Fic - Inconsistencies (Ginny) pg, 1/1
Title: Inconsistencies
Summary: She muses that it is hard to move forward, to place one foot in front of the other when there are constant reminders clouding the path. Things didn't really work out the way she planned.
Rating: pg
Author's Notes: 775 words. Harry Potter/Friday Night Lights crossover. Spoilers for all books and seasons. AU after book 7 for HP. All mistakes are mine. All characters, however, are not. Con-crit is both welcome and appreciated.
Maybe Harry doesn’t make it out alive.
Maybe he dies saving the world, noble to a tee, her favorite fault of his.
Maybe it’s fitting.
Maybe a part of her dies with him.
+
It’s a Wednesday. It’s the afternoon. She’s seventeen and out of Hogwarts, years and distance between Voldermort and The Boy Who Lived.
And despite her greatest efforts the scars still aren’t healing, and Ginny thinks that there may be a distinct possibility that they never really will. She muses that it is hard to move forward, to place one foot in front of the other when there are constant reminders clouding the path.
So she pulls out a Map.
Closes her eyes.
Leaves it up to chance.
+
Maybe there is a letter. Left in her wake on the kitchen table, short and brisk and her Mum will cry and Ron will yell and her father will sit there, resigned, sighing with shoulders slumped and probably think that it is all his fault.
Maybe she will miss them.
(But that’s not really the point, so.)
+
It’s a Monday. It’s Texas. It’s too hot.
Her skin prickles under the sun and the sweat pools at the base of her spine, and she gets off at a stop labeled Dillon and swings her bag over her shoulder and walks.
And walks. And walks.
And breathes, too, deep and steady, like she’d forgotten somehow.
It’s a nice sort of feeling.
+
“Hey, Red, you think I can get a milkshake over here?”
Ginny looks up, wipes her ice cream covered hands on her apron and adjusts her hat. A job at some ice-cream shop she’d managed to smile and talk her way into, and maybe she’d been here a day, maybe she has a hotel room she can’t afford, and maybe she’s in over her head.
Maybe she looks up and there’s a guy standing there, long hair and sunglasses, twang in his voice she’s unfamiliar with but doesn’t mind getting used to.
“Excuse me?”
Maybe the guy smiles, teeth and all, and leans onto the counter. “You ain’t from around these parts, huh?”
Maybe she smiles back. “Obviously.”
Maybe there’s a moment, sparse and fleeting, the distinct air of possibility lingering between them.
Just maybe.
+
“So you from, what? England or something?”
It’s two days later, another Wednesday, another milkshake, another smile. Ginny scrubs the counter top and looks up through the hair falling in her face.
“Or something.”
Tim leans back on the barstool and she’s known enough guys in her life to know what this is.
“So what brings you all the way out here?”
Ginny pauses, looks up, smiles something beautiful. “Change of pace never hurt anybody, right?”
He laughs, loud and boisterous, head thrown back and she thinks it’s nice, sort of, when he’s not hiding behind those sunglasses.
“I wouldn’t have chosen Dillon for you to get your change, Red.”
“What do they say?” She asks, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her weight from foot to foot. “The grass is always greener?”
The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “Something like that, yeah.”
+
Maybe that night she dreams of blackness and spots of vibrant green. Maybe she wakes with a start and reaches for her wand, only to remember she’d left it behind along with everything else she wishes she could forget.
Maybe on Thursday she smiles a little too much, leans over the counter just a little farther; tries a little harder.
Maybe she asks, “So what’s there to do on a Friday evening around here, anyhow?” in lieu of a proposition.
Maybe he smiles brilliantly back. “Well, Red, you’ll just have to wait and see.”
Maybe there’s the sound of something shifting in the distance.
+
There’s football.
There is a moment, behind the bleachers, out of sight, and he leans in too close, sweaty and still in uniform, and she smiles again with her lip between her teeth.
“This is sort of a big deal around here, huh?”
He laughs again. “Sort of, yeah.”
It’s her who leans upwards, on her tip-toes, brushing her lips just slightly against his. It’s her hands that fist in the fabric of his uniform, her sigh that falls softly between them.
“I’m not a very nice guy, you know,” he says, voice a whisper on her lips, and her mouth curves against his in a smile.
Arms around his neck, body against his and she lets out a breath, just one, deep and lengthy.
“I’m through with nice guys.”
+
Maybe it’s not exactly sunlit days.
But maybe it’ll work.
Summary: She muses that it is hard to move forward, to place one foot in front of the other when there are constant reminders clouding the path. Things didn't really work out the way she planned.
Rating: pg
Author's Notes: 775 words. Harry Potter/Friday Night Lights crossover. Spoilers for all books and seasons. AU after book 7 for HP. All mistakes are mine. All characters, however, are not. Con-crit is both welcome and appreciated.
Maybe Harry doesn’t make it out alive.
Maybe he dies saving the world, noble to a tee, her favorite fault of his.
Maybe it’s fitting.
Maybe a part of her dies with him.
+
It’s a Wednesday. It’s the afternoon. She’s seventeen and out of Hogwarts, years and distance between Voldermort and The Boy Who Lived.
And despite her greatest efforts the scars still aren’t healing, and Ginny thinks that there may be a distinct possibility that they never really will. She muses that it is hard to move forward, to place one foot in front of the other when there are constant reminders clouding the path.
So she pulls out a Map.
Closes her eyes.
Leaves it up to chance.
+
Maybe there is a letter. Left in her wake on the kitchen table, short and brisk and her Mum will cry and Ron will yell and her father will sit there, resigned, sighing with shoulders slumped and probably think that it is all his fault.
Maybe she will miss them.
(But that’s not really the point, so.)
+
It’s a Monday. It’s Texas. It’s too hot.
Her skin prickles under the sun and the sweat pools at the base of her spine, and she gets off at a stop labeled Dillon and swings her bag over her shoulder and walks.
And walks. And walks.
And breathes, too, deep and steady, like she’d forgotten somehow.
It’s a nice sort of feeling.
+
“Hey, Red, you think I can get a milkshake over here?”
Ginny looks up, wipes her ice cream covered hands on her apron and adjusts her hat. A job at some ice-cream shop she’d managed to smile and talk her way into, and maybe she’d been here a day, maybe she has a hotel room she can’t afford, and maybe she’s in over her head.
Maybe she looks up and there’s a guy standing there, long hair and sunglasses, twang in his voice she’s unfamiliar with but doesn’t mind getting used to.
“Excuse me?”
Maybe the guy smiles, teeth and all, and leans onto the counter. “You ain’t from around these parts, huh?”
Maybe she smiles back. “Obviously.”
Maybe there’s a moment, sparse and fleeting, the distinct air of possibility lingering between them.
Just maybe.
+
“So you from, what? England or something?”
It’s two days later, another Wednesday, another milkshake, another smile. Ginny scrubs the counter top and looks up through the hair falling in her face.
“Or something.”
Tim leans back on the barstool and she’s known enough guys in her life to know what this is.
“So what brings you all the way out here?”
Ginny pauses, looks up, smiles something beautiful. “Change of pace never hurt anybody, right?”
He laughs, loud and boisterous, head thrown back and she thinks it’s nice, sort of, when he’s not hiding behind those sunglasses.
“I wouldn’t have chosen Dillon for you to get your change, Red.”
“What do they say?” She asks, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her weight from foot to foot. “The grass is always greener?”
The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “Something like that, yeah.”
+
Maybe that night she dreams of blackness and spots of vibrant green. Maybe she wakes with a start and reaches for her wand, only to remember she’d left it behind along with everything else she wishes she could forget.
Maybe on Thursday she smiles a little too much, leans over the counter just a little farther; tries a little harder.
Maybe she asks, “So what’s there to do on a Friday evening around here, anyhow?” in lieu of a proposition.
Maybe he smiles brilliantly back. “Well, Red, you’ll just have to wait and see.”
Maybe there’s the sound of something shifting in the distance.
+
There’s football.
There is a moment, behind the bleachers, out of sight, and he leans in too close, sweaty and still in uniform, and she smiles again with her lip between her teeth.
“This is sort of a big deal around here, huh?”
He laughs again. “Sort of, yeah.”
It’s her who leans upwards, on her tip-toes, brushing her lips just slightly against his. It’s her hands that fist in the fabric of his uniform, her sigh that falls softly between them.
“I’m not a very nice guy, you know,” he says, voice a whisper on her lips, and her mouth curves against his in a smile.
Arms around his neck, body against his and she lets out a breath, just one, deep and lengthy.
“I’m through with nice guys.”
+
Maybe it’s not exactly sunlit days.
But maybe it’ll work.