Summary: A short one-shot between Harry and Ginny. He asks her how she composed the poem for him back in his 2nd year. Post DH. Fluff.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, Fred wouldn't have died.

Eyes as Green as a Fresh Pickled Toad

The morning wasn't as bright as it was supposed to be in mid-August. Nevertheless, the sun labored its way to get through the heavy dark clouds to shine. Its rays hit the topmost window on the left at Number 12, Grimmaud Place. It had been nearly five years since The Order of the Phoenix resided there. After some careful renovation and a Permanent Stick Charm on the curtains surrounding Mrs. Black's portrait, Harry Potter had carefully stepped foot in the house again. Towing Ginny Weasley behind him, he was finally able to call Sirius' house his home.

Harry Potter had been able to sleep soundly at his new home. He had been worried he would slip into insomnia if he was ever in the vicinity of this house. To his great surprise, every night he had luxurious nights—with and without sleep—as long as Ginny was with him.

This morning, however, the sun was able to shine through London's usually rainy moods. The weak ray hit its mark, and Harry James Potter awoke with a start. He rubbed his eyes cautiously, afraid that any movement would wake his wife. Ginny Potter was asleep on her husband's bare chest; her head resting softly beneath his should-blade, in the crook of his arm. He reached over her head to snag his glasses from the bedside table. He normally slept on the left-hand side of the bed. But, in the course of the night, things had … shifted.

He smiled down at her, loving every moment of this peachy-gray morning. She looked so unnaturally peaceful. Some mornings she slept with a scowl on her face, the ever prominent resemblance between her and her brothers. Sometimes, her face remained quite blank, and likewise more often, she slept with a smile on her face. Ron Weasley thought it was odd that Harry had noticed these differences, but then again, he hadn't had the nerve to ask Hermione to marry him yet.

The alarm began to ring shrilly, turning on a radio station that was playing a song by The Weird Sisters. He whacked the SNOOZE button hastily—Ginny was quite irritable if she was waked too early. It was Sunday, so the Auror office was closed and Ginny's Quidditch team didn't have practice today. However, Harry had a craving for scrambled eggs. Unfortunately, he wasn't experienced yet in the ways of the kitchen.

Ginny began to stir. Harry smiled to himself and with his thumb, he gently prodded her nose. Her eyes remained as tightly shut as ever, but she wrinkled her nose and snuggled closer to Harry. Her lips moved lightly across his torso as she moved her head.

Slowly, she stretched her arms and her eyes opened softly, sparkling. She looked down at herself, blushing lightly, not meeting his eyes.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he teased, kissing her head.

"Good morning yourself. I'm starving," she said suddenly her eyes opening wide open. She sat up hurriedly. "What's today?!" she asked in a panicked state.

"Shhh, it's Sunday. Gwenog won't kill you for being late. Mind you, it's only Eight AM."

She visibly relaxed. Harry laughed at his wife's sudden swing in mood.


"Yes, Harry?" She got out of bed and headed to her closet to grab something to wear. She tossed a pair of jeans and fresh underwear for him.

"I want scrambled eggs."


The Wizarding Wireless Network was playing while Ginny poured Harry some coffee to go with his eggs. His mouth was full so he couldn't thank her properly. 'Angs'

She rolled her eyes as Harry gulped down his breakfast. She was sitting at the table with her solitary mug of coffee.

"Aren't you going to eat something? I could make you toast?" Harry offered. He didn't like it when she didn't eat.

"And have you burn the house, Harry? I'm surprised the Muggles didn't mind your cooking," she retorted, smiling, "I'm fine. Not hungry yet, that's all."

He got up and put his empty plate in the sink. He sat back down next to Ginny, clutching his mug. A ballad began to play on the radio. The high pitched voice of Belinda Byrne wafted from the mini speakers.

My love is like an ocean
It goes down so deep
My love is like a rose
Whose beauty you want to keep.

My love is like a river
That will never end
My love is like a dove
With a beautiful message to send.

My love is like a song
That goes on and on forever
My love is like a prisoner
It's to you that I surrender.

A sudden wave of nostalgia hit Harry. He smiled at the memory of his second year.

"What's so funny?" Ginny inquired. She'd never thought he liked Byrne's singing.

"Yours was better."

She was confused, "My … what … was better?"

"Your poem." He stated it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He stared at her with wide eyes.

"What poem?" Ginny Weasley abhorred poetry. She had a horrible singing voice and couldn't even carry a tune. What was he playing at?

"Back in my Second Year, remember? You wrote that wonderful poem for me. That year, Lockhart decided it'd be nice to have singing Valentines. You did me the pleasure of composing one. Of course, it wasn't that pleasurable then for me, was it?"

Ginny finally realized what Harry was talking about. Her cheeks and forehead turned into a brilliant red that clashed terribly with her hair.

"Oh God," she muttered, having a stare down with the table. She had thrust that memory out of her window and never thought of it again. Ginny was perfectly fine with forgetting all the lyrics, thank you very much.

Alas, to her great horror, Harry had not forgotten the lyrics. He began singing it, along with the wailing going on the radio.

"His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,

His hair is as dark as a blackboard.

I wish he was mine, he's really divine,

The hero who conquered the Dark Lord."

She reacted with the first thing her scatter-brained mind thought of doing. "Langlock," Ginny thought in her head. Harry's tongue immediately glued itself to the roof of his mouth. She put her head down on the table, trying to hide her embarrassment.

Luckily, Harry had gotten good at nonverbal spells. "Finite Incantatem," he thought. Instantly, he was able to talk again.

"Aw come on, Ginny. Don't tell me you didn't like my singing." He grinned.

"Shut up. You know perfectly well that I was only eleven and had no poetry skills what-so-ever," came her muffled response.

"Gin, I love it. I think it was really … creative." She looked up and her eyebrows rose.

"Creative. Right."

"No, really. I mean what made you think of 'fresh pickled toad'? I thought you thought my eyes were like emeralds. Very nice ones, too" He ducked as he threw her book at him.

"You're really full of yourself, Potter." She only called him that when she was mad. But he saw that she smiled. A little one.

"It was during Potions when I wrote it. Snape made us use toads. Mine was a nice color. It did remind me of your eyes."

"And my hair?"

She grinned. "The period before I had History of Magic. Binns never uses chalk. His board was nice, pristine. Very shiny and smooth."

He laughed. "You really think I was divine?"

She poked his side.

"I still do."

Her lips turned up in a smile. Harry looked at her and it was clear he was forgiven. He leaned down towards her to give her a kiss. His eyes closed as his lips touched hers…


It was nearly nightfall and the stars twinkled hesitantly from outside. Ron and Hermione had just left Number 12 to apparate outside to head back to the Burrow. Their hosts had been worn out by their constant bickering. More than once Harry Potter had the urge to yell at them: JUST MARRY HER ALREADY! Currently, Harry was lying on the sofa with Ginny sprawled on top of him. He wrapped his arms around her waist. He recalled this morning's conversation.

"Can you sing it for me?"

She rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to hit him. "No."


"No, Harry, I won't."


A car passed by and a honk sounded outside their window.




Harry kissed her neck to make sure she hadn't fallen asleep.




Ginny did not want to sing and, dammit, if he asked one more time she'd—


She jumped to her feet and quickly thrust her hand into her pocket and grabbed her wand. She pointed it at him.

"Incarcerous!" she cried. Ropes burst out of her wand and tied themselves around her husband. He tried to jump up so violently, the purple couch moved, shaking the portraits that were lined up against the fireplace. His clear emerald eyes widened and his glasses fell askew.

"OY! WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!" he yelled, still struggling.

She grabbed the house phone and his wand and took it away with her. Harry was not going to be able to get help. Besides, he wouldn't be too mad. He'd get over it. He loved her too much.

"You're sleeping on the couch tonight. Sweet dreams."

She kissed him once on the cheek before heading upstairs. He stared at her in jealousy. He had never appreciated before how soft their king sized bed was. All because of a green toad and a black blackboard.

Author's Note: Eh, not the best ending in the world … Yeah, didn't have too much dedicated to the poem. Ah well. Drop off a review, please. Loved to see how you liked it :D