Word Count: 2412
Warnings: Fluff, PWP
Summary: I loved fairytales until Harry Potter became part of the family.
Note: Do you ever hang out with someone that gives you chest flutters and imagine how moments might go? They're my personal versions of fairytales. I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with myself for writing these fairytales in my head so often, and I thought Ginny might relate. Hope you enjoy.
I hated fairytales.
I used to love them, beg my mum to tell me more every night before bed, seek out as many fairytale books as I could. I think my dad might have made up a few, special just for me. Fred and George always had to ruin them, but I eventually wised up and kept quiet about the ones I really liked. They could destroy the bad ones. Out of everyone in the family, Charlie was the best with fairytales, mostly because he lived with fairytale creatures. Even in the Wizarding World, most of us don’t see dragons as regularly as Charlie. His stories were always centered around the strength and cleverness of the dragons, and less focused on the king or prince trying to defeat them. The dragons were ultimately defeated since Charlie knew that I liked a conventional ending, but he knew how to draw it out.
I loved fairytales until Harry Potter became part of the family. The morning he came to the Burrow when Ron, Fred, and George had rescued him with a flying car—that’s when I started hating fairytales. For years I dreamt that his attention to my words was a sign of pleasure, comfort, interest—instead it was usually politeness and manners (that’s not to say I’m not glad he has them, I just wished he weren’t so damn elusive). Each holiday that Ron brought him home was another story I wrote in my head every night, lying in bed; that would be the holiday that Harry took me into the garden and kissed me softly and sweetly. Each holiday passed and I had to rewrite the fairytale, put the story on hold because the boy was too daft or too distracted. Probably too distracted.
Eventually I couldn’t draft and rewrite and abandon the fairytales anymore. I was Dean’s fairytale, so I let him have his. He was a good snog and a kind, kind wizard. He challenged me well in a game of Quidditch and showed me hidden parts of the castle that I’m sure Fred and George tipped him to so that he could snog a witch in privacy. Dean gave me excitement and adventure, but he was not cleverer than the dragon. Still, holding his hand in the corridor and laughing with him in the Great Hall was forever the opening chapter of my own tale. Would Harry fight the dragon that took his prize? I hated to think of myself as a prize to be won, but I am a rather good catch, you know.
The Christmas holiday of my fifth year was as dually wonderful and tortuous as usual; each brush of Harry’s hand against mine at the dinner table gave me another shock of hope, another flutter in my chest, another drop in my stomach. It was so annoying to be in love with the same boy for so many years. Why couldn’t Hermione ever fix his glasses to sit on his nose straight? I always wanted to fix them. And his stupid hair, always shaggy and moppy on his head. He needed to stop letting it fall over his ears, he looked like a—
Oh god, I was doing it again. I looked at him. “Sorry?” I felt ashamed. Fantasizing about this stupid boy.
“Could you pass me the soup?” He smiled his stupid, charming smile and my brain melted a bit; just enough for me to forget where the soup was. I managed. I handed it to him and his fingers overlapped mine on the bowl. A gentle electricity flowed into me, a blip of energy. He thanked me. Hermione must have seen the pinkness on my cheeks, because her foot gently nudged mine from the other side of the table. I smiled at her and tucked some hair behind my ears. Little brushes at the dinner table kept the fairytales alive.
After dinner, I lounged in the loveseat, petting Crookshanks, who cheerfully dominated my belly. He liked little scratches on his head. Harry sat down in the chair across from me, looking cheerful. How could anyone not be cheerful after one of my mother’s meals? I was the only one in the room, so I was a bit confused as to why he chose to be here instead of with Ron and Hermione. They were probably off bickering somewhere anyway.
“How’s your broom doing, Gin?” How dare he use a nickname and also make it heartwarming. Small talk? When has Harry ever made small talk with me?
“It’s alright, I suppose. But even the fastest broom wouldn’t get me that Snitch faster than you could catch it.” It’s true; I had long envied his position as Seeker on the Quidditch team, even if I was one of the best Chasers. He chuckled, a slight blush spreading over his cheeks. Blushing? The Boy Who Lived… blushing?
“Do you wanna make a bet on that?” His question was daring, challenging. Harry was looking down at his knuckles but peered at me through his thick, dark hair. I grinned and coaxed Crookshanks off of my belly.
“Let’s do it.” I said. We grabbed our broomsticks, Harry having to use one of our old ones. “At least you won’t have a broom advantage over me.”
He scoffed, but it was interrupted by another chuckle. He couldn’t be pompous if he tried. “Yeah. Like I need a broom advantage.” Some smirking followed.
I shoved my hand in his face, pushing away the smug look on his lips, and led the way into the garden. It was fairly dark by now, the last bit of sunlight dimming into the trees. The moonlight was beginning to take over. I asked him if he wanted me to ask mum to get some lights going for us, but he declined. I assumed it was for the challenge.
I opened up the shed where we kept… well, nothing in particular. Mostly dad’s Muggle collection dominated the small space, but a few of mum’s gardening tools were left here, and of course our old Quidditch gear. I grabbed the Snitch, worn down so much and becoming so filthy that it looked more like a shiny copper orb than a golden sphere. Its wings expanded in my palm, almost happily. It had been months since we’d been home and able to play.
I walked out of the shed and Harry was already floating on his broom. “Any boundaries you want to set?” I asked him. He shrugged and shook his head.
“Maybe not too far, just so your mum knows we’re okay.” I was grateful for his consideration. Mum would worry if she knew we had just gone off hunting the Snitch.
“Alright then,” I said. “Let’s begin.” After mounting my broom, I released the Snitch into the air. It floated hesitantly for a moment, as if getting back into flying shape, before it sped off into the darkness. It took me only a moment to get comfortable on this broom; I was more used to the school-issued ones now. I saw that it took Harry even less time. I don’t know how he did it. He seemed to wait for me, as if to give me a fair start. I appreciated it, but looked at Harry, flashed him a grin, and went after the prize.
He was right on my heels for a few seconds, if that, before I could neither hear nor see him. I felt his presence nearby, but couldn’t actually find him. I knew he was okay. And I wanted to beat that stupid, handsome boy. Maybe I could be the dragon in this story. I raced after the Snitch, only being able to mildly locate it from the characteristic sound of its buzzing wings. Dodging the trees, feeling the tall grass whip at my knees, flying through the open air gave me a sense of freedom and release that I did not often have; even if Harry did catch the Snitch, I might have won just because of that. But he wasn’t going to catch the Snitch. I was.
After several minutes of following the Snitch and seeing no sign of Harry anywhere, I found him: he was flying directly above me. When I looked up to meet his eyes, he was looking straight at me, as if waiting for me to catch his gaze. Was the bastard even looking for the Snitch? It didn’t matter. I wanted to win. I stayed on the trail, following that whirring sound, so sure that I was getting closer and closer with each second. I saw it, several yards in front of me, and reached out my hand.
Of course, Harry Potter has to win big or not really win at all, so he swooped down off his broom and landed onto the front of mine, catching the Snitch in his hand.
“Not fair!” I shouted, sliding onto the backside of my broom so he wouldn’t fall off the front end. He grinned, grasping the broom with his free hand and dangling the Snitch in front of me with the other. I punched him. I heard him exclaim and laughed to myself, wrapping my arms around his middle. I pressed my cheek to the space between his shoulder blades. He felt safe and warm. He was the dragon in this story.
I assumed that he would take us straight back to the Burrow, but he continued flying for a few more minutes. He stuffed the Snitch in his pocket, keeping one hand on the handle of the broom, laying his free palm over my knuckles. A jolt of surprise shook me, but I dared not move. The fairytale was alive, and it was writing itself. He let go of the broom and removed his hand, only to grab both of my legs and swing them over his own. It wasn’t very comfortable, but when his legs interlocked with mine and he adjusted my arms so that they would hold him tighter, I had a decent idea of what he might have been planning.
As soon as that thought had finished, he took hold of the broom once again and immediately tipped us upside down. I shrieked with delight.
“Have you ever flown like this before?” He shouted, his face turned towards me. He was smiling. His hair looked absolutely ridiculous, hanging down over his face, blowing almost into his mouth. He looked so happy.
“This is a first!” I shouted back. “You’d think Fred and George might have gotten around to this eventually.” Harry laughed, his face becoming pink with all the blood rushing to his head. My hands moved instinctively to his chest, my palms pressing flat against his sternum to push him closer to me. It was for safety.
He moved through the trees, my hair whipping against but never catching on the branches. He swung us from side to side, like he was fueling off of my childish laughter. He spiraled in the open air. He slowed down when we went over the pond and wet the tips of my hair. I heard him trying to stifle his laughter, a little boy playing little pranks on a little girl. I smacked him, heard him laugh again, and he swept back into the air. He would dive into the tall grass and pull up just before we might have plummeted into the Earth, waiting for me to yell or pull him in tighter. He would take us high into the air, until the Burrow was the size of my thumbnail, and let us free fall. It terrified me and my muscles became concrete around his, but he would always reign us back in just in time. It made me laugh, everything did, he did. I don’t think he ever stopped grinning.
But you can only be topsy-turvy for so long, and he tipped us back to normalcy after a short time. Still, I didn’t move. Pressing this much of yourself against Harry Potter certainly wasn’t an everyday occurrence. I was going to get as much as I possibly could.
He landed us eventually, as the sun had vanished completely from beyond the trees and true darkness was beginning to settle in. The stars and the moon were struggling to shine with dark clouds shrouding them. I gave him a squeeze before hopping off the broom. The one he had abandoned was floating outside the garden, as if waiting for its companion. Harry handed me one of the brooms, his face flushed from happiness. He pushed his crooked glasses up his nose.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out the Snitch. “Probably should put this back, yeah?” He smiled, holding it out to me like he wanted to place it in my hand. I opened my palm to him. I felt the coolness of the Snitch hit my palm, but he managed to grab my hand and pull me to him. I didn’t resist; the dragon gets what the dragon wants. I rested my head against his chest. I could feel his heart pounding against my cheek, safely guessing that it was from our ride and not from this newfound closeness.
He released my hand, putting his palm against the back of my head, tangling my fiery mane with gentle fingers. I wrapped my free arm around him. I don’t know if anything had felt more pleasant in my entire life. In my fairytale, Harry would tip my head back and kiss me until the world became black. But this was not my fairytale; it was Harry’s. I closed my eyes and let the closeness be; I would have never thought of hearing Harry Potter’s heartbeat as romantic or important, but it was. It was so important.
Moving his hand to cup my face, he placed a soft kiss on my temple, another on my forehead, and a final one on my cheek. My lips burned to feel his. But this was not my fairytale. I moved so I could meet his eyes. He looked down at me with that stupid, boyish smile. It was warm and calming. I smiled in return. He needed to know that I wanted this—wanted him. I felt his thumb move gently over my skin. I felt myself molding into it, a feeling so familiar and close to me that it felt like home.
I hated fairytales. But I didn’t mind this one so much.
Current Mood: good
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