#microwave

Baking convinced is a great deal of fun, and you could possibly earn a little money with this particular skill. In the event you are planning to place a business to place your baking expertise in to practice, you may without a doubt desire a good appliance to get this. A regular oven developed for home usage is not perfect for commercial use; this type of oven is not spacious enough to get all cookie trays to fit in. Moreover, it cannot withstand extended hrs of continuous baking. It might possess a effective system, but it is not great for baking. In the event you decide to make use of a normal oven for the pizza parlour or bakeshop, your toaster could readily break down and simmer. Ergo, you need to decide on the optimal/optimally kind of oven that’s perfect for business usage.

A industrial microwave oven is well suited for the ones that want a thick appliance to get their baking needs. Here will be some wonderful benefits that you can get using this type of oven.

1. The spacious inner enables you bake more cookies, cakes along with other recipes each batch.

Most commercial ovens consume upto three shelves at which you’re able to put as much sheet pans as you are able to. That is very efficient as in just about every batch, so you can create tons of baked snacks. More over, the roomy inside may easily fit into a variety of pizza trays along with other calcium-rich baked snacks.

2. Industrial ovens have an even more effective engine compared to ones made for house use.

When it comes to a thick motor and speed at baking, then you are able to definitely count on a commercial oven. Such a oven comes with an electrical output of about 1900 watts, when compared with the 900 g of domestic ovens. This features enables one to use a industrial oven for hours, even without the threat of overheating. Furthermore, a commercial oven has a complex airflow technology that enables much better air flow.

3. Ovens intended for business usage have cooking possibilities and preferences that conventional ovens would not need.

Commercial ovens possess pre-programmed options like time and temperature, which makes cooking far more productive. With these preferences, you no longer should adjust the timing for every single fresh batch of cookies or noodles to bake; simply choose on the setting used in the last batch. For obtaining the greatest oven and also knowing the types of oven, you have to visit this blog which is actually quite advantageous for you.

4. The interiors and exteriors of toaster are more durable than the ones for home use.

The glass doors, knobs and hinges of both ovens have structure that is more durable as in comparison with standard ovens. These ovens intended for business use additionally come in brushed stainless housing, so making sure sturdiness that may withstand wear and tear.

One Final Note

Each appliance includes exceptional characteristics that allow it to perform any task properly. If it comes to selecting the correct appliance to use for a specific function, it’s vital that you take note of the specifications which each appliance needs. In the event you need something heavy for the own baking requirements, you’re able to rely to a industrial oven to successfully accomplish the work nicely. Its durable construction, advanced technologies and settings let you create more baked snacks within a matter of minutes. Now you will certainly possess more ease and convenience in baking with such a oven.

zeddmores:

dominocity:

tfw u are rotating on a plate in the microwave

All Get Out have announced their “Nobody Likes A Quitter” Tour. They’ll be joined by Gates and Microwave. The tour kicks off on October 27th in Nashville.

tbh microwavable french toast sticks and breakfast sausages are SUCH a lifesaver. i pop ‘em into the airfryer for 10 minutes at 300F and i have a meal in a short amount of time. obviously its not the greatest choice, but its better than eating nothing. and when im coming from the kitchen back to my room, i take some snacks and store them in my desk for later. simple things like chips & graham crackers. it helps me a lot when i just dont have the energy to go to the kitchen but im hungry / peckish.

Discord, you wonderfully horrible mistress.  Chatting with @thedistantdusk​ and @focusly​ this evening begat this.  We’ve all been there–in love with your best friend.  What if Sirius was a little bit in love with James?

“Why don’t you like Lily?” James asked after closing the door to the seventh-year Gryffindor boy’s dorm room.

Reclining on his bed, Sirius didn’t move a muscle, keeping his attention on the feather floating up near the bed’s canopy.  “Who said I didn’t like her?” Sirius asked, frowning as the feather began to dip down towards him.

“She did.”  James’s voice came closer and Sirius resisted the impulse to look at him, concentrating on making the feather move about in a figure eight pattern.

“What did she say I did?”

“She told me she heard you chatting shit about her to those Slytherin girls in the library today before lunch,” James said, his voice flat.  Sirius knew without looking that his arms were crossed and his dark brows were down, hooding his friend’s hazel eyes.

“And she waited until now to tell you?” Sirius affected a mild tone even though his heart was racing.  Tell him, you coward!  “Impressive.”  

James snorted.  “Typical.  Listen, you’re my best mate, yeah?  But you keep up with this and you’ll be out on your arse.”

Sirius’s stomach clenched.  “I have chills.”  

“Fucking impossible,” James mumbled.  He turned to leave and Sirius finally took his eyes off of the feather, watching his best mate leave the dorm to go back down to the common room and back to her.  Freed from his concentration, the feather floated down in a gentle spiral, finally landing on Sirius’s chest.

Finding yourself in a brothel!  I had this idea a while back, probably generated on a discussion in the HarryandGinny Discord.  What if there was a wizarding brothel in London that catered to very specific tastes?  What if someone found himself there?  I don’t have this fully completed yet and it’s been a while since I worked on it, but I ran across it a little while ago and I thought I’d post what I have.  Let me know what you think!

“Right, here’s the plan,” Harry said, sketching a quick diagram of their target in glowing light with his wand.  “We’re running two teams—one for the front door and one for the back.  Ron, you’re in charge of the back door.”

Ron nodded, obviously ignoring the sniggers from the others at the mention of back door.  “I’ll take front.  Burnham, Jones, you’re with me.  Mason, Howard, you’re with Ron.”  Harry waved his wand, banishing the glowing outlines of the house.  “Richards, you’ve got the Anti-Apparation in place?”

“Yeah, boss.  Went up half an hour ago.  Nothing so far.”

“Good man.”  Harry took a deep breath and went over everything in his head, trying to not belie his nervousness at leading his first raid.  “All right.  We go in five.  Ron, wait for my signal before entering.  Break down the door if you have to.”  He looked over his team one last time.  “Remember, Stunning or disabling only.  It’s a brothel, so there are going to be, erm, vulnerable people in there, yeah?”  

Everyone shared looks and smiles that clearly indicated that they knew exactly what sort of vulnerabilities they’d be finding in the magical brothel they were about to raid for the illegal use of Polyjuice Potion.  

Harry checked his watch and blew out a breath.  “Burnham, take us out.”  The group fell in behind Andy Burnham, the only one of them not in regulation Auror blacks.  Instead, he was dressed as a well-to-do young man in smart slacks and a leather motorcycle jacket.  As they strode the pavement of the quiet neighborhood in the heart of Belgravia, the other Aurors cast Disillusionment Chams, making it look as if Burnham were strolling along by himself.  

A few moments later, Andy was at the blue-painted front door of the most notorious wizarding brothel in London.  Ron had touched Harry on the shoulder, letting him know that he was peeling his team off to the back door.  Harry tapped Andy, prompting him to bang the brass knocker in a very specific pattern.

As the last knock sounded, the door opened, a rough-looking man framed in the doorway.  Mute, he looked Andy over and grunted, stepping aside to allow him in, Harry and the others barely managing to squeeze in behind him.  “This way,” the man, obviously a guard, said, leading them down a hallway hung with paintings that were best described as “florid”.

He caught the sound of a bell ringing and they entered a sitting room where red seemed to be the predominant theme.  A smiling woman greeted them.  “Welcome to Aphrodite’s Playground,” she said, looking more like she was dressed for a corporate boardroom than a whorehouse.  “You have an appointment, Mr …?”

“Washburn,” Andy supplied.  Harry noted the guard standing at the entrance to the sitting room, hands folded casually behind his back.

“Washburn, yes.  I’m Madame Wendy.  Now, before we get started, I wanted to confirm your preference is for women, correct?”

“Erm, yeah.”  Andy nodded and Harry saw the red of a blush creeping up his neck.  Keep it together, Burnham.

“Excellent.  I think you’ll be pleased by what we have to offer,” Madame Wendy said, touching her wand to a brass button on a table next to her.  Seconds later, several women streamed into the room from two different directions, arranging themselves in seductive poses on the spindly furniture.

Harry gaped, stunned as he recognized several of the women.  Oh my God, that’s Gwenog Jones!  And is that … Angelina Jolie?  His mind raced as he spied Celestina Warbeck perched on a chair in the corner, a sultry grin on her motherly face.  That’s got to be a rather specialized taste, Harry thought distractedly as he worked to catalog the other stolen celebrity images on display.  

Madame Wendy looked at the assemblage proudly.  “You won’t find better anywhere else, I guarantee.  Our polyjuice is of the highest quality, brewed by a master using only authentic ingredients.”  She rested her hand on top of the platinum blonde hair of an ersatz Paris Hilton.  “Now, take your time, Mr Washburn.  You have plenty.  We guarantee at least four hours of … playtime.”

Right.  That’s what I needed.  Harry dispelled the Disillusionment charm, trusting Jones to follow his lead.  “Attention, this is a raid.  Nobody move,” he said, sending a brief Summons to Ron as the signal to go into the back door.

For a moment, all was still before erupting into chaos as women screamed and started fleeing.  Whirling, Harry stunned the guard, sending him toppling to the thick carpet, wand falling from his fingers.  Madame Wendy stood still, staring at Harry before spinning around, clearly trying to Disapparate.  Her wand flew into Andy’s hand as he disarmed her before wrapping her up in black ropes.

Paris Hilton was crying now, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.  “Don’t tell my mum,” she sobbed as Celestina Warbeck comforted her.

“Andy, you’re here.  Get this lot calmed down, yeah?  Jones, let’s go,” Harry said, sending his stag shooting down the hallway to Ron.  Start at the top.  Meet you halfway.  Together, he and Jones made their way through the ground floor of the brothel, opening doors and immobilizing anyone they found no matter what they were in the middle of.

Spotting Ron at the end of one hallway, Harry opened one last door and stepped in.  “Aurors,” he barked, “this is a raid and — what the fuck is this?”  There on the bed with a woman crouched between his thighs was … himself.  Vertigo swept over him as he met his own shocked green eyes and he stepped back out of the room, slamming the door shut.

“Oi, what’s that about?” Ron asked.  “Are you all right?  You look like you’ve just seen a Dementor.  That wouldn’t even been the weirdest thing I’ve seen tonight.  D’you know they have both Will andKate?”  He reached for the doorknob and Harry put a hand on his arm, stopping him.  

Unable to muster his voice, Harry just shook his head at Ron’s questioning look.  “Mate, is there someone in there?” he asked.

Miserable, Harry could only nod and stepped aside.  If someone’s got to see it, at least it’s Ron.

***

Hours later, Harry sat across a steel table from the young man that had been his doppelgänger.  Now, the effects of the Polyjuice worn off, he was relieved to see that they had absolutely nothing in common looks-wise.  Roman Galik turned out to be the sort that was best described as “weedy” with bulging blue eyes and a receding chin.  

“Mind if I smoke?” Roman asked, his Polish accent stronger than it had been when he’d been arrested.  

“Fine,” Harry said as Roman unwrapped a fresh pack of Dunhills.  He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, looking at him expectantly until Harry snapped his fingers, lighting it in a completely unnecessary display of wandless magic.

Harry waited as the cigarette burned down, thumbing through the slim file he’d brought into the interview room with him.  “Roman Galik.  Nineteen years old, middling student at Durmstrang.  What brings you to England, Roman?” he asked, closing the file with snap.

“Opportunity,” Roman said, blowing out a lungful of smoke.

“And was being a whore pretending to be me the opportunity you were looking for?”  Once more, the shock of seeing himself splayed out on a bed as a strange woman went down on him rolled through him and he suppressed a shudder.

Stubbing out his cigarette, Roman shrugged.  “It was what came up.”

“Indeed,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow.  

The young man crossed his arms and stared back at him.  ”I’ve studied you,“ he finally said, reaching for another cigarette.  "Read all your interviews, collected pictures.  I have a scrapbook this thick."  He held his forefinger and thumb several inches apart.  "When I got your speech pattern down, I got more popular."  He smiled.  "Word of mouth.”

Word of mouth, Harry thought, an uneasy prickling traveling down his spine.  Who else knows about this?  How many people have … slept with me?  The woman who’d been with Roman-as-Harry hadn’t been anyone he’d known and she seemed simultaneously stunned and giddy at being faced with the real Harry Potter as she was arrested for soliciting.

“Whose idea was it?  For you to play me?”

“Madame Wendy’s,” Roman said, his promptness surprising Harry.

“How long ago?”  How long have people been fucking me behind my back? 

Roman pursed his lips in thought.  “Hmm, maybe six months?  You were on the wireless a lot.  Helped me with my accent.  Did you know you sound a bit posh around the vowels?”

Thanks, Aunt Petunia.  “Mm.  Who supplies the Polyjuice?”

“Dunno.  I just do what I’m told.”  He smiled at Harry and mimed drinking from a bottle.  “It’s a bit of Drink Me and down the rabbit hole I go.”  

Chatting with folks on the Discord leads to strange things sometimes. One of our members brought up a discussion she’d been having: Did the Dursleys keep Harry in the cupboard under the stairs when he was a toddler and more dependent on them? This led to a whole discussion of how horrible the Dursleys were and why you gotta make ’em worse? That discussion put this idea in my head. Let me know what you think.

“Will you do something and shut that boy up?” Vernon grumbled, shifting his considerable bulk onto his left side.  

“We need to wait him out,” Petunia hissed over the creaking of the bed frame.  “If we go down now, he’ll know we’re weak.”  She lay on her back, as still as a stone, seemingly unbothered by the shrieks and wails coming from downstairs.

“I’m going to soundproof that cupboard tomorrow, see if I don’t.  I’d like to see him wake us then.”

“He’s bound to get tired soon.  He’s only two and a half.”  

“I’ve got a big meeting tomorrow and I need to be alert.  If that little rat costs me a sale,” Vernon said, leaving the rest of his threat unspoken.

Petunia opened her mouth to reply, to soothe her irritated husband but was brought up short by a wail from Dudley’s room.  “Duddies,” she breathed, springing up out of the bed.  She threw on a dressing gown and walked quickly to her son’s room, leaving Vernon’s mutterings behind her.  

In his room, her son stood up in his cot, chubby hands clutching the top rail, fat tears coursing down his fat, pink cheeks.  “Oh, Duddiekins, don’t cry.  Mummy’s here, Mummy’s here,” she cooed as she leaned down to plant gentle kisses on top of her son’s shining blond hair.  

“Arry,” the toddler mumbled, raising his arms to be picked up.

Petunia picked him up, grunting with the effort.  “I know, loviekins, I know.  He’s horrible, isn’t he?”  She bounced Dudley in her arms as she whispered into his ear.  “He’ll quiet down soon.  He has to learn to be quiet, doesn’t he?”  

As she spoke, the wailing cut off and she sighed in relief.  “See?  He’s smarter than he looks.”  She sat down in the antique rocking chair, her beefy son nestled in her embrace and rocked him back to sleep before putting him back into his cot.  On the way back to her own bed, she paused for a moment as she briefly thought about going to check on her nephew.  No, I don’t want him to wake and start up again.  He’ll still be there in the morning.

***

Bathilda Bagshot was quite fond of a hot toddy before bed, especially on chill evenings such as this one.  An evil night, she thought, chasing away a shudder with a sip of warmed brandy.  No, October 31 was no longer one of her favorite nights.  The memory of the Potter family’s destruction outweighed memories of Halloween feasts at Hogwarts shared with friends and ghosts alike.

Thinking of Hogwarts put her in mind for a bit revising on her latest edition of A History of Magic and she waved her wand, summoning a stack of parchment to  her.  She’d just settled down to read over the section about Helga Hufflepuff when she heard something outside.  

That wind.  I must ask Mr Graves to see to my windowsills before the snow falls.  She shifted in her chair and sipped a bit more from her hot toddy.  A moment later, she put down her papers, no longer sure that what she was hearing was the wind.  That cat is outside again, poor puss.  She recalled the Potter’s cat from when she used to visit and had been trying to coax it indoors every time she saw it.  The poor thing seemed to recall its former home and showed up every now and then, crying out for its old family as it slunk around the ruined house.

In the hall, she put her heavy coat and ventured outside, trusting her house slippers to keep her feet warm enough.  Determined to lure the cat, she brought along a saucer of milk.  Outside, she paused for a moment, listening for the sound.  Soon enough, she heard it and she set off for the ruined cottage.  

“Here, puss, puss, puss,” she called as she got closer, squinting to see the cat in the darkness.  “I have some nice warm milk for you.”  As she approached the cottage, she slowed, no longer certain that what she was hearing was a cat.  Quickening her steps, she let out a gasp of surprise at the sight of a little boy standing on the top step in front of the door.

“All my days,” she breathed, hardly daring to believe what she was seeing in front of her.  The little boy had on pajamas that looked much too large on his small frame, his jet black hair a wild halo around his head.  He clutched a ragged teddy in one hand, the thumb of the other firmly in his mouth as he looked at her, almond-shaped green eyes solemn.  

“Mummy,” little Harry Potter said, his young voice hoarse from crying.

***

“Oh, Albus, thank you for coming,” Bathilda said as she opened the door at his knock.

“Of course, Bathilda.  Thank you for sending your owl,” Albus Dumbledore said, stooping just a little as he came into the cozy little house.  “Where is he?”

“Sleeping.  Poor little mite was knackered.  I gave him a bit of porridge and then he was out,” Bathilda said, leading Albus to her warm lounge.  Little Harry was curled up on the settee under a tartan blanket, his ragged bunny clutched to his chest.  

Dumbledore looked down, his keen blue eyes staring down at the small figure.  Bathilda saw his mouth tighten and she was reminded of when he was her Transfiguration professor.  “How do you think he got here?  You don’t think he was kidnapped, do you?”

“No, I don’t think anyone took him,” he said, smiling at her.  “I think Harry Apparated himself here.”

Bathilda gasped and placed her hand on her chest.  “You really think he did it himself?”  She looked down at the sleeping child.  “How?”

Dumbledore shrugged.  “I daresay Halloween night has memories for all of us, even Harry.”

“Do you think he remembers what happened?”

“I think he knows something is missing in his life.”  The headmaster’s shoulders sagged and he sighed.  “I’ll take him back.  Thank you, Bathilda.”

Bathilda put a hand on Dumbledore’s arm.  “Does he have to go back?”

“Yes.  He has to be with Lily’s blood,” he said, his voice soft as he picked up the sleeping child.  He gestured to the blanket, giving her a questioning look.

“Oh of course.  Take it.  Keep it with him,” Bathilda said, laying her hand on top of Harry’s head, his black hair silky against her palm.

She followed the pair as he carried the child out of her house and watched as he Apparated away, taking Harry back to his aunt and uncle.  “Come visit me when you’re all grown up,” she whispered to the empty air.

***

“Now what?” Vernon mumbled, his voice hoarse with sleep.  “What’s that banging?”

“Duddiekins,” Petunia murmured as she sat up, disoriented from being sound asleep.  She frowned, hearing nothing from Dudley’s room.  Downstairs, she heard what sounded like someone banging on the front door.  “I’ll go see who it is.  You need your rest for tomorrow,” she said, scrambling out of bed.

Clad in a dressing gown, she opened the door, ready to give whoever it was on the other side a piece of her mind for waking decent, hardworking people in the middle of the night when they were trying to get some rest but her words died on her lips at the sight of Albus Dumbledore on her doorstep.

“Dumbledore,” she breathed.  “What are you—” her eyes darted down to the bundle wrapped in a tartan blanket he held in his arms.  “Oh no, we’ve already taken in one of your foundlings.  You can’t ask us to—”

“Petunia Evans,” Dumbledore said, his voice stern and calm.  “It seems as if our Harry had a bit of accidental magic tonight.  Tell me, was he upset?”

Petunia’s heart nearly stopped in her chest.  “He was crying, but we thought he’d settled down and gone to sleep.  What did he do?” 

“He ended up in Godric’s Hollow.  A neighboring witch found him and alerted me.  May I?” he asked, inclining his head to indicate the inside of the house.

Stepping aside, Petunia let him enter, his tall, robe-clad body looking quite at odds with the formal lounge.  “Oh, well, I’m glad he was found.  Safe.”  She reached out for him, feeling a bit like a butterfly pinned to a wax board as Dumbledore looked at her over his half moon glasses before handing her the sleeping Harry.

She held him, his warm little body curling instinctively around her.  The headmaster brushed his thumb over the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead before meeting Petunia’s eyes, his gaze holding hers.  She had a queer sort of ringing in her ears as she stared into his bright blue eyes.  Remember your last, she heard, even though Dumbledore didn’t open his mouth.

A moment later she was alone with Harry in her well-appointed formal lounge.

I wrote this a while ago, but never really shared it.  Not too sure if it’ll ever grow up into a full fic or merely stay a scene.

“What’s this I hear about you going to Azkaban next week?” Harry asked from his spot on Ginny’s sofa.  He was stretched out on his back with his arm over his eyes to block out the late afternoon sunlight.

Ginny turned the burner down under the pot simmering on the cooker and wiped her hands on a dishtowel.  “It’s part of my training.  I’m going with Healer Williams as part of the St Mungo’s Magical Health Outreach Program.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a program Healer Williams started a couple of years ago.  He was outraged that those people in Azkaban don’t get any healthcare at all, so he persuaded St Mungo’s and the Wizengamot to let him start monthly visits.”  Ginny took her glass of wine over to the sofa, nudging Harry’s feet aside and sat down, putting his bare feet back in her lap.

“So this Healer goes to Azkaban once a month?  And takes a trainee with him?” Harry asked, lifting his arm from his eyes to look at her.  

“Yes.”  Ginny took the opportunity to run her finger along the bare arch of his foot, grinning when he twitched and flexed his toes.  Taking his feet out of her lap, Harry sat up, crossing his legs and frowning at her.  “What?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said, his tone carrying none of the easy joking that was the usual way between them.

“Why not?” Ginny held tight to the flash of anger that coursed through her, trying to keep an open mind for all that she was irritated that Harry had simply rejected her participation out of hand as if he had any say in the matter.

“Gin, those people are the worst of the worst.  They’re in Azkaban for a very good reason—some of them for several good reasons,” he said, dark brows drawn down.

Ginny crossed her arms, digging in for a good argument.  “Does that mean that they don’t deserve health care?”  Harry shrugged and she gasped.  “I can’t believe you even think that!”

“Gin, they’re not good people.  They did terrible, awful things of their own free will.”

“For which they’ll be stuck in Azkaban for the rest of their terrible lives and deservedly so.  But that doesn’t mean that they don’t deserve basic healthcare,” Ginny said obstinately.  

Harry looked at her like she was speaking a completely different language that he was struggling to understand.  “The worst of the worst,” he repeated slowly.  “Rosier.  Lestrange.  Mulciber.  The Carrows.”

A chill trickled down her spine when he named the Carrows and she had a brief vision of Alecto standing over her, laughing in mad glee as she lashed her with broad strokes of her wand, sending out a terrible energy that left her with painful red welts.  Setting her jaw, she banished the memory, stuffing it far away from the light.  “Who are you to say what I can and can’t do?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened.  “I thought I was your friend.”

His words and the hurt behind them threw a dash of cold water on Ginny’s defiance.  “Harry, it’s part of my training.  I need to be able to go into any situation and do my job.”

“What possible reason could you have to walk into a place full of the dregs of humanity and Dementors?”

“You never know!  There could be another war, a disaster!”  Ginny stood up from the couch and went back into the kitchen, ostensibly to check on the simmering pot, glad to be away from Harry’s gaze.  “Muggles could find out about us and attack with their bombs.”

Harry followed her into her tiny kitchen, leaning against the door frame.  “Muggles aren’t going to attack us with bombs, Gin.”

“How do you know?”  Harry gave her a look and she snorted.  “Oh, sorry, I forgot.  Mr High-And-Mighty-Auror knows everything that goes on.”

“I’m not—” He blew out a breath and she could see him making an effort to speak to her calmly, something that only made her angrier.  “I don’t know everything, but I know that you going to Azkaban is the worst idea I’ve heard in ages.”

[Add reaction here] “You do realize I spent an entire year at Hogwarts surrounded by these ‘worst of the worst’, don’t you?  While you were out traipsing around the countryside with your best friends, I was stuck in a dreary castle full of people who loved to do nothing less than hurt or curse me for the merest infraction.”  She was certain her face was turning red and she wiped at her nose, hating the quavery tone in her voice.  

Harry stood still, almost as if he were afraid of spooking her if he moved.  “I wasn’t exactly traipsing around, you know.”  

“You certainly weren’t suffering with the rest of us!” Ginny spat, surprised at the surge of bitterness that came with the words and the satisfaction at his stunned expression.

“No, I wasn’t suffering at Hogwarts!  I was fucking well starving and being menaced by wearing a piece of Voldemort, wasn’t I?” Harry returned, pulling down the neck of his tee shirt so she could see the top edge of the scar left by the locket; the same scar she must have kissed a thousand times by now.  “I was cut off from the entire world, nearly done in by a snake, beaten … I had to listen to Hermione get tortured and then I got to see the bravest House-Elf in the world die.  Really great fucking camping trip!”  

Ginny’s stomach dropped down to her toes, but she refused to allow him to think he had any right to dictate any part of her life to her.  “That was your decision.  And this is my decision.  You’re not my dad or even my boyfriend!”

“No, I’m not.  Also your decision, yeah?”  Harry turned away and grabbed his dragonhide jacket from the coatrack by the door, shoving his bare feet into his trainers.  “I’ll see you later.  Have fun with the Dementors and Death Eaters,” he said, slamming the door of her apartment so hard it sprang back open.

@thedistantdusk is my trash reality show sherpa and the things she finds are alternatingly  fascinating and disturbing.  One of her favorites is 90 Day Fianceé.  I’m gonna let you Google that one.  Anyway, we got to chatting about the latest craziness on that show and the idea of applying it to Harry Potter came up.  What if our favorite Bulgarian Seeker needed a way to stay in the UK?  And his old friend Hermione Granger helped him out?  As always, let me know what you think.

Hermione set her heavy bag down on the floor, glad to finally have its weight off her shoulder.  She was shoulders deep in the icebox when she heard a rapid tapping at her window.  Turning around, she saw a tiny, overly excited owl clutching a letter.  

“Oh, Pigwidgeon!” Hermione said, opening the window to let the little owl in.  He preened his feathers as she patted him on the head before giving him one of the Pigwidgeon-sized treats she kept specially on hand for him.  Expecting a note from Ron, she was surprised to see Ginny’s handwriting when she opened the letter.

Hermione, are you free to meet me at the Leaky around 6 tonight?  I need to have a chat with you.  —Ginny

“Well that sounds interesting,” Hermione murmured as she dashed off a quick response and gave it to the tiny owl, closing the window after he’d flown off.  Glancing at the clock, she decided she could spare a few minutes to freshen up before heading out.

***

“Hiya!” Ginny said, pressing her cheek to Hermione’s in greeting.  “What can I get you?  Cider?”

“Oh, cider sounds lovely,” Hermione said, taking a seat on the battered old bench as Ginny went up to get their drinks.  She watched her friend up at the bar, trying to think of what Ginny had to talk to her about that was so urgent.  

Is there something going on with Harry?  If it were something with Molly or Arthur, she wouldn’t have asked me here.  It must be Harry.  Or something.  She pursed her lips, eyeing Ginny’s figure as she walked back to their table with their drinks.

“So how’s Harry?” Hermione asked after they’d had their first taste of the excellent cider.  

Ginny lifted an eyebrow and smiled at her.  “Didn’t you see him for lunch?”

“Well, yes, but …” Flustered, Hermione picked up a coaster and spun it on its corner.  “How are the two of you doing?”

“We’re fine.  Nothing too terribly exciting on that front.”  Ginny took a big gulp of her cider and looked at Hermione.  Hermione had a small quiver in her gut because Ginny looked like she was doing what she called “getting her game face on”.

“Ginny, why did you ask me here?” Hermione asked, determined to get to the heart of whatever was going on.

“Hermione.  I … oh God, there’s no good way to say this, so I’m just going to say say it.”  

Heart practically beating in her throat, Hermione felt almost breathless.  “Say what?”

“Ron is going to propose.”

All of the noise in the lively pub shut off and all Hermione heard for several seconds was a soft ringing in her ears.  “Really?” was all she was able to squeeze out until she caught her breath once more.  “When?”  In a flash, she had everything all planned out:  an intimate wedding, a honeymoon by the sea, a small cottage in a charming village …

“I don’t know, I overheard him talking about it to Mum the other night.”  Ginny gave a quick glance around and leaned in, lowering her voice.  “You know what this means, though, don’t you?”  All of Hermione’s high-flying plans crashed into the ground and the noise in the pub came roaring back.  “Do you know where he is?”

Hermione took a long drink of cider as she thought.  “Um, I might have a letter from him at my flat.”

“Hermione.  You’ve got to get this sorted out.  If Ron finds out …” Ginny said, her voice full of warning.

In her mind’s eye, Hermione pictured the moment.  Ron’s dear, wonderful face full of hope and love as he slid the ring onto her finger.  Her voice trembling as she accepted his proposal.  “Yes, Ron, I will marry you, but … there’s a little thing I need to take care of first.”  The Ron in her vision started to look confused and she shook her head, coming back to Ginny at the Leaky.

“I need to divorce Viktor Krum,” she said.

Ginny nodded.  “Precisely.  But you need to find him first.”

So back in December, I picked up a couple of books full of writing prompts in the discount section of Barnes and Noble and thought it would be fun to share a prompt a week on the Harry and Ginny Discord. Just as a little something to encourage writers or those who are thinking about writing to get creative. This week’s prompt was: “You hate your best friend’s new partner. They are besotted. Do you pretend to like them or come clean?” This is what I came up with.

Harry looked at one of his best friends and sighed.  “Are you really going to see him again tonight?” he asked, not really expecting any sort of answer.  “I mean, he’s hardly the sort you would usually associate with.”  He looked around the room.  “Although I suppose there’s something to be said for proximity.”

A cool breeze blew in through the open window, raising the small hairs on on the back of Harry’s neck.  He heard soft rustling as Pigwidgeon flew into the Hogwarts owlery, a mouse almost as big as him clutched in his beak.

In front of him, Hedwig hooted in owlish delight, her yellow eyes seeming to gleam brighter as her tiny owl suitor landed on the floor, dropping the morsel in front of her perch.  Swooping down, Hedwig snapped up the mouse in her sharp beak, throwing her head back to swallow it whole.  Harry could have sworn that Pigwidgeon swelled twice his size with pride.

“Fine,” Harry said as the tiny owl snuggled up to Hedwig as she preened her snowy white breast feathers with her beak.  “If he makes you happy.”  

Hedwig looked at him, fixing him with her golden gaze and blinked once.  “I, uh, guess I’ll leave you to it, then,” Harry said, wondering if this was how fathers of newly dating daughters felt.  He left the owlery, looking back at the happy couple once more.

Things have been busy with the holidays and I haven’t posted anything in a while.  Here’s something I’m working on for the prompt posse on the HarryandGinny Discord.  I don’t know how far it’ll go, but it’s fun so far.  :D

Ginny walked quickly down Montague Street, her head down and chin buried in her scarf against the chill morning.  Just a few more minutes and I can stop at the cafe for a lovely hot mocha.  Stepping onto the pathway that ran through Russel Square, she saw something completely unexpected.

A thestral stood on the winter-brown grass, its skeletal figure seeming somehow appropriate for this gray, dismal day.  Ginny slowed her walk and stared at the creature, the mocha no longer quite as important as it had been a short time ago.  What is one of those doing here?  As she watched, the pupil-less white eyes seemed to grow sharper and the leathery wings shivered.  

A squirrel shot out of the flowerbed and the thestral pounced, looking like a bony, leathery cat with wings as it crushed the unfortunate squirrel beneath its hooves.  Ginny let out a shocked gasp and stood, transfixed as the animal bent its neck down, scooping up the morsel in its beak-like mouth, tossing its head back and swallowing the squirrel whole.  

“Well, that’s not something you see every day,” Ginny murmured as she continued on to the cafe.  The thestral was strolling slowly around the park, its wings tucked close to its body.  Glancing around, she saw that no one else seemed to see the beast and she briefly wondered if she should shoo it away.  The ones at Hogwarts were friendly enough, but those had been handled by Hagrid all their lives and she didn’t feel confident enough in her Care of Magical Creatures marks to walk up to a wild thestral and convince it that a park in the middle of London might not be the best place for it.

Shrugging, she went into the cafe and ordered her drink, her thoughts turning to her busy day at St Mungo’s, forgetting all about the strangeness of the squirrel-hunting thestral in Russel Square park.

It’s been a busy week and I haven’t had much time for writing, but I’ve had this idea bouncing around in my head all week and I finally had some time this evening.  In a bit of a departure, this features Ron and Hermione.  I hope you enjoy and as always, let me know what you think!  

Ron left the bathroom, toweling his hair dry.  On his way to the closet, his eyes fell on Hermione’s book-covered bedside table.  As he walked past, the top one slid off and fell to the carpet with a soft thump.

He rolled his eyes at his wife’s insatiable reading habit as he bent to pick up the fallen book, pausing for a moment when he saw the one that had been underneath it.  “What’s this?” he said, picking it up.

On the cover were a couple locked in what looked like a very intense embrace.  The man had lost his shirt somewhere along the line and was in a very powerful position over the woman who looked like she was also having trouble keeping all of her clothing on.

Raising his eyebrows, he looked at the title, almost having to squint to make out the overly-stylized words.  “The Pirate’s Princess,” he read out loud.  “Well.  Let’s see what’s so interesting about you.”

He riffled the pages of the thick paperback, stopping short of the middle and began to read.

“You know my father will send his fastest ships after you,” Eliza said, dark eyes smoldering.  

Rodrigo shrugged and leaned back in his chair, resting the heels of his tall leather boots on top of the table in the captain’s cabin.  He lifted the cup of rum and drank, smiling at his captive.  “My ship is also fast.”

Eliza twisted, testing the ropes that bound her wrists and narrowed her eyes at him.  She tossed her head, sending her glorious chestnut hair tumbling down her shoulders.  “Your ship will need to be very fast indeed to outrun the might of my father.”

Lowering his feet to to the deck with a loud thump, Rodrigo leaned forward, closing the distance between them.  Up close, she smelled sweet, her scent a contrast to the smells of tar and sweaty me he lived with every day.  She stared back at him, defiant and he found his heart racing.  “My dear—”

“Ron?  Ron, are you almost ready?” Hermione called from the lounge.  Startled, Ron closed the book with a snap and set it back on the pile, putting the fallen book on top of it.

“Yeah, almost ready, love!  They won’t mind if we’re a little late.”  Ron grabbed a shirt out of the closet and quickly pulled it on, practically jumping into his pants and trousers.  A few minutes later, he was reasonably presentable and headed out into the lounge to meet Hermione, eyes drawn to the stack of books on Hermione’s bedside table.

In bed that night, Hermione was reading as usual, but not “The Pirate’s Princess”, he noted.  All night, he’d been thinking of Rodrigo and Eliza and what he was about to say to her when he’d been interrupted.  And how did they even get into that situation?  Who is Eliza’s dad?  Someone powerful, I bet.  I guess that’s them on the cover, so I guess things work out all right? 

His shifting around must have bothered Hermione as she closed her book and turned to look at him.  “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, fine.  Why?”

“You seemed a bit distracted earlier tonight and now you’re moving around like you’ve got ants in the bed.  What’s going on?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Ron sighed, pushing his fringe off of his forehead.

Hermione burrowed down into the blankets, her hair spreading out on the pillow.  “About what?”  

Ron’s face grew hot and he knew the tip of his nose was pink.  “Erm, Rodrigo and Eliza?”  That was clearly not the answer she was expecting as she blinked several times in surprise and he felt his face getting even hotter.  “One of your books fell and …” he trailed off, giving her a helpless shrug.

“The Pirate’s Princess?” Hermione turned to her table and picked up the book, showing him the cover.  “This one?”

“Yeah.  I read a bit and it was … interesting.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow and opened the book.  “What part did you read?”

“They were on his ship, I guess?  And she was tied up.”  Interest piqued, Ron sat up.  “And all night I’ve been wondering how they got there and who her dad is and who is Rodrigo and how did he become a pirate and how fast is his ship and—”

Hermione put her finger against his lips, cutting off his stream of words.  “Let’s not keep you in suspense,” she said, turning to the first page.  

Eliza Thornton woke up to another glorious, Caribbean morning, the air coming in her window fresh and sweet,  she read, her voice sounding a little bit like when she read sections of Transfiguration textbooks to her students.

Sighing, she went to the window, carefully unbraiding her long, chestnut locks as she looked out onto the sunrise.  Her father’s fleet bobbed in the harbor and she felt a spike of longing, wishing that she could convince her father to take her on one of his voyages like he did once when she was a little girl.

Ron closed his eyes, listening to his wife’s voice as she read the book out loud to him.  

In a case of art imitating life, today’s drabble is brought to you by @thedistantdusk​ and the Shawarma Prince.  

“Harry, can we go to that shawarma place again?” Ginny asked.  

Harry looked over at her as they walked along the steep downhill slope.  “Again?  We just went there yesterday.”

“I know, but it was really good and I saw something else on the menu I’d like to try.”

He tried to visualize the menu, trying to figure out what about the place had Ginny so enchanted.  It was just a little hole in the wall he’d found last week when out for a jog.  Intrigued by the smells coming out of the small storefront, he’d suggested it for dinner the other night.  “All right.  Let’s go.”

They continued to walk in amiable silence, the brisk wind catching her hair and blowing it backwards.  Soon, he was able to catch the scent of Mediterranean food and his stomach began to grumble.  “I hope there isn’t a line,” Ginny said, echoing Harry’s thoughts.

Inside the shop, they stood looking over the menu posted above the busy counter.  “Do you know what you want?” he asked.  

Ginny nodded and gave him her order.  “Can we eat here?” she asked, nodding to a small table with two rather uncomfortable looking chairs.

“Wouldn’t you rather eat at home where it’s more comfortable?” 

“I’m starving—I don’t think I could get it home!”  Ginny sat down in one of the chairs and Harry shook his head, stepping up to the register to order.  Order placed, he sat down across from Ginny, handing her the cup of diet soda she’d asked for.  

As they chatted quietly, mostly about her upcoming exams and the fast-approaching Christmas holidays, Harry became aware that she wasn’t really paying attention.  “Are you all right?” he asked, squinting at her through his glasses.

“Hm?  Oh, no, I’m fine!” she said, truly focusing on him for the first time.  He noticed spots of red high on her cheeks.

“What’s going on?” 

“Nothing!  What makes you think …” she began, trailing off as she looked over his shoulder.

Turning around, Harry saw the young man behind the counter engaged in assembling their orders.  He was tall with a shock of dark hair and an easy smile and he shook his head.  “Are you serious?  That’s why you wanted to come here?”

Pink flooding her entire face, Ginny grinned at him.  “Um … maybe?”

Harry snorted and took a long drink of his own soda.  “Are you saying that I’m not good enough to look at?” he asked, leaning in towards her.  “That you have to stare at someone else, someone like this …” he said, searching for the right term.  “For this shawarma prince?”

“Harry, look at him.  He’s objectively hot,” Ginny said, meeting his eyes.  “Besides, who does he remind you of?”

Harry glanced at him again and turned back, shrugging at her.  “I dunno.  Some bloody actor?”

“Well, maybe, but look.  He’s tall, has dark messy hair—” Her litany was interrupted by the sound of a bell indicating that their orders were ready.  

“Shall I go collect our food from the prince?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.  “Or would you rather do it?”

“No, it’s fine.  You get a good look at him and then tell me if you think he’s hot.”

“Ben would be a better judge than me,” he said under his breath as he collected the tray.  He gave the kid the once-over, automatically returning his smile.  

“So, what did you think?” Ginny asked as she picked up her wrap.

“I think you have questionable taste in men,” he said, spearing a falafel.

She grinned at him, her nose wrinkling in that way he found adorable.  “Well, that much is known!”  She took a bite of her wrap and chewed, eyes straying once more to the Shawarma Prince.  From now on, we’re getting takeaway!

So, Discord strikes again.  @focusly mentioned that she had something pop into her head the other day where Harry and Ginny move in together and “he gets weirded out by all the hair she sheds everywhere” and @thedistantdusk said she wanted a story about her bobby pins.  Well, this isn’t quite about bobby pins, but … Let me know what y’all think!

Yawning, Harry walked into the bathroom, looking forward to a hot shower.  As the hot water beat down on his shoulders, he finally began to feel more awake and opened his eyes, reaching for his bar of soap.

Only to find that it wasn’t in its usual place.  His hand came down on a bottle instead of a bar and he frowned, looking at the pink stuff inside.  Mrs Snyder’s Petal-Soft Body Scrub, he read.  Uncapping it, his nose was assaulted by the very aggressive scent of apples and he sneezed.  He thought for a moment and shrugged, squirting a generous dollop into his palm.

Moments later, he’d decided that he much preferred his good old bar of soap.  “Why do women feel the need to scrub their damn skin off?” he asked the shower as he rinsed the punishing liquid off.  He thought briefly of trying her shampoo, but didn’t feel like treating his scalp to unexpected punishment.  

Skin tingling, he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, drying off before wrapping it around his waist.  Using his wand, he cleared the fog from the mirror and grabbed his toothbrush, once again finding that it wasn’t his.  Ginny insisted on using a motorized one, telling him that it cleaned much better than the old-fashioned one that Harry used.

“Hermione showed it to me.  Her mum and dad recommend them to all of their patients,” she’d said proudly, showing him the device.  He eyed it dubiously and then shrugged, smearing toothpaste on it.  Shoving it into his mouth, he pressed the switch, taken aback at the aggressive buzzing and scrubbing.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled, determined to not be defeated by this instrument of torture.  He kept at it until the device buzzed at him in a repeating pattern and gratefully turned it off, feeling as if he’d just assaulted his mouth with angry bees.  

He looked at himself in the mirror, pulling back his lips and inspecting his teeth for damage or increased cleanliness.  “That didn’t make any difference at all.  She scrubs off her skin and practically files down her teeth!  And for what?”  

Shaking his head, he looked down at the bathroom counter, searching for his comb.  The counter was covered in various products in slim, brightly-colored bottles and he picked them up one by one, marveling at the purported uses.  “Pre-conditioner, leave-in conditioner, shine enhancer, wave enhancer, high control, low control …” he muttered, putting them all in a neat row.  

Finally finding his comb, he dragged it through his mostly-dry hair, frowning at the result.  He usually didn’t care all that much about what his hair did, but he’d caught a few looks from Ginny lately that made him think that maybe he ought to.  Surveying the bottles arrayed in front of him, he picked one up that said it could “tame the wildest locks” and squeezed out a good sized dollop.  This one smelled like Ginny and he rubbed his hands together before sweeping them over his hair, taking special care with the part that always seemed to stick up at the back.

In the mirror, his hair seemed to have an unaccustomed sheen and he shook his head from side to side.  Hm, maybe this stuff does what it says, he thought when his hair didn’t immediately fall into its usual disarray.  

Finished with his morning ablutions, Harry looked around the bathroom, taking in all of the changes that had occurred since Ginny had moved in.  In addition to the myriad products in the shower and on the sink counter, there was another towel hanging on the towel rack and more extra loo roll than Harry had seen in his entire life.  He found he was constantly finding loose bobby pins and hair ties strewn around the flat and had on more than one occasion pulled a long, red hair out of his pants.  

Back in the bedroom, his eyes fell on Ginny, still sound asleep.  She was cocooned in the blankets with only that glorious mane of dark red hair showing.  He gave a brief thought to simply getting back into bed with her and burying his face in that hair, but he couldn’t avoid his early morning meeting.  We’ll do something fun tonight, he thought, entertaining a vision of her on top of him, her hair tumbling all around her shoulders.

Sighing, he turned away and opened his top drawer, pulling out a pair of boxers.  He dropped the towel and pulled them on before grabbing a shirt out of his closet.  As he shrugged it on, he felt a tickle down by his bollocks and shifted around, trying to get rid of it.  The sensation only intensified and he reached into his pants, feeling around until he found the culprit and pulled out a single long red hair.