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Who: Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley
When: Monday night at six
Where: No. 12, Grimmauld Place
What: Just call it...Their First Time.
Rating: R and above.
Status: Complete!



Harry shifted a bit. He had been sitting there on the fourth stair for about fifteen minutes, even though they had decided on six o'clock. But he had already checked everything for supper ten times, he had remade the bed twice to get all the linens and blankets folded back just perfectly, he had even fluffed each pillow on the living room sofa, as if that mattered, but it was something to do. It was like his body was stuffed full of bells, struck hard and vibrating. His hands were trembling, his ears were ringing, his mouth dry and tongue coated metallic.

He ran a hand over his newly shorn hair. Walking into the muggle barber shoppe in Camden, he was Harry Potter, with the shaggy black mane. Harry wanted out a different looking person altogether with his close-cropped hair; though his scar was on display for all to see, he barely recognised himself in the mirror without that cloud of dark hair. He looked like someone who could walk right through Diagon Alley without being stopped every two feet for an autograph, for a handshake, for applause and offers of free drinks and sweets and books and everyone, everyone seeing him and knowing him and touching him, as if he belonged to everyone and everyone's uncle, but not himself. Staring in the mirror at this newly shorn Harry, he didn't see the famous Harry Potter staring back. How would anyone else?

Would she like it? Would it turn her off? Would she take one look and disapparate right away from him?

I've been waiting for this for - and just because I walked out of the bloody Market and saw this place and I was so fed up about the stares and the attention - if she thinks its dodgy, I can always charm it back, right? I can do that, right? He used to without thinking of it when he was young -

A crack, the loud clap that signaled apparating. Harry practically leapt to the floor, wiping his sweaty palms on his cords and picked up the flowers he had bought her, running that hand over his head once more.