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Aesthesiogenic
By Spikora

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Category: Post-HBP
Characters:Harry/Ginny
Genres: General
Warnings: None
Story is Complete
Rating: PG
Reviews: 14
Summary: Hearing, sight, taste, smell and feel - all the ways Ginny Weasley fell in love with Harry Potter. One-shot.
Hitcount: Story Total: 5519



Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work.



Author's Notes:
aes·the·si·o·gen·ic or es·the·si·o·gen·ic (s-thz--jnk)
adj.

Producing a sensation.

-- dictionary.com




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Ginny first fell in love with Harry by listening. She listened to how polite he was when talking to her mother on the platform, yes, but that wasn’t what made her fall in love with him. It was Ron’s letters. Mum would always joyfully read Ron’s letters to Ginny and her father over dinner, and with each letter came more news of Harry. How nice Harry was. How brave. How generous. How fun. How modest.

She was young, and the descriptions of Ron’s sounded so perfect. The way he described Harry made Ginny think of handsome, dashing princes from the stories she claimed to have outgrown (though somehow, a book of them remained hidden behind her nightstand). She could imagine the enthusiasm in Ron’s voice when he was talking about Harry, she could hear her mother’s pleasantly surprised tone on hearing upon her son’s best friend ... it seemed as if, in Ron’s letters, he had created the ideal boy. A boy which could please everybody, unlike Percy, who only made Mum happy, or Fred and George, who couldn’t make Mum happy.

*


When she saw Harry for the first time, she’d been so embarrassed that she’d fled. Here he was, the boy Ron described as perfect, the boy she’d heard about all year, in plain sight.

He wasn’t perfect, she noticed as she peaked out of her room, shutting the door when she saw that he noticed her. He was just right. Not the untouchable, surreal “perfect,” but real and vibrant and ... just right. His hair was messy, going every which-way, but Ginny didn’t mind; it made her want to run her fingers through it. He was too skinny, and it made her want to hug him, give him some form of comfort over the life he’d lead (detailed in Ron’s letters, of course.)

As she got comfortable enough to be in the same room as him, she noticed other things about him. His eyes were shockingly green, and Ginny wanted to look at them all day. He had a dimple on his left cheek, but not his right, and she found it adorable. His smile was tentative, but genuine and ... nice.

And when he rescued her from Riddle, his eyes weren’t angry or impatient or unsympathetic. They cared. They were kind. They made her believe that everything would be all right.

*


In her fifth year, she was startled when she found out, quite abruptly, what Harry tasted like. There was the lingering sugar from the sweets he and Ron would eat, mixing with the slight saltiness of whatever he ate last. But mostly, he tasted like Harry — just slightly different than Dean or Michael, but different enough that she enjoyed it more. She wrapped her arms around him, just as nervous about kissing him as she’d been for her first kiss two years ago, but trying not to show it.

That year, she and Harry kissed many times — sometimes light and playful, sometimes deep and passionate. She came to crave his taste, just as she craved him, and everything about him.

Once, he grinned against her neck, muttering a brief “you taste like strawberries” before kissing her properly. It made her wonder just how she tasted like strawberries, as she hadn’t eaten strawberries recently and certainly didn’t eat strawberries enough for them to leave a lingering flavor. One night when she was dreading a test the next day, she let her mind wander, pondering whether Harry liked strawberries.

She ended up giggling to herself, and turned over and fell asleep right away.

The next time she saw Harry, she hugged him and whispered playfully, “You taste like berries. A different type for each day of the week.”

*


When Ginny was young, she had thought that boys smelled gross. Living with six brothers had ingrained a tolerance and mild distaste for what she’d called “boy smells.” Percy’s cologne made her gag. Ron always managed to smell like earth, somehow — not dirt, but earth — and Ginny thought that it was strange. Fred and George always smelled slightly of gunpowder, while Charlie smelled slightly reptilian (Ginny blamed the dragons.)

Harry’s smell was no different, but somehow, she found it endearing to the point of enjoying it. She would bury her face in his chest, not minding the smell at all. He smelled like sweat and brooms, which reminded her of Quidditch. He smelled of fabric softener and dishwashing fluid, which made her think grimly of the Dursleys. Most of all, though, he smelled like magic. It wasn’t a smell she could describe any other way.

*


Harry’s lips felt soft, almost like he used lip balm, and his arms felt warm and comfortable. His hands were calloused, but she found herself enjoying the feel of his rough hands on her smooth skin.

Most of all, though, she loved the feel of his hair — silky smooth, yet somehow it felt wild and untamed at the same time. Often, her hands would get tangled in the jet-black mass as Harry kissed her neck gently, playfully, with a smile of his lips — she could feel it brushing her skin — as his arms enveloped her with the quiet, calm strength he always had.

She loved how he touched her. How sometimes he would be so gentle, treating her like something precious; not a china doll, as he never had the illusion that she was fragile, but almost as if she were a diamond; sharp and tough, but something to be guarded. How sometimes he’d be passionate, and Ginny could only gasp for breath as she felt him kiss her and embrace her with all the energy and swiftness that one would expect from an athlete, but somehow always managed to surprise her when it came from Harry. How sometimes, he’d just hold her, and in those moments she felt warm and comfortable and perfect.

She loved how he touched her, with gentleness and devotion and passion and playfulness; she loved how he smelled ... how he tasted ... the sound of his voice, the sound of his laugh, the brightness of his eyes, the warmth of his smile ...

But mostly, she loved the way he made her feel.

END
Reviews 14
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