Here's a little one-shot I wrote. Hope you like it! Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter. That would be J.K. Rowling, the most awesome person in existence! I'm just a pathetically obsessed seventh grader who loves to write. Anyway, here's your story. Be sure to review!
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The Next Meeting (Yeah, I know, crappy title, sorry. I'm terrible at thinking of titles.)
So. My oldest brother is getting married today. To Phlegm. And she's going to make me wear a dress! A frilly, lacy one that I wouldn't be caught dead in. Well, actually, if I were dead, I'd have no control over it. A better way to phrase it is "Over my dead body!"
That's what I said to Phlegm's annoying little sister when she barged into my room the other day to show me the dress. I said it was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen. She ran out to tell on me. Turns out Phlegm picked it out herself. Oops. So now they're going to make me wear make-up and uncomfortable high-heeled shoes that I swear are going to kill my feet. And I HATE make-up! I don't usually wear it unless I'm going to a dance or something, and even then I only wear a little bit. But no, I can't do that today. They're going to want my face covered up all the way with lipstick, mascara, and anything else they can find.
Why did Bill have to fall for her? Oh, right. She's part Veela. Every guy in the world would fall for her, and she would pick the hottest. Whereas I waited five years for Harry to…dump me. And now he's coming over in a few hours for the wedding. I want to stay in my room. But I can't. I never knew how annoying a wedding could be until now. Damn that stupid wedding!
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Harry's coming any minute. Mum insisted we all wait for him by the fireplace. As soon as he steps through, I have no idea what I'm going to do. I see the green flames and I jump back into the corner. Now he's coming in. He looks awful. He's all…skinny…and he looks like he hasn't slept in so long…
Which, I remind myself, he probably hasn't. Dumbledore, of course.
Oh God. No. I can't. I can't let him see me cry. But I can't stop myself either. Harry's going to see me crying over…him. But I don't cry over guys! Well, to me… Harry isn't a normal guy.
He's the guy I've been in love with since I first met him…
After hugging everyone else (it's traditional in the Burrow), he hesitates before… shaking my hand. And now those goddamn tears are running down my face and I'm wishing he'd just hold me and make it all go away. He stares down at his feet and everyone around us is looking uncomfortable. I couldn't take it anymore. The sob I was holding back finally escaped my mouth
and I ran upstairs to my room, burying my head in my pillow.
I guess a few minutes later Hermione got here, because she came up to my room to talk to me. "Hi, Ginny, did you, uh… get my letters?" she asked. Hermione had been sending me letters, probably in attempt to cheer me up, but I hadn't bothered to read them. I nodded. By then I'd stopped crying, and my thoughts strayed to the day she sent me the first letter.
It had been the same day that Rita Skeeter's new article for the Prophet had come out. "Heartbreaker Harry", complete with pictures taken at Dumbledore's funeral. That was how Mum and Dad figured out why I had spent the first week of summer break crying in my room.
Actually, I thought they had weaseled it out of Ron, but I found the article that night when I was going outside. I often go outside to think at night. It's just so peaceful to lay back in the grass and look up at the dark, starry sky. And I know I can stay there and think as long as I want to, and nobody will disturb me.
"Ginny?"
"Huh?" I'd forgotten Hermione was there and had lost myself in my thoughts.
"You haven't been eating much, have you?"
"No. I wasn't hungry." I sighed.
"Have you had much sleep?" she inquired.
"Not really." I knew there were dark circles under my red eyes, but I really didn't care at the moment.
At that second, Phlegm's little sister busted into my room carrying that god-awful dress. "Time to get reddy for zee wedding!" she squeaked excitedly in her annoyingly high voice.
"Great," I groaned, grabbing the dress from the little girl, "Now go."
The ten-year-old skipped out the door gracefully.
Once she was gone, I slammed the door and chucked the dress onto my bed, sitting back down.
"Maybe we should get ready." suggested Hermione.
"You can. But I'm waiting as long as possible before putting that ugly thing on."
"Come on Ginny, it's not that bad."
"It's gold and frilly! I wouldn't wear it in a million years! I have half a mind to burn it right now!"
"Well, Ginny, you'd burn everything in sight if you were allowed." Hermione said reasonably. She knows full well that I'm a pyro.
"Yeah, well, still…The only thing stopping me from setting this on fire is what Mum would do to me."
"Well, anyway," said Hermione, "Let's get these on."
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Well, here I am at the wedding reception in the back yard of The Burrow. It's been pretty uneventful so far. Everyone's dancing except me and Harry. Hermione even asked Ron to dance. Hope they're having a good time, because I'm sure as hell not. Wait a minute, why is Harry walking towards me? He's surely not going to-
"Uh, you wanna dance?"
Okay, so he is going to. "Sure, why not?" I shrugged. I straightened up from the place where I had been leaning against the side of the house. He took my hand and we walked over to where everyone else was. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves, and I looked around at all the happy couples. There was Bill dancing with Phlegm, Mum and Dad together, Remus and Tonks, Ron and Hermione, Charlie and his girlfriend from Romania, and of course Fred and George, having the time of their lives dancing with each other as if at a rock concert.
"You, er… You look beautiful." Harry said to me, staring deeply into my eyes. Then he blinked and looked away from me. We joined the crowd and started dancing together, and I decided that maybe today hadn't been so bad after all.
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Well, I hope you liked it. You can review now and tell me if it sucked or not. I might write one other chapter, but only if someone asks, because if nobody wants one, what's the point of writing it?
