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Fighting

@ginnystrophyhusband microfics, prompt from yesterday (Aug 11): Fighting.

The Butterbeer is bubbly and sweet, and doing its very best at evoking the innocent nostalgia Harry had craved while falling just short of achieving it. 

He and Ginny are huddled together at a table in the back corner of the Three Broomsticks. It had seemed like a good idea, when he’d suggested it - coming here. They could finally go on a normal Three Broomsticks date like every other Hogwarts couple in existence, and share a cheeky butterbeer and a snog at a corner booth like they would’ve done last year if everything hadn’t gone to shit. 

In retrospect, perhaps making him feel normal again was a heavy lift for a butterbeer. 

“How’s Selwyn’s case coming?” Ginny asks, in a sporting attempt to combat the pall that seems to permeate the pub. 

He tells her – shit – and they spend a few minutes abusing the crap system that had allowed Selwyn to become so influential in the first place. She updates him on Quidditch and classes and the new ridiculous meetings Slughorn has organized to encourage them to talk about their feelings or some other rubbish that Ginny clearly finds distasteful. 

“--nobody says a word, unless it’s bloody Zacharias Smith trying to act as though he was integral to the war effort, the twat.”

“I supposed they’ve got to do something, haven’t they?”

Ginny raises an eyebrow. “Oh, and I suppose you’d be spilling your guts to Slughorn?”

“No need,” Harry says, lifting his drink again. “I already have a standing appointment with Ron on Tuesdays.”

She doesn’t laugh like he expects her to. She offers a tight smile, a beat too late. “What’re Ron and Hermione up to, then? I can’t believe they haven’t joined us.”

In truth, Harry does not want to imagine what his two friends might be doing in some hidden corner of Hogsmeade, a courtesy that he sincerely hopes Ron extends to him and Ginny as well. “Dunno. Enjoying themselves, I’m sure.”

“I’d’ve thought you’d want to, you know. Be together. The three of you haven’t been all together in months, have you?”

Harry furrows his eyebrows, perplexed by her question. “Well, I see Ron nearly every day…”

“Yes, but not Hermione.”

“Well, no.” 

He’s not quite sure what she’s getting at, and fights the sinking sensation and the thought perhaps she hasn’t been looking forward to this time alone quite as much as he had, that she’d rather have hung round with everyone together. 

“I just… I know the three of you have a… a bond, or whatever,” Ginny says, gesturing vaguely as though to illustrate it, and Harry finds that she won’t quite meet his eye. “They can join us, if you like. That’s all I’m saying.”

Harry opens his mouth to respond but realizes he hasn’t a clue what to say to that. “What? I mean yeah, I suppose…”

Ginny has started to peel the label off of her bottle of butterbeer. “Hermione misses you both. Loads. I can tell.”

“I’m sure she misses Ron a bit more.” 

She looks frustrated by his attempt at a joke, and Harry’s concern heightens. She presses again. “You know what I mean.”

“I… really don’t, actually,” he says. 

Ginny looks up from her tattered label and has something like resolve in her eyes. “If you wanted to see them, so you can, I dunno, talk or whatever, I get it–”

“What the hell would I need to talk to Ron for?” he laughs, though it sounds sharp even to his own ears. 

“I don’t know. Whatever you talk about at your standing appointment on Tuesdays–”

“Hang on,” Harry says, stung. “You know I was joking.”

“Do I?”

Harry stares at her, a leaden, sick sort of feeling in his stomach. Her mouth is pressed together in a defiant line, and her normally warm eyes are wary, defensive. The thought occurs to him far too late. 

“You’re angry with me.”

He can see the way she tries to wipe it from her expression, but the anger clings stubbornly to the furrow in her brow, the aversion of her eyes. “No. It’s– look, we haven’t seen each other in months, let’s–”

Harry wants to be sick. This isn’t how today was meant to go. God, he’d spent every day thinking of her, missing her, trying to pretend to be the version of himself that she brought out - lighter and funnier and more carefree. But he’s not any of that shit, not without her. He’s never really considered the prospect of losing her before, but the thought hits him bodily now. 

What’s the point of any of this if he doesn’t have her? 

“Gin,” he pleads. “What’s going on? Please just tell me, so I can fix it.”

Ginny flinches irritably, and his stomach sinks further. “Tell you? That’s rich.”

“Wh–”

“How about you tell me for a change?” Ginny snaps, setting down her butterbeer rather forcefully. “Anything about what happened with you last year, how you’re coping with it, I dunno, anything.”

He’s never been on the receiving end of her ire before, and it cuts deeper than he cares to admit. He lowers his drink to the table and says, “Alright.”

But the words don’t come. He stares at her, eyes burning in a way that stings, and he realizes all at once how it all must seem to her: that she was shut out, that he reserved his private thoughts exclusively for Ron and Hermione, his more trusted confidants. But he hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t wanted that - or at least, not for the reasons she must think. 

Frustration bubbles at his inability to communicate what he thought had been utterly obvious. But perhaps it hasn’t been fair of him. They understand each other so well – she so often can read him better than he can read himself – that he’s taken it for granted that she knows what she means to him without spelling it out. 

He can try to spell it out. He can try. 

So, he does. “Look, there were some things I couldn’t tell you before because it was dangerous, and–”

“Harry, I know that–”

“Please,” he begs, reaching out and gripping her hand. “Let me say it.”

She looks for a moment like she might argue – that little stubborn crease appears between her eyebrows – but she relents. 

He takes a breath, realizing as he says it how unfair he’s been to her. “But the truth is, even if it wasn’t dangerous, even if Dumbledore had said I could… I didn’t want to tell you before.”

He regrets the way the hurt sweeps across her face so immediately, so clearly, and he rushes to explain. “My life hasn’t been really… well… you know. The Dursleys. And then… Voldemort, and everything that came with it…”

He finds he cannot look at her directly, as though she’s the sun, and stares after an excitable crowd of third years passing by their table instead. “You were the best thing that had ever happened to me,” he says baldly, truthfully. “It felt like… like I got this taste of what my life might’ve been without Voldemort. Like I could be normal. Happy. With you.”

He looks up and she’s still staring at him intently, though her eyes seem a bit softer. “I didn’t want to tell you about any of it, because when I was with you I got to pretend there wasn’t anything to tell. And that’s bollocks.”

Ginny blinks.

“I hate it if… if I made you feel like I didn’t trust you. I did. I do. You just… made me so happy. Make me so happy. I didn’t want to… to spoil it. But you… you’ve got to know that I don’t give a fuck if we see Ron and Hermione today, because all I’ve been thinking about for the last two months is getting to see you.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, her eyes blazing in the way he loves so much. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She grips his hand and stares down at the table. Harry can’t quite read her expression, but he desperately wants to know whether he’s botched it all with this admission. Whether he’s hurt her.

“You make me so happy,” Ginny says, finally looking up and squeezing his hand. “But I want to be with you, all of you.” 

“I want to be with–”

“I won’t be a holiday from your real life anymore, alright?” she says firmly, her eyes flashing. “I want to know all of it. Even the bad stuff.”

His heart stutters, and warms. “I don’t want you to be a holiday.”

“Well, good,” Ginny sniffs. “Because I’m ginger, I burn to a crisp in the sun.”

He chuckles and pulls her toward him around the booth, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. She wraps an arm around his middle, and it’s tempting, so tempting to breathe in the comforting scent of her; to crack a joke and lift her chin so that he might steal a kiss from her soft lips like he’s been aching to do for months. But he doesn’t.

“What do you want to know?”

There’s so much to say, and yet it strikes him they have all the time in the world in which to say it. It’ll take more than one conversation to undo the dynamic he’s unwittingly fostered with her, but it’s a start. And really, that’s all he’s ever wanted with her, much better than a holiday in a life that's felt destined for nothing but endings: a beginning.

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Happy birthday to the boy who just doesn’t seem to want to fucking die

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@ginnystrophyhusband Microfics July Day 28 Prompt: Shy

Bill didn't often feel shy.

To be honest, he wasn't sure if he'd ever felt that, whatever Mum said about his childhood. The thing about growing up with six rowdy younger siblings was that there was little opportunity for emotions like that.

Weasleys had always operated on a system of grab first and hard.

But now, standing on Grimmauld Place's doorstep, he felt shyer than he ever had before—even when he'd been inducted into the Order in this very place.

When he finally gathered the courage to go in, his brother's freckled face was the first thing he saw, tension that changed to bewilderment. He wondered if the baby would inherit the Weasley freckles, or if the Delacour perfection would cancel them out.

"Bill?" Ron questioned, hand on his wand. Being an Auror hadn't made him any less of a quick-draw or wary.

That wasn't a surprise. Bill didn't see his little brother and his best mate outside of the weekly dinners at the Burrow, the occasional party and the rare excursion to Shell Cottage for 'beach day' or to visit Dobby's grave.

"Is Harry home?" He asked, not commenting. They'd left security questions behind a while back.

"Yeah. Just got back, so he'll be arguing with Kreacher in the back." He jabbed a thumb vaguely in the direction. "See you around." He stepped out and disapparated.

Bill found Harry exactly there, with a still healing cut on his cheek. Kreacher disappeared in a huff as he turned to Bill. "Hey. What brings you here?"

"Wanted to talk to my kid brothers," he said, perching on a chair. That brought a flicker of a smile to Harry's face. "Ask for advice from one of them."

Now his eyebrows furrowed. "From me? What about?"

He took a deep breath, unable to believe the words even as he said them. "Fleur's pregnant."

Harry beamed, glowing almost as much as Fleur. "Wow! That's - congratulations!"

He grinned in return, nodding his thanks, before taking a breath and continuing: "And since you're the only one in the family who's a parent. . ."

His probably soon-to-be brother-in-law only looked confused for a moment, before realization dawned and reflexively: "I'm not Teddy's parent—"

"Maybe not, but you do have experience in the role," Bill pointed out. Then he sighed. "How did you cope? You're eighteen."

And he, almost a decade older, was quaking in his boots at the thought when he had half a year to prepare.

"I guess. . ." Harry said slowly. "It's about loving them. No matter what. That's the important part. The rest of it, the actual practicalities, you'll learn along the way. Especially when you have people with you, to support and teach. Like you have your parents. And Fleur, of course."

The way his gaze softened and flicked to a photo of Ginny on her broom, raising her fist in triumph and winking at the camera, it was fairly obvious who he was thinking of.

Bill hadn't known of their relationship until after the war. He hadn't realized the reason Ginny had been especially upset before his wedding, the reason she'd been targeted and dismissed by Death Eaters especially as the Chosen One's ex.

But it was impossible to miss after. They didn't overtly show it, didn't kiss or grope each other or anything in front of them, but the way they gravitated to one another was obvious. How when in vicinity they were always touching, light, comfortable. Pinkies joined, arm around the waist, leaning on each other, comforting presses, soft pecks to the forehead and cheek. How they looked at each other, soft and playful and communicating non-verbally through small tics.

How tactile Harry was with her, in ways he had never been with anyone. Not even Ron and Hermione, who had previously been the only ones who could touch him without prompting a flinch or discomfort.

Sometimes seeing all that felt more voyeuristic than if they'd caught sight of them actively having sex.

Harry had always been family, of course. Ever since Ron had sat in his compartment, probably.

But his relationship with Bill's little sister brought that more in focus than anything else.

He didn't think he could've approached anyone else Ginny might have dated for advice on something like this.

"And you?" He raised an eyebrow.

Harry blushed faintly, cleared his throat. "If I'm still around, absolutely."

"Don't see how you can get away from us now, really," he laughed.

"Good thing I don't want to, then." Harry grinned. He glanced at Uncle Fabian's watch. "If you stick around for a bit, you can see Teddy. Get some experience too."

Bill nodded. "And till then, you can tell me what Ginny's up to."

Harry raised a brow. "She writes to your mum. Don't tell me she doesn't discuss every detail with you lot."

"She does, but Ginny definitely tells you more. So. Out with it, Potter."

Harry laughed and obliged.

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Believe

For @hinnymicrofic - Prompt 19 - Believe

“I didn’t do it.”

Harry’s eyes flickered to the evidence scattered about the kitchen.

Broken mixing bowl shards.

Two tiny slices on Albus’s left thumb.

Torn flour bag.

Flour on the counter. Flour on the cool box. Flour on the floor. Flour in the cat dish.

Flour on Albus’s shoulder.

Flour in Albus’s hair.

Flour smeared across Albus’s nose.

“Are you sure you didn’t do it?”

Harry crossed his arms, wearing his auror face. The face of interrogation. A face of such chiseled righteousness it intimidated death eaters, illegal potions dealers and dark arts practitioners into confessing their every sin.

Yet, somehow completely useless against his offspring.

“Nope.” Albus popped the ‘p’ with so much fervor, Harry could spy his missing front tooth. “Didn’t do it.”

Overwhelming evidence: a bar of chocolate sliced into tiny pieces, as if an artist were trying to design chocolate chips.

With a pair of scissors.

On the table.

Chocolate smeared on the blades.

“Albus.”

“Didn’t do it.”

An empty carton of eggs on the counter. Broken shells and eight raw eggs oozing off the lip of the counter.

Practice, Harry theorized.

In a second unbroken mixing bowl, four eggs soaked into the only bit of flour not scattered all over the kitchen.

Harry’s crackerjack, detective, auror eyes - intense green eyes that missed nothing - dropped to the final piece of evidence: an incriminating whisk gripped in his son’s little hand.

“I didn’t-“

Both sets of intense green eyes swerved at the whoosh of the swinging kitchen door. Ginny breezed into the room, shining like the rays of the sun, a beacon of serenity and goodness amidst chaos.

Which would have made Albus nervous, if he were older and knew better.

“I know you didn’t do it,” she said, her smile brightening the room, she fixed its brilliance on her son.

Harry mentally tagged out; the cavalry had arrived.

Ginny knelt in front of Albus, her small hands framing his face as she smiled softly at him. Loving. Generous. Her eyes as limpid and huge and guileless as a doe’s. “I know you didn’t, Albus. I believe you,” she said, with earnest innocence. “I know you would never, ever lie to me.”

Harry bit his cheek to keep his face stern.

“You know why?”

Albus’s eyes also went large as his head twitched slightly.

“Lies are like invisible nargles,” Ginny said softly, in the kind of sweet voice normally reserved for bedtime stories, post-bath time cuddles, and soft ‘sweet dreams’ before the nightlights flickered on. “But vicious ones.”

Albus’s eyes slid sideways, unable to hold the serene gaze of an angel.

“This one time,” Ginny scruffed his mess black hair, maternal love laced through the gesture. “Uncle George lied to Grandma Molly. The lie wriggled and gnawed its way right into her heart.”

With an emphatic gesture, Ginny knocked on her chest.

“Then, the little lie chomped and tore through her flesh, until she was gasping for air and coughing up her blood and guts as the lie devoured her from within and all of my brothers started screaming and the clock spun to ‘mortal peril’ the bird started cuckooing ‘dangerdangerdanger’ and she had to be rushed to St. Mungo’s where she was on life support for three weeks and we didn’t know whether she would live or die and Grandpa Arthur had to read the bedtime stories all by himself which was awful because-“

“Dads don’t know how to do the voices!” Albus yelled, panicked.

“They don’t, right? They really don’t.” Ginny exclaimed, wrapping up her big finish. Then, with a bright cheerful smile, she kissed Albus on the head, and stood. “So that’s why I believe you, and why I know you would never, ever in a million trillion zillion years lie-“

Ginny paused, her throat seizing with a tiny, but no less dramatic cough.

“Stopstopstop! I did it!” Albus yelled with his eyes squeezed shut, the whisk dropping from his hand to clatter upon the tiled floor with ringing finality. “I did it,” he groaned, defeated.

Harry tagged back in as Ginny shot him a sassy, absolutely-not-angelic-at-all wink.

Unbelievable.

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Prompt: Borrowed T-Shirt

Beginning of DH, sometime before Bill and Fleur’s wedding . Harry walks into the Burrow‘s kitchen early in the morning, only to find Ginny there wearing his shirt he thought he had misplaced.

It was a hand-me-down of Dudley’s, some free t-shirt he’d gotten from a boxing competition that had been far too small for him to ever wear.   

It’s a cream, off-white. There’s a red coat of arms with three lions on the front. England Boxing. Seamus had asked about it once, when Harry’d worn it to bed one night, and Harry had made some joke about moonlighting as a boxer at the weekends.

“Reckon that’ll be what does in You-Know-Who, then?” Seamus had laughed. “A right hook?”

“Nah,” Harry had said. “It’s all about the footwork.”

It wasn’t anything particularly precious or prized, but it was comfortable. It was made of a soft cotton that wasn’t too stiff or starchy, and had been worn enough to be that perfect level of comfort. Plus, it was one of the few Muggle clothing items he possessed that actually fit him, and for that alone it ranked high enough, as old t-shirts went. 

He recognizes it instantly when he walks into the kitchen. 

It’s far too large on her. More of a dress really, skimming the tops of her freckled thighs as she reaches up to retrieve a mug from the cupboard. 

He stares at the expanse of skin of her legs. Wonders whether his old shirt is the only thing she’s wearing. Either alternative sounds like torture. 

She turns, and her eyes - still heavy with sleep - widen as she sees him. 

He swallows.

He remembers now.

It had been raining, a truly miserable practice. Ginny had just broken up with Dean, and Harry was evaluating various methods of incapacitating Ron so as to properly get Ginny alone. The entire Quidditch team had been loitering in the locker room, showering and changing, hoping for the rain to let up before they made the trek back up to the castle for dinner. 

“Bollocks,” Ginny had said, rifling through her bag. “Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.”

“Alright?” Harry had asked, smirking. 

“Yeah…” she’d said, still searching. “What d’you reckon is better to wear to dinner, my disgusting, sweaty Quidditch robes, or nothing?”

Harry had nearly choked. He’d glanced over to make sure Ron was still embroiled in a conversation with Katie Bell about the formation they’d been practicing, before he turned back to Ginny, heart hammering. 

“Depends,” Harry had said. “Can the Fat Friar die again?”

Ginny had snorted. “Good shout. Wouldn’t want him to have another heart attack, would we?”

“Is that how he died the first time?”

“Seeing a fit Chaser topless at dinner?” Ginny had asked, grinning evilly. “Don’t think so.”

It wasn’t fair. She was practically inviting him to picture her topless. Which, of course he had before, but she certainly didn’t know that. Harry felt his cheeks grow warm and hoped she ascribed it to general embarrassment at the topic. 

“I take it that you forgot to bring a change of clothes, then?” he asked, his voice slightly strangled as he batted away subconscious images of her without a shirt on. 

“Only forgot a shirt. The Auror department will be lucky to have you, with deductive reasoning skills like those.”

“Shut it,” Harry had said, laughing. “D’you want to borrow one, or not?”

Ginny had paused then, and Harry wondered whether he was showing his cards too obviously. Whether it would make more sense to ask Katie or Demelza whether they had a spare shirt Ginny could wear. But, he held her gaze, and she smiled. 

“Yeah alright. What’ve you got?”

Harry turned to his locker and pulled out the England Boxing shirt. It was clean, at least. He tossed it to her and she caught it.

She held it out and evaluated it. 

“You box?”

“Dudley does.”

“Ah.”

She smiled at him, and Harry’s heart stopped. 

“Thanks, captain. Maybe Zacharias Smith will see me wearing this and finally be appropriately afraid that I might punch him.”

“I think he fears you plenty.”

“Not enough,” she joked, and then she waltzed causally back into the stall and came back out wearing his shirt. 

He couldn’t stop staring at her at dinner. There was surely something awful and caveman-like in how much it pleased him to see her wearing his clothes, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. 

He supposed, thinking back on it, she’d never returned it. 

Couldn’t have. Because she’s wearing it now, in the early morning hours in the kitchen at the Burrow on the morning of Bill and Fleur's wedding, holding a mug in her hands like a lifeline. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Ginny says to him, and it sounds defensive. “Wedding nerves,” she adds, with a smirk. 

“It’s normal to get cold feet…,” Harry jokes, hoping he sounds more sane than he feels, “...when your brother is getting married.”

“Right,” Ginny smiles. “Want some tea?”

Harry nods, and he sits at the table, trying valiantly not to think about the fact that she’s almost definitely not wearing a bra. Tries not to think about his shirt touching her, the way he had before in hidden corners of the castle, when he’d belonged to her more than that shirt did. The way he can’t anymore. 

She finishes, and hands him the mug. Upon the first sip he can tell she’s made the tea just the way he likes it, but he wishes she hadn’t. Wishes she wasn’t wearing his shirt, looking beautiful, casually handing him a cup full of I know you. 

She sits across from him. The early morning light is creeping through the yellow curtains, casting a warm glow in the room. Harry can hear the sound of faint footsteps from the floors above, and he knows the time he has alone with her - today, ever - is rapidly disappearing. 

“This is yours, isn’t it?” Ginny says, glancing down at herself, pulling at the sleeve of the shirt, as though he needs any clarification about what she is referring to. 

“Oh,” Harry says. “Yeah.”

“D’you want it back?”

No, Harry thinks. I want you back.

“Keep it.” Harry says instead, because everything is shit, and he was stupid to think he could ever have had her in the way that shirt implies. “Looks better on you anyway.”

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guys we all know ginny didn't end quidditch cause of her kids maybe she was on pause on a while but jk is a liar our queen would never do that

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james always introduces sirius to people by complimenting him. it’s always

“yeah that’s sirius, the stunner”

“oh sirius? yeah, he’s my best friend. the most gorgeous boy i’ve ever seen”

“you see the goddess looking one over there? yeah, that’s sirius”

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Written for @ginnystrophyhusband

july prompt : centre

(hermione's pov)

she knows.

She saw how Harry turns his head whenever Ginny arrives. The frown he had been carrying since he came back from Dumbledore's lesson disappears, and a soft smile adorns his face.

He is trying hard to hide his blush when Ginny plops down on the sofa beside him. They share small talk, and throughout their conversation, Harry refuses to look away from her.

she knows.

She saw how Harry is trying to make excuses to hang out with her more or laugh loudly at her jokes than others. Ever since Ginny broke up with dean , he is openly staring at her (of course after making sure Ron isn't around.) like she is the centre of everything.

He is different than other boys. he observes her with warmth in his eyes , devouring every feature of hers.

she knows.

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Based on this post. Gotta love the godfather.

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@ginnystrophyhusband’s Microfics

May 16th: Lead

Also on AO3

.

They were making their regular walk to the Room of Requirement, looking out for any Inquisitorial Squad members or worse, Umbridge.

“They always seem to be lurking everywhere,” complained Ron, looking around suspiciously.

“They’re all her little puppets,” Hermione grumbled and Ron’s eyes shone with amusement at her anger.

“Just make sure none of them see us,” Harry reminded them.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Ginny grinned mischievously. “We have our wands, don’t we?” An image of her hexing Malfoy and infecting him with Bat-Bogeys played in her head and her smile widened.

“I love the thought, but we cannot get in more trouble,” Harry said, looking over his shoulder at her.

Ginny frowned. “When did you become the responsible one?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Is illegally teaching a group of students Defence responsible?”

Ginny shrugged. “Well, you haven’t been caught, so yes.”

Harry shook his head, but he was smiling slightly. “What about leading a resistance group against our psycho Headmistress?”

“As you said, she’s psycho, you’re doing the entire school a favour.”

Harry laughed.

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rip james & lily potter, you would have LOVED ginny weasley!!!!!!

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I HAVE MORE INFORMATION

TROYS DODGY TRUCK WAS BREAKING DOWN ALL THE TIME

WHICH MEANS IT PROBABLY WOULD'VE TAKEN WAYYY LONGER THAN THAT TO DRIVE THERE

TROY BOLTON THE MAN THAT YOU ARE

Idk who else to talk to about this so im telling you

I've watched high school musical 3 more times than i care to admit but why has it only just occurred to me that when troy went to pick up Gabriella from her fancy university he drove 1053 MILES

Which (according to google) would take around 20 HOURS

And THEN he drove the 1053 miles BACK HOME all night so they could be back in time for the show

This man was so determined to not sing THEIR song with sharpay and i love the dedication

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@ginnystrophyhusband's Microfics

May 4th: Glass

Also on AO3

.

Harry and Ron slumped through the door of the Burrow, exhausted from their many hours of Auror training. Ron swore that Robards went hard on them on purpose.

It was almost midnight, and they decided to turn in immediately, not having the energy for anything else. They walked up the stairs sulkily, barely exchanging a word.

They entered their shared room, got undressed, and slipped into their beds immediately. Ron mumbled a 'good night' and fell asleep.

Harry, on the other hand, had one last important thing to do. He opened his top drawer and pulled out his mirror. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he could not go to sleep without hearing her voice.

"Ginny Weasley," he said quietly, careful not to wake Ron.

At once, Ginny appeared in the glass, a broad smile on her face. "Hi, Harry!"

Harry smiled sleepily. "Hi."

Ginny chuckled. "Auror training?" Harry hummed in response. Ron let out a particularly loud snore at that moment, and Harry glared in his general direction. Ginny laughed. "Good luck with that."

"How did you live with him?"

"My room's far from his for a reason."

They talked for a while more before he began to feel the mirror slipping from his hand as he closed his eyes.

"Go to sleep, Harry. We'll talk again in the morning." Harry wanted to protest and say that he was fine, but he was too tired to.

"Alright. G'night, Gin," he muttered. "Love you."

"I love you, too," she grinned. "Good night."

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Do you think Harry is emotionally abusive or neglectful of Ginny? What kind of husband would he be?

I’m pretty confident that the boy who had an endless well of compassion and understanding, even for his worst enemies, would never be neglectful or abusive toward his wife.

That said, I do think Harry would have a lot of growing to do. He’s not an easy person to be around all the time. He keeps things to himself, he can get hyper-focused to the point of shutting others out, he carries the weight of complex grief, and he was an abused child himself.

He’ll need to learn how to be more open and communicative. He’ll need to develop patience. He’ll have to figure out how to separate his work from his home life and truly be present. But while I think he’ll struggle with all of that, I also believe he’ll work hard to overcome those habits. Especially with Ginny by his side, and with Arthur and Molly there to help guide him toward a more stable emotional space. And he loves Ginny. He’s always had an easier time connecting with her than with almost anyone else.

Harry will be attentive. He notices the small things. He’ll be supportive. He’ll bring home flowers because he thinks they smell like her. He’ll write her funny notes when she’s away at matches. He’ll learn household charms, and they’ll cook and clean together and build a life full of domestic, shared joy.

Harry will mess up. He’ll retreat into himself. He might get too angry or too quiet. But he’ll keep learning, keep working to understand his triggers, because he finally has the space and safety to do that kind of healing.

Harry will be a good husband to Ginny, not because it comes easy, but because he wants to be. Because he’ll put in the effort. Because he loves her.

Harry has always been at his best when it comes to understanding and giving love. That’s kind of his whole thing.

[weaslxtte]

@ginnystrophyhusband’s Microfics

May 2nd: Hesitate

Also on AO3

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The days after the Battle were hard. They were filled with rebuilding, healing, and mourning. At some point, Ginny had enough.

She went out to the grounds, needing fresh air. It was warm outside, the beginning of May bringing spring weather.

As she walked by the Lake, she spotted Harry. He was staring off into the distance, lost in thought.

Ginny knew he had come outside for the same reason as her. He had scarcely said a few words all day and was becoming overwhelmed with the amount of people talking to him.

Hesitantly, she walked up to him. She did not want to disturb his peace, but she knew how awful it was to be lost in your own gruesome thoughts.

She stepped beside him, not uttering a word. Carefully, she looped her hand through his arm and rested her head on his shoulder.

He looked down, realizing she was there. He leaned his head on hers, taking a deep breath.

Ginny may have wanted to be alone, but Harry did not count in that.