House: Ravenclaw | Year: 1 | Category: Standard | Prompt: [Prompt] Rock out to the oldies | Word Count: 1557
A/N: This is a modern university AU. It's pretty mild, but there are some descriptions of drug use, so head's up if that's not your thing.
o . o . o
Harry pushed the door to the house open, dreading the night a little bit. But he'd promised Ron a wild night out after his breakup, and he didn't want to be a bad friend. Not that he really thought Ron was as cut up as he pretended to be, but that was fine.
The party was being hosted by the brothers of the Praetorian Club, and he had been invited because his father had been a member. Now, they were trying very hard to recruit him. But Harry had no interest in joining an ultra-exclusive society dedicated to partying. He wasn't even sure he wanted to be at university, but he didn't know what else to do, and he'd been accepted. Besides it seemed like a good way to connect with his parents. They ought to have been giving him advice and helping him decide what to do, but a car crash had stolen their lives four years earlier, and Harry was left struggling to deal with the gaping hole they had left at the time when he felt that he needed their guidance the most.
Time seemed to crawl by as Harry watched drunk guys hit on drunk girls, all of them sloshing liquor onto the floor. Ron had found some girl to help mend his broken heart long ago, and Harry was starting to feel tempted to just leave and return to his flat. Parties had never really been his forte, and this one was especially dreadful. He didn't want to leave Ron alone just yet, though - he could change his mind about the girl, or she could about him, and if that happened then Harry didn't want his best friend to feel abandoned. So, he decided to give it another half an hour, and if nothing was different then, he'd head home.
Harry wandered upstairs, away from the pulsing echoes of whatever EDM song was blaring through the speakers. He ducked into one of the bedrooms and sat down on the bed. It was surprisingly neat and decorated mostly in various shades of yellow and cream. A small window faced the narrow alleyway between houses, and through it, Harry could see a light switched on in the person's room, illuminating a bright pink and orange space. Curiosity tugged at him and he wandered over to the window. Through the two glass panes, Harry thought he could faintly hear the sound of The Beatles' Eleanor Rigby over the pulsating beat from downstairs. A girl lounged on the bed atop a psychedelic orange and pink duvet, kicking her feet in the air and bobbing her head in time with the song as she flipped through the pages of a magazine. Harry smiled as he watched her, completely mesmerized. The song changed and the familiar snares of Come Together danced in his ears.
Suddenly, the girl looked up, her head turning toward the window. Her eyes narrowed slightly when she saw him, but he smiled and waved. I like your music, he mouthed, and she grinned. Come listen, she replied. Harry hesitated, and in that moment she smoothly rolled over onto her back, dipping her head off the edge of the mattress so her flame-red hair brushed the floor. The hem of her shirt rode up across her stomach, revealing creamy skin decorated with ink in shades of blue and green. She really was quite beautiful, and Harry felt an itch to see what the swirling lines of the tattoo might form if more was revealed. He made up his mind then and hurried from the room, feet pounding on the stairs.
Less than a minute later, Harry was knocking on the door of the neighbor's house, his breath turning into little puffs of condensation on the night air. It didn't take her long to answer to door, taking his hand and pulling him up to her bedroom. She was even more beautiful this close. She shut the door behind them and collapsed back onto the bed, picking up the magazine - which Harry could now see was a football magazine - once more.
"Make yourself comfortable," she offered, patting the comforter beside her, and Harry sat tentatively on the bed. He was anything but comfortable.
"I'm Harry," he said, the words sounding as stiff as he felt.
"Ginny," she replied, rolling her eyes and reaching for the drawer of her nightstand. "Here, just relax."
She handed him a joint, and Harry rolled it between his fingers idly. He didn't smoke very often, but the relaxing effects did sound very appealing to him at that moment. He grabbed the lighter that was sitting on the nightstand, reaching across Ginny. She grabbed the lighter from him when he was finished, a lit a joint of her own, the two of them creating a haze of smoke around them.
Puff by puff, Harry felt his mind and body relaxing, and the environment around him began to shift. The notes of Joe Cocker's With A Little Help From My Friends began to blend together in his ears, Ginny's melodic voice dancing with Cocker's gravelly baritone as she discussed the intricacies of Premier League football (particularly noting the failings of Arsenal). Harry could have listened to her talk all night.
The colors in the room grew even brighter, and Harry felt like he was sitting inside a lava lamp. He lay back on the bed, his arm brushing against Ginny's, and all he could think about was the way her skin against his made him feel like he had electricity flickering along every nerve, lighting him up like a firefly.
She sat up abruptly, cocking her head at him with an amused smile, and Harry realized that she was waiting for him to answer some question that he'd been too distracted to hear.
"Sorry, what?" he murmured, his green eyes wide and sad like world's most apologetic puppy.
"I asked what you study," Ginny chuckled, the sound making Harry's heart flutter.
"Um, History and International Relations," Harry replied glumly. He didn't feel like getting into his uncertainty. "You?"
"Environmental Sciences and Social Anthropology," she answered.
Ginny talked a bit more about her studies and her plans for the future, and Harry opened up a bit, sharing some of his doubts and fears. He didn't know if it was just the smoke floating through his mind but he felt oddly at ease talking to her. The songs melted together, creating the perfect backdrop of vibrant color and lively beats for their bonding session.
As the Beatles sang about the thrill of holding someone's hand, Harry couldn't help but feel their words echo through his mind like a pulse. I want to hold your hand. I want to hold your hand. The words were so simple, but he couldn't think of anything more true at the moment. I want to hold your hand.^ Did he dare act on the impulse? As he was internally debating, Ginny reached out and intertwined her fingers with his, her thumb moving across his skin. Harry squeezed her hand just a little, just enough to show how happy he was with the action.
"What's your tattoo of?" Harry asked, encouraged by the contact between them.
"Wanna see it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, and Harry could have sworn he heard a dare in her voice.
He nodded, excitement swelling in his mind.
Ginny sat up and lifted her shirt up and over her head, tossing it onto the floor across the room with the rest of her laundry. Blooming across her ribcage, Harry could see a purple octopus with curling tentacles nestled in a garden of swirling seaweed and brightly colored anemones. It was all set against a beautiful background of blue watercolor, and Harry stared at it, mesmerized. It almost looked like the little garden on her ribs was swaying back and forth on whirling tides. He reached out to run his fingers over the work of art, admiring it, and he could feel Ginny sigh into his touch.
Somewhere around four in the morning, Harry felt it was time to head back to his flat, or he would risk falling asleep in her bed. While he wasn't at all opposed to that idea, he wasn't sure that he was welcome, and even if he was, he wasn't sure that it was in the best circumstances.
He said his goodbyes, and Ginny pulled him into a kiss that he was not likely to forget anytime in the near future (or probably ever, really). It was the kind of kiss that goes down in your own personal history as the best kiss of all time, the kind you dream about in your sleep, the kind that isn't over even after you've parted company because no matter how many streets you put between you, your mind will remain engulfed in the fire of it.
As Harry walked down the streets to his flat, words he had heard earlier, sitting in Ginny's room echoed over and over again in his mind, bringing a smile to his face as he felt their meaning to a degree he never had before.
I've just seen a face,
I can't forget the time or place
Where we just met.
She's just the girl for me
And I want all the world to see
We've met, mm-mm-mm-m'mm-mm…*
o . o . o
^I Want to Hold Your Hand by The Beatles, 1964
*I've Just Seen a Face by The Beatles, 1965