Ginny and Luna are about eight here. This is the kind of kid love where you give your crush a flower and you get a hug, because it really is that simple. I know that in canon, dresses and pants are…only for Muggles, but I'm using my certified creative license here. Ottery St. Catchpole is described as a primarily Muggle town – either the Burrow has been in the Weasley family for a while, or more likely, they couldn't afford to live somewhere more 'magical,' like Godric's Hollow – and I don't see the Weasleys as the type to restrict their kids to the property. They'd probably let them wander out along the river or go into town for sweets (Bill, please take Fred and George, they're restless and I'm trying to get little Ginevra down for a nap!) and as there are Muggle children about, they'd have to learn to blend in.
The song I refer to at the end is The Bonnie Lass o' Fyvie. Pretend it's been Wizard-ified.
Two truths and a lie: I don't own Harry Potter. The sky is dark. These aren't the droids you're looking for.
Her hands are rough and too clumsy to form braids, but she likes to play with your hair sometimes. She says it looks like lilies. You tell her Mum says it'll darken eventually, but secretly you hope it doesn't. You like it when she plays with your hair.
You like it when she looks at you. None of the other kids like to look at you. They say you're too weird, that Mum was crazy to marry Dad, that your family's beloved magazine is absolute rubbish – or worse, that you're all too strange to belong. But Ginny's your knight in shining sundresses, taking you by the hand, telling you not to listen to them, they're just jealous.
Every time, it's the same. You say they're not jealous, just mean, even though you're not really upset…just to hear her tell you she'll always protect the princess. Harry Potter always protects the maiden in the tower or in a dungeon or even the one being picked on by meanies.
Her words flutter like butterflies and dance in your brain, vivid and bright. Her voice is green like the grass you love to lie in when she's not around, so it's like she's next to you, around you. Sometimes when she sings pretty songs with those shaky, stringy vocal cords, it turns grey. Like your eyes.
You like her eyes better. So warm and brown would be your favorite color, if it wasn't blue – like the sky blue, like the spell Mum's trying to invent. Blue like Ginny when you're looking at her.
You play the princess. You hide in the tree, trapped by the evil wizard in the tower. You thank her when she saves you from the Dark Lady. You give her a little kiss when she rescues you from the dragon. That's her favorite story.
Maybe you're a little jealous of Harry Potter. He's all she thinks about. She's going to be just like him. She's going to save everyone and when she grows up maybe she'll get to meet him, won't that be exciting? But you've never felt jealous before so you're not sure if this purple thing is jealousy or not.
Sometimes you think it would be better to live with the fairies just outside your vision or help Dad find all the creatures in the Quibbler and forget yourself, because every time she talks about Harry Potter, Boy Hero, she isn't really looking at you. You don't want him to save you.
Sometimes you think maybe someday Ginny will save him, and the purple gets worse.
But then you find yourself lying in green with grey floating over you, telling you all about a bonnie lass and an Auror and you close your eyes and memorize the moment. You wait, and you hope, and her fingers are like fairies in your hair.
You forget to forget.