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The Thanks.
She’s the sort of witch you secretly admire from afar.
They’re in different houses and are on different sides of the war, but still, she looks at her. She’s not nice either; she’s the sort of person who is always spilling vitriol from that pretty little mouth of hers. Often it’s been aimed at her, her brothers, her family, and her friends. It’s strange because whenever it’s aimed at her, she’s never minded that much. She can give as good as she gets. She likes the fight too.
It’s something Ginny’s been putting off for quite some time. She had never thought she’d be offering appreciation to her, of all people.
It’s windy, trees blowing and leaves flying this way and that, but she spots her in the far corner of the quidditch stands, gazing out at nothing, appearing bored.
She squints, bringing a hand up to shield her eyes, and gazes at the speck of someone, just double-checking to make sure it’s her. Ginny sighs before making her way up to the top of the stands because, of course, she is sitting right at the top of the stands.
She pays her no mind to her as she walks towards her growing closer and closer to the small dot, which eventually turns into a shiny black bob sitting atop a person.
Her silver and green uniform glistens in the sun, a reminder that this is unknown territory and she has no idea how to proceed.
She arrives after a short while and stands directly in front of her, but the she in question doesn’t even bother to look up at her.
“Parkinson,” she speaks, feeling awkward and unsure of how to actually start this, “I just want-“
She holds up a perfectly painted red nail-polished hand, halting her speech that had barely just begun, “there’s no need,” she replies, shaking out her hair, “That was a while ago, Weasley.”
Ginny blinks at her a few times and then lets her face settle into a glare, “I know it’s taken me a while, I know-“
She sighs dramatically, “,Please, Weasley, do we have to fucking do this?”
She has the sudden urge to stomp her foot or fold her arms like Hermione does, “can I not say thank you?”
She snorts and waves her off; she’s still barely looking at her, “No.”
“Why?”
She sighs again, sounding more irate this time, “There’s simply no need that was May, and this is September; the war is over, the battle is don-“
“You saved me,” she replies, “you saved my-“
“Hardly I pushed you out of the way of some fucking oncoming rubble. Let’s not pretend I’m a hero,” she sighs once again and then rattles around in her pocket robes until she finds a box of cigarettes and takes them out.
Ginny’s so blindsided by the action that she blinks a few times, not quite believing the scene because Pansy Parkinson, notorious pureblood supremacist, is not about to have a cigarette; surely she isn’t? That’s there’s no way-
She then notices the slight shake of her hands as she places a stick between her lips; much like her nails, they're painted in a matching shade of red.
She’s not sure she’s ever seen her rumbled, ever seen her with a single piece of hair out of place. She can’t even remember seeing her disarrayed during the final battle.
She pulls out her wand, using it as a makeshift lighter.
She relaxes as she takes a puff; she then holds up the packet, “Want one?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself,” she shrugs whilst stuffing them back away, “it’s a rather disgusting habit.”
“You have no intention of quitting, though?” she finds herself asking her.
She puffs, “Nope,” she sighs and lazily rolls her eyes, finally looking right at her, “Are you going to leave now?”
She ponders and shakes her head before sitting beside her, “it’s a long walk down and back.”
“Don’t you have friends you want to sit with instead of me?”
She does, of course, she does, but for some odd reason, she doesn’t want to, “don’t you?” she shoots back.
She shrugs, “None of them like speaking much anymore.”
She hums her agreement and watches as she takes another drag on the cigarette, “I will have one, actually,” she replies, almost entranced by the way the cigarette aligns in her lips and how the smoke sort of-
“Here,” she hands her one, “you fancy trying something new after all?”
She nods, “Something like that.”
She uses her wand as a lighter again and instructs her on what to do, she coughs splatters, and the whole thing is a disaster.
She pats her on the back, “well, at least it won’t become a disgusting habit for you, “ she replies, smirking at her a little.
She knows that a time or so ago, she would have been embarrassed for having this reaction in front of her, hating that she had seen her in such a vulnerable state and cursing herself for allowing her walls to come down just a fraction around someone who would usually always use any of her vulnerabilities against her.
She feels none of that today.
Ginny grins, whispering, “Thanks, Parkinson.”
She turns, glaring at her but doesn’t say anything, the rest of the lunch is a quiet affair, but neither of them hates it, whether either is willing to admit it or not.
The View.
She’s the sort of witch that demands attention.
She takes up your thinking space whenever she walks in front of you; you can’t help that your eyes trail up to the hemline of her skirt. Her legs plead to be looked at rather a lot, especially when she wears a skirt that is just a little shorter than it should be. She wonders what it would be like to touch her skin, whether it would be as prickly as her personality or silky smooth as her thighs suggest.
She sees her by the Black Lake, a bottle of wine by her side and a cigarette falling from her lips again. It’s been a couple of weeks since their last interaction, but she finds herself tracking her movements more and more and wanting to have a conversation with her all over again.
She’s different to her friends, who offer strained smiles and avoid difficult conversations.
She’s about to run to her when-“Earth to Ginny,” Hermione waves, “are you not coming to the library?”
She rolls her eyes and continues to track the movements of the witch just in front of her, “why do you even ask? Of course, I’m not.”
“Oh,” Hermione replies, “well, Malfoy was going to sit with us anyway, we’ve been partnered in potions, and I was hoping you’d sit with me?”
She thinks for a moment, she wants to be selfish, and so she decides she will be, “Can’t today, I’ve got quidditch tryouts next week, and I just fancy some time on my own. It’s not as if Malfoy can do anything to you, is it? I mean, he’s on probation, isn’t he?”
Hermione looks more than a little shocked by the reply, “Right, well, see you at lunch?”
She nods, almost pushing past her to join her by the Blake Lake.
She’s not that bothered if Hermione sees where she is heading to or who she is heading towards; it’s not as if Hermione will ever put the pair of them together or think that’s why she so desperately wants to run there.
“Back so soon?” She questions upon her arrival, stubbing out her cigarette and stretching her legs out in front of her, “I think you’re starting to like me, Weasel.”
Ginny scoffs as she sits down, joining her; she snatches her bottle and takes a large swig of wine, “No.”
She gasps, “You wound me and my wine.”
“I think your ego can take it; it could do with some bruising.”
She ignores her and raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, “bit early to be drinking?”
She laughs, “I could say the same thing to you, couldn’t I? You were the one out here with the bottle.”
“Long week.”
“Long year.”
“Long life,” she smirks, “why aren’t you going to the library with little do-goodie Granger then?”
“I don’t like the library on a good day, let alone a bad one.”
“Is today a bad one, then?”
She sighs. Is today bad? She’s not thought of Fred much and how cold he had been when she had last touched him, so perhaps it’s not, after all, “not the worst.”
“Hmm,” she shrugs, “most days are a bit moot.”
Ginny takes another large gulp before she snatches it back, “Get your own.”
She finds that wine’s actually rather pleasant; it leaves her with a different kind of burn as it travels down her throat.
It’s far nicer than Firewhiskey and not quite as sweet as Butterbeer.
She shrugs, “I’d never had it before.”
She grins, “Am I corrupting you Weasley?”
She laughs, throwing her head back, her ginger hair wrapping around her face and neck due to the sudden uptake of wind, “, Hardly, we could just never afford it.”
“I have bottles and bottles of the stuff back at home.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, my Father rather enjoys it with his dinner, and my Mother rather enjoys drinking it all day.”
She nods, understanding what she really means, “Do you drink early often?”
She turns, staring at her, her eyes sparkling in the early morning sun. She shakes her head, her sleek bob moving this way and that. She leans in then and starts whispering to her as if they are sharing some monumental secret, “I like the view, and views always look better with wine.”
She’s close, closer to her than she’s ever been.
She wonders if she’s drunk.
She wonders if they’re flirting.
Ginny wets her lips, her heart rate picking up.
Her eyes are a pretty shade of green and blue.
“It’s a bad habit to drink so early,” Ginny whispers back.
She nods, “I know.”
The Break-up.
She’s the sort of witch that might break your heart.
She keeps thinking about her; she supposes she always has, really, over the years, she’s thought about her, whether she was inherently good or inherently bad or whether she titters on the line between both.
She has a laugh that sort of twinkles, and her lips twitch in a way that is so unique to her that when she’s truly happy, she keeps a lookout for it.
Their eyes meet occasionally, and it’s been happening more and more frequently since their first meeting.
She’ll raise a glass at her when their eyes meet in the dining hall, or she’ll wink at her when she’s sure no one else can see.
The weather is growing cold as she follows Hermione and Luna towards Hogsmeade. The pair are talking about something that she isn’t paying much attention to; her mind and thoughts are not currently her own.
She’s seeing Harry today; it’s the first time in weeks, and she should be excited. She should be looking forward to it, almost jittery at the thought. She’s not.She wishes she had followed along with Hermione and Ron stopping the romance before it could barely even begin, knowing that sometimes childhood crushes should stay as childhood crushes. Besides, she’s seen the photographs of his Mother, and they look eerily similar.
They meet in a café, and he welcomes her with a cheerful, if not a little awkward smile and wide-open arms; he kisses the crown of her head and a few years ago, this action would have sent butterflies into her stomach, but now she feels nothing. She wonders when they became so different when he was no longer the man she would dream about every night.
They order, and she talks about school, quidditch the fact she’s the Gryffindor captain once and for all. He talks about his Auror training, he’s been partnered with Theodore Nott, and he almost gushes when he speaks about him.
She ponders over whether he’s ever spoken about her like that.
She ponders over whether he realises how he’s talking about him.
Tea arrives, and she nods and smiles and facilities, and they, as per usual, ignore the topics that are always too painful to speak about. They don’t talk about war or death or anything, she’s not sure that she wants that, but sometimes she wonders if perhaps they should dare to.
She gazes out the window and spots her; she looks different outside of her school uniform; she’s wearing a midi dress fitted to perfection, some fur draped around her shoulders, and her signature cigarette hanging from her mouth. She’s with Malfoy, and he’s glaring at her. She thinks it might be over the cigarette but can’t be sure. She’s ignoring him anyway, seems to be snaring at him almo-
“Gin?” Harry questions, “You alright?”
“Sorry,” she replies, blinking owlishly at him as she turns her gaze back to the man in front of her, her eyes wander briefly to where the pair have just been, but they have already gone.
He smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness, “are we breaking up?”
She wants to argue, wants to say no and continue on with the status quo, but she can’t, so she shakes her head and reaches across for his hand. It feels cold and clammy on her own, “I think we should.”
He nods, and she notices he seems almost relieved, almost as if he was hoping for the agreement.
They depart amicably and promise to stay in touch; she does not doubt that they will.
Her Mother loves him. She always has.
“How’s the boy wonder then?” a voice questions, startling her as she heads back to the castle.
She almost jumps as it’s dark, and her voice appears out of nowhere, but she doesn’t allow herself to; instead, she bundles her scarf tighter around her neck and marches on. She can hear her twinkling heels echo on the stone just behind her as she tries to catch up.
Ginny knows most students have already returned to the castle by now and wonders why she’s still here.
“He was fine,” she replies, shrugging, not in the mood to argue over the nickname. It’s not that insulting compared to what she’s called him in the past, anyway.
“Trouble in paradise?” Her speech has a teasing quality as she asks her, and it’s strange that she sounds for the first time like she might actually want to know.
She shrugs, “Same old, really, why are you still here?”
She hums, “I like the night. I think it suits me better, don’t you?”
She shrugs in response to that because she doesn’t think the night suits her better. She can hardly see her face, and she has a face that deserves to be-
“You’re acting rather dull tonight,” she comments as she finally, finally reaches up to her.
“I’m cold and tired. Have you got any cigarettes?”
“You don’t want one. It’s a bad habit to partake in,” but she hands her one anyway and wordlessly lights it with her wand. She doesn’t cough this time as she pushes down her scarf, letting it hang between her lips; she takes that as a win.
They walk silently for a few minutes before she mutters, stomping out the cigarette butt on the floor, “We broke up.”
“Who?”
“We,” she sighs, “Harry and me.”
“Oh,” she replies, “that is shocking.”
“How?”
She shrugs, “You just strike me as the type of girl to stay even when you’re miserable; drag things out until you both hate one another.”
The sentence pauses her walking, and Ginny turns to her with an angry frown, her nostrils flaring, “Why would you think that?”
She blinks up at her, pretending as if she hasn’t just muttered one of the rudest accusations from her lips, “he’s boy wonder, you’re you, and didn’t you fancy him all throughout school? He’s comfortable, too, isn’t he? Like an old warn-out jumper that you can’t seem to let go of no matter how threadbare the fabric is.”
She pauses, glaring at her because she’s not wrong, but she fancied others too, and Harry’s not a jumper, “I’d forgotten how foul you can be,” she spits, and she means it, “Not everyone picks the easy option, not everyone wants it, Parkinson.”
She doesn’t react other than arching her brow slightly, “If I’d wanted easy, I would have agreed to marry Marcus Flint,” she shrugs, almost shuddering, “no fucking way.”
“Harry’s not a jumper,” she adds, still glaring, “he’s a- “
“Don’t tell me, an old warn-in trainer or perhaps something you like to sleep in?”
“Is that what people are to you, inanimate objects you can label?”
She shakes her head, laughing so that her white teeth show. They almost look sharp in this light, “I bet he liked missionary, was polite when he finished and always wore a grin when he realised he’d managed to make you finish too?”
Ginny doesn’t know what to say to that because she’s not wrong, and so she blinks at her.
“I never said there was anything wrong with all of that, Weasley,” she grins, shaking her head again, “but I’m glad you want more; you should want more you have too much fire in you to be with someone who feels comfortable,” she steps closer and then closer again to her until their faces are almost touching.
She can see that her nose is red, and her usually perfect lipstick has been worn down, most likely from how many hours it’s been on her face today.
“What about me?” Ginny questions, heart hammering in her chest, “What am I?”
She’s staring at her; the pair of them aren’t dissimilar in height, especially as she has heels on; she pushes a stray hair out of her way and whispers, leaning in until there is barely a breath between them, “I haven’t the foggiest what I’d label you as.”
She feels her heart race even more and wonders if the girl causing it realises.
If either of them leans in now-
“Dare you,” she whispers.
Ginny pedals back, fleeing, and she hears her laugh a little, “Too bad, Weasley; perhaps another time?”
She’s not quite sure she’s ready for that. But Ginny Weasley doesn’t like losing, and that felt almost like she had.
She’ll win the next round.
The Ride.
She’s the sort of witch you dream about.
She wants to avoid her, but she finds she can’t.
She’s drawn to her like a moth to a flame, forever wanting to be a part of her orbit but not understanding why.
She finds she likes her nose, although, from all the teasing over the years, she thinks she might have a complex about it; considering how much make-up she plops on it, she covers it too whenever she laughs. It’s a round nose and looks as though it might be a little squishy to touch.
She longs to touch it, yearns to touch it, yearns to touch all of her.
She wonders if she’s ever been worshipped. She wonders if she’ll ever be up for the job.
Quidditch is Ginny’s bread and butter. It has been from a young age.
She used to chase after her brothers with a broom in her hand and beg them not to go easy on her just because she was a girl. She’s better than all of them now. All of them are fine, but she’s great, far better than fine and the sort of great that might just give her the edge to manage to play professionally.
Ginny likes the scheduling of the quidditch practices and the fact that she’s in charge; she sees her teammates whispering, especially the male ones, whenever she instructs them to do something but doesn’t care, doesn’t mind. They remind her of her brothers, and she’s never lost an argument against them, so she feels up to the challenge of taking on a male student who’s not quite sure what to make of having a female captain.
They dare argue with her once.
They never dare to argue with her again.
Ginny practices long after everyone leaves because she does feel she has something to prove, and she is a little rusty due to the past couple of years, her practice hasn’t been as frequent, but her movements are still leaps and bounds above the rest. Her body remembering what she had worried her mind might have forgotten.
She notices her.
She’s watching her as she completes a sloth grip roll, she’s upside down from her viewpoint, but she’s the only one in the stands. She has one leg lazily crossed over the other, and she’s leaning back, admiring her almost. Ginny doesn’t approach her for a while. She carries on with her practices pretending she isn’t even there, and maybe just maybe, she throws in an extra move or two to impress her, but other than that, she carries on.
After thirty minutes of parading like a peacock, she finally flies over to her in the stands, her heart hammering in her chest, “you’re very good, Weasley,” she compliments her, “well I think you at least,” she adds, smirking, “but you’re the captain aren’t you so you must be good?”
“Are you spying on me, Parkinson?” she smirks at her, “Better still have you just complimented me?”
She shrugs, glancing down at her nails, “Perhaps I did, but I wouldn’t get used to it. My Mother always tells me my tongue can cut like a knife as quick as it can offer you honey.”
“You want to hop on?” She questions, well, dares her, “Fancy a spin?”
She looks affronted by the offer, “no,” she pouts almost, “the wind messes up my hair.”
“Your hair always looks,” she thinks for a moment over what she should say, “Shiny, I doubt a little wind will change that.”
She shakes her head, “No, thank you.”
She shrugs, “Suit yourself. Are you a little scared?”
“Scared?” she replies, her eyebrows soaring up, “why on earth would I be scared, Weasley?”
Ginny shrugs and inches closer to her; she’ll be able to hop on easily enough. She holds out her hand, “I’ll even help you on.”
She sees the hand but ignores it, sighing before standing and readying herself for the broom.
She flings one leg over the broom and inches almost too far away for her liking; they had been far closer the other day.
“Ready?” Ginny questions, turning her head just slightly over her shoulder.
She rolls her eyes taking a firm hold of the broom, “I suppose.”
She doesn’t give her a moment spare after venturing off into the sky far darker than when she had first arrived outside with the rest of her team. She goes easy on her for a few seconds before she smirks and starts playing tricks, ups and downs, loops and overs, anything to frazzle the girl behind her. She hears little noise from her, and she’s disappointed, so she tries a few more tricks, anything to rattle her usually crisp demeanour.
Nothing.
Not a single sound.
So she races forward almost too quickly for them both and skims the edge of the glass.
“Fucking,” she swears, “Weasley, I don’t want to break a bone tonight,” she doesn’t sound scared, not even slightly worried. She says it how she would announce a dessert order to a waiter.
It’s frustrating, and eventually, she gives up, flying them back down to solid ground.
She’s smirking as she gets off, “I never said I was bad at flying,” she informs her, “I just said I didn’t like what it did to my hair.”
Ginny still has the broom firmly between her legs; she’s panting from the wind and from her being behind her and from something else entirely.
She crosses her arms as the witch who was just behind her approaches her front.
“You suit being flushed,” she tells her as she leans in, not quite as close as the other day but close enough to know she has perfume on. It’s rich and sweet, and she’s never smelt it on her before. She wonders if it’s new, and then she wonders, perhaps a little foolishly, if she had put it on before she had come out to watch her practice.
“Your hair looks the same,” she replies because it does, and she doesn’t understand the problem.
“Perhaps you weren’t flying fast enough,” she shrugs.
Ginny grins, biting her bottom lip. She sees how she eyes it flicking it between her teeth, “I doubt that.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” She salutes her before turning and heading back towards the castle, “later, Weasley.”
“Would you ever call me Ginny?” She shouts back after she’s in front, “Ever?”
This stops her, and she turns a sly grin spread over her ever-pleasant lips, “If given the right motivations, I’ll call you whatever you want.”
The Touch.
She’s the sort of witch you obsess over.
She can’t stop daydreaming about her hands; she watches them as she brushes over fabric, whether it’s her own set of dress robes or her friends.
She won’t admit she’s jealous when she sees her hands touching someone else.
She isn’t hers to be jealous over anyway.
She’s sure this isn’t a crush; it doesn’t feel like a crush. It’s different and the same.
She doesn’t think about her; she simply takes up thinking space inside her brain. There’s a far corner of her brain that she takes up; nothing else can get past or get in.
So no, she doesn’t think about her; she simply exists inside her mind.
Ginny doesn’t like spending time in the library. She never has, but Hermione keeps begging, and as Ron and Harry aren’t here this year, she eventually caves in. She's hard to sit next to when studying because she piles books upon books and sort of closes herself off from the rest of the world.
She’s not sure why she even wanted her here, and she’s even less sure on why she agreed.
It’s almost on instinct that Ginny can tell that she’s here; she spies her out of the far corner of her eye. She’s with Malfoy, and she’s ignoring him or vice versa. The pair of them have a strange relationship from what she’s observed from them over the past year.
Ginny zones out, attempting to catch up on homework; there’s a quill stuffed between her teeth as she attempts to garner Hermione’s attention once more.
It’s no use mind you, Hermione's lost to a sea of books and words and studying.
She stands wondering if she should just head back to the common room; however, there is a book she needs for transfiguration, and she is a little behind on schoolwork. She finds she’s not too bothered about schoolwork, her mind is set on quidditch, and someone else has the pleasure of consuming her thoughts almost entirely.
Ginny removes the quill from her lips and places it behind her ear as she tries to find the right aisle. She’s not paying much attention to those around her, aimlessly gazing up and down the giant tomes.
“I’m bored,” she voices, and it makes Ginny jump.
She reminds her of a cat sometimes with how easily she slinks around.
“Did I scare you?” She questions as she walks around so that they are facing one another, “I think I have that effect on people.”
“You scare them?”
“Hmm,” she nods, “especially the first years.”
There’s a loud hush, and they both roll their eyes; anyone would think they were screaming the way Madam Prince's voice carries down the stacks.
“She’s fucking boring,” she tells her, “does she even exist out of the realms of books and dust?”
Ginny laughs then until it simmers down to a small grin. She knows she’s showing some teeth. She’s never been fond of her smile with teeth, so she closes before replying, “I’ve heard she evaporates as soon as she passes the library's threshold.”
“Like a library vampire, then?”
“Yep,” she nods with an extra emphasis on the last letter, “that’s what the legends say anyway.”
She smirks, “How quaint.”
Ginny smiles and turns back, looking for the textbook she had initially moved to find. She can feel her watching her, and it makes her nervous but not the bad kind of nerves. She spots the book and reaches up on her tiptoes for it, balancing precariously as she finally grabs it. She wobbles for a moment or two, and then some warm hands settle on the sides of her stomach to stop her from falling over. She can feel the warmth of her; she can just about make it out through the warmth of her through her jumper and shirt.
Ginny knows her cheeks are reddening a little over it, but she tries her best to ignore it as she settles back on solid ground and stuffs the book under her arm.
“Thanks,” Ginny whispers, wondering if she can hear ringing in her ears and the shakiness in her voice.
They stare at one another for a beat, and then she reaches forward, grabbing the quill behind her ear as she twirls around her delicate fingers before putting it between her teeth. She touches her again then, pushing her ginger hair that’s now fallen forward neatly behind her ear; she then cards her fingers downwards until they reach the end of her hair.
Ginny can only watch her, trying to remember to keep breathing.
It’s the first time their skin has ever been in direct contact, and it sparks heat as soon as she touches her left ear; it travels all the way down to her feet.
It’s barely there, pretty much a fleeting touch, but she’s felt it now, and finally, she’s felt her. Her fingers are smooth, and her touch is light.
“You’re warm,” she admits, and she can hardly believe the words as they escape her mouth and hang in the air between them.
“I’m not made of stone,” she reminds her taking the quill and putting it behind her own ear, “believe it or not,” she rolls her eyes, but Ginny wishes she hadn’t said it; it was stupid, really, not the sort of thing you say as a compliment.
“My brother's nickname for me was Shrapnel,” she adds, sounding unsure for maybe the first time in her entire life, well the first time Ginny's ever heard her sound unsure anyway.
“I didn’t realise it was cold and sharp and what was left over from those muggle things called bombs.”
There it is, the thing they will always have in common, the invisible string of fate over the passing of someone young, a brother that no longer is, a person who was once there and is now gone.
Both dying in a war they were far too young to fully understand or participate in.
Ginny touches her, then reaching and grabbing her hand that hangs limp by her side. She links their fingers and runs her thumb across her knuckles.
“You’re like fire,” she tells her instead because she thinks she is. She can be harsh and maybe a little out of control when placed in the wrong environment, but she’s also warm and wonderful.
They stay like that for a beat, no one saying anything, no one moving forward or letting go.
“Gin?” She hears being shouted just behind her.
Ginny jumps back, dropping her hand and watching as it falls limp by her side again.
The moment gone.
She hasn’t moved at all; Ginny can feel her staring at her; she might be glaring at her a little, but she’s looking at her shoes.
Ginny doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say, so she turns and heads back down the stacks and towards where the voice has just come from.
She’s never been the type to flee, but recently she’s starting to wonder if she’s wrong about that.
Ginny turns her head when she’s at the end of the stacks, just looking a little behind her, but she’s already departed.
The Kiss.
She’s the sort of witch you’ll want forever, whether you’ll say it aloud or not.
She misses it sometimes, but she craves these new discussions so much more.
She finds that there is more to her than her exterior. A few years ago, she thought she was just a hollow shell, beautiful to look at but with nothing underneath.
She knows now there is more to her; she’s complicated, everyone is really, but she’s the kind of complicated you want to learn, want to understand, want to figure out.
She’s taken over far more than just her mind; she’s slowly starting to take over her heart too.
She’s known this for a while, but she’s not admitted it out loud. She still won’t just yet.
Ginny notices that she is ignoring her, she understands it some because of the library incident, but she also doesn’t understand it because why would she tell Hermione about this? Why would she tell anyone about this?
Especially when she’s not really sure what this is.
She follows her after class finishes at the end of the day. They have a few shared ones now because of the overlapping year group. She thinks she’s heading towards the dungeons but is shocked that she doesn’t. Instead, she heads to the Astronomy tower.
Ginny’s a little queasy as she watches her climb the steps, not just from nerves of wanting to speak to her.
She’s not ventured up there since before Dumbledore died, not ever felt that she wanted to.
She’s not sure she wants to, even now.
She eyes the stairs, wondering whether to follow her or up or to just let her be.
They have unfinished business, confusing unfinished business, so she powers through, wrinkling her forehead with determination as she finally follows her upstairs, taking two steps at a time.
When Ginny arrives, she barely offers her a glance; she’s staring out at the darkened October sky.
It’s strange to think they’ve only been back seven weeks. It feels so much longer.
Being back at school has felt so much longer, feels so much longer things aren’t the same no matter how hard everyone is trying to re-resume with the “normal”.
Ginny’s tired in a way; she’s only starting to notice the adrenaline from last year, from the war, from surviving, finally settling down into a simmer that just keeps her going from day to day.
“Pansy,” she tries, using her given name over her surname for a change. It feels strange as it rolls off of her tongue.
“Yes?” She snaps, “What do you want?”
“I,” she shrugs, “I’m not sure.”
She half snorts, half shrugs, “I expected as much.”
“A chat,” she replies hastily, “I want a chat.”
“What about?”
“School,” on the tip of her tongue is the word ‘anything’ it sprung to her mind almost immediately, but she can’t offer that up. It will sound strange admitting she’d hear her speak about anything as long as it was her choosing to talk.
“School?” She repeats, “why-“
“We can talk about the weather,” Ginny buts in; she feels like Ron sounding clumsy and out of-
“The weather?” She repeats, rolling her eyes. She sighs but pats the empty space next to where she’s currently sitting.
Ginny moves, dashes actually to join her.
The concrete is cold as she settles; she’s shocked she hasn’t cast a warming charm.
She moves so that their knees are touching and mutters, “It’s been weird this year.”
“You followed me up the stairs to talk about the weird weather, really, Weasley?”
Ginny doesn’t respond because she’s right. It’s ridiculous, really all of it, offering the weather as a way of speaking to her.
She asks before she can stop herself, “Do you miss what your life was like before?”
“Before what.”
“Before everything, before war and-“
“No,” she replies, “I don’t.”
It’s straight and to the point, an answer she wasn’t expecting.
Ginny’s not really sure what makes her do it, but something does; she moves until she’s right up next to her, and instead of replying to that, she grabs her head with both hands and kisses her. She doesn’t respond right away, but when she does, she’s enthusiastic; pulling her bottom lip apart and sliding her tongue inside, she tugs at her encouraging her to sit on her lap so she obliges.
Happily.
They barely break for air; Ginny kisses her lips, her tongue, her teeth, and her neck. Anywhere she can touch.
She tastes just a little like cigarettes and mint; it might be the best thing she has ever tasted.
When they finally break apart after short pecks, long kisses and the occasional wandering hand, Ginny can only smile at her, and she smiles in return.
She wants to remember her like this; it’s the most undone she’s ever looked. There’s a rosy tinge to her cheeks, just a slight colour change, and she thinks she might be breathing a little harder, a little faster. Their chests are almost in sync with one another; it’s enchanting, it’s distracting, it’s-, and she’s never felt like this after a kiss.
Well, it wasn’t just a kiss, but she’s never felt like this after anything.
Most of the time, she’s felt rather flat or unsure or wondering if that was it.
Neither speaks, and she doesn’t speak because her brain is short-circuiting, and she doesn’t know how to proceed, and she really doesn’t want to break this moment, whatever this moment exactly is between them.
She leans forward until their noses are touching; she finds that it is far softer than her own.
Ginny kisses her again then.
She wishes she had known years ago that this was what kissing was supposed to feel like.
Because this is what kissing is supposed to feel like, toe-curling and lip stinging and feeling-inducing.
Ginny dismantles her eventually, and they still haven’t uttered a word; she thinks it might be starting to turn a little awkward between them.
“You’re like wind Weasley,” she tells her after maybe far too long of silence or perhaps the perfect amount of timing, “you’re easy to get lost and swept up in.”
There’s a noise coming from the bottom of the stairs, two voices carrying up the steps, and Ginny stands, almost jumping at it, the reminder of what they were just doing and where they exactly are, who they exactly are.
Ginny looks between her and the stairs and her and the stairs.
She eyes her from her still seated position with a bitter smile on her face, “You come in and fuck everything up and disappear as quickly as you came, and you disappear so quickly I can scarcely believe you were ever there, to begin with.”
The voices fade, and Ginny settles, wanting to head back to sitting, wanting to explain.
But she’s gone, up and already left, disappeared like the wind she so quickly lets herself get lost in.
The Confession.
She’s the sort of witch you crave.
She’s not sure she’s ever understood the difference between infatuations and love; there is a difference because, of course, there is, but they both feel so similar you’re never quite sure which is the one you’re feeling when at the beginning of something.
By the time you’ve figured it out, it’s usually already too late because you’ve either missed one another or you’re in far too deep.
She feels different to every single person that ever came before.
She avoids her after the astronomy tower incident and the kissing.
She avoids her.
Ginny knows it’s not because of the kiss; it’s because of her reaction to someone finding out. It’s the jumping apart and the looking over of her shoulder.
She’d never planned for this, never sat down with her parents and thought about telling them her sexuality because there had always been boys before and although admittedly, they had never felt quite right, they were all still boys.
She’s not sure they’ll mind, although both of her parents had been a little disappointed over her break up with Harry, she’d had it as a sort of final line in one of her letters just after it happened.
Ginny had told them to tell the rest of her family, and she had been surprised to hear from Percy over the rest of them.
Percy sending a letter just letting her know he was there for her, ‘as long as you find someone who makes you happy, Ginevra’. Aside from the fact he had used her full name over her forever-preferred nickname, she had thought his letter was sweet.
She could tell he had forced George to sign at the bottom, too.
It’s good that he’s managed to make George do that much, anything at all, really.
“Gin?” Hermione questions, “Are you alright?”
She nods, “yeah, sorry what were you say-“
“Do you fancy Pansy?” Hermione questions again, cutting her off from whatever half-muttered excuse she was going to use to explain why she had, in fact, not been listening to her.
Ginny’s cheeks flame, “why would you-“
“You stare at her a lot,” she cuts in again; she shrugs, “I’m pretty sure she stares at you too.”
“She does?” She finds herself asking, although she already knows this because she’s seen her on numerous occasions.
“Yeah,” Hermione nods, “a lot.”
“I’m not sure what I feel,” she admits, “I’ve never,” she pauses, “I’ve never liked a girl before. Well, I don’t think I have.”
Hermione looks at her and smiles, “She makes you flustered. I don’t think anyone has ever managed that before.”
“Well, I-” Ginny sees her then in the line of peripheral vision; she’s heading out of the lunch hall and thus so is she.
She’s standing before she even has a chance to explain.
“Pansy,” she calls, running after her because although it still feels a little strange to call her by her first name, she’s already decided she likes it; she’s more than simply Parkinson to her now.
She ignores her because, of course, she does, and that’s fine; she had expected it; she’ll keep going; she’ll keep trying.
She disappears just as she catches up with her, and she curses because she had literally just been there, and then she yelps as she’s being pulled into a dark alcove.
Ginny almost screams, thinking she’s under attack, the forever being on alert because of last year never entirely wearing off.
But then she smells her and-
“Weasley,” she greets her, “I thought I’d do you the honours of finding a hiding spot.”
It’s a tight squeeze, but even in the tight squeeze, the witch in front of her feels a world away. She’s pushing herself as far into the corner as possible, as far away from her as possible.
“Pansy,” she tries again, but she shakes her head.
“What do you want?” She snaps at her folding her arms.
She looks at her, really looks at her; she’s glaring, and that’s no different to the usual, but she can see it a little as it comes dangerously close to the surface. She’s hurt, and she’s the one who hurt her.
“I don’t know,” she admits honestly, and she watches as she visibly coils back even further as if she’s just delivered another blow, perhaps the final blow.
She shakes her head at her, laughing bitterly and crossing her arms.
“Well,” she replies as she moves, but Ginny grabs her hand, yanking her back in.
“I don’t mean that, I just-“
“I have been here before, Weasley,” she informs her, “I’ve played this fucking game of I’m not sure, and I don’t want people to know, and I’m not doing it again. I like women, I always have, and I will not be shoved into a corner pretending to like cock just because you don’t know how you feel.”
Ginny shrugs, feeling awkward and overwhelmed and everything in between, “I like you-“
“Do you?” She interrupts her laughing, it’s resentful, mean almost, “Or do you like the way I make you feel?”
She shakes her head because, no, that’s not it. She likes her, she does, she knows she does, she just-
“I’m not expecting a love proclamation, Weasley. I’m not expecting to walk hand in hand around the castle, but I’m not settling for someone who jumps and looks over their shoulder after every interaction we share.”
“What about your parents?” She cuts in, “How would they feel if they knew you were dating someone like me.”
She huffs further, glaring at her as if that’s the most unreasonable thing she’s ever asked, “They’d be happy you’re pure of blood; it doesn’t matter; you’re a blood traitor. The last girl, well she was half-blood, and that was far-“she stops herself mid-sentence, “how would you parents feel if they knew-“
“I don’t know, I’ve never told anyone; I’ve never liked a girl before.”
Her nostrils flare, “I refuse to be some experiment, I refuse to be a game, I refuse.”
She glares back at her because she’s angry too, actually, “We’ve never even discussed this! How can you be angry at me when we’ve never even discussed this.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Weasley, I didn’t even know we had to; I didn’t know you were that obtuse not to know. I like you obviously,” she admits as if it’s the hardest thing she’s ever had to say, “and I’m willing to see where it goes, but you don’t even want people to know we’re friends. I mean fucking-“
“Hermione knows,” Ginny cuts in, “about this,” she gestures wildly between them both, “whatever this is.”
She doesn’t reply for a moment or two, and then she pushes herself up and off the cramped wall and goes to leave, “I want to see whatever this is,” she tells her just as she starts pushing the tapestry up, which she’ll soon exit through, “I want to explore whatever this is. But I need some fucking commitment to you not running away, and I will not be hidden. Not again.”
Ginny doesn’t have a chance to reply because then she’s gone.
She also can’t help the small smile that lifts her face because she likes her too.
The Game.
She’s the sort of witch you need.
She’s brutal in a way, from her beauty to her sharp glares, but she likes that, and now she knows why she has always liked that.
She likes her; there is no way to hide it.
She keeps finding different ways to stare and pine over her secretly.
She wants to touch her again, wants to kiss her again.
She just wants her, all of her.
She’s now completely cut her off.
She no longer looks at her, stares at her or tries to seek her out, which she knows she’s done in the past because she’s done it too.
She feels like a cold stranger again, and every time she passes by her without a single nod or smirk, she feels ice in her heart.
Ginny’s not sure this is healthy. She’s starting to grow rather sure of the fact it’s probably not. But, when you’ve had a taste, even if it’s a small taste of something that could be better than anything before, of course you want to chase after it, of course, you want to try it again. And again. And again.
Of course, you want to cling onto it.
She mounts her broom, gazing out at the growing crowds for the Slytherin vs. Gryffindor game, the very first one of the season. The very first one she’s ever been in charge of, her stomach is in knots for all sorts of reasons, and most of them have nothing to do with the game.
She sees her sitting at the front of the stands, cheering for Slytherin; well, she looks bored. Actually, the game hasn’t started yet, but she already looks as if this is the last place she’d like to be.
The players are getting ready, heading for their chosen positions, and she sees it as an opportunity. She flies over to her, hovering just above her head.
The other Slytherin students eye her, and she’s sure her friends do too from the opposing stands.
“Pansy,” Ginny speaks; she doesn’t bat an eye, doesn’t even look up.
“Pansy,” she tries again, rolling her eyes, “look at me.”
She sighs from below but tilts her head, “What?” she snaps.
“Stand up,” Ginny asks her, gesturing with her hand.
“Why would I do anything for you?” She mutters before resuming her previous position and cutting her off completely.
“Please,” she tries.
Nothing, not even a glance from her seated position at that.
“Pansy,” she tries again, sounding exasperated, “stand up!”
“Go on, Pansy,” Malfoy elbows, “her voice is rather jarring.”
She glares at him but makes no move, and on the other side, Zabini yanks her up from her seat.
“Thank you,” she mouths and circles down closer so that they are facing each other.
“You’re infuriating,” she tells her because she is.
She scoffs, “I’m infuriating, I’m fucking infuriating well, I’ll tell you-“
She leans forward to the edge of her broom, grabs her face, which is pouting and arguing and smashes their lips together.
She hears and feels her gasp in shock against her lips, but then she kisses her back, wrapping her arms around her neck so that she almost topples off her broom.
Ginny has no idea how long they stay like that. It could be seconds, could be minutes, but then the whistle sounds, signalling the final five minutes, and she has to somewhat reluctantly remove herself.
She’s blushing when they part, and most of the Slytherins are eyeing them with open mouths, but she doesn’t care.
Zabini cheers and Malfoy claps or says something along the lines of ‘Finally’.
She’s sure the entire school now knows, including her own friends who have no idea about any of this (aside from Hermione), but she doesn’t care because Pansy Parkinson isn’t the kind of girl you hide, and she no longer can.
“I needed a good luck kiss,” Ginny tells her while she’s still panting, still glaring, just slightly smiling.
She zooms off and joins the rest of her teammates; she can tell a lot of them have questions, but she just shrugs before putting on her captain voice, making sure all of them fall in line.
Gryffindor win the game.
My Girl.
She’s the sort of witch you fall in love with.
She knows they may not be the perfect match, not by a long stretch, but perfect has never really been important to her anyway.
She knows better than anyone that they’ll argue and disagree and glare and snare, but she also knows she would rather have that than anything or anyone else.
She’s not waiting for her after the game nor by the lockers once she showers and changes.
Her teammates throw a fair amount of questions her way, friends Luna appears to have known all along, which is both surprising and not, something to do with some creature she’s never heard of drawing their energies together.
Hermione grins at her like something akin to a proud Mother, which makes her think of her own family, or rather Percy having most likely received her letter this morning instructing him to tell the family that she likes women too.
Or maybe she just likes one woman.
The verdict is pointing firmly to undecided on men.
She slowly makes her way back to the Gryffindor common room. Students pass her with congratulations over her first win of the season, but she pays them very little mind as she would rather a certain Slytherin was on her arm telling her that.
She’s there when she arrives back, casually leaning against the common room door, acting as if she owns the place. Ginny can’t help the grin that overtakes her face as she rushes forward to kiss her or chat or anything really.
She shakes her head at her, “You shouldn’t have done that, Weasley. I didn’t realise you were so territorial,” she sighs, “like a dog-“
“I won’t piss on you,” she says, “I won’t scent mark you if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She laughs, the genuine sound bubbling up and over her lips, and it’s so sweet, “You’ve never sworn in front of me before.”
“What? Piss.”
She clicks her tongue, “It rather suits you.” She shakes her head, “well, anyway, people might get the wrong idea.”
Ginny leans in, attempting to be as close to her as she can possibly be, “what wrong idea might that be?”
She ignores her for a minute or two but begins playing with her Gryffindor chaser top, unfurling and furling the fabric between her fingers; she’s glad she’s changed and showered and not still covered in sweat and grass from the game.
“That we’re together, of course,” she replies, not looking at her, but she can tell she’s grinning.
“What would be so bad about that? I want people to know that you’re mine.”
Ginny crouches a little as she tries to get underneath her face to see her smile and reactions to their topic of conversation.
“I’m not yours,” she replies with an eye roll and a finger stab to her chest, “We’ve not even been on a single date; besides, I belong to myself and myself alone.”
“A date can be arranged,” Ginny replies, still trying her best to look at her face and to get her to look back at her properly, “You said you wanted commitment, so here it is, there it is, well there it was on that quidditch pitch.”
She pouts and rolls her eyes again, but she’s smiling, and she knows she’s won, “I suppose so.” She then grabs her hands, interlinking their fingers.
“Pansy,” Ginny whispers.
“Weasley,” she replies as she looks up at her finally, their foreheads leaning against one another due to the closeness and the angle.
“I want you in my world,” Ginny confesses as she pulls their clasped hands to her lips and kisses her knuckles.
“Good,” she finally replies, “I want that too.”
They kiss for a minute or so before the doorway opens, and some students come barreling out, mouthing ‘SORRY’ as they shuffle away.
She reluctantly gets her to agree to a night partying with the Gryffindors.
“Oh, and well done,” Pansy whispers against her ear, “my girl.”
Ginny turns and grins, placing a gentle kiss against her lips.
They have a date the following day and another and another and another, and they continue on.
Whenever Ginny glances up at her when her head is nestled between her thighs, she always remembers how lucky she is.
She finds it’s only at times like these that Pansy will ever hear her call her by her first name; it’s usually as a shout, and on the very odd occasion, it might be a pretty little beg or whine.
She always says it so sweetly that she’s glad it’s a shared secret between them.
“I love you,” she’ll whisper as they lay there breathless and sweaty.
“I know most people do,” Pansy will remark before leaning in and kissing the crown of her head with a much more quiet confession of, “I love you too.”
It reminds her always that love doesn’t have to always be perfect or expected for it to be right.
Love just has to be.