(no subject)
Written for the magic_carrousel challenge. Harry Potter, characters Ginny, Hermione, and Harry. No real ship.
Mirror
i.
“You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear.”
Harry stared violently at the mirror, desperately trying to straighten the bow, smooth out the paper, and avoid smashing the damn thing into glassy bits. “That,” he started, thickly, “is not the best thing to say right now.”
The mirror had enough common sense to sound affronted. “Are you threatening me?”
Harry declined the answer for a moment, as he gently ripped the seam of the wrapping paper, and began retaping it. After a few minutes of silence and squeaking bits of slick paper, he stood, slowly, the battle won. Slowly, he tried to slick back his hair, failed, and stared at the mirror.
“Well? It’s bad form to threaten your mirror.”
“Yes. I was threatening you.” He hefted the gift under one arm. “You’re not my mirror.”
--
ii.
“I hate this dress, Ginny.”
“You have to wear it.”
“Hate it. Absolutely despise it with every inch of my being.”
Hermione shifted awkwardly, staring in the mirror bitterly. “Why did I let Mum pick out the party dress?”
“Because you’re daft, deary,” the mirror wheezed sleepily. “It’s very pink.”
“Do not make me break you,” she hissed.
Ginny choked, stuffing a fist against her mouth, biting back laughter. It was pink. Obnoxiously, violently, incredibly pink. Incredibly not what Hermione would wear. Hermione growled, low in the throat, and grabbed at Ginny’s arm. “I am not letting either of them see me like this, Ginny.”
Tucking a red curl behind her ear, Ginny chuckled. “Since when were you one for fashion?” She reached up, rubbed Hermione’s bare shoulder reassuringly.
“This isn’t fashion!” Hermione squealed, indignant. “This is torture. This is a highlighter exploding upon me.”
“It’s your 21st.” Ginny glanced away, on the pretense of tidying the bouquets that had flooded the apartment. “You have to wear it.”
Hermione sighed. “No.”
With a long suffering laugh, Ginny turned. “Hermione, I love you to death. I do. But fine. Go naked.”
A knock sounded at the front door, and Ginny bolted from Hermione’s little tantrum to answer it. Harry stood on the other side, a brightly wrapped box in one hand and a furious glint to his eyes. “’lo. And Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you get a picture of her.”
Bewildered, Harry shifted to one side as Ginny walked out, chuckling softly.
--
iii.
“Uh, hey, Hermione,” Harry said, mildly, from the living room. “Why does Ginny want a picture of you? Doesn’t she already get the whole lot?”
“I’m apparently going naked,” she sighed, stepping out and rubbing irritably at the slick pink mess of a dress, briefly turning her attention to her hair, ignoring Harry’s strangled choking noise.
“Naked?”
“This dress is terrible.”
“Yes, it is. NAKED?”
Hermione glanced up, amused, one hand tangled in the brown frizz that used to be hair. “That’s generally not what you say to girls.”
He held the box out at arm’s length, the paper glittering softly in the florescent lights. “Uh, you’re… er… yeah, you’re Hermione. Sorry?”
In years past, this would have gotten him either ignored for a week, screamed at, or threatened with bodily harm. Instead, she took the box, sat it down, and hugged him tightly. “More honest than Ginny.”
“And,” she added, pulling away, “you and Ron are the only two who can get away with that.”
“Naked?”
“You’re awfully stuck on that.”
He shrugged, glancing around for something to sit on, and, upon deciding that he really didn’t trust the rumpled red sofa shoved in one corner, opted for a lazy slouch. “I’m glad we can get away with it. Happy birthday.”
She laughed, motioning absently toward the sofa. “Idiot.”
Collapsing with as little dignity as possible, he looked up hopefully. “So, naked?”
Slowly, Hermione turned from her retreat into the bathroom. “No.”
--
Mirror
i.
“You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear.”
Harry stared violently at the mirror, desperately trying to straighten the bow, smooth out the paper, and avoid smashing the damn thing into glassy bits. “That,” he started, thickly, “is not the best thing to say right now.”
The mirror had enough common sense to sound affronted. “Are you threatening me?”
Harry declined the answer for a moment, as he gently ripped the seam of the wrapping paper, and began retaping it. After a few minutes of silence and squeaking bits of slick paper, he stood, slowly, the battle won. Slowly, he tried to slick back his hair, failed, and stared at the mirror.
“Well? It’s bad form to threaten your mirror.”
“Yes. I was threatening you.” He hefted the gift under one arm. “You’re not my mirror.”
--
ii.
“I hate this dress, Ginny.”
“You have to wear it.”
“Hate it. Absolutely despise it with every inch of my being.”
Hermione shifted awkwardly, staring in the mirror bitterly. “Why did I let Mum pick out the party dress?”
“Because you’re daft, deary,” the mirror wheezed sleepily. “It’s very pink.”
“Do not make me break you,” she hissed.
Ginny choked, stuffing a fist against her mouth, biting back laughter. It was pink. Obnoxiously, violently, incredibly pink. Incredibly not what Hermione would wear. Hermione growled, low in the throat, and grabbed at Ginny’s arm. “I am not letting either of them see me like this, Ginny.”
Tucking a red curl behind her ear, Ginny chuckled. “Since when were you one for fashion?” She reached up, rubbed Hermione’s bare shoulder reassuringly.
“This isn’t fashion!” Hermione squealed, indignant. “This is torture. This is a highlighter exploding upon me.”
“It’s your 21st.” Ginny glanced away, on the pretense of tidying the bouquets that had flooded the apartment. “You have to wear it.”
Hermione sighed. “No.”
With a long suffering laugh, Ginny turned. “Hermione, I love you to death. I do. But fine. Go naked.”
A knock sounded at the front door, and Ginny bolted from Hermione’s little tantrum to answer it. Harry stood on the other side, a brightly wrapped box in one hand and a furious glint to his eyes. “’lo. And Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you get a picture of her.”
Bewildered, Harry shifted to one side as Ginny walked out, chuckling softly.
--
iii.
“Uh, hey, Hermione,” Harry said, mildly, from the living room. “Why does Ginny want a picture of you? Doesn’t she already get the whole lot?”
“I’m apparently going naked,” she sighed, stepping out and rubbing irritably at the slick pink mess of a dress, briefly turning her attention to her hair, ignoring Harry’s strangled choking noise.
“Naked?”
“This dress is terrible.”
“Yes, it is. NAKED?”
Hermione glanced up, amused, one hand tangled in the brown frizz that used to be hair. “That’s generally not what you say to girls.”
He held the box out at arm’s length, the paper glittering softly in the florescent lights. “Uh, you’re… er… yeah, you’re Hermione. Sorry?”
In years past, this would have gotten him either ignored for a week, screamed at, or threatened with bodily harm. Instead, she took the box, sat it down, and hugged him tightly. “More honest than Ginny.”
“And,” she added, pulling away, “you and Ron are the only two who can get away with that.”
“Naked?”
“You’re awfully stuck on that.”
He shrugged, glancing around for something to sit on, and, upon deciding that he really didn’t trust the rumpled red sofa shoved in one corner, opted for a lazy slouch. “I’m glad we can get away with it. Happy birthday.”
She laughed, motioning absently toward the sofa. “Idiot.”
Collapsing with as little dignity as possible, he looked up hopefully. “So, naked?”
Slowly, Hermione turned from her retreat into the bathroom. “No.”
--