“And why are you asking, anyway?” Ginny grounds out, roughly shrugging out of her coat and tossing it over her discarded bag. So much for this outfit. So much for trying. So much for fooling herself and sweating right through her bra and blouse and panty hose, fuck. “What's it to you?”
Harry’s face pulls strangely, and it seems he's fighting with himself as he gives in tightly, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“A first!” Ginny scoffs, rounding the desk and dropping into her chair. “I'm fine. Better than fine, actually.”
was written by @brightlybound! 0% of you were able to unmask this author
The Pearl Room proved to be the most difficult room. Also, @justalittleconfusing 's @vaffyu decoy must have worked because over 1 in 4 guessers in this room went to her. Great job @brightlybound you stayed safely masked until the end of the ball.
The Boy Who Lived is a renowned art thief and rumored phantom. Except he gets caught basically red-handed stealing a priceless relic from the The Courtauld Gallery. His only hope to wriggle free is convincing the one (1) witness--a junior curator who was not supposed to be there, who also happens to be his childhood best mate's kid sister--into not testifying. In a last ditch effort at freedom, he proposes to her, hoping to ignite a defense of spousal privilege. to his immense amazement, Ginny accepts. But only if Harry lets her in on the score.
A hinny microfic for the April 2025 prompt: Dandelion, 360 words
She's blocking out the sunlight so that darkness blooms behind his eyelids, and when Harry opens his eyes to look at her, he swears her freckles are constellations.
"Comfortable?" Ginny asks, grinning down at him.
She's half on top of him, head propped in her hand and elbow digging into his sternum. He's the very opposite of comfortable, but he'd only move if she wanted him to.
"I'm always comfortable with you on top," he replies cheekily.
She dissolves into laughter, the best thing he's ever heard, and when she rolls off him, he follows, drawn to her like a magnet. He hovers over her so as not to crush her, takes in her wild, mused hair–half from wind, half from his eager hands–and the marks he's left on her slender neck.
Harry inhales sharply, very aware that she's wearing a skirt, that she would probably let him push it up her hips, that she might even beg him for it.
"Now?" he says, his brain whirring and dangerously overcome with all things Ginny. "Even better, I reckon."
She bites down on her lower lip, swollen from being in his mouth just minutes ago, and her eyes go hazy with desire. He wonders if his are a mirror image.
Before he can do something reckless, stupid, Harry kisses Ginny quickly, just a peck at the corner of her mouth, and pitches himself into a clump of dandelions at her side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Ginny throw her forearm over her face.
"You should get an award," she mutters to the clear blue sky above.
"For?" says Harry.
"Extreme Restraint in the Face of Randiness."
He snorts, and Ginny turns her head to look at him, smiling faintly from under her arm. "I'd be offended if we hadn’t only been together for six days."
Quietly, he says to her, "Imagine what we'd get into in six more."
The wind whips his words away quickly, as if he’d never uttered them, and they both go silent, lost to the same delicious fantasies
