#finally i can kick this fic out of my fucking house (my wip folder)

[mrs-luigi-vargas]

I thiiiink I'll have my fic posted today (Sunday)! I wanted to post it yesterday but I was having too much fun reading it out loud to myself and I ran out of time XD not to mention I spent a while trying to translate phrases to Italian. But I think I'll be all set to post it in the afternoon, yay! 🥳

[annerbhp]

Do u have any WIPs u can share snippets of? 😄 love ur work!!

Me? WIPs? Does that sound like me at all? OH WAIT. Someoneget me a snorkel, I’m diving into the endless pit known as my WIP folder and I’m taking you with me.

Four fic snippets below. (All HP mostly Ginny and Harry/Ginny. Some…Helga/Salazar.)

we can still be, whowe said we were (Armistice Series #2 in my Slytherin!Ginny verse)

It’s verylate, most of the common room emptied, when Astoria finally speaks.

“Shehated it.”

Ginnystops, looking up at her.

Astoriais still focused on the delicate threads in front of her, like she could almostbe talking to herself. “The world we lived in. The rules and traditions and anentire childhood geared towards a proper marriage. She used to always say shewas only brave enough to hate it, not brave enough to do anything about it.”

Her handsdrop to her lap, threads tangling and needles clicking against each other.

“Myfather said the Dark Lord was supposed to make us safe. And powerful. Andprotect our way of life. But it was a lie. All the war did was kill. Both myfather and our way of life. And I’m left wondering what I’m supposed to do withthat. Mourn a father than enabled a monster? Celebrate a resistance that killedmy best friend?”

Shefinally looks at Ginny. “My father’s war killed my best friend.”

Ginnynods, because that is a truth that can’t be escaped. “Yes. It did.”

Astoria’sjaw clenches. “I’d still rather it was your fault. That would be…easier.”

Ginny’schest constricts painfully. “I played my part.”

Shespears her with a hard glance. “No. Don’t you dare do that to her. That wasCaroline’s choice. In the end, that’s all she bloody had.”

Scoopingup her threads, she strides out of the room.

Ginnyslumps back in her chair, staring into the deep nebulous depths of the lake.

 The Helga/Salazarthing I’m not writing. Nope. No way, no how.

They all come to Helga from time to time. Rowena paces, asmooth ceaseless movement across the floor. Godric sometimes sits and sometimes stands, vacillating between inunsteady fits of energy. Salazar just sits. Sits and seethes. He is like theocean, smooth surfaces and treacherous undertows.

They have fought again, Godric and Salazar, and so here heis, sitting and seething in the sunny spaces of her rooms.

“Salazar,” she says, reaching forward and touching his kneewhen he has sat for far too long.

He looks at her with shock at the bold familiarity of thetouch, but rather than reprimanding her, he seems to crumble.

“He reminds me of Roderick,” he confesses. “My brother. Hewas…just like him. Heedless. Reckless. Brilliant. And hurtling towardsdestruction with glee in his heart.” 

“He fell?” she asks, registering the raw grief in his voice.

He nods, the movement jerky. “And he needn’t have. ByMerlin, he needn’t have.”

He shoves to his feet with the barest of murmuredpleasantries and flees her rooms like a swiftly retreating tide.

She thinks of the way his complaints are always laced with“if he would but listen” and “if hecould pause just long enough to think”.She realizes in that moment that he both loves and hates Godric, fears for himin a way he abhors, longs to be accepted in a way he refuses to ask for, too waryto watch another good man die in a fate he has forseen but will not be heard.

He doesn’t speak to her for a week, a strange stiffformality between them, and she understands this is because he has admittedsomething he never wanted to. He is embarrassed and feeling weakened, and onething he will never stand for is appearing weak. 

He will come back though, she knows. He always does.

She waits.

The Coffeehouse AUcontinuation of half awake and almost there that has no name (Harry/Ginny, muggleAU)

“So tell me about election day,” Ginny said.

“It’s kind of hellish,” Harry admitted. “Everyone is tenseand pretending they aren’t, and Dad and I are just sitting in a box-like roomwhile everyone else runs around and pretends there is anything that can be doneat that point. Dad does what he can to keep my mom from losing her mind. And Ijust wait for someone to tell me what to do.”

“Sorry I can’t be there with you.”

He gave her a fervent look. “I wish you could be.”

She shrugged. “You should get me a job as a maid or something.I could go undercover.”

“White House barista?” he suggested.

She laughed. “I could get a black suit and stand aroundlooking uptight and pretend to be an agent.”

“I am notuptight,” came an indignant voice from outside the dressing room.

Harry let out a burst of laughter that quickly turned into agasp. “Fuck, Zabini,” he complained, looking down at the pin-wielding maniac.“Am I bleeding?”

Blaise seemed unmoved, continuing to adjust the cut of thepants. “Respect the couture, Potter, or get the needle.”

“You know I have agents, right?”

“Yes, yes,” he muttered around a pin in his mouth. “You’rereally fucking important. I’m terrified.”

Harry looked at Ginny. “My girlfriend can kick your ass.”

Ginny leaned back, kicking her feet up on the couch. “He’snot wrong.”

Blaise turned and appraised her for a moment. “I actuallykind of believe that.”

“Have I mentioned I have a gun?” the voice bellowed in fromthe hall again.

“Shut up, Sirius!” they chorused.

The grown-up Harryand Ginny being investigative badasses and accidentally time-travelling trope fic that has noname.

The ballroom is lit with thousands of floating candles, thelight refracting and flaring off the crystal chandeliers. Cheeky cherubs andserious-faced men in togas stare down at the elegantly dressed crowd as theymingle and dance. An orchestra plays somewhere, screened from view by charmsand wards lest the guests actually have to see the help.

It’s pretentious and overdone and dripping with insufferableself-importance.

Ginny moves through the space with ease for all that shedoesn’t enjoy it. It’s one of her greatest strengths after all, transformingherself from place to place, slipping in with barely a ripple. She’s had alifetime of practice at it.

Harry is not quite as at ease, she can tell, though hecovers it well enough that most people probably don’t notice. They are all toobusy whispering as they pass, his fame and mystery not having faded despite thedozen years since his final defeat of Voldemort.

Ginny presses her fingers gently into his shoulders, feelingthe bunched muscles there. He immediately relaxes, flashing her a charming grinthat never fails to make her feel like a weak-kneed schoolgirl. Not that helooks anything like the schoolboy he once was.

Tonight his robes are simple to the point of being severe, astyle that many have tried to imitate in recent years. They only billow enoughto hide whatever he may find useful at any given moment. A beard covers thelower half of his face, but does nothing to obscure his identity, easilydiscerned from his shaggy black hair, green eyes, and iconic glasses—thoughfinally upgraded a few years ago.

He manages to look impeccable and perfectly disheveled atthe same time, and she knows of fashion magazines that have spilled pages ofink trying to discover his secret and recreate it. Ginny wonders what theywould do if they realized he mostly just doesn’t try very hard—the absolutebare minimum needed to be accepted in the circles he mostly only travels in outof necessity.

Ginny, for her part, dresses with a bit more flash, meant todazzle and distract the eye. Which equally has its uses. It keeps attention offof Harry as much as possible, and reminds everyone that he is here as her plusone and not the other way around.

International Quidditch fame should be good for somethingafter all. How else would Harry Potter randomly end up at various houses of thewizarding elite throughout the European continent?

A fairly convenient arrangement, or so they have found thelast few years. Not that most people know that. Harry Potter, after all, isnotoriously devoted to his wife, happy to trail after her wherever she goes.Another point against him for some, almost as distasteful as his seeming lackof career or ministry ambitions.

Executing a series of lazy turns, Harry steers them towardsone corner of the dance floor, which according to her mental diagram of thebuilding, puts them right above the mysterious basement study.

Harry pulls her closer, slowing their pace down and lookingfor all the world as if the couple is enjoying a quiet out-of-the-way momenttogether.

“Feel that?” Harry says against her ear.

“Hmm,” she says. “I’m afraid that after being married thislong, it’s going to take a bit more than you merely holding me to get mefeeling something.”

He lets out a soft huff, his breath stirring the hairescaping down over her neck. That definitely doesn’t make her shiver.

“Normally I would gladly take that challenge,” he says, hishand spreading firm and warm across her back, “but we are on a bit of timecrunch here.”

“Pity,” she says, trailing a finger down the side of hisneck.

“Concentrate,” he says, even as his eyes seem to darken.

The end. Though not, because I also have a Leia-the-Jedi fic molderingabout. As well as a Steve Rogers/Darcy Lewis fic. And a Lizzie Bennet/WilliamDarcy LBD fic. And, and, and, and…..