Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all its affiliates are property of J. K. Rowling.
The Death of Quidditch
Merlin, he couldn't concentrate. He knew she was talking about something he should care about – but what was it? He tried once again to focus on her words, but his eyes kept getting drawn back to her lips. Was it his fault that they looked so soft and inviting? Or that they occasionally pursed into a perfectly rounded "O"? And could anyone blame him for wanting to lean over and brush his own against them? No, Potter! This is a dangerous line of thought. Focus, focus…pay attention to her words…her words, Potter!
He screwed up his eyes in concentration, feeling his cheeks pulse with the effort. His stomach gave an embarrassed lurch as he imagined how they must be filling with color. The redhead gave him a slightly appraising look, but continued on with her speech without breaking stride. He let his eyes blur over in an attempt to apply his senses exclusively to the auditory cues.
Lips…soft…"dive"…kiss…"score"…red…freckles…"bludger"…sweet…
Hang on a tic. Dive…score…bludger…quidditch! She was talking about quidditch! Praise Merlin, he had figured it out! Well this was brilliant, he loved quidditch; he could certainly concentrate on that. He was saved!
"Okay, so then Katie will feint to her left and while I'm heading…" Mmm, again with that perfect "O"…how did she do that? He wondered if she would get an "O" in kissing; he certainly would award her full marks. Wait, he was doing it again! NO! Focus! The beaters are going to work some figure eights –her hips make figure eights when she walks –and the chasers were going to use the starburst formation –I'll chase her all over the quidditch field– and oh my god! Did she just lick her lips!
Okay, quidditch! He had to focus on quidditch! Quaffles and bludgers and…
Oh it was useless. He couldn't even think about the sport –his favorite thing ever since he had first flown on a broom. Merlin, she had killed quidditch for him. Well he was obviously long gone, so he might as well enjoy himself, right?
Ginny in her fervor kept shaking her head violently whenever she deemed a tactic unacceptable; as a result her crimson locks kept falling in front of her face, sticking to her lips until she impatiently brushed them back behind her ear. Harry watched this progression intently for the next few minutes, resisting the urge to sweep the fiery strands back into place himself. Again, his attention was attracted back to her pert mouth. God, he wanted to kiss her, just once to confirm his suspicion that her lips were as soft as they looked.
Before he could stop himself, rather before he even registered what he was doing, his hand was pressed lightly against her shoulder and the other was cupping her face and he was firmly securing his mouth against hers.
Oh god, what am I doing? Merlin, she's going to bat-bogey me into next week. Fortunately at this moment Ginny started to return the kiss, so he did not have to dwell long upon that unpleasant thought. He could get lost in the softness of her lips (softer, in fact, than they appeared) and the way she pressed her body up against his chest as she deepened his embrace. Oh, this was so much better than quidditch…
Slowly she broke away and a vaguely dazed Harry suddenly realized that he would have to provide an explanation for his recent actions. Steeling himself he looked down into her eyes and was distinctly surprised by what he saw. She was smirking at him, one eyebrow delicately raised. As he visibly fought to catch his breath, her smirk abruptly broke into a mischievous grin. She cocked the eyebrow higher.
Oh. He had been a daft prat.
Somewhere beyond, James Potter was watching the events unfold with a mixture of nostalgia and wicked glee. He remembered all too well the difficulties he encountered at Hogwarts (and the years following) trying to tame his own fiery redhead. Shaking his head in silent laughter, James rolled his eyes, crossed his fingers, and wished his son a whole lot of luck.