Miscellaneous Drabbles:

Nothing special about these... they're just little samples.

Prompt: Thanksgiving

Neville Longbottom stands by the dingy window with his back to the hospital room, rearranging the bouquets – nay, the bushels -- of flowers that have poured in from wellwishers and would-be suitors – all, he would like to note, much handsomer and more marriageable than he. The news of Ginny Weasley’s injury traveled quickly, as bad news tends to do, but for all the cards and roses she’s received, he’s the only one who’s come to see her. At this, he chuckles softly to himself. By ‘come to see her,’ he means that he quit his job at the Apothecary and dropped everything to be by her side, to change her bandages and read her passages from Witch Weekly and Quidditch Through the Ages.

He’s grateful she’s recovering, even if she can be an ornery patient, and thankful for the fact that, although the Healers swore up and down that she’d never walk again, she’d thrown off the white surgical blanket and started wiggling her toes just last week. A part of him, however, dreads the day when she’ll crawl out of bed – all stiff limbs and aching joints – and limp down the white-washed hallway and out of his life again. These past few weeks, for all their hardships, have been some of the happiest of his life.

“Neville.”

He turns around to see her sitting princess-like in her hospital bed, wearing the first true smile he’s seen from her in months, a smile directed at him.

“It’s not…not easy…for me to say this to anyone, least of all – or, most of all – you after all you’ve done for me...” She is rambling and catches herself, pausing a moment to smile at him and regroup before continuing. “What I’ve wanted to say all this time is, thank you.”

He mumbles something about it not being any trouble (which is a lie) and him being more than happy to do it (which, in all truthfulness, is an understatement), but her smile only grows wider as she beckons him to come closer.

* * * * * *

THE LADIES WEASLEY

Just a plot bunny that came to me while I was on the way home from Madison; Ginny misinterprets what Hermione’s saying – or at least, whom she’s speaking about. It’s another fifteen-minute ficlet. Nothing special.

* * * * * *

“Ginny?” she whispers, speaking to the cobwebby underside of Ginny Weasley’s bunk.

“You’re not exactly the person I want to talk to right now,” the younger girl replies stiffly, and Hermione can’t blame her for holding back. She’s at a loss for words herself. It’s been a day unlike any other in recent memory; ‘surreal’ is the first word that comes to mind, recalling the haunting lament of the Merman, the centaurs’ final salute, the White Tomb gone up in flames, the dissolution of Harry and Ginny’s flash-in-the-pan romance, the relief she felt at welcoming the old Harry back into the fold, the send-off.

It’s also surreal being back at the Burrow and lying in the very same bunk in the very same room she’s been happy to call a second – nay – a <i>third</i> home these many summers. Tonight, the muggy air seems to spark with electricity – with magic – a nod to the losses and triumphs and discoveries of the day.

This is where everything begins again.

It’s Ginny who finally breaks the silence. “Why won’t he let me in? Why does he push me away?” Then, the inevitable: “Doesn’t he love me at all?”

“Ginny,” Hermione says pleadingly, “don’t torture yourself like this.”

When it’s become abundantly clear that no further reassurances are forthcoming, Ginny answers the question for herself, “He doesn’t. I’m not stupid, you know.”

Hermione’s mind scrambles for words of comfort – words to soothe a breaking heart – but comes up short.

“How d’you know when it’s for real or if it’s just a game of make-believe?”

At this Hermione smiles. “It’s just right. There’s no other word for it. You and him. Together. And it’s what you’ve been through together. You’d die for him in a heartbeat but you’d rather live for him… It sounds like one horrendous soapy cliché, I know,” she adds, chiding herself.

“It sounds wonderful,” Ginny whispers back, sounding marginally happier.

“Trust me, it is,” Hermione rejoins, her mind drifting idly to thoughts of Harry.

“We’re talking about you and Ron now, aren’t we?” Ginny queries after a moment’s pause, a note of amusement creeping into her voice.

“Ron – no – Ha–” she begins, but catches herself at the last possible instant and does an about-face, “—no kidding. Yes. Sure. This is about Ron and me.”

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Hermione murmurs, and though Ginny Weasley has already drifted off to sleep, Hermione Granger lies awake, torn between congratulating herself on a close save and disquieting unease, for masking the truth from an old friend.

Tonight, she tells herself, isn’t the night to make such confessions. Better to let the shock wear off. Better to let Ginny pick up the pieces and move on with her life. What Harry and Hermione have – what Hermione has waited for all these years – can wait, for tonight. 

But tomorrow is another day.