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think (harry/ginny) | a microfic

He showers quick, tries to scrub the train off him. Snorts at the sight of Vernon’s large bottle of hair-thickening shampoo. Having stared at his uncle’s head all the way back from London, he reckons Vernon’s due a refund.

There's some lurid deodorant of Dudley's - hair gel, too, looks cheap and shit. He feels a stab of pity for whichever poor girl his cousin’s trying to scrub up for these days. Dudley trying to pull, he thinks with a laugh, Christ. But thoughts of pulling leads to thoughts of girls, which leads, inevitably, to thoughts of Ginny.

He shoves the hair gel back on the shelf. Adds Dudley pulling to the don’t think about it list he’d started making on the train, somewhere around the Cumbrian border, when Ron had offered him a Caramel Kappa, Ginny’s favourite, and he’d wanted to throw up all over the chess board.

The Dursleys had waited all of two seconds after he’d slammed the car boot shut before speeding off to dinner at some miserable gastropub off the M3. Suits him fine, wants to be alone. He stabs a fork through the plastic film of his ready-meal, makes sure to puncture the yellow reduced sticker Petunia's left on for his benefit, and watches the bright white of the mashed potato atop the shepherd’s pie whirling around in the microwave. 

You know, it’s made from real shepherd, he’d said to Ginny once. That’s such a dad joke, she’d said, and he’d said I wouldn’t know and she’d said Potter you get one dead dad joke a day and you already used today’s up at breakfast. Shepherd’s pie is on the don’t think about it list, then, he thinks, just before he burns his fingers sliding the ready meal onto a tray. Probably best add cottage pie, too, same idea. Maybe all savoury pies, play it safe.

He flops down on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, eats straight from the hot plastic as he flicks through channels. The nine o'clock news is all budget this, Hong Kong that, Tim Henman out at Wimbledon. The nine o’clock news is not Dumbledore's dead, Snape murdered him, there’s a war on, Harry Potter's dropped out of school to go hunt bits of Voldemort's dismembered soul. 

Dropped out of school, he thinks. Scandalous, delinquent. What d'you reckon? he asks the Ginny in his head. Harry Potter, troubled dropout? Do anything for you? The Ginny in his head laughs. It’d be fun if she were here, he thinks, curled up next to him on this ugly sofa, taking the piss out of Petunia’s cushion covers and Dudley’s wrestling trophies. Imagines taking her up to his bedroom, pointing out the lamp Dobby whacked himself around the head with. But then the Ginny in his head looks at him and says I never really gave up on you and I knew this would happen in the end, and it all bursts, shatters into a hundred dusty pieces.

He chucks the rest of the meal in the bin, adds dropping out of school to the stupid list. Might as well add the budget, Hong Kong and Tim Henman, why not.

Turns off the telly, goes upstairs and lies on his bed, fully-clothed, staring up at the ceiling, because on the walk from the living room to his bedroom the list has expanded to include his trunk (train, Hogwarts, Ginny), his jumper (still smells a bit like her on the left arm, pathetic), and Hedwig (how does it feel knowing your owl prefers me, Potter?).

He stares out of the window for a while, eyes next door's new extension, which sort of works - ugly nothing suburbia - until he remembers the twins and Ron at the window in a flying Ford Anglia, zooming him off to the Burrow where a little red headed girl is blushing and sticking her elbow in the butter dish and god, this really is shit, isn't it, they weren't lying. She knew then, of course she did. He's never been good at thinking of nothing, has he, and he's thought about her as he falls asleep every day since about October, so what chance does he have now?

He's dreading the dreams the most, knows they'll be unbearable. Almost hopes he dreams of lockets and green light and dead headmasters. Can't be worse than bright brown eyes, freckles on a bottom lip (how do you even get freckles on your bottom lip, Gin? Don't be jealous of my freckles, Potter, just because your skin's so boring), the smell of her hair (what do you mean my hair smells? What is that supposed to mean? Why are you laughing?) and the sound of her laugh and her gasps and the sound of her breathing, soft, lying beside him under the cloak on the lakeshore. Looking down under the table at dinner, seeing her thigh next to his on the bench, hand on his knee, body drawn to his, magnets, magic.

When he wakes groggily the next day - crick in his neck, still in his jeans - his first thought is: he's overslept. He’s missed Ginny on her way down to breakfast, going to be late for Potions, fucked it.

But no, of course not. There’s no Ginny, no breakfast, no Potions. Might still have fucked it, though, who's to say. Don't, he tells himself, as he heads for the bathroom to scrub the night off him, just don't think about it.

like passing notes in secrecy

"Harry."

Grunt.

"Oh, Harry. At least pretend like you aren't sleeping during class."

"Relax," Harry's voice comes out groggy, clearly in the midst of a soft snore. "Ron's got my back, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, no, totally," Ron says in support, dangling the feather of his quill against the sensitive nares of Harry's nose.

Harry sneezes, earning a few startled glances from his peers around him. Hermione laughs. "Sod off, the both of you."

"Not our fault you make it so easy," but Ron acquiesces and puts the quill away.

"I'll keep that in mind the next time you fall asleep in Transfiguration."

"Hear that, Hermione? Fighting words."

"Alright," Harry retorts, slumping forward on his palms, watching the words "14th Century Wizarding Economic Bubble" grow blurry as his eyes start to shut once more. For once, Harry wishes, he would like to spend a single History of Magic class without being subjected to the monotonous tunes of Professor Binns' lectures. And as amusing as it was in his first year, he's bloody tired of watching yet another student hock a loogie through the ghost's translucent bum. He's starting to feel bad for the old man. Er, ghost.

He is just beginning to doze off when he hears the rusty doors from behind give way, echoing loud enough to even startle their professor mid-speech, the words "volatile consequences of the 1378 Soap Blizzard" falling flat on his tongue.

His shriveled eyebrows shoot up like sun-dried beans, comprehension lining his ancient face. "Right, everyone. I have got a treat for you. With the fifth year O.W.L.s right around the corner, we are taking a stronger initiative this year to give students a better opportunity to learn from their older peers and take notes in higher level classes for a few days. Professor Flitwick has generously offered to sacrifice a day of teaching so that his pupils can sit and observe for today's lesson. Please leave a few spaces for them to attend at ease."

The response to this from his fellow sixth years is varied. Some highlights include: "That's a treat?," "Poor fifth years," "I doubt it was much of a sacrifice," "If they really wanted to help students, they would give a few days off, but instead they give more?," and "They never let us attend higher year classes." The latter comment is, of course, from Hermione.

But all of this commotion is background noise in comparison to the whirring in Harry's ears, head swinging this way and that as his eyes begin to search, fingers thrumming in anticipation on the desk in front of him. There's only one person he knows, or even cares about, from fifth year who was lucky enough to enroll in Flitwick's midday class, owing to the fact that she is his favorite student after all -

A cauldron slams to the right of him, and he jumps in his seat. He almost falls over as his suspicions are quickly confirmed.

"Oh, great. A class with my little sister. Only managed to escape one for six years."

Ginny, red hair swept into a high ponytail with the exception of two strands that gently frame her mischievous face, sticks her tongue defiantly at her brother. "Miss you too, wanker. And no one was going to sit next to you, don't worry." As she lowers herself into the empty spot next to Harry, he feels his heart beat three times the normal speed, a grin splitting his face in zealous two.

"Wide awake now, are we, Harry?" Hermione smirks, something irritatingly smug in her expression.

"Glad to have you here, Ginny," Harry cuts in, trying to shift the focus away once he sees Ron frowning, "Though I can't say you'll say the same soon."

"Are you kidding me?" Ginny leans in, her flowery scent inviting him to gravitate toward her magnetic pull. "After that kitten-sneeze I heard through the door? It would be my pleasure."

Harry sheepishly smiles, but at least Ron is laughing, sufficiently distracted. Cheeks flushing pink, he says, "I'll try to keep doing embarrassing things to please you, if it helps." 

Ginny winks before half-heartedly taking out some parchment and ink, pretending to listen to Professor Binns as he drones on and on about…well, to be utterly frank, Harry has absolutely no idea. This time, not for the usual reasons, he thinks, eyes flitting to the girl he's fancied for the better half of the year, the girl who makes him giddy and laugh like no one else he's ever met, the girl he’s hardly had any time to spend with one-on-one because her brother likes to hover after practice, the girl who is newly oh so single…

Hermione is right. Harry has never been more alert and engaged in a lecture in his entire life. Especially for this class.

It's why he gets a bit discouraged when he sees Ginny writing lecture notes on her parchment, giving him the idea that she's perhaps not so distracted as he currently is by her presence alone. We've never sat together in a class like this before… Harry forces himself to sit upright, promising himself that he is not going to distract her from her O.W.L.s studies because if it's important to her, it's important to him.

All of that resolution flies through the roof, though, when she suddenly nudges the piece of parchment to him, and he sees the words It's been five minutes, and I'm already so fucking bored scrawled in black ink.

Harry releases a loud chuckle before slapping his hand over his mouth, eyes wide. Hermione glares at the two of them. Ginny snorts.

Ron looks over at the passing note and mouths "unfair," but other than that, no one in the class seems to notice.

Harry takes her quill in his hand (he never bothered taking out his notes to start with) and begins writing.

Me too. I got some kip earlier before you all arrived.

She smirks. Some beauty rest? It would explain the right half of your hair jutting out.

He rolls his eyes, mussing his hair in place as she quietly laughs. Believe it or not, it was way worse before.

I believe it.

They pause in their back and forth, eyes facing the front as they sit in companionable silence. His cheeks feel like flames, the way he's utterly giddy to have her next to him. He'll sleep when he's dead, he thinks, nerves firing every time her shoulder brushes his.

It's another seven minutes when Harry gets her next message, and he peers over, feeling the dizziness that usually accompanies a hearty cheering charm.

Speaking of shite history lessons, I did some research on my own the other day.

He flashes her a questioning look, already amused. You? Research?

She drops her jaw in mock-indignation. Hey! I'm no Hermione, but I can be smart sometimes. Besides, this ended up being a worthy venture.

That's not what I meant. You're brilliant, he writes before nervously glancing over at her and rushing the words, And do tell.

It’s a fun fact, if you will. I’m sure it will come as a surprise to you that Salazar Slytherin is a sleazebag whose wife was only slightly less worse.

He laughs, making efforts to be quieter. That's an attention grabber.

Isn't it just.

"If you lot are done giggling like schoolgirls, you'll find that your parchment is almost running out," Ron hisses to them, ignoring Hermione's shushing gestures.

Ginny leans over, and Harry fights the urge to dig his nose into the sweetness of her hair. "Ron, your fly is calling, it says it's cold outside."

"I'm not falling for that," he retorts the same time that Hermione says, "It's zipped." Hermione flushes as Ron comically covers his…er, bits, and Harry bites his tongue to avoid chortling.

He nudges her shoulder with his own, heat crackling. Ignore him. Continue.

Right. Ginny takes out another roll of parchment. Well, it's a bit dark.

I know nothing of the sort.

She flashes him a smirk. It honestly might be a bit darker.

Okay, NOW you are offending me.

Ginny snorts. Here goes. So, Slytherin's wife was madly in love with him, right?

Sure.

But he had loads of affairs with a number of women, one of them his own niece.

Sounds like our lovely, resident pureblooded killmonger.

Gets worse. To get back at him, one of the many things the wife did was kick his most beloved under the table any time she'd have dinner: his dog. Harry gives her a strange look. Yes, I thought he loved snakes too, for… She flits her eyes at him before looking down. …obvious reasons but apparently, wizards loved dogs then too.

Don't make me sympathetic toward Salazar, of all people.

I'm not trying to. Doesn't change the fact that he legit cared more about the dog than his own wife. When he had to test a poison on the dog, he was completely inconsolable and didn’t blink twice when people suggested the same for his wife. When they eventually died, people grieved more for the dog than the wife. Rumor says the dog is even buried with him. But his wife doesn’t lay anywhere near the graveyard. Ever since, wizards are in constant fear that we will love dogs more than our own people. And that's the story of how we're only allowed a cat, toad, owl, or rat. No dogs.

Harry snorts, smirking and shaking his head.

Wow. That story was just the right amount of dark and humorous. You really do get me.

Don’t you forget it.

Their eyes meet, alight with mischief, as he feels a wave of appreciation for her and - randomly - Professor Flitwick, who orchestrated the very circumstances surrounding Harry's delight. Then, it's his turn to grab the quill, nudging his chair closer to hers, grinning stupidly as their feet press gently against one another’s.

Onto more lighter topics…

Oh, yes, please.

You remember the vampire who wanted my biography at Slughorn's party, right? Well, he sent an owl, asking me for a blood sample.

Now, it is Ginny who lets out a snicker. Heart pounding, he scribbles a bit more, suddenly desperate to hear more of her tingling laughter: I sent in one of Ron's blood-flavored lollipops. Don't think he could tell the difference.

That's a lighter topic??

Compared to dying dogs? Sure?

To be fair, vampires are hot. Wait, can he take my blood sample? Harry rolls his eyes.

A few moments later, she looks over at him, a competitive look gleaming bright in the spark of her eyes. It’s the same look she gets when she’s about to eviscerate her opponents on the Quidditch field. It’s the same look that drives Harry mad, makes him dream great, ambitious things in his sleep and worry over certain dormmates noticing the consequences the next morning. Also I didn't realize this was a competition over who has the darkest sense of humor.

Her expression is razor-sharp, electric, blazing, beckoning for him to dive into her flames and burn. He runs the hand that's not holding the quill through his hair, positively melting as he watches her stare tracing the path of his fingers.

Everything's a bloody competition with you, he writes, fast like his heart is racing to escape his body, to be out into the open, to be seen. I beat you once in Exploding Snap, you beat me five. I eat something spicy, you dump the whole sauce. I breathe, you breathe harder.

That last one is because I've got short legs. But you're pretty competitive, too.

At that, the words spill like dark paint, longing, pining, a reflection of everything he’s been feeling since October this school year. Maybe longer.

I know. It's why this works so well. Why we work well together, and thenhe halts, ink bottle spilling over slightly as he uses his quick Seeker reflexes to catch it before more embarrassing damage is done, siphoning up the small mess as best he can with his wand. He scrawls, rapidly, On the pitch! We work well on the pitch. Because. He racks his brain. Competition. Fuck.

He's absolutely terrified to look up, to assess her reaction; she still hasn't bothered reaching for the quill at this point, and he thinks it's over, this is where she's going to reject him, and it doesn't even matter to him if her brother, his best friend, would approve if she doesn't, and he feels blood empty from his brain like rainfall - but Ginny is now reaching for the quill, calmly dipping it in the ink bottle and prints neatly, confidently:

I think we work well together off the pitch too.

His eyes shoot up to hers, courage filling him like air to a balloon, and under her self-assured gaze, he inflates. He feels warm, warm all over because this has to mean something, this must be a sign for him to make a move, and fuck, she’s already close to him, her freckles lining up the gentle pert of her nose, her chocolate eyes on his lips, and - speaking of lips - his are subconsciously dipping toward hers…

Suddenly, he hears noise around him and sees many of the fifth years stand up. Ginny stiffens for a few seconds - sighs and pulls away, assembling her things together and pursing her lips.

Heat grazes the tips of his ears.

"I suppose this is it,” some of her first audible words since sitting down. He’s anxious, nervous - but when she meets his searching gaze, she gives him another one of her determined looks and he gets the warm feeling that the next time he attempts to kiss her, she’ll be the one leaning in.

He shivers.

"Ergh, thank Merlin."

"Hush, Ron. She barely talked all of class.”

“I could hear her devilish laughter, couldn’t I? That’s hardly better.”

“…It’s not like Harry was any worse.”

“Yeah, how many rolls of parchment did they go through? And how much does one need to talk about Quidditch plays, really?!”

Harry decides not to pay attention to the irony of Ron’s outburst. Besides, both of them really couldn’t be talking anyway since they had been playing tic-tac-toe on a bit of parchment themselves (how Ron convinced Hermione to do something un-school related in the midst of class is beyond him).

Even still, he hates how wistful he sounds to his own ears. "Leaving already?"

"Yeah," she says, glancing down at her watch. "We were only supposed to be here for an hour. But it was fun, you know…” Her grin is all-encompassing. “Seeing what it would be like if we had more classes like this…if we were in the same school year.”

He grins, cheeks flushing, wondering how it is that they are always on the exact same page. “I don’t think I’d get any work done.”

She winks. "I take that as a compliment."

"You should." He doesn't know what causes him to say it, but all day, his courage’s been on the forefront when she's around him. She’s electricity and he’s a wire, begging her to light up his days. "I…really like not getting work done with you.” And he should really stop talking now.

Her brows skyrocket, those lips that are perpetually in a smirk teasing him to take refuge in her warmth. "See you later, Harry. And we can do more of…not getting work done together. Whenever you’d like.”

He prays she doesn’t take notice of the subtle shift in his seat at that particular sentence.

"I hope so,” he croaks, “See you."

She squeezes his shoulder one last time and exists the hall. As Harry faces the front again, he tucks all four rolls of written parchment in his cauldron. For safekeeping, of course.

They are the most valuable notes he’s taken all school year.

In approx. 6 months when all of Tumblr hates John Mulaney and wants to burn him at the stake for no apparent reason, I will remember the “John mulaney should be gay” posts as I sip my lemonade and watch the rabble dance on the ashes of yet another person they idolized into destruction

Actually, I’m gonna map this out for ya right now

I’m gonna schedule this post for 3 month intervals throughout the year.

Let’s see if Tumblr’s straight, white, golden child du jour survives 2018, shall we?

First there was Yanny Vs. Laurel, now there’s Brainstorm Vs. Green Needle.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

level 2 is Greenstorm and Brain Needle