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 â 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 â 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 â that particular nod he had, economical and genuine, the one that meant he actually meant it â 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 â some distance recovered, professional, oblivious â 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 â not quite a frown, not quite the opposite â 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 â 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 â Neville, who was having some difficulty â 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.
So apparently they cut this part of the movie. Why you ask? Because Yates is an ASS! How long would this have taken? It wouldâve added more to the couple.Â
In the first book, Harry Potter and the Sorcererâs Stone, the first name that Harry hears from the Weasley family isâŠGinnyâs!
In the last book, Harry potter and the Deathly Hallows, the last person Harry interacts with is⊠again Ginny!
This might seem silly, but it does mean something to me. Before knowing Hermioneâs name or even Ronâs, he knew Ginnyâs. And at the very end of the whole journey, the last person he talks to is Ginny.
People disregard Ginny in the books because she isnât part of the golden trio, but in the end she becomes his wife. The person heâs decided to spend the rest of his life with. You know why? BECAUSE SHEâS A BAD-ASS, THATâS WHY!
Sorry I randomly disappeared, yâall. I decided to speed run life and bought a dog and a house in the span of a month while Iâm still struggling through my masterâs (???). Send help.
I still have a lot of lovely prompts that I plan to answer, but in the meantime have this NSFW hinny?? I wonât pretend this wasnât written as a form of blatant escapism from the devastating horror show of the inauguration.
There isnât any problem with Dean.
Heâs kind. Heâs thoughtful. Heâs made an effort to get to know her friends. He regularly doodles little lovely masterpieces and slips them into her textbooks to discover when she needs a pick-me-up from endless revision. Heâs objectively fit, and tall, and an excellent snog. He even smells good.
There isnât any problem at all with Dean, and thatâs the fucking problem.
NSFW below the cutâŠ
Heâs done nothing wrong.
Ginnyâs done nothing strictly wrong either. She sits with him at lunch and laughs at his jokes and writes him funny captions for all his doodles and that has to count for something, doesnât it? Sheâs tried. The Wizengamot could call a hearing and find her innocent of any wrongdoing where Deanâs concerned. A textbook perfect girlfriend, not a toe out of line.
Itâs not much of an endorsement, really: technically innocent by the letter of the law, but guilty, guilty, guilty in the spirit of it.
The Harry dreams had started way back over the summer. Sheâd rationalized it to herself at the time: they were spending day after sun-soaked day together, after all. Perhaps her subconscious was lazy, plucking the only unrelated male from the vicinity and shoving him into the starring role of her nightly fantasies. It didnât mean anything. Sheâd return to school and then Dean would take his rightful place on the stage, and all would be well.
Only he hadnât.
Sheâd close her eyes in her dormitory four-poster to sleep and there heâd be, waiting on the inside of her eyelids: Harry. Messy hair, startling green eyes that pierced her, that crooked smirk, his handsâŠ
Harry was fit, that was all. Even an objective person (who liked her own boyfriend, thank you very much) could admit that. And sheâd fancied him before. Her brain was poised to think of him like that, all dashing and handsome and hers. It was only rational that her brain would cast him as the person to snog her passionately against a wall or on a broomstick or in the locker roomâŠ
It didnât mean anything.
Sheâd redoubled her conviction to nurture her feelings for Dean. There was nothing wrong with Dean. Dean was a lovely boyfriend. She liked him. And well, if she didnât quite want him⊠she wanted to want him. And Ginny was in the business of getting what she wanted.
But as the last leaves fell from the twitching branches of the Whomping Willow, something changed. Some wild, vain, impossible, consuming idea hit her over the head, tied her up, stunned her, and hurled her through the Floo, never to return the same again.
What if Harry fancies me�
Heâd planted the seed in her garden and then sheâd sat back and watched it sprout and infest the whole damn thing, never allowing the truly damning word â back â to cling to the end of that question.
Theyâre at Quidditch practice, and she thinks her broom develops a tail lag due to the weight of his penetrating gaze.
She brushes against him at Christmas and he flinches like sheâs burned him.
He asks her to join them in Hogsmeade.
Hermione informs her smugly three times that heâs asked about her and Dean.
He slips in a wry joke at dinner and catches her eye deliberately, like he wants her to know the comment was for her benefit, like hers the only laugh he cared to coax out.
The dreams get worse. Increasingly intimate and romantic and real. In the comforting realm of the moral grey area sheâs dreamed up, Harryâs hands lift her skirt, his lips crash into hers, she unbuttons his shirt and he pulls off her shoes, eyes seeking her out, burning, tender, whispering all the things sheâd always wished heâd thought in her ear.
She wonders vaguely whether Harry knows. Whether heâd be so cruel as to covet his inexorable role as the man in her dreams, inserting himself into her waking hours so as to guarantee his return in her sleep.
What if Harry fancies me�
Well, what if? What then? She shuts the whole line of inquiry down, case closed, still clinging to innocence. If she doesnât chase the answer, she doesnât have to face interrogation. Sheâs with Dean and there isnât any problem with Dean, at all. Is she allowed to resent a relationship sheâd initiated, with a person whoâs exactly what sheâd professed to want?
She wakes one morning with a gasp, swearing she can still feel Harryâs hand tracing over her upper thigh. The wave of pleasure crests and crashes into a shoreline made of guilt.
She canât control what - who - she dreams about; she has no active part in the betrayal sheâs conspiring in. Sheâs done nothing wrong, but she might deserve conviction anyway. The Wizengamot has yet to vote.
Harry joins her in the Common Room that evening, looking indecently like he had in her dreams the night before.
âHey, Ron said you might need to borrow Hedwig?â
âRight,â she says, dragging her mind from the feel of his fingers to reality, which finds him standing handsomely beside her table. âYeah, if you donât mind, that would be brill. I wanted to send a letter to Tonks, but Hermione already borrowed Pig.â
âCourse, Hedwig could do for a fly.â
âLovely, I owe you six goals in our next match.â
âSeven and weâre square.â
âDeal.â
They smile at each other, stupidly. His question answered, thereâs no good reason for him to linger, but he slides into the seat across from her. Somewhere, members of the Wizengamot raise their eyebrows and make a pointed note in her file.
âHas Errol officially retired, then?â
Ginny shrugs. âFrom international travel. He, ah⊠bungled a letter from Fleurâs parents.â
Harry raises his eyebrows. âHe did?â
Ginny bites her lip, and if sheâs not mistaken, Harryâs eyes flit down. She can feel her heartbeat in her wrist. âYeah, or well, thatâs what Mum claims happened. Poor bird, dunno what got into him. Ripped up their French cooking instructions to shredsâŠâ
Harry barks out a laugh. âDid he? Your mum mustâve been devastated.â
Ginnyâs smile broadens. âShe was really looking forward to cooking something âedibleâ as Fleur so kindly put it⊠A damn shame it got destroyed.â
Harry shakes his head, green eyes twinkling with amusement. âAnd poor Errol took the blame?â
Ginny adopts an expression of innocence. âHeâs very old, Harry. These things do happen.â
He laughs. And then, with a hint of something like admiration: âYouâre too good at that, you know. I know youâre lying but I still want to believe you.â
Ginnyâs heart does a funny little twist in her chest, but she expertly ignores it. âWhat can I say, years of practice with Fred and George.â For some reason, sheâs compelled to smirk mischievously and toss him a wink for good measure. âOr maybe Iâm just a natural fucking liar.â
The Wizengamot in her head can shove off.
Harry spits out another laugh. âDangerous, that.â
âOh yeah?â she says, smirking, âWhyâs that?â
Harry runs a hand through his messy hair, and she might be full of shit but she thinks his cheeks are tinged a bit pink. âOh, I dunno, what could be dangerous about you?â he says, his usual dry tone firmly in place. âExpert charmer and expert liar.â
Ginnyâs heart takes a large thunderous beat, and then stops entirely. âWhat?â she splutters. âCharmer?â
âNot likeâ not like, in a bad way,â Harry rushes to add. âJust, well⊠everyone likes you.â
Ginnyâs not sure whether she should be offended by this portrait heâs painting of her, but sheâs so distracted by the implication of it - that she possesses some innate ability to bring people in - that he might find her charming - that he might include himself in that everyone - that she canât sort through her emotions quickly enough to find indignation.
âNow whoâs the fucking liar?â she says, and he must hear the slight quiver in her voice. âEveryone does not like me.â
âCome off it,â Harry says, like she must be taking the mick. âYeah, alright, maybe Malfoy wonât be sending you a Christmas card, but you know what I mean. YouâreâŠâ
He gestures to her vaguely.
Ginny snorts, feeling very warm. âA charming liar?â
Harry laughs, and his eyes sweep across her reddened face. âNo. This has all come out wrong.â
âIâll say,â she teases. âBecause what I take from this is that you think I belong in Slytherin.â
âWhat?â Harry yelps. âBloody hell, no! I just meanâŠâ
âYes?â She prods, enjoying how flustered heâs become.
âYouâreâ I just meantââ
âSpit it out.â
âIâŠâ Harry struggles, before giving in. âVoldemort can get in line, because this is how I die.â
Ginny canât contain the cackle that escapes. âAlright, fine. Youâre off the hook. Iâll take the compliment that Iâm sure was buried very deeply in thereââ
ââit was, I swearââ
ââand promise not to lie to you.â
âGood,â Harry says firmly. âBecause with that face, Iâd believe you.â
The Wizengamot in her head coughs loudly, and Ginny feels caught out, exposed. Harry looks a bit flushed, but heâs holding her gaze, like he wants her to ask what the hell he meant by that face, but Ginny canât ask, not without firmly planting a toe on the other side of a line she canât uncross.
So she laughs and changes the subject to Quidditch.
Later that night, behind the curtains of her four-poster and the blanket of a Silencing Charm, Ginny finally reaches a verdict.
She doesnât wait for sleep to take her; she goes to him intentionally, eyes closed but wide awake. Her fingers trace across her upper thigh, her breast, and she imagines theyâre his. She reaches down, down, gently, as she recalls all the things theyâve done in her dreams and the tinge of pink on his cheeks as he called her charming. She breathes heavily, building up, up. She can feel his lips on hers in a messy kiss, hair soft and wild, that face. She twists a grip on her blazing bedsheets, calling out a name that isnât her boyfriendâs as it all comes crashing down.
Afterward, she lays there, breath heavy. Well, she thinks, and looks back at the line between thought and action sheâs just leapt across.
The verdict is finally in: Dean Thomas is found irrevocably innocent, while Ginny is guilty as sin.
Sorry I randomly disappeared, yâall. I decided to speed run life and bought a dog and a house in the span of a month while Iâm still struggling through my masterâs (???). Send help.
I still have a lot of lovely prompts that I plan to answer, but in the meantime have this NSFW hinny?? I wonât pretend this wasnât written as a form of blatant escapism from the devastating horror show of the inauguration.
There isnât any problem with Dean.
Heâs kind. Heâs thoughtful. Heâs made an effort to get to know her friends. He regularly doodles little lovely masterpieces and slips them into her textbooks to discover when she needs a pick-me-up from endless revision. Heâs objectively fit, and tall, and an excellent snog. He even smells good.
There isnât any problem at all with Dean, and thatâs the fucking problem.
NSFW below the cutâŠ
Heâs done nothing wrong.
Ginnyâs done nothing strictly wrong either. She sits with him at lunch and laughs at his jokes and writes him funny captions for all his doodles and that has to count for something, doesnât it? Sheâs tried. The Wizengamot could call a hearing and find her innocent of any wrongdoing where Deanâs concerned. A textbook perfect girlfriend, not a toe out of line.
Itâs not much of an endorsement, really: technically innocent by the letter of the law, but guilty, guilty, guilty in the spirit of it.
The Harry dreams had started way back over the summer. Sheâd rationalized it to herself at the time: they were spending day after sun-soaked day together, after all. Perhaps her subconscious was lazy, plucking the only unrelated male from the vicinity and shoving him into the starring role of her nightly fantasies. It didnât mean anything. Sheâd return to school and then Dean would take his rightful place on the stage, and all would be well.
Only he hadnât.
Sheâd close her eyes in her dormitory four-poster to sleep and there heâd be, waiting on the inside of her eyelids: Harry. Messy hair, startling green eyes that pierced her, that crooked smirk, his handsâŠ
Harry was fit, that was all. Even an objective person (who liked her own boyfriend, thank you very much) could admit that. And sheâd fancied him before. Her brain was poised to think of him like that, all dashing and handsome and hers. It was only rational that her brain would cast him as the person to snog her passionately against a wall or on a broomstick or in the locker roomâŠ
It didnât mean anything.
Sheâd redoubled her conviction to nurture her feelings for Dean. There was nothing wrong with Dean. Dean was a lovely boyfriend. She liked him. And well, if she didnât quite want him⊠she wanted to want him. And Ginny was in the business of getting what she wanted.
But as the last leaves fell from the twitching branches of the Whomping Willow, something changed. Some wild, vain, impossible, consuming idea hit her over the head, tied her up, stunned her, and hurled her through the Floo, never to return the same again.
What if Harry fancies me�
Heâd planted the seed in her garden and then sheâd sat back and watched it sprout and infest the whole damn thing, never allowing the truly damning word â back â to cling to the end of that question.
Theyâre at Quidditch practice, and she thinks her broom develops a tail lag due to the weight of his penetrating gaze.
She brushes against him at Christmas and he flinches like sheâs burned him.
He asks her to join them in Hogsmeade.
Hermione informs her smugly three times that heâs asked about her and Dean.
He slips in a wry joke at dinner and catches her eye deliberately, like he wants her to know the comment was for her benefit, like hers the only laugh he cared to coax out.
The dreams get worse. Increasingly intimate and romantic and real. In the comforting realm of the moral grey area sheâs dreamed up, Harryâs hands lift her skirt, his lips crash into hers, she unbuttons his shirt and he pulls off her shoes, eyes seeking her out, burning, tender, whispering all the things sheâd always wished heâd thought in her ear.
She wonders vaguely whether Harry knows. Whether heâd be so cruel as to covet his inexorable role as the man in her dreams, inserting himself into her waking hours so as to guarantee his return in her sleep.
What if Harry fancies me�
Well, what if? What then? She shuts the whole line of inquiry down, case closed, still clinging to innocence. If she doesnât chase the answer, she doesnât have to face interrogation. Sheâs with Dean and there isnât any problem with Dean, at all. Is she allowed to resent a relationship sheâd initiated, with a person whoâs exactly what sheâd professed to want?
She wakes one morning with a gasp, swearing she can still feel Harryâs hand tracing over her upper thigh. The wave of pleasure crests and crashes into a shoreline made of guilt.
She canât control what - who - she dreams about; she has no active part in the betrayal sheâs conspiring in. Sheâs done nothing wrong, but she might deserve conviction anyway. The Wizengamot has yet to vote.
Harry joins her in the Common Room that evening, looking indecently like he had in her dreams the night before.
âHey, Ron said you might need to borrow Hedwig?â
âRight,â she says, dragging her mind from the feel of his fingers to reality, which finds him standing handsomely beside her table. âYeah, if you donât mind, that would be brill. I wanted to send a letter to Tonks, but Hermione already borrowed Pig.â
âCourse, Hedwig could do for a fly.â
âLovely, I owe you six goals in our next match.â
âSeven and weâre square.â
âDeal.â
They smile at each other, stupidly. His question answered, thereâs no good reason for him to linger, but he slides into the seat across from her. Somewhere, members of the Wizengamot raise their eyebrows and make a pointed note in her file.
âHas Errol officially retired, then?â
Ginny shrugs. âFrom international travel. He, ah⊠bungled a letter from Fleurâs parents.â
Harry raises his eyebrows. âHe did?â
Ginny bites her lip, and if sheâs not mistaken, Harryâs eyes flit down. She can feel her heartbeat in her wrist. âYeah, or well, thatâs what Mum claims happened. Poor bird, dunno what got into him. Ripped up their French cooking instructions to shredsâŠâ
Harry barks out a laugh. âDid he? Your mum mustâve been devastated.â
Ginnyâs smile broadens. âShe was really looking forward to cooking something âedibleâ as Fleur so kindly put it⊠A damn shame it got destroyed.â
Harry shakes his head, green eyes twinkling with amusement. âAnd poor Errol took the blame?â
Ginny adopts an expression of innocence. âHeâs very old, Harry. These things do happen.â
He laughs. And then, with a hint of something like admiration: âYouâre too good at that, you know. I know youâre lying but I still want to believe you.â
Ginnyâs heart does a funny little twist in her chest, but she expertly ignores it. âWhat can I say, years of practice with Fred and George.â For some reason, sheâs compelled to smirk mischievously and toss him a wink for good measure. âOr maybe Iâm just a natural fucking liar.â
The Wizengamot in her head can shove off.
Harry spits out another laugh. âDangerous, that.â
âOh yeah?â she says, smirking, âWhyâs that?â
Harry runs a hand through his messy hair, and she might be full of shit but she thinks his cheeks are tinged a bit pink. âOh, I dunno, what could be dangerous about you?â he says, his usual dry tone firmly in place. âExpert charmer and expert liar.â
Ginnyâs heart takes a large thunderous beat, and then stops entirely. âWhat?â she splutters. âCharmer?â
âNot likeâ not like, in a bad way,â Harry rushes to add. âJust, well⊠everyone likes you.â
Ginnyâs not sure whether she should be offended by this portrait heâs painting of her, but sheâs so distracted by the implication of it - that she possesses some innate ability to bring people in - that he might find her charming - that he might include himself in that everyone - that she canât sort through her emotions quickly enough to find indignation.
âNow whoâs the fucking liar?â she says, and he must hear the slight quiver in her voice. âEveryone does not like me.â
âCome off it,â Harry says, like she must be taking the mick. âYeah, alright, maybe Malfoy wonât be sending you a Christmas card, but you know what I mean. YouâreâŠâ
He gestures to her vaguely.
Ginny snorts, feeling very warm. âA charming liar?â
Harry laughs, and his eyes sweep across her reddened face. âNo. This has all come out wrong.â
âIâll say,â she teases. âBecause what I take from this is that you think I belong in Slytherin.â
âWhat?â Harry yelps. âBloody hell, no! I just meanâŠâ
âYes?â She prods, enjoying how flustered heâs become.
âYouâreâ I just meantââ
âSpit it out.â
âIâŠâ Harry struggles, before giving in. âVoldemort can get in line, because this is how I die.â
Ginny canât contain the cackle that escapes. âAlright, fine. Youâre off the hook. Iâll take the compliment that Iâm sure was buried very deeply in thereââ
ââit was, I swearââ
ââand promise not to lie to you.â
âGood,â Harry says firmly. âBecause with that face, Iâd believe you.â
The Wizengamot in her head coughs loudly, and Ginny feels caught out, exposed. Harry looks a bit flushed, but heâs holding her gaze, like he wants her to ask what the hell he meant by that face, but Ginny canât ask, not without firmly planting a toe on the other side of a line she canât uncross.
So she laughs and changes the subject to Quidditch.
Later that night, behind the curtains of her four-poster and the blanket of a Silencing Charm, Ginny finally reaches a verdict.
She doesnât wait for sleep to take her; she goes to him intentionally, eyes closed but wide awake. Her fingers trace across her upper thigh, her breast, and she imagines theyâre his. She reaches down, down, gently, as she recalls all the things theyâve done in her dreams and the tinge of pink on his cheeks as he called her charming. She breathes heavily, building up, up. She can feel his lips on hers in a messy kiss, hair soft and wild, that face. She twists a grip on her blazing bedsheets, calling out a name that isnât her boyfriendâs as it all comes crashing down.
Afterward, she lays there, breath heavy. Well, she thinks, and looks back at the line between thought and action sheâs just leapt across.
The verdict is finally in: Dean Thomas is found irrevocably innocent, while Ginny is guilty as sin.
The reason why I think Harry thought of Ginny before he went to die is because she helped him relief the weight of the world on his shoulders, especially with her lips.
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