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The Real Chosen One | ||||
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Category: Post-OotP Characters:Harry/Ginny Genres: Romance Warnings: None Story is Complete Rating: PG Reviews: 2 Summary: Ginny reflects on her time with Harry. Takes place during HBP. Hitcount: Story Total: 1467 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: My second fanfic, please review! |
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Second Fanfic! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ginny Weasley was lying in her bed in the fifth year Gryffindor dorms. She was trying to sleep, but she just couldn't get comfortable. She thought back to earlier that day, when she and Harry had played a game of one-a-side Quidditch, each of them playing Keeper, Beater, Chaser and Seeker all at once. They hadn't been competing, and they'd just played and played for hours, letting the Snitch go every time it was caught. At some point, Romilda Vane and her friends had come out to watch, but she hadn't really cared. She knew Harry had chosen her, and no one else. She couldn't help but wonder why it was her. Half the girls in the castle were after him, and he could've selected any of them. She wished she knew what it was about her that made Harry happy. She could tell he was happy; even Ron and Hermione had noticed separately, and both commented on it to her. She rolled over in her bed. If only Harry could see me now, she thought. Then he'd leave me for sure. She thought through all the times Harry had told her that she was beautiful. She had never really believed him, and she felt vindicated when she imagined him trying to say that with a straight face if he could see her then. But then again, hadn't Harry said that she was beautiful no matter what she was wearing, no matter how long it had been since she last showered or brushed her hair? She tried to remember that day. It had been about two weeks before, after a long Quidditch game. She had remarked on how sweaty she was, and how messed up her hair was, and he had said he didn't care. She remembered it vividly; Harry had said that he liked her hair no matter how dirty it was, and had offered to brush it. Perhaps it was her hair that made him like her, she thought. She began imagining ways to test this idea: maybe she could shave her head, and see if he still liked her? She let out a little laugh, which she stifled immediately. Of course he would still like her after that. Right? She shifted again, and remembered a conversation they had shared a few days earlier, in the common room. Ginny had been talking about the Holyhead Harpies, and Harry had leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. She had lost her train of thought, and after a second, she had asked him why he chose her over Romilda Vane or Cho Chang or any of the other girls who were after him. His answer was forever imprinted in her mind: "They're fine I guess, but there's just one problem, Gin. They're not you." She remembered this conversation, and immediately all her doubts were gone. As she drifted off to sleep, she had one final thought. I'm the real Chosen One. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . End . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . |
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