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“Fifty-six … fifty-seven … fifty-eight,” said Ginny, tossing a pink envelope onto the teetering stack in front of her. “What about you?”
“It’s not a competition, you know.”
“It is absolutely a competition, and that suggests you’re losing.”
Harry emerged, rather ruffled, from the sea of post surrounding him.
“I haven’t been counting,” he said, sounding harassed. “I’ve been reading them. Some are - er -”
“What?”
“Graphic,” said Harry, gingerly extracting one card and passing it to Ginny by his fingertips, as if afraid it might explode in his hand.
Ginny read it, her eyebrows elevating with every word.
“Goodness.”
“I know!”
“I mean, is that something you’d like , or -?”
“It doesn’t matter what it is,” said Harry firmly, “I’m not doing it with Brenda Bagshaw, 45, from Ealing.”
“What about Ginny Weasley, 22, from Devon?”
Harry shot her a mischievous grin.
“Exactly like that?”
“Well,” said Ginny, her tone delicate, “maybe not the bit with the mustard …”
Shoulders shaking with laughter, Harry turned back to the enormous pile of Valentine’s cards that had been delivered that morning. The wards around their cottage were set to turn away anything dangerous, but there had still been so many owls outside that they weren’t entirely sure how to explain it to the neighbours.
“I can’t help but notice I haven’t got one from you,” Ginny said lightly, examining a plush teddy bear holding a bright red heart that said Be Mine. Glancing up, she saw Harry tense.
“What, a card?” Mild panic crossed his face. “Or a present? ‘Cos I’ve got something for later, and I already gave you - er, something - earlier.”
Ginny blushed at the reminder of that something, which had been very nice indeed. “I know. But no card …” She heaved a melodramatic sigh. “You know, Mum and Dad get each other a card every year. Always have done.”
She was disappointed when Harry didn’t take the bait, but grinned at her again. “That’s funny,” he said, “because I don’t seem to have one from you.” He made a great show of sifting through his cards, humming to himself. “Oh, hang on, no, I think this one’s from you. His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled - oof!”
The teddy bear sailed across the table with the precise aim of a professional level Chaser and hit him in the face.
“Prat.”
---
Ginny had to hand it to her boyfriend, he knew how to pull out all the stops. Outside it was dark and bitterly cold, but the tiny dining room of the cottage was wonderfully warm and cosy, soulful music playing on a low volume from the wireless, tall candles in the window and on the table, which turned the lenses of Harry’s glasses opaque as he gathered up the empty plates and Banished them to the kitchen. Ginny leant back in her chair, debating whether to undo the button of her jeans: Harry was a very good cook.
Harry was topping up her wine glass when there was a soft tap on the window pane. The candlelight illuminated the shadowy shape of an owl, something held in its beak. Throwing Ginny a confused look, Harry went to let it in.
“It’s for you … another Valentine, looks like.”
“Jealous?” said Ginny wickedly, catching the pale pink envelope he lobbed at her. Harry sat back down at the table, pulling a face as he reached for his glass. Absorbed in opening the card - which was actually little more than a piece of plain parchment folded in half, she observed, probably from some weirdo - Ginny didn’t notice his hand shaking slightly, nor the way his eyes were fixed on her, waiting for her reaction.
All the card contained was four lines, written in a hand that looked as if it were usually untidy but was making an effort to be neater.
Her eyes are as brown as a puddle of mud
Her hair is as red as a cherry
This poem's a mess, but I hope she says yes
The girl that I'd like to marry
Ginny read it, then froze, then read it again. And again.
A dizzying array of emotions came over her in quick succession. Confusion, surprise, amusement …
She looked up and saw Harry, expression endearingly hopeful, holding out a small box with a ring inside it.
… overwhelming happiness.
“Erm,” said Harry nervously. “Do you …?”
Ginny laughed, her heart as light as a feather. “Yes!” she told him, giggling again when he exhaled with pure relief. “Of course I do.”
“Oh, thank God,” Harry said breathlessly, jumping to his feet and coming round the table to kiss her with such vigour she nearly fell off her chair.
Later, in bed (rather sweaty and breathless herself) she read the poem again.
“‘Her eyes are as brown as a puddle of mud’?”
“Not a lot of things are brown,” said Harry defensively, who was trying not to fall asleep.
“Cherry doesn’t rhyme with marry, either.”
“I never said I could write poetry!”
“It’s all right,” said Ginny, setting the card down on the bedside table and snuggling comfortably into his chest. “You’ve got other talents.”