Entry tags:

*fic, character: gabrielle delacour, character: ginny weasley, community: rarepair_shorts, fandom: harry potter, femmeslash, genre: general, genre: humor, genre: romance, gift, rating: pg-13, ship: ginny/gabrielle

Closeted
Title: Closeted
Recipient: chimbomba
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ginny/Gabrielle
Prompt/Request: nothing at Bill and Fleur's wedding
Rating: PG-13?
Word Count: 812
Summary: I reckon this has got to be the darkest bloody closet I’ve ever been stuck in.
Author's Notes: for the rarepair_shorts wishlist event. Beta'd by captainpookey.

Closeted

I reckon this has got to be the darkest bloody closet I’ve ever been stuck in. Well, hidden in, really; I’m not actually stuck. In fact, it’s so lovely and cramped in here that I could just reach up, right from where I’m sitting, and open the door. I could be free in less than ten seconds if I wanted to be.

But I don’t.

I’m staying right here, thanks very much, and I’m not coming out until Phlegm leaves the Burrow. I admit, we get on better now, seeing as we’re a bit older—and she’s less vain—and she bakes really well—nothing on Mum, of course. I also like to think that I’m more mature now and am therefore capable of handling situations such as these—and besides, Bill likes it best when his favorite women aren’t trying to kill each other.

But that still doesn’t mean I won’t resort to hiding in an insanely dark—seriously, you’d think there’d at least be a crack under the door, or something—closet just to get away from her. I swear I don’t do this all the time. I’m twenty-five years old, after all. With age comes at least a little dignity.

And, you know, so far this whole hiding-in-the-closet-with-the-towels thing has really worked out. Nobody’s ever found me, and as far as I know, nobody’s even realized that I’ve gone missing. They probably think I left with Harry hours ago.

See, I’m a bit of a Hide-and-Seek champion. When I was little and played it with my brothers, I’d always win. Though that might have been because boys can never see what’s right under their noses.

And girls, I suspect, can’t be bothered about that sort of thing, so there’s no need to worry about them today.

Of course, it’s right exactly as I’m thinking this—gloating about it a bit, really—that the door flies open. Light streams in briefly, but I’m completely bloody blind so I can’t see who’s decided to go and find me. But I figure that whoever it is will just give me a weird look and then close the door again, no harm done.

I’m wrong. Completely wrong.

Whoever it is doesn’t seem to realize that I’m here. She—I reckon it’s a she, because my brothers aren’t that short—just throws herself in like there’s no tomorrow—vive la révolution and all that—and then shuts the door.

But not, of course, before she lands right on top of me. In fact, before either of us knows what’s going on, she’s straddling me, clambering to get further into the closet.

“Erm,” I say.

She gives a painfully loud gasp in my ear and starts clambering a bit more. I suspect she’s trying to get off of me, but since it’s obviously a very small closet and refuses to expand itself by magic, there’s really nowhere to go. More than a few times, our heads bump together, or—or our lips accidentally brush, which is, you know, rather awkward.

Eventually, she gives up. But she’s still on top of me; her face must be close to mine, because I can feel her breath clouding against my skin.

Very awkward, as I said. So awkward that it’s got my heart racing like I’ve just won a Quidditch match.

Have I mentioned how awkward this is?

“I am so sorry,” she whispers breathily. “I deed not know zere was anyone ‘ere.”

My intruder is unmistakably French.

For a moment, I’m horrified, thinking it’s Phlegm. But then I realize that whoever this is is much smaller than Phlegm. Softer. And the accent is less obnoxious.

“Gabrielle?” I ask.

“Geeny?”

“What’re you doing in here?” I demand. What’s your excuse?

“I am ‘iding from my seester,” she groans. It sounds a bit shameful.

My mouth falls open a little. I wasn’t expecting that.

“Really?” I manage. “Me too. She’s driving me completely barmy.” Suddenly, I frown. “But why’re you hiding from her?”

I’ve never seen siblings who like each other as much as Gabrielle and Fleur do.

She chuckles softly. Breathily. It’s always breathy with her—right out of some teenage boy’s daydream.

“I love ‘er very much,” she says, “but at times, she can, ah—drive me ‘completely barmy’, as you say.”

I find myself laughing with her, like what she’s said is hilarious. I mean, it’s funny, but it shouldn’t be enough to make our sides hurt.

It does, anyway, and she ends up flat on top of me, shaking with laughter, while I try to wipe the tears out of my eyes. I think I end up poking her a few times in the process, but she doesn’t notice.

I reckon she’s really not so bad…

And I was getting a bit lonely in here, anyway…

I suppose I won’t kick her out just yet.


THE END