#Missing Moment

[albaskies]

Tears ricochet

Also on AO3

It occurs to her all at once, her nose buried in his chest, his arms tight around her shoulders. 

‘You’re alright,’ he whispers. ‘You’re alright.’

When she looks up to him, sees his eyes shut and his tense lips, she immediately knows he is not trying to reassure her. He is reassuring himself.

He’d found her in the Common Room, not long after he’d disappeared with Professor McGonagall behind the doors of the hospital wing. He’d walked straight to her as soon as he’d seen her, ignoring Ron and Hermione’s worried gazes, and he’d held like he had not seen her since before he’d left the school with Dumbledore. He’d clung to her like he’d only just realised that they had been apart during a battle, that he’d been too far away to protect her, that he cannot be in two places at once. And it pains him, she can tell, it takes his breath away.

This must be it, she thinks - she knows. She clenches her fists, pressing her body onto his only for him to feel that she’s alive, she’s safe, she’s real. She won’t leave him, not until he’ll ask her to.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid and noble.

.

No, she understands. Really, she does. It must’ve been somewhere hidden in the  fine print on dating the Chosen One. Right under He will set off to top-secret missions with old wizards that end up dying, it’d say: He’ll push you away to keep you safe, and then: He’ll leave you behind, whatever that means. And finally: You must let him.

After all, her feelings are irrelevant in the bigger picture. There’s a war raging out there, for Merlin’s sake. Why would she even waste time fantasising about a boy she fancies when Dumbledore has died and her brother has been maimed? It’s only selfish to even fathom those silly feelings in a time like this, right? Right?

She forces her head back under the hot stream of the shower, lets the water flood her face and blur her vision, trying harder than herself to shut down that one intrusive thought she knows has now started creeping in the back of her mind. But she can’t. She can’t because she already knows, not so deep down, that he’s not just some boy she fancies, that her feelings aren’t silly, that what they share is there and it’s real, whatever it is.

Her mouth tastes bitter now. Ironic how Tom has ruined this for them, too. 

.

She tells Hermione the following morning, when the boys have run off to find some lunch for them to eat under a tree. She’s not sure what she expects to get out of her, but she takes a shot at it anyway.

‘He’s going to leave me.’

Hermione opens her mouth but nothing comes out, her eyes sombre. Ginny realises she has been holding her breath.

‘You all are.’

Still, the warm July sun bathes the castle grounds as if summer does not care, as if it is all some cruel joke.

.

When it finally happens, at least she is not caught off guard. She manages to hold back her tears, just as she promised herself on countless occasions, because he does not deserve any more pain. He does not deserve any of it. 

Funny how she is the one who is getting her heart broken, but she is still more concerned about his well being than anything else. Maybe this is what love is, she finally realises. It must be. 

She reckons this is not the best time to tell him. Wonders if she’ll ever get the chance to.

.

On the train ride back home, she’s finally alone and free to let out all those tears she’s so stubbornly managed to hold back until now. She’s only human, after all. 

She feels it all so distinctly now, the pain, the grief, the hurt, the hopelessness. But there is something almost peaceful about the deep-rooted, ever-present, plain old sense of acceptance that sits right on top of her stomach. 

She knows it too well that the time has come for the Chosen One to prevail over Harry. The Chosen One has things to do, riddles to solve (Really, Ginny?, she thinks, half-smiling despite herself), and Harry has to oblige, head down, feelings buried, a wasted adolescence. It must be hard to love the Chosen One, that self-sacrificing, reckless, stubborn, noble git. But loving Harry, the real Harry, is the easiest thing in the world. 

As for her - well, she knows she deeply cares for them both. Hell with that, she knows she loves them both. And, yes, she understands them both. She knows all too well what her role is, in all this mess. She really does know that the Chosen One had no choice but to break up with her before doing whatever he is set to do. She also knows that Harry never would have. 

This is the only thought that will keep her going even months from now, when she will be fighting her own resistance battle.

.

As soon as she sets foot into her home, the all-too-familiar smells flooding her senses, she just knows she won’t be able to sit through an entire dinner without giving away too much. She’s too tired to lie and pretend.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she mutters to nobody in particular. ‘I’m not hungry,’ and: ‘Yes, I’m fine, I’m just knackered.’

Her mother stiffens, ready to let out a protest, but she turns on her heels towards the stairs before anyone manages to say anything. She can feel Ron’s eyes on the back of her neck, just as she’s felt his silent and constant gaze since they got off the train not so long ago. And when she hears his heavy steps behind her, following hers, she’s not even surprised.

They stop on the first floor landing, just in front of her bedroom door.

‘I’m fine, Ron,’ she quickly tells him, suddenly worrying that he’ll jump right into one of those how dare my best friend hurt my sister kind of rants. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

But instead, when she looks at him she realises that he’s not going to do any of that. His expression is miserable, sure, but it doesn’t take long for her to learn that he understands, too.

‘I’m so sorry, Ginny,’ he blurts out, no need to add more.

And that’s when it hits her, again, but much stronger this time. Maybe it’s because it’s someone else who is putting it in front of her, making it more real, or maybe it’s because she’s back home and the void left by Harry's absence is slowly starting to burn a hole in her heart. Maybe both, or maybe neither. It doesn’t even matter, that's for sure.

‘I’m sorry, too.’

He must have felt that something has changed, her voice has shifted and her eyes have filled with tears. She can read it all over his face - the distress, the panic, the what do I do now. She reckons she hasn’t cried in front of him since that train ride on her way to school in her second year. Must be new for him, must feel weird.

But even if his expression doesn’t seem to have a clue, his body certainly does - he stretches out his arm towards her and she grabs it right away, as if they have never really got rid of the long forgone habit of holding each other. He engulfs her in a warm hug, the Big Brother Hug, crumbling the last piece of guard she has managed to hold up until now. And then she just cries - she cries ugly, sobs and snot and all that. She feels like she’s twelve all over again.

.

Later, in her childhood bedroom, she sinks deep into her bed, ready to doze off into what she hopes will be dreamless oblivion. In that dark, quiet stillness, she can’t stop her mind from wandering to a time (or a fantasy, she isn’t quite sure) when this will all be over. He will slip into the very same tiny bed, squeezed right next to her, his hands gripped on her waist, lips pressed onto hers, then on her jaw, her neck, her shoulder. Or maybe - no, maybe she will rest her head on his chest, listening to the sound of him breathing, and he will gently stroke her hair as if he’s never really stopped. Or maybe (and here she can’t help but feel a soft blush tickling her cheeks), maybe their bodies and souls will find each other, bare, warm, breathless. 

‘I can’t believe I got this lucky,’ he’ll tell her, you know, after. ‘I can’t believe I get to live this life.’

‘Been dreaming of getting in my bed for long, now, have you,’ she’ll tease, her sardonic tone merely hiding her immense relief.

He’ll let out a small smile - small, yes, but finally light, free, and easy, so, so easy.

‘All those Veelas didn’t quite hit’, he’ll draw some imaginary quotation marks in the air and throw her a knowing look. ‘The spot, you know.’

She’ll snort a laughter in disbelief, and she’ll be so fucking glad, because as though everything will have changed, so much will have just stayed the same.

[sophie-hatter-jenkins]

Auburn

A microfic written for Day 1 of Jily Week 2024, run by the very lovely @sunshinemarauder and @kay-elle-cee, and inspired by the theme Love is in the Hair - one of those iconic 'wow' moments!

647 words

Rated G

A flash of red catches James Potter’s eye for the very first time.

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

James Potter was twelve years old the first time he really noticed Lily Evans’s hair. Obviously, he’d seen it plenty of times before, just like he’d seen Sirius’s hair or his Mum’s hair. The difference was that he hadn’t ever looked at it properly before. 

The day it happened, he and Sirius were in their usual seats in the Potions classroom, at the bench in the back right corner; the one that was least visible from Slughorn’s desk and therefore offered the most potential for messing about. 

Sluggie had finished his opening lecture on the topic of Swelling Solution - or at least that was what James assumed he’d been talking about, since that was what was written on the board, but he honestly hadn’t heard a word; he’d been too busy scribbling notes to Sirius. In fairness, Swelling Solutions did sound like they could be quite entertaining, and the idea of slipping some into the pumpkin juice at the Slytherin table convinced him that it might be worth actually putting a bit of effort in for once.  

He and Sirius played Spell, Shield, Serpent to decide who had to go and get their ingredients from the supply cupboard. Sirius lost, and made a rude gesture at James as he scraped his stool back along the stone floor. James smirked at him, then started to flick through his textbook looking for the right page, when a flash of red caught his attention; Evans, sitting next to that greasy loser Snape at the bench immediately in front of him, had flipped her hair back over her shoulders.

Her hair, he noticed, was remarkably thick and shiny, and James idly considered asking what Sleekeazy products she used. It was a very unusual colour, too. Auburn, he thought it was called; not an obnoxiously bright red, like the Prewett twins, but a darker, richer shade altogether. It seemed to change as she moved her head, the lamplight creating rose gold highlights and purple-plum shadows amidst the rich chestnut. 

As he watched, she picked up three sections from near the front, and began to weave them together, nimble fingers dancing a fascinating waltz down her head. She deftly pulled more and more strands into the pattern as she went, and the repetitive movement was oddly hypnotic. It left James entranced.

She’d just reached the nape of her neck when Sirius returned.

“How the hell is she doing that?” he muttered. 

“How is who doing what?” asked Sirius, dismissively.

“Evans.” He nodded towards her. “Doing that with her hair, behind her head, without a mirror or a charm or anything.”

“Oh. I dunno. Oi, Evans!” called Sirius. “James wants to know what you’re doing?”

Quite unexpectedly, James felt his skin heat with embarrassment at the thought that Evans might know he’d been looking at her. It was the strangest feeling, one that was completely unfamiliar. James decided that he didn’t like it, not at all. 

Lily shot them a disdainful look as she secured the tail of her hair with a band. “I’m plaiting my hair, obviously. You know, so it doesn’t get in the way while I’m brewing.” She looked pointedly at Sirius’s collar length locks. “Maybe I should teach you?”

Sirius looked horrified. “What? Like a girl? No way!”

Evans rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the ingredients on the bench in front of her. 

“Why are you so interested in Evan’s hair all of a sudden?” asked Sirius, curiously.

“I’m not,” huffed James.

And he wasn’t. He had far more important things to think about after all, like Quidditch trials, for instance, and how he and Sirius were going to sneak their Swelling Solution out of the classroom without Sluggie noticing. Resolute, he started measuring out dried nettles to add to his mortar. He wasn’t going to think about Evans’s hair ever again; he was sure of it.

[starlingflight]

A/N a little PoA missing moment. AKA: the only thing I've been able to finish recently.

Read on AO3 or below:

Aimlessly, Ginny wandered the Hogwarts Express. She hadn't really expected Ron, Harry and Hermione to welcome her into their little group, but a foolish part of her had hoped they might, and she hadn't given much thought to where she would go when they inevitably sent her away. 

Which, of course, Ron had, as soon as Harry had whispered something mysterious and, quite obviously private in his ear. 

Ginny couldn't even find it within her to be angry, not really. How could she expect anyone to trust her after the mess she'd made last year? Least of all Harry, who had been forced to risk his own life saving her. 

The very thought made her feel sick, and, as she'd resolved to do all summer, she decided not to dwell on it. She had bigger problems to deal with now anyway, namely finding somewhere to sit. It wasn't the easiest of challenges, considering she'd spent the majority of last year withdrawn, held tight in the clutches of Tom Riddle's control, and now she had no friends to speak of. 

It was stupid, she knew, to miss the diary. Not just stupid; pathetic and childish too, but, for a while, Riddle had been her only friend and now Ginny didn't even have him, leaving her lonelier than ever as she peered into the different compartments of the Hogwarts Express, searching desperately for a place she might fit. 

She paused outside the compartment housing Fred and George; they were with Lee Jordan, Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson. The little gathering was so deep in conversation they didn't even notice Ginny peering in at them. 

She hesitated, her hand clasped around the door handle. Probably, they'd let her sit with them; Lee had always been nice enough to her, and Angelina and Alicia seemed perfectly pleasant, but none of them would be happy to have her there. 

She would be an imposition. The Weasleys’ little sister, humoured as a novelty and absolutely nothing more.

Shaking her head, Ginny took a step away from the door to the compartment, careful to brace herself against the steady rocking of the train. 

Steadfastly, she turned away, determined to find somewhere she would be more than an imposition. 

The sky grew darker outside the window as Ginny continued her search. It was slow progress, hampered by groups of students who, apparently, had an overabundance of friends, meaning their groups spilled out onto the corridor, blocking her path. 

There was also the trolley witch to contend with, who, upon seeing Ginny, leaning against the wall at the end of one of the carriages, contemplating her next move, had given her the kind of sympathetic look that Ginny hated to be on the receiving end of. 

“Anything from the trolley, dear?” The witch offered gently, giving Ginny a kind smile. 

She shook her head resolutely, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the now-squashed sandwiches Mum had given her on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. “I'm fine.” 

The trolley witch's head tilted sympathetically. “No charge?” She offered. “You look like you could use a pick me up.” 

There had not been many previous occasions upon which Ginny had been offered free sweets, but she was sure that up until this moment she would've thought anyone who turned down such an opportunity was quite mad. Still, she shook her head resolutely in refusal of the offer, unable to stand the suggestion that she was too weak to endure a train ride alone without pity. 

The trolley witch only shrugged before continuing onwards, pushing her cart of sweets up the train. 

Ginny waited for her to leave, disappearing out of sight through the door that led to the next train car. Alone once more, she slid down the wall, making herself comfortable on the carpeted floor, and unwrapping the ham and cheese sandwich from her mother. 

The rain started when Ginny was halfway through her solitary lunch. The clouds outside the window had turned a steel grey so dark it was almost black, and icy sheets of water rattled against the windows. 

Swallowing down the final mouthful of her sandwich, Ginny rose to her feet once more. She had taken only a few steps when the lanterns lining the corridor sprung to life, casting a flickering light over her surroundings. 

She paused in the next carriage over, watching as Draco Malfoy's pale head emerged from one of the compartments ahead, closely followed by the oaf-ish figures of Crabbe and Goyle. Ginny shrunk against the wall, determined not to be seen; fortunately, she appeared to be just as invisible to them as she was to everyone else; Malfoy and his cronies didn't spare her a glance as they stalked past looking extremely displeased about something. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Ginny continued in the opposite direction to the one Malfoy had just gone, not wanting to test her luck. 

She peered into the compartment they had just exited, eyes falling first on Ron's familiar face. He was scowling, apparently unhappy with whatever interaction had just passed. He performed a violent gesture; Hermione gave him her customary look of admonishment and Harry sat across from them, watching with vague amusement. 

Ginny wavered only long enough to take in the scene before turning decidedly away. She'd already been dismissed by them once, she didn't particularly fancy the indignity of repeating the experience. 

The rain continued to swell as she moved further up the corridor, battering the walls and the steel roof. A powerful gust of wind made the whole train sway violently; Ginny braced against the wall to keep herself upright. 

A loud shriek of laughter from the compartment beside her compelled her to peer through the window in the door. Her heart sank as she took in the scene; the rest of the Gryffindor second year girls, the ones Ginny shared a dorm with, were huddled inside. A small mountain of sweets had been piled on one of the empty seats and a raucous game of exploding snap was unfolding between them. 

Unbidden, Ginny's hand curled around the door handle. She had never wanted anything more than to enter the compartment, to be greeted warmly and invited to play. 

Her mind was almost made up; doubt seized her before she could push the door open. 

She had isolated herself from her peers last year. Would it be strange for her to intrude now? Would they welcome her as the fifth member of their dorm? Or share a secret look that conveyed Ginny had no place among them? 

Did she even deserve a place among them? 

Before Ginny could decide upon an answer, the rattle of the train clattering across the tracks fell away, the loud squeak of the breaks sounded and the train began to slow. 

Ginny released the door handle, frowning as she looked around. They couldn't have reached Hogwarts yet, despite the darkness gathering outside the window, it was still much too early. 

Along the corridor, doors began to pop open, a dozen curious heads hanging out, evidently looking for the source of the delay. 

The train stopped abruptly; the resulting, unexpected, jolt knocked Ginny off her feet. She landed with a thud on the carpet, her head swivelling to look for any indication of what was happening. She had no opportunity to find out before, suddenly, the corridor was engulfed in pitch black darkness. 

There was another shriek from the compartment that contained her dormmates, but this one was filled with fear rather than amusement. 

Ginny scrambled to her feet, fighting hard to keep her breathing even as panic threated to overwhelm her. With enormous force of will, she placed her hand on the wood paneled wall, forcing herself to focus on the warm smoothness of the surface, so unlike the rough, damp stone walls of the chamber. 

She was on the Hogwarts Express. The Diary – and Riddle – had been destroyed. Nothing was going to harm her. 

Still, her feet carried her hurriedly back down the corridor. One hand remained on the wall, guiding her straight. She counted the doors she passed until she was sure she was at the right one. It was already open; Ginny collided hard with someone standing in the doorway.

“Who's that?” She asked, at the same time as the person blocking the door. 

“Ginny?” 

“Hermione?” 

“What are you doing?” Hermione demanded. 

Ginny's explanation escaped her before she could think of a slightly less pathetic excuse for careening into their compartment. “I was looking for Ron.”

Hermione's hand pulled gently at Ginny's arm, leading her into the compartment. “Come in and sit down –” 

“Not here! I'm here!” Harry squeaked as Ginny leapt up from the seat she'd attempted to sit in; the one that was already occupied by him. She was sure her brightly burning cheeks must be visible even in the dark gloom that surrounded them. 

“Ouch!” Said another, less familiar, voice as Ginny's foot landed on someone's shoe. 

“Quiet!” A hoarse voice hissed, this one evidently belonging to an adult.

Ginny fell silently into the empty seat beside Ron, aided to her destination by the flickering light that had suddenly filled the compartment, illuminating the worried faces of Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville. 

The light's caster was a weary-looking man who Ginny had never seen before. “Stay where you are,” he commanded, getting to his feet with his brightly shining fire held out before him. 

The door, however, slid open before he could reach it. The creature that faced him was one Ginny had only heard about in hushed whispers. Still, the cloaked figure looming in the doorway was instantly recognisable; Ginny's mouth fell open in horror. 

Her heart was hammering in her throat, suppressing the scream that threatened to escape her as the Dementor inhaled one slow, rattling breath. 

A frigid chill overtook her, creeping through her veins like ice water, frosting over her bones and stealing the breath from her frozen lungs. 

Her vision blurred, the darkness surrounding Ginny absolute once more. She could feel nothing but the cold seeping into her soul, could hear nothing but the familiar drip of dank water on stone walls. 

Then there was the voice; high and cold as it had been the last time she'd heard it, when she'd thought she'd hear nothing else ever again. ‘Come to me, Ginny.'

A small whimper ghosted on her lips, but it sounded a million miles away.

‘Come,’ Tom said again, a quiet command in his voice. ‘No one will miss you. It will be a relief for them to be rid of you, once they realise what you've done.’ 

Ginny's frozen heart shattered into a million pieces. Her head began to spin; the cold rose up, engulfing her, threatening to drag her back to him. 

‘I'll make it quick,’ he murmured. ‘No need for you to suffer, even I'm not interested in you really. No one ever is, are they?’ 

No. Ginny tried to shake her head, tried to move her arms, to free herself from the grip Tom had seized her in, but she couldn't move. 

‘Pitiful.’ He laughed, high and cruel. 

Ginny tried not to hear it, refusing to be swept under his spell ever again. 

Suddenly, a thick, white fog surrounded her. The cold swept out of Ginny's body, leaving only numbness in its wake. 

There was a loud gasp from the other side of the compartment; the lanterns flickered to life, allowing her to see Neville gripping the arm of his seat tightly.

Still paralysed in her seat, unsure if she would ever be able to walk again, Ginny's eyes swept around the compartment, taking in the sight of Ron and Hermione looking bewildered at one another; the strange man withdrawing a large bar of chocolate from his case; and Harry on the floor beside his chair, looking pale and shaken. 

Ginny's knees folded up to her chest; she hardly heard the conversation happening between the others. Their voices were distant, barely audible above the sound of Tom Riddle's voice still echoing in her ears. 

[kay-elle-cee]

*cough* um.....willabeth angst anyone?

(Happy 17th birthday to At World's End! I wish I had a picture of the Will Turner shirt I made and wore to the premiere!)

She had killed a man. The guilt, oddly enough, came not from taking the life itself. Elizabeth’s hands gripped the wood of the railing as the nausea threatened to overwhelm her again. She’d been making nightly excursions to this gangway, out of sight of the skeleton crew Captain Barbossa kept for the overnights as they sailed towards Singapore. Sleep was not a luxury that came easy to her since her day of reckoning; a clear mind and settled conscience even less so. Soft footsteps approached, then stopped. She made an effort to conceal her face, turning it away from the sound. “Elizabeth…”

[ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey]

April 7: Jump

Day 7 of @hinnymicrofic

She used to jump whenever he walked into a room.

Ginny remembers the frantic skitter of her heart, pumping blood into her cheeks so that she could feel the heat emanating from them like a flame. Red, and stammering, and twelve. 

She doesn’t, anymore. She’s older now, better at hiding the skips of her heart with a grin and some banter. She’s gotten so good at it that she fools herself into thinking she’s as impervious to his presence as she pretends. 

They’re at a point now where she’s certain Harry considers her a friend in her own right. A good one, even. And when she pulled back the layer of liking him through the lens of an embarrassing childhood crush, she uncovered that she just liked him, as a person. He’s funny, in a dry, acerbic kind of way that catches her off guard sometimes. He’s reserved but surprisingly kind when opportunities present themselves to be. And of all the people she banters with, he’s secretly her favorite. 

There’s no room now for skittering hearts and glowing cheeks. She values their friendship, has very nearly convinced herself she’s content with it. 

But then. But then.

It’s Christmas Eve. The smell of roast lamb and cocoa lingers in the air. She saunters in from the den, where her brothers are still laughing uproariously at something Fred had said, and Harry’s at the counter pouring himself some more cocoa. He smiles at her when she enters. 

“Oi! You’d better have left some for me.”

He levels her a flat look. “Course I did. I like my bogeys batless, thanks.”

There it is again, the liking him. “I reserve that hex for the likes of Zacharias Smith. You’re welcome.”

“Good to know where I stand.”

They laugh. Her heart skitters at the sound, but her hands are still as she pours herself some cocoa, well-practiced in her performance of impenetrability. 

She reaches for the milk and brushes against him. 

It’s small. No elbows in butter dishes or dropped mugs. But nonetheless she notices, and the realization burns hot and sweet like cocoa on her tongue.

He jumped. 

[hinnyfied]

Fireside

@hinnymicrofic June 19th prompt: Parents

It's not as micro as I originally intended, but I couldn't help myself! Read on AO3 here or below!

***

Ginny was in the throes of OWL preparation, and it was severely limiting her time with Harry (much to her irritation). They did their best to find ways to spend extra time with each other, even if that meant just quietly doing schoolwork together.

They were in the common room late one evening, curled up next to one another on the sofa nearest the fireplace. Harry was reading through his copy of Advanced Transfiguration and making additions to his notes from class while Ginny attempted to cram more Potions information into her brain – though she was convinced she was simply out of room up there at this point.

She felt Harry yawn beside her, and she looked up at the old clock on the mantle. It was nearing midnight, and apart from the two of them, the common room was entirely empty.

“Ready to call it for the night?” she asked him.

“Only if you are,” he said, stubbornly suppressing a second yawn.

“You don’t have to stay up with me, you know.” Ginny smiled.

“I know,” Harry said with a shrug. “I want to though.”

Ginny snuggled up closer to him, resting her head on his shoulders.

“I think Mum and Dad started going out during OWL year. I don’t know how the hell they found the time and still got good marks,” Ginny mused, wishing she could toss her book in the fire and spend all her time with Harry by the lake instead.

“Mine got together in their NEWT year,” Harry said, catching Ginny off guard.

Harry had never spoken to Ginny about his parents before. Everything she knew about them came from Hermione or brief mentions in books that touched on Harry and You-Know-Who or passing comments made by Sirius at Grimmauld Place.

“They must have had a hard time too then.” She raised her head, looking up at his face.

Harry nodded, his eyes staring off into some far away place, perhaps wondering – like Ginny – if they too had spent nights like this, studying together by the fire.

She thought she ought not to push Harry for more, but she had the tiniest inkling that tonight was different, that she might get away with a gentle nudge.

“Tell me about them,” she said softly.

Harry looked at her for what felt like ages, his expression difficult to read.

Without a word, he got up, leaving his things on the sofa and walking up towards his dormitory. Taken aback by the sudden departure, Ginny worried at first that she had overstepped, but Harry returned shortly after, holding a small bound book.

He sat back down next to her, staring at the book in his hands for a moment before hesitantly handing it to her.

Ginny opened what she now realised was a little album to the first page, and her heart clenched. There were James and Lily Potter, holding a little boy who could be no older than six months or so. He had round, happy cheeks, smiling as big as he could as his parents cuddled him affectionately.

“You really do look just like him.” Ginny said, looking at James and feeling a sense of warm familiarity despite never having met him. Harry smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Where did you get this?” she asked as she slowly flipped through the pages, pausing to absorb every detail she could from each photograph.

“Hagrid,” Harry said. “He reached out to people who might have pictures of them and gave it to me at the end of my first year.”

Ginny felt an extra swell of affection for Hagrid, alongside the bittersweetness of it all.

She turned another page, and her heart sank. It was a wedding photo, and beside the elated couple was Sirius, looking far more carefree than Ginny had ever seen him.

“She’s beautiful,” Ginny said with a whisper, clearing her throat and pointing to Lily. She was radiant in her wedding dress, full of happiness and hope for the future. It almost hurt to look at her, knowing what was to come.

Harry didn’t say anything in return, just pulled Ginny in closer.

There was a lot she wanted to say, and even more she wanted to ask, but she knew this wasn’t the time for it. That he brought her the photo album at all meant more to Ginny than she could say.

They sat in silence together, Harry watching her intently as she went through the album twice over, soaking up every bit of Harry’s little family that she could.

[bobsfic]

jiara week day 7 - missing moment

Summary: JJ and Kiara are both dealing with the repercussions of what happened on the Coastal Venture. A missing moment from the early days of Poguelandia.

Word Count: 6,154

[jiara bingo - poguelandia]

------

“I’m mad at you, you know.” She doesn’t sound mad, but kinda sad instead, and JJ’s stomach churns uncomfortably.

He looks over at her and finds her staring at him. “What did I do?”

Her eyes flick to the barely healing gash on his forehead, and it throbs as though it can feel her pointed gaze.

“Oh. That.”

“Yes. That,” she bites out.

“He was swinging at you, Kie,” he says matter of factly. “I wasn’t about to let you get hurt.” It’s not rocket science. Protecting Kie is just ingrained in his veins, a part of his muscle memory.

Her throat bobs as she swallows thickly. “But you got hurt! You just fell off the side of the boat and–”

When her eyes grow shiny, he feels a tugging sensation in his gut, telling him that maybe she’s not actually mad at him. He shuffles closer, their elbows brushing, and she blinks a few times.

“And what? It was worth it, Kie.” She shakes her head at him, lips pursed into a pout. “I’d do it again.”

------

Read more on ao3!!!

[builder051]

NaNo 2024 day 8: A hairbrained scheme

Avengers Infinity Saga canon/missing moment

Right before they put the time through the Scott

Humor without plot

————————

Bruce sits behind the control panel in his lab. Scott’s van is backed into place in front of him, and many wires and cords run from its trunk to his computer.

That’s not his focus at the moment, though. A video chat window dominates his screen.

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Bruce implores.

“Nope.” Tony replies succinctly. “I already told you. And I haven’t changed my mind.”

“It’s still not too late. We can delay launch until you get here,” Bruce offers. “Come on. The team’s back. We need you to help save the world.”

“I need to be in the backyard,” Tony says. “Got to blaze the fire pit. Morgan already has the tent. We’re camping out tonight. You know, play a little banjo, melt some marshmallows. Way more important than your hairbrained scheme.”

“Can I get your blessing at least? If it works, I’m taking all the credit.” Bruce tries for a light, friendly tone. He doesn’t want to be angry with Tony. He doesn’t want to be angry at all. “If it fails… Well, it was Scott’s idea.”

Both men laugh, but they quickly sober when they make eye contact again. Tony’s hand comes into the camera view, and the feed cuts off.

“Hey!” Scott calls from across the lab. “Why were you laughing at me. This is a great idea.” He gestures at the van. “I’m the only one with an idea.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Bruce says. “It’s just…Tony. He’s spent too much time alone. I think it’s an entrepreneur thing.”

“So he’s really a no go?” Scott asks. “For sure?”

“Yeah,” Bruce sighs. He closes the tab for the video chat and returns his attention to the time machine’s programming. “At this point, he may as well be on another planet.”

“He still covers the insurance, right?” Scott squirms in his vermillion hazmat suit. “If I die on the job, somebody’s got to get the payout to Cassie. I, uh, haven’t been great at that college fund thing. Do a cashier’s check. And delivery receipt.”

“You’re not gonna die,” Bruce reassures. “It worked last time.” He taps a few keys, finishing up the last line of his equation. “You survived the dust after all.”

“Mm.” Scott nods. “Will it be like jet lag, do you think? If I come back all woozy, wave some horseradish under my nose. That’ll kick me out of any kind of time coma.” He takes in Bruce’s blank look. “You have condiments here?” He tilts his head toward the fridge in the back of the lab.

“I don’t know,” Bruce says. “Natasha does the groceries. I usually eat out.” He hovers his finger over the power switch. “It’ll go fine. You ready?”

“Wait!” Scott stalls. “We should get something tonight. To celebrate, you know? After this thing works? Your treat. You have Doordash?”

“We have to actually do it first.” Bruce flicks the switch. The equipment in the back of the van lights up. “Then tonight we’re eating on Tony’s ticket.” He grins at Scott. “Do you like s’mores?”

[turanga4]

For @hinnymicrofic Prompt 18: Stop WARNING IT IS SAD

Read here (but it's long-ish) or on Ao3.

It’s quiet behind him, but loud in his head. Harry remembers a time when he could slip away unnoticed, when the Burrow’s kitchen table rang with arguments and laughter. The voices now are low and tired—their exchanges, dull routines.

He needs to deal with a different set of words. Again and again they come to him, disembodied echoes, high and cold as they were that night, but heard now just by him.

You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.

He shakes his head. It doesn’t help. The leaves have been fading on the trees in the distance, spring moving towards summer. More heat in the air. A bird is singing somewhere; the voice drowns it out.

You have permitted you have permitted

Harry blinks a few times quickly and looks around again. The Burrow’s mostly been restored, its wobbly gate set back on its hinges. Some things, though, were too broken to fix. There are other, smaller things where no one has bothered.  One window hangs cracked above the couch in the living room, with thin spidery lines like ice on a lake.

He should go back in: Mrs. Weasley might worry. He aches each time he thinks of her, because the watch that she gave him becomes the clock in his nightmares, and Fred’s hand is spinning as it tears into the ground. He’d stay outside forever if that would help, but it wouldn’t. Rather than face me yourself.

Harry’s fist clenches, still wrapped against his wand. “For fuck’s sake. I did face you. I killed you. You’re done.” 

The voice echoing inside of him laughs at him and shifts.

your friends

your friends

your friends to die

Hermione, glassy-eyed, staring at the kitchen floor when he crept downstairs in the hours before dawn. “It’s lunch time in Australia,” she whispered, turning away. Ron’s been looking constantly from face to face to face. George, cutting his hair and breaking two mirrors.

Then Colin’s mother, thanking him. Her warm ungloved hands, and how she let go of him mid sentence to dab at her eyes.  The casket, obscenely, was the same size as Remus's. But Remus, at least, had been a full-grown man. 

You have permitted you have permitted

He answers again then, just one word. He’s almost crying.

STOP.  

Harry isn’t sure if he said it out loud.  If it was a command, or a plea, or if it can even happen. The tree in front of him has just dropped three branches; he sees that before noticing that he’s not alone.

Ginny approaches and he realizes that it must have been out loud after all. “You hear him still, don’t you?”

Harry jerks his head back. She continues to step forward. 

“Even though he’s not speaking? Even though he’s dead? You hear him still, don’t you? You shouldn’t, but you do.”

She’s looking at him carefully. Not afraid, but something else.

“How do you know?”

Ginny draws herself up to her full height. Her eyes make his breath catch as her gaze locks with his. She raises one hand and ghosts it over his forehead.

Then seems to fall into herself, shrinking down. Her voice not her own, her eyes fixed on the dirt. They stand, facing each other, and there’s a promise of a future in the echoes of the past. He wants to hug her, to kiss her, to marry her, to heal with her. (They will do all of those things, some day. But not yet.)

Ginny’s picking at her thumbnail as he leans in to listen. 

“Funny the damage a silly little book can do, especially in the hands of a silly little girl.”

[thenicestthingiveseen]

day 8: alone

canon/hbp/164 words

written for @hinnymicrofic

“I swear to Godric if he doesn’t ask you out soon, You-Know-Who won’t have to worry about the Chosen One because bludgers will have killed him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ginny says but she can feel her face flushing despite her forced nonchalance. “But if I did, I’d tell you to shut up.” She hisses while looking towards the other side of the locker room.

“We’re alone now, you know?” Katie giggles as she packs away her kit. “Everyone’s already on their way back to the castle. I just don’t know how many more bludger hits I can watch. He’s never been like this before. It’s mad.” 

Ginny doesn’t say anything. She packs up and heads out and fights the smile that threatens to break across her face. Katie doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Hermione doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Dean didn’t know what he was talking about either. They’re all mad. 

Harry Potter doesn’t fancy Ginny Weasley.

Impossible.

[albaskies]

August

Ginny on her sixteenth birthday, her loneliest to date. (Also on AO3!)

He’s painted the end of her summers with beacons of light and green and gold since she was nothing but a little girl; he’s filled every August with colours so bright she’d never seen before. He’s been in every breeze, every pink sunset, in the faded and distant sound of crickets chirping somewhere in the garden. But he’s also been in the scorching hot sun, in the breathless and sweaty afternoons spent in the orchard, in the laughter and the yelling and the banter, on her skin like her new summer freckles covering her bare shoulders. She doesn’t exactly remember when she’s stopped awaiting August like the month that would bring her birthday, her month, and when she’s started yearning for it as the month that would bring him, his month. 

But he’s not around, this August. In the month where he used to be just about everywhere, now he’s gone - gone from Ron’s bedroom, gone from the kitchen, gone from the orchard, just nowhere at all. This August is not bright or green or golden; this August is dark, it’s hazy, it’s red, and it burns deep in her veins. Her anguish is suffocating; at every breath, she feels like her chest is being cut open and her heart is being ripped out of the body, leaving her breathless, leaving her numb. 

Sometimes she feels like she doesn’t even exist anymore; and yet, time seems to go on around her like nothing's changed. Somehow it’s her birthday today - but that’s barely even possible, because it feels like only one single, daunting, dreary day since they’ve left, since he’s gone and he’s taken her whole heart and soul with him. She feels sick for having taken it for granted then; for having thought that they’d have more summers, for having thought that they’d have August forever.

-

Funny how she’d once thought that I can’t be involved with you anymore would be the toughest, most wrenching, ever tormenting thing she’d have to process - how foolish, how naive, how could she be ever so damn stupid . Because not knowing is worse, it’s what keeps her awake at night, what haunts her in her sleep and in every second of her day. She hears it in her voice every time she speaks, it weighs on her chest every time she takes a breath. And it’s not about not knowing what his classified and important mission is all about, whatever Dumbledore has left him and Ron and Hermione to do. No, she’s long given up on that - it’s never even crossed her mind that she could ever dare to ask, she knows it all too well that it’s not her secret to learn. It’s simply about not knowing if he’s all right, if they’re all right - if they’re injured, if they’ve found shelter, if their hiding place is hidden enough. If they’re hungry; when is the last time that they’ve had any food. If Ron and Hermione are healthy, if Harry’s -

He’s alive, she often has to remind herself, her stomach painfully writhing and lurching. He’s still alive. And yet, somehow, for some sickening, twisted reason she can’t shake that one daunting feeling, as if she’s already grieving him.

-

Just as her brother lights up her candles with a flick of his wand, and just as everyone starts singing to her in a way that reminds her of her childhood, those three empty seats become somehow emptier, her agony unbearable. The smiles around her are strained, the eyes are wary, yet nobody seems to notice her trembling hands, nobody seems to hear her heart pounding so hard it could burst through her ribs. Why does nobody hear it?

Her parents kiss her on both cheeks, they squeeze her tight, mumbling some dull pleasantries about how fast she’s growing up, already sixteen, already a woman. Sixteen has never meant anything to her really, except being just short of coming of age. Yet she’d never expected that she would have turned sixteen on a day like any other, and that the pain would have been just the same. She’d never expected she would turn sixteen on the eleventh day after being ripped away from the person she longs for the most.

Not that it matters now, but he did promise her once that he’d be there for her birthday - heavy rain was pounding on the windows as they were sitting on one of the couches in the common room, curled onto each other, dreaming of August. He said he hoped to join her at the Burrow right after his birthday, or even before if he could have his way, and he really meant it when he vowed that he would do his best to make her day special. She even allowed herself to picture it back then, ridiculously naive as she was - he would’ve sat next to her at breakfast, held her hand under the table, looked at her with those sparkling eyes as he always did; and then he would’ve led her to the orchard, where they would’ve snogged and played Quidditch until they would have both been out of breath. Not a care in the world, at least not on that day. And then, at sunset, she would have told him that this was exactly the day she had wished for that very same morning, when blowing on her candles.

But she doesn’t have it in her to make any birthday wishes this year - it’s too far-fetched, too unattainable, too illusory. Something out of someone else’s life, her mind says before she can stop it, a chill stealing through her chest. She knows it all too well, if she’d even dare to allow herself to form a wish in her head, she’d think of bright little bedrooms, of doors that do not bang open, of wandering hands and wandering lips, of whispers and gasps and blushes. She’d think of him, his messy hair, his enchanting gaze, his beautiful, beautiful smile. She’d think that she loves him, because it’s true, she loves him so much - but it’s too late now, and she can’t even remotely daydream of saying it out loud.

-

He’s never told her he loves her, not with words at least; and yet he’s told her a million times over with his eyes; he’s told her with his hands and with his lips, always craving her touch, always eager for her. She often finds herself pondering if she’s managed to tell him in the same way he’s told her, if he’s understood. She would have liked him to know, after all. She would have liked to whisper it in his ear, that one evening by the lake when they had held each other while everything else around them had started to crumble. She would have liked to scream it from the top of the stairs here at the Burrow, right to his face, and to hell anyone else. I love you, I love you, I love you. Then also: I miss you, please don’t go, please don’t leave me. And finally: Fuck Dumbledore, fuck Voldemort, fuck this war, fuck whatever it is that you have to do that has taken you away from me. But then he would’ve found another stupid noble reason to push back, to keep her at arm's length, to return to doing his thing - saving the world and all that. At the end of the day, she wouldn’t have expected anything different from him. At the end of the day, she would have loved him even more for it.

-

‘I’m sorry we couldn’t celebrate your birthday in better circumstances, Ginny,’ her mother says, her voice sombre, her eyes sunken with apprehension. 

Ginny looks at her - her sweet, yet unwavering, courageous, ever powerful mother, now worn out by worry and fear. She’s raised and loved seven children of her own, and now she is condemned to ignore where most of them are, when she’ll see them again, if she ever will.

‘It’s fine, Mum,’ she replies softly, giving her a timid smile. ‘I’m really grateful.’

She’s become good at putting on a brave face, better than ever. She feels like she owes it to her to her mother, to her father, to all her family who’ve already been forced to give up on so much. She doesn’t think it’s her right to give them another reason to be concerned, especially not now that she’s about to go back to Hogwarts, to leap into the unknown. And besides - there is something oddly comforting about having a secret, something that is hers and hers only, her own holy place where to seek refuge. She only ever allows herself to brood late at night, when she’s sinking deep into her bed, sheltered by a couple of blankets, and she can’t sleep anyway. That’s when she lets her mind wander wild to faraway memories, to brighter summers, to explosive and colourful days that have slipped through her fingers way too fast. Sometimes her thoughts work a soothing effect on her, allowing her to peacefully doze off into blissful oblivion; sometimes she weeps silently on her pillow, despite herself. And then there are other times when all she feels is anger, really. She is angry, she is extremely furious for being so stuck in her own head, wrecked and defeated by emotions she’s unable to control. Those are the times when she’d curse her brother for sitting next to Harry on the train, that September of so many years ago. She’d take her silly crush, her starstruck awkwardness and clumsy elbows a thousand times over all this.

‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ had said Hermione once, quoting some Muggle poet. It can’t really be true, now, can it? She reckons nothing in the world could ever justify this living hell, not even the greatest, most earth-shattering love of all time. But then the sound of his laugh elbows its way through her memory, a warmth suddenly floods her chest, and for a short, fleeting second she feels like she’s whole again. Maybe one day she’ll fully see that it was worth it, maybe one day it won’t hurt as much - but not today, not as she’s playing with the leftover cake on her plate because her body can barely take any food, not when the mere thought of him still crushes her soul.

And as her attention is suddenly caught by Bill placing a soft kiss on Fleur’s forehead, his new wife of eleven days, it finally hits her - that on the same day her brother has gained a forever partner, she has forever lost hers.

-

Touch has always been their language since their very first day together, that glorious sunlit afternoon after winning the Cup. She never would have expected he’d enjoy it that much - that noble and restrained git who turned out to be anything but . He loved kissing her and wasn’t afraid to show her, or Ron, or Hermione, or pretty much anyone else in their entire school. All that seemed to matter to him was that his lips were on hers, or her hands, or her neck, or her hair (particularly her hair), or her collarbone, anywhere on her skin. Sometimes he would forget to catch his breath, would become all flushed and clumsy, and she would just laugh, laugh at how unbelievably happy she felt, laugh at how she’d really thought she could ever be over him. One day he told her that her mother had been the first person to ever kiss him goodnight, and then she vowed to do anything in her power to kiss him goodnight every single night for the rest of their lives or (and here she would have to correct herself with the hint of a blush) at least while she could. That night she nicked his cloak and snuck into his bed to kiss him once more, and then again and again and again, just as Ron snored loudly right next to them.

-

She often wonders if she’s given him enough; she often wonders if she’s managed to make him happy during those eight short weeks they’ve had together. If she’s given him enough smiles, enough touch, enough sunshine. His life will have been back to being all dark and eerie by now, wherever he is, whatever he is doing, but she hopes that he’ll be able to cling to that one last kiss they’ve shared, if he’ll ever need to. She hopes it will bring him light; she hopes it will bring him treacle tart, broomstick handles, a flowery garden, a small glimpse of a warless August. She hopes it will bring him home.

And when it will, that very summer will be filled with dread and despair, and only the grip of his hand will guide her through what will be the darkest days of her life. Every night she will leave her bedroom door unlocked, and he will be the one sneaking into her bed to kiss her and love her as if both their lives will depend on it - and, quite frankly, they will. She’ll start to see it then, hesitantly at first, but so fiercely and intensely later - the future. It will look all messy and blurry, blissfully chaotic, but certain at last. They will finally have the chance to heal, to slowly take their time; and nothing else in the world will matter other than getting to live an eternal August together.

[honeydukesheroine]

Stones 🪷

For @hinnymicrofic and @ginnyw-potter - your peer pressure worked! Sorry it's not fluffy though, I promise a fluffy one for you soon 🥰

Read below the cut or on Ao3

A missing moment from my WIP, The In-Between's (6th Year) - Honesty Shots

Ginny followed closely behind Harry as they exited the backdoor of the Burrow. 

He walked as far away from the house as possible, headed for the low stone bridge they knew to be the boundary of the Burrow’s protective enchantments. 

When they got there, Ginny sat on the low stone wall that flanked her parents’ driveway. It was all poorly maintained now as there was rarely a reason to come over here after the Ford Anglia went wild. 

“Did you know?” Harry asked, turning towards her. “That Hermione hasn’t told her parents anything?”

“No,” Ginny said, shaking her head.

No wonder Hermione had been so nervous to bring her parents to the Burrow. Ginny figured it was just because of her feelings for Ron. 

If Hermione had only told her, Ginny might’ve been able to help change the subject back in the kitchen. Even if the Grangers really should’ve known, Ginny was well coached in the honorable duty of covering for one’s siblings. 

“Why do you think…?” Harry asked.

“This may come as a shock to you, Harry,” Ginny said, she wasn’t about to lie to him. “But you lot have been involved in some dangerous shit.”

Harry breathed out in a kind of acknowledgement before shoving his hands into his pockets. He began to lightly kick at the base stones of the wall.

“They all seemed to be getting along before that, though,” Ginny added, trying to lift his mood. “Could’ve sworn they were about to discuss wedding dates.”

Harry said nothing. He continued to scrape at the padding of grimy moss with the point of his shoe.

Before thinking twice about the ramifications of the statement, she chanced saying, “They seemed confused that you’d never been to one of them before, a - a tooth Healer.”

“Dentist,” Harry said, kicking the rock over. “Yeah, usually that’s the sort of thing Muggle parents take their kids to.”

Ginny thought back to her Muggle Studies class in second year when they’d learned about different types of Muggle health services. It’d been during her second year, when all she could think about at the time were sharp fangs jutting out of a monstrous snake head.

“Are they the ones that put tiny spears in your mouth?” 

Harry nodded.

“Sounds like you got lucky then,” she said.

Harry made a face and Ginny wondered if she’d gone too far. Maybe she should’ve just kept her mouth shut.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Harry said eventually, still kicking the ground. “Sometimes they even pull your teeth out.”

“That’s a profession?” Ginny asked, encouraged that he had at least responded. “Why not just give people Hagrid’s rock cakes?”

He finally gave her a small smile, which made her glad she’d said it. 

Harry reached down to pick up a handful of stones. Taking one in his right hand, he tossed it up and down a few times before taking a step back and chucking it down the driveway. It sailed several meters before coming in contact with the invisible shield, evaporating with a sizzle. 

“Do you ever think about what things would be like if Tom Riddle never existed?”

“All the time,” she said.

Harry looked at her for a long moment, no doubt recalling their conversation from when he came to sit with her in Myrtle’s bathroom. They’d both had yet to acknowledge their talk there since then.

“Your parents wouldn’t need these protective charms,” he said, turning away and throwing another stone. “I’d have grown up in Godric’s Hollow… Maybe it’d be my parents in there too.”

Harry bent down to pick up several more. He seemed frustrated more than angry, like Ginny remembered feeling after taking one too many hexes from the twins in D.A. practice. 

Before now, she never would’ve pegged Harry as someone who preoccupied his time with what if’s and could have been’s. He always seemed so stoic and focused on what was directly ahead. 

She supposed he had to be like that, Tom made sure of it.

Harry threw several more rocks, each throw with a little less effort. She watched them lob and disappear with a satisfying hiss. 

Ginny shifted on the stone wall to get more comfortable and said into the silence, “But still no dentists.”

“Yeah,” Harry laughed, letting the rocks fall. He walked over to lean against the wall close beside her. “Still no dentists.”

“You don’t need one anyway. You should keep all your teeth, I think they’re nice,” she said, and her face burned.

“Thanks,” he said, looking down at his feet.

“Give me one of those, will you?” She said, indicating a one of the rocks he’d dropped. When he did so, she clambered up on the unsteady wall and turned in the direction of the pond which lay just a few paces from the Granger’s Volvo. 

She and her brothers used to play a game where they aimed for the lily pads in the pond. When Harry stood up beside her, she told him the scoring system, and they spent the next twenty minutes plonking stones in the pond.

One poor throw slipped from Ginny’s hand, ricocheted off the stone wall, and hit the side of the Granger’s car just above the tire.

“Oh shit,” Ginny laughed and hopped down from the rock wall in a mild panic, pulling Harry down into a duck behind it as they heard raised voices coming from the Burrow’s kitchen. The next moment, Mr. and Mrs. Granger were marching toward their car, Hermione at their heels. 

Harry and Ginny listened to the confrontation between Hermione and her parents. When the car revved to life, they hurried out of the driveway, heading instead for the garden. 

It wasn’t until Ron came by about a half hour later that Harry said anything again. But until then, Ginny stayed with Harry as they paced the garden rows of bright green leaves bursting to life, and a patch of purple flowers that were waiting for their chance to reach full bloom.

[seriouslysam8]

Brumous Missing Moment

Missing Moment One: Late September 1996

You guys can give a big thanks to @bellmel for legit getting this less than 24 hours ago and editing it like a fucking champ. She's amazing! Another special thanks can be given to @myrtlewarren for the idea!

If there's a missing moment from Brumous you would like to see, send me an ask. I don't guarantee I will write it, but inspire me enough and I just may. Please no prompts that heavily involve Hermione though.

Also, I made a new banner for the Missing Moments series that's similar to the original one. I had to have a different banner, right???

Brumous

Petrichor Series

Also on ff.net

[whinlatter]

hope (harry/ginny) | a microfic

for @hinnymicrofic day 14 | prompt: hope (slightly nsfw!)

They lug their trunks across the Burrow’s yard in sweaty, stony silence. ‘Beautiful evening,’ her mother remarks, as her children clamber back over the threshold of the rickety old house. ‘I do hope we get more of this lovely sunshine.’ 

Stupid thing to say, she thinks, stupid thing to hope for. There's a wishbone out drying on the kitchen window sill. Wonders if her mother plans to waste it wishing for more good weather in the middle of a war.

Dinner is shepherd’s pie - her old favourite, a Molly classic, and yet it tastes like dust, like ash, like nothing. ‘I know you’ve had a tricky time, dear,’ her mother says gently. She stiffens, glares at Ron, traitor, but then - ‘what with your exams being cancelled - and right when you’d done all that work -’ so she's safe, then, goes back to moving mash potato around her plate. ‘Made of real shepherds,’ her dad says, weak smile, trying his best. She gulps down her mouthful and excuses herself, slams the bedroom door shut, finds she's shaking.

Lying on her back on her bed, staring at the sunset’s stains on the ceiling, the only sound the late summer birdsong out of the open window. Quiet, too quiet, for a house this full. Downstairs, the kitchen’s all whispers. Every now and then she hears an unfamiliar footstep creak on the landing, strangers on the staircase. Headquarters, now. The war’s come home, and it’s using their loo.

She’d got her hopes up, that's the thing. First mistake, stupid. He’d been telling the story of Ron’s camp-bed collapsing in on him that time, lying back on his elbows under their tree with his hair ragged, handsome. She’d laughed, see, and said well, maybe this summer we’ll spare you the indignity of the campbed and being dense, he’d said well Fred and George’s room was nice if you don’t mind the smell of soot. She’d rolled her eyes, said Potter can you really not notice when a girl’s trying to get you into her bed. He’d gone red, then, stammered a bit, but it was all over his face: the wonder, the want. Your mum will go ballistic, he’d muttered, but he’d said will not would, and his hand had toyed with her hip, fingertips trailed her thigh. He’d wanted it too. He’d thought they’d have it, thought they'd get the summer, at least. 

We could’ve had ages, he’d said. Months, years, maybe. Stupid, stupidest thing, hope. No use for it.

It’d have been cramped. He’d have had to sneak down from Ron’s room, under the cloak. She’d have shown him her Harpies poster, now this is what a proper team looks like, Potter, worn her nice pyjamas, the ones with the shorts, asked him to take them off. Cleared a space for his glasses on the bedside table. He'd have slept on the right, nearest the door, ever on guard, and stroked her cheek with his knuckles, looked at her that way, like she’s precious. It would have been like that time they’d fallen asleep under their tree, heads together - the time she’d slipped up, let herself imagine it: two bodies in a bed in a house with a garden, laughter, little people running around who’d look a bit like them both. 

Stupid, stupid thing. Grips the bedspread in both fists, banishes it: all of it, all the hope. File away that future, bury it. Kill your darlings, push them out to sea.

Knock at the door. Ron, with two cups of tea and a half-empty box of Caramel Kappas. ‘Thought you might want some company,’ he mutters, sheepish, sitting on the bed. She sighs, no fight in her, and so brother and sister sit, sipping, in birdsonged silence. 

‘How are you doing?’ he asks. She means to snap - how do you think I’m doing - but takes one look at him and finds she’s fresh out of spite. ‘You’re going away with him, aren’t you?’ she says, instead. Ron nods, and it’s awful, all ache, terrible, gaping grief, all this filling in the blanks of everything that she’s losing. 

‘I just hoped,’ she says, eventually, eyes on her knees, ‘we’d have more time. I know - I know it was stupid.’

That’s all of it, really, isn’t it: her great failing, uttered aloud. Crumples, then, beside her big brother, and cries, heaping earth on all the hope as they lower it into the grave. Stupid thing, useless thing.

She thinks about the wishbone downstairs on the window sill. Thinks how stupid, how stupid it is, for something to die, and someone to make wishes out of its bones.

A/N: did not intend to write this, blame @brightlybound for this one - turns out gentle demands for a ginny's pov companion piece to yesterday’s fic will absolutely work on me, also Twenty-Two Days remains the h/g dual pov love story of all time for me so wanted to do a tribute. enjoy/sorry! back to regular writing now i swear!

now up on AO3 here | ask me anything

[adenei]

Sparks Fly

Written for Microfic Mayhem! A good old GOF AU/Missing Moment (ish?)

Thank you @cruelsummer-ficfest for helping me find my writing groove again and hosting a FABULOUS fest

Song: Sparks Fly

Ship: Romione

Read on AO3

The way you move is like a full on rainstorm

And I'm a house of cards

You're the kind of reckless that should send me running

But I kinda know that I won't get far

“‘Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!’” 

Hermione brushes past Ron, heat rising in her cheeks and tears stinging her eyes. She only makes it a couple of steps before he grabs her by the arm and pulls her back. The room is starkly empty all of a sudden.

“Let me go, Ron,” she warns, but he doesn’t.

“You weren’t a last resort.” The words are barely audible. She wouldn’t have believed he actually spoke if she hadn’t seen his lips move.

“Oh, really?” She yanks her arm out of his grasp and steps forward so that they’re nose to nose again. “So, what? You just needed to ensure I was, in fact, a girl first?”

“I’m well aware you’re a girl,” he responds through gritted teeth.

And at that exact moment his eyes drift down, settling on the tiny bit of cleavage heaving up and down from her breathing before snapping back up to her face. Flattered as Hermione is, her nostrils flare and her cheeks flush with anger. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“What? No, I—” His ears are scarlet now and he steps back to shed the outer layer of his robes. “C’mon, Hermione. Trust me, I noticed.”

“Yes, well, don’t seem so shocked. I’m fully capable of wearing form-fitting clothes or undoing an extra button on my shirt. I just choose not to.”

“Why?” Ron’s eyes widen slightly, giving away that he didn’t mean to ask the question out loud.

Hermione sighs. “Because I’ll never be as desirable as Fleur or Lavender, so why bother trying?”

She’s not sure where the honesty comes from. It must be all the Butterbeer she’s had tonight that’s finally catching up to her.

“You’re clearly desirable. Viktor fucking Krum took you to the Yule Ball.”

“If only he were the one I wanted to go with,” she admits in a whisper.

Ron scoffs. “Yeah, right. Sure didn’t look like that in the Great Hall.”

“I’m not saying I had a horrible time,” Hermione snaps. “It’s just—” 

“Just what?”

I'm on my guard for the rest of the world

But with you, I know it's no good

She shudders, but doesn’t know if she can tell Ron. Sure, he’s her best friend, but admitting this would be a step too far. But he gives her that look and her heart melts a little more before the words come tumbling out. 

“I was having a good time until the end of the night. He tried to kiss me and I—I turned away.”

Ron balls his fists at his side. “He what?”

“No, no! He tried, but he didn’t. Being his date to the ball was one thing, but—I don’t know, I just couldn’t…he’s not who I wanted to share a first kiss with.”

Silence hangs thick and clouds the space between them until Ron finally speaks. His hands are no longer clenched and his jaw is more relaxed.

“You’ve thought about who you want to share a first kiss with?”

Hermione lets out a derisive laugh. “Of course I have! I am fifteen, you know. Even if I don’t always act like it…I would like the experience of kissing a boy at some point.”

“But you didn’t kiss Viktor.”

“I did not.”

“So who then?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Can’t.” Her lip turns up into the slightest smirk, and perhaps it’s still the Butterbeer coursing through her veins, but she’s pretty sure the proximity to Ron is getting to her. That’s the reason she’s brave enough to say, “Rumor has it, he thinks I’m a nightmare.”

Their fingers brush and she hears a slight hitch in his throat and—did he just move closer? She’s so busy contemplating it that she almost misses his lips brush hers. It may not be a true kiss, but it’s pure heaven. Hermione closes her eyes and sparks fly, but before she can bask in the moment, it’s already gone.

“He definitely doesn’t.”

They remain frozen like that for a beat, and Hermione wishes he’d move back in and truly kiss her this time. Now that she’s had the smallest taste, she wants more.

But Ron pulls away instead. Running a hand through his hair, he grabs the discarded robe, and backs toward the boys’ staircase. Hermione is left reeling in the common room, frozen in place as she watches him leave. She leans on the back of the sofa for support, almost missing when Ron flashes a lopsided grin at her before disappearing up the staircase, and she’s left wondering if all of this is real.

Regardless of whether it did or didn’t, the question still remains:  Now what?

Gimme something that'll haunt me when you're not around

'Cause I see sparks fly, whenever you smile

[kazoosandfannypacks]

“Always Remember (the burning embers)” by kazoosandfannypacks

Pairing: Captain Swan Rating: General Word Count: 1380 Summary: Killian and Emma have a late night conversation about careless words that've left their scars Tags: au, fluff, captain swan, one shot, post canon, canon compliant, fix-it-fic, missing moment Author’s notes: I've been planning this fic for a little while here, since sometime during season 5. The title is based on the taylor swift song "the great war," which I feel nicely sums up Killian and Emma during the Dark Ones arc, though this fic takes place probably a couple years later. Taglist:@zahara@kmomof4@jonesfandomfanatic@booksteaandtoomuchtv@jrob64@tiganasummertree@anmylica@teamhook@undercaffinatednightmare@gingerchangeling@lonelyspectator@caught-in-the-filter  @ultraluckycatnd  @cs-rylie @silver-the-phoenix @pawshapedheart [if you’d like to be added to or removed from this list, hmu in my dms or askbox!]

Also on Ao3!

 Killian had gotten so used to waking up next to Emma that it always felt weird when he didn't- especially when it was two A.M., and she'd been right there when he fell asleep, and now she wasn't.

 At first, he suspected maybe she'd gone to the bathroom or to get a drink of water or something like that- but then he saw her, sitting at the foot of the bed, seeming a touch unwell.

 "Is something wrong, love?" he whispered.

 She turned around, a bit startled.

 "I didn't realize you were still up."

 "Love, it's two in the morning," he said, "have you been awake this whole time?"

 "I guess," Emma said.

 "What's wrong, love?"

 "Nothing," she shook her head.

 He knew her better than to believe that.

 "What's wrong?" he repeated.

 "Nothing important." Emma said, quickly.

 "Emma," he said, hoping his soft tone could soften whatever armor she'd been crafting, "if you're up thinking about it at two in the morning, it must be important. What's wrong?"

 She sighed, and glanced back at him for a moment- and in that moment he nodded to her, like you'd nod to an injured animal to ask it to trust you, to tell her, "Go on. Let me help you."

 "It still feels like a fairy tale," she said.

 Rather than try and read into that statement, he simply asked for clarification.

 "What does?"

 "All of it," she said, in a whispered breath like an angry laugh, "you, Henry, my parents, our home- our happy beginning."

 "Aye," Killian nodded, knowing she still hadn't hit the point of her problem.

 "And the problem with a fairytale is the story always ends, the book closes, and you're back to being whoever it was you were escaping from."

 "Emma," Killian crawled out from under the covers and over to the foot of the bed so he could sit next to her, "what we have here is real, and it's not going away."

 "I know," Emma shook her head, "and I'm trying so hard to believe that."

 "What's stopping you?"

 She shrugged. "Myself. For someone whose job is happy endings, I'm pretty good at destroying my own."

 "What's that supposed to mean, love?" Killian asked, trying to sound reassuring and not like that was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard.

 "I…." she shook her head.

 "You don't need to push me away, love."

 "That's just the thing- that's what I do," she shook her head, "I push people away- people I love."

 And she tacked on, on top of it all, so softly he almost didn't hear it: "and that's why I'll always be an orphan."

 "Emma, love," he said, carefully but desperately turning her face to his, "where did you get such a ridiculous idea?"

 She pushed away physically this time, shaking her head and turning away from him.

 "I'm glad you don't remember," she said, almost smiling.

 "Remember what?"

 "It's nothing."

 "It's not," he insisted, his voice raising above a whisper for the first time that night, "talk to me."

 Her eyes almost seemed the blue ones for all the tears they held back as she looked up at him. He wanted to help her, wanted to dry the tears she was afraid to cry, wanted to clean up the mess she was afraid to spill, and wanted to make everything right for her. That's all he ever wanted for Emma, to be that for her, to be the one she could turn to no matter what she was facing- to be the one who made her burdens lighter.

 "The conversation at Regina's," Emma took a deep breath, "back when we were Dark Ones."

 He'd tried so hard to purge those awful memories, choosing to dwell on their happy moments instead of ones like that, those moments where they didn't trust each other, where they closed themselves off to each other, where they argued with each other….

 "That moment when I told her she'd always be an orphan," He recalled, "her pain now is my fault."

 He didn't know what to say now. All he knew how to do was throw his arms around her, pull her close to him, hold her as tight as he could and choke out an "I'm sorry."

 So, that's what he did.

 "It wasn't you," Emma said, "it was the darkness. I've tried not to mention it, because I know you'd never…."

 Though he couldn't see her face (which was buried in his embrace,) he could tell by the way her voice trailed off that she was crying, and he quickly let go of his right arms' grip around her, so he could catch the tears as they rolled down her cheek.

 He knew his apology was nowhere near sufficient, but he still didn't know what to say- what could his words do to make up for such loveless atrocities?

 "I'm sorry," Emma said, "I shouldn't've brought it up. I shouldn't've mentioned it."

 "Nonsense," he said, taking her hand in his and pulling it close to his chest, "I never want you to think that a problem you have is too big to share with me. Understand?"

 She nodded. He sighed, unsure what words would tumble out after his breath.

 "I love that you're my anchor, Emma," he said, "a ship would be lost without her anchor, and I'd be lost without you. I love everything you've ever done for me. Do you know what else I love about you?"

 "What?"

 "Call me a bit of a narcissist, but I love that you're my mirror. When I see you, I see a lot of myself. I see someone who never gives up, someone who risks their life for those they love, someone who does everything they can to be a hero, no matter what mistakes they've made.

 "And when I first met you, I saw what you were," he continued, "and what I was- a lost boy, a lone wolf- an orphan. And when I said those angry dark words I wish I could take back, words I never should've said- I was talking to myself too."

 He'd never seen a perfect blend of confusion and understanding quite like the one he saw on her face now.

 "We did push people away, love. We did hide from the people who cared about us. That's why we should still be orphans. But that's not what we are anymore."

 "Why not?"

 "Because we turn to the people we love. We've set aside our armor and chosen something new."

 "What's that?"

 "Trust."

 Still holding her hand close to his heart, he instead brought it to his lips and kissed it.

 "Emma Swan, you will never be an orphan again. That's not who you are anymore. You're the Savior. You're my True Love, my happy beginning and ending and everything in between. You're a mother and a daughter and a hero and the most perfect wife a man could ever ask for."

 "Some days I have trouble believing that," Emma shook her head, "but I believe in you."

 With the hand that he wasn't holding, Emma reached up and stroked his face, her cold hand warming against his cheek. "So if you can believe in me, I can believe in me too," she said.

 "I'm glad to hear it, love."

 "And you're not an orphan anymore either, Killian Jones," Emma said. She kissed his hand, then pulled it close to her heart, "You're my family. You're my best friend. You're my true love. My hero."

 "Aye," He nestled his head against her forehead, gently, then whispered "I love you."

 "I love you too," she whispered back, "thank you."

 "Anytime, love," he said, "now, let's get back to bed."

 They both let go of each other, only so they could crawl back across to the other side of the bed. As soon as they were both under the covers, Emma slid into his arms, wrapping her own arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest.

 "Goodnight, my love," he said, craning his neck forward so he could kiss her forehead.

 "Goodnight, Killian." She replied, sounding sleepy but satisfied.

 And with that, Killian fell asleep the only way that felt natural anymore- with Emma in his arms.