Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.
Of Pop Stars and Wooden Spoons
He smiles as he leans against the wood frame entrance to the kitchen. She hasn't realized that he's home yet, that much is certain. If she had, the odds that she would be singing along with the wireless at full volume while dancing through the kitchen in her pajamas would be slim-to-none. He's never been so glad to escape her notice.
He debates calling out to her, but as she sways and shifts to the dance mix radio program of her current choosing, the morning light plays off highlights of her hair he hasn't noticed before, and her laughter sounds uninhibited for the first time in weeks. Entranced, Harry decides against making his arrival known in favor of observing this previously undocumented aspect of his wife's life.
She's in full performance mode, now, dancing down low and then spinning as she comes up, eyes closed, fiery hair whipping around to follow in a cometary's whirl. He appreciates her ability to miss the island counter with her eyes closed even as he envies the new target of her affections—their most dependable wooden spoon, now serving as a muggle-style microphone for her vocalizations. Ginny's not a half-bad singer, some portion of his brain notes, for someone who has absolutely no idea that she has an audience. Then she executes a twirl and swivel move that drives all thought of her musical ability completely from his mind. It's one of those mysteriously "girl" moves that only the female of the species seems capable of pulling off without injury, he muses; and while he is very much aware of the fact that his wife is female, thank-you-very-much, he had no idea anything like that was in her arsenal.
The end of the song comes with a few flourishes and snappy movements complete with a final, provocative pose. When he brings his hands together in the suddenly quieter kitchen, the spoon falls to the floor with a clatter and she turns quickly, wand appearing from nowhere to point at his chest. His applause ceases as he tries desperately not to laugh at her scandalized expression. She keeps her wand on him a second longer, debating, no doubt, whether to hex him for not speaking up when he first arrived. Her wand lowers as she smiles sheepishly, "How long have you been home?"
"Long enough," he answers, pushing off the doorframe and entering the room at last, "to learn that my wife is actually a pop-star in a quidditch star's body."
It is gratifying that even after all they've been through together, he still has the ability to make her turn that fantastic shade of Weasley red.