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.