Morning Breath (HP)
TITLE: Morning Breath
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: A light-hearted scene between Harry and Ginny the morning after his 26th birthday.
NOTES: Written as a birthday gift for arasnaem (it was her 26th birthday and I sent it a day late, hence the references to the same within); I've made some minor changes since first writing it. Thanks to katieay for beta-ing the revised version, even if you couldn't find anything to change. *g*
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
He’s wearing a thoroughly disreputable dressing gown - one of Bill’s old castoffs, she recalls, its nap worn down to a glossy sheen - and a pair of equally tatty slippers and standing before the kitchen sink, looking out the window that faces the front gate. From the faint aroma that wafts past her nostrils she can tell he’s got a mug of coffee in his hands.
The last-but-one stair creaks when she steps on it; he tenses slightly at the sound, but does not turn around or lower his cup. Ginny comes up behind him to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head against his back. The ancient flannel of the dressing gown is redolent of cloves and rosemary and Floo powder. She presses her nose against his shoulderblade, inhaling deeply, and tightens her hold around his waist.
A hand comes to rest warmly over hers; she hears the clink of the mug being set in the sink and soon his other hand joins its mate. “Sorry if I woke you,” Harry says quietly.
“You didn’t,” she reassures him. “Bad dream?” He no longer dreams of Voldemort, but sometimes buried memories of those dark times sneak up on him when his guard is down.
“No, actually. I slept quite well last night.”
“What made you wake up so early then?”
He shrugs. “Nothing, really. I just... woke up. I lay in bed for a while, but then decided I might as well get a start on my weekend.” Still enclosed by her arms, he turns to face her. “Y’know, I can’t believe I’m twenty-six now. Seems like I was sixteen only yesterday.”
A giggle escapes before she can stop it. “Surely you’re not feeling past your prime already, Harry?”
“Maybe just a little.” A hand reaches up to tug at his forelock. “I found a gray hair while I was brushing my teeth before bed last night.”
“Just one? After the stunt James pulled the other day, I should think you’d have loads more.”
His mouth twists in an abashed grin. “Maybe it’s a delayed response. I bet if I go look in a mirror now, I’ll find more.”
He moves as if to follow up on this, but she tightens her embrace to hold him there. “You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Potter.” She leans up to give him a quick kiss, then scans his face for other signs of aging, invisible to the naked eye. “Oh, dear,” she says, clucking her tongue.
“What?” he says quickly, almost brusquely, though his eyes are crinkled with good humor.
“You’ve got crow’s feet deep enough to plant corn in,” she informs him, her fingertip gently touching the corner of his eye. “Maybe we can stand you beneath the downspout when it rains and then use you to water the garden.”
“Ha ha,” he says before swooping down to plant a deliberately sloppy wet kiss on her neck, where he knows she is especially ticklish.
She squeals and wriggles to escape, though her struggle is half-hearted. “Don’t be rubbing those grizzled old man cheeks on me, giving me beard burn!” He laughs and holds her fast to do just that, pausing by her ear to whisper something that makes her insides perk up and her arms slide around his neck to pull him down for a real kiss.
They are both smiling when they part; their faces are flushed, their lips swollen. Her hands smooth down the worn and frayed lapels of his dressing gown. He has a new one - two new ones, in fact, the most recent a gift on his previous birthday - but he insists on wearing this one, claiming it would take years to break in a new one to the right level of softness and comfort.
“So, Gramps,” she says, “what are your plans for the first day of your dotage? Have a breakfast of watery porridge and prune juice? Read the Prophet and grumble about how the wizarding world’s gone to hell in a handbasket? Sit on a park bench and shake your cane at passersby?”
“I think I’ll work on refurbishing the motorbike today,” he says after considering his options.
“Ah. Recapturing your lost youth. Good plan.”
He straightens up, puffing his chest out slightly. “Not lost. Just - mislaid temporarily. Probably left it in the broom shed or a cupboard somewhere.”
This makes her laugh with delight and squeeze him reflexively. “Speaking of broom sheds,” she continues as she lowers her arms and takes a step back, “don’t forget that Andromeda’s bringing Teddy by at lunchtime.”
His face immediately brightens. “Excellent! I’ll take the lads out for a fly this afternoon.”
“You’ll be sure to strap James in securely this time?”
“I did the last time! It’s not my fault he was able to lift the charm accidentally.”
“It will be your fault if the neighbors report an unidentified flying object to the police again.”
“It’ll be a good opportunity for you to practice your Obliviating skills then,” he says with a grin.
Ginny sticks out her tongue at him. “I’d rather work on my exposé of the match-throwing scandal at the Quidditch World Cup quarterfinals, thanks. I’ve got three hours’ worth of notes on my Recording Quill to sort through before I can even think about writing.”
She turns and heads for the stairs to give the baby his morning feeding before James wakes up. She’s got a whole weekend ahead of her, and despite what she just said about the article she’s working on, she’s thinking she might like to dust off her broom and join her fellows when they go flying after lunch. As she reaches the first riser she calls back over her shoulder, “Happy day after your birthday, you crotchety old geezer.”
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: A light-hearted scene between Harry and Ginny the morning after his 26th birthday.
NOTES: Written as a birthday gift for arasnaem (it was her 26th birthday and I sent it a day late, hence the references to the same within); I've made some minor changes since first writing it. Thanks to katieay for beta-ing the revised version, even if you couldn't find anything to change. *g*
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
He’s wearing a thoroughly disreputable dressing gown - one of Bill’s old castoffs, she recalls, its nap worn down to a glossy sheen - and a pair of equally tatty slippers and standing before the kitchen sink, looking out the window that faces the front gate. From the faint aroma that wafts past her nostrils she can tell he’s got a mug of coffee in his hands.
The last-but-one stair creaks when she steps on it; he tenses slightly at the sound, but does not turn around or lower his cup. Ginny comes up behind him to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head against his back. The ancient flannel of the dressing gown is redolent of cloves and rosemary and Floo powder. She presses her nose against his shoulderblade, inhaling deeply, and tightens her hold around his waist.
A hand comes to rest warmly over hers; she hears the clink of the mug being set in the sink and soon his other hand joins its mate. “Sorry if I woke you,” Harry says quietly.
“You didn’t,” she reassures him. “Bad dream?” He no longer dreams of Voldemort, but sometimes buried memories of those dark times sneak up on him when his guard is down.
“No, actually. I slept quite well last night.”
“What made you wake up so early then?”
He shrugs. “Nothing, really. I just... woke up. I lay in bed for a while, but then decided I might as well get a start on my weekend.” Still enclosed by her arms, he turns to face her. “Y’know, I can’t believe I’m twenty-six now. Seems like I was sixteen only yesterday.”
A giggle escapes before she can stop it. “Surely you’re not feeling past your prime already, Harry?”
“Maybe just a little.” A hand reaches up to tug at his forelock. “I found a gray hair while I was brushing my teeth before bed last night.”
“Just one? After the stunt James pulled the other day, I should think you’d have loads more.”
His mouth twists in an abashed grin. “Maybe it’s a delayed response. I bet if I go look in a mirror now, I’ll find more.”
He moves as if to follow up on this, but she tightens her embrace to hold him there. “You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Potter.” She leans up to give him a quick kiss, then scans his face for other signs of aging, invisible to the naked eye. “Oh, dear,” she says, clucking her tongue.
“What?” he says quickly, almost brusquely, though his eyes are crinkled with good humor.
“You’ve got crow’s feet deep enough to plant corn in,” she informs him, her fingertip gently touching the corner of his eye. “Maybe we can stand you beneath the downspout when it rains and then use you to water the garden.”
“Ha ha,” he says before swooping down to plant a deliberately sloppy wet kiss on her neck, where he knows she is especially ticklish.
She squeals and wriggles to escape, though her struggle is half-hearted. “Don’t be rubbing those grizzled old man cheeks on me, giving me beard burn!” He laughs and holds her fast to do just that, pausing by her ear to whisper something that makes her insides perk up and her arms slide around his neck to pull him down for a real kiss.
They are both smiling when they part; their faces are flushed, their lips swollen. Her hands smooth down the worn and frayed lapels of his dressing gown. He has a new one - two new ones, in fact, the most recent a gift on his previous birthday - but he insists on wearing this one, claiming it would take years to break in a new one to the right level of softness and comfort.
“So, Gramps,” she says, “what are your plans for the first day of your dotage? Have a breakfast of watery porridge and prune juice? Read the Prophet and grumble about how the wizarding world’s gone to hell in a handbasket? Sit on a park bench and shake your cane at passersby?”
“I think I’ll work on refurbishing the motorbike today,” he says after considering his options.
“Ah. Recapturing your lost youth. Good plan.”
He straightens up, puffing his chest out slightly. “Not lost. Just - mislaid temporarily. Probably left it in the broom shed or a cupboard somewhere.”
This makes her laugh with delight and squeeze him reflexively. “Speaking of broom sheds,” she continues as she lowers her arms and takes a step back, “don’t forget that Andromeda’s bringing Teddy by at lunchtime.”
His face immediately brightens. “Excellent! I’ll take the lads out for a fly this afternoon.”
“You’ll be sure to strap James in securely this time?”
“I did the last time! It’s not my fault he was able to lift the charm accidentally.”
“It will be your fault if the neighbors report an unidentified flying object to the police again.”
“It’ll be a good opportunity for you to practice your Obliviating skills then,” he says with a grin.
Ginny sticks out her tongue at him. “I’d rather work on my exposé of the match-throwing scandal at the Quidditch World Cup quarterfinals, thanks. I’ve got three hours’ worth of notes on my Recording Quill to sort through before I can even think about writing.”
She turns and heads for the stairs to give the baby his morning feeding before James wakes up. She’s got a whole weekend ahead of her, and despite what she just said about the article she’s working on, she’s thinking she might like to dust off her broom and join her fellows when they go flying after lunch. As she reaches the first riser she calls back over her shoulder, “Happy day after your birthday, you crotchety old geezer.”