secretkeeper13

[secretkeeper13]

Hello Hinny Shippers

Here are my favorite hinny fic recs

[PART 1]

OOTP :

1)but i’m a fire, and i’ll keep your brittle heart warm by @soceitysgot CanonCompliant, set in and around OotP, Missing Scenes, Harry/Ginny

2)A Desperate Apology by CharmHazel Summary: Having been put in his place by Ginny, Harry feels the need to apologise after forgetting an awful experience.

Pre-HBP / HBP one-shots :

1)Chocolate (in the Common Room) by @startanewdream Summary: "We could start a tradition,” Ginny suggested. “Of sharing chocolate eggs.” His heart skipped a beat. “We will need to find a new spot next year.”

2)Summer rain by @startanewdream Summary: On a rainy day, Harry and Ginny play a test to prove there is no fail-safe secret to fall in love.

3)Wish by @secretkeeper13 Summary: Harry and Ginny share banter, feelings, and a Christmas wish in this missing moment set during HBP.

4)Wannabe by @secretkeeper13 Summary: The Sixth Year Gryffindor boys discover the Spice Girls, but Harry only wants to be Ginny’s lover.

5)Christmas with Cormac by secretkeeper13 Summary: A Half Blood Prince missing moment, as told by the incomparable Cormac McLaggen.

6)Priorities by @starlingflight Summary: Ginny gives Dean his jumper back, and Harry is definitely not relieved to see it.

7)Halloween Monster by floreatcastellum Summary: Just days after seeing Ron's sister and Dean snogging in a corridor, Harry must now endure a Halloween Feast with them.

8)up against the wall with me by @takeariskao3 Summary : Day-dreaming harry

9)Like Her Paper Chain by MerryMagicalMenagerie Summary: It’s Christmastime at the Burrow and Harry can’t sleep as usual. What will he find when he descends the stairs in a side mission for a late night drink?

10)Distraction by @celtics534 Summary: It was the perfect sneak attack, and for once, Harry was okay that trouble had found him.

11)Hanging by a Moment by @celtics534 Summary: You remember some moments forever and Harry was pretty sure that this moment would be one of those. A missing HBP moment.

12)Happily Impervious by @ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey Canon compliant, HBP, Romilda Vane POV on Harry & Ginny's relationship.

13)Amortentia by StarlingFlight

14)Boyfriend by @sophie-hatter-jenkins Summary: Harry returns to his dormitory after kissing Ginny, to find Ron waiting for him.

15)The Slug Club Dinner by @pottermum Summary: Harry gets a night off his detention with Snape but has to go to the Slug Club dinner. He finds himself attending with Ginny Weasley, his secret crush. Set during HBP, some dialogue taken from book and movie.

16)twist my head and leave me breathless by balmiki Summary: HBP period, Harry pining after Ginny as she continues to be downright adorable.

17)Boyfriend (1219 words) by sophie_hatter_jenkins Summary: Harry returns to his dormitory after kissing Ginny, to find Ron waiting for him.

(ff.net)

1) Breakdowns in Broom Sheds by Laury the Latrator

2)Late or Early Babblings by Daydreaming Lover

3) The Best Date I Never Had by quidditchmum

4)The Astronomy Tower by asiriusfanff

5) State of Grace by thirteencharms

6). Gentle Touch by hpfangal

7) Oi Potter by celtics534

8) Overjoyed by celtics534

9) Until You Can Fly Again by JamieBell

10) Thoughts on a Train by rumpelsnorcack

11)After the Summer's Gone by Scarlett71177

12)Perseids by StartanewDream

HBP multichapter :

1)Realising (2/2) by floreatcastellum Summary: Harry realises he is in love with Ginny.

2)Torch by @gryffindormischief, fightfortherightsofhouseelves Chapters: 12/12 Summary: Over the course of his life, Harry's faced death quite a few times, and none of it has been quite as terrifying as falling for Ginny Weasley.

3)Fallin' All In You by StarlingFlight Chapters: 10/10 Summary: There's a week to go until the Gryffindor Vs. Ravenclaw Quidditch final and tensions are rising and not just between the houses.

4)Everything I Wanted by StarlingFlight Chapters: 14/14 Summary: Harry and Ginny share a very public kiss after the Quidditch final; three weeks later they break up. This is everything in between. I have also written the week leading up to the final (Fallin' All in You). You don't need to read it first but it's there if you want to.

5)every few lifetimes (16875 words) by societysgot Chapters: 1/2 Summary: The thing was, that Ginny Weasley had always been — pretty. This was an undisputed fact, in Harry’s eyes. A known truth. But seeing her like this; ripples of laughter falling from her lips, fair yet sunkissed skin, collecting more freckles by the day, all curves and long legs — was different, was staggering.   (Or, the one where Harry and Ginny become more than friends).   CanonCompliant, Set in and around HBP, Missing Scenes, Harry/Ginny.

DH (one-shots/multi) :

1)Into her sleep by Startanewdream Summary: “…after a while Harry found himself taking it out simply to stare at Ginny's name in the girl's dormitory, wondering whether the intensity with which he gazed at it might break into her sleep, that she would somehow know he was thinking about her, hoping that she was all right.”

2)Close your eyes (that way you can't be tempted) by Startanewdream Summary: Some movie adaptations are better than the original books. Sadly, this is not the case in Harry and Ginny's story. Here is an attempt to fix some movie scenes.

3) Memoirs of a Four-Eyed Wizard  by My Wicked Quill (on ff.net)

[secretkeeper13]

I just found you on ao3 , and went through all your fics.

Every single one is so bloody amazing!!!

Thank you so much!!! This absolutely made my day. I haven’t written anything in ages because real life is a lot right now, and to hear that you read my fics and enjoyed them is everything ❤️

[secretkeeper13]

There are people – some in my own Party – who think that if you just give Donald Trump everything he wants, he’ll make an exception and spare you some of the harm. I’ll ignore the moral abdication of that position for just a second to say — almost none of those people have the experience with this President that I do. I once swallowed my pride to offer him what he values most — public praise on the Sunday news shows — in return for ventilators and N95 masks during the worst of the pandemic. We made a deal. And it turns out his promises were as broken as the BIPAP machines he sent us instead of ventilators. Going along to get along does not work – just ask the Trump-fearing red state Governors who are dealing with the same cuts that we are. I won’t be fooled twice.

I’ve been reflecting, these past four weeks, on two important parts of my life: my work helping to build the Illinois Holocaust Museum and the two times I’ve had the privilege of reciting the oath of office for Illinois Governor.

As some of you know, Skokie, Illinois once had one of the largest populations of Holocaust survivors anywhere in the world. In 1978, Nazis decided they wanted to march there.

The leaders of that march knew that the images of Swastika clad young men goose stepping down a peaceful suburban street would terrorize the local Jewish population – so many of whom had never recovered from their time in German concentration camps.

The prospect of that march sparked a legal fight that went all the way to the Supreme Court. It was a Jewish lawyer from the ACLU who argued the case for the Nazis – contending that even the most hateful of speech was protected under the first amendment.

As an American and a Jew, I find it difficult to resolve my feelings around that Supreme Court case – but I am grateful that the prospect of Nazis marching in their streets spurred the survivors and other Skokie residents to act. They joined together to form the Holocaust Memorial Foundation and built the first Illinois Holocaust Museum in a storefront in 1981 – a small but important forerunner to the one I helped build thirty years later.

I do not invoke the specter of Nazis lightly. But I know the history intimately — and have spent more time than probably anyone in this room with people who survived the Holocaust. Here’s what I’ve learned – the root that tears apart your house’s foundation begins as a seed – a seed of distrust and hate and blame.

The seed that grew into a dictatorship in Europe a lifetime ago didn’t arrive overnight. It started with everyday Germans mad about inflation and looking for someone to blame.

I’m watching with a foreboding dread what is happening in our country right now. A president who watches a plane go down in the Potomac – and suggests — without facts or findings — that a diversity hire is responsible for the crash. Or the Missouri Attorney General who just sued Starbucks – arguing that consumers pay higher prices for their coffee because the baristas are too “female” and “nonwhite.” The authoritarian playbook is laid bare here: They point to a group of people who don’t look like you and tell you to blame them for your problems.

I just have one question: What comes next? After we’ve discriminated against, deported or disparaged all the immigrants and the gay and lesbian and transgender people, the developmentally disabled, the women and the minorities – once we’ve ostracized our neighbors and betrayed our friends – After that, when the problems we started with are still there staring us in the face – what comes next.

All the atrocities of human history lurk in the answer to that question. And if we don’t want to repeat history – then for God’s sake in this moment we better be strong enough to learn from it.

I swore the following oath on Abraham Lincoln’s Bible: “I do solemnly swear that I will support the constitution of the United States, and the constitution of the state of Illinois, and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the office of Governor .... according to the best of my ability.

My oath is to the Constitution of our state and of our country. We don’t have kings in America – and I don’t intend to bend the knee to one. I am not speaking up in service to my ambitions — but in deference to my obligations.

If you think I’m overreacting and sounding the alarm too soon, consider this:

It took the Nazis one month, three weeks, two days, eight hours and 40 minutes to dismantle a constitutional republic. All I’m saying is when the five-alarm fire starts to burn, every good person better be ready to man a post with a bucket of water if you want to stop it from raging out of control.

Those Illinois Nazis did end up holding their march in 1978 – just not in Skokie. After all the blowback from the case, they decided to march in Chicago instead. Only twenty of them showed up. But 2000 people came to counter protest. The Chicago Tribune reported that day that the “rally sputtered to an unspectacular end after ten minutes.” It was Illinoisans who smothered those embers before they could burn into a flame.

Tyranny requires your fear and your silence and your compliance. Democracy requires your courage. So gather your justice and humanity, Illinois, and do not let the “tragic spirit of despair” overcome us when our country needs us the most.

Sources:

• NBC Chicago & J.B. Pritzker, Democratic governor of Illinois, State of the State address 2025: Watch speech here | Full text

• Betches News on Instagram (screencaps)

[secretkeeper13]

It's up!

Please keep in mind that this is an epistolary/texting fic, and that it looks much better on a phone!

Here's a preview of the prologue...

~*~

WhatsApp Group: The Three Amigos

Members: Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter

Chat Resumed: Monday 19th August, 3:12 p.m.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione Granger: So, how did it go?

Harry Potter: Fine

Ron Weasley: fine he says

Harry Potter: I signed the papers, if that’s what you wanted to know

Hermione Granger: Oh, Harry. 

Are you okay?

Harry Potter: Yeah, fine

Hermione Granger: I don’t believe you.

[secretkeeper13]

Here's to the people who can't get the words on the page. The people who are too tired after all life throws at them to write. The people who are blocked. The people who are burnt out. The people who can't write because of physical or mental illnesses. The people who don't know why they can't write. And the people struggling with all those other things that get in the way of writing and make it seem or be impossible.

You're still a writer, you're still an artist. And you matter. This world is better since you're in it. Thank you for wanting to write, even if you can't right now. I hope you and your words find each other soon.

[secretkeeper13]

please please please please reblog if you’re a writer and have at some point felt like your writing is getting worse. I need to know if I’m the only one who’s struggling with these thoughts

[secretkeeper13]

snippet:

Tom Riddle smiles her way, overly kind, handsome, dark hair and dark eyes and so grown up. Loneliness possesses her, so she smiles right back, feels like a star in the blackest of nights.

CLICK HERE for part i 💛

[secretkeeper13]

This is so beautiful!!!

Spring Again, Somehow

Written for @corneliaavenue-ao3's TTPD fest

Prompt: I Can Do It With A Broken Heart

Read on AO3 or below the cut:

It was supposed to rain that morning. One last disappointment before it was all over, one more thing to grit her teeth and power through, no matter how trivial. And yet, somehow, the drizzling clouds had parted just in time, and Ginny found herself only a few sparkling feet of water away from the end of her time at Hogwarts, in the same boat that had carried her towards the castle all those years ago. There were four of us in this boat back then, Ginny thought, and tried to ignore the dull ache creeping into her chest.

Hermione sat in front of her, staring straight ahead at the spot on the shore where all the families of seventh-year students were waiting for them. To anyone else, she would have looked the picture of a leader: stoic and calm, chin held high. But Ginny could sense the slightly shallow breathing, the clammy palm that reached back to grasp her own, the small smile as Ginny squeezed her hand back. It was perhaps the first time Ginny knew exactly what Hermione was thinking. It’s over. It’s over. It’s finally, nearly over. Thank goodness. Thank goodness thank goodness thank goodness.

The boat hit the shore with a tiny jolt, and Ginny could hear a distant cheering. It was muffled somehow. Subdued. All Ginny could hear was the roar of the wind, the lapping of the water, her own heart pounding in her head. She thought she might be sick. There were so many people, all of them and none of them strangers, and yet she could already tell exactly who was missing.

She stood, unsteadily for a moment, as she stepped out of the boat and onto the shore. Towards the back of the crowd, a few familiar shocks of red hair made themselves visible above everyone else, and Ginny hardly registered the looks, the chatter, the whispers she’d grown far too used to as she headed straight for them, relief crashing over her. 

Her parents reached her first, their eyes shining with tears as they wrapped their arms around her and squeezed her tight. Sometimes, these days, she couldn’t tell if their hugs felt tighter or weaker. Some strange combination of both, maybe. One she’d never known before last year. 

When they finally pulled apart, her mother was furiously wiping away the tears streaming down her face. 

“Oh Ginny, I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I– ”

“You’d have cried no matter what, I think,” Ginny said softly. “Me being the last one and all.”

This only made her mum cry harder, though she did crack a slight smile. Her dad chuckled softly and pulled her close again. 

“It’s strange, that’s for certain,” he said.

Ginny could only nod into his chest.

Her brothers greeted her next, with varying degrees of enthusiasm and teasing. Even Charlie and Percy had come, which, in the past, would have meant that all of her brothers were here. She hugged George, thankfully less skinny than he’d been at Christmas, and tried not to think.

And there, standing behind the rest of the family (as she was sure he’d insisted), glasses glinting in the sunlight, was Harry. She made a beeline for him, barely registering Ron muttering something to Hermione, and nearly threw herself into his arms. She kissed him, not unlike he had after that Quidditch final her fifth year, only this time there were no whoops, no whistles, no surprises. Just Harry. 

He was warm, and he smelled like home, and Ginny could have stayed there forever, forgotten everything that had happened, everything that was to come. All the letters they’d sent, all the sneaky meet-ups in Hogsmeade, all the hours they’d spent together over Christmas and Easter were nothing compared to the months and years they would have from that point on.

“Hi,” she said as she pulled back, face flushed. 

“Hello to you too,” he said. His eyes were shining, his grin broader than she’d seen in a long time.

There were so many things she could have said, so many thoughts racing through her mind. She felt like she might explode, or fold in on herself, or crumble into pieces until she was small enough to be whisked away by the wind.

“Do you want to go walk by the lake?” she said instead. “Get away from this crowd?” For old times’ sake.

He nodded, pressing his lips to her hair and steering them both toward an empty green spot down the shore.

For the first time since stepping out of the boat, Ginny could see the castle. Like a painting, the clouds had parted just over the grounds, sending great beams of light down, reflecting pearlescent blues and pinks and golds off of the lake and the trees and the castle towers. One year ago, those towers had still been smoldering, the gaping wounds obvious even across the lake. But there it stood, imposing as ever, the place of bloody walls and soaked stone floors and pleading whimpers and screams and sobs in pitch-black dungeons. Of glorious feasts and laughter by the fire and misty sunrise flying and sunny days on the grounds with Harry. 

The place that destroyed her, and the place that made her, too.

She shivered slightly, the rain-chilled wind grazing her face, and felt Harry’s arms hold her tighter. 

“What’re you thinking?” he murmured into her hair.

Ginny paused for a moment.

“I didn’t think I would miss it,” she finally said. “So many times, I just wanted to leave and never come back. This year, first year, every year at some point, honestly. I couldn’t wait to get off that boat today, and yet…”

She trailed off, leaning her head against Harry’s shoulder. Part of her still hoped he couldn’t notice the lump growing in her throat.

“I don’t think that sounds strange,” he said. “I’m, y’know… not always the best judge of that stuff, but–”

Ginny chuckled and grinned into his shoulder. 

“That makes two of us,” she said.

Harry grinned. “At least we’ve got a choice now. You’ll be busy with Quidditch, I’ll be doing my work, and we’ll never have to be back here until Teddy’s the one finishing school.”

“Oh god,” Ginny laughed. “We’ll be so old by then.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, but he was smiling. That lovely, soft smile that made her heart swell. 

I get to see that smile for the rest of my life, Ginny thought. Suddenly she was crying, and laughing again, somehow. And Harry was laughing too, pulling her close, the castle fading into the sunlight.

[secretkeeper13]

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.

[secretkeeper13]

I feel personally attacked.

[secretkeeper13]

beasts chapter 11 out now 🎇

‘I was trying to keep you alive!’ he bellows. ‘You aren’t listening to me!’ she bellows back. ‘People don’t like being locked up!’ [ hatch, verb.: (of an egg) to open and produce a young animal. ]

[secretkeeper13]

W22D update!

Without Twenty-Two Days

Chapter 1 // Chapter 8 (now complete!)

“And without thinking, without planning it, without worrying about the fact that fifty people were watching, Harry-”

-almost kissed Ginny.

[secretkeeper13]

Someone's Mum

For @hinnymicrofic -Day 20 "Mom"

The poster unfurled, a Quidditch star winked with sass and smile

“Lucky him,” they’d say in passing

She never cared what they said

But Albus was two and he didn’t speak

“Are you miserable?” Words raw, a fear hidden, only uttered under the blanket of night.

“No,” she dared whisper, a confession in the dark. “When I’m there, I’m thinking about here. When I’m here, I’m thinking about there. Not miserable… mediocre. I never half-arsed anything that mattered and now I’m mediocre.”

Her fingers sought his, tangled in sheets.

“I catch a Quaffle and I miss the boys and I miss the hoop and I’m not crushed because my dream has become just another day with another Quaffle and another hoop and another number on another board and I miss miss miss when it mattered.”

Who was she without it?

Someone’s mum

James turned the page

another and another and another

“Again!”

another and another and another

“And down once more, but not so fast- “ *

Her shoulder needed to be iced

“They’re on their way to bed at last- “

How many times did they have to hear this story?

“The day is done they say goodnight- “

How many times would they want to?

“And somebody turns off the light- “

How many nights until they were too old

and she would

miss miss miss when it mattered

“The moon is high- “

Albus was two and still didn’t speak

“The sea is deep- “

Thumb in mouth, his green eyes followed her finger tracing the words

“They rock- “

James nestled closer, elbow jabbing the Bludger-sized bruise on her hip

“And rock- “

It hurt

Her finger trembled as it traced

“And rock- “

Albus, two, not talking, lifted enormous green eyes to hers

“To sleep- “

Green eyes that spoke sonnets

His Mum

He grinned

She was the center of his world

“What can I do?” Never one for words, he had long ago learned to ask. “What can I say?”

Sheets rustled as their fingers laced.

“What will you see, Harry?” She muttered. “I know what everyone else will see and I’ll pretend it won’t matter. But what will you see when you look at me?”

He rolled on top of her, cupping her face between his hands.

“The woman who bat-bogeys reporters and fought in a war and loves so fiercely her heart swells and splits and bleeds.”

Soft kisses to chin, cheek, eyelid.

“The effortlessly funny companion who can commentate two snails crossing the porch and have us all cheering the one with the hilariously tragic backstory.”

He lowered his forehead to hers.

“The girl who wrote in the diary who married the boy who slept in a cupboard. Neither of them have anything to prove, Gin.”

A tear escaped, rolling into her hairline.

“A Mum?”

She dared to whisper, a confession in the dark.

Irrelevant to the world

The world to three

“I’ll see you, Ginny. And I will love you until my last breath.”

The day was done, the edges curled

The Quidditch star winked as the poster furled

*Excerpt from “The Going to Bed Book” by Sandra Boynton

[secretkeeper13]

‘Hermione, the attendees just survived a war,’ says Seamus impatiently. ‘I think they can survive a piss-up in a creepy old mansion.’ [ rear, verb.: (of an animal) to care for its young until fully grown ]

[secretkeeper13]

The Winners

Written for @thethreebroomsticksfic Weasley Week

Day 7: Ginny

“I want you to know,” Ginny said, surveying her teammates, “that I am proud of each and every one of you. I know- I know that we are going to go out there and clobber them. They think they can beat us? They won’t know what hit them.”

The rest of the team nodded, some more forcefully than others. A few were clutching their broomsticks so hard their knuckles were white.

“However,” said Ginny, “it’s not going to be easy. They’ve got some pretty good players on that team. Size-wise, most of them are bigger than us. A lot have more experience. They’ll be fast, and strong, and they won’t go easy on us because they want to win just as much as we do. I’m sure their captain is giving a very similar speech to them right now. I doubt it’s a speech as good as mine, but-”

A few of the girls snickered and one let out a whoop. Ginny grinned.

“But,” she continued, “we are fighting for the most important Quidditch victory in the country. We may be an all girls team, but we can play and win just as well as anyone. We’re going to catch every quaffle, beat every bludger and catch the snitch before the other team’s so-called captain even has a chance to look. Like I said in practice, we’re not just going to win, we’re going to…?”

“Dominate them Auntie Ginny!” screamed Rose, holding her broom aloft like a sword, red curls flying everywhere.

“Let’s kill them!” shouted Lily, jumping up beside her cousin in her Mum’s old Harpies jersey, the sleeves of which went past her elbows.

“I think kill is a bit of a strong word,” said Vic.

“No such thing,” said Roxie, who was busy painting green and black stripes under her eyes. “You’re all allowed to knock my dad off his broom if you want. He’ll be fine.”

Rose, Lily, Vic, and Dominique laughed. Angelina smirked at Ginny, who grinned back. 

“Same with my dad,” Lily said. “You’re allowed to hit bludgers at him. But I’m going to catch the Snitch first anyway, so you probably won’t need to.”

The rest of the girls cheered their agreement as they stomped and jumped and skipped and marched their way to the Burrow’s makeshift Quidditch pitch with the energy of a thousand bludgers. Ginny and Angelina hung back, watching them approach their fathers and brothers and shouting what was most likely some extremely cute trash talk.

“Your husband the captain better not go too easy on Lily,” Angelina muttered to Ginny with a grin. “She sounds like she means business.”

“Oh, he won’t,” said Ginny as they watched Harry talk to his daughter and nieces, an obviously proud smile on his face. “He knows she’ll forgive him for winning against her, but never for that.”

[secretkeeper13]

Last sentence game. What’s the last bit you wrote in a WIP?

Thanks for the tag @brightlybound 💕

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She’s six when she flies a broomstick for the first time, feels the intoxicating rush that taking to the sky brings. For nearly a decade after, she thinks that nothing more euphoric could exist. But then he kisses her in the common room, to the sound of breaking glass and giggling and a wolf whistle, and her world shifts on its axis— she knows then, and there’s no going back.

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Tagging @displayheartcode @whinlatter @narukoibito and @pocket-lilacs

[secretkeeper13]

Good Enough

100-Word Drabbles for Arthur and Ginny Weasley

Fifteen drabbles written for @thethreebroomsticksfic Weasley Week, Oct 16th: Arthur Weasley. Read below or on AO3.

i.

“You’re joking.”

Molly chews back her smile, shakes her head coyly. The house isn’t quiet, per say, but in a rare stroke of luck the twins and Ronnie’s naps have aligned.

And he’s wedged around the bathroom sink with his wife, giggling like children over a potion that’s just changed color.

“A girl…”

The day she’s born, Fabian is there. Peers over the bassinet for so long, Arthur wonders if he too is counting ten perfect pink toes.

“Shit,” he says to Arthur over a cigar that night, after talking war, “this world will never be good enough for her.”

ii.

It’s his turn tonight, when they hear little feet across the kitchen floor. He’s not surprised it’s her, face still blotchy, hair sticking up everywhere from this afternoon’s tantrum that left her knackered.

She whips around in the pantry doorway, eyes like saucers. “I’m hungry.”

After leftover stew from her yellow paisley bowl, he lays in bed with her. Grants her request for a story on the condition she doesn’t suck her thumb.

“Once upon a time, there was a witch named Ginny who lived in a deep, dark wood…”

“No, Daddy,” she whispers, eyes nearly closed. “I’m a dragon.”

iii.

Molly tells him she cried the whole way home from King’s Cross. By early afternoon, he can still tell— the aftershocks seem to surprise her, those gasping little breaths. 

“You know the best part of being the last one left,” he divulges over homemade strawberry ice cream that has yet to do the trick, “is that no one’s here to fight you for your pick of broomstick.”

The rest of her bowl melts on the porch swing. She’s out until it gets dark in the orchard, comes in for supper with leaves in her hair and the biggest jack-o-lantern grin. 

iv.

The day they bring her back home, he carries her trunk upstairs and sits beside her on the bed. Apologizes for ever blaming her, even for a second. 

She counters by saying something lifeless and self-loathing and broken. Eleven-year-old fingers pick at bruised nail beds— tiny, perfect hands. He still can’t fathom it.

That night, Molly brings her dinner and doesn’t come back down. When he heads up to bed, he sees they’ve clearly emptied all her shelves, stacked every novel and journal and textbook outside her door where they can’t hurt her. 

He’s never been angrier in his life.

v.

Since this morning, he’s meant to tell her he’s sorry— sorry they couldn’t offer her anything better on her birthday than this condemnable house-turned-war room. Sorry for the second-hand leather satchel wrapped in faded Christmas paper, even though she wanted a broom; sorry everyone’s thoughts are on tomorrow’s hearing.

After dinner he finally says it, out of Molly’s earshot. Sitting on the stairs leading from the kitchen, plates of fudgy cake in hand. 

“Don’t apologize.” She’s still smiling huge, bumps his shoulder. The Flatulence Fez the twins crowned her with slips down over one eye. “I really love the bag.”

vi.

It should’ve been the day that made them proudest as parents, marrying off their firstborn. It wasn’t. 

This morning, they boxed up centerpieces and charger plates in the shed, repaired all the furniture, met with the Order. His ears still ring. The house is eerie without those three. 

He finds them in her room. His wife is clutching their daughter as she sobs harder than he’s ever seen, inconsolable, wracking herself hoarse. He feels it like a sword to the chest.

In bed later, Molly shakes her head with that look he earns sometimes when he’s being thick. “She’s heartbroken.”

vii.

Friday before Easter, he changes from work robes into something Muggle and tweed and itchy. Platform 9¾ is packed with people avoiding eye contact, and the Express is late. It was late in December, too— arrived without Luna. He waits, terror tightening his throat.

He’s numb with relief when he sees her, one of the only kids lugging a trunk like he advised. She’s swimming in a jumper he’s sure is Ron’s, and that twinges a bit. There’s something different, he notices, walking to the entrance. Colder. Quiet. He doesn’t ask… can’t quite bear to.

Four days later, they flee.

viii.

She’s fighting him. Kicking, clawing.

He holds on with everything he has, arms clasped around her chest, and it’s like he can feel her breaking inside. But if he lets go, he’ll lose her, too. Like Fred. 

Like the body they’re all staring at, lifeless at Hagrid’s feet.

Weeks later, when the Boy Who Lived finds him in the shed one night, hedging, guiltier than anyone he’s ever seen, he already knows. For a moment he considers letting the kid squirm, like the father ought to do.

But then he remembers her first year, and wordlessly hands over a screwdriver. 

ix.

“One more,” she tells their waitress, pointing at a coaster she’s put in the middle. “For my sixth brother.”

The table falls quiet. But then George chuckles and they all take his cue, except Molly.

Snow collects on the windows as the bangers and pies and chips are served. She laments early-morning practices to them all, pretends she’s already bored of all the travel.

“Knock it off,” Charlie snickers, grinning. “Rookies can’t complain. We know you’re having a blast.”

At the end of the night she beats everyone to the bar, pays their tab. Arthur suspects it’s her whole paycheck.

x.

“I definitely saw you cry,” she accuses. She’s graceful even in smugness, grinning something wicked over her lipstick-stained champagne flute.

He pretends to grumble, but he knows she knows. “Hard not to, with the bloody groom getting all choked up.”

The band calls them up soon after, and he pulls her close. “It’s okay,” she murmurs as her face starts to blur again, inches away. “Just admit you’ve gone soft, Dad. I won’t tell.” He tugs on her hand to spin her, chuckling.

They cut cake, and Harry whispers something that makes her laugh, and she lights up the room.

xi.

Predictably, the stadium loses it when she flies out with a new surname on her kit. Ron rolls his eyes as she lands on the pitch with a bit of swagger.

She flies well today, but he reckons she could miss every shot and the commentators would still talk of nothing else. In the stands, Harry laughs when Arthur leans over to ask how it feels to play second fiddle. 

“I’ll never be good enough for her,” he snorts over the rim of his pint. “But I’m sure you knew that.”

She scores twelve goals, and the Harpies clinch playoffs.

xii.

“I’d kill for a drink about now,” she mutters, leaning against the railing. He knows better than to say she probably shouldn’t be out here, either— the venue’s porch, serving as refuge for men who normally never smoke.

He takes a long drag as they watch her boys toddle after their dad on the lawn. “Nearly there, sweetheart.” Treading lightly with his words, lest he incur any of what Muriel’s other well-intended mourners did with their attempts at small talk (“Like a fucking whale, thanks for asking”).

“Hey,” she smirks, “maybe you and Mum can buy a beach cottage now.”

xiii.

The mug Molly poured when they arrived is tepid now, sitting on the table. Shadows lengthen like ghosts beneath his daughter’s eyes; he suspects they’re five days old.

The kids are all asleep, Molly updates them.

Her jaw tightens. At her temple, he notices a couple of gray strands. “I can’t—” she whispers. Squeezes her eyes shut; nothing else comes out. “They need their dad. I’m not good enough on my own.”

“He’ll come home safe, darling. Always does.” And he makes her promise to never say that again. 

He takes both of her hands in his, and they’re cold.

xiv.

They’re celebrating Ted and Vic beneath a canopy of fairy lights. Bill’s weepy toast prompts Fleur to frisk his brothers till she finds George’s flask.

She never realizes Ginny’s stowing the bottle. 

His children outlast their kids and spouses. It’s one of those nights he can’t let himself miss, tired as he is. 

His daughter points a wobbly finger. “Lils has a boyfriend, by the way. Doesn’t think we know. Harry’s going spare.”

He chuckles. “Now he gets it. Imagine trying to justify hating the Chosen One.”

She laughs, nearly tips her chair. “You should tell him that. Might help.”

xv.

It comes in waves. Feels like a lifetime has passed since yesterday; another before that. Molly— bless her— tried to prepare him for it. Tried to comfort him. Imagine.

It feels too big now, their little house on the beach. Perfect for two lives, cavernous with just one. 

She finds him in the garden before sunset. Small, warm hands enclose his. 

“Look, Dad.” 

It’s a delicate, fluttering thing with blue wings, bobbing on the wind. Molly’s favorite. 

“She’s found us again.”

He smiles and tucks a silver lock behind her ear, meeting her gaze— precisely the same shade of brown.