written for @ginnystrophyhusband june microfics (a day late here, sorry guys! part of the ongoing series magic doesn't last)
A horridly shrill noise permeated the languid darkness and pulled Ginny violently from sleep. She tolerated the alarm for approximately four more seconds before poking her pillow in the ribs.
"Hrmph," Harry grunted from beneath her cheek.
"Turn it off," Ginny mumbled back. "Or I'll throw it out the window."
He swore, apologized, then much to her chagrin, lurched up into a sitting position. It couldn't have been later than six in the morning, the light peeking through her curtains was still dim and grey-twinged.
“I can’t miss the bus,” Harry whispered in a rush, grabbing his trousers and pulling them on roughly.
Ginny collapsed into her bed pillow. It was fluffy and plush. It still wasn’t nearly as comfortable as his chest had been.
Once he was dressed (albeit, haphazardly), Harry pressed an urgent kiss to her lips. “I’ll ring you later?”
She nodded sleepily, but inwardly, her mind was thrown back to the night prior. To every kiss, and every touch, and every whisper in the dark. As he hurried out the bedroom door, she hid her face in her blankets, overtaken by the giddy feeling growing in her middle.
written for @ginnystrophyhusband june microfics (an ongoing series called magic doesn't last. read parts 1, 2, 3, 4)
“Bloody hell!”
Harry and Ginny sprang apart, both whipping around to take in the figure framed in the cafe entrance. Harry had been so wrapped up in the feel of Ginny’s fingernails scraping along his scalp, he hadn’t heard the rattle of the bells on the door.
“Is this what you get up to when I’m not here?” Ron asked incredulously. Indignantly. Bitterly.
“What? No–” Harry started but Ginny spoke over him.
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” she shot, her expression taking on a hard edge.
“Sister! Best mate!” Ron gestured between the two of them in humorless bewilderment. “That’s the very definition of my business!”
Ginny rolled her eyes.
Ron crossed his arms over his chest, narrowed his eyes, and overall tried to look menacing. It was undercut by the fact that they had been bunkmates for going on six years, so Harry had seen him in all manner of decidedly not menacing scenarios.
“How long has all this been going on?”
“Er…” Harry glanced down at Ginny. “About three minutes?”
Opening his mouth, then closing it again, Ron stared blankly for a few moments before uttering a soft, “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Ginny clipped. “So bugger off, will you?”
“Hang on just a moment,” Ron’s tone changed from incensed to elated. “Are you going to—you know—go out?”
Ginny turned to Harry. “Is he for this? Or against?”
Harry shrugged. “Can’t tell.”
“Well,” Ron interjected. “Answer the question!”
Keeping his focus on Ginny, Harry pulled his mobile from his pocket and handed it to her. “Can I call you after your shift?”
“You didn’t even have her number?” Ron blurted. Harry and Ginny both ignored him.
She saved her contact and then handed the phone back with a smile so warm and full of affection, Harry felt it lance through his chest like a beam of summer sunlight.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he assured, feeling lighter than he had in a long time.
Moving away from her, he walked around the counter and approached Ron with a scowl.
“C’mon,” he grumbled, giving Ron’s shoulder a prod.
“I haven’t even gotten a coffee yet,” Ron complained. The look in his eye was anything but chagrin, however. He looked more like he couldn’t wait to take the piss out of Harry every moment of every day for the rest of their lives.
written for @ginnystrophyhusband june microfics (part of an ongoing series called magic doesn't last)
Harry saw the crowd as soon as he rounded the corner onto Main Street. The cafe where Ginny worked could barely hold six people comfortably, but what looked like a dozen people spilled out the door in a messy queue. They were all dressed in some sort of formalwear and chatting as if they knew each other.
Peering over the tops of the heads in front of him, he tried to make out the figures inside the front windows. The shop was just as full as the footpath, with various hats and bouffants obscuring Harry’s view of the cash register. He did think he saw a shortish person rushing around behind the counter.
Politely as he could, Harry nudged his way through the group of smartly dressed people. Navigating the rickety tables and full skirts was no easy feat, but he made it to the back of the room without treading on anyone’s toes.
His original assertion was correct. Ginny rushed around behind the counter, moving between machines in a harassed sort of way. However, her expression brightened when she caught sight of him behind the pastry display.
“You…” Harry tensed as he realized the bloke waiting in front of the till was watching him with a glare. Probably because he thought Harry was trying to skip the queue. “You okay?”
“Massive wedding up the street,” She muttered as she refilled a kettle.
“Do you need help?”
“I already called the owner,” Ginny wiped her forehead on the back of her hand. “She’s in Brighton on Holiday and the closing guy is a complete flake. Never answers my messages.”
Harry made his decision in less than a second. Grabbing a spare apron from the hook, he threw it over his head. “What can I do?”
He was put in charge of the kettle. He tossed milk, sugar, and tea bags into takeaway cups without truly measuring. But it helped. That left Ginny in charge of the coffees and the espresso machine which was definitely out of his area of expertise. Before long, the wedding goers had dwindled by half. Then not long after that, they sent the last groomsman out the door with a carrier of cappuccinos.
“Fuck’s sake,” Ginny slumped against the sink with a sigh. “That was a fiasco.”
Harry couldn’t quite agree. He thought Ginny handled herself rather well all things considered. He hung his apron back on the hook and shot her a grin.
“So, now that they’re all sorted, I’ll have a–”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Ginny cut in.
Harry laughed and helped himself to a drip coffee instead of his usual.
“I probably broke about fifty health codes just then. Not including labor laws having you back here when you’re not on the payroll.”
Harry shrugged her off. “Did you make good tips at least?”
“Oh, that reminds me,” she rushed over to the till and reached into the jar of spare pounds and pence by the specials board. “I need to split these with you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Harry scoffed.
“I’m not!” Ginny argued, shoving a fistful of notes at him. “I’d still be making that smarmy bloke’s triple-shot, heavy cream, half soy, light foam, sugar free vanilla whatever if it weren’t for you!”
“I’m not taking your money,” he replied firmly.
Her shoulders slumped with an agitated huff and she dropped the quid back into the jar. “Well, I owe you one, anyway.”
He gazed at her hopefully. “Treacle scone?”
Ginny snorted, but immediately grabbed her tongs. Harry sipped his coffee while she warmed it in the oven, then served the pastry up on one of the antique plates.
“There you are,” she handed it over. “A well-earned treat.”
Harry set his coffee aside and went to take it from her, but even after it was in his hand, she didn’t let go. Ginny stared up at him with an indiscernible look on her face. It was like gratitude, and apprehension and determination all in one.
In one fluid movement, she pushed up onto her toes and pressed a light kiss to Harry’s cheek.
There was no other way to describe it—as her closeness invaded his senses and her lips connected with his skin, a deranged lunacy took over and he turned his head just enough to catch her mouth with his. It lasted maybe two heartbeats before Ginny’s sharp intake of breath brought reality crashing down around him.
They broke apart and she gaped at him with wide eyes. Harry panicked.
“Oh, fucking hell. Oh shit, I’m so sorry.”
“Wha–” she began breathlessly. “What for?”
“I shouldn’t have done that,” his sentences were fragmented, just half formed thoughts said in a rush. “You probably think I’m– and Ron will– Christ, you have a boyfriend–”
Ginny blinked several times in quick succession. “No, I haven’t. I broke it off a weeks ago.”
“You–” The tension in Harry’s chest morphed from dread to hope. “You didn’t mention…”
“I didn’t know it mattered.”
“Didn’t know it–” He vaguely understood he was only repeating her statement just to buy himself time. Because from his point of view, nothing else had mattered more. Once his brain processed this dissonance, however, he lunged forward, caught her face in his hands, and kissed her again.
written for @ginnystrophyhusband june microfics. our coffee shop au now has a title: magic doesn’t last! (this one got away from me a lil bit, don’t punish me for the word count)
Harry shrugged out of his anorak and slumped into a chair near the cash register. Ginny wasn’t behind the counter; he figured she was in the back restocking, or doing some other barista duty required of her during the time between customers.
He’d arrived a bit earlier than usual this Sunday to find a completely empty café. He hadn’t set out an hour ahead of his self-determined schedule for any one reason. Except that he wanted to see her. But Harry wasn’t up to being honest with himself at the moment, so he just chalked it up to the bad weather. And not wanting it to get worse the longer he waited.
Despite his standard issue raincoat, he’d still gotten soaked on the walk from the bus stop—to the point that water dripped and dribbled down from his hair. It dampened his collar and overall contributed to the minor inconvenience that felt like a true nuisance.
After fidgeting in his seat for a moment or two, he stood quickly and approached the service station to grab some extra napkins. As he patted dry the nape of his neck, Ginny charged through the curtain that kept the back room hidden.
Harry took her in and froze in mild astonishment.
Ginny’s hair—that had been obscenely long and typically pulled back in a high ponytail for the entire time he’d known her—was now chopped in a straight line even with her chin. The effect was bewitching. The arch of her brow had an elegant curve to it that he’d never noticed before, her lips looked fuller and glistened a darker shade of mauve, and her eyes were brighter than he had ever seen them.
Upon further inspection however, he realized the flint in her irises was poorly disguised fury.
“Hi,” Harry said lamely.
Ginny huffed unintelligibly and began dumping coffee beans into the giant receptacle at the top of her espresso machine.
“You cut your hair,” he continued, unable to fully understand what exactly he was saying. Or why. She obviously knew she’d cut it. It wasn’t like he was breaking the news to her.
“It looks–“ Harry fumbled for a descriptor that did the full countenance of her justice. “Good.”
He inwardly cringed.
“See!” Ginny answered angrily. “Now that’s a normal reaction. ‘You cut your hair. Look’s good.’”
Harry felt his lack of creativity sounded worse the second time around, but she seemed pleased enough. Trying not to dwell on it, he instead attempted to follow the explanation of her indignation. It was difficult though, he kept getting distracted by the new angles he was discovering in her face.
“Not ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Or ‘You didn’t want to talk about it ahead of time?’ Who the fuck does he think he is? It’s my hair. Why in Christ’s sake should he have an opinion?”
“Sorry… Who?”
“Dea–“ Ginny stopped herself and turned the weight of her full glare on Harry. “My dickhead of a boyfriend.”
Harry’s teeth clenched together. “Oh.”
“I mean, sure, if i had really planned on something this drastic I might have mentioned it. But it was spur of the moment, you know? I was sitting in that stupid chair, staring at myself in the mirror, thinking about the interviews next week, and I… I panicked.”
Harry blinked. “What interviews?”
“Oh…er,” Ginny ducked her head and murmured, “Introductory interviews. At The Guardian.”
“You got the spot!?” He practically cackled, his face splitting into a wide grin.
“No,” she cut in quickly, but her underlying glee was poorly disguised. “It’s not official yet. So don’t you dare jinx it!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he agreed.
As Ginny switched from replenishing the coffee beans to brewing them, Harry didn’t even try to even out his expression. A heated bloom of pride spread out from the center of his chest. He of course knew she was brilliant, so he supposed it was only a matter of time before the rest of the world figured it out too.
“I was just trying to look more polished. Less like a farm girl and more like an actual professional.” She shot him a pleading little wince. “And it wasn’t like I kept this big change from Dean intentionally. But now he keeps messaging and calling and acting like a kicked puppy because ‘I didn’t care enough to include him in my decisions.’”
Harry went back to drying his neck, keeping his eyes on his shoes and offering, “I’m sure you guys will work it out.”
Of course they would. Because the universe was conspiring against him in increasingly absurd ways.
Ginny didn’t agree or disagree with that assertion, but coward that he was, Harry didn’t look up for a good long while. The sound of espresso drips and steamed milk were the only thing that broke the heavy silence.
“Here you go,” she said finally, sliding a mug across the butcher block. “On the house.” At Harry’s bewildered expression she finished, “For being the first person to compliment my new hair.”
He squinted incredulously. “Is that all it takes to get free stuff around here? If I tell you it looks really good can I get a scone?”
Ginny rolled her eyes with a laugh, and began wiping down a perfectly clean counter. Harry didn’t think he imagined the flush of pink at the tops of her cheeks.
written for @ginnystrophyhusband june microfics (same coffee shop au as before, and maybe we will hang out in this story for a bit??)
“He didn’t.” Harry stared across the counter in disbelief.
“He absolutely did,” Ginny deadpanned while steaming a measured portion of milk.
Harry laughed so loud the only other occupied table in the café turned to stare at him. He could hardly drum up the self-consciousness to care. The story was far too absurd, and Ginny’s way of telling it far too enthralling.
“Ask him about it sometime,” she continued with a wicked grin. “I’m fairly certain it’s Ron’s proudest moment.”
Shaking his head (and holding in more laughter), Harry watched her brew his standard order as the warm, mushy feeling in his chest spread out to his limbs. However, this calm was quickly overtaken by heart-pounding anticipation as Ginny set down the cup and saucer in front of him. The top of his latte was adorned with a perfect foam heart.
“So,” she leaned forward onto the bartop. “Treacle Scone with your coffee today, Captain?”
Harry groaned at his new title. “Ron told you?”
She shrugged, her eyes going soft around the edges. “He figured someone outside the Academy ought to know.”
Harry fiddled with the curved handle of his mug, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. There was no doubt that Ron had the best of intentions. That he was only sharing Harry’s promotion of rank as one friend to another.
Because Harry and Ginny were friends.
Just friends.
Harry was painfully aware of that particular fact. He was also tortuously cognizant that Ron would probably deck him in the nose if he ever found out Harry wanted more.
“He’s very proud of you.” Ginny’s smile was genuine, and her tone had lost all trace of teasing.
Eyes snapping up to meet hers, Harry took in her expression with an ache he’d hardly allowed himself to feel. The amber golden glow of the shop sconces contrasted perfectly with the glimmer of copper hair cascading from Ginny’s ponytail, and a little wriggle of utter panic sliced through him as their gazes held.
Even that wasn’t enough for Harry to look away, though. Something was passing between them, he was sure of it. With each second of prolonged silence the surface level connection—that he’d convinced himself was one-sided—deepened. Tangibly. Like he was getting pulled into her orbit in a way that couldn’t be undone.
The bells hanging from the front door knob jingled, Ginny pulled in a sharp breath, and Harry blinked, returning his attention to his coffee.
He sucked down a messy sip, but the burn of the liquid grounded him somehow. Lifted the fog of whatever spell she’d put him under.
Ginny was stepping away, moving toward the till to take the new customers order. But as she went, she quipped over her shoulder, “Ron also said he can’t believe someone with your abysmal eyesight has made it so far in life.”
Harry snorted, choked on his drink, then proceeded to have a coughing fit for the next minute and a half.
If you’re up for it - i'm not used to seeing you with clothes on.
Harry had no desire to attend yet another Ministry function, but the tone in Robards' voice made it abundantly clear that if he skipped tonight's he would be suffering desk duty so long that he wouldn't even remember what being in the field was like.
But that didn't mean Harry had to actively participate. Which basically resulted in him sulking in the background along the wall, using those stealth skills the Aurors had trained him so diligently on to avoid small talk and intrusive pawing by one of the desperate singles. He shook off Sirius's talks about his lack of social skills (whose fault was that when he had only ever been homeschooled and hidden away until it was time to fulfill a fucked up fate).
Letting his guard down momentarily, he closed his eyes, letting his mind drift back to a few nights again. He'd learned far too early (finding the hidden stash of fan mail) that being the Boy Who Lived meant there would be no shortage of willing participants. He wasn't one for intimacy (Sirius gave him a hard enough time about it), but that didn't mean he didn't have needs. With a good amount of lubrication and a fair dash of loneliness, he found himself at a bar known for discretion.
That was all fine and dandy.
What he hadn't expected was how much that night stuck with him.
Strange enough, she'd been funny. Her quips making his lips twitch in an unfamiliar way. It had been surprisingly easy when they slipped into one of the many rooms upstairs.
A burning ache rose within him. The door had shut, and he had reached out for her, that reckless smirk, the way her eyelashes fluttered at his touch. Hand wound in silky hair. He swore he could still taste her—
His eyes snapped open at the sound of giggling and heels to his right. Shite, the unfortunate owner of said noise was Romilda Vane, the new secretary in the office who would not relent on her advances, no matter how bluntly Harry avoided them.
He ducked to his left, weaving through the crowd. It'd been an hour, and Robards couldn't say he hadn't shown his face.
Harry turned the corner.
"Oof!"
The wind was knocked out of him by some blur of gold and red.
"Sorry," he said, hands automatically reaching out to steady the blur. He was already taking another step toward the exit when a stray glance had him breathless for an entirely different reason.
The redhead pushed the curtain of her hair out of her face. "No, I..." she trailed off when they made eye contact. "Oh."
He was staring. She had disappeared before the morning light crept through the windows, fulfilling her promise of "no fuss." And for the first time, he'd wished differently. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about her, about the things he wanted to say, if he ever saw her again. He opened his mouth.
"I'm not used to seeing you with your clothes on," she said.
Harry burst out laughing, the tension in his gut unwinding. She grinned, looking tall and proud despite her small stature.
"A welcome change?"
"Hm," she said, her eyes appraising him. "I'm not so sure about that."
He swallowed hard.
"Heading somewhere?" she asked, her eyes following his original path toward the door.
"I suppose it depends. Would you like me to?" His hand was still on her waist, not ready to break contact.
His heart pounded hard at the thought that she might be here with someone.
She smiled, which seemed answer enough until she rose onto her toes. Her lips brushed against his, soft and warm, like sunshine breaking through the clouds.
She eased away, and only then did he realize he had pulled her close.
"That doesn't sound so bad... Are you sure you like these clothes though?" Her hands smoothed out the front of his robes.
"No promises." He grinned at her stupidly.
Before she could respond, a distinctly male and stunned voice, and she turned toward it. "Ginny!"
Ginny...so that was her name.
Harry followed her gaze, surprised to meet the shocked expression on Weasley's face a few paces away. Ron, he thought his name was.
"That'd be my insufferable brother." Her eyes shined with mischief, holding out her hand. "Still game?"
He took it without hesitation. "You bet."
As they walked toward her stupified brother, she asked, casual, "What did you say your name was?" She knew full well they hadn't exchanged names. His grip tightened.
-a book written by Minerva McGonagall co-authored by Hermione Granger and Molly Weasley, introduction written by Remus Lupin, includes excerpts from the prequel “Harry, calm down.” written by Ginny Weasley.
Enjoy the feisty counter argument “HARRY, YESSSS” written by Ron Weasley and co-authored by Sirius Black
written for the @ladiesofhpfest
Ginny Weasley Monthly Mini
Hexes took conviction.
That wasn’t something taught in school. Flitwick hardly had a lecture series on how to bully classmates. No, this was something Ginny had to learn all on her own. It wasn’t like dark magic. She didn’t have to give a part of herself over to make it effective, but she definitely had to put belief behind it. That, she found, was when a hex turned from annoying to debilitating. When a mere nuisance could become a calamity. Putting every feeling of irritation, aversion, dislike, contempt, hatred, into the spell could---and would---manifest in her target ten-fold.
And Ginny didn’t have use for things that were only a minor inconvenience. She had no desire to throw hexes around without a purpose. If she was going to hex someone, they were going to deserve it. She wanted them running in the opposite direction. She wanted it to leave a mark.
Only not enough of a mark to be sent to the infirmary. She had no desire to be in detention every other day. She wasn’t the twins.
After a few trials and test runs, the Bat Bogey Hex became her retribution of choice. And soon, Ginny’s convictions went from calamitous to infamous. So much so, that she only had to glare at someone the exact right way before they backed down.
It was a bit intoxicating, to be honest. To wield such a reputation. And Ginny liked to think she didn’t bestow her signature punishment on anyone who didn’t have it coming.
(Like Zacharias Smith. The git.)
Which was why Ginny, in all her renown, felt completely equipped to stand in her Defense Against the Dark Arts class, look at her new professor---a Death Eater that had turned a school hallway into a battleground less than three months prior---and say “No. I won’t.”
Because a Bat Bogey Hex wasn’t just a Bat Bogey Hex, was it?
It seems like an obvious one but maybe you'll surprise us
Bed Sharing + I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On
The Weasley family reunion happens once every twenty-five years and the Burrow is packed full of people. To the point of bursting. Everyone is doubling up in rooms, on the sofa, in tents out in the back garden. That's where most of the youngest generation end up, Harry included.
And he'd just drifted off when he felt the mattress beneath him dip with the weight of another person.
"Budge up--" a soft voice murmurs in the quiet.
"Wha--" Harry slurs. Then he curses as Ginny snuggles deeper beneath his blankets. "What are you doing?"
"Going to sleep," she answers pragmatically. "What are you doing?"
Harry hisses as her fingers slip beneath the hem of his sleep shirt. "Wondering who is going to kill me first when they find you in here: your mum or Ron."
Ginny scoffs and her fingers work in small spirals along the waistband of his pyjamas.
"Ginny-"
"Mmm?"
"Stop."
"Stop what?"
"You know exactly what you're doing."
"Sorry," she sniggers. "Didn't mean to turn you on."
Rotten holiday, Valentine’s Day.
First of all, the colors: garish pinks and in-your-face reds that have no business being that bright.
Secondly, the décor: explosions of hearts, and cherubs, and flowers. Good god, the flowers. There was no way Professor Sprout needed to grow that many bouquets and blossoms except for the express need to annoy him.
Thirdly, the giggling. Harry had started taking secret passageways completely out of the way of his classes just to avoid the titter from various groups that seemed hell bent on forcing him into some form of self-disfigurement. Mainly, the urge to shove his quill, pointy end first, straight into his forehead to put himself out of his misery.
But fourthly, the couples. What on earth could be so special about the first two weeks in February that every pair of boyfriend and girlfriend had to parade through the halls hand in hand. Or more nauseatingly, hide down deserted corridors locked mouth to mouth.
In short, Harry was damn near convinced that everyone in the school had lost their minds.
In Moordale they don’t say, “I love you,” they say, “There was this moment last term where I thought that maybe you liked me... and I liked you back,” and that’s beautiful.
