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“I’m not very artistic - I think we should wait until we’re a bit more serious.”

“Says the concert violinist,” Ginny snorts, setting out two fresh packs of colored pencils and a sparkly unicorn sharpener likely swiped from her niece.

Harry eyes the detailed depiction of a butterfly emerging from it’s very detailed cocoon as if it’s a monster to be bested, studiously ignoring the pencils Ginny’s nudging toward his hand.  “An entirely separate issue, Gin.”

“It’s pretty hard to screw up a color by numbers, Harry.  I have faith in you.”

Harry smirks, “Utterly misplaced.”

“Plus this is double duty,” GInny says with a shrug, selecting the violet pencil from her package, “Soulmate date and learning experience.”

Chuckling, Harry grabs his pencils and straightens out the page in front of him, “So looking at a color wheel for a few minutes and then snogging and heavy petting wouldn’t be a viable alternative?”

Ginny laughs like it was surprised out of her and Harry feels his chest warm at the sound, full and rich.  She pauses, pencil poised over the corresponding number and smirks at him, a promise in her eyes. “No color wheel, but I’m open for negotiations on the rest.”

Brows rising and dropping in a brief flick, Harry wordlessly begins his own project, selecting a color from the key and searching for the matching pencil.  Nudging his foot beneath the table, Ginny resumes her work, focused and utterly adorable. Harry gets about three segments in to his page when he can’t tear his eyes away from Ginny - pink tip of her tongue barely poking from between her berry colored lips, freckles like a sky full of stars shining across her face, hair a riot of fiery red atop her head like a crown - until she glances up at him.  “Enjoying the view, Potter?” she grins, “From the glorious flush on your cheeks, I assume yes.”

Free hand rising to his heated face, Harry prays it won’t deepen and attempts a cavalier attitude as he blindly grabs for another pencil.  But he’s no Sirius, for better or worse, so Harry lasts only a handful of moments before he cracks a smile, dropping his arm so his fingers brush along her knuckles, “I like it fine enough.”

Ginny hums, fingers drumming on the table for a moment, “Must be nice to have an enjoyable view,” and when Harry lets out an offended grunt, she flips their hands so hers lays on top, tickling his wrist as her thumb brushes over his thrumming pulse, “Don’t be coy - doesn’t suit.”

Gaze unwavering, Harry tilts forward until his palm cups her elbow, “I dunno - I might like what happens when I’m coy.”

“Do you now?” Ginny murmurs, walking her fingers up his bicep ‘til she can’t reach any further across the table corner.  

Nodding once, shallowly, Harry tilts his head closer to Ginny’s, nose teasing at her temple, flowery scent tickling his senses.  The legs of his chair scrape along the floor as he drags himself closer, sharp edge of the table prodding his side. Though he can’t bring himself to care when Ginny’s this near.

Her breath is warm on his neck, her hands gripping his shoulders now in short squeezes.  “And what, pray tell, do you imagine will happen now?”

Harry nudges the side of her face until his lips hover just in front of hers, each inhale swallowing her exhale, and hers the same.  A heartbeat and then she tugs her shirt over her head, tossing it to the ground without hesitation and then grappling for Harry’s. Once she’s pulled it free of his arms, Harry rights his glasses and gulps at the sight of Ginny Weasley, somehow come to perch on his lap and fingers running circuits over his bare chest.  

Brushing a few escaped tendrils behind her ear, Harry finally gets his brain and mouth working on the same team.  “What about the art?”

“Oh my God Harry,” Ginny groans, dropping her head against his shoulder, “You know I planned on saying that this evening under decidedly different circumstances.”

Harry huffs out a laugh, pressing kisses down the side of Ginny’s face while she pinches his side, “You're literally the worst.”

But when she sighs and melts into him, Harry smirks and toys with the straps of her bra, tracing them, fingers dipping beneath, slipping them closer to her shoulders as he admires the way the satiny purple lies bright and stark against her skin.  “Am I though? You're sending some mixed signals, my darling.”

In response, Ginny nips at his neck, alternating soft pinches with warm open mouthed kisses.  Once her breath comes out in heated puffs at his ear, her teeth dragging his lobe so his insides turn molten, she finally murmurs, “Allow me to clarify.”

Later, when they've finally collapsed against the messy sheets, Ginny's fingers working absent designs on his sweat-damp chest, it feels like a beginning of something. Not that complete newness, the unsure hesitance of a start, but the shift into a new season you may have expected or been told about but that you're never quite prepared for. There's no fear, like might be expected.  Not when Ginny's sprawled atop him, smiling softly and gazing at him like he's all she'd ever like to see.

And he's no better. Can practically taste the sickly sweetness of his expression as his palm cups the back of her head, working the tense points at the base of her skull and drawing a moan - one of many in the last hour or so, thank you very much - from her parted lips.  “You're something else, Harry James.”

Harry hums, wincing as Ginny shifts atop him and their skin seems intent on them remaining as they are and then flat out yelping when her elbow connects with his spleen.  When he alerts her to the predicament, Ginny rolls her eyes and drops her elbow to the pillows and settles her head in her hand. “Don't be a baby, baby.”

“Floating pet name proposals?”

“Again, the worst.”

Mirroring her pose Harry brushes her hair back over her shoulder, pausing to press his lips to a bundle of freckles he favors.  “I've got an an idea.”

Ginny quirks her brow.  “Which is.”

“Don't be all -” he gestures vaguely toward her expression with his free hand, “skeptical.  It's a good one.”

Her fingers card through his messy locks, “You're floundering, my love.”

“It's called building suspense, dearest,” Harry shoots back, “For someone so gung ho about art not even two hours ago you're not much of a connoisseur.”

Ginny blinks at him, “Your artistry is unparalleled.  Please continue.”

“Thank you,” Harry answers, lofty, “My idea - you're welcome in advance - will combine two of your favorite hobbies.”

“Which are?”

“Art.”

Narrowing her eyes, Ginny shifts so she's looming over him, forcing his shoulder to drop back on the mattress.  “And?”

“My body.”

And then he winks, and Ginny dissolves into uninhibited laughter, pulling Harry with her as he cries, “This is offensive - my body is a wonderland.”

She kisses his chest, “Ok, John Mayer.”

He frowns. “Anyway - my idea.”

Ginny sobers, a smirk tickling her lips nonetheless. “Yes. Idea.”

“I want you -” he pushed up on his elbows and his lips slip over her cheekbone and to her ear, “To draw me like one of your French girls, Gin.”

She shoves him down and collapses onto the bed, belly already aching with laughter, “Oh my God I hate you.”