Ron and Hermione about your dad?”
He considers for a long moment, letting her play with his hand and pulling her in closer with the other. “Dunno, really. Just felt… defensive, I suppose. Like whatever they’d said, it would’ve bothered me.”
“I get that.” She winces. “Did I upset you?”
“No,” Harry says quickly. “It’s not like that, with you.”
The words melt in her heart like honey, covering everything in sweet, sticky warmth. She ceases her mindless fiddling with his fingers and looks up at him, knowing her face must be an open book, knowing it must be apparent that he’s got her whole honey-coated heart in his hands. “It’s not like that with you, either.”
He stares back at her, deep into her eyes, and for the first time it occurs to her to check her own palm for his.
He leans down and kisses her deeply, and she pulls herself up and snakes her arms around his neck. This thing has always been irritatingly there, for Ginny - the way she can read exactly what he’s thinking without even trying, the way she trusts him absolutely, the way he makes her heart skitter like she’s in a free fall.
It’d never honestly occurred to her how powerful it would be to have it reciprocated. To have him understand what she’s saying so completely, to have him offer her something vulnerable just because she asked, to feel his heart hammering against her own.
It’s been two bloody days, and yet she’s slipped past the point of no return with him already. Perhaps she’d started there.
She pulls back from the kiss, feeling breathless. Harry looks a bit winded, himself.
“We should probably go to bed,” he mutters, eyes still locked with hers.
I've always wanted to write a scene of mutual agreement and support (friendship is a strong word) between Ginny and Romilda Vane, so here's around 1600 words of something that might have happened during Year 7.
*****
They wait until after dinner to round on her.
Ginny is mildly surprised; she'd guessed they would question her as soon as she got off the train, but perhaps they thought that Snape's speech—not the Headmaster's, she'd never consider him so—might terrify her enough to make her betray everything she has ever believed on. If so, they were very mistaken; seeing Snape in the middle of the staff table, with Death Eaters by his side, only infused her Gryffindor spirit.
"Weasley," calls Alecto Carrow. She has a mind to pretend to ignore her, but the mass of students climbing the stairs seems to freeze with that call, and Ginny has no choice but to answer it, all eyes on her as she walks to Alecto Carrow.
"Yes, Professor." She puts as much spite in that word as she can. Neville and Luna suddenly materialize next to her, and Ginny almost wishes they would stay away, as if there is any protection to be found this year.
Alecto looks her up and down. "That's it?" Her voice is mocking. "That's Potter's girlfriend?"
By her side, Crabble and Goyle nod; their gazes are not as unappreciative as Alecto's. With a shudder, Ginny thinks she will favour disdain any day.
"I thought Potter had better taste."
She buries her nails into her palm. Don't answer, she tells herself, and tries to keep a look of disinterest.
"Where is your boyfriend?"
Her rehearsed answer comes in a bored tone. "I would know if I had any." It feels more than ever that everyone is staring at her.
Alecto doesn't seem convinced, nor do her cronies.
"They were dating," says Goyle, in a whisper that everyone can hear. "Everyone saw it, they were snogging all around the place."
"It's what happens when you are dating someone," snaps Ginny. "We've broken up." She hesitates for a tiny beat. "He dumped me."
This time her rehearsed line doesn't sound credible, despite being the truth. Everyone's gaze seems to burn, evaluating her answer, and, for a moment, Ginny waits for someone to question this, to raise the absurdity of her words: they were in love. As Goyle had noted, anyone could see how they felt about each other; Harry had been beaming the whole time they were together, all those few weeks of sunshine and happiness and hope. Harry wouldn't just dump her—
And then Alecto Carrow laughs.
"I guess Potter already got what he was after, then?" She mocks. "Blood traitors aren't a good value if..."
"Perhaps the girl is lying," another voice pops in, and Ginny turns to see Amycus Carrow joining his sister. His gaze upon her makes Ginny shiver; she remembers all too well duelling him. "Perhaps she knows more than she's letting on—"
"I wouldn't think so," Luna says, her voice as dreaming as ever. "If she knew, she wouldn't be here."
"Harry always kept his secrets," Neville adds, crossing his arms.
Amycus and Alecto share a look before Amycus takes a step forward.
"I will be the judge of that. If we have Potter's precious girlfriend—"
"I am not even his girlfriend anymore!"
It doesn't seem to matter, though. Terror floods her, not so much for herself; there isn't anything that she can share with them, but if somehow Harry finds out that they've got her—their breakup will be for nothing—he is too stupid and too noble to do something reckless—
Amycus grabs her arm; Ginny dives her hand into her pocket, but before she can take out her wand, many things happen. Professor McGonagall appears, Neville points his wand at Amycus, and Romilda Vane laughs nervously.
"Please," she says. "Weasley was his girlfriend, so what?”
That makes everyone draw their eyes to her. Romilda tosses her hair out of her face, seemingly enjoying the attention, but Ginny can see a thin layer of sweat breaking through the girl's careful makeup.
"Harry was always smiling at me, flirting unashamedly, even when he was dating her. I wasn’t the only one either. Everyone knew he wasn't good business. A ladies' man, that one."
Ginny blinks; she is not alone. The year before, when Harry was at the height of his popularity at Hogwarts, everyone's favourite Chosen One, he had drawn many eyes. Ginny had found it bothersome, but she could understand what everyone was seeing: that gorgeous young man with messy dark hair and green eyes, tall and fit, with the added benefit of seeming oblivious to his own charm, almost shy. It had been endearing.
That also was one of the reasons why, when Harry and Ginny started dating, everyone wanted to talk about it. It had been huge news for Hogwarts' standard.
There was no way anyone would believe that Romilda was telling the truth.
"Potter never had any other girlfriend," Crabbe mumbles.
Romilda laughs derisively. "I wasn't his girlfriend, haven't you heard what I just said? He just liked to flirt." She nudges her friend. "Do you remember, Lisa? I told you Harry never took his eyes off me."
Lisa looks terrified, but she nods. "Yes," she confirms in a small voice. "And you—you shared chocolate once."
"Harry dated Cho," someone from the Ravenclaw crowd says, and there's a murmur of agreement.
"I went with Harry to a Christmas party last year," notes Luna. She skips the part where they went as friends.
"I think I saw him snogging a girl behind the greenhouses," Hannah Abbott says.
At her side, a boy nods. "I saw something in the library once."
People start adding comments, their voices mingling in a cacophony. The weirdest part is that Ginny knows no one is lying; people are telling about the times they saw Harry with a girl — only she was this girl, this only girl, but no one specifies that.
"Quiet, quiet!" Alecto sounds annoyed. She looks at Crabbe and Goyle. "Is this true?"
They shrug, lost.
"I saw Potter with Chang at Madam Puddifoot's," Pansy Parkinson confirms, distasteful. "And he went with Loony Lovegood to Slughorn's party."
"That would be Professor Slughorn, Miss Parkinson," chides Professor McGonagall, taking a definite step ahead and placing herself between the Carrows and Ginny. She raises her arm and, almost without a second glance, lowers Neville's still extended arm. "I do not see why a student's romantic life is under scrutiny at this hour of the night, especially a student who is not even here at the moment, but the others have class tomorrow morning."
"This is more important than classes," Amycus spats.
"I remind you this is still a school," Professor McGonagall says coldly.
Amycus' answer is cut by a bored voice. "What is this?" Snape walks, easily opening his way between the students gathered at the door.
"We are trying to interrogate the Weasley girl," Alecto says. "To find out the whereabouts of Potter. She was his girlfriend."
Snape rolls his eyes. "You heard the others. Potter was a lover-boy; that is not surprising considering how his father behaved with his fans." He regards Ginny coldly. "Weasley is not special. I doubted Potter ever shared anything more than a snog with her."
There's an underlying truth in his words that stung her, but before she can react, Snape is already addressing Professor McGonagall.
"Take your students to bed, Minerva. It would not be advisable to be out of the bed at this hour."
Professor McGonagall, who had been frowning at Snape as if trying to figure out something, bristles; there's nothing but repulse in her eyes as she nods.
"Of course, Severus." She turns to Ginny and the others. "Go to the Common Room, now."
And she casts a warning glance at Ginny, who runs to meddle between the other Gryffindor students climbing up the stairs. Her heart doesn't stop beating painfully until she enters the Common Room, and only then she looks back; the Carrows aren't in sight. She doubts this is the last time they will try to question her, but for now, she can breathe easily and give Neville a feeble smile when he looks at her.
"We will watch your back," he whispers.
"It will be fine," she says, with a confidence she doesn't feel. Nothing about her experience at Hogwarts so far gives her any faith that things will turn out well.
And then she catches a mop of black hair.
"Romilda," she calls. Romilda pauses on her way to the stairs.
"Yeah?"
Ginny waits until they are alone to whisper: "Thank you."
Romilda nods. There’s a moment of silence, during which Romilda eyes the stairs as if considering fleeing the scene before she asks: "Did he really break up with you?"
Ginny gulps. "Yeah."
"Oh, I thought—"
"No, it was true."
She waits for some remark; Romilda was truly determined to get Harry the year before, and she had pestered Ginny when she was dating Harry.
"He never actually flirted with me," Romilda says in a rushed whisper. "And you were special to him, I—I spent a lot of time watching him and trying to get his attention, but he never glanced at me... because he was too busy ogling at you."
Warmth spreads inside Ginny; she cannot help her smile. "Harry didn't ogle."
"Yes, all the time. He had it hard for you. Still has, I'd bet." Romilda smiles awkwardly. "Not very womanizer of him."
Ginny's eyes wide. "About that—if anyone finds out that you were exaggerating—"
"I'll talk to my friends. No one is going to say anything."
"I know. I trust you." They look at each other; it suddenly occurs to Ginny that Romilda has no idea, not really, of what could happen if anyone suspects her lie. Romilda never faced a Death Eater. Ginny hopes she never does. "It will be fine."
It's the same thing she told Neville before, but now there's a promise in her voice.
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Prompt: Sirius being a massive Hinny shipper, please and thank you ♥️♥️♥️
This was supposed to be a drabble. Read below or on AO3 here:
He had first noticed it in the summer.
At first, Sirius had thought Harry to have a particularly strong affection for Crookshanks, a sentiment that Sirius only found wholly sensible and had not questioned further.
It had taken a few weeks to realise it was not the charming bandy-legged cat that Harry’s eyes were subconsciously following. Likewise, the cat wasn’t the recipient of an increasingly frequent number of silent, secretive shared smiles whenever someone was unfortunate enough to do something that garnered Harry’s amusement; no, the honour of that bestowment fell to the equally charming — and equally ginger — young lady who had devoted a great deal of her summer to entertaining Crookshanks.
Again, Sirius couldn’t find anything to disagree with in the object of Harry’s attention, indeed, his good opinion of Ginny had been formed immediately upon meeting her, when, one balmy evening, at the very beginning of summer, she had come bounding into Grimmauld Place’s dank kitchen, flashed a bright grin at Sirius across the old wooden table and declared, “It’s nice to meet you, but I don’t think much of your family’s choice in interior decoration.”
Sirius’ smile was no longer familiar to him, but it had risen easily at the sentiment. “Was it the house-elf heads that put you off?”
The girl's eyes had widened in alarm; her nose had wrinkled in distaste. “House-elf heads?”
“Ah, so you haven't taken a trip upstairs yet?”
With that scant piece of information, she'd turned on her heel and marched straight back out of the kitchen, a harried-looking Molly Weasley calling “for Heaven's sake, Ginny,” behind her, but Ginny had only continued striding her path, set on inspecting the most gruesome spectacles lining the hallways of Grimmauld Place.
Harry hadn’t arrived at the Order's gloomy headquarters until weeks later. By that time, everyone but Sirius seemed to have accepted the chafing captivity offered by his parents' old house with, if not good humour, a grudging attempt at it.
And then Sirius had found his already-conflicted emotions torn once more as he'd reckoned with exactly what the task James and Lily had charged him with really meant.
Protecting Harry, keeping him safe, giving him enough information to protect himself in the face of direct orders from Dumbledore and the teenaged ire being thrown at him across the dining room table from his beloved Godson; his guilt not eased by the scorn that was being directed at him from a perfect replica of Lily's eyes, ones that silently assured him he'd already failed, otherwise, he wouldn't be in this situation to begin with.
It wasn't a new guilt though, Sirius had been living with it for fourteen years now, and it was certainly a lighter burden than it had been all those interminable days locked up with the Dementors. Though he’d exchanged Azkaban for another prison, one he'd thought he'd escaped at age sixteen, at least there were moments of levity now.
There was the Weasley family's easy affection with one another, and their warmth which seemed to fill the frigid house despite its determination to remain unwelcoming. There were hearty dinners and good conversation, and a sense of community that, while welcome, made Sirius ache for the best friends he would never share a meal with again.
There was also Ginny's bright, unrestrained laughter and the way Harry seemed to seek it out. There was the way his Godson's eyes seemed to soften on the youngest of the Weasleys, an occurrence which accomplished the seemingly impossible task of making all traces of James disappear from his face, leaving only Lily.
If Harry was aware of Ginny’s effect on him, however, he did an excellent job of hiding it. None of Sirius’ thinly veiled attempts at suggestion yielded the desired results.
After one of Molly’s delicious — and uncomfortably filling — meals, Sirius had tried to broach the subject in as delicate a manner as possible.
“Ginny’s very funny,” he’d said quietly to Harry, leaning across the small expanse of table that separated them.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed absently, ducking to avoid the dessert bowl Fred had just summoned, and that had gone soaring wildly towards Harry’s head. “She’s a laugh.”
Without giving the matter any further consideration, Harry pushed his chair back from the table, apparently intent on following Ron, who was already heading for the door, and Sirius, who was glad to see Harry in a rare congenial mood where his friends were concerned, had no heart to try and stop him.
Yet Sirius was only deterred temporarily; house arrest did not offer many opportunities for entertainment, and he seized upon this one.
His next attempt to force the matter occurred just days later.
Molly, persisting in her crusade to wipe away years of rot and decay that Sirius privately thought was likely weaved into the very foundations of the house, had seen fit to direct Harry to clear out an ancient wardrobe in one of the guest bedrooms; Sirius immediately volunteered to join the endeavour.
“I think your mum had a hoarding problem,” Harry informed him, removing a sinister-looking, ghostly white Venetian mask from one of the shelves and tossing it unceremoniously into the rubbish bag awaiting at their feet.
Sirius hummed in agreement. “You know, Ginny made a similar observation — she wasn’t very taken with the decor.”
“I’d think there was something seriously wrong with her if she was.”
“But you don’t,” Sirius prompted with forced nonchalance.
“Don’t what?” Harry frowned down at the pair of ancient — and hideous — buckled shoes he’d just collected from the wardrobe floor.
“You don’t think there’s something seriously wrong with Ginny.”
“No,” Harry replied, brow still furrowed as he turned to look at Sirius directly. “Do you?”
“No, of course not!” Sirius waved away the accusation. “I think she’s a charming girl.”
“Right,” Harry discarded the shoes and began flicking through the dusty garments hanging from the rail.
Sirius waited a moment but no other thoughts came forth. He swallowed a sigh. “And you already agreed she’s funny.”
Harry’s only response to this reminder was a noncommittal hum and Sirius was forced to forge ahead without any assistance from his impervious Godson.
“The prank she played on Ron last night with the fake spider was very amusing.”
In truth, Sirius was being generous with this compliment. While he appreciated Ginny’s dedication to the bit, and her willingness to provoke her mother’s ire, he had some notes on how her practical application could be improved that he planned to share with her later.
“Ron didn’t think so,” Harry replied, giving away nothing of his opinion on the matter. “He made me check every inch of our room three times before he’d go to bed.”
“He needn’t be so worried,” Sirius replied. “Crookshanks is dedicated to the task of keeping the house pest-free.”
Harry shook his head, whether at Sirius’ reassurance or the ghastly acid-green lace robes he’d just removed from the wardrobe, it was impossible to say.
There was no opportunity to ask, for at that moment Molly’s voice came calling from the corridor outside the room, beckoning them down to yet another dinner where Sirius was forced to watch Harry’s eyes wander to Ginny with painful obliviousness.
This pattern continued for the rest of the summer holidays, a period that was woefully short and allowed Sirius no further chance to help Harry reach the obvious conclusion. Indeed, any attempts he did make were met with little more than teenaged grunts and abrupt changes of subject and before Sirius knew it, Harry was boarding the Hogwarts Express, Ginny was swallowed by a group of her friends on the crowded platform and even this simple self-given mission had evaded success.
After that passed interminably long, lonely months locked up in the drafty old house with nothing but the fleeting company of Order members flitting in and out; Sirius’ only constant companion was Kreacher, possibly the only being he considered worse company than a dementor.
Undoubtedly, Sirius had not considered himself overcome with festive spirit in the run-up to Christmas. Nor could he find himself cheerful at the circumstances that brought house guests to him for the holidays, but once it was ascertained that Arthur would survive the terrible attack he’d sustained at the hands — or rather, fangs — of Voldemort’s snake, Sirius could not deny himself glad of the company provided once more by Harry and the Weasley’s.
By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, Sirius was in a rare state of high spirits.
Grimmauld Place remained stubbornly bleak but the festoons of holly and glittering ribbons he’d draped from every available surface — helped by Ginny who certainly proved she had more of an eye for decoration than most of Sirius’ relatives — went some way to brightening the place up; as did the spectacularly impressive fireworks Fred and George had set off around the house well before the clock had begun to approach midnight.
By chance, a small party had gathered in the kitchen owing to Remus and Tonks’ unexpected early return from a mission, and Kingsley’s appearance with a collection of bottles of Ogden’s, which were quickly passed around the adults.
“I’ll have mine to go,” Sirius said as Kingsley poured him a generous measure of the amber liquid. “I really should make sure Buckbeak’s settled before things get too raucous.”
“I can go,” Harry offered from beside Sirius as he leaned to collect one of the bottles of butterbeer Kingsley had brought for the kids. “I haven’t seen him much since I’ve been back.”
“We’ll come with you,” Hermione offered, popping the cap on her own bottle of butterbeer.
Before Harry could think to respond, he was cut off by a groan from Ron who had been surveying the platter of mince pies, sausage rolls and various other finger foods Molly had just set out on the table. “I was just about to eat,” he protested.
Hermione’s lips pursed in unimpressed exasperation but Sirius was already formulating a plan, prepared to seize an opportunity that had not presented itself since the kids had returned from Hogwarts.
“Ginny can go with you,” he said quickly, eyes fixed on Harry even as he raised his voice loud enough for Ginny to hear from the opposite side of the kitchen where she was presently occupied ensuring Crookshanks didn’t burn his paws as he attempted to bat at the still-whizzing fireworks. “Ginny, could you go and check on Buckbeak for me, please?”
Her response was immediate. She scooped Crookshanks up into her arms as she stood, nodding enthusiastically at the suggestion.
“I can go alone,” Harry protested sullenly. “No one is going to attack me between here and the landing.”
“Of course not,” Sirius agreed, waving away his protests with the hand still clutching his whiskey glass. “But you don’t want to be alone on New Year’s, do you?”
Harry shrugged nonchalantly. “I think I’d survive for ten minutes.”
“Yes,” Sirius continued as Ginny’s form grew closer in his peripheral vision. “But Ginny is excellent with Buckbeak — she’s very good with animals, have you noticed?”
Harry shrugged again. “I suppose.”
Ginny paused her approach to deposit Crookshanks into Hermione’s waiting arms.
“Well, that’s settled then.” Lightly, Sirius nudged Harry towards her. “The two of you will go together.”
Ginny joined them just in time to hear this conclusion; her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I didn’t realise it was a two-person job.”
“Apparently Sirius thinks I need supervision,” Harry informed her.“
“And he chose me to supervise?” Ginny frowned in horror. “I’m disappointed in myself for giving a false impression of responsibility.”
Right on cue, Sirius watched as her eyes met Harry’s and identical smirks bloomed on both their faces.
“Come on,” Harry inclined his head towards the door. “We‘ll try not to get into too much trouble on the way upstairs.”
“Maybe you will,” Ginny countered, already following him out of the room. “I never made any such promises.”
Sirius watched them go with a self-satisfied smile of his own. His triumphant mood, however, did not last long before being quickly burst by the pointed sound of a throat clearing behind him.
He turned to find Remus and Tonks staring at him in amusement.
“What was that about?” Remus asked, his arms folded expectantly over his chest.
“What was what?” Sirius asked innocently.
Remus shook his head wearily. “Need I remind you I’ve witnessed that exact manoeuvre before, minutes prior to the Great Venomous Tentacula Debacle of 1976.”
Sirius huffed dismissively. “This is nothing like that,” he disagreed. “I’m quite confident neither Harry nor Ginny are going to attempt to feed the other to Buckbeak.”
Which was almost exactly what had happened when Sirius had schemed to have Lily and James partnered in Herbology at the beginning of their sixth year. Of course, Lily had assured Professor Evergreen that she had meant no harm to James when she’d shoved him into the awaiting jaws of the predatory plant; she had only meant for it to ‘take a few bites out of his over-inflated head’.
“That’s not what I meant,” Remus disagreed with his practised look of weak disapproval that was so easy to ignore. “As you well know.”
Sirius sighed, chancing a glance over his shoulder to confirm no one was nearby before stepping closer to Remus and Tonks and saying in a voice too low for anyone else to overhear over the revellers of the night. “They simply need a nudge in the right direction, one that I’m more than willing to provide.”
Remus’ frown deepened. “A nudge in which direction?”
“A romantic one,” Sirius responded imploringly, surely that much was obvious to anyone with eyes. “Don’t you see it? They’re perfect for one another.”
“Harry and Ginny?” Remus attempted to clarify, his voice dripping with scepticism.
Any answer Sirius might have made was abruptly drowned out by Tonks’ unbridled laughter.
“What?” Sirius demanded, immediately disliking the smug shake of her head. “What’s so amusing?”
“Oh, nothing,” Tonks replied as she brought her laughter back under control. “Only that you’re obviously completely out of the loop.”
“I am not,” he protested at once, indignance flaring at the suggestion he might be uninformed. “Out of the loop regarding what?”
“So many things,” Tonks replied, sighing with superiority. “But, in particular, Ginny’s boyfriend and Harry’s preferred choice of snogging partner.”
“Harry’s what?” Sirius demanded, feeling rather as though one of Fred and George’s fireworks had just struck him directly in the face. Surely, if Harry was seeing someone, he would at least bother to tell Sirius as much.
“Sounds like you have all the teenage gossip,” Remus said, encouraging Tonks to share the details while Sirius reeled from the revelation that he, apparently, knew nothing.
“I only know what Ginny tells me,” Tonks replied, shrugging as she took a sip of her firewhiskey. “Six brothers haven’t really left her with much in the way of female influence, and Hermione’s always off with Harry and Ron, she gets quite lonely, not that she’d ever admit as much out loud.”
“Evidently not that lonely if she’s cavorting around with this secret boyfriend you mentioned,” Sirius replied haughtily.
Remus and Tonks’ eyebrows rose in surprise at his uncharitable tone and Sirius took a sip of firewhiskey to burn away the faint pang of guilt surfacing within him.
“She’s not keeping him a secret,” Tonks disagreed. “She’s just protecting herself from meddling big brothers—“
“And interfering godfathers,” Remus added.
Tonks nodded in agreement. “At any rate, I don’t think they’re cavorting — which, by the way, isn’t a word anyone has used in the last century — by her own admission, she’s quite fed up with Michael.”
“Michael,” Sirius repeated brusquely. “Of course she is, how could anyone not be fed up with someone named Michael.”
Even with Sirius’ limited knowledge, it was entirely evident Harry was superior in every way that could possibly matter.
“Michael Corner?” Remus asked, ignoring this last pointed remark, his expression still perfectly, annoyingly genial. “I remember him from teaching — he seemed a perfectly pleasant young man.”
“More pleasant than Harry?” Sirius demanded, failing to see how that could possibly be true.
“Of course not,” Remus replied evenly. His eyes wandered to Tonks and they both shared a look of amusement not unlike the smirks Sirius was now used to witnessing pass between Ginny and Harry.
Sirius took note of the moment to question both Remus and Tonks about later. Separately.
“Anyway,” Remus said abruptly, tearing his eyes away from Tonks as a red flush worked its way across his cheeks. “It sounds like Harry has his sights set elsewhere.”
At the reminder, Sirius looked to Tonks expectantly. “What do you know?”
“Like I said, only what Ginny tells me.”
“Which is?” Sirius asked, schooling his features into a look of mild interest. Clearly, Tonks was enjoying holding the information over him, and he simply wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of having him beg for it.
“Just that Harry was kissing some Ravenclaw girl on the last night of term — she didn’t elaborate further, other than to say Cho’s whispering skills left a lot to be desired.”
“Cho?” Sirius directed the question at Remus.
“She’s in the year above him,” Remus replied at once. “She plays seeker for Ravenclaw — she was very popular from what I remember.”
Sirius shook his head in vehement denial. “Harry’s not going to marry a Ravenclaw.”
“He’s fifteen,” Tonks reminded him through a laugh. “I don’t think marriage is his main priority right now.”
Before Sirius could argue, a course he was quite set on taking, the door to the kitchen opened and a flash of bright red caught his eye.
Ginny re-entered first, closely followed by Harry; the two of them were deep in conversation, both of them smiling at one another in a way that, in Sirius’ opinion, proved his point for him.
He, Remus and Tonks, all fell silent, watching the young couple intently as they grabbed fresh bottles of butterbeer.
Ginny headed over to the table, eyes surveying the spread laid out upon it; Harry remained at her heels. She paused not at the food, but at a pile of glittering red and gold party hats Fred and George had laid out earlier, the ones which had caused quite a stir when the one resting jauntily on Kingsley’s head had started to sing loudly and woefully out of tune.
Ginny picked up one of the hats and beckoned Harry closer with a crooked finger. His weak attempts to refuse her obvious demand did little to deter; Ginny took a definitive step forward; Harry made no attempt to duck away as she rose up on her tiptoes and secured the eye-catching hat to the top of his head where it sparkled brilliantly in contrast with his dark hair. Upon seeing Ginny’s triumphant smile, an identical one bloomed upon Harry’s face.
Sirius was also grinning victoriously as he turned back to Remus and Tonks.
“I’m not telling you you’re right,” Remus said stubbornly, but the stiff manner in which he knocked back the remainder of his firewhiskey was confirmation enough for Sirius.
Tonks sighed, her eyes still glued to the pair, watching as Harry attempted to force a hat onto Ginny’s head and she stubbornly — and speedily — ducked out of his way.
“I’m sure they’ll figure it out eventually,” Tonks said, a small smile appearing on her face.
Sirius nodded, unable to stop his thoughts from wandering to James and Lily and the many occasions upon which he’d been forced to watch them refuse to see what was plainly right in front of them.
He cleared his throat against the sudden emotion that swelled within, a strange mixture of longing for what had already passed and what was still yet to come. “They always do in the end.”
Hinny prompt: Harry dealing with Ginny’s new fan base.
Ginny is starting to get her first few fan letters. The harpies try and sort them but Harry spots a few on the creepier side OR at a game he overhears some fans obsessing over the fit new Chaser. Have fun with it.😉
This might not be what you meant by "fun," but right about now the most fun thing I could imagine writing was a situation in which horrible, misogynistic men get what they deserve. Can't imagine why...
NSFW (language) - Please note, there's some offensive language in this one, included to illustrate how horrible these characters are; NOT meant to condone it. I hope that's clear in the tone.
It would be blasphemous to say it, but Harry strongly prefers attending Ginny’s away matches.
The furor around the relationship between “The Chosen One” and the rising star Chaser of the Holyhead Harpies had reached dizzying heights. Fans of their relationship flock faithfully to Harpies matches in the hope they might witness Harry cheering for Ginny, or clapping for Ginny, or something equally mundane, made exciting and romantic only because he’s the one doing it. While bizarre and invasive to Harry, this parasocial fantasy is nothing short of a PR dream for the Quidditch Club.
The Harpies administration had been thrilled to reap the benefits of this excitement, and consequently laid out Harry and Ginny’s relationship on a silver platter: whenever Harry attended a match in their home stadium, he was offered a private Top Box at a prime location, complementary Omnioculars, unlimited food and drink, and a large Weasley Banner adorning the wall behind.
Ostensibly a generous gesture, but in reality a nuisance, because it meant every reporter in the stadium knew exactly where to direct their cameras every time Ginny so much as sniffed the Quaffle. They’d capture Harry’s reaction and then rush to print it in the paper the next day, with interpretations so loosely based in reality that Harry’s nearly impressed at the creativity.
Once, Harry had sneezed, and his pained expression in the leadup to it was painted as “trouble in paradise” for weeks because it had happened to coincide with Ginny scoring.
On another occasion, Harry had spent much of a particularly chilly match with his hands in his pockets. Of course, the only explanation for such insane behavior was obviously to hide the nonexistent wedding ring on his finger, which clearly resulted from a secret weekend elopement in the aftermath of Ginny’s spectacular performance against Pride of Portree.
“They’ve got a point,” Ginny had joked over their morning breakfast. “I did deserve a diamond after that match. What gives?”
“A bit late for that, haven’t you heard?” Harry had said through a bite of porridge. “We’re already getting divorced. I’m having another affair with Hermione at the weekend.”
“Damn,” Ginny sighed. “I wanted to have an affair with Hermione.”
Much more insidious, though, were the stories suggesting that Ginny’s signing and popularity was only because of her relationship with Harry. Ginny swore she didn’t give a flying fuck what the papers wrote about her, but Harry took to ripping every story that cast aspersions at her talent to shreds.
But, Harry had finally got one over on the press. He’d called an uncharacteristic press conference and made an announcement that, due to undefined “security risks” at away stadiums, he was unable to attend matches outside of Holyhead.
The statement had been worth all of the ridiculous stories speculating about his lack of support for his girlfriend’s career, because it meant that he got to watch the Harpies vs Falcons match – donning a thick cap, sunglasses, and a scarf, in some cheap seat that no one would suspect Harry Potter of sitting in – utterly without audience. Sure, his view of the match leaves a bit to be desired, and he’s cramped next to a rowdy group of Falcons fans, but it’s wonderfully refreshing to swear angrily when Ginny is fouled without fear of a think-piece speculating about his repressed anger issues appearing in tomorrow’s Prophet.
It’s one of his better lies, all told, and Harry’s inclined to celebrate his stroke of genius.
It’s not until about ten minutes into the match that Harry is forced to concede he may have celebrated prematurely, as he reckons with the drawbacks to his little caper up close and personally.
The lads surrounding Harry are chanting with such an obnoxious, drunken fervor that Harry can hardly hear himself think, forget hearing the match commentary. They scream with such persistence for so long that they’ve nearly earned Harry’s begrudging respect, when the chant finally succumbs to raucous cheers as Falmouth is awarded a penalty.
“Nice to have a bit of a doss match this week,” the bloke next to Harry remarks loudly after Falmouth scores their penalty. “Gives Wickford time to rest up before we play Puddlemere.”
Harry squints up at the speeding players above and confirms that Wickford, a thick-necked man and Falmouth’s star Chaser, is indeed speeding back defensively as the Harpies offensive formation takes shape, and not resting on the sidelines. Harry shoots a sidelong glance to his neighbors, perplexed.
“Yeah, nice of the Harpies to carry on with an all-female squad,” another dark-haired lad chimes in. “I thought they were finally going to give it up after last season. What a joke.”
The first bloke, who Harry observes looks rather like Dudley, laughs ruefully. “Gwenog Jones won’t ever admit the problem, though, will she? They just don’t have the speed or the strength, everyone can see it–”
Harry scowls. Pricks.
“She clearly thinks the new recruit, Weasley or whatever, is going to make them competitive again, but–”
“Does she?” the Dudley-looking one snorts. “Or do they just want the Harry Potter fangirls to bring in the revenue? It’s a massive publicity stunt, honestly, just like the whole team.”
The three of them laugh, and Harry’s scowl deepens beneath his sunglasses.
“I’m only hoping they bring back the swimsuit calendar this year,” the dark-haired one adds. “Weasley’s fit as fuck.”
The group murmurs their general agreement, and Harry takes stock of the hexes available to him. Might be time to dust off the toenail-growing one of Snape’s… But no. He can’t get hauled in front of Magical Law Enforcement again. Robards will sack him.
“Yeah, the Harpies can fuck around with an all-women team, as long as they all look like that,” the Dudley-looking lad adds, pointing up at Ginny who is now flying overhead, and they all get a particularly good view of her from behind. The blond one jeers. “Wouldn’t mind seeing her strutting around on my calendar in a bikini.”
“I’d go so low as to call myself a Harpies fan for one of those,” the dark-haired jokes, and they all snigger.
Sod hexing. Harry would quite like to kill them. He’s gripping the metal bars in front of him, knuckles white, imagining creative ways of doing it when Ginny - quite literally - takes matters into her own hands: all of their attention is pulled to the pitch as she feints, drawing Wickford into an ugly-looking lurch before she dodges and cannons a shot directly into the right goal.
God, he loves her.
“Damn,” the blond one whistles. “Fit and fair enough at Chasing, I suppose.”
“Potter’s a lucky bloke,” they joke. “I’d let her score on me all she wants.”
Yeah, Harry thinks darkly, today’s my lucky day.
Harry thinks he deserves a medal for the level of restraint he exercises, as the lads continue to offer lewd, sexist, and leering comments about Ginny for the entirety of the match. In fact, the only reason he manages not to strangle them is because Ginny, herself, is shutting them up far more effectively than he ever could.
“Watch this, Robbins’ll catch her, look at the difference in wingspan–”
Ginny drops a beautiful pass to Gwenog who times her formation perfectly, and the Harpies score yet again.
“Weasley’s tiny, once they let our Beaters loose on her she’ll be a goner–”
Ginny executes a perfect Sloth-Grip Roll to dodge an incoming bludger, and manages to whip a shot past the Falcons Keeper while dangling upside-down.
“Knock her off her fucking broom!”
Wickford, clearly frustrated, fouls Ginny – hard. While the referee blows a shrill whistle, Harry lets out a stream of abuse, “Dirty fucking wanker–”
“Oi!” the Dudley-looking bloke next to Harry exclaims with glee. “Have we got ourselves a Harpies fan in our midst?”
Harry takes a measured, calming breath before answering, still staring up at the match above. “Yep.”
The group lets out a gleeful ooh. Harry knows it’s commonplace to give opposing fans a hard time at away matches, but these blokes haven’t got a clue how close Harry is to losing it. He’s about one more comment away from turning them into Aunt Marge.
He claps when Ginny easily puts away the penalty shot, extending the Harpies already considerable lead.
“Very progressive of you,” the blond one jokes. “Are they your girlfriend’s favorite team, or something?”
“Or something,” Harry answers through gritted teeth.
They all jeer. “She’s got you whipped, eh? I hope the pussy’s worth rooting for a pussy-ass team like–”
“I’d watch my fucking mouth, if I were you,” Harry says, his voice low and dangerous. He realizes, dimly, that he must look far less intimidating than he’d like, with his ridiculous hat and sunglasses and scarf covering much of his face. Oh, well. Looks can be deceiving. He’s just finished up with seven weeks of an intensive dueling refresher course with the Aurors. He reckons he could incapacitate all three of them before they even had a chance to pull their wands.
“Oooh, would you?” they jeer. “What, do you reckon if you cheer loud enough, Weasley will hear you and come over to thank you after the match?”
“Could she thank me too, you reckon?” the Dudley one adds.
Harry can hear his own heartbeat angrily pounding in his ears. They’re all disgusting pricks, not worth a moment of his time or his energy, but he’s not stupid, either. He’d been, at first, when Ginny had originally signed with the club, and he’d just started paying more attention to the news about the team and the undermining, sexist undertones in all of it. He’d been shocked to see the nasty objectifying comments, the aspersions at their talent, the insinuation that the team was a feminist gimmick, not to be taken seriously.
Hermione had humbled him with a sharp, “No,” when he’d asked her if she was surprised by it, too.
He’s not as naive anymore. He realizes these blokes are watching their own team get shellacked by an all-female side, watching as Ginny plays elite Quidditch with their own eyes, and still they’ve got nothing but bullshit to say.
Helpfully, Ginny chooses that moment to score yet another goal, her seventh. When Harry claps, they all join in mockingly.
“Weasleyyyyy,” they call, with mocking, lovesick expressions. “Ditch the Chosen One and choose meee!”
Harry turns to them, and asks in a flat tone. “Is that the reason you’ve been rooting for such a shit team, then? You’re hoping Wickford will come and give you a cuddle after?”
“Oi!” the dark-haired one says. “Hang on–”
“That’s the only reason you’d be a fan of the fucking Falcons, isn’t it? If Wickford will take you home?”
“Nah mate, reckon all poofs are Harpies fans, aren’t you?”
The toenail hex seems woefully tame, all the sudden. “Are all Falcons fans pricks or is it just you lot?”
“Oi, relax mate,” the blond one jeers. “We’re just wondering how it all works. How many times have you got to wear a Harpies kit before they let you pull a leg over?”
“Dunno, how many times have you got to wear that Falcons kit for them to win a match?”
“Is that the new Harpies recruitment strategy?” the Dudley-looking one continues. “They only sign slags to the team, so they can shag together a fanbase?”
Harry pulls his wand so fast that they jump back, startled. “Say that again,” he growls, holding his wand in the man’s face. “Say it.”
“Watch yourself,” the blond one says, holding his hands up and pointing to his mate threateningly. “This one’s about to be an Auror, you’re about a second away from–”
What surely deadly threat Harry is a second away from, he’ll never learn, because just then, with a loud groan from the crowd, the Harpies Seeker pulls out of a spectacular dive with the snitch clasped in her fist, thereby ending the match at an embarrassing score of 260-10.
“YES!” Harry yells, his wand dropping to his side as his eyes seek out Ginny in the air.
He can’t remember ever finding a win so satisfying, and Ginny quite so attractive as she streaks across the pitch to hug Gwenog Jones in a midair heap, her red hair streaming behind her in the wind. When she lets go, she scans the section she knows Harry is sitting in. Looking for him, like she always does after a match, only this time she’s looking for an idiot in a shit disguise.
He turns back to the blokes, fury and disgust with them still radiating in his bloodstream, and a reckless desire that he’ll surely regret later overtakes him. Fuck it, he thinks, and he begins to pull off his scarf.
“What was it you were saying before?” he goads, pulling their attention back to him before they move with the rushing crowd out of the stands. “One of you arseholes is going to be an Auror?”
“I am, and I’ll curse you into next week, if you like,” the Dudley looking-one taunts. “Maybe then Weasley will give you a pity ride, if that’s what you’re hoping for–”
“Interesting offer, but I’ll pass,” Harry says, as he pulls off his sunglasses. A look of vague recognition sweeps across the blond one’s face, though the others merely look a combination of angry and befuddled.
Harry replaces his regular specs and looks to the pitch just in time to lock eyes with Ginny - she’s found him in the crowd.
She’s halfway across the pitch, but Harry can tell by the tilt of her head that she’s wondering why he’s gone and taken off half the disguise they’d laughed so hard about earlier. He waves, and despite their earlier agreement to forgo their usual public post-match celebration, she seems to get the message and begins flying toward him.
He turns back to the blokes and finally removes his hat, revealing the still famously recognizable scar on his forehead. All three of their expressions transform into varying degrees of horror as they recall every horrible thing they’d said over the last hour, and connect just who they said it to. “What the fuck–” one of them mutters. “What the fucking shit– is that– Harry Potter–”
Harry stares directly at the aspiring Auror, memorizing his stupid features as he reddens. “I–” he stammers.
“I wouldn’t count on the Auror thing,” Harry spits. “If you’ll pardon me, though, I’ve got to congratulate my girlfriend. Maybe thank her later, for giving me so much to cheer for.”
He turns just as Ginny arrives to hover in front of him, windswept and flushed with victory and so ruddy gorgeous he can’t think. “You were so fucking brilliant,” he tells her.
“I know,” she says with that cheeky grin he loves so much, and then she kisses him so soundly that he quite forgets the pricks openly gaping at them from behind.
For a moment.
He pulls back from the kiss and turns to find them making a hasty retreat from the scene, but not before he hears the telling sound of a camera pop.
The ensuing stories plastered all over the papers the next day - Harry, pictured in his ridiculous disguise entering the stadium, their victorious kiss in the stands - ensure that Harry’s never able to sneak surreptitiously into the crowd of an away match ever again.
A trade worth making, though, when Harry gives an exclusive interview detailing every disgusting thing the three men identified in the background of the photograph had said, and when Ginny writes a cutting op-ed for the Prophet highlighting the ways in which the press had created the very narrative those three pricks had parroted.
Of course, it doesn’t solve the problem overnight, nor did they expect that it would. But, it moves the needle, just a bit. When Ginny reads an excellent article detailing the Harpies’ unique formations without once mentioning Harry or questioning whether they might be more effective by signing male players, she smiles.
The rejection of Winston Winthrop’s Auror application is just the frosting on the cake.
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