Disclaimer: Everyone and everything belongs to J.K. Rowling. She is the Dark Lord and we are her faithful Death Eaters who are at best maniacal and when at our worst, chase little red-heads around and make them look forever wolfish. If you do not do the biddings of J.K. Rowling, she will Imperius you so that you will. If you claim what is owned by the Dark Lord, she will Cruciatus you until you give it back. If you dare resist the power of You-Know-Who, she will Avada Kedavra you to the depth of Limbo, since obviously you can't go to heaven because you're a pagan. Anyway, what I mean is…this disclaimer's getting longer than the story…nevermind, I don't own anything.
Ginny loves poetry because poetry is cool. Sometimes she wished Harry Potter would be more sensitive to the refined arts. Other times she just wanted to beat him on the head with his broomstick. Not the handle though. She looooved him too much to ever hit him over the head with something so hard and blunt and inelastic.
Ginny snickered to herself. If only she had an extremely moldy axe. No Ginny, she reminded herself, rusty axe, not mold, never moldy. Harry Potter is moldy but axes are not. This quickly transpired to an arduous task of pondering whether asses are moldy or rusty. Suddenly inspired, she jotted down in poetic prose:
My delicious bum, how you arouse in me this desire, desire to know, a curiousity. My delicious bum, for you, for your knowledge, for you wisdom, I will…
She paused, not sure what to write next. Drawing herself up in front of her full length mirror, she inspected herself with squint-eyed scrutiny. Her bum was indeed delicious, no doubt of it. Not even weeks of being pinched by the trophied hands of Harry Potter has it lost any of its lush ripeness.
Mmmmm. She thought to herself. Maybe if I stare long enough, I will find it my muse once more.
And that was indeed how Harry Potter found Ginny Weasley that night, with her body twisted so she could stare at her bum, hoping for an inspiration to pass her way. Harry didn't mind at all. He plopped himself down on her bed and stare at her bum with her. Next time she accused him of leering at her, he could rightfully retort, "I'm not leering at you, I'm leering with you." That's bound to make any girl feel better.
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