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Entry tags:

harry potter - ginny weasley

108.

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Oh, bloody hell.

[Ginny Weasley is standing in a crowded Square, looking a little harried though there's an exasperated smile on her face, too.]

So I reckon that door's starting to work. Or maybe it's always worked since this always happens.

[So maybe the door thing isn't real at all. She can't be sure if they're really working towards going home again, if it will actually work this time. She doesn't know and she doesn't know if she wants it.]

Happy Valentine's Day, at any rate. Mind the thorns on the roses when you shove them in people's faces.

[ooc; HAVE AT HER! Just don't tell her she's from a book and no spoilers from beyond the end of Deathly Hallows (but if you're a future child or relation of some sort, go for it; she'll forget after the weekend). No doubles as well. Feel free to threadjack, too. :) ]

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FREEEEEE!!!! OW!

[Bam! A small red haired girl with an Irish accent bangs into Ginny's legs. She was clearly not looking where she was going.]

[There's a laugh just over the loud fussing of a baby.]

You always have to warn people and ruin the fun.

[And by the way...]

What door?

Angela?

[Well. She thinks she knows about the baby. It feels familiar to her.]

Er, the Anonymous... people, they're fixing up a door to get us home.

Valentine's Day? ...Already?

Well, that's so very sweet of you!

Well, time's always a bit different everywhere.

So... [ There's a voice trailing off from behind her, a little deeper, older (somehow), and rougher around the edges than it used to be, but still distinct, and still, Claire hopes, familiar. ] So I didn't bring you any chocolate, or roses, or a card, but I hope you'll believe that whole thing about it being the thought that counts when I ask you to be my Valentine.

[ She's got her hands shoved down into her coat pockets, a long black jacket tied and belted at her waist. Her hair is shorter but still the same shock of blonde. Claire looks older, though physically it should be impossible. The set of her shoulders, maybe, or the expression on her face. Something. But she's grinning, just a little. For the moment, that about her hasn't changed. ]

[Ginny whirls around in seconds, the voice registering before the face does, but of course that slams into her—and then she slams into Claire, full force, arms wide for a hug and smile broad as ever. She's older too, of course she is, now twenty-one years old and run through the gamut by the City but she's still the same.]

Claire.

[ She's not expecting the shock of emotion that runs through her, how strong it cracks and how deeply it settles, how tightly she hugs Ginny back when the other girl's arms wrap around her. In many ways it's almost overwhelming to remember how easy their friendship was, to be reminded now how there were no pretenses or explanations, just the quiet and understood acceptance between the two of them about what they both were. Claire has never been able to find anything like that back home, even with Gretchen, which she is sure she has messed up beyond belief.

Ginny smells like the perfume she always wore and like the bar and like a million other things Claire has no conception of but wants to breathe in all the same. She wants to drag it all in and never let it back out, wants to prolong this pause from the real world and all that she's done to it in a moment of brashness, in an explosion. That's always what the City was, anyway: a pause, and an explosion. She never thought she'd miss it, but then she never thought she'd have reason to be sad in leaving it. ]

Don't get all emotional on me, Weasley.

[ She lets the other girl go, keeping her at an arm's length so she can get a good look, see what's changed and what's still the same. ]

[She can't help but laugh at that, shaking her head, ducking it. Don't get emotional. Ginny isn't, not really, but she's certainly more open about a lot of things these days—certainly in comparison to the time Claire knew her. Perspective changes with time and she's grown up (more so), happy in one way, bottling up the rest the other. It's not healthy, perhaps, but she's less likely to snap, less likely to grab her wand and do something stupidly Gryffindor.

But then there are the other days.]

Please. Emotional, me? Reckon you can count the number of times you've seen me cry on one hand.

[She reaches up to rest a hand over her old roommate's at her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.]

Finally back to pick up your stuff, then?

[Because of course she never threw any of it out.]