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SIYE Time:21:39 on 28th March 2024
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No Photographs, Please
By deenas

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Category: Post-HBP
Characters:Harry/Ginny
Genres: General
Warnings: None
Story is Complete
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 11
Summary: Harry never asked to be in the spotlight and yet he always finds himself on the wrong end of some photographer's camera. All he wants is a little peace and the ability to live his life on his own terms.
Hitcount: Story Total: 6003







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I hate photographers.

Always have.

They start out being all nice and then, with the flash of a bulb, they betray you and believe that since they caught you in a photo, they own you. They are almost as bad as the reporters they work for. Some of them don’t work with reporters, I know, but they’re all pricks. Bleeding pricks.

I never had my picture taken until I went to school at Hogwarts. My aunt and uncle never had a photo of me around the house, and to some degree, I don’t blame them. I was an ugly kid. My hair that had a mind of it’s own and I wore clothes that were three sizes too big. I was picked on, made fun of and anyone who even came close to being my friend was beat up by my cousin. So regardless of it not being my fault, I reckon I wasn’t all that photogenic.

Colin Creevey was the first person to take my picture and it annoyed the hell out of me. He kept taking picture after picture of me, and somehow, I got used to it. The worst part of it was that Professor Lockhart thought I was his bloody clone, seeking out every little bit of attention. Colin was a nice enough bloke but he was, well, overzealous, yeah that’s the word, in his admiration of me. But I do have to say one thing about him, though. That bloody camera saved his life. If it weren’t for his hobby, the Basilisk would have killed him before he had the chance to impress the world with his talent. I never would have believed that the little kid with a big, stupid grin would end up to be the great photo-journalist he is today.

Then, of course, there was the damned Tri-Wizard Tournament. Rita Skeeter made my skin crawl, and so did her photographer, if merely by association. He was there to document every little awkward moment I had that year, and made me feel like the scum you scrape off the Giant Squid’s tentacles after it grabs you. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I shouldn’t use that word when I talk about that year because, well, obviously, someone did. I don’t like to think about that year much, and to tell you the truth, the only time I’m reminded of it is when Molly curses me for ever giving her sons my winnings. Best damn investment I ever made.

After Voldemort came back, no one bothered to put any new pictures of me in the papers. They just recycled the old ones and made the headlines all the more obscure. Sometimes, it was amusing that I was called unbalanced and all that rot. At least people left me alone. For the most part.

I want to tell you a secret. After I beat the Big Bad, I sent a photo to Dolores Umbridge. I was smiling rather stupidly and held up a little sign that said “I did NOT tell lies” and gave her the bird. It was effing brilliant, you know. I hope the old bat had a coronary when she opened it up. Ron did one better. He sent her a picture of Professor Firenze. Don’t tell Hermione, though. She has no idea we did that, and to tell you the truth, I have no desire to set that woman’s wrath on me if I can avoid it.

Of course, I had to grin and bear it all after I killed Voldemort. It was a necessary evil. Photo ops with Scrimgeour. Press conferences in front of the Ministry. Shaking hands with every damn person who was in the room at the time and smiling until my mouth hurt. I couldn’t walk across Diagon Alley without someone sticking their camera in my nose and blinding me with the brightest flash of light known to man. Soon, I was followed by mobs of them everywhere I went. Paparazzi, the Muggles call them. I was calm most of the time, but when they started harassing Ginny, that was the last straw. You could have heard a pin drop when I lashed into them and brought up Princess Diana. They left her alone after that. Didn’t hurt that I made five cameras explode while they were still in their owner’s hands.

I know I’m sounding rather negative about the whole thing, but there were few occasions for me to like getting my picture taken after that. Holidays were always nice. It never failed, but Arthur had to drag out his old PictoBox camera and snap pictures of us all at Christmas. He did take one really nice picture of Ginny and I, though. She was in her last year at Hogwarts and man, I was mad for her. It’s still on my bedside table to this day, right where her parents left it two days before I proposed to their daughter.

That leads me to the next time a photographer really hacked me off. Ginny and I had been engaged for about a month and we were on a trip to Diagon Alley with Molly to see the baker about the wedding cake. A crowd began to gather outside the shop and of course, despite the rather large “CLOSED” sign in the door, a smarmy git of a photographer came running in and quickly snapped our photo with bullet speed. Next morning, there was a picture of me, Ginny, Molly and the baker on the front page of the Daily Prophet with the caption: “The Chosen One Has Chosen One.” Ginny thought it was funny; Molly sent the Prophet a howler; the baker said he’d never been busier after that. Glad I could help.

After that, it happened more often. There were pictures of her wedding dress, discreetly leaked by a close friend of the neighbour to the assistant of Madame Malkin. There were pictures of the flowers that we’d chosen along with everyone and their Kneazle’s opinion of them. Someone actually said that white roses would clash with my green eyes. Whatever. There were even some fake photos of her engagement ring. The most popular ones presented a garish emerald surrounded by rubies. Did they really think I’d give Ginny a Christmas ornament? To top it all off, there was a bloody “countdown” the fortnight before the wedding, or “The Wedding to End All Weddings” as the Prophet had dubbed it.

But what really bothered me the whole time before the wedding was how they could take our private moments and turn them into something dirty, you know? For example, Ginny and I were eating ice cream outside the revamped Fortescue ice-cream shop. Hot fudge had dribbled onto my chin and Ginny, being Ginny, leaned over and licked it off and then proceeded to give me a big fat kiss. POP! The next day, the caption read: “Chocolate…Yummy.” I have to admit that one was rather humourous. But then there was the one that really caused all hell to break lose…

I hate front desk attendants in hotels, too. But that is another story entirely. Well, not really. Ginny and I decided to stay at a little place to get away from all the wedding plans and just BE. It was a nice inn just off Diagon Alley, about three blocks from Gringotts. We checked in and were taken to our fabulous suite that had a great view of London from the balcony. It was a little warm that night, and we left the French doors open while we gained more carnal knowledge of each other, so to speak. Yeah, you guessed it. The bloody front desk attendant climbed up the outside of the balcony and peeked inside. POP! I never moved so fast in all my life. I grabbed my wand, but just missed the slimy git as he leapt down the balcony and found his cohort who was bravely hiding in the bushes.

The picture and the caption in the paper weren’t the worst of it. The worst part was showing up in my own house with my fiancée’s mother waiting for us, looking ten times worse than Voldemort ever did. Her words still ring in my ears whenever I think about it. She actually swore at me. Take a breath. Molly Weasley cursed like a sailor as she laid into me about soiling her daughter’s reputation, taking advantage of her and Arthur’s hospitality over the years, and causing her bread to explode that morning as she baked. She still had crumbs in her hair, but I didn’t point it out at that moment.

Fortunately, I lived to get married. We managed to keep the location of the wedding private. We got married at Grimmauld Place, and since it was Unplottable, that helped tremendously. My girl was gorgeous, to say the least, and I gladly smiled for every picture that Colin took. My mouth was stuck in a permanent smile and my mind was stuck wallowing in the gutter, waiting for what would come afterwards.

We were stalked during our honeymoon. It had always been Gin’s dream to go on a cruise, so we took one to Mexico with a stop over in Florida to go to Disney World. That was her idea of a wedding present, giving me a piece of childhood I never had. The cruise itself was great, although we didn’t leave the stateroom much. Unfortunately, again, someone with a big mouth leaked where we were and when we got to Orlando, there were several photographers waiting for us. Americans can be so bloody pushy. All I wanted to do was go scuba diving and shag my new wife until neither of us could walk but each port of call brought new intruders into our life. Anyhow, the rest of our honeymoon was documented in various Wizard newspapers which Ron so kindly kept for me and made a rather funny banner in the entrance hall of my house to greet us when we returned. Ginny didn’t think it was funny; she’d had enough of that shit while we were gone and didn’t need any reminding of it when we got home. Hermione was left to heal Ron’s boils for the next few days.

After the wedding and all, people seemed to have forgotten about me. There were Quidditch players to vilify, Ron included, and there were bureaucrats to demonize. Luckily, I was neither and the Death Eaters had all been rounded up years before. I never thought being an Auror would be dull, but it was. I like dull. It’s normal, and I hadn’t been normal for years. It felt good.

Then I became a father, and the whole Wizarding world took it upon them to make it their business. At work, I was harassed by witches and wizards alike, trying to get information about Ginny and the babies. We found out we were having twins, and as luck would have it, Ginny’s midwife had a friend who lived in the same building as someone’s sister who decided to make our Womb Watch photo public. The caption read: “Potters Hit the Jackpot: Twins on the Way.” Ginny dumped her midwife and decided to have them at home with her mother to help out. Things didn’t exactly go that way, but I’ll save that for another time.

If I thought things were bad after Voldemort was gone, it got a helluva lot worse after the boys were born. We made the mistake of going to Diagon Alley with Ron and Hermione one afternoon, babies in tow. The stalking started up again. This one evil young lady, and I use the term loosely, acted all nice at first, asking to take a picture of Ginny and I with the boys for her sick little boy who was named Harry Potter Wellington. Ginny gave me a look that said, “Harry, don’t you dare,” but I agreed. She took several photos and left a business card. I should have known then, but I was seeing spots and too busy trying to shush James down to realize we’d been had. She sold the photos. There were pictures in every wizard paper around the world. I know because I got complimentary copies to burn in the fireplace. It was nice not having to round up wood for three weeks.

It’s hard to be normal in a world where everyone thinks I’m special. I think of myself as a husband and father above anything else these days and all I want to do is take care of my family. Is that so wrong? Apparently so.
Reviews 11
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