Membership fic, "The Day that Ginny Weasley Came to Stay"
Yay, another new membership fic! As usual, voting is open only to community members, but our anonymous author would love to hear everyone's thoughts, so please comment and let them know what you think.
Title: The Day that Ginny Weasley Came to Stay
Author: Anonymous
Rating: R
Summary: Harry struggles to deal with his hormones whilst Ginny tries to find herself. A Post DH bit of fun featuring a manipulative but genial Kreacher, a Genre Savvy Harry and a new Mistress of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.
Word Count: 5329
The Day that Ginny Weasley Came to Stay
It was a Monday, if I remember correctly. You might be surprised that I don’t really remember, but the date or the day it happened don’t really matter, just the fact that it did.
Life, since the end of the war, had actually been very good to me. For once, the Ministry wasn’t controlled by idiots and the Wizarding world, especially the press, appeared to have better things to do than harass me.
Ron and Hermione - and Hermione’s parents - were all happy bunnies and the Weasleys in general were slowly adapting to life without Fred. Fleur’s pregnancy helped, but so did the fact that George was determined not to let his brother’s legacy die with him. The shop was open and ready for business before the August rush to get ready for school, much to the delight of all concerned, not least the goblins of Gringotts.
Ginny… well, Ginny was happy, but she wasn’t with me. She wasn’t with anyone, so that was something, but the dreams I’d had whilst on the run from Voldemort about a passionate reunion and my fingers being allowed to play freely in her knickers were, unfortunately, dashed.
“I need to find myself, Harry,” she had informed me one week after Voldemort’s death.
“Let me help,” I replied hopefully.
She shook her head.
“I can help, really I can.” I sidled up to her. “Look,” I proclaimed as I wrapped my arms around her waist, “you’re right here.”
She didn’t laugh, she just moved away, shaking her head, and that was that, I’d been dumped. Some might say that I got what I deserved; after all, I’d dumped her when anyone one with a brain, and certainly any man with his bits intact, could see that Ginny Weasley was a stunner.
I wouldn’t, post, well, everything, disagree, but in my defence I did have a lot on my plate AND it was a very big plate. ‘I have to find myself,’ sounded a bit pathetic, to me at least, when compared to ‘I have to find a stack of Dark objects and then kill the evil bastard, mind if we put things on hold ‘til then?’ As I said, at least to me it did, but it appeared not to everyone else, and particularly not to Ginny.
Ron and Hermione were sympathetic, but too caught up in their own relationship to really care that much. I couldn’t blame them, really I couldn’t. Well, perhaps a bit. Well, come to think of it, I could blame them a huge amount and had, in a huff of righteous indignation, ignored them for a whole week.
Fat lot it did me, as they didn’t notice, and so I was back to square one; single, frustrated and, if I was being honest - and what’s the point of a monologue if you’re not - lonely.
I watched the world go on around me feeling left out of the new, improved Wizarding world. I had little energy or desire for anything other than the vision that was Ginny, who appeared to grow lovelier to look at with every passing day. It got so I couldn’t stay in the same room as her; not because she was difficult to talk to, she wasn’t. By some bizarre twist of fate, she wanted to spend time with me and chat about life, the universe and everything and, in particular, her desire to play Quidditch. I listened, or at least I tried to, honest I did, Guv. I tried, I really did, but as she spoke about her mother’s insistence that she went back to Hogwarts and her own desire to join the Harpies, all I could focus on were the tantalising glimpses she would give me of her oh, so beautiful breasts.
They were, and still are, a truly wonderful sight, which left me speechless the first time I saw them.
‘Harry,’ she’d asked as I stared at the two wonders that had been released from the confines of her bodice charm. ‘Is everything all right?’
Everything was more than all right, it was just that every fantasy I’d had about her breasts had failed to come close to the delights that had appeared in front of me. Later I learned that she thought one of them, the left I think, was bigger than the other. I didn’t care and neither did she once I’d learned to show my appreciation rather than try and express it verbally.
But, as I was saying before many years of bosom-based bliss led me astray, when I didn’t reply, she had taken matters into her own hands and pulled my face down into her stupendous chest and let my instincts take over.
In the midst of our conversations, I got up frequently to get her a glass of water or fetch a biscuit or close or open a window or anything that meant that I could leave my seat.
None of these things were really needed; after all, it could’ve all been done by magic. But then I wouldn’t have been able to lean over her as I placed the glass or the biscuit in front of her and glimpse not only more of her cleavage but, once or twice, the cherry red of a nipple.
All of which was very bad for me, because I had sworn that I would not relieve my frustrations in the time-honoured teenage boy tradition, but wait until she and I were once again an item.
It would be a long wait. A very long wait.
I tried everything to calm down, even after my dreams said enough was enough, and started making changing the bed a daily and sometimes nightly occurrence. Having been let down by the tepid cold water that came out of the Weasleys’ shower when set to cold, I turned to Mother Nature for help.
The River Otter is freezing even on the hottest of days; cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, but not, it turned out, cold enough to make Potter’s knackers shrink enough to stop wanting to grope a girl who has decided to explore life rather than the pleasures of a physical relationship.
Stupid cow decided she wanted to join me in the water, didn’t she? You might notice that I’m not being very nice towards her now. It was torture, sheer bloody hell. Freezing your meat and two veg into oblivion is one thing; having the woman who is the source of all your frustration want to play in the water whilst wearing a bikini is another. Her body was more beautiful than I’d remembered. I would try and describe it but there really is no point. I wasn’t feeling poetic, just randy, and despite the arctic weather conditions I was forcing my nuts to endure, John Thomas struggled manfully to his feet and demanded attention.
In the end I cheated, sending a wandless Cutting Charm at one of her straps whilst her back was turned. It was weak, after all wandless magic takes all your concentration and mine was everywhere else at that moment in time, but it caused her enough alarm to send her back to her clothes and allow me to escape.
That night’s sleep was the most disrupted yet and I decided things had to change or I would go mad.
I’d talked to Kreacher on and off since the Battle for Hogwarts and had been pleased to find that he was a very happy elf.
‘Kreacher is very pleased to use his talents and his knowledge to help wizards become more like Master Regulus,’ he had croaked at me one day. ‘But Kreacher needs his own house and family to be all that he should be.’
That day, Kreacher’s dreams came true.
“ ‘I’m going to move into Regulus’ gaffe,’ I’d informed him, trying and failing to impress him with my ‘I’m a Londoner’ accent, ‘do you think you can make the place liveable again?’ ”
I’d been there once since the Death Eaters had trashed it and it was a sorry sight. Still, the magic embedded deep within the walls had made it impossible to destroy and Kreacher was nothing if not a resourceful elf.
The Black family fortune was tied up in a number of trusts that managed both to frustrate the Ministry and the Malfoys when both tried to lay their hands on the not inconsiderable fortune it contained. Kreacher, as a house-elf bound by magic to the family, had free access to it. He couldn’t take any money out, but he could pay for all the expenditure that was incurred for the running and maintenance of the property and its inhabitants.
All of which was fine and dandy as my limited resources were tied up as the Ministry sought to negotiate the unfreezing of my account, an act designed as revenge for my recent and somewhat devastating visit.
The next day, Ginny kept her distance from me and I was free to cool down as best I could. Actually, I did more than cool down, as once the little man was safely back in hibernation, I waded along the river, eventually reaching the tidal estuary.
I lazed around the beach for a few hours, thankful for Sun Cream Charms and a much warmer sea to play around in. I wasn’t thankful for the girls who made cow eyes at me or their upset boyfriends and brothers who thought it was all my fault. In the end, it all became a bit too complicated to be fun any more, and so I set off home, trying to hold on to the best parts of the day as I did so. I arrived back late and knackered, having missed both the evening meal and Ginny’s bust-up with her parents.
Ginny arguing with her mum was nothing new. They were too alike to really get on, and Molly’s views on how a young woman should behave were very different to Ginny’s. That her dad had been dragged into it was a big surprise and a very worrying development.
In response, I did the only sensible thing a man in my position could do; I moved out.
Kreacher had done wonders with the place in the short time he’d been getting things ready. I suspected he’d been working on it for a while, but I didn’t tell him that.
The kitchen, the living room, my bedroom and the bathroom were all in tip top condition and so I settled in, pleased to be out of what was sure to be a worsening situation back at The Burrow.
For the following week, I helped Kreacher decorate. Helped is a euphemism for struggled with a paintbrush to finish one room whilst he did three. I didn’t know any spells for decorating so I was left with an array of brushes, a roller and a set of creaky stepladders. At the end of each day I was creamed, but as my bedclothes were clean in the morning I was happy to put up with my aching limbs.
In three weeks the house was all but finished. There were several rooms that were under-furnished but, as I wasn’t expecting any guests soon, I didn’t see that as a problem.
I did wonder why no one had come asking after me, but Kreacher only smiled when I asked him.
‘Kreacher’s wards keep out the nosey and the unwanted. They will do until Master Harry is ready to set up his own.’
He remained infuriatingly tight-lipped as to just who this excluded but I was grateful for the space and the fact that my todger’s activity had calmed down to manageable levels.
Still, there came a time when, calm appendage or not, it was time to brave the outside world and buy those few items that would make the house a Potter home.
I chose the First of September because, in my naivety, I reasoned that it would be a relatively quiet day, not that I’d had much luck with relatives but I was feeling lucky, or brave or stupid (answers on a postcard, please, to…) and so I chucked the thingy powder into the fireplace and, taking the deepest of breaths, headed to Diagon Alley.
Now, I’m not one to court fame, I think my life up to this point bears that out, but I was expecting a bit more of a reception that the one I got. Pottermania it wasn’t; actually, it wasn’t even wannabeboybandmania. It was mainly ‘good to see you, Mister Potter,’ and other boring stuff like that. ‘Disappointed’ didn’t really sum it up. The girls didn’t flock to me; actually, they seemed to go out of their way to ignore me. I think I’d been more attractive to the opposite sex in the run up to the Yule Ball.
The good thing was, I told my disappointed self, that I was left unmolested by everyone, as that morning’s departure of the Hogwarts Express from King’s Cross also reduced the crowds to a more manageable and less problematic level.
And none of the shops had anything I wanted to buy. either.
I was, at this point, leaning towards pissing off home and just buying some flying ducks for the walls, but the novelty, and therefore annoyance, of being ignored was wearing off and the lure of wandering around Hogsmead without being stared at was proving too much to resist. And so, with an elegant pirouette and a casual flick of the wrist, I ended up outside the Three Broomsticks. A pie and pint later, I set off to find those knick-knacks that you can’t describe but know when you see them.
Instead… well, I found her. Well, not just her, but HER, as in ‘er in doors. But I digress, not to say get ahead of myself.
Her hair was black, jet-black. More akin to that found on the heads of the Black family than the messy, raven mop that defied every attempt that I had ever made to flatten it. Two types of black, you say? Well, I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d seen it.
But her freckles and her creamy-white kissable neck were pure Ginny Weasley. Her eyes were dark grey, black even, reminding me of both Bellatrix and Sirius.
‘Ginevra Black, I presume.’
She spun round, her face scrunched up in suspicion.
‘Baby Potter,’ she replied with a laugh.
My skin crawled as her smile twisted into a sneer, which, seeing my obvious discomfort, disappeared very quickly. She blushed, embarrassed by her failed attempt at humour, and then shrugged in the way that the twins did when a joke ended up not being funny.
“Gotta test new material out some how,’ Fred had explained after one equally tasteless and tactless joke.
‘What of it?’ she said in a voice that was more Ginny and less Bella.
Now don’t get me wrong, Bellatrix was a bitch of the first order and a sadist to boot, but she was a looker even after Azkaban. I must have been spending too much time in the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, but the idea of a Black version of Ginny woke up the little man something chronic.
‘Down, Towser’, I muttered, hoping that the kink that was working its way through my imagination was temporary and didn’t represent the last knockings of an evil bitch and her chums.
‘I wonder if collar and cuffs match?’ muttered my traitorous todger, who was now straining at the leash, making my once voluminous trousers more cramped than they had any right to be.
‘Potter,’ she sighed, ‘stop staring and help me out here.’
‘George?’ I asked in what I hoped was a sympathetic voice.
‘No, Kreacher.’
Kreacher, eh? What was that little toe rag playing at?
‘When will it wear off?’
‘I didn’t think it looked that bad.’
‘It doesn’t, but you do a good impression of Bella and that’s a bit creepy.’
‘A better one than Hermione?’
‘A better looking one.’
Did I say that out loud? That’s the trouble when all the blood rushes from one end of your body to another, you become thicker at both ends.
She didn’t reply, either because I disgusted her or, and it’s a long shot, because whilst she did dump me, she might still have a thing for me. I certainly had a thing for her and… well, best not go there, eh?
‘So what is the illustrious Harry Potter doing shopping in Hogsmead instead of boarding a train from King’s Cross?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘But I asked first.’
It was a game we could play all day and night if we wanted to, but if I was going to play games with the latest addition to the Black family, I could think of more energetic and more pleasurable things to do.
‘Shopping.’
She nodded, looking at me as if I was a tongue-tied first year caught like a rabbit in the glare of an unforgiving Potions Master. Due chastised, I carried on.
‘Kreacher and I’ - does that make us sound like a couple? - ‘have been doing up Number Twelve and so I’m shopping for the last few bits.’
‘Good, I’m coming with you.’
She linked her arm in mine and started to lead me up the High Street to a furniture shop I didn’t even know existed.
“Er, Ginny?’ I asked as she dragged me in through the door, ‘much as I think black hair suits you.…’ I paused. Anyone else, and hopefully Ginny was included in that number, would think that I was searching for le mot juste when faced with an awkward situation. And if that’s what they were thinking, then fine, but me and Mr JT were wondering just how much paler Miss Black’s skin would look with dark tresses, rather than red, tumbling over her bare shoulders. And would her nether region…
I stopped that train of thought long before things got out of control, but only just.
We had stopped and she was staring at me, her face a mixture of confusion and amusement.
‘…er.’
Did I tell you how eloquent I’d become locked up with a house-elf who’d only spent one year out of the last twelve sane?
‘It’s not Bella, by the way,’ she said apparently realising that my brain had ground to a halt. ‘My mum thought that too, but Teddy didn’t.’
‘Ah,’ I nodded sagely, now worried whether my new found fetish with the women of the Black family meant that I would have to watch myself when I went to see Andromeda.
‘So your mum, she…’
Ginny, being the bright girl she was, realised that I wasn’t feeling that talkative and continued.
‘We’ve been at odds… well, war really, ever since I told her I wasn’t going back to Hogwarts.’
‘You’re not?’
‘Nah, too many bad memories and too many members of Slytherin House who would be lucky to survive the year if I had anything to do with it. Of course, if you’d stuck around, you would know this.’
‘You didn’t appear to want me to stay.’
‘What ever gave you that impression?’
‘The fact that you dumped me ring any bells?’
I’d never seen Ginny roll her eyes before, that was Hermione’s job, after all. But all Hermione was good for these days was a roll in the hay with my long lost wingman.
‘What gave you that impression?’
I apologise for the intrusion of all this serious relationship talk, dear readers. That well known brand of British humour that masquerades as sarcasm will return in just a jiffy. A jiffy, as I understand it, is two shakes of a lamb’s tail, so why don’t you pop off and find a lamb whilst Miss Black and I get to grips with the heavy stuff.
Before I could slip seamlessly into my serious clothes, Ginny was off.
‘I spent every bloody day with you, you plonker. Froze my nipples off in that bloody river and put up with a shaving rash for a fucking week just so I could wear that bloody bikini.’
My attempts to slip into my serious clothes floundered, as I got no further than my underpants. I was lucky to even keep them on as an all too realistic image of Ginny in the bath taking one for the team so she could flirt with me played out in my now sad and truly perverted mind.
‘What?’ said the part of my brain that wasn’t getting ready to pump 10ccs of liquid to the surface, ‘She got nearly naked for me?
‘And I got bloody burnt with it as well. Another thing my mother ranted at me about, but then I deserved that for being stupid enough not to bother with any charms, as I’d planned for you to ensure that my body was protected with that bloody Muggle muck smeared all over me by your grubby mits. But no; you had to stay in the water, freezing your dick off, whilst I worried about how long my Menstrual Charm would hold before I started to bleed into the water. If my strap hadn’t broken, I would have ended up breaking you, you wanker.’
Don’t hold back, Ginny, tell me how you feel.
Thankfully, a scary Ginny isn’t a sexy Ginny for me, and so I’d managed to keep that quip to myself. My nuts run and cower in the corner because I happen to know she has a variation on her Bat-Bogey Hex that is tailor made for the male of the species. It is the STD from hell without the sex. There’s also a version for those who make an arse of themselves too, but the less said about that the better.
‘And then you bugger off, first for the day and then for weeks, with no one able to find you.’
I didn’t say anything, mainly because she was in mid flow, and secondly because there was nothing to say. I had buggered off, and try as I might, I couldn’t feel guilty about it.
By the way, how is the search for the lamb going?
‘And finally, yesterday, I found Kreacher lurking in my bedroom looking smug and leering at me in my summer night dress.’
So that’s where I get the pervert thing from, I caught it from Kreacher. Still, that didn’t explain why I found the idea of my former girlfriend transformed into a woman who was old enough to be my grandma so damn sexy.
“ ‘Master Harry is ready to receive guests now,’ he says, offering me a lurid looking potion.
“ ‘I’m not drinking that,’ I told him.
“ ‘Then Master Harry will have to go back to going blind,’ he replied somewhat cryptically.
“ ‘That makes two of us,’ I replied before grabbing the flask and downing it.
‘What did it taste like?’ I asked, curious after all the Polyjuice Potion I drank the previous year.
‘Like you,’ she replied with a smirk that had my ship’s crew racing to hoist the flag again.
Note to search party: forget the lamb, serious is getting sexy and the last thing I need is one of Shaun’s pals turning up and being a baad boy.
Two minutes later I know that, although she may look like a Black, the girl I am kissing is all Ginny.
We buy a bed; it’s big, it won’t creak and it’s big enough to both roll over in a huff and change positions without falling on the floor. She buys loads of things, including half of the newly opened Hogsmead branch of Twilfit and Tattings, declaring that, as the new Lady of the House, she must look the part.
‘Why not just send Kreacher to The Burrow to pick up your stuff?’ I ask, bored with the whole thing and wanting to go home and try out the new bed that Kreacher had transported back to Number Twelve.
‘What would you rather I wore,’ she calls from the back of the shop, holding up something that should be illegal for a girl like her to purchase over the counter, ‘these or little girl knickers?’
My friend between my legs pokes me in the thigh, just in case I didn’t know the correct answer. I don’t have to reply, though, as Ginny carries on, blithely ignoring me.
Madam Twilfit is standing next to me, having been shooed away by a very determined Ginny early on.
‘I’m glad to see that someone is giving you the reward you deserve, Mr Potter,’ she whispers in my ear. Her voice is seductive and the warmth of her breath does nothing to keep me calm. I don’t suppose my reaction is a surprise to any of you now, given my well-established predilection for women who are glamorous grannies.
She smiles knowingly and nods towards the changing rooms at the back.
‘They are currently unoccupied and, for you, they and the whole store could remain so, if you wanted it to.’
And to think I missed this ‘Gawd it’s ‘arry Potah’ malarkey earlier today.
I smile sweetly but decline. The new Miss Black is going to be tupped on home turf, not in a changing room with half the staff listening in. Besides, there’s so much I want to learn about her new body that I can only do on a bed as large as the one that Kreacher will, if he knows what’s good for him, be sticking in the bedroom right now.
‘I’m done,’ she declares, depositing her brand new wardrobe on the counter. She’s bought well; even I can recognise quality when I see it, and she beams as the shop assistant puts it through the till.
‘I’m knackered,’ she declares, ‘happy, but knackered.’
My eyes narrow in suspicion as JT points forlornly to the floor.
‘Still, I’m sure that after a shower and a cuppa, I’ll be ready for anything.’
She winks at me before turning back to the Bottomless Bag that is now waiting on the counter for her. Three grand, is what the till is showing - Galleons, not quid.
Ginny picks up the bags and heads for the door whilst Madam Twilfit looks expectantly at me before Kreacher arrives with a trademark ‘crack!’ The till chimes a cheesy thank-you as he barks at it before departing with an equally loud displacement of air.
I’m not sure whether to kill him or cuddle him when I get back. I think I might just settle for continuing to be nice to him.
I catch up with Ginny, easily meandering as she is down the street, swinging the bag and humming a happy tune.
‘Three grand, Ginny, three fucking grand.’
‘Next time,’ she replies without a hint of embarrassment, ‘don’t make me wait so long. Besides, compared to what I’ve put up with these last six weeks, you’ve got off lightly.’
As we wander down the street, she fills me in on the rows and tantrums that have come to sum up her relationship with her mother.
‘So I couldn’t sign for the Harpies as I was underage, and my parents wouldn’t sign because Dad didn’t want to upset Mum.’
‘You’re of age now.’
‘But the deadline was the seventh of August, so I’m buggered until next year. I’ll be a bit rusty but I’ll still give it a go.’
People are staring now, the quiet, nodding thank-yous of the morning a distant memory. Women are staring at me with what can only be described as bedroom eyes and small children gawp in awe as their hero walks coolly past them. I’m pleased that the schools have gone back, as I don’t think I could cope with hordes of giggling schoolgirls.
‘Kreacher, you old dog, you.’
‘What?’ Ginny asks as she glares at one young mum who is trying to persuade her young son to go and ask Harry Potter for his autograph. The woman tries to straighten her hair as she whispers urgently to the uncooperative boy, giving lie to her motives as she does so.
‘I’ll talk to Gwenog, she’ll let you in.’
‘I want to make it on merit, thank you very much.’ She’s dropped her bag and is squaring her shoulders for a fight.
‘Oh, you will, Gwenog takes Quidditch even more seriously than Oliver did.’
‘But the season starts in three weeks, there’s no way I can-”
‘Ginny, no one, even you, is good enough to go straight from Hogwarts to the Harpies team. Even if your mum had consented, the best you could do would be the reserves or possibly only the boot room for the first year.’
‘Oh,’ she manages to mutter in reply. All this thinking and chatting had given the mum-with-the-son her opportunity and she accosts us before we can escape. I sign the boy’s parchment and, much to the mum’s disgust, so does Ginny.
‘Mummy,’ wails the boy, ‘why did the lady sign it, too? Is she famous as well?’
‘Why indeed,’ the mum bitches as Ginny smirks at her.
‘She’s going to be a famous Quidditch player’, I declare confidently. “So it’s better to have her signature than mine.’
The boy isn’t sure and the mum is livid. My reward is Ginny’s hand on my bum and a purred suggestion that the time for shopping is over.
My old friend stirs himself at the news and my thoughts now turn to the effect of my self-imposed abstinence on my performance.
“Ginny, it’s been a while so, I… er…’
She lets me squirm and her hand roams a little bit more, just to add to my discomfort.
‘And whose fault is that?’
Despite my worries. I have the sense to realise that this is not a philosophical debate.
‘Just wanted to make you aware that I might be a little trigger happy, that’s all.’
She shrugs her shoulders.
‘Fine by me, after all, aren’t superheroes supposed to be faster than a speeding bullet?’
I wasn’t quite that fast but Ginny had the good grace to marvel at the distance my pent up little friends travelled rather than the fact that I barely lasted beyond the kissing stage.
I was pleased to discover that her rash had cleared up and that her new colouring did indeed extend to all departments. A Black she may have looked like, but underneath it all she remained the Ginny Weasley I loved.
She remained a Black for a little over a month. It was long enough to annoy her mother and not too long for me to get tired of her dark tresses. And just when I began to long for that gorgeous red hair that had captivated me for longer than I could remember, I was pleased to find myself waking up next to my flame-haired goddess rather than the black-haired beauty I’d gone to bed with.
She got her trial at the Harpies, partly down to my good looks and charm, and partly because she looked nothing like the girlfriend of the-boy-who-lived.
Her reward was an unglamorous and badly paid contract, cleaning and carrying the brooms for a year. Still, she got to practise with the first team now and then when an injury required one of the reserves to join the first team.
Her feud with her mum lasted well past Christmas, but Ginny didn’t care. She’d made her point and her mother grudgingly came around.
She still gets Kreacher to brew that same potion now and again and I must say she’ll get no complaints from me about that.
John Thomas and I are still good friends, but he’s even better friends with Ginny these days, which is a relief to us all.
Me? I’m the luckiest man alive and have made it to the top of the Auror tree without once wanting to bed my godson’s grandmother.
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Title: The Day that Ginny Weasley Came to Stay
Author: Anonymous
Rating: R
Summary: Harry struggles to deal with his hormones whilst Ginny tries to find herself. A Post DH bit of fun featuring a manipulative but genial Kreacher, a Genre Savvy Harry and a new Mistress of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.
Word Count: 5329
The Day that Ginny Weasley Came to Stay
It was a Monday, if I remember correctly. You might be surprised that I don’t really remember, but the date or the day it happened don’t really matter, just the fact that it did.
Life, since the end of the war, had actually been very good to me. For once, the Ministry wasn’t controlled by idiots and the Wizarding world, especially the press, appeared to have better things to do than harass me.
Ron and Hermione - and Hermione’s parents - were all happy bunnies and the Weasleys in general were slowly adapting to life without Fred. Fleur’s pregnancy helped, but so did the fact that George was determined not to let his brother’s legacy die with him. The shop was open and ready for business before the August rush to get ready for school, much to the delight of all concerned, not least the goblins of Gringotts.
Ginny… well, Ginny was happy, but she wasn’t with me. She wasn’t with anyone, so that was something, but the dreams I’d had whilst on the run from Voldemort about a passionate reunion and my fingers being allowed to play freely in her knickers were, unfortunately, dashed.
“I need to find myself, Harry,” she had informed me one week after Voldemort’s death.
“Let me help,” I replied hopefully.
She shook her head.
“I can help, really I can.” I sidled up to her. “Look,” I proclaimed as I wrapped my arms around her waist, “you’re right here.”
She didn’t laugh, she just moved away, shaking her head, and that was that, I’d been dumped. Some might say that I got what I deserved; after all, I’d dumped her when anyone one with a brain, and certainly any man with his bits intact, could see that Ginny Weasley was a stunner.
I wouldn’t, post, well, everything, disagree, but in my defence I did have a lot on my plate AND it was a very big plate. ‘I have to find myself,’ sounded a bit pathetic, to me at least, when compared to ‘I have to find a stack of Dark objects and then kill the evil bastard, mind if we put things on hold ‘til then?’ As I said, at least to me it did, but it appeared not to everyone else, and particularly not to Ginny.
Ron and Hermione were sympathetic, but too caught up in their own relationship to really care that much. I couldn’t blame them, really I couldn’t. Well, perhaps a bit. Well, come to think of it, I could blame them a huge amount and had, in a huff of righteous indignation, ignored them for a whole week.
Fat lot it did me, as they didn’t notice, and so I was back to square one; single, frustrated and, if I was being honest - and what’s the point of a monologue if you’re not - lonely.
I watched the world go on around me feeling left out of the new, improved Wizarding world. I had little energy or desire for anything other than the vision that was Ginny, who appeared to grow lovelier to look at with every passing day. It got so I couldn’t stay in the same room as her; not because she was difficult to talk to, she wasn’t. By some bizarre twist of fate, she wanted to spend time with me and chat about life, the universe and everything and, in particular, her desire to play Quidditch. I listened, or at least I tried to, honest I did, Guv. I tried, I really did, but as she spoke about her mother’s insistence that she went back to Hogwarts and her own desire to join the Harpies, all I could focus on were the tantalising glimpses she would give me of her oh, so beautiful breasts.
They were, and still are, a truly wonderful sight, which left me speechless the first time I saw them.
‘Harry,’ she’d asked as I stared at the two wonders that had been released from the confines of her bodice charm. ‘Is everything all right?’
Everything was more than all right, it was just that every fantasy I’d had about her breasts had failed to come close to the delights that had appeared in front of me. Later I learned that she thought one of them, the left I think, was bigger than the other. I didn’t care and neither did she once I’d learned to show my appreciation rather than try and express it verbally.
But, as I was saying before many years of bosom-based bliss led me astray, when I didn’t reply, she had taken matters into her own hands and pulled my face down into her stupendous chest and let my instincts take over.
In the midst of our conversations, I got up frequently to get her a glass of water or fetch a biscuit or close or open a window or anything that meant that I could leave my seat.
None of these things were really needed; after all, it could’ve all been done by magic. But then I wouldn’t have been able to lean over her as I placed the glass or the biscuit in front of her and glimpse not only more of her cleavage but, once or twice, the cherry red of a nipple.
All of which was very bad for me, because I had sworn that I would not relieve my frustrations in the time-honoured teenage boy tradition, but wait until she and I were once again an item.
It would be a long wait. A very long wait.
I tried everything to calm down, even after my dreams said enough was enough, and started making changing the bed a daily and sometimes nightly occurrence. Having been let down by the tepid cold water that came out of the Weasleys’ shower when set to cold, I turned to Mother Nature for help.
The River Otter is freezing even on the hottest of days; cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, but not, it turned out, cold enough to make Potter’s knackers shrink enough to stop wanting to grope a girl who has decided to explore life rather than the pleasures of a physical relationship.
Stupid cow decided she wanted to join me in the water, didn’t she? You might notice that I’m not being very nice towards her now. It was torture, sheer bloody hell. Freezing your meat and two veg into oblivion is one thing; having the woman who is the source of all your frustration want to play in the water whilst wearing a bikini is another. Her body was more beautiful than I’d remembered. I would try and describe it but there really is no point. I wasn’t feeling poetic, just randy, and despite the arctic weather conditions I was forcing my nuts to endure, John Thomas struggled manfully to his feet and demanded attention.
In the end I cheated, sending a wandless Cutting Charm at one of her straps whilst her back was turned. It was weak, after all wandless magic takes all your concentration and mine was everywhere else at that moment in time, but it caused her enough alarm to send her back to her clothes and allow me to escape.
That night’s sleep was the most disrupted yet and I decided things had to change or I would go mad.
I’d talked to Kreacher on and off since the Battle for Hogwarts and had been pleased to find that he was a very happy elf.
‘Kreacher is very pleased to use his talents and his knowledge to help wizards become more like Master Regulus,’ he had croaked at me one day. ‘But Kreacher needs his own house and family to be all that he should be.’
That day, Kreacher’s dreams came true.
“ ‘I’m going to move into Regulus’ gaffe,’ I’d informed him, trying and failing to impress him with my ‘I’m a Londoner’ accent, ‘do you think you can make the place liveable again?’ ”
I’d been there once since the Death Eaters had trashed it and it was a sorry sight. Still, the magic embedded deep within the walls had made it impossible to destroy and Kreacher was nothing if not a resourceful elf.
The Black family fortune was tied up in a number of trusts that managed both to frustrate the Ministry and the Malfoys when both tried to lay their hands on the not inconsiderable fortune it contained. Kreacher, as a house-elf bound by magic to the family, had free access to it. He couldn’t take any money out, but he could pay for all the expenditure that was incurred for the running and maintenance of the property and its inhabitants.
All of which was fine and dandy as my limited resources were tied up as the Ministry sought to negotiate the unfreezing of my account, an act designed as revenge for my recent and somewhat devastating visit.
The next day, Ginny kept her distance from me and I was free to cool down as best I could. Actually, I did more than cool down, as once the little man was safely back in hibernation, I waded along the river, eventually reaching the tidal estuary.
I lazed around the beach for a few hours, thankful for Sun Cream Charms and a much warmer sea to play around in. I wasn’t thankful for the girls who made cow eyes at me or their upset boyfriends and brothers who thought it was all my fault. In the end, it all became a bit too complicated to be fun any more, and so I set off home, trying to hold on to the best parts of the day as I did so. I arrived back late and knackered, having missed both the evening meal and Ginny’s bust-up with her parents.
Ginny arguing with her mum was nothing new. They were too alike to really get on, and Molly’s views on how a young woman should behave were very different to Ginny’s. That her dad had been dragged into it was a big surprise and a very worrying development.
In response, I did the only sensible thing a man in my position could do; I moved out.
Kreacher had done wonders with the place in the short time he’d been getting things ready. I suspected he’d been working on it for a while, but I didn’t tell him that.
The kitchen, the living room, my bedroom and the bathroom were all in tip top condition and so I settled in, pleased to be out of what was sure to be a worsening situation back at The Burrow.
For the following week, I helped Kreacher decorate. Helped is a euphemism for struggled with a paintbrush to finish one room whilst he did three. I didn’t know any spells for decorating so I was left with an array of brushes, a roller and a set of creaky stepladders. At the end of each day I was creamed, but as my bedclothes were clean in the morning I was happy to put up with my aching limbs.
In three weeks the house was all but finished. There were several rooms that were under-furnished but, as I wasn’t expecting any guests soon, I didn’t see that as a problem.
I did wonder why no one had come asking after me, but Kreacher only smiled when I asked him.
‘Kreacher’s wards keep out the nosey and the unwanted. They will do until Master Harry is ready to set up his own.’
He remained infuriatingly tight-lipped as to just who this excluded but I was grateful for the space and the fact that my todger’s activity had calmed down to manageable levels.
Still, there came a time when, calm appendage or not, it was time to brave the outside world and buy those few items that would make the house a Potter home.
I chose the First of September because, in my naivety, I reasoned that it would be a relatively quiet day, not that I’d had much luck with relatives but I was feeling lucky, or brave or stupid (answers on a postcard, please, to…) and so I chucked the thingy powder into the fireplace and, taking the deepest of breaths, headed to Diagon Alley.
Now, I’m not one to court fame, I think my life up to this point bears that out, but I was expecting a bit more of a reception that the one I got. Pottermania it wasn’t; actually, it wasn’t even wannabeboybandmania. It was mainly ‘good to see you, Mister Potter,’ and other boring stuff like that. ‘Disappointed’ didn’t really sum it up. The girls didn’t flock to me; actually, they seemed to go out of their way to ignore me. I think I’d been more attractive to the opposite sex in the run up to the Yule Ball.
The good thing was, I told my disappointed self, that I was left unmolested by everyone, as that morning’s departure of the Hogwarts Express from King’s Cross also reduced the crowds to a more manageable and less problematic level.
And none of the shops had anything I wanted to buy. either.
I was, at this point, leaning towards pissing off home and just buying some flying ducks for the walls, but the novelty, and therefore annoyance, of being ignored was wearing off and the lure of wandering around Hogsmead without being stared at was proving too much to resist. And so, with an elegant pirouette and a casual flick of the wrist, I ended up outside the Three Broomsticks. A pie and pint later, I set off to find those knick-knacks that you can’t describe but know when you see them.
Instead… well, I found her. Well, not just her, but HER, as in ‘er in doors. But I digress, not to say get ahead of myself.
Her hair was black, jet-black. More akin to that found on the heads of the Black family than the messy, raven mop that defied every attempt that I had ever made to flatten it. Two types of black, you say? Well, I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d seen it.
But her freckles and her creamy-white kissable neck were pure Ginny Weasley. Her eyes were dark grey, black even, reminding me of both Bellatrix and Sirius.
‘Ginevra Black, I presume.’
She spun round, her face scrunched up in suspicion.
‘Baby Potter,’ she replied with a laugh.
My skin crawled as her smile twisted into a sneer, which, seeing my obvious discomfort, disappeared very quickly. She blushed, embarrassed by her failed attempt at humour, and then shrugged in the way that the twins did when a joke ended up not being funny.
“Gotta test new material out some how,’ Fred had explained after one equally tasteless and tactless joke.
‘What of it?’ she said in a voice that was more Ginny and less Bella.
Now don’t get me wrong, Bellatrix was a bitch of the first order and a sadist to boot, but she was a looker even after Azkaban. I must have been spending too much time in the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, but the idea of a Black version of Ginny woke up the little man something chronic.
‘Down, Towser’, I muttered, hoping that the kink that was working its way through my imagination was temporary and didn’t represent the last knockings of an evil bitch and her chums.
‘I wonder if collar and cuffs match?’ muttered my traitorous todger, who was now straining at the leash, making my once voluminous trousers more cramped than they had any right to be.
‘Potter,’ she sighed, ‘stop staring and help me out here.’
‘George?’ I asked in what I hoped was a sympathetic voice.
‘No, Kreacher.’
Kreacher, eh? What was that little toe rag playing at?
‘When will it wear off?’
‘I didn’t think it looked that bad.’
‘It doesn’t, but you do a good impression of Bella and that’s a bit creepy.’
‘A better one than Hermione?’
‘A better looking one.’
Did I say that out loud? That’s the trouble when all the blood rushes from one end of your body to another, you become thicker at both ends.
She didn’t reply, either because I disgusted her or, and it’s a long shot, because whilst she did dump me, she might still have a thing for me. I certainly had a thing for her and… well, best not go there, eh?
‘So what is the illustrious Harry Potter doing shopping in Hogsmead instead of boarding a train from King’s Cross?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘But I asked first.’
It was a game we could play all day and night if we wanted to, but if I was going to play games with the latest addition to the Black family, I could think of more energetic and more pleasurable things to do.
‘Shopping.’
She nodded, looking at me as if I was a tongue-tied first year caught like a rabbit in the glare of an unforgiving Potions Master. Due chastised, I carried on.
‘Kreacher and I’ - does that make us sound like a couple? - ‘have been doing up Number Twelve and so I’m shopping for the last few bits.’
‘Good, I’m coming with you.’
She linked her arm in mine and started to lead me up the High Street to a furniture shop I didn’t even know existed.
“Er, Ginny?’ I asked as she dragged me in through the door, ‘much as I think black hair suits you.…’ I paused. Anyone else, and hopefully Ginny was included in that number, would think that I was searching for le mot juste when faced with an awkward situation. And if that’s what they were thinking, then fine, but me and Mr JT were wondering just how much paler Miss Black’s skin would look with dark tresses, rather than red, tumbling over her bare shoulders. And would her nether region…
I stopped that train of thought long before things got out of control, but only just.
We had stopped and she was staring at me, her face a mixture of confusion and amusement.
‘…er.’
Did I tell you how eloquent I’d become locked up with a house-elf who’d only spent one year out of the last twelve sane?
‘It’s not Bella, by the way,’ she said apparently realising that my brain had ground to a halt. ‘My mum thought that too, but Teddy didn’t.’
‘Ah,’ I nodded sagely, now worried whether my new found fetish with the women of the Black family meant that I would have to watch myself when I went to see Andromeda.
‘So your mum, she…’
Ginny, being the bright girl she was, realised that I wasn’t feeling that talkative and continued.
‘We’ve been at odds… well, war really, ever since I told her I wasn’t going back to Hogwarts.’
‘You’re not?’
‘Nah, too many bad memories and too many members of Slytherin House who would be lucky to survive the year if I had anything to do with it. Of course, if you’d stuck around, you would know this.’
‘You didn’t appear to want me to stay.’
‘What ever gave you that impression?’
‘The fact that you dumped me ring any bells?’
I’d never seen Ginny roll her eyes before, that was Hermione’s job, after all. But all Hermione was good for these days was a roll in the hay with my long lost wingman.
‘What gave you that impression?’
I apologise for the intrusion of all this serious relationship talk, dear readers. That well known brand of British humour that masquerades as sarcasm will return in just a jiffy. A jiffy, as I understand it, is two shakes of a lamb’s tail, so why don’t you pop off and find a lamb whilst Miss Black and I get to grips with the heavy stuff.
Before I could slip seamlessly into my serious clothes, Ginny was off.
‘I spent every bloody day with you, you plonker. Froze my nipples off in that bloody river and put up with a shaving rash for a fucking week just so I could wear that bloody bikini.’
My attempts to slip into my serious clothes floundered, as I got no further than my underpants. I was lucky to even keep them on as an all too realistic image of Ginny in the bath taking one for the team so she could flirt with me played out in my now sad and truly perverted mind.
‘What?’ said the part of my brain that wasn’t getting ready to pump 10ccs of liquid to the surface, ‘She got nearly naked for me?
‘And I got bloody burnt with it as well. Another thing my mother ranted at me about, but then I deserved that for being stupid enough not to bother with any charms, as I’d planned for you to ensure that my body was protected with that bloody Muggle muck smeared all over me by your grubby mits. But no; you had to stay in the water, freezing your dick off, whilst I worried about how long my Menstrual Charm would hold before I started to bleed into the water. If my strap hadn’t broken, I would have ended up breaking you, you wanker.’
Don’t hold back, Ginny, tell me how you feel.
Thankfully, a scary Ginny isn’t a sexy Ginny for me, and so I’d managed to keep that quip to myself. My nuts run and cower in the corner because I happen to know she has a variation on her Bat-Bogey Hex that is tailor made for the male of the species. It is the STD from hell without the sex. There’s also a version for those who make an arse of themselves too, but the less said about that the better.
‘And then you bugger off, first for the day and then for weeks, with no one able to find you.’
I didn’t say anything, mainly because she was in mid flow, and secondly because there was nothing to say. I had buggered off, and try as I might, I couldn’t feel guilty about it.
By the way, how is the search for the lamb going?
‘And finally, yesterday, I found Kreacher lurking in my bedroom looking smug and leering at me in my summer night dress.’
So that’s where I get the pervert thing from, I caught it from Kreacher. Still, that didn’t explain why I found the idea of my former girlfriend transformed into a woman who was old enough to be my grandma so damn sexy.
“ ‘Master Harry is ready to receive guests now,’ he says, offering me a lurid looking potion.
“ ‘I’m not drinking that,’ I told him.
“ ‘Then Master Harry will have to go back to going blind,’ he replied somewhat cryptically.
“ ‘That makes two of us,’ I replied before grabbing the flask and downing it.
‘What did it taste like?’ I asked, curious after all the Polyjuice Potion I drank the previous year.
‘Like you,’ she replied with a smirk that had my ship’s crew racing to hoist the flag again.
Note to search party: forget the lamb, serious is getting sexy and the last thing I need is one of Shaun’s pals turning up and being a baad boy.
Two minutes later I know that, although she may look like a Black, the girl I am kissing is all Ginny.
We buy a bed; it’s big, it won’t creak and it’s big enough to both roll over in a huff and change positions without falling on the floor. She buys loads of things, including half of the newly opened Hogsmead branch of Twilfit and Tattings, declaring that, as the new Lady of the House, she must look the part.
‘Why not just send Kreacher to The Burrow to pick up your stuff?’ I ask, bored with the whole thing and wanting to go home and try out the new bed that Kreacher had transported back to Number Twelve.
‘What would you rather I wore,’ she calls from the back of the shop, holding up something that should be illegal for a girl like her to purchase over the counter, ‘these or little girl knickers?’
My friend between my legs pokes me in the thigh, just in case I didn’t know the correct answer. I don’t have to reply, though, as Ginny carries on, blithely ignoring me.
Madam Twilfit is standing next to me, having been shooed away by a very determined Ginny early on.
‘I’m glad to see that someone is giving you the reward you deserve, Mr Potter,’ she whispers in my ear. Her voice is seductive and the warmth of her breath does nothing to keep me calm. I don’t suppose my reaction is a surprise to any of you now, given my well-established predilection for women who are glamorous grannies.
She smiles knowingly and nods towards the changing rooms at the back.
‘They are currently unoccupied and, for you, they and the whole store could remain so, if you wanted it to.’
And to think I missed this ‘Gawd it’s ‘arry Potah’ malarkey earlier today.
I smile sweetly but decline. The new Miss Black is going to be tupped on home turf, not in a changing room with half the staff listening in. Besides, there’s so much I want to learn about her new body that I can only do on a bed as large as the one that Kreacher will, if he knows what’s good for him, be sticking in the bedroom right now.
‘I’m done,’ she declares, depositing her brand new wardrobe on the counter. She’s bought well; even I can recognise quality when I see it, and she beams as the shop assistant puts it through the till.
‘I’m knackered,’ she declares, ‘happy, but knackered.’
My eyes narrow in suspicion as JT points forlornly to the floor.
‘Still, I’m sure that after a shower and a cuppa, I’ll be ready for anything.’
She winks at me before turning back to the Bottomless Bag that is now waiting on the counter for her. Three grand, is what the till is showing - Galleons, not quid.
Ginny picks up the bags and heads for the door whilst Madam Twilfit looks expectantly at me before Kreacher arrives with a trademark ‘crack!’ The till chimes a cheesy thank-you as he barks at it before departing with an equally loud displacement of air.
I’m not sure whether to kill him or cuddle him when I get back. I think I might just settle for continuing to be nice to him.
I catch up with Ginny, easily meandering as she is down the street, swinging the bag and humming a happy tune.
‘Three grand, Ginny, three fucking grand.’
‘Next time,’ she replies without a hint of embarrassment, ‘don’t make me wait so long. Besides, compared to what I’ve put up with these last six weeks, you’ve got off lightly.’
As we wander down the street, she fills me in on the rows and tantrums that have come to sum up her relationship with her mother.
‘So I couldn’t sign for the Harpies as I was underage, and my parents wouldn’t sign because Dad didn’t want to upset Mum.’
‘You’re of age now.’
‘But the deadline was the seventh of August, so I’m buggered until next year. I’ll be a bit rusty but I’ll still give it a go.’
People are staring now, the quiet, nodding thank-yous of the morning a distant memory. Women are staring at me with what can only be described as bedroom eyes and small children gawp in awe as their hero walks coolly past them. I’m pleased that the schools have gone back, as I don’t think I could cope with hordes of giggling schoolgirls.
‘Kreacher, you old dog, you.’
‘What?’ Ginny asks as she glares at one young mum who is trying to persuade her young son to go and ask Harry Potter for his autograph. The woman tries to straighten her hair as she whispers urgently to the uncooperative boy, giving lie to her motives as she does so.
‘I’ll talk to Gwenog, she’ll let you in.’
‘I want to make it on merit, thank you very much.’ She’s dropped her bag and is squaring her shoulders for a fight.
‘Oh, you will, Gwenog takes Quidditch even more seriously than Oliver did.’
‘But the season starts in three weeks, there’s no way I can-”
‘Ginny, no one, even you, is good enough to go straight from Hogwarts to the Harpies team. Even if your mum had consented, the best you could do would be the reserves or possibly only the boot room for the first year.’
‘Oh,’ she manages to mutter in reply. All this thinking and chatting had given the mum-with-the-son her opportunity and she accosts us before we can escape. I sign the boy’s parchment and, much to the mum’s disgust, so does Ginny.
‘Mummy,’ wails the boy, ‘why did the lady sign it, too? Is she famous as well?’
‘Why indeed,’ the mum bitches as Ginny smirks at her.
‘She’s going to be a famous Quidditch player’, I declare confidently. “So it’s better to have her signature than mine.’
The boy isn’t sure and the mum is livid. My reward is Ginny’s hand on my bum and a purred suggestion that the time for shopping is over.
My old friend stirs himself at the news and my thoughts now turn to the effect of my self-imposed abstinence on my performance.
“Ginny, it’s been a while so, I… er…’
She lets me squirm and her hand roams a little bit more, just to add to my discomfort.
‘And whose fault is that?’
Despite my worries. I have the sense to realise that this is not a philosophical debate.
‘Just wanted to make you aware that I might be a little trigger happy, that’s all.’
She shrugs her shoulders.
‘Fine by me, after all, aren’t superheroes supposed to be faster than a speeding bullet?’
I wasn’t quite that fast but Ginny had the good grace to marvel at the distance my pent up little friends travelled rather than the fact that I barely lasted beyond the kissing stage.
I was pleased to discover that her rash had cleared up and that her new colouring did indeed extend to all departments. A Black she may have looked like, but underneath it all she remained the Ginny Weasley I loved.
She remained a Black for a little over a month. It was long enough to annoy her mother and not too long for me to get tired of her dark tresses. And just when I began to long for that gorgeous red hair that had captivated me for longer than I could remember, I was pleased to find myself waking up next to my flame-haired goddess rather than the black-haired beauty I’d gone to bed with.
She got her trial at the Harpies, partly down to my good looks and charm, and partly because she looked nothing like the girlfriend of the-boy-who-lived.
Her reward was an unglamorous and badly paid contract, cleaning and carrying the brooms for a year. Still, she got to practise with the first team now and then when an injury required one of the reserves to join the first team.
Her feud with her mum lasted well past Christmas, but Ginny didn’t care. She’d made her point and her mother grudgingly came around.
She still gets Kreacher to brew that same potion now and again and I must say she’ll get no complaints from me about that.
John Thomas and I are still good friends, but he’s even better friends with Ginny these days, which is a relief to us all.
Me? I’m the luckiest man alive and have made it to the top of the Auror tree without once wanting to bed my godson’s grandmother.
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