dedication: to Kierra. ily bb, thank you for talking me through my shit.
notes: in which Sara thoroughly ignores all canon hitherto established. if i could make this bigger i would.
notes2: here is more shit i wonder about late at night—if Harry had been Sorted into Slytherin, would he still end up loving Ginny? APPARENTLY SO.
title: razor sharp, razor clean
summary: He sat across the Great Hall and watched her with eyes glowing green like Death. — Ginny/Harry.
Ginny's knife scraped across the golden plate in front of her, and she winced away from the awful screeching noise. It was inaudible over the dull roar of the Great Hall—the Welcoming Feast was in full swing and all the Houses were deeply drawn into themselves and the Gryffindors were rowdier as a whole than usual.
She hadn't meant to do that.
A thousand floating candles bathed the Hall in a sweet golden light that tasted like possibility on Ginny's tongue; it was her second-to-last year. She was sixteen and preparing to face the world, the youngest girl of the Weasley Clan. Reared under the sign of the Lion and six brothers had toughened her considerably.
There was little in the world that frightened Ginevra Weasley.
And why should there be? She was Ginny Weasley—she had nothing to fear in the world at all. If there was anything that frightened her… well, she was fast, she was strong, and she had very, very good friends.
She glanced at the girl sitting to her right, buried in an Arithmancy text that might as well have been Ancient Greek for all Ginny understood it. Hermione Granger seemed to be deeply involved with what she was reading, but Ginny knew her friend, and she knew that Hermione paid attention to everything that was going on around her in the Hall.
"Hermy," said Ginny, "Potter's looking at me again."
Hermione didn't deign to look up. "That's nice, Ginevra."
Ginny made a face. "Hermione. Will you pay attention to me, please? Potter's looking at me again!"
Hermione closed her book with a sigh. She look up and stared Ginny in the eye. "Thank you. Ginny. I am paying attention to you. When isn't Potter looking at you?"
"I want him to stop! He does this every morning!" Ginny said with a huff. She was displeased by the whole debacle—and truly, he did stare at her every morning. Didn't he have anything better to look at?
"He's Harry Potter," said Hermione. She said it like his name on its own was an explanation, which, Ginny supposed, it sort of was. "You can go tell him that you want him to stop. See how far it gets you."
"I bet the Slytherins would just love that," Ginny grumbled. "Ginny Weasley, gone across the floor to tell Harry Potter off for staring. Yeah, they would love that."
Hermione shrugged a little and went to open her book again. Ginny watched her re-immerse herself in it, and she knew that Hermione wouldn't be surfacing any time soon. It was a pain, but it was something she'd become frighteningly used to over the course of their friendship.
Ginny looked up and for the first time that morning caught Harry Potter's gaze and stared him straight in the face. He sat across the Great Hall and watched her with eyes glowing green like Death.
And Ginny had nothing to say.
She tore herself away from that stunning look. She would not—could not—allow herself to be brought under the scrutiny of his interest. At least not willingly. It was too dangerous to be under Harry Potter's obsessive enthrallment willingly.
There weren't many things that scared Ginevra Weasley.
But Harry Potter's fascination did.
Ginny shuddered, and gathered her things as quickly as she could. It felt a little like running away, but not really.
She had to get to class.
His eyes were still on the back of her neck, burrowing deep underneath her skin. Ginny stood up a little straighter, slung her bookbag over her shoulder, and away she went.
The sixth years were in Greenhouse Eight, that day. It was the smallest Greenhouse and, as such, the most dangerous. Ginny looked around it and felt a little bit ill. It was like being in a very humid, very green jungle. Out of the corner of her eye, the haze of magic that fed the plants was almost visible, a sheen of yellow-green-gold-pink that clung to everything in the room.
Ginny liked plants. Just not plants that were consistently trying to kill her.
(Really, who liked plants that tried to kill a person when they weren't looking?
Well, Ginny thought with a smile, excluding Neville, anyway.)
Professor Sprout was happily chuffing along, animatedly waving her arms around as she spoke. Ginny had tuned her out and slunk to the back of the group—if she was lucky, she could slip out the door without anyone noticing her skivvying and maybe get back to the Common Room in time to get cleaned up before dinner.
She had Quidditch practice that night, Ginny thought absently. The sky blazed with late afternoon sunshine just outside the door and she itched to sneak out and bask in it. They would be able to play late tonight with the sun this strong and Dean was a hard-ass taskmaster when it came to practise.
Ginny grinned at the very thought.
Well, there was a reason that they'd broken up.
Ginny inched towards the door, ducking down and creeping silently behind the last line of students. None of them paid her any mind, too engrossed in either Professor Sprout or staying alive because the Mother Tentacula was in an awful mood right then.
She slunk close to the floor, and finally made it outside. She closed the Greenhouse door behind her with a muted click.
And then she was free.
For a minute, Ginny just stood there right outside the opaque glass door of the Greenhouse with her arms thrown out to soak in the sunshine. She shed her school robes and stuffed them into her bag before dashing across the lawn to get as far away from the Greenhouses and the Forest as she possibly could. Gryffindor Tower was a long way up, but Ginny liked heights.
She dashed towards the castle, wary of teachers and of anyone shorter than she was.
"Weasley," said a voice. It thrilled along her skin, a cold drop of perfect, shiver-inducing silver liquid and everything around her froze. Ginny tilted her head up and—
Ginny hated everything.
"Potter," she said, voice cool.
He stood there with his tie loose and his dark hair ruffled, lips caught between a smirk and a grin. His glasses were askew across his face, the lenses glinting afternoon sunlight into Ginny's face. His hands were shoved in his pockets and he just—he just—stood there.
"Aren't you supposed to be in class?" asked Potter.
"Aren't you supposed to be somewhere else?" asked Ginny in reply. She tilted her chin up and her defiance was her armor because she would not allow him to walk all over her. He and Malfoy—and here, Ginny almost grimaced because everyone knew that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were best mates—walked all over every single person in the school. Everyone knew what they got up to; it was just that no one said anything because he was Harry Potter, and who in their right minds would deny him anything?
"Yeah, maybe," he said mildly. "Can I walk you to the Hall?"
Ginny rolled her eyes towards the sky. "I've said no every day for a month. What in Merlin's name makes you think I'll change my mind?"
"I'm very persistent, Weasley. You should go out with me so I can stop bothering you," he said.
"Or maybe," he continued as the grin on his face stretched ever wider, "you want me to keep bothering you—"
Ginny's wand was out and pointed at his nose. "I will hex your mouth shut if you continue that train of thought. Hermione's come up with some pretty good ones, and I know them all," she told him pleasantly. "I don't care whether you're the Minister for Magic or a toad. If I say no, Potter, I mean it."
Potter just grinned again, with his hands still stuffed in his pockets. Ginny didn't trust him for a second but he was—he was beautiful, in a way, even if she admitted it to no one but herself.
"Can I at least walk you back to the castle?" he asked.
Ginny stared at him. "You're not going to go away until I say yes, are you?"
"Wasn't planning on it, no," said Potter.
Ginny slid her wand back into her sleeve and said "Fine. But just to the Entrance Hall."
Potter grinned widely and offered her his arm. Ginny stared at it with a mixture of resignation and dry-mouthed apathy, before raising an eyebrow. "Are you serious?"
"I'm always serious, Weasley," Potter replied.
"No," said Ginny.
She turned in a flurry and tossed her hair over her shoulder in one long wave of red, like crimson tears dripping down her back. She looked over her shoulder at him. "If you're coming, you better hurry. I don't like to wait."
Harry Potter's eyes flashed bright green and true behind his glasses. Immortalized in the afternoon sun, he was striking.
Ginny's breath caught in her throat.
But she shook her head. No, this was not the time. This was not going to work. He was Harry Potter and he was going to be the death of her.
She was sure of it.
/ / /
She set down on the pitch, breathing hard. Ginny was covered in mud and grass stains, her hair sopping wet. She shivered.
"Are we done for today? I'm freezing!" she called up to Dean. He was still high in the air, chasing after Demelza and laughing. Dennis was zigzagging back and forth, ducking in and out of the way of a pair of very violent Bludgers who seemed intent on mashing his head in.
Ginny shook her head and giggled to herself. Idiots.
But they were her idiots; her team, as close as family. They worked together as one seamless unit most of the time. Sometimes there were discrepancies but not often, and they worked well together as a group.
They would have the cup this year, Potter as Slytherin captain or not. Potter didn't have the strength or the resilience or the utter need to crush.
The Slytherins may have been ambitious, but quite frankly, the Gryffindors were far more likely to be violent in the pursuit of their victory. And Ginny was not above quietly hexing Draco Malfoy off his broom just to steal the Quaffle and put it through those lovely, golden hoops.
She would eat them alive.
Ginny grinned to herself in a vicious way, and swung her broom over her shoulder. She was muddy, grimy, and the showers called a gentle, lilting song of temptation. She wasn't skivvying. Practise had been three long hours, and Ginny felt she had the right.
"Demelza, you coming?" Ginny called again.
The "YEAH, AS SOON AS DEAN SHOVES OFF!" was faint from across the pitch and Ginny saluted the rest of her team before heading to the showers. Coote and Peakes were lazily wrestling with one of the Bludgers and Dennis was still hovering just out of reach of the second one.
Good, the party was breaking up.
Ginny turned, slow and graceful as a line of music, and walked to the change-rooms.
She stretched, yawned and dropped her broom on the floor and left a trail of clothing behind her. She knew that the boys hated it, which was probably why she did it. And Demelza didn't mind—Demelza did the exact same thing to send the boys into fits.
The gush of water was hot along her shoulders and Ginny scrubbed her skin until she was bright red, freckles flushed away from the heat and the violence from practise. She soaped her hair and rubbed at the grass stains on her palms.
She came out of the shower mostly clean and warm ten minutes later. She was just pulling her shirt on when the boys came in.
"Ack! Gin! Put some clothes on! Your brother's gonna kill me!" Dean yelped with his eyes covered.
Ginny rolled her eyes towards the ceiling as wound her wet hair into a ball at the top of her head and finished pulling her shirt down. "Dean, we dated and he didn't kill you."
Dean's face scrunched up from behind the cover of his hands. He looked pain and demanded "Are you decent?"
Ginny waggled her fingers as she headed for the door. "Am I ever, Thomas?"
The door closed behind her, and Ginny was pretty sure that the muted thunk was the sound of Dean slamming his head against the wall.
Ginny smiled to herself.
"Nice play, Weasley."
She whirled, hand on her wand (it was the natural reaction of anyone in Gryffindor House—or just anyone who had Fred and George as brothers. Self-preservation first). "Are you stalking me, Potter?"
"No," he said, mildly. His eyes were green, so green, emerald fields and Death and they flashed behind his glasses. "I came to watch you play. You're very good, Weasley."
Ginny scoffed. "So now you're trying to steal our Quidditch plays? What kind of thief are you? You're not supposed to tell anyone you're stealing secrets."
He shrugged. "I just came to watch you, Weasley."
"So you are stalking me," said Ginny, deadpan.
"No," said Potter, "I just want you to go on a date with me."
"You're disgusting," said Ginny. "Goodbye."
Ginny brushed past him with her nose in the air. It was very reminiscent of Hermione at her most condescending and Ginny was proud of herself for managing it properly. It wasn't very often that someone managed to imitate Hermione Grager.
Potter grabbed her wrist.
"One date, Weasley. One."
She glared at him, narrowing brown eyes down to slits. "No, Potter."
"You'll give in eventually," said Potter, as if she really would.
Ginny thought of second year when she'd very nearly punched him in the face—when Hermione had punched Malfoy in the face with her brother and Neville standing in the background, flabbergasted. When they'd stood united, two Gryffindor girls with violence in their eyes and magic at the tips of their fingers.
She thought of it, and controlled the urge to hurt him.
"No, Potter," she said, pleasant, "I won't. Now, if you'll let me go, I won't tell McGonagall that you're sneaking into Quidditch practise. If you don't…"
She let the statement hang, and Potter backed up, hands in the air. He seemed to do that a lot, Ginny reflected. She shot him a cold look.
"Good-night," she said.
Potter waved enthusiastically.
Ginny had to fight not to grin.
/ / /
Horace Slughorn was one of Ginny's least favourite teachers. Not as least-favourite as Snape (because no one—no one—would ever be as least-favourite as Snape), but close.
Ginny sat in her seat in the dungeons, bent over a silvery-smoking cauldron that contained the combined efforts of two hours of work. It looked alright, she thought. She might scrape a pass, at the very least.
She scooped some of the midnight blue-coloured potion into a phial, corked it, and brought it to his desk. "Here, Professor. May I go?"
Slughorn clapped. "Ah, of course, Miss Weasley, of course! Very good, very good—"
Ginny smiled prettily and tuned him out.
She walked back to her desk to gather her things, Vanishing what was left of her quite-passable potion and packing away her ingredients. She felt rather pleased with herself; Potions had never been her strong suit.
She toddled out just after of the rest of the class. They rushed off to their next respective classes or to their Common Rooms, but Ginny was perfectly content to amble her way out. She spent much of her life in transit. The times when she wasn't moving were few and far between, but also nice, she thought.
Ginny turned the corner—
Only to be dragged unceremoniously underneath a tapestry into a tiny little alcove. She was shoved against the wall, and barely had time to utter an undignified squeak! before she found her mouth snogged quite thoroughly.
Ginny jerked back, eyes wide. She pressed her fingers to her lips. "Potter, what are you—?"
He twinkled at her. "Come on, Weasley, give me a chance."
He kissed her again, effectively shutting her up.
She would have punched him, but his mouth was soft and sweet and warm and Ginny felt a good bit light-headed.
Well, he was Harry Potter.
He was good at everything else—this ought to be no surprise, Ginny thought faintly. He moved back only an inch, still in her personal space, and whispered very softly "One date, Weasley. Just one."
"I'll snog you again if you say no," he almost threatened. "You're much more agreeable that way."
"You're a horrible person," she replied.
"So is that a yes?"
Ginny exhaled heavily. "Yes, fine. One date, Potter. Just one."
Harry Potter grinned, jubilant, and Ginny felt her stomach flip. She wound her fingers into his tie, razor sharp, razor clean, and tugged him back down.
This isn't going to end well, she thought distantly. But then he was kissing her again, and that was the end of that.
/ / /
It was of a very great interest to a very great many people that Ginny Weasley had finally given in to dating Harry Potter.
Ginny was not impressed.
Ron seemed to hover even more than usual. Hermione seemed to be either delighted or revolted or maybe it was a little of both. The rest of Gryffindor House was enraged, and Slytherin House was little better.
Potter—Harry—just seemed like nothing was different.
(He told her he'd been mentally dating her for a year. She had contemplated hexing him just to get her point across, but she didn't.)
Ginny rolled her eyes, and leaned back against him.
One date, Merlin's saggy left buttock.
notes3: guys. guys. i love HarryGinny. guys.
notes4: please do not Favourite without leaving a review. :)