Fresh for @hinnymicrofic
(pretend I posted this on the day it was assigned. In my defense, I started it and then got distracted)
"Okay, give me an adjective," Ginny commanded, twirling her quill in her hand, the Saturday Witch Weekly splayed open to the activities page in front of her. Homework and O.W.L.s long forgotten as her and Harry soaked up the sun during a rare warm, Spring morning.
"Green," Harry said, taking a bite of his toast.
Ginny scribbled the word green down in the blank spot on the Mad Lib. "Give me another one."
"Fresh."
Ginny nodded, writing it down.
"Noun?"
"Toad."
"Okay, last one. I just need a verb."
"Does pickled count as a verb?" Harry asked.
Ginny set her quill down, turning to her left to glare directly at her boyfriend.
"I am going to kill you."
Harry’s eyes twinkled back at her, "Many have tried, everyone has failed. What makes you think you're so special to finally kill the Boy-Who-Lived?"
"I know your weaknesses," Ginny threatened. "Like how you are ticklish right here." Ginny poked Harry's side.
Harry flinched away from Ginny, a giggle escaping his lips. "Please stop!" Harry cried out.
"Only if you promise to never bring up that stupid Valentine again," Ginny said, poking Harry in the side with every word.
"Deal!" Harry said, still trying to wriggle away from his girlfriend's torment.
Ginny stopped tickling his side, her hand moving to Harry's arm. Lightly she traced down until reaching his hand, interlocking her fingers with his. He gave a light squeeze that she eagerly returned.
"I am so very lucky," Harry sighed out.
"Yeah?" Ginny softly smiled.
"Imagine if you worked for Voldemort. I would be long dead by now."
"Death by tickles, what an embarrassing way to go," Ginny said shaking her head.
"So what did that Mad Lib end up saying?" Harry asked.
"Who cares," Ginny replied, swinging her leg over Harry's lap, pressing her lips to meet his.
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New
For @hinnymicrofic - Prompt 11 - "New"
Fact: Ten was obviously old enough to stay home alone.
Fact: There was absolutely, undeniably, no point in being dragged all the way to King’s Cross to suffer sibling abandonment without a consolatory trip to Fortescue’s afterwards.
Fact: Due to an - ahem- unfortunate incident involving a weathervane, two buckets of unpasteurized milk and a clay pigeon, neither was an option. She was grounded.
No ice cream, no home alone, no reprieve from the September 1st routine.
“Now, what’s the platform number?” her Mum asked, as she asked every year Ginny had been alive.
“Nine and three-quarters!” Ginny piped up with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. It was sucking up, yes, but sometimes her Mum forgot precisely which child was grounded. Banana mint ripple fudge could still be on the menu, if Ginny played it right. “Mum, can’t I go-“
“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet....“
Blatantly untrue. There was no age minimum for ice cream. Even toothless infants could eat ice cream.
However, “be quiet” in that tone meant Mum remembered perfectly well who was grounded.
Stupid weathervane. Stupid buckets. Stupid pigeon.
Stupid swarm of grumpy bees.
“Excuse me.”
Startled at the sound of a cleared throat, Ginny peeked around her Mum to spy a thin, dark-haired boy wearing round spectacles and a hopeful, yet nervous, smile.
A hand-me-down gray shirt hung on his bony shoulders. But Ginny watched those shoulders straighten as he bolstered his courage and stepped forward with an expression that was half-cautious, half-determined, half-shy and half-something-Ginny-wasn’t-entirely-sure-she-could-define, having run out of halves.
Someone must have cast some sort of hex, because everyone was suddenly moving in slow motion.
And Ginny was fairly certain no one was speaking English anymore.
Also, why was she hearing an orchestra of violins?
Huh. Her Mum’s mouth was moving, the boy’s in response.
Fascinated, Ginny ducked to peek around his spectacles to see the color of his eyes. Which was a little weird because who cared what color eyes he had? They were eyes. Their purpose was to keep a person from bumping into stuff.
Oh.
Ginny swallowed the lump that had apparated into her throat.
Green.
Flash-bang-wallop, and green slammed straight into Ginny’s stomach. Had to be magic involved, to make an amorphous color punch her in the gut like that.
Also, she couldn’t breathe. Apparently his green eyes had busted her lungs.
The boy thanked her Mum and ran through the wall.
Jolted into motion, Ginny snatched her Mum’s hand, yanking her along in pursuit.
However, there was so much bustle on the platform, Ginny lost sight of the messy dark head. Releasing her Mum’s hand, she weaved her way through the trunks and the owls, the goodbyes and hellos, the laughter and hugs as she jumped up and down, trying to spy the top of that messy dark hair.
But all she found was the twins. Talking. Blah-blah-blah, “Guess what?”
Wait, was that a bit of messy hair through one of the train windows? Ginny bounced on her toes, trying to peek inside.
More-blah-blah-blah, “--ry Potter!”
With a gasp, Ginny realized life had gifted her an opportunity, tied with a fat red bow. “Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him?” Buy into the ruse, Mum, buy into the ruse. “Mum, oh please…”
Sure, gawking at Harry Potter was a rather flimsy excuse to climb aboard and track down the green-eyed boy before he disappeared off to Hogwarts for a year, but…
Ginny froze.
…wait a moment…
Ginny frowned as Fred and George’s ”blah-blah’s” truly sank in.
That dark-haired boy was Harry Potter? THE Harry Potter?
No way.
Pffft.
That made no bleeping sense at all.
Under duress, Ginny might grudgingly admit Harry Potter may have aged. Still, Harry Potter was a cherubic baby so full of shiny goodness it couldn’t be contained by mortal flesh in the face of evil. Harry Potter’s virtue and righteousness shot out his baby eyeballs and fried the dark lord with holy fire held within a golden halo of Galahad-like innocence.
Also, Harry Potter? Blonder.
Then, the whistle sounded.
“No,” she breathed. It was too fast, too soon. He was leaving; they were all leaving.
The train began to chug, and Ginny raced down the platform, her panicked gaze flittering from window to window, knowing that something momentous had just happened, but not sure what it was or why she felt like something vitally important was fluttering just out of her reach, like a snitch that was too fast for her second-hand, borrowed broom.
But then, a messy dark head stuck itself out one of the compartment’s lowered windows.
Without meaning to, her arm shot up, and she waved. Maniacally. Frantically.
He smiled, and the sun came out.
She didn’t know why, but that smile made her cry. It made her laugh, too and she ran alongside the train, waving at his smile laughing and crying at the same time like a lunatic. Seriously, like someone who belonged in an asylum where they fed the inmates nothing but watery gruel because they couldn’t be trusted with forks.
And when the train disappeared into the distance, Ginny stared after it, left with a feeling that was weird and exciting and debilitating and uplifting all at once.
A feeling that was breathtakingly new.
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