#ginnystrophyhusband

[takeariskao3]

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 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.

[startanewdream]

~*~*~*~ex~*~*~*~*

(A Hinny Micro-oops for @ginnystrophyhusband) - DH Missing Moment

As far as Dean is concerned, Shell Cottage is a five-star hotel that he doesn't want to ever leave.

Once he'd thought inconceivable the idea of living in a place with not just one but two of Ginny's brothers, but things are surprisingly okay; no one comments anything. Ron barely looks at him, though it doesn't seem like a remaining hostility; he is always occupied with Hermione and Harry, that trio even more secretive than before. Bill Weasley is a cool guy — Dean can understand why Ginny always spoke highly of him — but they don't interact much. These days, Dean is usually in Luna's company; she is surprisingly entertaining once he learns to disregard a few comments. He can see why Ginny appreciates her so much.

Not that Ginny was a concern that had been on his mind lately — fighting for his survival really put in perspective being dumped by the girl you fancied — but the days on Shell Cottage are lazy, and he's constantly reminded of Ginny. Her brothers. Her best friend. Her boyfriend.

Harry spares him little attention, which doesn't surprise Dean; what does surprise Dean is that Harry not once sneaks away with Bill to meet Ginny. Harry always pauses whatever he's discussing with Ron and Hermione when Bill comes back from visiting his great-aunt or something, and listens to the news—but he doesn't talk about Ginny.

Which is weird. And Dean cannot help but think that he would ask about Ginny. He would risk his safety to visit his girlfriend—the girl he knows has been in trouble at Hogwarts. Luna doesn’t share much, but he knows that life at Hogwarts was just one step better than what Dean had faced on the run.

It's on a late afternoon, when he's helping with the dishes, and Fleur is looking out the window tensely as she waits for her husband's return, that he voices it out loud.

"Did Harry go with Bill?"

Fleur blinks, distracted. It's strange to remember how he once fawned over her, but now, after she tended over him, she looks so... human.

"No. Harry is outside." She indicates another window, the one with the view to the beach. Dean knows what she means; everyone has noticed how Harry isolates himself sometimes, watching the sunset on the cliffs.

"I thought he might want to go. Check on his girlfriend and all."

Fleur frows, confusion distorting her beautiful expression; then someone grabs the plates from Dean's hand.

"They've broken up," Luna tells him, and she sounds strangely reproachful. "Ginny doesn't like to talk about it."

Now Fleur's expression softens, as if she understands far more than Dean could ever; she was a Triwizard champion once, Dean remembers. She is smart.

But Dean is not, so he finds himself leaving through the backyard door and standing on the path that leads to the cliffs, though he doesn't go there. It's silly but he cannot stop feeling as if the cliffs belong to Harry. It's where he goes to think whatever thoughts that had been on his mind.

And then, as if he can feel Dean’s stare, though he is so far that he cannot even see Dean, Harry turns and stands up. There’s a faraway expression on his face that doesn’t change once he is closer and raises a hand in quiet greeting.

As he once did, Dean cannot help but size himself up against Harry. Harry was on the run as well, so he looks thin, gaunt; it should be shocking, but Dean has seen worse in the past months. Nothing impressive. One would think that being the Chosen One, Harry would be slicing You-Know-Who piece by piece by now.

“Is Bill back yet?” Harry asks when he joins Dean on the path.

“No.” Something clouds Harry’s eyes, a deep fear that he tries to hide by looking to the ocean. A weird sense of compassion floods Dean. “But it's still early. I’m sure everything is okay.”

Empty words, but Harry doesn’t comment upon it. He gives Dean a quick smile that doesn’t reach his eyes before turning back to watch the ocean below; the sun is almost down now, the last stripes of red tinting the clouds in the sky. Orangish red. The colour of Ginny’s hair—the same colour that she shares with her brothers, but somehow, watching the sky, Dean cannot think about any other Weasley at the moment.

He wonders if that’s what attracts Harry in the sunset so much—the remembrance of someone he has no right to miss anymore.

“Hum,” he mumbles, and a mirthless chuckle escapes his lips. Harry turns to him questioningly now. “Nothing, I just—I just realised we are both Ginny’s exes.”

It doesn’t sound funny at all. Harry grimaces, quiet, and Dean tries to diffuse the situation.

“I mean, if we call Michael Corner, we can start a support group for guys dumped by Ginny Weasley.”

Still not funny, but now Harry looks down, a flash of guilt on his face. Ginny doesn’t like to talk about it, Luna had told Dean.

Realisation hits him. “You dumped her?”

Harry crosses his arm, meeting Dean’s gaze unflinchingly now. “I did not dump her, we just broke up.”

“But you were perfectly happy together!” It doesn’t make sense. Sure, Dean might say that once he had been perfectly happy with Ginny, but it lasted months until things got sour. Whereas Harry and Ginny… “You went out for, what, two months?”

“Fifty-one days,” Harry answers at once, and Dean has a sudden vision of him marking sticks on a wall as if he doesn’t ever want to lose track of time, wants to experience each moment. It had been annoying, it had hurt, but Dean knew that Harry and Ginny were a thing; he had never seen them so bright before.

If Dean had that with anyone, he knows that he would never let go.

“Why?”

Harry turns to him with the look of a man that lived a thousand lives. “What could I possibly offer to her?”

It sounds cheesy, but Dean says anyway. “Your love?” Harry’s eyes widen. “You do love her, right?”

A myriad of emotions shine on Harry’s face before he fixes his stare on the ocean, now dark below them. Whatever Harry feels, he doesn't want to share.

“I want her to be safe. Even if it means—”

He doesn't finish it, but Dean can hear it anyway. Even if it means she stays with someone else. Someone like Dean.

And for a moment Dean sees it. A future without Harry in which he could be with Ginny; something stable. He could comfort her and be there once she would be ready to fall in love again.

Then guilt hits him harder than the waves break against the cliff. Harry is here talking about how he wants Ginny to be safe above all, not making plans over her dead lover. 

Maybe there is a reason Harry is the hero of the story, and Dean is just a guy who happens to be the ex-boyfriend of the hero's girlfriend.

“Shut it,” he says then. Once in a while in the stories, the hero needs advice. “This is Ginny Weasley we are talking about. That girl could defeat You-Know-Who himself if he wasn’t so smart to avoid her.”

Now his joke hits the right spot. Harry chuckles, the sound fresh in the night, and for a moment Dean sees the shadow of the joyful guy who walked hand-in-hand with Dean's ex-girlfriend.

It still hurts, but it also feels bearable. Maybe after this is over, Dean can find the story in which he is more than a footnote.

 “Luna can charm the radio like no one, she finds the most interesting tunes,” he notes. “Come inside, we can wait in the living room until Bill returns.”

Until they know that Ginny is safe, Dean means.

Harry nods, and Dean knows he understood; once it would be strange to share this connection with Harry, but now, like everything else, the forebonding sense of doom seems to diminish the awkwardness.

“I'd like that," Harry says, and they turn to enter the cottage.

[honeydukesheroine]

Patience

For @ginnystrophyhusband September 9th microfic prompt: Patience.

Ginny sat at the old wooden table, face in her hands, staring unseeing out the opaque kitchen window, now frosted over with snow and ice from the morning storm.

She wondered how it was that in this house supposedly full of people she hadn’t seen anyone in almost an hour, despite sitting herself at the heart of the home.

The clock continued its methodic clunking behind her, creating an undertone that numbed her brain, hypnotizing her until time froze over like the world outside.

She’d been agonizing for this holiday week for months, but now that she was here, it wasn’t the reprieve she’d been seeking. Somehow staying busy, distracted, mission-driven, made the waiting more bearable. But she realized wishing to return to Hogwarts right now was borderline lunacy.

She was stuck. In this home full of faraway memories, in this hand-wringing role, in this frozen wasteland of time.

Underneath the table her heels bounced restlessly up and down. And a voice - her voice - echoed in her mind.

“Muuum,” Ginny had pleaded for the hundredth time, tugging on her mum’s hand.

“Patience, Ginny,” her mum whispered in a stern warning, signaling that she’d run out of Get-Out-Of-Whinging-Free passes and would soon cross over to the wrong side of her mother’s patience.

Her impatience that day had itched so terribly through her entire small body that she had to bounce on her heels just to keep it from overwhelming her.

So she had watched the scarlet steam engine grow smaller and smaller until it curved around the bend, carrying her brothers and the Boy Who Lived away to grand adventures that she, by no fault of her own, was deemed too small to join.

Ginny shoved herself away from the kitchen table and headed for the stairs. It felt good to make her legs work, to feel her muscles burn from climbing up and up and up until she stood facing Ron’s closed door, behind which the ghoul remained in faux-quarantine. The ghoul had remained inside, now having grown accustomed to the comforts of a full bed and temperature controlled room, despite the Ministry invasion tieing Ron’s whereabouts to Undesirable No. 1.

The constant ache gave a strong pulse inside her chest, as if to remind her it was still there.

She reached up for the attic door, requiring three jumps to reach the handle and tug it down so she could continue her climb.

A gust of frozen air stung her face as she scanned the attic through slants of light spilling in from missing shingles. Yellowing spell books, chipped cauldrons, discarded Muggle oddities - and there, at last - the box of Christmas decorations.

Ginny dragged it toward her, careful with the torn handle, then lugged it down the stairs. By the time she reached the living room she was sweating, her arms shaking with fatigue. She dropped the box with a thud. Something fragile shifted with a concerning crashed inside, and a plume of dust stung her eyes.

The ache pulsed again, sharper this time. 

Damn thing refused to be ignored. 

It had been a year ago - might as well have been a lifetime - that Harry was here in this house, fancying her without her knowing it, while she wasted energy worrying over her argument with kind, respectful, chivalrous, infuriating Dean.

The thought tasted bitter while at once lifting a second reluctant swarm of happy memories from sunlit days. 

“Imagine my parents opening their home to you year after year, and all you could do to repay them was picture their daughter topless at Christmas dinner,” she’d said, laid out beside him. Faces inches apart.

Harry’s laugh echoed in her head, sounding distant. How was it that she couldn’t quite recall his facial expressions anymore, yet she remembered the sound of him laughing, the feel of him pressed close?

“You weren’t topless at dinner, I only thought about it at dinner,” he’d corrected her, still grinning despite the heat of a blush. “And it was once. For barely a second. I didn’t know if your dad or Bill ever learned Legilimency.”

She’d smiled then. She smiled now.

“So… they don’t, do they?”

“Who doesn’t what?” 

“Bill and your dad. Know Legilimency.”

“No, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Mum does. So you’d better start constructing that curse-proof wall in your brain because it’s different now,” she’d teased. 

“How so?”

“This year, you’ll be remembering me topless at Christmas dinner.”

He’d grinned, and she reached for the details of his face in her memory. “Refresh my memory?” He’d said, pulling her even closer.

Ginny blinked away the stinging of her eyes, trying hard to refocus on the box of Christmas baubles in front of her, willing them to bring her joy and peace and good fucking tidings of cheer. Anything.

But they remained still and lifeless. Just like they had all year. Waiting for somebody to return and pull them out of their confining, unceremonious box.

“Patience, Ginny.”

It had been months since anyone had heard from Harry, Ron, or Hermione. The others looked to her now to be strong, to keep fighting, even as her own patience threatened to decay into despondency. If only there were some sign, some hint of how much longer.

Patience, Ginny.

She could wait, she reminded herself. In fact, she had to. She had to hold the line for the D.A., defend her house, fight the Carrows’ war of torture and attrition, no matter how long it took.

For them. For him. For this eerily-lonely home holding out the storm.

Reaching into the box, she pulled out the stockings and their candle-weighted holders and set them carefully on the mantle. One by one, she lit them, adding a the set of balsam scented candles on either side. She stood back to appreciate how the room had shifted, just a little, into something warmer, before bending down to unwrap more decorations from the box.

[sophie-hatter-jenkins]

Do you want to read 670 words of Harry being a complete and utter sap? You do?? Well look no further, because that is exactly what I have written for @ginnystrophyhusband microfics, using the June prompt of Band.

---------------------------------------------------

He loves watching her dance. 

Hell, he just loves watching her full stop. 

She fizzes with life and energy, her smile wide and her eyes bright as she twirls in the centre of the floor. He leans back in his chair, tucked away at a table to one side of the marquee, making no attempt not to stare. He’s sure he must look like one of those ridiculous Muggle cartoon characters with literal heart eyes, but he doesn’t care.

Her smartly-suited partner reels her back in, taking her in his arms. Even from his vantage point on the opposite side of the dancefloor, Harry can see the way that she gazes up at him adoringly, before settling contentedly against his chest. She looks so happy. That’s all Harry wants these days—for her to be happy.

A moment later, the band changes tempo and the spell is broken. Ginny takes half a pace back and rises on her tiptoes to say something into her partner’s ear. He smiles indulgently and nods, kisses her on the cheek and releases her. Then she’s striding across the floor, straight to where Harry’s sitting. Her long white dress billows around her as she walks, caressing her with every step and shrouding her feet. She could be floating across the floor on a cloud of satin. Given the beaming smile on her face, maybe she is. 

Merlin, but she looks so beautiful. 

According to Hermione, every bride does, but he’s sure none of them has ever looked quite as radiant as her. She’s practically glowing, in the soft light of the enchanted candles that hover overhead.

Now she’s a bit closer, he can read other emotions too. There’s determination in the set of her chin and mischief swirling in those molten chocolate eyes. He knows what she wants, and his heart plummets. 

As soon as she’s within earshot, she confirms his worst fears. “You didn’t think you were going to get away with not dancing with me, did you?” 

“I already danced with you,” he points out. 

“That doesn’t count,” she dismisses him.

“How does it not count?” he protests. “Literally everyone was watching.”

“Exactly! That was our First Dance,” she explains, and he can hear the capital letters. “That dance is for everyone else. This is just for us.”

“You sure your dad won’t take you for another spin?” he asks, nodding to where Arthur is now chatting to Bill, glass of champagne in hand. “He’s a much better dancer than me.”

“Harry James Potter—are you telling me you don’t want to dance with your wife?” she pouts, but her eyes are still sparkling, giving her away.

He pulls a face, because he is no sort of dancer, something of which they are both painfully aware. “I’m more concerned about seriously injuring her to be honest.”

She laughs. It’s his favourite sound in the world. “Percy’s girlfriend’s a Healer, so I’m sure it will be fine.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, red like fire, like the sunset, like the blood he’d spill for her in a heartbeat. “Besides, I’m tougher than I look.”

“I know.” And he does. She’s stronger and braver than anyone he knows. He adores her.

“Come on, Potter—channel that inner Gryffindor and dance with me?” she asks, offering her hand. 

He agrees. Of course he agrees. He doesn’t think he could ever refuse her anything, his beautiful wife of—he checks his watch—six hours. Best six hours of his life, he reckons. 

The ring on his left hand feels heavy and alien as she leads him to the centre of the floor, but also right, like it belongs there. He tugs her back against him and gathers her into his arms, and that feels right as well. Like she belongs there.

Everything else seems to fade away; the band, the music, the guests. Everything but her and the feeling of her, the feeling of them.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been happier. He doesn’t think he ever will.

[desipotterhead18]

One more for @ginnystrophyhusband

Prompt : Glowing

Ron was about to quit his homework and close his book when something caught his eye. He saw a keychain dangling from Ginny's school bag. He leaned down to examine that thing. It was a small keychain with various charms added to it. He was sure he saw this earlier somewhere.

"I guess Harry gave that to her'' said Hermione, who was sitting beside him. ''She told me she received a gift from him.''

Now it clicked to him where he saw that.

"Did you know when he bought that?" said Ron smirking.

"Probably on last trip to Hogsmeade , but they weren't together then" said hermione frowning.

"He bought it on valentines day trip"

"What?"

"Yeah! I didn't saw him buying but after a week I accidentally saw it in his drawer. I didn't gave so much thought to it that time. I thought he bought it for himself as there are mostly quidditch charms and obviously this didn't caught my eye"

He showed the charms of pygmy puff , chocolate couldrons and flowers to Hermione.

"Our best friend has fallen hard this time."

She smiled and said , " So , he bought this as a gift for her ages ago when she was still dating dean just in a hope that in future they might be together."

"Seems like it."

"So sweet of him , I am really happy they are together" said hermione.

He nodded. He is quite ecstatic about it , just the sudden public kiss suprised him a lot. Harry can't do a single thing normally.

He still remember when they both came back to common room really late and both were glowing.

A/N : Just something I thought this morning so I wrote it down lol.

[gin110881]

Ginny's Trophy Husband Drunk Writings

Ginny lay sprawled on the sofa in the Burrow's sitting room, admiring the Christmas tree she and Harry had decorated that afternoon. Her mother bustled about in the kitchen, preparing the big feast for the next day, while her father had disappeared outside some time ago to do something important in his shed—at least that was what Ginny gathered from his muttering. Her gaze kept drifting to the corner where the grandfather clock stood. She was starting to feel restless; Harry had been gone for almost two hours and should have been back ages ago. If only he had told her what he was up to—but he had only answered her interrogations with an amused smile.

Outside, someone stomped noisily—probably attempting to knock snow off their boots. Ginny jumped up and hurried to the door, a broad smile already forming. "Harry—finally!" she called—then stopped short. "Oh. George. It's you."

Her brother gave her a wry smile. "Was someone else expected?" He glanced around the room. "Where's Loverboy, then?"

Ginny shrugged. "No idea. He was being all mysterious—said he had something to take care of."

"Ho, ho, ho!" boomed a voice from outside.

Ginny peered through the window. A Father Christmas stood on the doorstep, complete with staff and sack.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

George's grin widened. "Well? You going to keep him freezing out there?"

Ginny raised an eyebrow. Surely not. Harry wouldn't—

The door opened, and a man in a red robe stepped inside, hood pulled low and a long white beard obscuring most of his face. Ginny burst out laughing when she spotted the unmistakable flash of emerald-green eyes peering out from beneath it.

"Harry, how did it go?" her mother called from the kitchen doorway. "Were Victoire and Teddy frightened?"

"They're still too young for that," Harry said with a laugh. "But their eyes were enormous."

"You played Father Christmas for them?" Ginny demanded, half-amused, half-accusing. "And you didn't think to tell me?"

Harry shrugged. "You said last week you wanted to kiss Father Christmas. I figured I'd make your Christmas wishes come true."

He opened his arms, and Ginny promptly threw hers around his neck, kissing him thoroughly. When she finally pulled back, laughing, she eyed the beard with mock severity. "I much prefer you without the facial hair."

[dream-with-a-fever]

a hinny microfic for @ginnystrophyhusband’s march 2025 hinny prompt list ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

pairing: Harry/Ginny

word count: 1121 (sorry!)

prompt: button (day 6)

read on ao3 here

⋆. 𐙚 ˚⋆˚࿔ begged and borrowed time 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The Burrow is a cacophony of sound the morning of Bill and Fleur’s wedding. There’s an excited buzz about the house — endless chatter, Mrs Weasley’s shrill voice echoing from floor to floor, busying everyone in the family with last minute decorating and cleaning tasks.

Mrs Weasley had spent a large chunk of the morning doing all her sons’ hair, including Harry’s (which, of course, proved to be the most difficult). She tried a several different charms and potions, attempting to tame his hair (which reminded him at once of Aunt Petunia forcing a comb through his hair before photo day) with varying degrees of success.

By the time she’s done with him, he’s ready for the momentary peace and quiet that awaits him downstairs (everyone getting ready on the upper levels), and aims a kick at Ron when he sniggers upon seeing his freshly gelled back hair. (Not that it matters all that much — he’ll be taking on the appearance of a freckled boy from the Muggle town nearby in an hour or so).

Harry leaves Mrs Weasley attempting to manage Ron’s hair next (“Mum, do you want a prematurely bald son? You’re pulling too hard!”), and makes his way downstairs to the kitchen, grinning to himself. It’s empty except for him and the sounds of pots and pans bubblin on the stove.

He greets Mr and Mrs Delacour as they pass by the entry way with morning jugs of coffee, and gets to work on his newest task.

He’s well on his way to finishing (charming white napkins to fold themselves into little doves), when Ginny emerges from the stairwell. And Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

The golden shimmer of the dress gives her an almost angelic look as it catches the light, a matching flower placed delicately in her hair. The dress clings to her body, like it’s moulded to her every line and curve, and Harry has to force his gaze to stay firmly on hers, without dipping beneath to the rather low neckline, her slight cleavage dusted with freckles.

She clocks him almost straight away, a satisfied smile on her face at his stunned expression no doubt. And he wants to say something, but his tongue has seemingly glued itself to the roof of his mouth. In awe.

“Harry Potter rendered speechless?” She comments, stepping towards him, “That must mean the dress doesn’t look as awful on me as mum said.”

He frowns before letting out a little scoff. The thought of Ginny looking bad in anything seemingly absurd. Impossible, even.

“You could never look awful,” He replies honestly, attempting a casual smile.

She snorts, dimples taking shape on her face as she smiles.

“You haven’t seen me when I first wake up, then.”

He allows himself a split second to picture it; auburn hair bundled up in a birds nest atop her head, eyes puffy with sleep, pillow creases down one side of her face, her body curled up against his side, body heat enveloping him.

It’s a comforting scene, one he had locked away deep in the depths of his brain — that still managed to sometimes slip through the cracks into his consciousness in the time between sleeping and waking.

A wishful glance into an alternate reality — where he hadn’t been born with a lightening shaped scar on his forehead.

“Harry?”

He looks up, blinking a few times in rapid succession. She’s smiling up at him, expectantly. He swallows.

“Hm?”

“I just asked if you could do me up?” Ginny’s eyebrows are raised in question, something like amusement laced through her features, “These buttons are a nightmare, I tell you.”

“Oh — yeah, sure,” He replies, trying to keep his breathing even, when she turns around revealing her bare upper back, the dress undone except for the bottom few buttons.

“Fleur picked it, you know,” She gestures to the dress, as he comes up behind her, “Said it wasn’t my colour but made me look more ‘ élégante .’ She’s making it very hard for me to like her.”

Harry laughs. “I don’t know, I think she might be growing on you.”

Ginny scrunched up her nose, sweeping her hair over one shoulder.

“Never,” But she’s grinning, Harry can hear it in her voice.

His fingers fumble with the small white buttons, stray strands of her long hair brushing against his cheek as he works, her familiar flowery aroma flooding his brain. He’s tempted to rest his head on her shoulder for a moment, hide there for the rest of eternity. Run away from everything that’s expected of him.

“It seems silly doesn’t it, a wedding,” He hears her say quietly, with a sort of forced joviality, “Given everything that’s going on.”

“Maybe it’s the best reason to have it — because of everything that’s going on.”

When he finishes, he finds himself reaching out to touch her, to hold her — out of longing, out of habit, out of necessity. But he stops himself at the last second, Ron’s words of warning fresh in his mind.

Neither one of them move for a moment, and then, she turns back to face him, a strained smile on her face.

“Thanks,” She says, brown eyes almost golden in the morning sunlight.

Harry stares at her, taking in every inch of her, trying in vain to memorise every crease, every curve, every constellation of freckles speckled across her collar bone, her shoulders. “You look beautiful.”

She beams back at him. “So do you.”

Harry shrugs, dismissively, and she shoves him lightly.

“You do ,” She says, firmly, “But, if you’re only going to look like yourself for a little longer, I’d rather see you as your regular self.”

Harry is about to question her meaning, when she reaches out and runs a hand through his slicked back hair.

“Who did this?” She asks, disapprovingly, hand sliding down to the nape of his neck and settling there.

“That would be your mother.”

Ginny rolls her eyes, ruffling up the tips of his hair. “I liked it before. It’s more, you.”

And then, she’s leaning in, pressing her lips to his cheek, and hovering there for a moment; her breath warm against his ear. Harry breathes deeply, wanting to savour the closeness — but it’s over all too soon, and Ginny is squeezing his arm before slipping out of the room. Harry watches her go, catching himself in the window reflection and ruffling up his hair until he’s satisfied it’s back to normal.

It’s only after she’s gone, (the warmth of the day gone with her), that he notices George leaning against the counter. Harry’s cheeks burn, as George sips his tea smirking, his head blanketed in a tightly wound bandage, that seemed to pull his eyebrows up in an amusing way.

“Morning,” He says, low and smug, as he stirs his tea with a wave of his wand.

Harry gives him a tight smile, mumbles good morning back and bolts out of the room.

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to look George in the eye for the rest of the day.

[hinny-canons]

@ginnystrophyhusband’s Microfics

April 1st: Joke

Also on AO3

•

Harry did not think anyone else in the world would have reacted as fast as he did.

The moment he saw Ginny losing control of her broom, he sped towards her with the intention of catching and steadying her. They had been in the air for almost an hour, practicing for the upcoming match. It was just the two of them, much to Harry’s delight.

Before Harry could get to her broom, however, Ginny’s broom began falling to the ground, taking her with it. Harry’s heart stopped and he went as fast as his Firebolt could take him. Her screaming was fading away as she got closer to the ground and Harry’s mind was blank as his panic for Ginny increased.

He touched the ground before she did, almost falling flat on his face. He got off his broom, his eyes searching frantically for Ginny, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“Ginny!” He called, breathless. He looked around the field, his mind reeling with scenarios of what could have happened.

His ears picked up on a sound past the goalposts. He could not see anything and began to move closer, the sound growing louder. It sounded high-pitched and merry, definitely not a sound of pain.

Harry stopped when he spotted Ginny lying on the grass, her broom by her side as she clutched her stomach, laughing.

“Ginny!” Harry exclaimed.

She continued to laugh as she sat up. “Oh, that was perfect! You looked so worried!”

Harry furrowed his brows, recovering from the shock. “What…”

She chuckled and spread her arms out. “Happy April Fools Day, Harry!”

He stared at her in disbelief, his heart rate slowing down. He could not believe she played a joke like this on him.

“Did you like it?” She asked excitedly as she stood up, picking up her broom.

Harry huffed. “Merlin, Ginny. I was terrified!”

“I know,” she smiled.

“I almost fell on my face trying to save you!”

“I know,” she said in a sing-song tone, stepping closer. “It was sweet.”

Despite himself, Harry grinned slightly. “You’re absolutely mad.”

“I-”

“Know?” Harry cut her off, smirking. Ginny nodded curtly, fighting a smile.