Rubies and Emeralds
A sequel to Christmas Colors and Green Beans and Tomatoes
- - - - - - - - - -
He's not perfect, but that's one of the reasons I love him so much. Sappy, I know, but I guess you could say I'm a hopeless romantic.
All of that aside, despite all of the things that make me love him, he's the most vulnerable, self-deprecating person on the planet. I don't say that lightly.
He gets into weird moods, he believes he'll die because of a ruddy, stupid, made up Divination prediction – he doesn't have any faith anymore.
So, people ask me, why do you stay with him, then? Why do you stay by his side when all he can think about anymore is his own demise?
It's simple really.
I love him.
I suppose you could say it's a convenient answer, but it's not – not really.
If I wanted convenient I would have never fallen for a one Harry James Potter.
It started when I was ten; an unyielding infatuation that drove me to the brink of insanity and back again. It was a pain that ripped through my chest when he discovered Cho Chang. It was an impossible hope when we became friends – and an unbelievable fantasy when we became more.
Not convenient in the least.
Then, he said those three magic words, and I knew, that from that moment on, all hope was lost – I would be his forever.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to paint him as a miserably depressed person, because that's not him at all. It's just this bloody war.
It's been getting more intense, a rising pressure in the background, and I mean, he's Harry Potter, child of the Prophecy, he can't exactly ignore the whole thing - no matter how much he and I both wish he could.
Dumbledore gives him updates on war casualties, while Snape stands at the side goading him, telling him it's his entire fault – how disappointed his parents would be.
Any normal person would have cracked under the pressure by now, but not Harry – somehow he's keeping on with life, no matter how dismal it may seem at times.
I can't help but admire him for it. I like to think I'm not a damsel in distress, but then again, when I think of Harry's burden, I really don't think I could handle it. At least not in the way Harry has been able to.
Now, here I am again, neglecting essays, revisions, and star charts, because Harry has invaded my mind. He has an uncanny way of knowing when I have work to be done, and distracting me, even when he isn't in the room.
It's that irritatingly adorable smirk of his.
Stupid – bloody – annoyingly … oh crap.
He walks into the room just as I build my tirade. I can't be mad at him, not when I'm near him.
Merlin… he's just gotten back from flying. His hair has that wind swept look, and his eyes are glittering behind his spectacles – a look that can be only induced by flying.
He stops his pursuit into the common room, his eyes doing that lovely scanning thing they do, until they settle on me.
He gives me his infamous smirk and crosses the room, settling in the seat across from me.
"What's your favorite gem stone?" He asks me.
"Emeralds." I answer. He smirks. "You?"
"Rubies, of course." He replies.
"Any particular reason?" I ask, chewing on the end of my quill in what I hope is an innocently seductive way.
"I can think of a few." He answers evasively, leaning back in his chair slightly.
I can't help but beam at him; this is the Harry I love. The care free, thoughtless, just simply happy Harry.
"Is there a reason you like emeralds?" He asks back, his eyes sparkling like jewels.
"Well, you know, they've always reminded me of Seamus' absolutely breathtaking eyes – no, I'd describe them more as orbs into his soul, ah, so dreamy!" I tease him, sighing dramatically. His face is decidedly put out. "Why do you think Harry?" I ask him, rolling my eyes, emitting a laugh from the boy sitting across from me.
"Well, Seamus does have pretty nice eyes, or, orbs as you refer to them as." He comments, chuckling. "What you working on?" He asks, looking at my partially finished star chart.
"Nothing, really. Just trying to get ahead a bit." I reply. It's a complete lie, it's due tomorrow, first lesson, but I don't want to sacrifice this time with Harry when he's so uncharacteristically happy.
"Oh. Well, then, if it's not due anytime soon, d'you think you might want to go for a walk, or…" He mumbles.
"A walk would be lovely Harry." I interrupt before he can become anymore self-conscious.
"Alright then." He replies, his face lighting back up, "D'you want to head out now?"
I can't help but smile at how eager he looks, and I know, that tonight will not be a wasted evening.
- - - - - - - - - -
That boy is driving me absolutely insane.
He has more mood swings than I do, and that's saying something.
I suppose he's entitled to them, though.
Stupid Prophecy.
He's sitting there, right now, on a perfectly beautiful Sunday morning, looking like he's about ready to drown himself in his porridge bowl.
"Harry, what do you say we go find a broom cupboard and have a good shag?" I ask in a voice laced with seriousness, hoping to spur him from his mood.
The response is instantaneous. Ron chokes on his pumpkin juice, Hermione gives a horrified cry, and Harry's eyes go as wide as Golden Galleons.
"W-w-what?" He sputters.
Well, at least it got him to stop staring at his porridge like it was poisoned.
"Kidding." I sigh, earning two scowls from Hermione and Ron. Harry, however, is giving me his smirk.
"I knew that." He tells me with a reassuring nod.
"Ginny, what in the…" Ron starts.
"Although Harry, I have a letter I'd like to send, and I've chosen you as my escort." I say, standing from the table, effectively silencing Ron.
"Alright then." Harry stands from the table, not looking overly downcast about leaving the porridge and Ron's death glares.
We make the walk up to the Owlery in silence, both lost in thought. Well, at least I'm lost in thought – Merlin only knows what Harry's mind gets up to while left unattended.
Even when I've sent off my letter to mum, and said hello to Pig and Hedwig, he's still not talking. Now he's situated himself in one of the windows and having a meaningful gaze out at the lake.
"Harry?" I ask, coming to stand next to him. He makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat in response. "Harry, stop brooding." I order, trying to sound stern.
It seems to have worked as he gets a look on his face like he's just now figured out that the earth is round.
"Am I?" He asks, "Brooding, that is."
"Yes, either that or there's something very interesting worth looking at down at the lake." I snap slightly. I can't help but be annoyed; I don't have the patience of a Saint.
"I'm sorry." He says sullenly.
How can I stay mad at him? It's impossible. He just sounds so…sad.
"Oh, Harry." I sigh, "Come here." I motion for him to move closer, and when he does, I give him the biggest hug I can manage. "You need to lighten up on yourself." I tell him gently.
"I'm sorry if I'm not a fun boyfriend." He says into my hair.
"You are fun Harry." I tell him.
"No, you even said it yourself, I brood." He says.
"Yes, and you snore, but it's just part of who you are, and I like who you are." I respond.
"I don't see why." He murmurs. I frown, and pull out of the hug to look him squarely in the eye.
"Harry Potter, I am going to say something here that is probably going to make you laugh, but despite how corny it sounds, I think you can learn from it." I tell him seriously.
"What?" He asks.
"The greatest gift you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return." I say.
He doesn't laugh at me, but he's smiling stupidly, which in my mind, are two in the same.
"What are you smirking at?" I ask.
"Nothing." He mumbles.
"Don't lie to me." I say, a threat hidden behind my words.
"Fine, it's just, oh, I dunno – kind of sappy?" He says, with a shrug of the shoulders, as if he's asking if it's okay for him to think that.
"Of course it's sappy. It's probably the sappiest thing anyone's ever said, but – it applies to you." I screech at him. He looks so confused it's almost pathetic.
"Fine, how does it apply to me Ginny?" He asks, his eyes dancing mischievously.
"Very simply. You're so intent on brooding and saving the world that you can't see that other people care about you just as much as you care about them." I rant at him, "You just told me that you don't see how I can love you. Is it so hard to believe that maybe I don't need a sane explanation for loving you, because if we're talking about sane here Harry, then I am telling you right now, you're screwed, because I am so not sane – and another thing, I should be the one asking; why would you love me? I mean, let's think logically here, I have freckles, pale skin, I'm short, I have no chest, I have freaky red hair, and sometimes…"
I'm stopped mid-rant by a pair of warm lips covering mine – Harry's lips.
Stupid prat thinks kissing me can make it all –
Okay, maybe it works a little bit.
"No!" I break away from his protective embrace, and stand as tall as I can, facing him squarely, "You can't kiss this away Harry, this is a genuine problem!"
"Alright." He says, an impish gleam in his eyes, "But kissing never hurt anyone. So, I say we kiss then talk."
"BLOODY HORMONES!" I screech before storming out of the owlery faster than Harry has time to register what's happened.
I'll show him. I'll hide until the middle of the night, and he'll be so worried about me; and my brothers think I'm not clever enough to play with them.
I walk around the school, trying to plot out the perfect hiding spot, until I finally settle on a secluded corner of the library.
Tucking myself behind the shelves full of books, I give a satisfied huff before pulling down an old tome on the history of Cornish Pixies to keep me occupied.
I've just finished reading page five when I see a familiar pair of shoes in front of me.
I look up slowly to see Harry standing there holding the bloody Marauders Map.
"Ginny?" He asks tentatively.
"Yes." I answer shortly.
Blasted Map…
"I'm sorry if I made you mad." He apologizes, adopting a pleading puppy dog pout.
"I'm not mad at you Harry." I say, "I'm just frustrated."
"Care to explain to me why?" He asks, settling down in front of me on the dusty library floor.
"No." I say stubbornly.
"Fine, I'll just wait here until you're ready then." He says pulling down his own tome.
I watch him for about three minutes before I start to get really annoyed.
"Fine, do you want to know why I'm frustrated?" I ask.
"Yes." Answers Harry, setting aside the book.
"I'm not upset that you get down, I mean, you have a right, but what does bug me is that you don't have enough faith in yourself to believe that you deserve everything you have on this earth, and that people genuinely care for you," I huff, "It's just hard to watch."
"So…you're saying you're mad because I don't have faith in myself." He states.
I nod.
"Tell you what, I'll work on having more faith, if you promise that you won't storm off before we can work things out anymore." He tells me, "So, promise?"
"Promise." I agree.
"Good." He says, before leaning forward and hugging me.
"Don't I get a kiss?" I ask.
"Well, seeing as you stormed off yelling about my hormones a while ago I thought I wouldn't want to test my luck." He says sheepishly.
"I give you permission to kiss me, then." I tell him dramatically.
"How can I refuse that?" He says before leaning forward once again and capturing my lips with his.
And that's what he's doing – capturing them, along with my heart, because as I'm rolling around with Harry on the filthy library floor, even though it smells funky and isn't very romantic – I know there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
- -- - - - - - -
Well. Here's a third part to this little 'mini series,' there will be one more after this. Once again, I worked on staying in the right tense. This is my first time attempting anything in the present so, as always, forgive me for any slip ups. One more thing, I realized soon after I posted, and through your reviews, that Tomatoes are indeed a fruit – whoops! – so, I'm working on fixing that while cringing in embarrassment, thanks to those who pointed it out.
I would just like to say thank you to everyone who reviewed Christmas Colors and Green Beans and Tomatoes. It means a lot to know that people enjoy reading these as much as I like writing them.