A/N: This may be your major squick, but it is my guilty pleasure. Don’t bother reviewing that I am a forty-year old pedophile: I am a blankteen year old girl; I am a teenager; and I have a life. It is just not yours. /statement

Warning: This ficlet contains incest. Weasleycest. Squickiness. Whatever. It’s just that, if this turns you off, please don’t review. Or read. I’m warning you right now. I know I’m writing incest and to you it might seem gross, but for God’s sakes, don’t tell me. That’s not helping me at all; it just makes me laugh. So this is your warning. If you’re going to read on, it’s not my fault if you find it nasty.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; nor the idea that if you eat too much of a thing you’ll turn into it. I don’t know who that belongs to, but Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, that Scottish woman over thar.

cherry juice

Ginny is the color of cherries. Her hair is a mess of copper-conflagration and in the summer it becomes so that it is even more; like the color of a deep red cherry. When her Mum brings a box of them home she scrambles onto the table in her yellow, faded sun-dress and proceeds to pry off the top of the carton. This is only when her brothers are outside and her mother has gone to do some errand, otherwise she will have to have her small share on a small plate, and that is far from what she wants: the whole box. She eats them one by one, spitting out seeds onto her palm or the kitchen floor, whichever is most handy, and there are no pauses in between bites: she picks and sucks and spits and picks and sucks and sits and maybe occasionally stops to wipe a dribble of cherry pulp off her lips; smearing it onto her cheeks like a makeup imitation of rogue.

That’s how she got the nickname Cherry Juice; often shortened to Cherry, but never Cher, no, never that awful grown-up sounding thing. Ick.

Percy teases her by waving cherry stems in her face while she tries to jump up to get them; Fred and George do it by burying the cherries under the fence, even though that gets them into huge trouble. Bill and Charlie muss up her hair while eating the cherries in front of her, and her father usually does this just because he loves his little cherry pie, but Ron, Ron’s got something better. He teases her that when she grows up, for she is ten, that she will become a cherry.

“Look, you’re already red,” he says, gesturing to her hair and freckles. “You’ve eaten so many cherries, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had cherry blood. And a heart that’s made out of cherries. And no one wants to marry a cherry!”

He did it for fun but she cried–at first her little chin trembling and her eyes shiny and wide, and then suddenly big sobbing gulps of the little girl phobia of never meeting her prince; living life as a round cherry. Mum scolded Ron and told him to stop scaring Ginny, but Ron has a secret. If Ginny turns into a cherry, he wouldn’t have cared much. She can be his little round juice-filled darling, and she can be sweet and taut and giggly, and if she ever gets hurt, he can suck the poison out of her. Because cherries are sweet, and Ron would not mind.