"What are you doing here?" As her voice echoes down the empty stone corridor, it becomes harsh, shrill, demanding - but confused and scared all the same.
"I just - I thought you'd want - "
"Want what? Comfort? Jesus Christ, Hermione, I'm not a fucking baby."
"You can't want to be alone."
"And if I do? If I want to sit in the corner and think by myself? If I don't want to talk to any of you? What can you do about that?"
"I just thought - I wanted to be here for you." There is a pause.
"You can turn around and leave." It is not a command, but a frightened whisper. I can see the angry tears forming in her eyes, threatening descent.
"You're not the only one who lost a brother, Ginny, not the only one crying for him. I loved him too." At this, a solitary tear slides down her cheek, leaving a shiny path in its wake. My fingers twitch forward involuntarily, wanting to wipe away her tears. Hold her maybe. Tell her that, somehow, we will make it through today. And the next day. Our lives now depend upon how well we can keep our heads above the water.
But she jerks away from my touch.
"Ginny."
There is no answer.
"Ginny."
It takes a few minutes, but her body relaxes. I step close - so close I can feel the heat from her body warming me through my thin t-shirt. I lift my fingers to her face again, tracing the path of that single tear. She leans into my hand with a small intake of breath.
"Gin?" It is a question this time. Her eyes are such an infinite chocolate brown.
There is silence again, and I don't think she is going to answer. She shuts her eyes and I watch as tears spill from them unbidden. I do the only thing that comes to mind.
I kiss her.
As I press my lips softly to hers, I am taken aback at their silken wetness. I am not surprised at her sharp intake of breath, or her almost-undetectable twitch away from my body. But I know that she recovers quickly, the way she gently caresses my bottom lip with her tongue. And it's so smooth! Harry's kisses are always so hurried and demanding, searching for one thing and one thing only. And Ginny's kiss is gentle, sweet, caressing - and yet asking for more at the same time. I twine my arms around her back and pull her closer to me, gasping inwardly as a pleasant heat settles in the base of my stomach. That was unexpected.
And suddenly, it is gone. She pulls away from me, her eyebrows raised in confusion, body recoiling from mine. I frown as the heat seeps from my body, gone with the loss of contact.
"Hermione?" Now it is her asking the question.
"I'm sorry. I thought - I just, you were crying, and - you were crying. And that just - you're my - "
Before I can finish, her mouth covers mine again, open and inviting. I open mine and grant her access to the sensitive flesh there, and before long her tongue is sweeping gently across the roof of my mouth, tangling slowly with my tongue before she pulls away and sucks on my bottom lip again.
It is like nothing I have ever felt. Her tongue is small, wet, slick, warm - nothing like the throbbing, thirsting mess that is a boy's idea of affection. I smile into her mouth as I push her backward, stopping only when her back touches the rough stone walls. She winces, and I am painfully aware of how her breasts are pressed into mine, straining at the fabric on her shirt.
The warm heat in my stomach has returned and spreads like wildfire toward my center. I want to keep going. Want to slide my hand under the hem of her t-shirt, caress the creamy expanse of skin that I know lies beneath her clothing. Have a sudden impulse to rain kisses across her chest, her back, her face, her whole body. But even as I press myself further into her, as I grind my hips forward to meet hers and am greeted with a bucking of her hips in response, I know that I can't. Not today. Not now. It's already 4:00, and we have a funeral to attend.
I pull away reluctantly. She pouts, her lips wet and glistening, her deep chocolate eyes glazed over, cloudy with a lust that I have never noticed before. Her hand clasps my arm as my body retreats from hers. She is suddenly stiff, rigid, fearful. Her mouth opens in protest, but –
"Shhhhh. I'm not leaving."
I lean in for one final kiss - soft, smooth, open mouthed. Christ, she takes my breath away.
"I'm not leaving." This time, my whisper echoes down the corridor, soft butterfly kisses that retreat from us until I can no longer hear them.
"You promise?"
I nod.
She lifts her left hand and places it uncertainly in my right. Her hand is smaller than mine, the fingers shorter, the nails bitten like a young boy's. But I think they are beautiful.
We turn and walk down the corridor together, the silence loud but now warm and inviting, and I squeeze her hand in response.