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Ironing | ||||
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Category: Post-OotP Characters:Harry/Ginny Genres: Fluff Warnings: None Rating: G Reviews: 12 Summary: The morning of Bill and Fleur's wedding Harry has to iron his shirt. Hitcount: Story Total: 3463 Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work. Author's Notes: A challenge story written prior to the release of Deathly Hallows. The challenge was to take a mundane chore and make it fluffy. |
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‘Just back there behind the scullery, dear. I’m sorry I don’t have time to do it for you. I must get the last of the hors d’oeuvres finished and there’s still the cake to ice. Are you sure you’ll be…?’ ‘Thanks, Mrs Weasley. I’ll be fine.’ Harry made his way through the bustle of the kitchen and pushed though the door at the back of the kitchen to find himself in a small, sunny room. Hanging from the ceiling was a wooden frame on a pulley system from which hung clothes drying. Along one wall were three sinks and several baskets of clothes waiting to be washed. The room smelt pleasantly of soap and clean cotton. Harry had to open two cupboard doors before finding what he was after. He pulled out the collapsed ironing board and began wrestling its legs into position. This board didn’t have the metal frame like Aunt Petunia’s but he soon found the hasp that released the legs. Poking his head back in the cupboard, he found the iron. He was quite surprised. It was a quite modern electric steam iron; very similar to the one he had grown up using. He had always imagined a heavy old metal one like he had seen in old books; the type that had to be heated on the hob. He put the iron on the board, and thrust the plug into the three-holed receptacle on the wall. He hastily unbuttoned his shirt and spread it out on the board with the collar flattened out. He licked his finger and touched it quickly to the bed of the iron. There was no answering hiss. He tapped it several times, finally laying his hand on the metal plate. Cold. Then it struck him. The Weasley’s didn’t have electricity. As Hermione had harped on so many times, electricity and wizardry didn’t mix. The outlet must just be one of Mr Weasley’s follies. Harry stood there, with the cord in his hand, flummoxed as to how to proceed. He hated to bother Mrs Weasley, today of all days. The wedding was only hours away. The household was in chaos as everyone finished their last minute chores. All Harry was expected to do was get himself dressed decently and he had managed to botch that job, since he couldn’t even figure out how to iron his good dress shirt. He had just about decided to pull his shirt back on and hope no one would notice the wrinkles when the door swung open. Harry turned on his heel, cord in hand, to see Ginny standing in the door, her mouth open in surprise. Harry grabbed his shirt, pulling it across him in a feeble attempt to cover his bare torso. ‘I…um…Mum…ah…napkins,’ Ginny babbled, hurrying over to the cupboard and looking anywhere but at Harry. She pulled the door open and reached towards an upper shelve piled with crisp white linen. She stretched up on her toes, but didn’t quite reach the shelf. ‘Oh bother,’ she groused. ‘Where is that stool?’ she said, looking around as Harry hurriedly thrust his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. ‘Here, let me help,’ Harry said, hastily buttoning a few buttons. He reached over her head and grabbed the largest stack he could catch in one hand. ‘No, not those. Those are everyday napkins. This stack, to the left,’ Ginny pointed. Harry leaned to the left and Ginny slipped out from under his arm with a squeak as the stack he had tried to push back on the shelf came cascading over her. Harry swore under his breath. Napkins were piled around her feet, draped over her shoulders and one veiled her face. She pulled it aside, a smile lighting her face. She pulled another off her shoulder. Harry plucked at the napkin on her other shoulder with a grin. They both bent over to gather napkins off the floor, hitting their heads together, eliciting giggles. Ginny slid down the cupboard door, laughing hard. Harry had not heard her laugh so freely since June. He collapsed next to her, now shaking with his own laughter, trying to refold the napkins. Suddenly folding napkins became the funniest thing in the world. Finally, diaphragm aching, they calmed down, although they still smiled broadly and an occasional giggle would escape. ‘Why does your mum have so many blasted napkins,’ Harry muttered, trying fruitlessly to stack them neatly on the cupboard shelf. ‘Well, nine people, seven days, that makes sixty-three napkins a week, and only because we reuse them for all three meals. Plus she has extras for when we have people stay over, like you and Hermione, and of course, Phlegm.’ She rolled her eyes heavenward as she handed him another stack. ‘Ginny, you’ve really got to stop calling her that,’ Harry reprimanded. Ginny snorted and handed up the last stack. ‘Now, do you think you could get the good ones down a little less messily?’ Harry handed down what seemed like a hundred napkins. He couldn’t see the difference between the ‘good’ ones and the everyday ones, personally. He closed the cupboard door and turned around. ‘Harry, your shirt is a mess. Look, the buttons are all done up wrong.’ Ginny reached to straighten them and then 'tsked' with disapproval. ‘That shirt wants ironing! You mean to tell me you just ironed that and it looks like that?’ ‘I was trying to iron it when you came in. But I can’t figure out…’ ‘Do you mean to tell me a seventeen-year-old, of-age wizard’ Ginny smirked. ‘Can’t even iron a pitiful shirt?’ ‘No! I mean, yes, I can iron a shirt! I just can’t figure out how to turn the stupid thing on! I plugged it in…’ Ginny shook her head. ‘Did you forget whose house you are in? We have plenty of plugs, but none of them work. Dad just couldn’t resist having a receptacle to go with the plug.’ ‘But how…’ Harry stuttered. ‘You call yourself a wizard?’ Ginny chided him with a grin. ‘Just poke it with a heating charm.’ Harry felt his ears redden. He drew out his wand and jabbed the iron. Steam began to gust out of the vents. Harry reached up to undo the buttons he had hastily done up just minutes ago. His hand stilled. He felt awkward taking off his shirt in front of Ginny. She was busy stacking the napkins into the willow basket she had pulled out from a shelf and didn’t appear to be paying any attention to him now. Harry hurriedly slipped the shirt off, draped it on the ironing board and hastily began pressing the collar. Finishing the yoke, he began straightening the sleeve on the board, but it was not co-operating. ‘Would you like some help with that?’ her voice was gentle now. Her small hands took the shirt from him and with deft movement had the sleeve perfectly straight on the board. Harry stepped back to watch her press, shift the fabric, nudge the wrinkles out of the seams and reposition again. Her red hair hung like a drape, concealing half her face as she concentrated on the task. She gave the shirt a final shake and turned to face him. Her eyes did not settle on his face immediately, but rather started at his midriff and moved slowly up, seemly taking in every inch of his exposed chest. Harry had never liked the way people’s eyes would flick immediately to his forehead, but he suddenly found that this examination was much more disconcerting. Her eyes widened and darkened with pleasure when they reached his. Harry felt himself blushing, seemingly from his very toes. ‘You’d better put this on,’ she said with a husky voice, handing him the shirt. He slid his arms into the shirt, shrugging it up over his shoulders. He reached for the first buttons, but found her hands there instead. She carefully but deftly buttoned each button, then adjusted his collar. How, Harry wondered, could she make him feel like she was undressing him whilst buttoning up his shirt? ‘There, you look very nice,’ Ginny said, patting him on his chest and looking up at his eyes once more. Harry leaned in. He knew he shouldn’t, but oh, he wanted to so desperately… ‘Ginny! Where are you with those napkins?’ And with a giggle, she was gone. |
| Reviews 12 |
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