#chudleycanonficfest2021

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 29, Story #1 is by @floreatcastellumposts

Title: In Vino Veritas Author/Artist: Floreatcastellum Pairing: Gen (Harry - Molly platonic/parent-child) Prompt: In Vino Veritas Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Heavy alcohol consumption, mild language.  Molly Weasley was not stupid, and was well aware that young men enjoyed going out and getting drunk. She was not even particularly opposed to it - in principle - and she had to admit that she was very relieved to see George so excited about something. He hadn’t been excited in several long months.

‘Just don’t be too silly,’ she told him.

‘Us? Silly?’ he said, affronted.

‘I mean it, things might be safer but you’re all still targets - especially Harry, he needs to be particularly aware-’

‘I think he is more than aware that people out there want him dead. What he needs is a lot of alcohol to forget that.’

‘No, George.’

She knew he was winding her up, but she also knew that they were planning a big night out, because Ron and Harry had never really had one before, and in all honesty as much as she couldn’t help her disapproval, she did also feel that it was a shame they had missed out on such a rite of passage.

All the same, since George had let it slip, she knew she was going to worry, and her way of coping with that twisting, maternal anxiety was to insist that after their night out they returned, not to the flat in Diagon Alley they shared, but to the Burrow so that she could make them a full English in the morning.

She had also intended to stay up waiting for them, and to call the Law Enforcement Patrol if they were not back by half one to go and search for them, just in case something terrible had happened. But it was an awfully cold Halloween, and so she had got into bed next to Arthur so that she could have the warmth of the duvet, propped herself up against the headboard, and started knitting. The next thing she knew, she was being woken by an almighty crash.

‘Oh, fuck!’

‘Wahey!’

Both Molly and Arthur had already grabbed their wands in a panic before they heard their son’s exasperated voice.

‘Get up - get up, you idiot - George, hold him - oh for crying out loud-’

‘RON-’

‘Ssh! Don’t shout-’

‘Get him some water-’

‘He needs more than water - ahhh I have a brilliant idea-’

‘No, you don’t, whatever it is, abandon it-’

‘HEY, WOW, LOOK AT-’

‘SSH!’

‘That’ll be the boys back, then,’ said Arthur, turning on the bedside lamp and giving her a wry smile. The clock on the table said that it was approaching three in the morning.

‘Sounds like it, what on earth is all the shouting about?’ she asked, pulling on her dressing gown. Tying the cord tightly about her waist and slipping her feet into slippers, she listened to the commotion echoing up the stairs, and tried to figure out what exactly they were doing.

She could hear snorting laughter as she descended the creaking stairs, and Ron’s voice again, sounding remarkably grown up, saying, ‘don’t encourage him, stop it - put that down-’

She could hear saucepans clattering and tins falling, and the hissing spit of the gas; she looked over her shoulder to exchange a bewildered look with Arthur. ‘Are they cooking?’ she whispered, though there was no need, because there was no chance of them hearing her above the noise of George hooting.

‘Beans on toast, beans on toast!’

‘BEANS ON TOAST!’ came Harry’s echo.

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up, both of you, shut-’

‘BEANS ON TOAST!’

Molly had heard enough; she threw open the kitchen door so violently that George jumped and threw an open tin of baked beans several feet into the air. They landed with an impressive splatter across the slate floor. Harry, meanwhile, reached for his wand, but had instead seized a loaf of bread which he now brandished threateningly as he leaned against the counter. Ron had frozen in the middle of filling a glass of water, which now flowed over his hand. All three of them were still streaked with smears of paint from what she assumed were their Halloween costumes.

‘What on earth is going on in here?’ she demanded loudly.

Ron gave a heavy, exaggerated sigh. ‘You woke Mum and Dad,’ he told George and Harry pointlessly.

Harry lowered the bread, and held it sheepishly in both hands, like a child with a toy. George, in a carrying, apologetic whisper, said, ‘...sorry. We’re a bit drunk. Go back to bed.’

‘We can see that,’ said Arthur. ‘Harry,’ he added sharply. ‘What’s wrong with your foot?’

‘Oh, I… I fell on it. It doesn’t matter.’

‘He was dancing on a table!’ exclaimed George, with an accusatory point.

‘I wasn’t dancing, I was standing-’

‘Look at the state of you all!’ she said furiously, as Arthur calmly went over to Harry and guided him, hobbling, to a kitchen chair. ‘So irresponsible-’

‘I’m not that bad!’ said Ron defensively, and in truth Molly was rather surprised and a little proud at how he was being the responsible adult of the group, but there was no denying the heavy slurring, and the slight sway as he towered above her.

'You're not going to lose your bones,' she could hear Arthur saying reassuringly.

‘Mum,’ George was saying urgently, ‘Mum, can you make us beans on toast?’

‘No I will not make you beans on flipping toast! I’ll make you breakfast at a reasonable hour, right now you need to-’

‘Molly,’ Arthur called, ‘Molly, I think we’ll need some Skele-gro-’

‘Noooo - no, Mr Weasley, it’s fine, look, I can-’

Arthur gave a horrified yelp. ‘Don’t do that!’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Ron loudly, and, weaving erratically, he crossed the room to the Healing kit on top of the cupboards.

‘Mum,’ George continued, ‘if I hover up those beans, they’ll be all right, won’t they? Ten second rule, and if I let them boil for a bit?’

In short, it was chaos. Noisy, drunken chaos. In truth, she found it rather amusing, though it was still equally easy to frown and scowl at them. Somehow, and she could not muddle through the boys drunken logic, rooms were assigned and she found herself - and, again, she could not quite see how she had ended up in this situation, guiding Harry into Ron’s attic room and trying to help him into pyjamas. She had noticed before that Harry was a little more open, a little more affectionate, when he’d had a drink, but she had never quite seen him drunk before, and though the first time he had stopped her on the way up the stairs so he could hug her had been rather endearing, by this point she was getting rather fed up.

‘Mrs Weasley,’ said Harry loudly. ‘Mrs Weasley - I-’

‘Come on, dear,’ she said, more grumpily than she had ever spoken to him before.

‘I love you so much, Mrs Weasley-’

Her heart melted in an instant, she tried very hard to hide her smile, continuing to hold out the pyjama top. ‘You need to get into bed, dear.’

‘I love this whole family-’

‘That’s very sweet, Harry,’ she said patiently.

‘Bes’ family in the world-'

‘All right…’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he slurred, and, though he was usually a very shy boy, he pulled his shirt off over his head, knocking his glasses half off in the process.

She looked politely away, but a few muttered swearwords made her look back, and, with a tut, she proceeded to help him untangle himself from the twisted shirt. ‘Hold still - this arm this way- that’s it-’

She had never realised just how covered in scars he was. On his chest, his arm…

The shirt fell to the floor, and she caught his glasses as they tumbled off his ear, and set them on the windowsill. When she turned back, he had one arm in the pyjama shirt, but was missing the other arm and twisting dramatically to try and get at it.

‘Silly boy, here you are,’ she said, helping him, and he started telling her thank you, over and over and over again. When it came to the pyjama bottoms, he seemed to realise that she was there, and gain a sense of shame, and he loudly asked her to turn away and not look, but when she went to the door to leave him to it, he shouted again.

‘No - no wait - Mrs Weasley don’t go, just don’t look - hang on-’

Finally, after the sounds of heavy, staggering hopping and a few more muttered swear words, she said, ‘can I look now?’ and he mumbled an agreement.

‘Oh, no, where are are my glasses?’ he asked, as she guided him to the bed. He sounded very worried.

‘They’re on the windowsill, and look-’ She pointed her wand at the bedside table, and a large jug of water and a glass appeared. ‘You’ve got water, and in a few hours you’ll have some food too, you just need to sleep some of this off. All right, dear?’

He collapsed heavily onto the bed. ‘You’re like the mum I never had,’ he mumbled into the mattress. ‘Mrs Weasley. My aunt never was this kind. Wish I’d been here all ‘long.’

She swallowed, and perched on the bed beside him, and reached out to brusy back his messy hair. ‘I wish you had too,’ she said quietly. ‘But you’re part of the family now, aren’t you? For good. I love you too, we all do.’

'I'm sorry,' he whispered suddenly, rolling onto his side with what must have been considerable effort.

'It's all right, you're just a bit drunk, you know I play the grumpy Mum act up a bit.'

'No. I… I’m sorry for everything I put you and your family through.'

She placed her hand against his face, and looked into his bright eyes. ‘I’d do it all again,’ she told him. ‘In a heartbeat.’

‘Would you?’ he asked quietly. ‘If you knew? If you knew everything that would happen?’

‘I absolutely would still talk to the little boy alone in Kings Cross,’ she said firmly. ‘In fact, I think I would probably go looking for him.’

His eyelids drooped, he sighed heavily. ‘Kings Cross… Thank you.’

Within seconds, she was sure that he was asleep, gone to the world, utterly unwakeable. She smiled, kissed him on the temple, and left the room. From the sounds of it, Arthur was still arguing with George about beans on toast.

[voldemorts-tap-shoes]

prompt: extended weasley family on halloween and everyone is trying to rangle the many young kids into their costumes :)

Hi there! I’m so sorry that it took me so long to answer this ask, but I finally caught the inspiration for it for a @chudleycanonficfest prompt!

It’s not quite what you asked for, but I hope you still enjoy this bit of Halloween fluff! (read here)

🎃🎃🎃

[ahankar1610]

Hiya friends,

@chudleycanonficfest gave me the chance to enter and share my story with everyone.

I hope you liked it. It's posted on ao3 and ffnet now. There are many errors in the fic and I edited them, so I hope you'll all will like this.

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 28, Post #1 by @floreatcastellumposts

Title: The Argument Author/Artist: FloreatCastellum Pairing: Gen Prompt: “Siblings: The only enemy you can’t live without” -Anonymous Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Mild language

When he was a child, Ron had sometimes sat secretly on the stairs, feet in slippers too big for him, teddy tucked under his arm, listening to the goings on in the kitchen. Often his sister or a brother or two would be with him. This was especially the case when there was an argument, because they were a nosy bunch of kids, and they would grin gleefully at one another as they heard their mother roar over some issue, like when Bill came home with his first tattoo, or Charlie had done something dangerous like climb on the roof, or the many, many, many things that Fred and George had done. They would gather on the stairs and snigger and delight in their siblings being in trouble - that it wasn't them, and usually it was over something hilarious too. 

Today was quite different. The stairs were narrow, so Ginny was pressed right up against him, but she was gripping hold of his arm too. Behind them, Fred and George sat in grim, stony silence, their knees occasionally knocking the back of Ron's head, but, remarkably, none of them were squabbling.

'Is it so hard to just be happy for me?' Percy was bellowing, and that in itself was unusual, because it was never Percy in trouble. 

'It's not about that,' Dad was bellowing back, 'are you so naive? Are you really so foolish-?' This was unusual too, because it wasn't usually Dad bellowing. 

'Percy... Percy, we're just worried, we're just concerned...' Mum was sobbing. This was unusual, because she usually had a bit more fight in her, not this desperate pleading. 

'You're so cynical, the pair of you-'

'We're realistic! You've been promoted well above your grade before the dust has settled on the inquiry-'

'STOP BRINGING UP THE INQUIRY!' Percy sounded quite deranged; the ferocity of his voice made Ginny jump slightly, and grip Ron's arm harder. 'That - wasn't - my - fault! That was the point of it! That PROVED I wasn't to blame, I was acquitted-'

'Yes, and we were delighted,' said Dad, and to Ron's astonishment, his words sounded bitingly sarcastic, 'but even so, you have to see that mass scandal is not usually a precursor to promotion!'

'He SAW something in me!' 

'Yes, he did! He saw a potential spy! On our family - on Dumbledore-'

Percy let out a maniacal laugh, forced and sneering and sanctimonious, it made Ron wince as he heard it. 'And you say I'm arrogant?' 

'We've never said you were arrogant-' Mum tried to chip in desperately, but Percy continued talking over her. 

'You think you're important enough to warrant the Minister for Magic spying on you? You think he considers you in the same circle as Dumbledore? More to the point, you think Dumbledore truly respects the likes of you?'  

'Fudge has been going round making it more than clear that anyone who supports Dumbledore can clear out their desks-'

'Utter rot-'

'-He knows I'm friendly with him, he knows I have advised the school on muggleborn inte-'

'No one cares!' Percy screamed. 'No one cares about that stuff! You're ludicrous!'

'Ludicrous?' Dad echoed, with an uncharacteristic scoff to his voice. 

'Ludicrous! Not everything is a conspiracy, not everything has an anti-muggle agenda - I know what this is really about, you're embarrassed that your own son is rising above you, is succeeding where you haven't-'

'Percy!' Mum's gasp was so clear that Ron could easily imagine her hand leaping to her chest. 

'I've had to struggle against your lousy reputation ever since I started! Do you know how embarrassing it is? Do you know what it's like having people ask if I'm related to the muggle-mad Weasley on Level Two-' 

'That's enough,' said Dad coldly. 

'I lie to them, d'you know that? I tell them we're only distantly related.' 

'What the fuck?' Ron heard one of the twins whisper behind them. 'Is he serious?' 

'I never imagined I had raised you to be so small-minded-' Dad was spitting back.

'It's baffling that you raised me at all! You, who has no ambition, no sense, no idea of how ridiculous you come across with your obsession with muggles - is it any wonder you've always been passed over for promotion-'

'-Because of bigotry!'

'-Any wonder you've left your children to grow up in poverty? To be humiliated by the failures of their father?' 

'Stop it! Percy, stop it!' Mum was wailing, and whether it was Fred or George directly behind him Ron didn't know, but their knee was trembling against the back of his head. 

'It's not failure, it's a matter of principle and integrity!' Dad roared back. 'There are more important things than gold, that's what we've always-'

'You are deluded! You are so blinded by your persecution complex, by your victimhood, that you cannot be happy for your son!' Percy’s voice was hoarse and raw, whether from tears or overexertion, Ron wasn’t sure. 'You can't bear to see him succeed where you failed! To see him make something of himself!'

'Why would I be happy watching my son be manipulated and used? Make no mistake, Percy - this is no achievement, this is Fudge playing you as a puppet - if you're ashamed of your background, that's your prerogative, but there's no denying this family is known to be close to Dumbledore and Harry, and Fudge is waging a vendetta against-'

‘You’re an idiot to run around with Dumbledore!’ snapped Percy. ‘He’s heading for trouble - gone completely power mad the last few years - you know full well his glory days are over. You’ll end up going down with him-’

‘Fudge is fighting a campaign against Dumbledore when he should be-’

‘I know where my loyalties lie, and it is not with my old teacher! It is with my employer, the leader of my government, with people who look at the facts!’

‘The facts are that Harry-’

'Yes - Harry - here we go,' snapped Percy. 'You rank the word of a child above the expert testimonies and mountains of evidence brought up by the inquiry, above your own boss - no wonder he thinks you're cracked. You’re determined to see conspiracy everywhere-’ 

‘How can you say that? You saw the aftermath of what happened, you saw him-’

‘I saw the actual dead boy, I saw Diggory!’ snapped Percy. ‘Think what his family is going through, their child’s death being used as a political quaffle-’

‘That is Fudge’s doing! That is his choice! He has chosen to make a mockery of Diggory, to disregard Harry-'

‘To question the story of a teenager,’ corrected Percy. His tone was cold and quiet, the kind of sanctimonious "I'm being the grown up here, actually" patience that Ron found unbearably aggravating. ‘The only evidence is his word, it’s not unreasonable to question a witness. In fact, it’s a perfectly standard part of due process.’

Ron’s growing anger was now twisted with a kind of lurching dread. The snide little comments in the Daily Prophet, which they had all blustered and raged and gasped in revolted disdain at over breakfasts for the past week, suddenly felt sinister. As he thought about it, Percy had never joined in… had always been silent… 

‘Percy…’ said Mum, so faintly that, as one, Ron, Ginny, Fred and George all leaned forward to listen. ‘Percy, surely you… surely you believe him? Surely you can’t believe he deserves what they’re saying about him? He’s just a child - it’s like the whole world’s forgotten that he’s just a child.’ 

'Yes, he's just a child - so why should he be the centre of everything?' Percy demanded. 'Why should he shape our family? Impact our careers?' 

'Percy… if you had seen him in the hospital wing, if you had looked into his eyes…' 

'Mr Fudge was not convinced,' said Percy, as though that settled the matter.

‘Has he asked you about Harry?’ Dad asked abruptly. Beside Ron, Ginny was shaking. ‘Casually?’ 

‘I - no more than is to be expected when you have someone famous living under your roof-’

‘What did he ask? What did you say?’ 

They heard a brief, thick silence, and a sharp exhale of air. ‘He… he’s not relevant to this discussion. This is beyond - this isn’t the issue - the only evidence is his word, as I said-’ 

‘You don’t believe him.’ Dad’s voice was blank, stunned, quiet. ‘You… you know that boy, Percy.’  

‘You don’t believe in me,’ said Percy, and Ron could hear his tears now, the slight thickness to his voice, the sniffs between words. ‘You’d rather believe in some ludicrous conspiracy theory from a teenager who thinks he sees You-Know-Who around every corner than believe that your own son might have worked hard, might be talented, might deserve his career. You’d really think so little of me.’ 

‘That’s not it. That’s not it at all,’ Dad said quietly, and Mum was crying loudly. ‘We just-’

‘I don’t care!’ said Percy harshly. ‘I don’t care what you think! Not any more! Years I’ve put up with it, years! I’m going - I’m gone - I don’t want to see either of you again - you’ve made it clear that you don’t have my interests at heart, this was your choice-’

‘What do you mean?’ Mum shrieked, and they could hear the scraping of chairs being moved aside, thundering footsteps, Mum begging-

The door was thrust open, and Percy stood for a moment in the hallway, looking up at the four of them sitting on the stairs. His expression was unreadable. Tear tracks shone from beneath his horn-rimmed glasses, and his mouth was a thin, grim line. 

‘Move,’ he told them. 

‘You’re being a right bellend,’ said Fred at once. 

‘MOVE!’ 

They did not, and Mum had come running after Percy, hanging desperately onto his arm though he tried to shake her off. ‘Come on, Perce,’ she pleaded. ‘Come and sit down, let’s all cool off and talk about this-’

‘Get out of my way,’ Percy told his siblings once more, and now Ron stood. 

‘Harry’s part of our family,’ he blurted out furiously. 

 ‘He’s not, Ron,’ Percy growled. ‘He’s your friend, that doesn’t mean everything he says is right - move out my way.’ 

‘How can you say that!’ Ginny demanded. ‘What’s wrong with you? How can you say all these horrible things?’ 

Percy started climbing the stairs, pushing Ron aside and stepping over Ginny, furiously struggling past Fred and George who immediately made their bodies as big and awkward and gangling as they could imagine, shouting colourful insults at him as he pushed past and thundered up to his room. 

‘He just needs to calm down,’ Mum was squeaking. ‘Go - go to your rooms, let me and Dad talk to him-’ 

‘No chance!’ 

‘I haven’t said my piece yet!’ 

He returned just a few moments later, carrying a bulging bag with a jumper sleeve trailing out, a little line of abandoned socks and a pair of underwear left on the stairs. ‘I’m going to stay with friends,’ he said. 

‘You haven't got any,’ goaded George. 

‘Be quiet, George!’ Mum wailed. ‘Percy-’

‘Then I’m getting my own place, I’m not staying here anymore - I’m not letting you all drag me down with you. If you’re all going to be traitors to the Ministry I’m going to make sure everyone’s well aware that I don’t belong to this family any more-’

‘You do, Percy, you do - you’ll always be my son-’ Mum’s words were barely audible beneath her crying. Percy pushed past her, and stormed towards the door. 

‘Percy!’ Ron shouted, and to his surprise, Percy turned and looked at him. 

Ron could not find the words for his contempt, could not find an insult strong enough, could not decide what to do with the rage that was coursing through him. All he could hope was that Percy could feel it in his cold, hard stare. ‘How could you?’ 

Percy said nothing, simply looked back for a moment, and then turned his back and strode swiftly to the door. Mum was running after him, and though they heard the ear-splitting crack of disapparation, she stood in the doorway shouting his name. 

Dad had not followed, and with a creak, Ginny rose beside Ron and descended the last few stairs. She peered through the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Dad?’ 

Ron heard a splutter, and then dry, heaving sobs. Ginny vanished into the kitchen. Behind him, Fred and George were muttering mutinously, swearing and cursing. 

‘What’s he playing at?’ 

‘He’s an idiot. A big-headed, pompous, ridiculous idiot, we’ve always said it, we were right.’ 

‘Who does he think he is? Does he really think that promotion is normal? Does he honestly think he’s that extraordinary?’  

‘Moron…’ 

Ron’s jaw was aching from gritting his teeth so hard, his heart was trying to break through his ribcage and go after Percy to beat him. 

‘Do you really think he meant that stuff he said to Dad?’ George said. ‘It’s just…’  

‘I bet he does, the git,’ said Fred. ‘I bet he really does pretend he’s not part of the family. He’s ashamed of us. Slimy, brown-nosing prick…’ 

‘All that stuff about poverty? So uncalled for.’

‘That’s it, really, isn’t it? He’s a greedy arsehole.’ 

‘Well, he’s certainly written himself out of the will now, hasn’t he?’ 

‘He won’t care, nothing for him to inherit anyway, apparently.’ 

That prickling, heated anger was back - his very ears were hot with it, he wouldn’t be surprised if steam had been bursting out of them. The memory of Harry, pale and shaken in the hospital wing, his hands gripping Mum’s robes as she hugged him, was lingering in his mind. ‘Did you hear all that crap about Harry? Did you hear what he was saying about him? Harry!’

‘Yeah,’ muttered George. ‘Pillock.’ 

‘Why would he say that? What the bloody hell is going on with him? He’s gone bonkers. When did he turn into such a - a -’ He still could not quite find a word strong enough.  

‘Berk?’ suggested George. 

‘Something along those lines…’  

‘Easier than admitting he’s horrible, selfish, idiot snob, I suppose,’ said Fred. 

‘Money’s always been an issue, but blaming Dad like that is just…’ 

‘Nasty,’ said Ron, simply. 

‘You can make money without completely selling out and betraying your family,’ said Fred seriously. ‘You can do it and keep your integrity.’ 

‘He’s acting like we weren’t fed enough,’ said George spitefully. ‘Percy didn’t even get that many hand-me-downs, really - Mum and Dad were doing all right before they were hit with twins, and we all know Ginny was probably unexpected.’ 

‘Was she?’ said Ron distractedly.

‘Are you joking, you were only about eight months old, who picks then to decide to have another baby?’  

‘Mum.’ 

‘Fair.’ 

‘Anyway,’ said Fred, ‘Percy’s not exactly been hard done by, not really. He’s just always been ashamed we’re not as well-heeled as his smarmy new colleagues at the Ministry.’ 

‘It’s childish,’ said Ron, who was feeling another lurch of guilt as he thought back on the previous year. ‘It’s really petty…’ 

‘We’ve all wished the family was better off now and then,’ said George fairly. ‘Who wouldn’t? But that was a seriously low blow. God, poor Dad,' he added, his voice lowering further. 'I'm glad Ginny's gone in to comfort him, I don't even know where to begin.'

‘Do you think he’s really gone for good?’ asked Ron.

‘Hope so,’ said Fred viciously. ‘Hey - one less mouth to feed now, maybe the family’ll be better off.’ 

'You know what else,' Ron said sharply, his brain whirring, 'did you hear him dodging Dad's question about what he's said about Harry? Good thing he's buggered off before we go to the Order Headquarters, isn't it? Who knows what he would have blabbered about?' 

Fred was looking at him as though in a new light. 'You know what, Ronniekins, that is a really excellent and disturbing point. You're a bit of a bright spark at times, aren't you?' 

'Brighter than Percy,' Ron muttered.

[chudleycanonficfest]

Five Lies

Day 6, Story #2 is by @be11atrixthestrange

Author/Artist: be11atrixthestrange Pairing: Ron/Hermione Prompt: 5+1 Rating: M Trigger Warning(s) (if any): mentions of character death

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

Five Lies Five times Ron lied to Hermione, and one time he told the truth

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

-Year Four - The Common Room

Ron was thankful the common room was empty, because he needed a moment alone. He plopped down into an armchair by the fire, and breathed a heavy sigh. His throat felt tight, and his eyes stung with unshed tears. He didn't need a mirror to tell him that his face was as red as a beet; he could feel it.

Earlier in the Great Hall, Fleur had asked him to pass the bread, and he just stared at her. Like an idiot.

George's voice still echoed in his ear. "Ronniekins, aren't you going to say something?"

And then Fred had to make it worse. "He can't! He's too busy drooling."

It seemed that everyone followed suit and laughed at him, even Fleur, whose cheeks glowed pink, her expression full of amusement and pity.

Why did Fred and George always embarrass him? They also lost their cool around Fleur — it wasn't just Ron. None of the Weasley boys knew how to act around a Veela. Ron just wished he could control it better.

"Ron? Are you okay?"

Ron froze at the sound of Hermione's voice. He hadn't heard her come in. She took a seat in the armchair across from him, but he avoided her gaze, choosing to shake his head instead.

"They were just joking around, you know," she said. Her tone was sympathetic, and he realized that he didn't care that she almost caught him crying. She would never tell anyone.

"I wish they wouldn't," he said, the words escaping through gritted teeth.

"I know. It's not fair."

Ron could feel her intent gaze, and looked up to meet her eyes. He always liked her eyes. They were big and brown, but the specific shade changed all the time. In the firelight, they almost looked hazel. "Why do they always make fun of me?

Hermione shrugged. "They probably just think you fancy her."

Ron raised his eyebrows at her. "Who, Fleur?"

"Yes, Fleur. Who else?"

He did not fancy Fleur. He didn't even know her.

It was just her stupid Veela power that made him act like an idiot.

"Well, I don't fancy her. I don't fancy anyone." The phrase took a defensive tone, slipping from his lips without a second thought. As soon as he said it, he realized that it didn't even sound true.

"You really don't fancy anyone?" Something unrecognizable crossed her face. Surprise, maybe. Maybe Hermione really did think he fancied Fleur.

He looked her in the eye and wanted more than anything to tell her the truth, but it didn't feel like an option. The thought of telling Hermione that he did, in fact, fancy someone made him a thousand times more nervous than Fleur asking him to pass the bread.

"Really. I don't fancy anyone."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, almost as if she didn't believe him. "I'm going to go to bed," she said, before turning away and shuffling off toward the girls' dormitory.

Ron watched her walk away, confusion etched across his face. It felt like a premature end to their conversation. Maybe she knew he was lying?

He shook his head. It probably wasn't about him. It was possible she wasn't feeling well — she had been looking a little pale, anyway. With a shrug, Ron rose to his feet and started toward his own dormitory, hoping Hermione would feel better in the morning.

-Year Five- The Corridor

Ron never thought he'd look forward to Prefect rounds. He had assumed they'd be nothing but a chore, cutting into his valued free time, preventing him from getting down to the Quidditch pitch to practice. He thought he'd fall behind on homework by dedicating a certain number of hours each week to his duties, but it wasn't an issue at all.

As it turned out, he didn't mind the extra work. Patrolling the corridors at night was a nice reprieve from the stress of schoolwork, and it gave him a much-needed break from dealing with Harry's constant brooding.

It didn't hurt that he got to do it with Hermione. In fact, that's probably what made it most enjoyable. They hadn't spent much time together, just the two of them, in a long while. Not since Hogsmeade visits during their third year, and it was nice.

Ron noticed things about Hermione when they were alone, things he'd never have paid attention to otherwise. Like the way she ran her fingers along the wall when they turned a corner, like she was drawing a line in sand, or how she constantly tucked her hair behind her ears only for it to pop back out again.

He learned that she licked her lips right before she spoke, and that's how Ron knew she was about to interrupt him mid-conversation. It was infuriating when she did that, but he never wanted it to stop.

"What's left to check?" she asked, startling him.

"Oh, erm, just the seventh floor, I think," he said.

"Okay, let's go. Maybe we can finish rounds early."

She turned the corner, and Ron followed behind, watching her skip down the hall. Hermione seemed to like Prefect rounds too; he could tell by the bounce in her step. Everything about her seemed to be relaxed; her stride, her smile, and her overall demeanor. Her shirt hung loosely on her frame, as she'd released its top button, and her socks were pushed down to her ankles, as if even her clothes knew it was the end of the day.

He shouldn't be thinking about her clothes. That was dangerous territory.

Ron cleared his throat. "Yeah, that would be fun. Could always use more free time."

"Or, you could use the extra time to get ahead on McGonagall's essay," she teased, smiling back at him. His neck felt hot.

"Only if you help me."

"Of course," she said. "Homework is more fun when we do it together."

"I agree."

Ron was beside her now, and he stole another glance in her direction. Her face was flushed; it was warm on the higher floors, and her skin glowed from a light sheen of sweat. How had he never noticed that she had a few scattered freckles on her nose?

"Why do you keep doing that?" she asked. Her eyes were on him now, and he felt the warmth in his neck spreading.

"Doing what?" he asked, his tone defensive.

"You're staring at me!"

"I"m no—"

"Yes, you keep doing it," she argued. Although her cheeks were rosy and her eyes narrowed, she wore a faint smirk and didn't seem to be angry. She was just teasing him.

He kind of liked it.

"Well, if you must know, you have something on your cheek," he lied.

"I do?" asked Hermione as she wiped her face with her sleeve. "Did I get it?"

"No, let me try."

Hermione paused and took a step closer to him. He reached a hand up to her face to cup it and brushed a thumb across her cheek, trying to ignore the tidal wave that crashed in his stomach at the contact. Her skin was so soft.

He couldn't let his hand linger on her face without attracting suspicion, so with great effort, he let it drop to his side.

"Is it gone?"

"Um. Yeah."

She pressed a hand to her cheek. "What was it?"

Nothing. "Not sure," he said.

"Hmm," shrugged Hermione. "Well, thank you!" She turned to skip back down the hallway, a few strides in front of Ron.

"No problem," muttered Ron.

He could still feel a tingle on his thumb, the memory of her soft skin still fresh on his mind. He watched her run ahead of him, trying not to think too hard about the way her hair bounced or her skirt fluttered with each stride, because it was maddening.

He groaned. As maddening as it was, he hoped that would never stop. That way, he could keep it on the list of reasons to look forward to Prefect rounds.

-Year Six- The Courtyard

Finally, Ron was alone on a bench in the courtyard, having just convinced Lavender to let him be so he could "study". In reality, he just needed some space.

He liked her enough, but being with Lavender wasn't what he had imagined having a girlfriend to be like. It was nothing like being friends with a girl, at least from his limited experience. All Lavender wanted to do was snog, and Ron missed having someone to talk to, tease, and argue with.

Truth was, he missed Hermione. But unfortunately, she wanted nothing to do with him. She made that perfectly clear in the form of a flock of canaries, and he still had the scabs to remind him.

Ron closed his eyes and was enjoying the silence when the most unexpected voice pulled him back to the present.

"Hey."

His eyes snapped open to see Hermione standing there, right in front of him. Think of the devil. 

"Hey." His response just spilled out of his mouth, and it didn't take on the angry tone he had intended. He sounded almost excited to see her.

Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Ron, can I talk to you?"

Ron cleared his throat and asked in his most stoic tone, "Promise not to attack me again?"

"I promise."

"Then go on," he said, crossing his arms across his chest so Hermione could get a full view of his scars.

"I'm— I'm sorry about that." She motioned to his arms, and her eyes watered with tears.

"I know you are."

She averted her eyes and licked her lips before continuing. "I was jealous, and it wasn't fair. I hope you can forgive me someday."

She continued to stare intently toward the ground as her cheeks brightened, and Ron resisted a smile.

"You were jealous?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at her. He kept his face neutral, but he couldn't lie — it was a nice thing to hear. He just wished he heard it sooner.

Hermione nodded and finally met his gaze. "I was."

Her eyes were strikingly dark and deep, a fact he'd always appreciated, but had forgotten over the last few weeks. He could stare at them for hours, but he willed himself not to fall under their spell. "Why didn't you talk to me instead of turning birds on me?"

Everything would have been so much easier.

"That's why I'm talking to you now."

"Well, it's too bloody late. I'm with Lavender," he said, unsure who he was trying to convince.

"I know it's too late. I just wanted you to know."

It seemed like an eternity that they stood there in silence, neither wanting to continue the conversation nor feeling like it was over.

Hermione was the first to break the silence. "Are you happy with her?"

And how the hell was he supposed to answer that?

Ron was thrilled Lavender wanted to be with him. She wanted to kiss him, hold his hand in public, and call him her boyfriend. What wasn't to love? He should be happy with her, she was almost everything he had ever wanted.

That, and he'd be an ungrateful arse if he said no. "Yeah. I am."

She nodded solemnly, and Ron swore he could see her eyes glisten with tears. "Then I'll try to be happy for you too," she said, her voice cracking.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It wouldn't have mattered anyway because Hermione had already turned her back to him and was walking away. He watched until she turned the corner, trying to convince himself that he had told her the truth.

-Year Seven- The Tent

Rain pounded against the canvas tent, and the way the sound echoed through the air made the space feel hollow and empty. Ron could feel the weight of the locket around his neck, its chain digging into his skin. It felt almost like icy fingers clutching his throat, threatening to squeeze should he try to ignore it. He didn't think he could ignore it, even if he tried. The cold metal against his skin paired with its threatening voice inside his head almost commanded more attention than the slowly healing wound on his shoulder.

Ron was lying on his cot, covered in blankets that seemed to do nothing to keep him warm. He could hear Hermione flipping through a book across the room in her own bed, probably just as cold as he was.

"How's your shoulder?" she asked. To Ron, her voice sounded full of both pity and impatience, as if her real question was why he hadn't healed yet. What was taking him so long?

She doesn't actually care about your shoulder.

"It's fine," he snapped back.

He could feel the tension in the pause that followed, and even though he wasn't looking at her, he could imagine her jaw clenching, her cheeks reddening, and her eyes rolling.

"You don't need anything?" she eventually asked, her tone stiff and controlled.

Listen to her. She thinks you're pathetic. Needy. It disgusts her.

Instead of answering, Ron just shook his head. He knew she was watching him because he could feel her big brown eyes boring into him.

"Okay then."

He heard her book close, then the sound of her sliding out of bed. Ron turned to look just as she bent down to rummage through her bag. She faced her back to him, and Ron could make out the shape of her bum through her sweatpants. It sent a pang of longing through his entire body, and the locket wasted no time latching on to the opportunity to harass him further.

Go ahead and look, but don't kid yourself; you'll never touch.

He averted his eyes when she stood up.

"What are you doing, then?" she asked, now clutching a different stack of books under her arm.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" she chirped. Her voice wavered as she lost control of keeping it neutral. "You know we have horcruxes to find."

She narrowed her eyes, and her cheeks ignited with red. Her hair seemed to expand and swarm her head. It wasn't just anger that did that to her. She looked electric whenever her passion was kindled, whether due to anger, schoolwork, elf-rights, or him.

He could rile her up, and Merlin, did he enjoy doing it. He was always up for helping her unleash that stored up tension through an argument. Often he wondered how else he could help her find that release. A few ideas came to mind.

Never going to happen.

"Are you seriously angry at me?" he asked, his tone sharp and scathing.

"You know what? Yeah, I am," she launched back.

"Well, sorry I'm injured, Hermione," he laughed, now sitting up in bed. "Let's not forget that you're the one who got me splinched."

"And let's not forget that I'm doing everything I can to help you heal."

She thinks you're a burden. A waste of her time.

"Okay, then stop complaining about me not doing anything when you know I can't."

Hermione crossed her arms and took a step closer. Ron willed himself to keep his eyes on her face, even though her shirt was too big, so the sleeves fell off her shoulder, and there was a patch of exposed skin above her waistband, reminding Ron of how soft her skin was. It had been so long since he touched her.

"Then stop staring at me like that," she said. "I can't tell if you're mad at me or if you want me to do something for you, and honestly, I'm kind of sick of cooking you dinner and not even hearing a thank you."

Don't you dare give her the satisfaction of apologizing.

"Seriously, what do you want from me?" she continued.

What a loaded question. Ron wanted everything from her — her time, her attention, and her body. When she removed his shirt to check his wound, he wanted her to remove his trousers too. He wanted her to crawl in bed with him and let him take her clothes off, piece by piece. He wanted to be strong enough to hold himself up so she could slide underneath him and wrap her legs around his hips. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, shag her, and then hold her afterward, fall asleep together, and wake up entangled with her.

Too bad she doesn't want you back.

"I don't want anything from you."

She softened her stare and took a step back. Maybe he was reading too much into her expression, but Ron could have sworn he saw a flash of disappointment on her face, as if she hoped there would be something he wanted from her.

You're imagining that. 

"Good," she said, unknowingly confirming the locket's taunt, before turning away and leaving him there, in his bed, cold and alone.

-Year Seven- Shell Cottage

Although Ron might have looked peaceful and serene sitting so still, his mind was anything but calm. He closed his eyes and leaned against the back of the armchair, trying his best to fall asleep, but he was far from tired. His back ached, and he longed to get up and move, but it wasn't worth leaving Hermione's side.

It felt like he had been waiting days for her to wake up, and in that time, he had imagined the worst.

For one, he feared that she might not wake up at all, ever, and the empty hole that her screams had carved within him would be there for the rest of his life, like a scar across his heart.

Two, that she might wake up but never be the same, just like Neville's parents. Maybe she wouldn't remember him. Maybe she would, but she wouldn't understand when he told her he loved her.

And three, that she'd awake with clarity, forever haunted by the memory of what happened to her. Maybe she'd associate her trauma with the magical world, or with Ron himself, and she'd leave it all behind. He'd support her, of course, and he'd be thrilled she was okay, but he wouldn't be okay. He wasn't okay.

So he sat there, looking peaceful but panicking internally. He had no idea what to expect when and if Hermione woke up.

He was utterly shocked when she spoke to him.

"Hi, Ron," her voice snapped his eyes open. She was watching him, even smiling at him. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming.

She chuckled when he pinched himself.

"Oh, thank Merlin you're awake," he said when his pinch did nothing.

"Did you sleep here?"

"Yeah. I hope that's okay," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"Have you left my side?" she asked, her eyes wide, questioning yet knowing.

He shook his head no, and his cheeks grew hot.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. There was something so innocent about the interaction; it felt like they were just kids nervously admitting a crush. Her hand was lying on the edge of the bed, inches from his, and he didn't hesitate to reach for it and intertwine their fingers. She squeezed his hand back, although weakly, and he ran his thumb across her skin. Even bloodied and scarred, her skin was as soft as he remembered.

"I'm so glad you're okay," he said.

"Me too."

"Are you in pain?"

She nodded. "A little."

"I can have Fleur bring up some pain potion."

"Yeah, but not yet."

"In a bit, then."

They shared a look, an acknowledgement that they were alone, and pain potion could wait. Neither felt the need to give it words, they were awful with words, the king and queen of miscommunication, but there was nothing to misinterpret in a simple look.

"Can I hug you? Gently, of course."

Hermione nodded, and Ron inched forward on his chair to wrap his arms around her. Her head nestled into his shoulder, and he buried his face in her hair.

"How's Harry?" she asked, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

"He's fine," Ron answered. "Worried about you, of course."

She nodded. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you okay?"

Ron sighed and pulled her closer. Was he okay? He had a few cuts and bruises, but that was nothing compared to his emotional toll. He helplessly listened to Bellatrix torture the woman he loved, hadn't slept since they arrived at Shell Cottage, and had spent days fearing she'd be gone. In those days, he learned exactly how much was at stake. He could still lose her.

He wasn't okay.

"Yes, I'm okay," he muttered, hoping that it would be true soon enough.

-After The Battle-

The Treehouse

Ron didn't mind the quiet of the treehouse; it was much better than the silence of the Burrow. At least the treehouse was supposed to be that way. He was leaning over the edge, forearms on a wooden beam, and through the leaves, he could make out the tall, lopsided house he called home. Before now, the Burrow always looked like it was bursting at the seams, about to collapse from the energy inside. His mum would say it was magic that held it together, not carpentry, but now it didn't matter. It seemed empty, and the magic was gone.

The treehouse was where Ron would always come when he needed to be alone. With six siblings, there was always someone yelling, laughing or crying. But not with five. Even though there were so many people back in the house, it was still too quiet. No one knew what to say, so they said nothing. Fred wouldn't have wanted that.

"Hi."

Ron startled at the voice. He had been too lost in his thoughts to hear anyone approaching but instantly relaxed when Hermione stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He smiled; in the days following Fred's death, Hermione was the only one who could elicit that reaction from him.

"I brought you something," she said.

He looked down at her hand to see that she was holding a plate of food — Mum's shepherd's pie, treacle tart, and pumpkin juice.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said as she handed him the plate. "I didn't want to go inside and talk to people."

"I know."

Ron turned away from the edge and slid to a seat, resting the plate on his lap. Hermione settled in beside him. "How'd you know where I was?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I had a hunch."

Ron thought back to the last time they had been in the treehouse together — the previous summer before Harry arrived. He didn't even remember the first time he brought her here, but through all those summers, the treehouse became a place where they could just be. They could do whatever they wanted here, yet not once had she rested her head on his shoulder.

He looped his free arm around her, encouraging her to lean in, and pressed a kiss to her hair. He had always wanted to do that, and it was so strange to be able to now. If the circumstances were better, he'd like to do so much more.

"Will you stay?" he asked.

"As long as you need me to."

The longer they sat there in comfortable silence, leaning against one another and eating from the same plate, the more he wished they could just stay there forever. It was the perfect place to hide from his grief.

Maybe he shouldn't be hiding from grief, but the pain of Fred's loss only accentuated what he felt for Hermione. It was about time he had something to be happy about, even if that happiness was confined within the walls of the treehouse. After all, he had a feeling that the reality of Fred's death would hit him like a ton of bricks as soon as he left.

So maybe he'd just stay.

"What's on your mind?" asked Hermione.

She was on his mind but based on her smirk, she knew that. He must have been staring at her. That had been happening a lot lately.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Of course."

He'd never told her how he felt, but he was in the treehouse, where everything was perfect, and nothing could go wrong. Now was as good a time as any.

"I'm thinking about how much I love you."

She met his gaze and he watched those warm brown eyes grow wide. "Really?"

"Yes," he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to say it back, I know it's soon—"

"I love you too," she interrupted, leaning her head against his hand. "Always have."

Even though a world of mourning awaited Ron outside of the treehouse, he couldn't help but smile. Hermione could do that for him; she was just like the magic that once held his house together.

"Brilliant," he said as he leaned in for a kiss, one that she happily returned.

He loved that they could do this now.

It was an odd feeling, being so genuinely elated and grief-stricken at the same time, but he simply couldn't feel any other way; it was the truth. And at this point, if anyone deserved the truth, it was Hermione.

[chudleycanonficfest]

Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2

Day 30, Post #2 by @whizzfizz

Title: Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 Author/Artist: whizzfizz Pairing: Harry/Ginny Prompt: Cuddling Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): mentions of canon-typical violence, nightmares and very mild allusion to sex

***

Ginny’s worst fear is having to tell her children that Harry is not coming home. 

  It starts after the war, when Harry is sent off in increasingly dangerous missions and Andromeda is working night shifts. Ginny rocks and soothes little Teddy, whispering words of comfort in the toddler’s ear. As Remus and Dora’s child snuggles into her chest, Ginny contemplates the weight of parenthood. She wonders how she could ever explain to Teddy that he will not be able to see Harry anymore. She wonders if she would ever have the strength for such a task. 

She is aware of the risks. This is Harry, for Merlin’s sake. Not just any Auror. She knows his name is and will forever remain an obvious target. She knew it when they kissed by the Great Lake and when he broke up with her. She knew it as they stole that furtive embrace after the funerals and much later, when he got down on one knee in front of her. Ginny knows the fear of losing him will persist like a shadow. 

Being an Auror’s wife is not easy. The role involves a lot of patience, a lot of waiting, a lot of worry. Rushed goodbyes on Christmas mornings and midnights lost running down the corridors of St. Mungo’s. It also involves promising her children that Dad will be home very soon, safe and sound, even though she does not know if that is true. 

  There is nothing more reassuring than the feeling of the mattress dipping under Harry’s weight in the middle of the night. Usually the moon hangs in the inky blackness of the sky,  the stillness of their house disturbed only by the hooting of their owl and their children’s sleepy mumbles. Ginny always wakes up, despite his noiseless footsteps up the stairs. She knows he checks on the children first before coming into their bedroom and stripping down to his underwear. He snuggles up under the duvet behind her and wraps an arm around her waist. She feels his scruff against her scalp and her body finally relaxes as he pulls her close to him. She breathes in his soothing instinct to protect, to defend. The feeling of relief never subsides. 

  He is back, he is alive, that is all that matters.

  In the morning the children will have breakfast with their father. 

  She only ever asks him one question when he comes back at night, her voice dry with sleep. 

  “Are you hurt?”

  If the answer is no, she sinks into the pillows and they know they can deal with everything else in the morning. 

  If the answer is a stutter or a silence, Ginny wordlessly rises and fetches her kit under the bathroom sink. By the time the war ends, there is not a single injury that can scare her. By the time they have children, she doesn't even flinch anymore. It’s just blood after all. She cleans him up, cleans the sheets and tucks the duvet tighter around them. 

  They have seen everything together.

  They did not just graze Death with their fingertips. They both shook hands with Death, waved, and turned away, off chasing better dreams and brighter sunrises. It took time. But they figured it out, step by step, in the years that followed the war.

  On a stormy night of June, after the Battle, she climbs in his bed for the first time and startles him horribly. His hand dives for his wand under the pillow and he pushes her to the ground with his other arm. Ginny’s head hits the floorboard and Harry’s eyes are wide as he realises what the war has done to him. 

  Lesson learned. Don’t startle Harry when he’s asleep. 

  He finally climbs in her own bed. By the end of that wretched summer, they get there. She hears the door creak and lifts the blankets to make room for him. He kisses the nape of her neck and lower between her shoulder blades where Alecto made her carve ‘BLOODTRAITOR’. His hands wander along her body and Ginny relishes in the fact that Harry seeks her comfort as much as she needs his. 

  Tom continues to invade their minds even after his body is burned on that second morning of May. Sometimes Ginny starts to shake in her sleep, sharp cramps seize up her muscles and she struggles for air. It takes them years to understand how to handle the tremors of the Cruciatus curse. Harry learns to lift her over his shoulder and to carry her to their bathroom, where he lets the cool stream of the shower startle her awake. He knows to increase the temperature slowly to allow the warmth of the water to release the tension in her limbs and clean the tears off her face. Harry holds her under the stream, their night clothes sticking to their skin. He kisses her forehead gently and brushes her hair back from her face.

  Like Luna’s beaded dreamcatchers, Harry chases her nightmares away. 

  She learns to soothe his too.

  She learns at the end of her fifth year, when he falls asleep with his head in her lap a couple of times next to the Lake, that Harry is a restless sleeper. He twitches and fidgets and talks. He sometimes mutters a string of syllables and frowns. After the war, she realises he relives the nights that changed his life.

  From his lips, Ginny hears James Potter try to give his wife and child enough time to flee. 

  She hears Lily Potter beg Tom to trade her life for Harry’s.

  She hears Tom murder Harry’s parents as the bed rocks from Harry’s shouts.

  She knows to turn on all the lights, to pull him in a sitting position, to straddle his hips to keep him still and to hold his wrists tightly. She presses his face to her chest and a cold flannel against his forehead. She holds him close to her heart, whispering that it’s over, that they won, that he did it, that he’s safe, that he’s home.

  Ginny gives him the affection and the tenderness that he ached for in Privet Drive. When his breathing evens out, he always, without fail, rises to check on the children. He methodically reviews the doors and the windows, and reinforces the protective perimeter around the house. She teases him about it sometimes, but she knows that he craves the feeling of reassurance; just like she always checks her ink and parchment before writing anything down.

  In the morning, when the house is still quiet, they seek relief from each other’s bodies. His gasps and smiles against her freckled skin taste like hope and banish the nightmares. They sink into the thrumming pace of pleasure, listening to the steady rhythm of their heartbeats, their best source of comfort. Cheek to cheek, heavy-lidded murmurs. 

  Is all well? They’re alive, and that’s enough. 

  Even when his hair is streaked with white and her joints are sore from years of athleticism, they hold each other close and watch the snow gather on their windowsill. They let the whiteness fall and cover the deafening weight of the war. Their grandchildren’s giggles bounce against the walls of their home.

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 20, Story #2 is by @floreatcastellumposts

Title: Dittany Author/Artist: FloreatCastellum Pairing: Neville/Hannah Prompt: Bravery Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Discussion of maternal death, mentions of violence. 

Hannah's mother had been a muggleborn, and that had been her death sentence. 

Or rather, she had been a muggleborn with the audacity and bravery to be proud about it. 

Most muggleborns ended up slipping entirely into wizarding society, and as much as they might say that they would keep in touch with their roots, the magic took over. Jeans became robes, electronics didn’t work in their homes so their pop culture references grew stale, the effort involved in keeping the statute of secrecy for extended family and old friends was too exhausting to sustain, so they saw them less and less and eventually… 

This had not happened for Mum, even though the Abbotts were a very old family, well rooted in the magical community. She had agreed with Dad to live in Godric’s Hollow, because the Abbotts had lived there for many generations, but she had insisted on Hannah attending the local primary school, where she could make muggle friends. She was adamant that they make regular trips to Liverpool, to visit her side of the family, who believed that she worked in HR (which she did, but for a potion manufacturer, not for a haulage company as they believed) and that Hannah had received a scholarship to an exclusive boarding school, and that Dad owned a pub (which he did, but they neglected to mention that it was frequented by witches, wizards, goblins, the occasional hag and a half giant). And when the Stephens side of the family came to visit, they would have a flurry of activity where they would hide away anything magical-looking, and from the loft they would bring down the big television, and they would speed read some muggle newspapers so they could give their opinions on Tony Blair or Men Behaving Badly or Charles and Diana’s divorce or whatever else they thought might come up.  

That was life as Hannah knew it, and it never felt complicated or brave or shocking or daring or any of the things she later found out it was. 

She remembered certain details from the day very clearly. She’d been easing sneezewort plants out of their pots, the last repotting before winter, her fingers shaking at the long, pale roots, creating a rain of soil. The last of the cream coloured petals, curled and brown at the edges, fell onto the potting bench. There was a sudden shock of cold air, a breeze from the door opening that hit their faces and whipped through their hair.  

‘Professor Dumbledore’s here,’ said Susan with surprise, and Hannah had glanced up to see him closing the door to the humid greenhouse, his long white beard tucked into his belt, Professor Sprout hurrying over to him. 

Hannah looked back down at her plant. The roots were all tangled together. Professor Dumbledore was probably here for Harry Potter, there were all sorts of rumours flying around about secret meetings between the two of them. 

The plant needed a much bigger pot, but the roots were strong, there was no rot there. 

‘Hannah.’ 

There was no hiding the bewilderment on her face. She had never had a direct conversation with the Headmaster before, and here he was, speaking kindly, gently, softly, one hand touching her shoulder and the other, black looking, gesturing to the door. 

‘I need to-’ she started saying, as he led her out. Everyone was staring. 

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Professor Sprout, and her voice sounded so strange, ‘I’ll finish up here for you.’ 

Perhaps part of her had known then. She knew it was something terrible. She was too afraid to ask. No one was ever pulled out of class for a good reason. She walked up to the castle alongside him as though in a dream, her heart beating up through her throat and into her mouth.

She was not sure how it happened, but suddenly she was in the warmth of his office, staring at Professor Dumbledore’s grave face, his lips moving, without really hearing, except for that first, terrible, world destroying little phrase. 

‘I’m so very sorry to tell you that your mother has been found dead.’ 

There would be no worse event, no greater loss, no stronger pain in her entire life. 

There was still dirt under her nails and in the creases of her palms, she noticed, as she reached into the silver box of floo powder. 

It had been so long since she had seen Godric’s Hollow like this, golden and red in its autumn. Fallen leaves tumbled and floated down the river that rushed through the village, or collected in the gutters along the cobbled roads, damp and heavy. The sun stayed a little lower each day, casting long shadows across the beer garden of The Lost Owl, and the wind ruffled the sign on the door which read ‘Closed due to family bereavement.’ 

During the days, she wondered what to do with herself, stuck between boredom and terrible, overwhelming grief. When she could cry no more, she wondered if there was something wrong with her for wanting to find something interesting or fun to do, but when she tried to read, she could not focus. When she tried to listen to the radio, she would fall asleep. She could not bring herself to ask her weeping father to play cards or chess or anything with her. She thought of going back into school, but how could she see other people? Now that the world had ended? She wanted to tell people about it, wanted to say the words enough until they made sense to her, or until someone found the right words to say back that would make it OK, but she did not want to do this to her friends. 

At nights, she would cry herself to sleep, and her whispers, please come back please Mummy please come back, would grow and grow and grow into sobs, begging into her pillow as the agony of it tore at her, the desperation, the feverish thought that there had to be something, that this couldn’t be it, there had to be a way, a special way, just for them, just for her, because it was her mother and there was no way she could live without her. Mum wouldn’t leave her like this, there was no way Mum would allow it, she would go to the ends of the earth to make sure that Hannah was happy, she had always said so, she had always promised… 

But Death was something parents could not protect their children from, it seemed. The more Hannah thought on it, the more she became crushingly devastated, horrified to realise that each and every human on Earth had to endure this at some point. In different ways, at different times, with different feelings, but the mere act of bringing a child into the world was to condemn that child, one day, to the unbearable pain of loss. Every person she passed, she wondered, have you suffered as I have? Or is it yet to come for you? She wished she could spare them from it.

The aurors said she was probably targeted because she loudly and openly discussed her muggle heritage in the pub, and it must have been heard by the wrong people. That was what passed for bravery these days. 

In the church of St Jerome, the stained glass window pattered with rain, and Hannah looked up at the colours of red and yellow and green rather than looking at the coffin with the splay of lilies, and she wondered when this nightmare would end, when Mum would come back, and tell her that everything would be all right. 

***

Months passed in unbearable agony, worse than she could have imagined. But there were glimmers of light there too. 

Here, at the school she thought she would never return to, in the place that was filled with unimaginable horror and oppression, she had purpose again. More purpose, in fact, than she had ever had in her life. And with it, new friendships that ran deeper than she had ever expected. 

‘This way,’ Neville whispered, and they ran low across the lawn of the grounds. Some of the windows in the castle behind them blazed with light, so that she thought for a terrible moment that they must be visible from the Great Hall, but, of course, the windows would be black with night to anyone who looked out from them. 

It was the summer term now, but the air was still cold as they panted, as though Dementors were close, which, she reasoned, they might be. She could feel the dew of the grass, left to grow long since Hagrid had left, soaking the bottoms of her jeans, seeping through her ratty trainers. 

Following the dark shadow of Neville’s figure, she ran through the grounds until she heard the crunch of gravel underfoot, and, ahead, the slight shine of starlight reflecting off the greenhouses. 

‘They’re in greenhouse three,’ Neville muttered, and her stomach dropped. 

He did not notice, and continued to hurry along the garden path, past the raised beds for the hardier plants and herbs, and she followed, but at a walk now, dread gnawing at her. 

He stopped at the door, holding his hands up to the glass to peer in. ‘OK…’ he said, still breathless from the run. ‘OK, looks clear… Now, while I talk to the venomous tentacula, you grab a tray, and fill it with perlite and only a few handfuls of compost, it’s a mountain plant so it likes it nice and rocky.’ 

‘OK,’ she said, and though she thought she sounded normal, he turned to her. She could barely make out his expression in the darkness. 

‘Are you all right?’ 

‘I… I’m sorry, I just… I haven’t been in the greenhouses for a long time… especially not this one. I should have thought before I volunteered, I'm sorry.’ 

She felt immediately embarrassed for blurting it out, and she had no idea if Neville would even grasp what she was getting at. He had been in the class, yes, but did he even remember that day? What had been the worst day of her life had been a perfectly ordinary school day for the rest of her classmates, and so many terrible things had happened since then. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t leave you out here.’ 

She thought he was telling her off, or saying that they had to go back, but before she had the time to feel hurt or ashamed, he was holding out his hand towards her. 

She swallowed, and then placed her trembling hand in his. She was not unaccustomed to physical touch with him, or many others. Over the past year, she had tended wounds and comforted people as they cried, she had grasped hands and arms and knees under desks to soothe people or tell them to control themselves, she had passed secret notes and morsels of food and whatever else needed smuggling, slipping it nimbly from her fingers into their palms as they passed in the corridors.  

But now his fingers pressed firm and reassuring against hers, and there was something very different about them holding hands. 

She let him lead her into the greenhouse; the humid, warm air surrounded them at once, like an odd sort of hug that sat heavy on their lungs. Tall, leafy plants towered above them, brushing the domed glass high above their heads, which magically reflected the brilliant stars above them and lit the place in glorious silver. 

Now that she was in here, she felt a little better. The dread that had stopped her ever returning here, that had caused her to drop herbology and pretend that this part of the castle no longer existed, had not come to pass. It was, after all, simply a greenhouse, and Mum could not die again. 

‘Are you all right?’ he said gently. 

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Thank you.’ 

He nodded, and reached for some gloves on a nearby bench. She missed his hand around hers. ‘Let’s move quickly, and get you out of here,’ he said, donning some goggles and a thick leather apron.  

She went to the potting tables where Professor Sprout always stood, and seized a large seedling tray. As she took handfuls of compost and perlite, she could see Neville wrestling with the venomous tentacular, saying, ‘I’ll bring you doxy granules tomorrow - I’ll move you to a sunnier spot - I already checked with Professor Sprout - come on, you knew this was part of the deal, we agreed-’

Eventually, when he had tied enough of the writhing vines together with garden twine and stroked the shoots into calmness, he gave a nod to Hannah, and started to remove his protective gear as she hurried over and they squeezed behind the plant

There, on a table surrounded by blue lanterns to make up for the blocked light caused by the tentacula, were long, deep pots, stuffed with dittany. Their slender, arching stems were clustered with pleasant green leaves, with a dusty sort of whiteness, and they were dotted with pink flowers. She had never seen the plant as it was before; she had only ever remembered the little vials of dittany kept in their first aid kit, good for scraped knees and cuts from any broken glass in the pub. Mum had always said it was good to be prepared in an emergency, it had been one of her funny little things like that, along with being a bit of a hypochondriac, and so Hannah had had a vial in the bottom of her trunk when she returned to school. That, combined with her good potions knowledge, had helped her stumble into a kind of mothering role that she found had rather suited her. 

‘I just need the flowers, the book says,’ she said, as Neville started gently pulling some up by the roots. 

‘Yes, but I think it’d be good if I can grow another set somewhere, as a back up so we don’t have to keep sneaking out here. It’s just me and Seamus in the dorm, I don’t think he’d mind if I put them in the window between Harry and Ron’s beds. Here, take these, cut the flowers where the stem splits off - yeah, there - so it’ll grow back.’ 

‘It’s really pretty,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be so pretty. It’s usually that the most useful plants are the ugliest.’ 

‘It is,’ said Neville absent-mindedly. ‘It’s from Crete. The healing properties were only discovered in the 17th century - people used to think it was an aphrodisiac, and it’s still used in some love potions.’ 

She looked at him, and though the light in the greenhouse was white starlight only, she could still see his cheeks burn red. 

‘It’s… it’s not, though,’ he mumbled. ‘Well… a little bit, but I… I don’t know why I said that.’

‘Because it’s interesting,’ she said quickly, as he busied himself repotting the seedlings. He nodded rapidly, and cleared his throat a little, and she cast around for something to say. ‘You… you should be careful, growing these in the dorm. If you’re caught-’

‘There’s no rule against growing plants,’ he said. ‘I’ve had plants up there loads of times. Especially my mimbulus mimbletonia, that’s had pride of place for a while.’

‘You know they don’t need an explicit rule,’ she said quietly. ‘They do what they want. If they think you’re… doing anything good, anything kind. That’s enough.’ 

He nodded, looking down at the delicate, thin roots of the dittany. There was a reason that he and Professor Sprout were growing such an innocent plant in such secrecy. ‘I know… but… it’s worth the risk.’ 

‘That’s very brave.’ 

‘Is it? Just growing a plant? Is that what passes for bravery these days?’ 

‘Yes,’ she said honestly. ‘Anything good does now. And it’s not just that.’ She paused, still cradling one of the delicate, rose pink flowers in her hand. ‘I mean… what were you thinking in muggle studies the other day? I hated seeing you screaming like that.’ 

‘Well I had to say something. It was repulsive, what she was saying about muggle children.’ 

‘No one believes her, no one really thinks-’

‘We don’t know that. Maybe some people might start believing her, because it’s easier. And anyway, it’s not just about that. Remember Umbridge?’ 

‘I try not to,’ she said dryly, and in the pale, washed out starlight she saw him grin. 

‘I know it’s stupid, but as Ginny and Luna haven’t come back, and Harry and Ron aren’t here, or Dean, or loads of other people… I’ve been-’ he sighed, as though frustrated he couldn’t find the words, ‘I’ve been trying to think about what they would do. I can’t afford to be Neville Longbottom, I’ve got to be someone braver. And Harry used to just completely go off on her, used to tell her straight in lessons that You-Know-Who was back, and, yeah, it got him more trouble than it felt like it was worth at the time, but you know what? I always found it really inspiring.’ 

‘I did too,’ she said quietly. ‘I remember thinking… well… why would he stick to a lie through all that?’ 

‘Exactly. He had principles, and if he was here he wouldn’t stand for any of that rot. There’s a lot of times over the past few months where I’ve just tried to…’ he shrugged helplessly, ‘pretend that I’m Harry. That I’m brave.’ 

‘I don’t think you’re pretending at all,’ she said. ‘You are brave. You always have been. You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you?’ 

‘Somehow.’ 

‘No somehow about it. You’re the bravest man I know, and that includes Harry.’ 

‘How on earth does it include Harry?’ he asked, and he sounded like he was on the verge of laughter. 

‘Because he’s had to be,’ she said. ‘I’ve grown up in Godric’s Hollow, you know, I’ve seen the ruined house that he lived in. He’s had to be brave all the way from when he was a baby. But I didn’t. You didn’t. You’ve chosen to be brave, you’ve chosen to channel him. You're a pureblood, you could choose, every day, to keep your head down and get on with things, but you don't. You stand up and call her a bigoted liar in class and get tortured and you never back down. I find that more inspiring than anything.’ 

‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said quietly.  

‘And you were brave lots of times even before. Don’t you remember winning those points all the way back in first year?’ 

He beamed, and looked at her directly, for the first time since he had blurted out that dittany was an aphrodisiac. ‘You remember that?’ 

‘Of course I do. Dumbledore pointing out about standing up to your friends - he was so right, that does take a lot of bravery. I tried to do it next year, when Ernie was telling me that Harry was the heir of Slytherin. I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t as brave as you, but at least I tried, I suppose.’ 

‘I think you’re very brave too,’ he said. ‘Looking after everyone like this, handing out essence of dittany, running out here with me to get more… I’m sorry that you’ve had to come back in here. I didn’t think.’ 

‘I didn’t either,’ she said, and she started cutting more flowers. ‘I was just so focused on the idea of more, I didn’t really think about where I’d be getting it from… But, you know, I’m OK, actually. The thought of it was worse than the reality. It’s just a greenhouse.’ She looked around. The white starlight bleached the dark greenery into shades of silver, bounced off the watering cans, sparkled in the droplets of water from the sprinklers. ‘A very beautiful one.’ 

‘I like to think so,’ he said, a little hoarsely. ‘I always found this whole place beautiful, but now it… sometimes feels like only the greenhouses still are. They’re the only place I haven’t seen people being tortured.’ 

She paused. ‘I’m secretly thankful my mum isn’t alive to see this. Is that awful? I’m just glad she never had to worry about me being here. I feel bad enough for Dad.’ 

‘It’s not awful,’ said Neville. ‘I know what you mean.’ 

‘Do you?’ 

‘My parents don’t know anything about what’s going on, and for the first time in my life, I’m glad,’ he said, and for some reason his words seemed to surprise him. 

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, and without thinking she put down the little secateurs and touched his arm. He breathed deeply, not quite meeting her eyes, pressing down one of the seedlings quite firmly into the tray, before finally turning to her.

‘I live with my gran, because… my…’ He took another deep breath, and suddenly there was a clanging from outside. 

They froze, and heard a low voice swearing. 'Bloody wheelbarrow…' 

Hearts thudding, they ducked down and stayed silent, Neville silently mouthing for Hannah to get onto the large empty shelf under the potting table, where bags of compost were usually kept. He reached up, fumbling for the secateurs, and then started crawling along on his belly. 

'What are you doing?' she whispered, horrified. Alecto Carrow was opening the door to the greenhouse, still muttering and swearing about the wheelbarrow he had tripped over. 

He put a finger to his lips, and then pointed at the venomous tentacula, which had begun to writhe against the twine. The snip snip snip of the secateurs seemed unreasonably loud, but from the other side of the greenhouse Carrow did not appear to hear them, rifling noisily through the plants and shrubs, sending terracotta pots crashing to the floor. 

'Anyone in here?' he demanded. 'I saw your footprints in the gravel. Hello?' 

The vines of the tentacula waved threateningly, and Hannah watched with trembling fear as one of them reached out to Neville, still prone on the ground, and started to wrap itself around his throat. 

'Don't be cheeky,' she heard him mutter to it, and he calmly prodded it with the secateurs until it released him. 

It kept one tendril around his ankle, but Neville seemed to allow it as a compromise, and instead watched through the vines as Carrow upturned a table, still shouting and swearing. 

After several, agonisingly long minutes, Carrow came close to them. The venomous tentacula silently released Neville’s ankle, and raised it's spiked tendrils. 

'OW! Son of a bludger-' 

A long line of expletives followed, and the venomous tentacular shook noisily, whip-like noises echoing through the greenhouse as it reached after Carrow, now bolting from the room. 

'Grab the tray,' Neville told Hannah. 'He'll be heading straight to the hospital wing, we should have a clear path back. Quickly, before the tentacula gets over-excited and turns on us-' 

She did so at once and he held back the spiked vines as she squeezed past the plant, and hurried safely out of range. 

She stood there, holding her tray of little dittany plants and the heads of the flowers. She watched as Neville easily unentangled himself from the tentacula, patted it, said, 'thanks mate,' and grabbed a clear cover for the tray. He came close to her as he fitted it over the dittany, protecting them from the cold night air they would have to hurry back through.  

His face was inches from her own, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat a little as she looked up at him. There was a slight clunk as the lid of the tray found its place. For a moment, they were perfectly still, just their breathing in that humid place, and his eyes, shining light blue in the pale light, lifted from the tray of dittany to meet her own. 

'Do you really think I'm brave?' he whispered. 

She nodded, and he seemed to be steeling himself for something. Please, she thought, please make this place good for me again. Her hands gripped the edges of the tray.

Very gently, very slowly, he leaned closer over the tray. His hand moved as though to softly move her face to meet his, but he didn't need to, for she was already naturally tilting her head, and her heels were lifting a little off the ground without her bidding them to. 

Their lips met, soft like the petals of the dittany between them, sweet like the fragrance. His fingertips were trembling slightly as they caressed against her cheek, but then they calmed as the kiss deepened. 

The tray pressed into them as he tried to move closer, and it reminded them where they were. They broke apart, panting and gasping as though they had just finished the run down from the castle. 

She had never kissed anyone before. She was glad, unbelievably, overwhelmingly, joyfully glad, that her first kiss had been with Neville, in this place where the warm air was scented with damp soil and sweet flowers. 

'We… we should take these back,' he said, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘Let - let me take them.’ 

He took the tray from her, and in her happy daze she allowed it, and let him lead the way out of the greenhouse. Joy had returned to her again, beneath the fogged glass, amongst the green plants, bursting with life. 

[chudleycanonficfest]

Family Tradition

Day 19, Story #1 is by @bavalon18

Title: Family Tradition

Author: bavalon18/Edie K. 

Pairing: Weasley family vibes

Prompt: "Siblings: The only enemy you can't live without" -Anonymous

Rating: Teen but only for language

Summary: The Weasley siblings engage in a long running debate. Set 2 years post War. 

  Thank you to adenei for the notes and help in rounding out this dialogue heavy piece! 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“I hope you’ve all saved room for pudding,” Molly Weasley said to her large family that was gathered around the table. Sunday dinner at the Burrow was a regular occurrence but this week it was a particularly full table with even Charlie in town. And now that the dishes were scrubbing themselves in the kitchen sink, it was time to enjoy the sweet end of their meal. 

  “I’ve been waiting all week,” Percy said eagerly but as Molly lowered the two large cast iron pans she had been levitating onto the long table, the smile left his face. 

  “Mum! Where’s the chocolate?” Ron blurted. 

  “Ron, don’t be rude!” chastised Hermione. 

  “I'm not! Last Sunday, Mum said she felt like she had baked everything recently and was out of ideas. I said we hadn’t had chocolate in a long time and Percy mentioned her Double Devil Food and Mum agreed and that's what we were to get,” Ron said. 

  “Oh, I know dear,” Molly said, now beginning to serve. “But when I was babysitting for Victorie on Wednesday, Bill mentioned he was craving berry cobbler so I thought it’d be nice, what with berries in season.”

  “Oh,” said George knowingly, “Bill wanted it.”

  “Make your own bloody cobbler,” Ron snapped at his oldest brother. 

  “Make your own chocolate cake,” Bill fired back. 

  “Boys,” sighed Arthur, setting down his fork. 

  “It was at least two to one for chocolate cake,” pointed out Percy. 

  “Except Bill’s the favorite so his vote counts for three,” said George. 

  “I was home for two whole hours before this bloody ‘who’s the favorite’ fight broke out,” said Charlie, taking a plate of cobbler from his mother. “Might be a record.”

  “I don’t have favorites!” Molly said, clearly offended. 

  “Yes you do! It’s Bill and then Ginny,” said Percy. 

  “Must we do this every time?” asked Fleur, rolling her eyes. 

  “Me?” said Ginny. “Get out of here.”

  “Yeah,” agreed George. “Everyone knows Ginny’s Dad’s favorite.”

  “Ginny’s Mum’s second favorite because she’s the girl,” Ron said.

  “That’s quite sexist, Mum,” quipped George, digging into the cobbler on his plate. 

  “Yes, that sounds right,” Percy nodded. 

  “There is no way I’m the favorite over Ron,” Bill argued. 

  “Ron is the one that got away with everything,” George agreed. 

  Ron’s mouth dropped open as he stared at George from across the table. “You have to be joking.”

  “George is right. You stole Dad’s car TWICE and the second time you crashed it and lost it. And what happened to you?” Percy asked, using his fingers to tick off each of his points. 

  “The first time was justified - I was rescuing Harry from his shit relatives and I wasn’t alone,” Ron explained, glaring at George. 

  “Language,” scolded Molly. “There are children.”

  “Rescuing the Chosen One. Can’t expect us to face consequences for that,” George added. 

  “And the second time, Mum humiliated me with a howler in the Great Hall!” 

  “Wait. Are you saying when you stole that flying car, took it to Hogwarts and lost it, all you got was fucking Howler?!” Charlie shouted. Fleur made a face at the pieces of dessert Charlie had flung across the table in his outrage. 

  “Language!” snapped Molly for the second time. 

  “He left school and went to the Ministry to fight Death Eaters and she didn’t say anything during his fifth year!” Bill added. 

  “Yet when Fred and I left school, we got our arses chewed,” agreed George. 

  “I feel like those two events were different,” Hermione said, quirking her eyebrow and George shrugged with a grin. 

  “Ron was gravely injured,” Molly said. “It was hardly the time for punishment. 

  “Ginny was there as well,” said Arthur. “But we were hardly in the mood to dole out consequences.”  

  “How is Ginny the only girl and the youngest and Ron still gets away with more than her?” Charlie pondered. 

  “No way,” said Ron. 

  “After the war, Mum and Dad let Hermione share his bed the whole summer,” Bill raises his eyebrows in a suggestive manner at Ron, causing Hermione to flush. 

  “Well, it’s not like she hadn’t already shared the tent with him and Harry for a year,” Fleur reminded her husband. 

  “Except Harry wasn’t in Ron’s room with them!” said Ginny. “Harry was sleeping in Percy’s old room!”

  “Oh, was he sleeping in Percy’s room all summer?,” asked Ron, his tone mocking. Ginny, checked that her mother was distracted with serving before raising a middle finger in his direction. 

  Bill turned to his mother, hands gesticulating wildly. “You wouldn’t let my fiancée and I share a room the week before our wedding because you wanted me to ‘set a good example.’ What was the point if you changed your mind nine months later?” 

  “Bill, you’ll find that you learn new lessons with each child.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Language!” Molly chided again. 

  “Ron gets away with the most because he’s the one that found Mum’s actual favorite,” pointed out George. 

  “That’s exactly why! She doesn’t want to upset Harry.”

  “Please don’t drag me into this again,” Harry pleaded, who until that point had been quietly observing the sibling bickering. 

  “I certainly like Harry better than the rest of you right now! He’s not testing my patience!” said Molly, hands on her hips. 

  “You’re all in your twenties and thirties,” said Arthur, exasperated. “You should know by now we don’t have favorites. I can’t wait for your own kids to get you back with this ridiculous squabbling.”

  “I’m sorry Ron, I didn’t realize the change in pudding would bother you so much. I’ll make you a cake and drop it at your place tomorrow. Now, let me get the ice cream,” Molly said, walking back to the kitchen. 

  “What the hell? Where’s mine? I was the one that asked for cake?” asked Percy, mouth open in disbelief. 

  “Percy, welcome to the bottom,” said George.

  “We should get t-shirts,” Charlie suggested, raising his glass in salute. 

[chudleycanonficfest]

Nerves

Day 21, Story #1 is by @velvethopewrites​

Title: Nerves

Author: Velvethope

Pairing: Harry/Ginny

Prompt: First Date

Rating: Teen/Mature, probably Pg-13

(No Triggers)

Harry showers carefully, taking special care and making to sure clean himself all over. Somewhere between trying to be thorough and imagining what Ginny’s doing in her shower…he has to stop, take care of something, and start again. He feels only slight embarrassment at this – he is, after all, an 18-year-old male, and for the first time in his life, he feels as though he can indulge in some typical behaviors. Especially if it helps settle his anxieties. Harry saves his hair for last, washing it with broad, almost painful strokes. As if the willpower in his hands could somehow make it lay flat for once in his life.  

This is their first official date.  Since the war and since he’d broken up with her to protect her. It was also their first, proper date since they’d managed to realize they both liked each other in his sixth year. As blissful as Harry had found their previous relationship to be, 22 days as a couple while at school had not given them ample time to stretch their legs and “date.“ 

To say he has nerves is an understatement.

Not about her – no— not about Ginny. They are as they should be. She makes him deliriously happy, as always.  Even if he can’t really tell her yet, not with words, Harry knows that he loves her. He knows that he wants to spend the rest of his life with her. He knows that ordinary people, people that hadn’t just been through a war together, would probably scoff at his romantic notions, but Harry does not care. He doesn’t need to date five other people before coming back to her – she is his everything.

But the current situation is still nerve-wracking, to say the least. Dating. Getting dressed up. Looking like adults and going places. Places with other couples, also on dates, all around them. What if they don’t have anything to say to each other? What if they just sit there, making small talk about the food while the other couples give them pitying looks?

With that last rather ridiculous thought, he exits his shower and looks at the clothes that Hermione helped him pick out earlier. Harry knows he is silly, but he wants to look as nice as he can for her. It’s a good thing Hermione helped, too, or Harry would have needed to get ready for this date yesterday, knowing his terrible decision-making skills.  

But thankfully, he is quickly dressed, shaved, and ready. Except for his hair. His bloody hair. 

He knows it’s useless, but he tries anyway – combing it, then brushing, then wetting it again, all to no avail. It is a mess. He is a mess. And probably always will be. Harry knows he is not unattractive; Ginny has mentioned his eyes many times, and now, with a new pair of glasses, he can almost see what she means. But still, Harry’s nerves flutter within him.  He doesn’t know why he is doing this to himself. After getting his hair to lie as straight as he can, he sighs, checks the mirror one more time, and thinks, this is it.  It’s now or never. 

He Apparates to the Burrow and takes a deep breath. Harry knows he is acting like a prat, but he can’t help it. He wants everything to just be perfect. He feels as though they need this – him and Ginny. A night out. Just the two of them. He needs to treat her like she ought to be treated – she deserves the world, but she’ll have to settle for a fancy dinner in Tipton, for now. Hopefully, with more than a bit of a snog at the end of it, too. Harry’s stomach has a whole different set of butterflies at that idea, and he quickly squashes his thoughts from traveling to dangerous, arousing places. Although he may feel like one from time to time, Harry is not a sex maniac. At least, he doesn’t think so. 

He pauses at the door, completely gobsmacked, when he sees her standing in her kitchen. Her fiery red hair is done up, leaving her graceful, swan-like neck bare, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite as lovely as his Ginny. Her dress is purple silk, with a low-cut back and Muggle-style, another gift from Hermione, no doubt. Harry’s heart is beating a mile a minute in his chest, making the rapid conga-dance of years past feel like a waltz.  He can’t help but feel a bit weak in the knees as she turns towards him and he has to grip the door jam to keep himself upright. 

Her face lights up when she sees him, and suddenly, his nerves are gone, just like that. He knows that the broadest, stupidest grin is on his face right now, but miraculously, Ginny doesn’t seem to care. She comes closer and stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.  His eyes flutter closed, and he takes in a deep breath of her flowery scent. Harry is suddenly no longer worried. Something clicks deep inside him, like a key turning into a lock, and he feels free like he’s flying with his feet still on the ground.

She winks at him as they say goodbye to her parents (even Harry can see that they are beaming at them). Just before he Apparates them away to the restaurant, she leans closer and gives him a calculating look. It is a long enough appraisal to make his nerves start to reappear. 

“What? What is it?” Harry asks, wondering if he’s left toothpaste on his lip.

Ginny studies him and then messes up his hair with both hands. Harry pulls away, feeling slightly disgruntled. 

“What’s the big idea?” he asks, trying to smooth it down again. He feels puckish because of all the time he’d spent on it and bites his tongue to keep his expression of complaint to himself. How would she like it if he did that to her? 

“It just looked too neat,” Ginny says now, shrugging. But then he sees the way her lips twitch and the warm light of mischief as it hits her brown eyes.  Feeling silly, Harry lets his bad mood evaporate and allows a loud sigh to escape his lips as Ginny smirks at him. He bows and lowers his head closer to her. 

“Go on then, do your worst.” 

Harry knows when he’s licked, and there is a type of ferocious glee on Ginny’s face as she really messes up his hair. And the butterflies in his stomach are back but for entirely different reasons this time. Perhaps he is a bit of a sex maniac, after all.

When she is done, he knows he looks far worse than when he began hours earlier. But he can’t help but smile at her because the look on Ginny’s face as she curls her arm around his and snuggles close is one of pure affection and love. And suddenly, Harry doesn’t feel nervous at all. 

o-o-o-o-o 

[chudleycanonficfest]

Hide and Seek

Day 6, Story #1 is by @adenei

Title: Hide and Seek

Author: adenei

Pairing: Teddy Lupin/Victoire Weasley

Prompt: Babysitting

Rating: PG

TW: Mild Language

**********

“Don’t let them stay up too late,” Ginny reminds him as she opens the front door.

“And send us a Patronus if anything goes wrong. We’ll be here in an instant,” Hermione adds fretfully.

“Oi, ‘Mione, really? They’re not babies anymore!”

“Let’s go, or we’re going to miss our Portkey.”

Teddy laughs at the interaction. Of all the adults, it’s Harry who’s pressing them about tardiness. The foursome are headed on a weekend getaway, staying at the Delacours’ beachside cottage for three nights. James was shipped off to George and Angelina’s, while Rose opted to go to Percy and Audrey’s, so Teddy’s charges only include Albus, Hugo, and Lily.

“Everything’s going to be fine. I’ve got this! And if I don’t, I can think of at least five other Weasleys to call. Maybe even a Malfoy if I’m desperate.”

“That’s not funny, Lupin,” Ron warns as Ginny swats him upside the head.

“But if Scorpius does ask for Albus to go over for an afternoon, it’s fine!”

“Noted. Go enjoy your weekend!” 

Teddy half shoves them out the door this time as he shuts and locks it behind them. The kids are out back playing in the garden, so Teddy goes out to join them. He’s chuffed that Harry and Ginny trust him enough to watch Al and Lily for the weekend. Plus, Ron and Hermione added Hugo to the mix. Normally, they’d be shipped off to the Burrow to stay with Molly and Arthur, but since it’s only a long weekend, and the kids are ten and twelve now, Teddy Lupin, a recent Hogwarts graduate, has been bestowed the responsibility. 

He’s always been the mature older ‘sibling’—well, he counts himself as a sibling or cousin to all the Weasleys, but he’s not blood-related. Harry and Ginny half raised him, though, so he’s just as much a part of the family as any of the kids. Heck, maybe someday he’d officially be part of the family. 

No, it’s too early to be having those thoughts.

But there’s one person who makes him happier than anything to know he’s not related to the Weasleys by blood. Victoire, his best friend and girlfriend. As Teddy sits back and gets comfortable on a patio chair, he lets his mind wander to spring afternoons spent by the lake as he observes the kids playing on the muggle swingset Harry insisted on putting together years ago.

“Who knew a giant Muggle toy would get so much use?”

Teddy jumps at the sound of a voice he’s not expecting.

“Vic! What are you doing here? I mean, not that I’m complaining, but…”

She laughs as Teddy backtracks. The sound is music to his ears, soft and lyrical, and something he’ll never tire of. Making her laugh is something he’s striven to do ever since they were young. When she fell off her toy broom, he made his hair change colors at a rapid pace in an attempt to make her giggle, and then there was the time she broke up with her first boyfriend during her fourth year, when he’d used the Jelly Legs Jinx on the bloke’s legs while he walked over a patch of ice. Victoire’s laugh has always been the fuel that set his heart on fire.

“Well, you said you had to babysit this weekend, and I thought I might come over and help entertain my cousins,” she explains as she pulls up a chair next to him.

“Yeah, but the adults have only just left! You don’t think I can keep the kids alive on my own for more than an hour?”

“Of course, I do!” She slides her hand in his while waiting for a beat, “especially since James isn’t here.”

“Oh, I see how it is! James isn’t that bad.”

“No, he’s not. He just likes mischief. It’s a common Weasley trait.”

“And a Potter one, too, if I’m not mistaken. Harry and Ginny never stood a chance, especially after naming him after Harry’s dad and godfather.”

“True. When I have kids, they won’t be named after anyone. They deserve to have their own unique names.”

Teddy offers a sad smile at Victoire’s words. He’s named after his dad and granddad and doesn’t mind all that much, but he sees where Victoire is coming from, what with being named after a bloody war for Merlin’s sake.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have insisted on entering this world on the second of May, then. I mean, come on, Vic, of all the days!”

“Oh, sod off, Lupin,” she feigns seriousness while her eyes shine with mirth.

“I do agree with you, though. There’s enough people in this family who’re named after somebody else. I don’t mind it, but I do like the concept of original names. Though, I do think we’re a ways off from baby name talk, don’t you?”

He can’t help but lighten the mood. Teddy’s sure she means nothing by the comment and is just thinking out loud, but something still possesses him to weave it into their future. Perhaps it’s to gauge her thoughts in a casual manner?

“Probably, but it’s fun to talk about, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like we’re actually picking names or anything.”

“Or determining how many kids we’re going to have…”

“Which would absolutely be—”

“Two!” they both say at the same time.

It’s really more of an inside joke, with Teddy witnessing firsthand the chaos that is the Potter household with three kids, and Victoire being the oldest of three. And yet, there’s some truth laced into their lighthearted conversation.

“See?” Victoire says as she leans in close, “This is why we’re good together.”

She plants a kiss on his cheek at the exact wrong moment because that’s when Hugo shouts,

“Victoire! Look, guys! Vic’s here!”

“Oops,” she whispers bashfully in his ears.

So far, they’ve managed to keep their relationship a secret from the family, but it looks like that’s about to end sooner rather than later. Of course, Harry and Ginny know, and Vic told Bill and Fleur when she came home at the end of term, but the cousins were still blissfully unaware… until now.

The three kids run over to Vic and Teddy, and Lily eyes them with curiosity. “Teddy, why did Vic just kiss you on the cheek?”

There are a multitude of different answers Teddy could choose from. ‘No reason’, ‘don’t worry about it’, ‘it’s nothing’, but instead he opts for, “Why do you think, Lils?”

Her eyes grow wider than her small face allows, and a wide O forms on her lips. “Are you two… together?” she whispers.

Teddy and Vic share a look. They both know the secret’s out now.

“Yeah, Lils, we are,” Teddy admits as he holds up the hand that’s still intertwined with Vic’s.

If there weren’t wards in place, Teddy’s sure that Lily’s shriek of delight could have been heard for miles. Albus and Hugo, on the other hand, seemed disinterested in the whole ordeal.

“Can we play hide and seek or something?” Albus asked once Lily was done reacting to the news.

Point in case.

“Wait, who else knows?” Hugo interrupts Albus’s question and bringing the focus back on Teddy and Vic.

“Of all the cousins? Only you three,” Vic answers.

“Only us?” Lily gasps.

“Not even James?” Albus eyes Teddy curiously.

“Not even James,” Teddy confirms. “Tell you what, we can go play hide and seek now, but what about an even better game?”

All three look on expectantly, waiting for Teddy’s proposition.

“What if we play, ‘let’s see how long it takes James to figure out Vic and I are dating’? We can all place bets, and I’ll take whoever guesses the closest date out for ice cream.”

Vic flashes him a knowing smile as the kids contemplate his offer.

“I’m in,” Lily says without thinking it through.

“Me too,” Hugo agrees.

“But that means we’ll have to keep it a secret,” Albus realizes.

He’s much more intuitive at eleven than Teddy ever dreamed of being.

“Yeah. Everyone else has to find out on their own, which means you can’t tell anyone.”

Lily and Hugo both nod in agreement, and after a bit more pondering, Albus agrees.

“Okay, but can we pick dates later? I want to play!”

Ted and Vic both laugh as Teddy offers to count to twenty. He closes his eyes and makes a big show of counting while Vic remains at his side.

“Nice one.”

“Thanks,” he responds in between shouting numbers. “I figure James is thick enough that we’ll get at least a couple more weeks out of him. He is Harry’s son, after all...”

Not only did they get a couple of weeks out of the deal, but the rest of the summer. It wasn’t until September first when James caught them snogging behind a pillar on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and ran to announce it to the world that the couple knew the jig was up. 

“Looks like I owe Al a trip to Fortescue’s next time I see him.”

[chudleycanonficfest]

Vino

Day 25, Post #1 by @thedistantdusk

Title: Vino Author/Artist: TheDistantDusk Pairing: Harry/Ginny Prompt: In Vino Veritas Rating: E (to be safe) for smutty references.    Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Drinking (everyone of legal age). Frank discussion of sex acts. 

They started drinking at 1 PM. 

It seemed the best way to spend the day together before the Hogsmeade day — not weekend, much to Harry’s disappointment— reached its untimely conclusion. He had to cancel the upstairs room he rented for them, too, which he’s still not chuffed about, and not just because they’d definitely have shagged.

Because with Ginny, It’s more than just physical. It’s always been more than just physical. He misses her… deeply, hollowly misses her. It’s a constant ache in the pit of his stomach, like there’s always part of him that’s somewhere else. They had to settle for a heated snog behind the Three Broomsticks before heading in to escape the cold, but that hadn’t been enough. For either of them.

Of course, on the surface he pretended to understand the sudden change of events. It’s a particularly cold February, so cold that McGonagall was close to canceling the Hogsmeade visit altogether. According to Ginny, she only settled for an early dismissal instead when the student body threatened to mutiny. So Ginny’s due back at 6 now, which truly is shit, but anything is better than not seeing her at all.

Harry blinks at his beautiful girlfriend across the table and wonders why she’s been withdrawn today. Distant. At first, he chalked this up to school stress. After all, she is quidditch captain. He knows firsthand how stressful that can be— and while he’d held the captaincy, NEWTS hadn’t even been on the horizon yet. He also hadn’t dealt with a castle full of ghosts and sadness and distorted memories. 

After the drinks started flowing, though, it became clear that school stress wasn’t the issue. Or at least not the biggest one. When she finished her first pint, she started sending him these fleeting looks of puzzlement in between updating him on the Hogwarts gossip. Her second and third pints brought even greater looks of scrutiny.  Now that she’s midway through her fourth pint, she’s full-on staring at him. For the past twenty minutes, he’s felt a bit like an animal in a zoo. Harry hasn’t known what to do about that, really. As much as he loves her, Ginny’s not known for her subtlety. Or patience. She’s always come outright with any concerns or problems, always addressed them head-on. So this constant look of confusion has been… well, confusing. Harry handled the last twenty minutes the best way he knows how: drinking more, holding her hand across the table, and waiting for her to take the lead. He offers a tiny smile and reaches for his pint. He’s content to wait as long as she needs, for whatever she needs.  As it turns out, though, he decides to take a drink at the worst possible moment. Had he been looking, he would’ve seen her cock her head and open her mouth as she reached some sort of internal breaking point. Unfortunately, he just brings his pint glass to his lips instead. So for better or worse, all he hears is the question itself.  “Why do you go down on me so much?” Harry immediately chokes on his beer. It splatters down his front, coating the table in amber specks. He apologizes through a cough and grapples with a napkin, but Ginny remains unfazed. “I… erm.” He coughs again, shaking his head. “Sorry. Wasn't expecting—” “And I’m not complaining,” she says quickly, resting her chin on her palm. “I mean, obviously.”  Oh? He relishes the blush that creeps up her neck. “Then what are—” “It’s just…” She sighs, peering down at her pint glass. “I’ve spoken to Luna about it, and as much as she—"

“You’ve… you’ve spoken to Luna about this?” he asks weakly, head spinning. “Who else—?”

  Ginny plows on as if she hasn’t heard him. “I just figured, I guess, that when we properly started shagging you’d do it less. But you erm… haven’t. So.”

  There’s a pause as the blush from before creeps over her entire face. 

  Harry takes another cautious sip of his pint as a raucous peal of laughter erupts behind him. A firm reminder that they’re very much in public. He squints at the woodgrain on the table. Why is that turning him on even more?

  “Erm… what exactly do you want to know?” he asks after a minute, surprised at how graveled his voice sounds. 

  Ginny sighs, still holding her face in her hands. “Just that, really,” she murmurs, tongue coming out to wet her lips. Fuck. He grips his glass even tighter. “I just… I want to know. Why do you do it so much?” 

  “Erm…” Harry winces. He realizes he’s been saying that a lot.

Ginny’s hand comes up to rest on his, and it’s only when she speaks again that he realizes how drunk she truly is. “Take as long as you need,” she slurs sagely, peering into his eyes. “I’ve been waiting to hear these words for a long time, Harry.” 

And he’d laugh, probably, if this entire concept didn’t terrify him a bit to explain. 

  Bloody words. 

  He twists his pint glass, watching as foam overlaps its white-capped ring. Words have never been his strong suit. How, exactly, is he meant to convert this string of images and feelings into something resembling an explanation? 

  But it’s clearly something she wants answered. Something that’s probably bothered her for longer than she wants to admit. So Harry shuts his eyes, trying to remember, trying to think. 

  He honestly hadn’t given the concept much thought until sixth year. He knew that… general activity… happened before they started dating— obviously. The twins (perhaps deliberately) left enough moving magazines around the Burrow to leave little to the imagination. So he’d seen wizards doing it. They seemed to enjoy it almost as much as the witches splayed out in front of them. Harry just hadn’t considered, really, that he’d ever do it for any reason other than paying his dues. It seemed a simple act of reciprocity. Something one did out of expectation rather than genuine interest. 

  A wry smile creeps across his lips when he thinks about that particular misconception. Because that’s the furthest from the truth, isn’t it? Their relationship flashes through his mind like a film reel. The first time his thigh slipped between her legs as they snogged on the lawn. The pride that swelled in his chest as she wrapped her thighs around it, clutching it as close to her center as she could as she rocked, rocked, rocked. 

  Fuck, how he’d cherished the trousers he wore that day, too. For over a year, they were the closest thing he had to her knickers— and even then, he stole that first pair of knickers right off her. Though perhaps “stole” was the wrong word, because that implied some degree of secrecy… and there was nothing secret about it. He just winked at her as he pulled those blue knickers down her thighs and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. Ginny stared down at him, her chest flushed and heaving. He felt like the most powerful person alive before he even started, and when he actually did… 

  Fuck.

  He returns to the present and adjusts himself beneath the table. 

  “I… erm,” he starts, clearing his throat. “I guess I’m… well, I’ve never been good at….” He makes a broad gesture. “Touch. Yeah?”

  Ginny blinks. “Touch?”

  Harry nods, biting inside his cheek. “Erm. When I kissed you in the common room in sixth year, that was the first time I really understood I could, you know, touch you. To make you happy. To…” He huffs out a sigh, his thoughts growing more sluggish. He sifts through them for a few seconds before reaching the answer he’s searched for all along. 

  “I erm. I figured out pretty quickly that I could use touch to turn you on,” he admits to the woodgrain. “And erm… for someone who wasn’t used to touching, that was pretty… nice. To learn I had that power.” 

  His whole face feels red-hot, like it might combust at any second, but he takes her silence as a cue to continue. 

  “Anyway. As soon as we started snogging, I really wanted to do it, but obviously we didn’t get the chance at school. So instead I thought about it. Wanked about it. For months.” He lets out a slow breath through his nose and focuses on a wood beam above their heads. 

  Has he ever admitted to a specific wanking fantasy before? He doesn’t think so. 

  “Continue.” Ginny’s voice warbles through his thoughts. 

  He swallows and tilts his head down to face her again, pleased to see that confusion has evaporated from her face entirely. Now she’s looking… uncomfortable… for entirely different reasons. 

  Harry smirks; he’s liking this whole opening-up thing more than he thought. But what else to tell her… hmm.

  “Well, we both know I wasn’t great at first, of course,” he says, shrugging. “But you were erm. A good teacher.” He bites his lip again and remembers those early, awkward days when she still needed to shift against his face, to direct him where he needed to go.

Even back then, she lost all sense of decorum pretty fast; that was always his favorite part, really… when she started in with the deep moans, commanding him to add more fingers, to keep them in place, to crook them against her. There was no sense of accomplishment greater than the way she gripped his ears, his hair, his shoulders, her thighs clenching around his entire face as she choked out his name. Being surrounded by her— pressing his tongue against the final pulses of her clit as she rhythmically clenched against his fingers— made him feel more complete than anything else. It left her dazed and gasping; it left him feeling not only useful, but powerful. Necessary. 

  The whole ordeal's made him come in his trousers, actually. More than once. And speaking of trousers…

  Harry clears his throat. “You could’ve asked a while ago, you know,” he says as casually as he can with a raging hard-on. “Back when I took your knickers, even. I want you to tell me if you have a question about anything. Ok?” He swallows, finally blinking up at her.

  Shit. 

  If she looked distracted before, it’s nothing compared to now. She’s just peering at him with lips parted, chest heaving, eyes unfocused. One hand is balled into a fist on the table top, the other gripping on her thigh.

  Ginny eventually rips her eyes away with an annoyed whimper. “Fucking fuck,” she mutters, rubbing her temples. “I’m so fucking turned on.” 

  Harry laughs and finishes his pint, his chest bubbling with pride. “I guess that’s a yes.” 

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 24, Post #1 by @be11atrixthestrange

Title: I Love Wine Author/Artist: Be11atrixthestrange Pairing: Ron/Hermione Prompt: In Vino Veritas / Songfic (Difficult by Peppermint Ollie) Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): N/A

(Please note that one lyric has been changed - "Football" is now "Quaffle")

I Love Wine

You can talk to girls who aren't me. 

It's fine, no, I said it's fine. It's not like you're just mine

I'm not jealous,

wait...

Are you still mad at me?

When Hermione opens the hospital wing doors late one March evening, she pokes her head into the room to look before entering, scanning for anyone she doesn't want to see.

It's become a habit lately, especially knowing she might run into Ron. A true extrovert, Ron is never alone. It used to be Hermione always glued to his hip, but not anymore. Nowadays, it's Lavender, and Ron hasn't spoken to Hermione in months. Usually, her run-ins with Ron are accidental, but not this time. After nearly losing him to a bottle of mead, she'll do anything to get him back in her life.

As she had assumed, the Hospital Wing is empty save for Ron, who's sprawled out on a twin-sized bed. Madam Pomfrey has left for the night, and it's after visiting hours, so Lavender wouldn't be here anyway. In fact, Hermione shouldn't be, either, but school rules seem less important now.

She approaches Ron, noting that the hospital wing beds are too short for his lanky frame, and his pale, freckled feet dangle off the edge. The blankets don't reach that far, and goosebumps are forming on his skin. He must be cold. She almost reaches out to tug the blanket over his feet but stops herself. It's a loving gesture, but in the wrong way. It's definitely something Mrs. Weasley would do, and the last thing she wants to be associated with is his mother. Seeing him with another girl has made at least one thing crystal clear — her feelings for Ron are far from familial.

Hermione's gaze travels from Ron's feet to his head, cocked to the side, halfway on a pillow. His neck is bent, his mouth open, and each exhale brings a faint, raspy snore. His entire positioning looks so awkward. She tries to take comfort in the rise and fall of his chest, proof that he's alive, but even still, she can't seem to shake the fear that she's lost him forever.

What if she has? Just because he's alive doesn't mean he'll want her back in his life, not after the way she's treated him. He clearly doesn't need her; he has Lavender. Hermione's jaw tightens at the thought of her pretty, flirty, popular roommate, Ron's girlfriend. Four months of insisting that she's fine with their relationship, and no, she's not jealous have caught up to her. Her throat tightens, and her eyes sting, threatening to cry. Again.

Ron's breathing remains steady, his eyes locked shut, and it seems unlikely that he'll wake up. It was probably a stupid idea to come; he needs his rest. If she wakes him, he might be even angrier at her.

But fresh on her mind is the memory of his first moment of consciousness after being poisoned. The words that slipped from his mouth…

Er-my-nee.

He was dazed and confused, and hardly aware of what he was saying. But it had to mean something, right?

Hermione takes a seat in the chair next to his bed. She'll wait just a few moments to see if he wakes. It would be worth it to hear him say her name again.

She glances toward her bookbag, a bulging puddle of canvas on the floor. Wedged between her quill set and a stack of textbooks is a fresh bottle of wine, a gift from Dobby, plucked right from the kitchen. The bottle's nose pokes out of the top of her bag. Hermione distinctly remembers her anxious trip to the Hospital Wing as she tried to keep the bottle hidden under her arm, moving slowly and cautiously to prevent the liquid from sloshing around and alerting the authorities to her contraband. She could have lost her Prefects' badge if she had been caught with it. Even though it was offered to her by a Hogwarts employee, she should have denied it. Dobby isn't exactly keen on school rules. Or aware of them, for that matter.

And why would Ron want to drink wine when he was almost killed by a bottle of mead? She hadn't been thinking straight. She should just go back to the common room...

An abrupt snore pulls Hermione from her thoughts. It's followed by silence, and Hermione looks tentatively at Ron's face to see if he's woken up. His eyes are still closed, and his mouth agape, a glistening river of drool runs down his chin. She smiles— years ago, she would have thought it was gross, but now, she wouldn't hesitate to wipe it off with her thumb. Oh, how things change.

She should stop staring. How would he react to know someone was watching him sleep?

Unless he's used to it. The knot in her stomach coils further at the thought of Lavender and Ron. Has she ever watched him sleep? They're always kissing in the corridor, entangled on the common room sofa, tugging each other down the hallway in search of empty classrooms. She probably has.

Hermione reaches for the bottle of wine in her bag, if only for a label to read, something to get her mind off of Lavender sharing Ron's bed, giggling as he snores, wiping away a trail of saliva with her thumb, or even worse, her lips.

"Hermione?"

Ron's raspy voice pulls her back, and her cheeks sting with heat. It's not the drowsy, longing, 'Er-My-Nee' from before. This time his tone conveys confusion. Disapproval. He's probably wondering why she's here instead of Lavender.

She chances a smile at him, and her breath catches in her throat at the sight of his piercing blue eyes.

"Hi, Ron," she says, forcing a cheerful, optimistic tone. "I—I brought us some wine."

Ron's eyes narrow as he studies her. He's still mad at her, isn't he? He's going to tell her to leave and go get Lavender instead. She clutches the bottle tighter when it begins to slip through her sweating palms.

Then, unexpectedly, a grin breaks across Ron's face, and Hermione exhales the breath she didn't know she was holding.

"As long as it's not mead."

Let's stay in tonight. Just you and me and a bottle of wine

We can talk about our feelings; everything will be just fine

"I promise it's not mead!" she says, almost too eagerly.

"Good. Don't think I can ever drink mead again! Hand it here?" Ron reaches for the wine.

He's smiling, looking almost giddy to see her. It doesn't make sense. He's so relaxed, as though they haven't spent the last four months fighting. How?

Ron pops the cork with a nonverbal spell, and Hermione lifts an eyebrow at his wandwork. Has she ever complimented him on his charms ability? She makes a mental note to do so more often — considering that they become friends again, of course.

Ron brings the tip of the bottle to his mouth and takes a long swig. Hermione's cheeks redden at the sight, and she hopes he doesn't notice.

He swallows a mouthful of wine with a heavy gulp and hands the bottle back to Hermione.

"You don't mind sharing?"

"Why not? It's just spit."

She prickles at his response. The Ron she knew, pre-Lavender, wouldn't have had such a nonchalant attitude toward spit. Sharing a bit of saliva must be no big deal to him anymore. Great.

Hoping her blatant jealousy isn't written all over her face, Hermione takes a sip, disappointed by its bland, almost metallic taste. She was hoping she'd be able to taste him.

But the wine warms her right up. Hermione doesn't drink often, never, really, and she knows she'll feel the effects quickly. Maybe too quickly.

"So. We have a lot to talk about," says Ron, as soon as she finishes her sip.

Or maybe, not quickly enough.

She nods and looks down at her hands. He's looking down too — she doesn't have to watch him to know that his eyes aren't on her anymore.

A few moments pass in silence, and Hermione figures she'll have to speak up first. How much does she have to explain? How much should she reveal? It seems like the best possible time to share, to tell him everything she almost said over the last four months. Everything she should have said before. They're alone here, why not clear the air?

She takes a deep breath. "I asked you to Slughorn's party as my date, and you said yes."

Ron's scoff confirms what she feared — her statement came off as an accusation. She hadn't meant it that way.

"I know that now," he says.

"But you didn't before?"

"No," he says, reaching for the bottle. "You're pretty subtle. Until you're not." He flashes his forearms at her, still covered with scars from her canary attack.

Her eyes sting with tears again, and she's suddenly sick to her stomach. "I shouldn't have set those birds on you."

"True. You shouldn't have."

No 'sorry's' or 'I forgive you's', just facts, not feelings. It's how they've always communicated, and it's still infuriating.

With a deep breath, Hermione continues, "I was angry at you for kissing Lavender."

A feeling. Not a fact. Maybe he'll follow suit.

"Why?"

Is he really going to make her say it?

"Because I was jealous, Ron. And jealousy makes people do irrational things."

"Well, don't do it again."

Is he asking her not to set birds on him again? "I won't! If you don't—"

She snaps her mouth shut. She almost told him not to kiss Lavender again. She can't ask that of him.

"Don't what?"

"Nothing," she says hastily, burying her expression with another sip of wine.

She watches as a smug smile spreads across Ron's face. "You were going to ask me not to kiss Lavender again, weren't you?"

Hermione keeps her mouth shut and passes the bottle back to him.

"You know it's not fair to ask that."

"I didn't ask that," she says, her jaw stiff. "I stopped myself."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "So you're still jealous?"

"Ron, stop." He's just gloating now. "Let's not talk about Lavender. I just want to be friends again. I'm not asking for anything more."

"Don't you want to know why I kissed her?"

"No—"

"Because I was also jealous."

His answer hits her like a brick. He was jealous. Does that mean…?

"Why were you jealous?"

That's until we start throwing knives. It's amazing how time flies.

Hermione waits for Ron to answer, watching patiently as his cheeks turn crimson. His eyes flit between her and the bottle.

"I was jealous because Ginny said you snogged Krum."

He averts his gaze when he speaks.

"She did?" asks Hermione. "That was two years ago."

Ron shrugs. "Made me jealous."

"So that's why you kissed Lavender?"

Ron nods.

"Even though I had just asked you out on a date?"

"Hermione, I didn't know you meant it as a date! I assumed it was a pity invite."

"You should have talked to me!" she protests. "I was completely blindsided."

"I should have told you how I felt?"

"Yes!"

"Why? You didn't! You just hinted at it, then fucking attacked me with birds for misreading your nonexistent signals!"

Hermione was about to respond, but his retort snaps her mouth shut. He's right. It doesn't matter who started it, but she's the one who got violent. As she searches for a response, their argument pauses, and the air thickens with tension. She can feel Ron's eyes boring into her again, and she pointedly looks away. Why can't she just swallow her pride and say she's sorry?

It's not that easy.

"Maybe I'm better off with Lavender," he says, barely an audible whisper. "She treats me well."

Hermione's heart sinks into her stomach, and her eyes water again. She looks away, willing herself not to cry in front of Ron. She's pushing him away again, and she knows it. His implication cuts deep — he deserves someone who treats him well, and Hermione doesn't.

She can change that; he just has to trust her. But that's a lot to ask, isn't it?

"You're right. Maybe you are better off with her," she says, dejected.

'Cause you're more difficult than trying to fold a fitted sheet

And I'm more difficult than trying to throw a quaffle (at least for me)

You know without you I'd be lost

To her surprise, he grins again. "So that's what you want? For me to stay with Lavender."

Does he really need her to answer?

He hands her the wine, and she stares at it, wondering if another sip would benefit her. She's already feeling the effects.

Eh, why not? She takes another generous sip, enjoying its warm trail down her throat.

"It's a simple question, Hermione."

"Is that what you want?" she asks.

He narrows his eyes and smirks at her, a dangerous combination. With Ron, there's a fine line between anger and flirting, or at least, she thought there was. Before Lavender.

But, Lavender's not in the hospital wing drinking wine with Ron. Hermione is.

She bites her lip to keep from grinning.

"No. It's not." He blurts his answer as though the words have been trapped, waiting to escape. His ears turn pink at his admission, and he eyes the wine in accusation. With a shrug, he continues. "You know what I want."

She's buzzing from the wine — the muscles in her face soften, and her pent-up anxiety about the approaching topic seems to melt away. It feels like there's a clump of wriggling flobberworms in her stomach.

At least, she'd be more willing to play dumb if it saves her the heartache of being wrong. Why can't he just say it?

"I think we want the same thing," she says, summoning her Gryffindor courage, "but I want to hear you say it."

Ron lets out a groan. "Is every conversation we have going to be this difficult?"

Cause you're more difficult than peeling onions without crying

Or pulling on freshly washed skinny jeans

No, I'm not lying; I'd be lost without you

Despite his groan, his shoulders are relaxed, he's sporting a goofy grin, and his answer is clear and direct, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Thank Merlin, the wine is hitting him too. "I want you."

I want you. The words are like music to her ears.

"Still?" she asks. "Even after the birds?" If the roles were reversed, she'd definitely be holding a grudge.

"I don't understand it, but yeah. Still."

She reaches for the bottle — she'll need another dose of courage before continuing. Especially since his next question is easy to guess.

"So," he starts, suddenly sheepish, "do you want me too?"

Hermione sets the bottle down between them and tries to mimic his serious stare from before, but she can't stop from smiling. "Yes. Still."

Silence overtakes the space between them, and Hermione can almost taste the tension in the air. What next? Her daydreams never got this far.

"Then why are you still sitting there?" he asks, an eyebrow raised.

He inches to the side and motions to the space between them in clarification.

Oh, she understood.

His invitation is so tempting, and she almost gives in and crawls into the bed with him, but something stops her. Lavender. He's still someone else's boyfriend.

"Because you have a girlfriend."

"I'm not so sure I do anymore."

"What? Why?"

"Do you really need to ask why, Hermione?" At her confused expression, he continues, "or should I call you Er-My-Nee."

"Lavender heard about that?"

Ron nods, and Hermione knows she should feel sorry for her but… she doesn't. Not one bit.

"So?" he repeats, glancing down at the space beside him.

Hermione rises to her feet and crawls onto the bed, very aware that she's holding her breath. The bed is so small that she can't put a few inches of space between them, so she settles against his shoulder. He reaches for her hand, and their fingers intertwine.

"Is this okay?" asks Ron, caressing her hand with his fingers.

"Yes."

It's another moment she's imagined for years — holding Ron's hand. Not in a 'let me help you up' kind of way, but in a loving, flirtatious, non-platonic way. She's surprised by how easy it is; how comfortably she fits there.

Hermione rests her head on Ron's shoulder, and the bottle of wine in his other hand catches her eye. If only they had shared that bottle four months ago, things could be so different. She pushed him away, and he pushed right back. She could have lost him, yet somehow, he's still right here.

The hurt is still here too. She can tell by the way his breath is shallow and anxious, and the stiffness of his arm against hers that he won't kiss her tonight. Even holding hands is clunky, awkward, and almost too much, and definitely too soon. Yet somewhere in all its dysfunction, it's perfect.

You're for me and I'm for you, you know it's true

The best dysfunctional team that this world has ever seen

The bottle is nearly empty — they've kept drinking but stopped talking. She only notices the stark silence between them when she can hear her own breathing and grows self-conscious that he can hear it too.

She opens her mouth to speak just to fill the silence but freezes. Her lips are too loose from the alcohol, and she better not say anything. He doesn't need to know what's really on her mind. Three little words could push him away, and she just got him back.

It's definitely too soon for that truth.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?" she asks.

He lets go of her hand and wraps his free arm around her shoulders, encouraging her to lean more of her weight against him. "I love wine."

Hermione laughs. His tone is playful. Knowing. Her stomach flips when he gently squeezes her shoulder as he says 'wine'. If she were sober, she wouldn't dare read too much into those words. Tomorrow, she'll probably wake up and second guess this whole conversation, but right now?

"I love wine, too."

And I love you

[chudleycanonficfest]

Just One Night

Day 12, Story #1 is by @rafa-rafaelx / @whenihaveyouromione

Title: Just One Night

Author: rafa-rafaelx/whenihaveyouromione (or FireTheCanon on ao3)

Pairing: Ron&Ginny (sibling platonic) and background Romione

Prompt: "I'm learning to love myself, it's the hardest thing I've ever done." (I used this as a theme more than actual dialogue)

Summary: A moment between Ron and Ginny at Bill and Fleur's wedding.

…........

For the briefest of moments, as her lips grazed his cheek when the song ended, he considered kissing her. 

But the moment passed just as quickly as the question had come. She stepped away with flushed cheeks, but smiling. 

"That was fun," she said breathlessly. "But I don't think I can dance anymore. My feet… they're so sore. Thanks, Ron."

"No problem," Ron replied, feeling the rush of his emotions begin to subside now that she was no longer touching him. "I'm a bit tired myself… er… do you want me to get some Butterbeers? Go find Harry and I'll bring some over."

Hermione beamed and nodded. "That would be great." 

Before anymore could be said, she disappeared into the crowd. 

For a moment, Ron stood amongst the dancing crowd and closed his eyes, relishing in the time they'd just spent together. It had been thrilling, exciting, and he dared not think about what could have happened had they continued to dance. 

He touched the place where her lips had touched his cheek. The spot tingled, and it was a good feeling. And they'd been so close… so…

I should have done something, he thought admonishingly to himself as he went to where the drinks were being kept. It had been the perfect opportunity. He'd had her in his arms, they'd been dancing, with their bodies so close… there'd been something there, he hadn't imagined it. 

He shook his head. 

It was too late now. The moment had gone, she was gone…

He grabbed three Butterbeer bottles and was on his way to find Hermione and Harry when something stopped him. In the briefest of moments, his already fragile heart had crumbled before him. It shouldn't have, because they weren't actually doing anything, but…

Krum. She was talking to Krum and she was smiling. She looked so happy. 

She smiled with you, too, he reminded himself, though it wasn't much comfort. Ron might have been able to make her smile, but he didn't have the fame or the money or the popularity to go along with it. Making her smile was the only thing he had.

The familiar pang of jealousy hit him — swirling around him, engulfing him. He had no right to feel as he did, for she was free to choose who she wanted. But he wanted it to be him — he wanted it so much that the reality of the situation was near unbearable. 

He loved her. He'd known for a while, working through the confusing, yet exhilarating, feelings it brought him.

He loved her...

"I have no idea why he got invited."

Ron startled, surprised to see Ginny standing beside him. Her eyes were also on Hermione and Krum. 

Ron didn't say anything. He looked at the three bottles in his hand. "Yeah, well… I've got to go and give these to…"

He made to leave, but Ginny said, "You're better, you know?"

Ron paused, turning back to face her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ginny nodded towards Krum. "You're better than him. For her, I mean."

Ron felt his face flush, but he refused to look back over at Hermione and Krum. He watched his sister for a moment, trying to figure out if she was being serious or not. The look on her face told him that she was. 

For the first time ever, he decided to be honest with her. "In what way?" he asked quietly.

Ginny shook her head. "I don't know… I'm just repeating what she told me. He's just a friend — she said she's not the slightest bit interested in him in that way. Her words, not mine."

Ron swallowed. When had the room gotten so warm? "She said that?"

Ginny nodded. "She picks you. She won't tell you, because of everything that's going on — you know, all your secret plans and all — but… it's you, Ron."

Ron finally found the courage to look back over. Hermione wasn't anywhere in sight, but he spotted Krum skulking the edges of the tent, watching everyone with his usual deadpan expression. He released a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked after a moment. It wasn't like his sister to be this nice, but he couldn't sense any mockery in her voice.

Ginny smiled. "Because it's a wedding, a celebration of love, and the pair of you love each other, but you're too stupid to do anything about it. Besides, I couldn't bear the look of self-pity when you saw them talking just a moment ago."

"I wasn't —" He stopped. Who was he kidding? He had been self-pitying. 

Ginny raised an eyebrow, though she was being overly nice to him tonight so it didn’t last long. “Listen, I just thought you should know that you don’t have anything to worry about… about Krum. He’s… he’s not in the way. Not for her.”

Ron cast his eyes around the tent again, and through a gap in the dancers, he saw Hermione at one of the tables with Harry. She was still flushed in the face, smiling widely, and just looking happy to be where she was. She had spent a lot of time crying over the past weeks — over her parents mostly — so to see her smile warmed him. 

At the end of the school year, he’d thought that maybe something could happen. He’d been hopeful that it would, even taking the time to read the book Fred and George had gotten him. And the time together before Harry arrived, even the time after, tonight… it had filled him with a joy that he couldn’t quite grasp. 

There had been something there tonight. It hadn’t just been two friends dancing. It had been… something more. Maybe, had they let things go longer, it might have ended with them sharing a kiss. 

But all it had taken was seeing her with Krum — someone better at Quidditch than him, someone more famous than he’d ever be, and someone with more money than Ron could ever dream of — and all that hope had gone out in an instant. 

Now, Ginny was telling him something completely different to what his mind had imagined —

“There's no better time to do it than at a wedding," Ginny said, almost reading his thoughts. 

Ron nodded, though he didn't make to move anywhere. Despite it all — despite wanting to — in a few short days they would be leaving, going to who knew where, and he knew that until they found and destroyed all of the Horcruxes then there'd be no time for romance. So what was the point?

Just one night, he found himself thinking. Just tonight, it can be good.

Still clutching the Butterbeers, he moved forward, keeping his eyes on her, repeating in his head what he might say. Maybe he'd take her from the tent, have some privacy, at least see what she'd have to say. 

But he was only halfway there when the Patronus arrived. Kingsley, telling them the Ministry had fallen. 

Panicked ensued after that, and Ron was thrown to the side as people made desperate attempts to escape what they all now knew to be an attack.

He felt the Butterbeer bottles slip from his hands and spill over his shoes. He ignored it, pushing through the panic. 

Hermione was his only thought. He'd lost sight of her and Harry in the mess, but somewhere, somehow, he thought he could hear her… calling his name. 

He followed it, and a moment later he saw them. He saw the relief on both of his friends' faces, not just Hermione's. 

And then Hermione Disapparated them, sucking them into a void away from the danger. After that, any hope of the night ending well — of just enjoying one night with her — was erased. 

Now they had to find Horcruxes. 

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 7, Post #2 is by @zephyrcove - Thank you for submitting our sole artwork for the fest!

“End Credits”

By Zephyrcove

Jily

Prompt: Movie Nights

[chudleycanonficfest]

Dorkus Maximus

Day 20, Story #1 is by @honouraryweasley12

Title: Dorkus Maximus Author: honouraryweasley12 Pairing: Harry/Ginny Prompt: Slice of life Rating: PG

The locker room door slammed open, and a frustrated raven-haired witch marched in, a sporting bag slung over her shoulder and a broom in hand. She marched to where her teammates were sitting and threw her equipment down in a huff.

"What's with all the press? It's only an open practice. Bloody nuisance, they are."

"Good morning to you, too, Reena." Edith replied, giving her friend a wry smile.

She groaned. "I know this is the first full season since the end of the war and everything, but it's mental out there. I guess people are really excited for Quidditch to be back."

Edith scoffed; her face unable to hide the surprise. She glanced around at the other women who were staring at Reena and murmuring indistinctly. All but a redheaded witch sitting at the far stall.

Reena glanced around, confused by the reactions of her fellow Harpies. "What, what did I miss?"

"Have you met the new Chaser? She just graduated from Hogwarts."

Reena shook her head. The redhead stood up and strode across the room, holding out a hand.

"Hi, I'm Ginny."

Reena shook her hand, still unsure what the new chaser had to do with the number of reporters at their usually quiet practice. "Nice to meet you, I'm Reena Kumar. I guess we'll be chasing together."

Ginny smiled. "I'm looking forward to it. I've been watching you play for the past few years."

"You must be quite a sensation to draw all that attention."

Edith interrupted. "Her full name is Ginny Weasley."

Reena's eyes widened. "Weasley? As in the family of war heroes?"

Ginny blushed. "It wasn't just us, so many people fought."

"No wonder there are so many reporters outside. I guess we'll have to get used to it, having a celebrity on our team."

"You're already celebrities," Ginny replied.

"Sure, amongst some people. But everyone knows of your family now."

Ginny shrugged. "I have your poster up on my wall. That goal you scored on Wimbourne in '96 was amazing."

"Well, I see you're a student of the game. Just ignore those tossers outside and concentrate on the practice."

"It's fine. They follow my boyfriend and I everywhere. He hates the attention, but I've gotten used to it, being with him."

"Oh, who's your boyfriend?"

The rest of the team howled with laughter, as Ginny's face flushed a deep red.

Edith piped up again. "I know you're a fanatic about your training in the offseason, Reena, but you can't be serious. Have you not looked at a magazine or newspaper in the last year?"

Reena bristled defensively, facing her teammates. "What the hell is the matter with all of you?"

Edith laughed, clapping her friend on the shoulder. "Ginny here also happens to be the girlfriend of Harry Potter."

Reena spun back around. "What? THE Harry Potter?"

Ginny nodded, smiling. "It's really not a big deal."

Edith sat down heavily, fanning her face in jest. "He's so dark and mysterious, running off on secret missions to save the world. Fighting off evil at every turn. So brave and heroic."

It was Ginny's turn to laugh, drawing the attention of the rest of the women, who were unable to resist listening to gossip about the famous Harry Potter.

Edith looked affronted. "What did I say?"

Ginny shook her head. "He's not like that at all. He did what he had to do; he didn't want any of the burden he's lived his life under. You've been reading too many gossip rags."

"What's he like then?" Reena asked, unable to hide her curiosity.

"He's… a dork," Ginny replied affectionately.

A loud roar of indignation rang out from the rest of the team, unbelieving of her description of the most famous wizard in the country.

She held up her hands. "I'm being completely truthful. He's nothing like the stories make him out to be."

The sharp voice of team captain Gwenhog Jones suddenly rang out, silencing them as she entered from the trainer's room. "Enough with the chit chat. We hit the pitch in five minutes. Kumar, Leech, and Weasley, you'll lead us out."

The team nodded and got back to their usual routine. Ginny couldn't help adding one more thing. "Judge for yourselves when you meet him."

A few minutes later, they were lined up, brooms at the ready. Edith threw an arm each around Ginny and Reena. "Let's go."

~*~

Three hours later, the locker room was almost empty. Most of the team had showered and left after a hard first practice, one which had been flooded by the flashes of cameras as reporters tried to get a first glimpse of Ginny Weasley, current media darling.

It had been so bad at one point that Gwenhog almost crashed into the stands, sending them all scrambling.

The only players left in the locker room were Reena, who was busy stretching, and Ginny, who was trying to come up with a gameplan on how to avoid the questions and photos. The Anti-Apparition jinxes on the locker room were proving to be an annoyance.

There was a soft knock on the door, so Ginny marched over and opened it a crack, ready to ream out the reporter she expected. Instead, she was greeted with nothing.

"Gin, it's me."

"Harry!?"

"Yeah, can I come in? No one is changing or anything, are they?"

"No, come in." She pushed open the door slightly, allowing him in before shutting it again.

He whispered a phrase, lifting his Disillusionment charm, before quickly pulled her into a long snog. After they broke apart, he stepped back.

She looked him up and down, bursting out in laughter. "What are you wearing?"

He was decked out from head-to-toe in the signature green and yellow Harpies colours, including a kit with Weasley across his back. He had a glittery green pom-pom in his left hand, and his face was painted with the Holyhead logo. He even had a hat on with an animated chaser throwing a quaffle through a hoop.

"I came to see your practice! You were great!" Harry exclaimed, rather loudly and enthusiastically. He mimicked flying and waved his hands wildly. "That one move you made where you faked to the middle, then threw it through the far hoop was outstanding."

A voice called out. "What's the commotion. Is everything—"

Reena froze as she rounded the corner, coming face to face with Harry.

Ginny smirked, and gestured to her boyfriend. "See, I told you. Reena Kumar, meet Harry Potter."

Reena laughed, seeing the look of confusion on Harry's face. He shrugged his shoulders and stuck out a hand. She stared at it in awe for a second, before taking it.

Harry shook her hand energetically, still buoyed by his exuberance over Ginny's practice.

"Nice to meet you, Harry. My friends and family will hardly believe it!"

"Nice to meet you as well. Oh!" His eyebrows suddenly raised in recognition. "Gin's shown me some of your highlights. You're an amazing chaser!"

"Thank you." Her voice was halting, still somewhat taken aback by his bizarre appearance.

"Did you see Ginny? Wasn't she fantastic? You looked like a veteran out there. Just incredible!"

"Harry, calm down, it was one practice."

He bounced on his heels. "But you were so great, love. All of you were. You're going to be at the top of the table, I can feel it!"

Reena shook her head, stunned that the saviour of their way of life was indeed as Ginny described. After an awkward second of silence, she addressed him. "From what I've read, you're quite a good Seeker."

"I'm alright," Harry responded.

"Don't be modest." Ginny turned to her fellow Chaser. "He could've played in the league if he wanted to."

"She's definitely surpassed me since I last played at Hogwarts. Wasn't she great for her first time with a professional team?"

"He does have a point, Weasley. You were pretty good."

"See, Gin?"

She waved him off. "Thank you, both. Where were you, Harry? I didn't see you."

"I was planning to surprise you, but there were too many reporters. I hid myself in the top corner of the stands. I also may have planted a rumour just now that you had snuck out already, that's why no one is here."

"It's almost like you've done this before." Ginny added wryly.

Harry grabbed her hands in his. "We should really get going. Your mum planned a big celebration dinner and most of the family will be there. It was really great meeting you, Reena!"

He practically dragged Ginny to the doors as she waved goodbye to her teammate, flashing Reena a look of humoured exasperation and rolled her eyes.

Harry kept babbling on as they exited the room. "Ron really wanted to come, too, but he had too much work. He and Hermione will be there, as will George and Angelina, Percy—"

The doors shut behind them, cutting off the sound. Reena simply shook her head and smiled. Dork didn't even begin to cover it.

[chudleycanonficfest]

Dancing

Day 32 Post 1 by @honouraryweasley12

Title: Dancing Author/Artist: honouraryweasley12 Pairing: Ron/Hermione Prompt: Masquerade Ball/Special Event Rating: M Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Smut, Language

The knock on her office door interrupted Hermione's thoughts. She'd been hunched over for several hours since lunch, studying the tiny, almost illegible text of an ancient book about Centaurs.

"Come in!"

The door creaked open and Ginny strode into the small, cramped office, waving a piece of parchment. She tossed it onto the desk, covering the page. Hermione recognized it immediately.

"Just thought I'd pop in. Are you and Ron going to this thing next week?"

She had read the invite to the Ministry event the night before, amidst a flurry of complaints from Ron.

"Yes, it's mandatory."

"Did you see the date?"

"I know, the first of March. Ron was not thrilled that we'd have to postpone his birthday celebrations."

"I can imagine." Ginny smirked, before waggling her eyebrows. "Did you have anything special planned?"

"What we do in the privacy of our bedroom—"

"Who said anything about the bedroom?" Ginny asked innocently, trying to get a rise out of her friend.

Hermione wagged a warning finger. "I know you, Ginny Weasley." She frowned. "It would be nice to do something for him on the day; he was so disappointed."

"At least it's in a nice place," Ginny remarked, referring to the estate where the event was being held. "The food will be good—that alone should please my brother."

"That's true," Hermione remarked glumly. "I'm sure it'll be fine, but I know his birthday is important to him."

"What's the big deal? He's turning twenty-three. It's not exactly a milestone."

"I know, I know. He told me once that growing up, his birthday was the only day when he felt like he was the centre of attention, so I like to make an extra special effort."

Ginny nodded. "He's not wrong, I suppose."

Hermione rolled her head from side to side, a cracking sound from her stiff neck echoing around her office.

"Looks like he's not the only one who needs some pampering."

Hermione waved her hand dismissively. "I'm used to it."

"You should do something nice for yourself. Even I know you're working yourself too hard."

"Like what?"

Ginny pondered for a moment, before bouncing up in her seat. "I have an idea."

Hermione looked at her wearily. "What is it?"

The redhead nodded toward the invitation on her desk. "Did you see the part about muggle clothing being encouraged? What are you planning on wearing?"

"I don't know. I guess a gown. Maybe the one I wore to Percy's wedding last fall."

"You always wear things my mother would approve of. You're still young! How about something fun and sexy?"

Hermione scoffed. "I've seen some of the things you wear, Ginny."

She raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with what I wear?"

"You show a lot of… skin. Which is completely fine, but you don't work with these people."

"C'mon, live a little. I know my brother would still be mad about you if you were wearing a potato sack, but just imagine his reaction if you wear something a bit different."

"I don't know…"

"I promise, I won't go too crazy. It's Ron's birthday after all, wouldn't he enjoy seeing you in something less… proper?"

Hermione sighed, her willpower slipping away. "Yes, he would."

"Harry and Ron will be away this weekend taking new recruits into the field, so it's the perfect opportunity to go shopping." Ginny stood up and grabbed her invitation, before making her way to the door. "I'll meet you at yours at noon on Saturday."

"I don't see how this is treating myself."

"We'll stop at a bookshop then." The determined look on her friend's face was enough for Hermione to throw her hands up in the air.

"Fine!"

"That's the spirit." Ginny flashed her a cheeky grin and closed the door behind her.

"Weasleys," Hermione muttered to herself, before returning to her book.

~*~

Hermione stepped out of the ornate fireplace, her magically-extended clutch in hand. Ginny followed closely behind her, the two stopping to admire the tastefully decorated ballroom of the old estate house.

The brunette witch glanced around, hoping to see the familiar red hair of her love bobbing above the crowd, but was unable to spot him. She glanced at the thin silver watch on her wrist, a gift from Ron when she graduated from Hogwarts.

Ginny thrust a flute of champagne into Hermione's hand. "Will you relax? They'll be here soon. You know they have their Friday evening briefing first. Harry told me they were going to shower and change at the Ministry, then come straight here."

"I'm just nervous, that's all," Hermione replied as she nodded hello to a member of the Wizengamot who passed by, before taking a gulp of the fizzy sweet drink.

"You look great! Ron is going to go mental when he sees you."

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked, referring to the outfit she'd purchased with Ginny's help before downing the rest of her glass.

The result of their shopping excursion was a shimmery silver cocktail dress that hugged her curves and stopped mid-thigh. The two thin straps holding up the garment revealed her uncovered back and shoulders. All of this was set off with a pair of black heels. Her normally bushy hair tumbled down in soft waves, aided by half-a-bottle of Sleekeazy's.

Ginny nodded. "Absolutely."

A slight murmur behind them signified the arrival of one Harry Potter, his presence causing the usual stir, even years after the end of the war. He shook a few hands as he made his way over to the two of them, kissing Ginny and giving a hug to his friend.

"Wow, you look great, Hermione! I heard all about the new outfit."

"Thank you, Harry." She glanced over his shoulders, searching. "Where's Ron?"

He chuckled. "He's on his way, should be here any second."

Hermione held her breath as she spotted ginger hair towering above the crowd. She put a hand in the air and waved him over.

Ron fought his way through the guests that were starting to amass, making a beeline in their direction. Just as he was about to reach them, Ginny winked at Hermione and jumped into his path, wrapping him up in a hug and drawing his attention.

"Happy birthday, Ron!"

He patted her on the back. "Thanks, Gin."

Before letting go of the embrace, she whispered. "The dress was my present."

"What dress?" he asked as she angled him toward Harry and Hermione.

Ron's jaw dropped as he took in the outfit Hermione was wearing. She blushed at his hungry gaze, as she herself gawked at how fit he looked in his suit.

"Hey, Ron."

Harry's greeting went completely unnoticed as Ron stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Hermione's. He pulled her against him, his hand splayed across the bare skin of her back.

"You look fucking hot," he growled into her ear, causing her to shiver.

She ran her own hand up and down the back of his dark suit jacket, relishing how solid he felt. "So do you."

He teased her ear, hidden by her hair. "We'd better get on with it. The sooner we're done mingling, the sooner we can get out of here and… celebrate my birthday."

She nodded as he pulled away, her face flush. As he turned to speak to Harry, another server passed by and she grabbed drinks for the two of them, needing to calm herself down. His reaction had far exceeded her expectations.

She caught Ginny's eye, the look on her face clearing stating I told you so. Hermione shrugged and grinned, before passing Ron his glass.

The night went on as they moved from dignitary to dignitary. Every so often, she'd catch him staring down at her, his desire clear. She didn't shy away though, challenging his gaze and communicating her own wants.

The teasing went on as they mingled, her hand reaching up to play with the red locks at the back of his neck. Hermione knew Ron loved it when she did that, causing him to give her a subtle squeeze as he laughed at the joke of some minister she wasn't familiar with.

His arm had been around her waist the whole time, almost possessively. As the minister turned away, she shuddered as he ran his hand up and down her side, his feather light touch just grazing the side of her breast.

"Want to dance?"

She nodded and downed her drink, dropping the empty glass on a nearby table before he led them out to the dance floor. She smoothly slid her small clutch into his jacket pocket, before wrapping her arms around his neck.

His strong arms encircled her waist, his thumb teasing patterns across her skin. "Have I told you how much I like it when you wear stuff like this?"

Hermione grinned. "No, you haven't told me, at least not with words."

Ron smiled, his hungry look returning as one of his hands dipped lower, brushing her backside as they turned in slow circles—ignoring the music but enjoying the game. He closed the distance and pressed a kiss to her lips, dragging his teeth across her bottom lip, leaving her aching for more.

He buried his face her neck, inhaling her scent before whispering in her ear. "Want to find somewhere quiet?"

The combination of his hot breath, his arms around her, and the loosening of her inhibitions from the alcohol brought on a sense of recklessness. They had been dancing around it all night. He wanted her, and she wanted him just as much.

"Yes."

They stole away from the crowded ballroom, their hands clasped together as need drove them to find some privacy. They checked a few doors in the massive estate until they found a small parlour. Ron whipped out his wand and fired off protections.

Their lips crashed together in a matter of seconds, frantic with the desire that had been building up all evening. Ron lifted her up, mimicking their first kiss, and walked her to the far end of the room. He set her down and turned her around, breaking their heated kiss. Pinning her against a wall with his firm body, he pushed aside her hair, his mouth finding that spot on the back of her neck that he knew so well.

"Oh, yes!"

He continued downward, kissing and tasting her naked back, causing her to gasp, her ragged breathing the loudest sound in the room.

"You look so fucking sexy in this," he said, before sliding his hand up her thigh and underneath her dress.

"Yes, touch me. I want to feel your hands on me."

His large hand palmed her between her legs, causing her to moan even louder. "Fuck, I love that sound."

"More," she cried out, grinding against his fingers. She loved the feeling of him taking control and pleasuring her.

His other hand snaked up to the front of her dress, reaching for her covered breast. Having his amazing attention in two different places was sending shockwaves to her core.

She mewled as he increased the pressure, his actions becoming rougher and more primal. She loved it but wanted to feel him. Wanted to feel what she did to him.

"Are you hard for me?"

"Check for yourself," he grunted, letting go of her and turning her to face him.

He kissed her hard, his hands cupping her face as she stroked his obvious arousal through his tailored suit pants. He moaned in her mouth from the contact. She in turn threw her head back as he trailed his lips to her cheek, then down to her neck, sucking and biting. They were ravenous for each other.

Her hand flew into his hair, jerking at the ginger strands as she pleaded for more. "Ron, please."

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me, quickly!" she begged, her words brazen in the elegant room. Her hand went to his zipper and tugged it down, before slipping into the opening and wanking him forcefully.

"Shit, Hermione."

"Now, Ron, please! Take me from behind!"

In one quick motion, he spun her around again and pulled roughly at her hips. He bunched the dress around her waist, exposing her delectable bum. The smack of his hand across her arse cheek echoed, leaving a pink mark on her flesh and causing Hermione to groan and push herself toward him in overheated desperation.

"Yes, more!"

He slapped her other cheek this time, eliciting another strangled groan. Her wanton reactions were too much for him as he yanked aside her soaked knickers and guided himself into her.

She moaned loudly as he entered, her cries shrill as he filled her completely.

"Yes, feels so good!"

His fingers dug into her hips as he thrust slowly at first, his grunts increasing in time with his efforts.

"Fucking take it, Hermione."

She called over her shoulder, her fingers clawing at the wall in ecstasy. "Harder, Ron! I've wanted this all night! Wanted you all night!"

He continued his pace, his groans mingling with her own. Half-leaning against the wall now, she found her most sensitive spot and began rubbing furious circles, urgently needing to get off.

"Love it when you play with your yourself," he panted as he thrust into her. "You gonna come on my cock as I fuck you?"

She nodded, his raw dirty words and relentless pounding spurring her on. Her lips were pressed into a thin firm line as she felt herself reaching her peak, crying out his name. That was enough to set him off as well, as he throbbed and spilled inside of her, burying his face in her hair as he fought to catch his breath.

She sagged against the wall, his delicious weight pressing against her as her chest heaved. After a moment, she turned to face him, seeking out his lips as they shared a lazy kiss, the taste of alcohol prevalent. They broke apart, and as they stared at each other, Hermione couldn't help but flash him a big smile.

"Enjoyed that, did you?" His deep voice rumbled.

"Mmmm, very much so. I take it you liked the dress."

He grinned. "I think that's an understatement."

They quickly cleaned themselves up and got their clothing straightened out. The effects of the champagne were still working on Hermione as she leered at him in his suit and licked her lips.

"Shall we finish our rounds and then go home? It might be your birthday, but I have one big candle to blow."

Ron laughed and shook his head. "Happy fucking birthday to me."