Author's Note: Well. Hello there. I haven't done this in such a very long time that I'm still figuring out which button I should press without things quietly breaking in the background. I've found many old stories that I haven't shared yet, and while I try to iron out the kinks in the storyline for Your Hidden Past and try to edit the monstrosity that is the seven drafts of the next chapter of Chocolate Biscuits, I'm just going to leave these here.

I competed in three rounds of Draco/Ginny: Last Drabble Writer Standing, a community at Livejournal. I competed in Round Three, Round Four and Round Five (2009-2010). I lost most of the time, but that doesn't really matter; I still think they're tiny little lovely stories, and I'm quite proud of them!

I have included all prompts and word restrictions. This round, Round Three, focused on nature. Oh, and of course prizes (if any) and eliminations.


Challenge #2 - The nature of Winter
Prompt: "If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome." - Anne Bradstreet
Word count: 200-300 words


Forgery

It's snowing outside; depressingly early in the year. It's cold.

He's sat on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea, glasses perched on his nose, and Ginny frames her own mug with her hands (the one Harry got her at Christmas that she often pretends was from her dad, because he hates any mention of Harry and the war they're in).

It's probably worth it, she thinks. This. This togetherness; them. She feels sometimes it should be more than it is.

But then sometimes not at all, because they've both known since long ago being in a relationship was more than kisses behind that tapestry in the kitchen and hiding, bodies pressed together in the cupboard, while Fred and George storm by at light-speed because they're being chased by Mum.

It's his hand near hers when she puts it down upon the soft fabric of the couch, fingertips just-barely-touching, shoulders-barely-brushing, and she allows herself to pretend, for a while, that they're not in a war, that they can be together; that he won't just leave after they've won.

And five moths later – March, spring, so many faces missing from where they should be – she knows they're done pretending when he appears on the doorstep of her apartment in London and hands her a bouquet of forty-five pink roses.

When this is over, I'm going to marry you.

Such promises. You haven't even gotten me flowers yet.