A Sobering Examination of Ginny Weasley’s Brain
Title: A Sobering Examination of Ginny Weasley’s Brain
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ginny/Blaise for rarepair_shorts
Prompt: just like everyone else
Rating: G
Word Count: 500
Summary: In which Ginny writes more bad poetry in an attempt to solve her problems.
Author's Notes: Follows The After. This one isn't as funny as the others, but I figured it was time Ginny had her say. This is part 12/13, after all.
Link to Prompt Table: Accio!
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A Sobering Examination of Ginny Weasley’s Brain
There once was a Gryffindor girl
Who was ever so fond of grey squirrels
No, no, no. Ginny groans and presses her forehead into her palms until she can feel the white marks beginning to bloom. Grey squirrels have absolutely nothing to do with the situation at hand.
Grey squirrels have absolutely nothing to do with Blaise Zabini.
She wishes she were better at making rhymes, and even better at choosing blokes-even though this one more or less chose her. It’s been a week since she almost kissed him, or he almost kissed her, or they almost snogged, or whatever way you want to look at it. It’s been a week since something’s happened, and during that limbo, that in-between place, they’ve both become fantastically skilled at avoiding each other.
She doesn’t even see him anymore. Not in the halls, not at any meals, and that’s stupid, because of course he walks around the school, and of course he eats, just like everyone else. He’s just sort of... disappeared. He’s faded out, like a minor character in a thick series of books who’s done his part and is no longer important.
She thought maybe it would be better this way. Things would go back to normal. It’s bad to get involved with Slytherins, no matter what that involvement entails; everybody knows that. Gryffindor 101, or something.
She scribbles out the first two lines of her failed limerick, thinks for a moment, and then begins to write again.
Green and red aren’t bad
When they’re both put together
But it’s like Christmas
No, no, no! That’s hardly suitable, either.
See, Ginny never was all too fond of things settling into boring normality.
She misses arguing with Zabini. She misses him looking at her, and her looking at him, and that awkward whatever-it-was that was almost something. He intrigues her, and excites her, and frankly, life had become a little dull around the edges until he decided, out of nowhere, that he fancied her.
That he fancied her...
She scratches out her haiku, her hand shaking slightly, but she doesn’t know why. She also maybe hasn’t spoken to Zabini in a week because he makes her nervous, because maybe he’s a little too unknown, because maybe... She bites her lip.
I think we’ll both now agree
I fancy you, and you fancy me
So let us both have tea
Will you go to Hogsmeade?
Merlin, but it sounds so stupid!
Blushing, she violently crumples up the thoroughly used and unhelpful parchment, tossing it across the room. It hits someone’s unhappy cat, but she doesn’t care. She’s got to get this right.
She sits, and she thinks, and she watches the unhappy cat’s mood change drastically as it begins to bat about her failures between its paws.
And then, there it is.
Please meet me outside at eight o’clock tonight
I reckon we’ll talk, or something, if that’s all right.
She’s always been rather fond of couplets.
First | Previous | Next
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ginny/Blaise for rarepair_shorts
Prompt: just like everyone else
Rating: G
Word Count: 500
Summary: In which Ginny writes more bad poetry in an attempt to solve her problems.
Author's Notes: Follows The After. This one isn't as funny as the others, but I figured it was time Ginny had her say. This is part 12/13, after all.
Link to Prompt Table: Accio!
First | Previous | Next
A Sobering Examination of Ginny Weasley’s Brain
There once was a Gryffindor girl
Who was ever so fond of grey squirrels
No, no, no. Ginny groans and presses her forehead into her palms until she can feel the white marks beginning to bloom. Grey squirrels have absolutely nothing to do with the situation at hand.
Grey squirrels have absolutely nothing to do with Blaise Zabini.
She wishes she were better at making rhymes, and even better at choosing blokes-even though this one more or less chose her. It’s been a week since she almost kissed him, or he almost kissed her, or they almost snogged, or whatever way you want to look at it. It’s been a week since something’s happened, and during that limbo, that in-between place, they’ve both become fantastically skilled at avoiding each other.
She doesn’t even see him anymore. Not in the halls, not at any meals, and that’s stupid, because of course he walks around the school, and of course he eats, just like everyone else. He’s just sort of... disappeared. He’s faded out, like a minor character in a thick series of books who’s done his part and is no longer important.
She thought maybe it would be better this way. Things would go back to normal. It’s bad to get involved with Slytherins, no matter what that involvement entails; everybody knows that. Gryffindor 101, or something.
She scribbles out the first two lines of her failed limerick, thinks for a moment, and then begins to write again.
Green and red aren’t bad
When they’re both put together
But it’s like Christmas
No, no, no! That’s hardly suitable, either.
See, Ginny never was all too fond of things settling into boring normality.
She misses arguing with Zabini. She misses him looking at her, and her looking at him, and that awkward whatever-it-was that was almost something. He intrigues her, and excites her, and frankly, life had become a little dull around the edges until he decided, out of nowhere, that he fancied her.
That he fancied her...
She scratches out her haiku, her hand shaking slightly, but she doesn’t know why. She also maybe hasn’t spoken to Zabini in a week because he makes her nervous, because maybe he’s a little too unknown, because maybe... She bites her lip.
I think we’ll both now agree
I fancy you, and you fancy me
So let us both have tea
Will you go to Hogsmeade?
Merlin, but it sounds so stupid!
Blushing, she violently crumples up the thoroughly used and unhelpful parchment, tossing it across the room. It hits someone’s unhappy cat, but she doesn’t care. She’s got to get this right.
She sits, and she thinks, and she watches the unhappy cat’s mood change drastically as it begins to bat about her failures between its paws.
And then, there it is.
Please meet me outside at eight o’clock tonight
I reckon we’ll talk, or something, if that’s all right.
She’s always been rather fond of couplets.
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