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Conclusions

Ginny's run out of her good parchment and has been reduced to using something she dug out of the bottom of her trunk, hating the way her quill scratches over the rough surface. As though it isn’t punishment enough to be writing about History of Magic, she’s got to do it on this piece of rubbish. 

“Bloody, buggering fu–” she swears as the point of her quill pierces a hole straight through her conclusion. Apt, probably - it had been flimsy at best. There’s a metaphor here, somewhere.

“Revision going well, then?”

The wry voice startles her so much that she nearly upends her bottle of ink all over her weak – in more ways than one – essay. “Fuck, Harry, I’d no idea you were there.”

She blinks up at him in surprise and finds him smirking, standing at the table she’s claimed in a corner of the library, looking adorably entertained by her plight. His bookbag is slung carelessly over his shoulder, his hair mussed, his stupid face made more handsome by the teasing lilt of his smile. Her heart flutters a bit, because that’s just what it always does with him. She ignores it valiantly, and hates him for it, a little. 

“Sorry,” he says, though he sounds more amused than anything. “Mind if I sit?”

“Course,” she says, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Can’t guarantee there won’t be more swearing, though.” 

He eyes her holey essay as he sits, jerking his head questioningly toward the parchment. “What’re you working on?”

“Something for Binns.”

“Ah, I’d be swearing, too.”

“Fucking hell, eh?”

They share a smile, and Ginny reckons she’d be better off writing an essay about that - the way she knows exactly when he’ll find something funny; the way jokes fall a bit flat when the punchline isn’t his eyes seeking her out, green and piercing and flickering with amusement. She’d fill the parchment with ease. 

It’s easy to write about something you can’t stop reading into. 

Just like she’s madly reading into the way he’s shown up here - no Ron, no Hermione - and sought her out, like it’s normal, like they’ve been doing this for years even though they haven’t. It feels like they have, though. That’s the worst part of it.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks, like he might just come right out and say it - to see you.

He doesn’t. She pretends that she can’t be disappointed by what she expects. 

“Transfiguration,” he says darkly. 

“Where’re Ron and Hermione, then?” she prods, picking at it like a scab, like a masochist. I wanted to get you alone, she urges him to say. I’ve been trying to all week and I haven’t even been subtle about it.

“Dunno,” he shrugs. Scabs bleed when you pick them, incidentally. “I can survive an evening without them, you know.”

“Can you? I don’t reckon your track record is all that spectacular on that front, if I’m honest.”

“Hey, I haven’t died even once.”

“Right,” she jokes. “Angling for a new nickname? ‘The Boy Who Hasn’t Died, Even Once’?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Rolls right off the tongue, that.”

“I’ll owl Rita for you. We can workshop something”

They smile.

She wants to shake him until he admits to it, confesses, like this thing brewing between them is a crime. She wants to lay all the evidence out in front of him, the aspiring Auror, and see what he makes of it. He can’t quip his way around the smiles and the banter and the looks he gives her. See, she’ll say, don’t you see?

He’s got shit vision. 

They sit together for far longer than she’d planned to stay. At some point he adjusts in his seat, and his foot winds up touching hers, and he doesn’t even have the decency to move it. She fancies she can feel his warmth through their trainers, but no - it must be her own traitorous heart, frantically pumping warm blood to her foot like it’s the only part of her body that needs it, like the parts of her that aren’t touching him have ceased to matter because maybe they have. 

Maybe she’s been distilled to the edge of her foot.

They talk about strategies for the Quidditch final, and OWLs, and argue playfully about which of her mum’s mince pies is the best. Ginny’s always fancied herself good at impressions, but she surprises even herself with her impression of easy nonchalance. All the while it’s building - each look, each smile, each easy joke they set each other up for feels like a firework she’s adding to the heap in her chest, ready to explode with the slightest spark. 

You’ve got me alone, she tells him. Do something about it.

It’s nearly curfew. They start gathering their things, and still he hasn’t done anything. If he were any other boy, Ginny would cut through the bullshit herself, but something holds her back. She can’t fully articulate, unravel, why, but she needs him to be the one to admit it. She needs him to decide she’s worth the risk. He’s meant to be brave, isn’t he?

As she’s packing it away, Ginny remembers her abandoned essay, still punctured pathetically. She sighs, holds it up for Harry’s evaluation. “Think Binns’ll even notice?”

“Give it here,” he says, and she hands it over. He pulls his wand from his robes and waves it wordlessly, the gaping tear sewing itself together so it might never have been there. Ginny doesn’t know why she hadn’t thought to do that herself. 

“Thanks. Only now, I’ve actually got to write a damn conclusion.”

He laughs and holds it back out to her. “You’re on your own.”

“Aren’t you meant to have a hero complex?” she quips, pushing the parchment back toward him. “Some useful saving-people thing? Have a go.”

To her immense surprise, he shoots her a wry smirk that sends a tingle through her stomach. “Alright.” He pulls out the quill he’d only just packed away, scrawls something at the bottom of her parchment, shielding it from view.  

She’s gone utterly daft. Her heart is hammering in her chest, beating a tattoo on her ribcage; she wonders if her fingers are trembling as they reach across to take her essay back, fully convinced she’ll find the words Go out with me scribbled there. 

In conclusion, he’d written, this essay is over.

She snorts, mostly at herself. She’s officially deluded. Cracked. What is wrong with her?

“Wow. Thanks for that,” she says drily. “How would Binns have known otherwise?”

He grins. “Anytime.”

“Totally unrelated, but do you offer refunds? Perhaps a voucher for another Harry Potter rescue at a later date?”

“Non-refundable. Sorry.”

“I’m going to be honest,” she lies. “I expected a better rescue than that.”

He shrugs. “You expect too much from The Boy Who Hasn’t Died, Even Once.”

She can’t help herself; she laughs. His eyes seek hers out - green, so green, twinkling with amusement and something that looks so fond. She’s going to set fire to the heap of fireworks in her chest, just to get it over with. She’ll explode in color, driven to madness by the boy who hadn’t died even once but who’d killed her, slowly, with smiles. 

In conclusion, she thinks, I’m utterly fucked.

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The idea that Harry wants to keep Ginny safe because he does not consider her capable and not because he's an overprotective git who considers her family and has severe abandonment issues is one of the worst possible takes on Harry's character.

It's basically defamation.

Ginny could've had Dumbledore's magic skills and Harry would've acted in the same way.

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this 12 year old describes a girl as “glowing like the setting sun” when she blushes and people wonder why they ended up married [x]

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In Light of You is a collection of Hinny moments that date post Battle of Hogwarts to pre In This Darkness. The complete series is now up on the FFT archives as well as on A03; however, I'm currently going through the chapters, making tiny edits to them, noticeable to probably nobody other than me. As I go through them though, I thought I'd also add a few of the pieces on here. So, without much further ado, here is Chapter 1 of In Light of You.

*Please note that this installment does contain slight smut towards the end. It also makes references to violent events that happened prior to the start of the story.

The-Boy-Who-Lives

Harry doesn’t do much talking in the days that follow the final battle. 

He doesn’t believe the words to fill the voids exist. And if they do, his mind is too muddled to think them up, so he doesn’t even try, letting silence wrap him up and take him whole. 

He wishes he could stop listening too, but that’s less so of an option. The noise around him continues. Everyone’s crying. Everyone’s lost someone.

It’s not over yet either. The Dark Lord is gone but the violence continues, fueled not by logic but by rage and hatred and fear.

On their second day back at the Burrow, Kingsley Shacklebolt comes to pay a visit. He sits with Harry, Ron, and Hermione and tells them, “We still need you.” 

When he’s gone, Hermione says, “We have to go back to Hogwarts and graduate.” 

Ron says, “What for? We’ve learned enough.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything at all. 

The days pass through them. They bury Fred Weasley. They bury Severus Snape. They bury Remus and Tonks Lupin. They bury Colin Creevey. Every day, several funerals to attend. They start to lose track of whose coffin they’re mourning over. The grief becomes a bundle thing living inside of them, a one-size-fits-all for all the ones they’ve lost. 

Late one afternoon, they’re all sitting around the kitchen table. Ron passes behind Ginny, his eyes catching sight of the shoulder that has accidentally been left bare by the thick cardigan she’d been wearing. “Shit, Ginny,” he says, his whole face pinched. “What happened to you there?”

Harry automatically lifts his gaze to meet hers. It’s a hot, summer day, even for June, and that should’ve been his first clue that she had wrapped herself to keep hidden, not warm. From where he’s sitting, he cannot confirm what it is that’s caught Ron’s attention, but the green shade that’s taken over his face tells him enough.

Ginny draws her cardigan back up and rolls her eyes before snapping sarcastically at her brother, “I’ve been dabbling in masochist foreplay, Ron, that’s what.” 

Harry doesn’t mean to laugh. She’s obviously been hurt, and there’s nothing funny about that. But Ginny’s sitting there, looking cheeky, and whole, and her.  She grins back at him and gives him a playful wink. 

They haven’t interacted much these past few weeks but when everyone falls asleep that night, Harry goes to her room, and she opens the door before he even knocks, like she’s been waiting for him all along. 

They sit in her bed, her facing away from him. He brings the strap of her tank-top down her arms, below her elbows, away from her wrists. She brings her hair forward, letting him see what he came to see. The scars on her back are red, angry lashes that contrast sharply against the softness of her skin. 

“They look ghastly,” says Ginny, not much bothered, “but not as ghastly as Carrow’s face whenever someone would mention your name. She was terrified of you, that dumb bitch.” 

He presses his lips to her back, tracing the scars with his lips, perfect roads on the hills he so loves, and he rides them up and down, through the bend of her shoulder blades, up the hard hills of her spine, down the soft dip of her shoulder-neck.

“You’re beautiful,” says Harry, finally finding words worthy to speak, something he can actually mean. “You’re so beautiful, Ginny.”

When she turns around to face him, her face is a deep frown, her brown eyes intense on him. For a moment, Harry thinks she might be angry with him, for leaving her then, for kissing her now. But Ginny leans forward to kiss him hard on the mouth, like she’s done waiting for him to come back. 

He doesn’t notice much when their clothes come off. All the while, she’s been dressing him with kisses that burn him whole. He gathers her beneath him, touching all of her, and it’s still not enough, never enough. She runs her hands down his chest, his arms, his back, her touch awakening the parts of him that had gone numb with war. 

He’s trembling above her, wanting her desperately. “I have never…” he says. 

Ginny kisses his neck, his jaw, his mouth. Her hand reaches below him to guide towards the place he would’ve found anyways but makes for a much sweeter find with her as his guide. The space between them ceases to exist, and Harry’s been dead before, but he’s never been outside of himself, not until he’s inside of her. 

“I love you, Harry,” Ginny tells him. “I love you, I love you, I love,” and she keeps saying it again and again and again, carving those three words deep into him, so that even when it’s over, it’s not really over, the feeling of her tattooed on every inch of his skin. 

For the first time in a long time, he’s no longer just someone who’s survived; he’s someone who lives. 

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what's the point of romance if they aren't gonna kiss on a battlefield with blood and tears on theirface and the relief of knowing they've made it out alive

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Cold

Hermione was shaking violently as Ron watched her cast yet another warming charm over her body. He knew she was wearing about three sweaters and two pairs of pants. It was cold out here, but not that cold.

She sneezed loudly and immediately stomped her foot, almost like she was highly inconvenienced by getting sick.

Ron smirked to himself. That’s exactly what she was thinking. Typical Hermione.

She was still furious with him about leaving, but had finally started speaking to him again two days ago. Even if only in short, one word sentences. He thought he would try to thaw her cold shoulder towards him a little more.

“That doesn’t seem to be working,” he quipped as he walked closer to her.

She looked up at him noticing him for the first time in a while.

“Wh-what do you kn-know about it?” She sneered as her teeth chattered.

“I know a warming spell won’t work on a cold,” Ron told her calmly as he leaned against the kitchen counter.

He saw her blink rapidly, and knew this was new information to her. Sometimes growing up in the wizarding world had its advantages.

“You have a fever,” he told her.

“I know that!” She snapped at him.

“Then why would you want to make your body warmer?” He reasoned with her.

Hermione stared at him, her nose red and irritated from sneezing. He could see the wheels turning behind those warm brown eyes as she rocked back and forth, trying in vain to dispel the chills racking her body.

“I- You’re right,” she reluctantly admitted. “Why didn’t I th-think of that? I’m so stupid. I j-just f-feel so c-cold. That’s all I can think about.”

“You’re not stupid, Hermione,” he told her as he pushed off the counter and stood in front of her. “You’re just sick. Take that jumper off.”

Her eyes became large at his closeness and she took a step back.

“Wh-what?” She looked like she couldn’t believe what he had just said. He noticed the blush creeping up her cheeks from her neck.

He had to play this calm if this was going to work. He rolled his eyes at her.

“I know you have two more under that one. C’mon get rid of it.”

She looked alarmed. “Well what am I supposed to do? I can’t brew anything for a cold! I don’t have the ingredients and I’m freezing. My teeth feel like they’re going to shake out of my head!”

“I’m trying to help you, ‘Mione. Would you just trust me?” He soothed.

“No!” She stomped her foot stubbornly. “And don’t call me that! I’ll figure it out on my own! I don’t need you!” She yelled over her shoulder as she ran to her beaded bag looking desperately for something to help.

Ron sighed and jumped back onto his bunk.

“Have it your way then. If you change your mind, I’m right here.”

Hermione gave a loud huff in response to his offer and continued calling various objects out of her bag for examination.

Ron heard a soft sobbing and sat bolt upright in his bed. He must have dozed off. His eyes landed on Hermione. She was sitting on the floor now wearing one of his jumpers as well, weeping quietly into her hands. Random objects were sprawled out around her in a large mess.

He looked towards the tent flap. It would be time for Harry to come in soon. Ron had had enough of this.

He jumped off his bunk and swung his wand in the air as he walked towards her. The objects started flying back into her beaded bag, and she looked up just in time to see him scoop her off the ground.

“Ron! What are you-

“Enough of this, Hermione!” He sat her on his bunk and now they were almost eye-level. “I know you’re angry with me, but I won’t have you hurt yourself over your ego. Sometimes you need help, Hermione, whether you like it or not!”

“You don’t tell me what- She started, but Ron cut her off by raising his wand and pointing it at her chest.

She looked down to see not one, but two, three, all four of her jumpers disappear, leaving her in only her camisole.

Her arms flew across her chest, even though nothing was technically exposed.

“How dare you-

“Shutup,” Ron cut her off. He pushed her back on the bed by her shoulders, and she was so weak she didn’t even put up a fight.

“What are you-

“Would you shut up for minute?”

Ron grabbed his blanket and covered her with it, tucking it in tightly and casting a warming charm on it.

“When you have a fever you have to cast the warning charm on a blanket, not yourself,” he explained to her as her features went from realization to relaxed. Hermione took a deep sigh of relief, keeping her eyes trained on Ron.

“But you still need to break that fever. We can’t do that right now, so we’ll just have lower your body temp,” he continued, conjuring a cold cloth and placing it on her forehead. He conjured two more and instructed her to place them on her neck and stomach. This time she didn’t question him. She did as he told her.

He watched as her body finally stopped shaking. Those big brown eyes were watching him with gratitude and- was that admiration? His stomach did a flip.

“I know it doesn’t make sense to be covered in a warming blanket and cold cloths at the same time, but trust me it works. This is how my mum treats a fever while her fever potion is brewing.”

To his surprise, Hermione smiled at him. “Remind me to thank your mum. And-and you. Thank you, Ron.”

She squeezed his hand.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Harry sounded concerned walking into the tent.

“I have a cold.”

“And a fever,” Ron added.

“And a fever,” she confirmed.

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothi-

“She needs to rest and then eat. Make sure she gets some food in her, yeah? I’m taking next shift.”

“No!” Hermione tried to yell. Ron had already headed towards the door, but turned around at her shout.

“It’s my turn. It’s not fair to you-

Ron walked back, and to her shock leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

“I’m taking next shift,” he repeated more firmly. “Rest. Eat. I’m right outside if you need me.”

Hermione was staring at him slack-jawed. All she could do was nod.

Ron didn’t dare look at Harry as he walked out the tent flap.

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hinny sketch

Ginny siendo perfecta y Harry siendo su fan #1. Es un AU moderno :P

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annabeth trying to go down fighting to save the others and percy tricking her into changing places with him....oh i'm going to pass out

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you’ve got to love how Suzanne Collins gave Katniss and Peeta the character goals of “keep Prim safe” and “stay myself” and then just flatly denied them both

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Think

@hinnymicrofic Day 13 | 288 words

With Cho, he overthinks.

He overthinks about how to ask her to the Yule ball, until it is too late and she has a date already.

He overthinks about how cool he looks next to Neville and Luna with sap from some weird plant in Neville's lap covered on his face.

He overthinks how to flirt. How to find the right funny thing to say that might make her smile.

He overthinks how to kiss her for the first time. Where he should place his hands, how much pressure should he put into his lips? Open or closed mouth? He waits for an excuse like a mistletoe to kiss her.

But with Ginny, everything comes naturally. It is innate, as easy as breathing. As if his body was wired to know how to be with her without even thinking how to be.

He doesn't think to ask her to the ball, but he subconsciously watches her all night long. How she winces when Neville steps on her toes.

He is not embarrassed sitting next to Neville and Luna with sap on his face because she is sitting right next to him, covered in it as well. She laughs at the look on his face before cleaning him with a simple charm.

He doesn't even consider it flirting with Ginny as they tease each other constantly that summer before his sixth year. Everything he says makes her smile. And everything she does makes him burst into a fit of laughter.

He kisses her without even thinking about it or without ever planning it. One look at her blazing gaze and Harry knew. He knew how to hold her, how to kiss her. 

With Ginny, he doesn't think. He knows.

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Golden trio (zine piece) :)

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“After several long moments, or it might have been half an hour-or possibly several sunlit days…”

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/untitled/ Weasley sib fic

“We should find somewhere to take her. Like a beach or something. She would do good with some time away.”

Percy’s comment was met with an uneasy silence. The room had already been heavily cloaked in an awkward stillness after Molly had stormed out of the kitchen crying five minutes ago. It was becoming a regular occurrence and if dealing with one’s own grief wasn’t hard enough watching your mother go through it was a completely different beast of its own. 

Ginny thought about how much her Mum hated the beach- it was too dirty and her fair skin couldn’t stand the heat. The table clambered with the sudden motion of her standing up and throwing her soup-filled spoon at Percy. 

“Ginevra!”

“Oh come on.”

“Good shot!”

“Hey!”

“Almost got on me!”

“Why don’t you shut it! As if you’d have any idea what she needs.”

“Ginny-”

“No! I’m tired of him parading around here trying to solve everything-”

“I am your older brother.”

“-by happenstance. You haven’t been a brother to any of us in years! Like I was saying- I’m tired of him prancing around-”

“-I do not prance.”

Ginny let out an annoyed huff at being interrupted again “Let me start from the beginning. You. Need. To. Shut! It!”

An annoyed grunt came from Ron then “Oh stop being a brat, Ginny.”

“Excuse me?”

Keep reading

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More male characters who are interested in their mother's legacy. As a trope there's a lot of sons and daughters who follow in the father's footsteps and there's yes, girls who honor their mother, ect. But let's have more dudes who are like. Stumbling on their mom's secret fairy cottage or some shit. And they're like aight gotta make the tea

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The In-Betweens Chapter 23: Cut Up

Sneak Peak 🍰

There was a request for a sneak peak, so here's a treat:

“What’s that?” Ron asked when they entered their dorm an hour later and found a parcel sitting on the edge of Harry’s bedside table. “Dunno,” Harry replied, trying to think if he had been expecting a delivery. Harry took the parcel and read the note attached, immediately recognizing Ginny’s loopy handwriting. Ron persisted: “Harry, if someone’s sending you suspicious packages, I don’t think you should be opening them, it could be -” Harry disregarded him and tore open the package to pull out a bottle of thick, orange paste that he recognized as Bruise Balm. Spello-taped to the front of the bottle was a note from Ginny: As the protection of Harry Potter is a matter of national security, it’s only right that you should have some on hand. Madam Pomfrey is overworked as it is. She sends her regards, but doesn’t want to see you at least for another two weeks. Uses: ambushing Bludgers and red-headed fits of temper.  - Gin P.S. That seemed like a tough spot to reach. If you need any help, let me know. A smile had plastered itself across Harry’s face, and he could feel a flush creeping under his skin.  “Who’s it from?” Ron asked. “No one, it’s fine,” Harry said, trying to straighten his face. Neville came out of the bathroom, toweling off his wet hair. “Oh good, you got it, Harry. Ginny asked me to drop that off for you.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Thanks, Nev.”  “It’s from Ginny?” Ron asked, coming around to read the note over Harry’s shoulder. Harry folded it quickly and shoved it in his pocket. “What is it?” “Bruise balm,” Harry whispered, highly aware of Dean listening in, punching his pillow into place. “From that Bludger today.” “Oh, right,” Ron said, chuckling. “Well at least it wasn’t your head.” He gave Harry a light slap on the shoulder, making him wince, before he turned to throw his own bag down by his bed. Almost as an afterthought, Ron added, “Mind keeping your shirt on around my sister? Or else she’ll get ideas. You know how she’s always been about you.”  Dean closed his hangings with such force that one of the rings broke off, leaving a slight space between the hangings. The aggressiveness of it drew Ron’s attention, and he began considering the rustling curtains and slowly looked back to Harry. “Right,” Harry said, turning to hide his face, and feigned shuffling through his trunk.  

Currently I'm in the last stages of editing before sending it off to @fizzyginfizz this week. I'll be excited to share this one soon!

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People not liking/not getting midsommar is so wild to me. Like oh we don’t ALL have a deep fear of abandonment that we don’t know how to deal with??