For Venom69, that PRH, who had a personal rule against reading fic in a fandom not her own, but whom I like to think would have made an exception just this once. We should've had… time.
In her head, she rehearses.
She hasn't seen Ginny in years. Hermione still lives in Scotland but Ginny took off, flies for Bulgaria, of all the damn things. The running joke is that after dating half of Gryffindor tower she'd run out of other ways to make Ron apoplectic. The truth, carefully ignored, is stark in its simplicity: Ginny Weasley fled the country. Hermione should have, too.
But still Hermione used to meet Ginny for drinks whenever she had to be in town. Hermione always knew that none of the Gryffindor boys meant any single thing to Ginny, and Hermione always knew why. And then Ginny married Luna, who can do her investigative reporting from anywhere, and then everybody else knew, too.
(Hermione quietly mourned the loss of this shared thing, the only thing they-)
In a punctilious move not atypical of herself, Hermione resolves to stop meeting Ginny for drinks whenever she has to be in town. She is by turns proud and emptied by her decision, but then Ginny does not return to Scotland for a long time, and she imagines the issue is moot.
And then Ginny, in touch by owl, begins to realize that she has married a very excellent friend who is not in any way present enough to be a partner. Ginny is frustrated by Luna's companionable aloofness. Their lives are utterly their own. They are superb flatmates. Often, Luna cooks.
And then one day Ginny comes home. She owls Hermione that Luna has strayed to Siem Reap in search of a garuda and would Hermione like to help Ginny pass the time? Hermione agrees to meet Ginny in Anstruther, well away from everything that's going on in Hogsmead, at eight o'clock on a warm Tuesday evening. It is reckless, but.
But.
So in her head, she rehearses. She will wear a modest but flattering top and an airy white skirt with flats. She will wear her favorite shade of lipstick, a luxury in which she rarely gets to indulge. She will be calm. She will walk into the unglamorous bar with a polite smile on her face, searching curiously for her old friend. Ginny will catch her eye. They will embrace, Ginny's slight frame pressed into Hermione's marginally taller one, and Hermione will run her hand down Ginny's back in a wholly platonic gesture. The feel of Ginny's small breasts pressed against Hermione's own will linger and undermine entirely her steadfast commitment to sobriety in Ginny's presence. They will, by unspoken agreement, switch from cider to whisky.
And then – Hermione's eyes glaze over, mind skipping ahead – Ginny will look at Hermione hard over the table and ask if she wants to get the hell out of there. She will gesture vaguely at the crowd as though it were a great deal more riotous than it actually is. In the interest of expediency, Hermione will pay for them both. They will exit the establishment and Ginny will take her by the hand and pull her into the alley behind the bar and walk her backwards against the cool brick and kiss her, hard.
Hermione's heart will stop beating.
In her head, she imagines Ginny pulls back marginally to assess Hermione's reaction, cautious now. Her gaze is questioning until it is dark and heated; evidently Hermione has broadcasted her feelings rather less subtly than she might have hoped. With a mischievous grin, Ginny turns Hermione patiently around and pushes her forward into the wall.
And Hermione groans as she realizes Ginny's intent. Ginny leans down and places one small, calloused hand on Hermione's bare calf and drags it up, up, under her skirt. With excruciating lightness she passes a single finger over the thin material of Hermione's panties and gods, Hermione is soaking wet. She has been for hours. Ginny lets out a low chuckle that sounds like relief, slides the offending garment down to Hermione's thighs, and slips two fingers into her center in one sharp move. Hermione bucks, would surely scream but for Ginny's other hand over her mouth, and parts her legs further to give Ginny better access. To give Ginny everything.
Ginny slips another finger into her, and then another, and then Hermione realizes with a thrill that she is fucking Ginny's entire hand up to the knuckles. The knowledge compounds the sensation and she clutches at the wall in front of her to stay upright as the world begins to darken at the edges of her vision. Her whole body trembles as she rides Ginny's hand with unselfconscious need.
For the first time, Ginny speaks.
"Hermione. Fuck me, Hermione. Come for me…"
Hermione does. Her orgasm seems to last an eternity. She is out of her fucking mind with the pleasure of it and she is all sensation, a raw nerve beginning and ending with the outrageously talented fingers of Ginny Weasley. Freckled, lovely, toned from flying - she should not be a real person. Hermione cannot possibly be here with her, now, she is too good, she is –
"Fuck. Fuck, Ginny-"
Her legs give out. Ginny laughs that low, dark chuckle again and leans into Hermione, supporting her. She kisses her neck softly, runs fingers up into her hair, murmurs I missed you against Hermione's ear.
All astonishment and gratitude, Hermione turns in Ginny's arms. She searches Ginny's gaze and is floored by what she sees there. Kissing her, savoring her, she walks them to the other side of the alley, presses Ginny into the cool brick, and drops to her knees.
The rehearsal is, of course, nothing like the actual event.
Ginny is dead.
They are all dead. They died on a warm Tuesday evening, a well-coordinated assault, and now Hermione is hidden deep underground with Severus Snape with fuck all to do but wait for some signal that anyone is fighting, that the world has not ended. They dare not use magic. They scavenge; they eat; they sleep on the hard dirt floor of their cavern without knowing whether it is night or day.
And as Hermione tries to force herself to sleep she does not remember the antics at school, the D.A., the long late-night conversations in the Gryffindor common room. She does not remember the first thrill of meeting for drinks as adults, nor even the first sparks of interest, the tug low in her belly, the milky white skin and its constellation of freckles. Hermione lays on her back in the damp dark and thinks only that she will never not regret not kissing Ginny Weasley, not tasting her, never knowing whether she could have loved her.