Printer Friendly Version ] [ Report Abuse ]

Fizzing Whizbees by SourceoftheTicking
Chapter 1 : Fizzing Whizbees
Rating: 15+Chapter Reviews: 9

Background:   Font color:  


This is woefully silly, but the first piece of fiction I've written at all in ages. I hope you enjoy, and I'm frightfully sorry if you do not.

Forgot something essential on my first publishing, major fail- everything is property of the mighty mighty JK Rowling, except the plot of this which is all mine.



“Fizzing Whizbee?”





Ginny grinned lopsidedly, “Do you want a fizzing whizbee, Potter?”



“Um, no, I’m okay thanks. I’ve got this to finish,” he replied, vaguely waving a copy of Beasts and Beings of Black Magic: a Field Guide at her, shaking it slightly to put her off bothering him further, “And don’t call me Potter. It makes you sound like bloody Madame Hooch.”



They were sat on a small, green hummock just beyond the end of the Burrow’s garden, Harry with his back straight against the slope so he could read, and Ginny hovering a few inches off the floor a couple of feet away. The August sun was shining, the sky was a lazy blue and the Burrow was empty, a rare occasion indeed. It had seemed the ideal day for Harry to catch up on some reading, to prepare for Monday’s wilderness training. Ginny, who had emerged from the depths of the house around lunchtime, felt differently.



“Are you sure Potter? Because rumour has it some people can eat sweets and read, both at the same time. Impressive stuff, I saw Michael Corner do it once,” she teased, rolling the effervescent sweet around her mouth, “I’m sure you could do it too with some serious effort, Potter. You’re a talented man.”



“Stop that.”



“Stop what, Potter?”






“You mean the levitating? I’m afraid I can’t Potter, mouthful of whizbee, the only way is up.”


It was true. Gently sucking one whizbee could raise even the porkiest of wizards a couple of inches above the grass, and as she spoke, Ginny was delightedly crunching her way through her third, the crumpled paper bagful of them sitting in her lap.


Now almost a foot off terra firma, Ginny sat upright upon the cushion of air beneath her backside, swimming along with a graceless rowing motion of her hands and being gently buffeted by the light breeze.


That morning, upon discovering that her entire family were at either at work or, in her mother’s case, at Celestina Warbeck’s latest book-signing, she had decided that today would be the right sort of day to break the routine. The bright sunshine and a half-a-pound of fizzing whizbees both seemed like good omens too.


She had put up with almost three months of Harry dancing around her, always at arms’ length. She was sick of playing knarl and kneazle with him, and never being sure who was which. She was sick of him refusing to discuss anything more important than mashed potatoes with her. She was not fragile, she was not a little girl and she was not waiting for another bludger to hit him in the back of the head. It was time to grab Harry Potter by his Achilles’ heel, and shake him until she got what she wanted, what she had waited for.



So she wore a skirt. This was more than a little unusual, as Ginny has never been much a girl’s girl, and therefore had never particularly dressed like one. Six brothers, all of whom had at some point accidentally flashed her, quickly knocked that sort of thing out the nearest window. For the sake of history, it should be noted she considered the incident with Charlie to be worst- it had been the first, and he had lost his towel whilst bending over in front of a five-year-old Ginny. Her horrified screams had shaken the Burrow from top to bottom. Charlie’s bottom, specifically.

Anyway, all this had led to years of choosing jeans, shorts, even pantaloons once, in favour of skirts, and when she’d opened her drawer that morning, she had only found one. It was denim, half-patchwork from falling apart, and hadn’t been long enough for her since the age of thirteen. However, somehow it seemed just right for the job.


Almost a yard of pale, but carefully toned, legs stuck out of it, her equally well-formed backside kept out of view by only an inch or so of weathered denim. Perfect for the job at hand.



Keeping her legs tightly together, out straight, she allowed herself to drift, balloon-like, up the small hill, until her legs floated parallel to Harry’s chest. Then she grabbed a tussock of grass, anchoring herself in place.


“What’re you reading?”



“I told you earlier,” he firmly replied, without looking up. This had gone on long enough. She was trying to mess with him, for no good reason.



“I wasn’t really listening,” she flicked her hair and chewed the sweet vapidly, just to complete the effect, “And it’s rude not to look at people when you talk to them. Mum would be so disappointed with you, she’s always dithering on about how polite you are.”



He was turned sharply to glower at her, and then suddenly found himself staring pointedly past her, focusing on a silver birch in the distance behind her. In an act of total wickedness, Ginny had manoeuvred herself into the perfect position whereby he could not look from the book, to her, without first drawing a long, hungry look at her long, beautiful legs. For some reason, this turned his snappy retorts into a kind of verbal slush inside his own head. So, clutching at his composure, he gripped the book hard and did everything he could to stop his mind wandering into inappropriate scenarios featuring pale tree trunks and pale legs.



 “Are you okay Potter?” Ginny, her voice dripping with innocence, “you’re looking very red, have you caught too much sun?”



 “I’b flam.”



 “What’s that Potter?”



 “I’m fine,” he said, stumbling precariously over each syllable. He had a horrible feeling his glasses were steaming up.

 “Are you sure? I’d hate for my favourite auror to get sick before his big training day.”


She reached over and placed one hand on his forehead. He shook it off, and scooted further up the hill, never taking his eyes off the birch, which to his alarm was looking sexier by the second.


 “I’m fine! Absolutely, positively fine, thanks very much,” Harry’s voice rose a stammering octave as he tried to claim higher ground, “Fine fine fine.”


Releasing her anchor, she rolled onto her front and drifted towards him, floating on the breeze. He watched, mesmerized, trying to ignore the fact that he had had dreams like this before, but without the impending sense of doom, or for that matter, clothes. Suddenly, with a seeker’s reflexes, Ginny seized a new anchor, grabbing Harry by an errant curl of black hair from the back of his head with her left hand and his t-shirt’s collar with her right. She looked at him square in the face, his eyes wide, uncertainty and a little outright fear sparkling amidst the emerald. To him, her tawny eyes blazed, ferocious and beautiful like that first triumphant evening. For a brief moment, he was as terrified as he had ever been in his life. Then, pulling his hair and stretching his collar, she swept in close and kissed his scar tenderly, before releasing herself and drifting back.


She smiled, eyes twinkling, and said “Are you really sure you’re fine, Potter?”



All at once, his jaw and lips and tongue moved, but nothing else happened. He just stared at her, eyes as wide as before. He vaguely wondered if he had been jinxed.



 “It’s time to stop blaming yourself for everything,” still smiling, she barrel-rolled, and began to float lazily back towards the house, whilst Harry irritably busied himself pretending to read again, “And it’s time to stop thinking what we did that night was wrong. Personally I had a marvellous time, Potter, and judging by your face-“ Ginny took this moment gurn gleefully- “you did too. So if you could get your act together and start living like You-Know-Who isn’t hiding in the bread bin, before I’m of age, that’d be just fabulous. Oh, and I want a new racing broom too. You’ve got a week, so get cracking. Ta-ra for now, Potter!”


Basking in the glow of a well-executed plan, Ginny hovered back across the yard, scattering bewildered chickens and squabbling gnomes, who swore colourfully after her. Left alone on a green hump, book cast aside, scrabbling for a worthwhile reply before she got out of earshot, Harry stumbled upon the words that had evaded him since the moment she came outside, his perfect reply.


 “I love you!” he yelled, and then smirked as he heard a thud and a yelp. Apparently there are some things that weigh too much even for fizzing whizbees. He got to his feet and, as he began to stride over to check she was alright, Ginny offered her reply from the floor.


“I still want a racing broom.”


P.S. Alright, so I was probably stretching the "humour" classification a bit far. Still, I sincerely hope you've enjoyed this, and if you were to, oh, I don't know, review it, y'know, if you had the time of course, well that'd be just spiffing. Thanks shallot.

P.P.S. I’ve edited this a teensy bit, as I’m pottering around some writer’s block and there were some downright irritating little mistakes loitering in there, trying to reduce the overspacing. Apologies if the repost subsequently seemed a bit daft. 


Favorite |Reading List |Currently Reading

Other Similar Stories

Swimming Wit...
by YelloWitchGrl

Becoming Parents
by hpobsessed12

Carol of the...
by leapoffaith24