(no subject)
Title: My Hair, Your Eyes
Summary: Ginny thinks about her hair.
Word Count: 407
Written for the hpgw_otp Colors of the Rainbow Challenge. My prompt was ‘atomic tangerine’.
i.
I’ve always hated my hair. It’s too orange and too straight and too thick. I never could get it to hold a curl, even with liberal amounts of Sleakeezy’s. It’s always been too long, but I couldn’t cut it. He likes my hair long.
ii.
The summer I turned twelve, my dad bought me a box of Muggle crayons for my birthday. I think he wanted me to try to hold onto my childhood for a little bit longer, even though we both knew that I wasn’t a child anymore. I decided to humor my dear old dad and dug out my old coloring books, the ones with the princess, the knight, and the dragon.
The dragon, who was black as night, was slayed by a black-haired, green-eyes knight in shining armor. The pale princess had mud brown eyes and hair the color of tangerines.
iii.
Out of all my brothers, none of them have the same color hair as me. Oh, we all have ginger hair, but only I have hair that’s this orange. When I complained about this to Mum, she said that her brothers had had the same color hair as me. I wanted to ask more about my uncles, but Mum had tears in her eyes and a devastated look on her face.
iv.
When I was fourteen, I tried to dye my hair black. He just seemed so much more interested in dark-haired girls, so how was a girl with orange hair supposed to compete? I had Hermione help me, but I should have known better. The only magic that Hermione doesn’t understand are glamour spells.
Madam Pomfrey almost didn’t help me change my hair back. She said it would serve me right, walking around with green hair. Maybe after a few hours of that, I’d learn to double-check my spell work before casting on myself.
v.
‘I hope our children have your hair,’ he says to me one evening as we lay together on the grass watching the sunset, my head pillowed on his chest, his fingers constantly threading through my hair.
‘Is that a proposal, Mister Potter?’ I ask, lifting my head to look him in the eye.
‘What would you say if I said it was?’ He says it flippantly, but I can see that he knows that our future together hinges on my answer.
‘If our children have my hair, I hope they have your eyes.’
End
Summary: Ginny thinks about her hair.
Word Count: 407
Written for the hpgw_otp Colors of the Rainbow Challenge. My prompt was ‘atomic tangerine’.
i.
I’ve always hated my hair. It’s too orange and too straight and too thick. I never could get it to hold a curl, even with liberal amounts of Sleakeezy’s. It’s always been too long, but I couldn’t cut it. He likes my hair long.
ii.
The summer I turned twelve, my dad bought me a box of Muggle crayons for my birthday. I think he wanted me to try to hold onto my childhood for a little bit longer, even though we both knew that I wasn’t a child anymore. I decided to humor my dear old dad and dug out my old coloring books, the ones with the princess, the knight, and the dragon.
The dragon, who was black as night, was slayed by a black-haired, green-eyes knight in shining armor. The pale princess had mud brown eyes and hair the color of tangerines.
iii.
Out of all my brothers, none of them have the same color hair as me. Oh, we all have ginger hair, but only I have hair that’s this orange. When I complained about this to Mum, she said that her brothers had had the same color hair as me. I wanted to ask more about my uncles, but Mum had tears in her eyes and a devastated look on her face.
iv.
When I was fourteen, I tried to dye my hair black. He just seemed so much more interested in dark-haired girls, so how was a girl with orange hair supposed to compete? I had Hermione help me, but I should have known better. The only magic that Hermione doesn’t understand are glamour spells.
Madam Pomfrey almost didn’t help me change my hair back. She said it would serve me right, walking around with green hair. Maybe after a few hours of that, I’d learn to double-check my spell work before casting on myself.
v.
‘I hope our children have your hair,’ he says to me one evening as we lay together on the grass watching the sunset, my head pillowed on his chest, his fingers constantly threading through my hair.
‘Is that a proposal, Mister Potter?’ I ask, lifting my head to look him in the eye.
‘What would you say if I said it was?’ He says it flippantly, but I can see that he knows that our future together hinges on my answer.
‘If our children have my hair, I hope they have your eyes.’
End