Nerve
It starts with a drop of sweat, beading at the tip of Ginny's nose, and dripping down towards her lips.
And that's when Harriet notices them for the first time, Ginny's lips that is. How thin they are, how they're always tugged upwards as though she's constantly in on some joke.
And Harry wonders, heart poundingly so, what the curve of Ginny's lips would feel like against her own.
"Well," says Ginny, trotting over to where Harry is standing from the stands of the Quidditch pitch, arms folded, watching her. Just her. "What do you think? Good lot this year, yeah?"
"Yeah," agrees Harry, but it comes off quiet and unsure. As though her voice has lost itself. She swallows, trying again. "Yeah, real good lot. You won't even need me this year."
Ginny wrinkles her nose and Harry watches as the freckles scrunch along with it.
"It's complete rubbish that they won't let you play this year," says Ginny.
"McGonagall's rule," shrugs Harry. "No Quidditch for us eighth years. But you'll do just fine, Captain."
"Captain," breathes Ginny, bouncing twice on the balls of her feet. "Can you believe it?"
Harry wants to tell her that she can believe it. Ginny is brilliant. Completely, utterly brilliant.
And it's as she's watching Ginny lick the sweat from her lips that Harry realizes that she is completely, utterly fucked by her brilliance.
There had been that trickling feeling when Harriet first received her Hogwarts letter that, perhaps, it would be a mistake to return.
But she had swallowed it, ignored it, buried it so far down that she had convinced herself that it was merely nerves causing her reservation.
Telling herself that defeating a Dark Lord makes one tired. Cautious. A bit unsure.
But now, sitting here as she is in Potions class, close enough to Ginny to be able to smell her honeysuckle perfume, she realizes that it is a mistake, coming back like this. Perhaps the worst possible mistake she could have ever made.
Slughorn is droning on about Felix Felicis, but Harriet is considering herself more and more unlucky by the minute. It hadn't been an issue in the slightest when they were told at the beginning of the year that the eighth years would share classes with those in the seventh. It certainly didn't seem like a bad idea at first when Harry and Ginny had agreed to be potion partners, because, well, Harry hadn't been completely smitten with her best mate's sister at the beginning of the year.
But now she is, and what's worse, she thinks Ginny may be on to her, judging by the odd look she's giving her at the moment.
Ginny opens her mouth slightly - parting her lips in a way that makes Harry's mind wander - but before she can speak, Slughorn cuts her off, and the sound of his booming voice causes Harry to start, nearly knocking over her ink in the process.
"Today we are going to be brewing an old favorite, Felix Felicis," says Slughorn clapping his hands together. "You'll be brewing in pairs this time around. Let's see if we can give Miss Weasley and Miss Potter a run for their money, eh?"
Harry stands, biting back a groan as she walks to the supply closet. Ginny falls into step easily beside her, and Harry notices for the first time that the length of their legs are about the same. Perhaps she's an inch or two taller than Ginny, but, for the most part, they are level with one another.
"Are you alright?" asks Ginny. Her voice is sugary, and Harry wonders if she tastes as sweet as she sounds. "You've been off all class."
Harry considers telling Ginny for a brief moment that she's not fine. That she's been wondering how many freckles there are on Ginny's body. That she wonders what it would be like to drag her Quidditch calloused fingers over Ginny's curves. That Ginny is brilliant, and looking at her even in the dimly lit Potions classroom, she seems impossibly bright.
But she doesn't say any of that.
Instead she says, "I'm just feeling a bit peaky."
And tries her best to ignore the electric shock that courses through her when she and Ginny reach for the Ashwinder egg at the same time.
Hermione is delighted when Harry decides to start joining her in the library for study sessions.
Harry doesn't tell her, of course, that she only goes on the days where Ginny has Quidditch practice to avoid watching as the redhead returns back to the common room drenched in sweat.
She doesn't tell her that, rather than writing her Defense essay, she's been doodling Ginny's Quidditch number on a piece of parchment for the past thirty minutes.
Nor does she tell Hermione that she's been in a constant state of fog since seeing Ginny with the first two buttons of her uniform undone earlier this morning.
But she thinks that she really doesn't have to tell Hermione any of those things to tip her off to her not so innocent feelings for Ginny, for the redhead has just walked into the library, freshly showered and wearing a pair of unfairly tight muggle jeans; and Harry, who is leaning so far back in her chair that the front two legs are off the ground, loses her balance and topples onto the floor.
Smacking her head on the back of a shelf.
"Harry!"
Hermione's bushy hair clouds Harry's vision so that she doesn't see Ginny rush over to where their table is, and when Harry does manage to catch a glimpse of hazel eyes framed with freckles, her cheeks immediately tinge pink.
And Hermione, the cleverest witch of her age, furrows her brow at Harry's befuddled state, and it takes her approximately twenty seconds for her eyes to dart between Harry and Ginny before she lets out an audible gasp.
"Harry," starts Hermione, but Ginny cuts her off.
"I think I ought to take her to Pomfrey," says Ginny. "Just to make sure she didn't hit her head too hard from that fall."
Harry wants to protest and say that she's fine. That the only thing wrong with her is that she's hopelessly clumsy when she's in love apparently, but when Ginny takes her hand - which is the same size as Harry's and fits so perfectly - she can't seem to form any sort of sound that's not a squeak. Instead, she allows Ginny to hoist her up, never once glancing back at Hermione as Ginny leads her out of the library, lacing her fingers through Harry's rather than releasing them.
They're halfway down the hallway when Harry notices that they aren't heading towards the hospital wing at all, but rather, towards a broom closet.
And before Harry can say that being in such a confined space with Ginny would be a horrible, horrible idea, she's being yanked into the dark cupboard and the backs of her knees are hitting the stone wall.
"Hey!" she exclaims, and she's not sure if it's because of the fact that she's been forced into a closet or the fact that Ginny has let go of her hand. "What are you-"
"You've been avoiding me," says Ginny. Her tone isn't harsh, but she's got that fierce look in her eyes that causes a weird pulling sensation in Harry's stomach. The one she thinks about when she slips two fingers between her legs some nights. "I want to know why."
"I'm not avoiding you," says Harry automatically, and Ginny gives her a disbelieving look. "I'm not!"
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" She's too impossibly close, and every breath Harry takes in is honeysuckle. They're nearly nose to nose, and Harry thinks if she leaned in just a tad that she could lick Ginny's lips the same way Ginny did at Quidditch tryouts weeks ago. "Because I'm not. I know we've never been as close as you are with Ron and Hermione, but I still thought - I thought that we-"
"Don't," pleads Harry, seeing the look in Ginny's eyes clouding over with something else - something close to doubt - and thinking that Ginny should never have to look that way. Not if she could help it. "You're not an idiot. And what you and I have, it's - it's different than what I have with Ron and Hermione."
"How?" Ginny's shaking her head, clearly not understanding, and it takes everything within Harry not to grab her by the shoulders and shake her into grasping it. "How is it different?"
Harry's fingers twitch and she wonders if she's incredibly stupid or incredibly brave, and decides that, perhaps, she's a bit of both, for she raises her hand to tuck a strand of bright red hair behind Ginny's ear. Letting it linger. Letting it tremble in her tresses. And she watches as Ginny looks back at her, eyes wide, but not startled, and Harry trails her fingers downward. Past the lobe of her ear, down the soft skin of her throat where she feels Ginny's breath hitch, moving back upwards to cup her cheek.
"It's more," says Harry, tilting her head slightly and meeting Ginny's hazel eyes with her emerald. She draws a breath, allowing herself to have one last shaky moment. Her voice coming off as more steady when she speaks next. "What I feel for you is more."
"Oh," says Ginny. And it's just a breath. But it's enough. "Oh."
And Harry isn't sure who moves in first, or if they move in together, but her lips brush Ginny's, hesitant at first, and then Ginny steps closer, pressing Harry into the cold stone wall.
And Harry feels as though she's flying for the first time since she came back to Hogwarts.
Snogging Ginny is different than snogging a boy.
Not that Harry has had much snogging experience with either gender, but she knows she prefers this, she likes this so much more.
She likes the way that she doesn't have to crane her neck upward, or stand on the tips of her toes to kiss Ginny. She likes that she's the one tilting her head down ever so slightly. She's the one dominating the kiss. That Ginny is letting her be the one in control.
She likes that Ginny is just barely two inches below her, just a head dip downwards, how Ginny's face fits perfectly in her hands while she cups it. How Ginny's hands clutch Harry's wrists as she kisses her. How her waist and hips mold and tilt into hers.
She's fond of the way their hair spills together, blends together until it's all raven and red while they're laying side by side.
Harry likes all the elegant curves that make up Ginny. She likes how they mirror her own. How Ginny's pale, freckled skin contracts her own sun kissed skin. How Ginny's collarbone juts out almost artistically. Perfectly crafted and scattered in freckles. How Ginny squirms against her when she places open mouthed kisses on it. She likes the way her fingertips graze the bare skin of Ginny's legs at the hem of her school skirt, and how Ginny doesn't mind if Harry brushes her skirt upwards just a bit.
And Harry, in turn, doesn't mind when Ginny's fingers start to work the buttons of her shirt until it falls to the floor, pooling around her ankles. And she really doesn't mind when Ginny reaches between them to undo her own while never breaking off the kiss, and Harry thanks Merlin above that the eighth year girls were placed in the same dorm with those in their seventh year.
The curtains of Harry's bed allows them easy access to privacy.
Allowing them shelter from the rest of the world that they're both too unsure of still.
And Harry's mattress gives her something sure, something steady to support her as she falls.
It starts to fall apart, their perfect paradise, one Sunday afternoon when Anthony Goldstein approaches Harry about the next Hogsmeade weekend, and she has to shoot him down in front of the whole Gryffindor table at dinner.
Anthony is sulking in one direction back to the Hufflepuff table, and Ginny is storming off in the other, out the doors of the Great Hall.
And Harry feels her heart drop.
"What's her problem?" asks Ron, mouth full of chicken. "She didn't even finish her dinner!"
"Maybe she's just tired," offers Hermione, though her eyes dart towards Harry for the briefest moment. And Harry knows that Hermione knows. How could she not. "She hasn't been getting much sleep lately."
"I'll go check on her," says Harry, standing to leave before anyone can question her.
Ginny is halfway back to the Gryffindor common room by the time Harry catches up with her, and grabs her by the elbow, forcing her to stop.
"What's the matter?" asks Harry. As if she doesn't know. As if she doesn't feel the same sort of sickening jealousy whenever Michael Corner glances at Ginny in the halls.
"That - this - this whole thing," cries Ginny. And Harry wonders how many cracks are in her spirit, for Ginny to be so close to tears. "You think I like watching you get asked out in front of me? You think that I like that I'm not even a thought in the minds of these stupid boys for why you shouldn't get asked out?"
"No - no. Of course not."
Ginny is silent for a moment, and Harry watches as her features soften as she taken her in. Her eyes are impossibly hazel, and they shine through Ginny's held back tears.
"I love you," says Ginny, and for the first time she sounds shaky. But it's raw and beautiful. "I don't know how it happened, but I do. I love you so much I want to burn down the Quidditch pitch whenever a guy so much as looks at you. I love you so much that I think I might burst because of it."
"I love you too," says Harry, something inside of her swelling like a symphony. "I just - I need more time."
They're silent for a moment, Ginny's mouth parting slightly in just the sort of way Harry likes, the way it does to give her better acces, when it's only them in her four poster bed at night, and Harry thinks how beautiful her lips - so thin and pink - are, especially against her own.
And then Ginny blinks, reaching out for Harry's hand tentatively. "How much more time?"
Time is up for Harry when Gryffindor plays against Slytherin two weeks later, and absolutely slaughters them.
Ginny has surely set some new record for most goals scored during a single game, and sitting in the stands isn't as hard as Harry thought it would be. Not with Ginny up in the air above her. Not with Harry's voice the loudest among all the screaming. And Harry feels as though it's right, to be sitting and cheering her on as she is. She's got Ginny's number painted on her cheeks, and the new Gryffindor seeker has just caught the snitch when Ginny flies her broom over to where Harry's sitting, her face positively splitting in two from the grin blossoming on her features.
"Did you see that!" cries Ginny, though it's nearly drowned out from all the cheering.
"You were brilliant!" yells Harry. "Really fucking brilliant, Captain!"
And Ginny is, brilliant that is, and Harry feels her fear get replaced with a bit of Gryffindor courage as she places her hands on the railing of the stands and leans forward, watches as Ginny's eyes go wide for a brief moment before her lips twitch and she brings her broom closer and leans in to meet her.
And this time Ginny tangles a hand into Harry's hair and pushes her head back slightly, and Harry sighs into Ginny's mouth, feeling the curve of her girlfriend's grin against her lips.
And it's brilliant.
Really fucking brilliant.
Even with Ron's cry of 'bloody hell' in the background of all that brilliance.