Yeah, I'm back. XD

Please don't kill me...I know that I have more important things to write/update, but I have no inspiration at all.

So it's one day until the end of the school year, and I think my stalkers deserve something. (If I have any stalkers. Which I doubt. But whatevs.)

And so you guys get this random drabble-thing. Third-person stream-of-consciousness. Based a lot on personal musings, so I hope the thoughts are identifiable and such.

Be warned: Italics overload! And bad attempts at poetic stuff! Basically, constructive criticism is very welcome.

I believe that's all. Happy Reading!


Dandelion Snowflakes

I. Catharsis

It was rather sad how easy it was to place her heart in the hands of chance.

(In terms of probability, perhaps Lady Luck just cared more than he did.)

But she always felt wracked with misery when she dismembered daisies. So Ginny Weasley blew on dandelions instead.

It was oddly therapeutic.

For what did the trivialities of he-loves-me and he-loves-me-not matter as she watched the little seeds float away on the perfumed breeze?

Dandelion snowflakes were caught in her hair as she fell back on the grass with a smile.

II. Guilt

She really shouldn't have bothered with her heady visions of him resting his head on her lap, one hand of hers delicately weaving into and out of the mussed strands of his hair.

(Not because they were pointless - which they were, no denying that - but because of the emotional infidelity they entailed.)

Emotional infidelity. Emotional infidelity. Emotional. Infidelity. (The words stung.)

It wasn't that she didn't like Michael Corner; she did, very much, with an intense fervor that even she could see was a caricature of love.

A caricature, yes, but it was still undeniably nice to have her hand held between classes and someone else to buy her Butterbeer in Hogsmeade when her pocket money ran out.

Her lips twitched as she pressed a dandelion to her lips on impulse. And then sneezed.

Michael wasn't one for stolen kisses in corridors.

So she had to make do with dandelions. There was nothing wrong with that.

Or was there?

Because memories of dandelions had always gone hand in hand with her darling, darling Harry. (Darling? Since when?)

Something in her heart snapped.

III. Perception

She appeared so uncharacteristically frail, curled up in a little heap of fiery hair and coal-black robes on the grass.


But then again, it wasn't as if she had any obligation to be a spitfire when she was alone.

She chewed on her lower lip meditatively, pulling a wispy strand of hair in front of her forehead and opening her eyes into disproportionately large orbs of starlight.

As if she fancied herself to be some kind of (pathetically tragic) sprite, oh-so-very deep in thought in a field of dandelions under a willow tree. (Not that it was a willow tree, actually. But wasn't it more poetic that way?)

Really, she looked like a girl who could have been pretty if she stopped contorting her face into fantastical delusions of wistfulness.

Delusions of grandeur would have suited her better.

But it's not as if tellingher that would have helped. (Because it was one of those things she was better off not knowing.)

IV. Jealousy

'He loves me.'

He'd rescued her from Tom Riddle. (Or from herself, if you wanted to get philosophical about it.) He held her hand and saved her.

But that was ages ago.

'He loves me not.'

The way his face lit up when he caught Cho's eyes. (Not anymore, after...that, but it still stung.)

'He loves me.'

He tried to ask her to the Yule Ball last year. Tried. As a last resort. But tried.

That shouldn't count.

(Why was she even - ?)

'He loves me not.'

He had walked on air the entire day after he'd asked her out to Hogsmeade. (Not that she should've noticed that.)

And she had some kind of mystique, and when she flipped her hair and turned around and smiled like that, it didn't look affected at all.

Probably because it wasn't affected. Cho Chang didn't have to try, did she?

But she was Ginny Weasley. She didn't have to try either. She didn't need him. Or anyone, for that matter.

(But would take much-too-much effort to stop herself from wallowing in self pity now.)

'He loves me not.'

'He loves me not.'

'He loves me not.'


She pinched herself and focused on a patch of nothing-in-particular in the distance, wondering if that was the only way to stop herself from crying.

And then the moment passed. She blinked and stood up abruptly to go fetch Michael from History of Magic.

(If she hadn't given up like that, it would've taken nine tries to blow out the dandelion. But that was another one of those things she was better off not knowing, wasn't it?)


(V. Plausibility in a Parenthetical Citation

The dandelion snowflakes waltzed in midair.

Ginny Potter broke the silence. 'You know I love you, don't you? Ever so much?'

Harry opened his eyes to look up at his wife, and pondered. 'I think...I think I always did.'

Of course, upon greater reflection, he'd realize it wasn't true. But somehow it just seemed right.)