She thudded to the ground with a pained grunt. The sweet smell of grass mingled with sweat and dirt and filled her with a calm, familiar happiness. She shook out gingerly, testing her body against the force of the impact. She stretched her legs tight in front of her and stood, pushing her arms high into the air, shaking it off. The long smoothness of her limbs, the subtle musculature rippling there, filled her with pride. She was already noticeably taller than her mother, almost as tall as her brother. Better at most things than him, she thought as he scrambled to retrieve the Quaffle.
"All right?" he called from the brush.
"Fine," she shouted back. Spotting the other girl through the window she brushed halfheartedly at a ground-in patch of grass and dirt on her shoulder.
He found the rogue ball and sent it sailing back over the yard. Without thinking she swung onto her broom, kicked up and caught the Quaffle as it barreled toward the kitchen window.
"Nice save!" her brother said, trotting up to her. She shrugged. "Maybe if you'd spend as much time practicing it as you do reading about it, you'd not have fucked it up in the first place," she grinned.
"Bloody hell, Gin," he spat on the ground. "You don't have to be such a bitch about it."
"Ronald Weasley, we have discussed your language." The back door had swung open and a small, plump woman was standing just outside, her hands firmly planted on her hips.
"But mum, she said--"
"Quidditch practice is over," Mrs. Weasley said definitively. "Get back in the house and get cleaned up, both of you. Supper is nearly ready. Oh Ginny, you look dreadful. Why does it have to be Quidditch?" She rubbed at a spot on Ginny's face, the girl pulling away with a tolerant groan. "Why can't you be keen on studying like Hermione?"
"Because Dad would be heartbroken if he only had one champion player in the family, Mum, you know he would. And Ronald is clearly a lost cause." She stuck her tongue out at him playfully.
"Do you see what I put up with?" Ron was collecting his broom. "And you let her get away with it, that's the real crime."
"Wash up," Mrs. Weasley commanded. "Change your shirts. I will not have you looking like a pair of trolls in front of company."
"It's just Hermione," Ron muttered. "She doesn't care."
A faint blush washed over Ginny. Hermione might not care, and it was likely she didn't even notice, but Ginny was always sure to scrub the dirt off her face and hands with extra attention when the girl was staying with them. Ginny wasn't worried about how she would feel about Quidditch itself given her friend's taste in dates, but she always took special care to appear clean and polished around her.
As polished as she could, she thought, examining her face in the mirror. Her reflection wore a vaguely shocked expression as though it was horrified that she should get so dirty, and from playing outside, at her age. "Sod off," she muttered as she tried to work a comb through her hair. Twigs and leaves collected at her feet, markers of countless dives into the brush to save Ron's haphazard throws. She pulled off her sweaty, muddy clothes and regarded her body. A deep green stain on her elbow and shoulder. Splotches of brown dirt on her neck, her thin collarbones, one on her stomach (her stomach?). She turned and looked at herself more closely, ignoring the grass and grime. She was tall, slender, developing long, ropy muscles in her arms and legs, her stomach taut, her breasts high and rounded softly against the faint xylophone of her ribs pressing at the skin of her torso.
She skimmed her fingers over her body, investigating. She had always seen herself as a little girl, the youngest, not a person, really, just The Girl Weasley, or, even worse, The Weasley Girl. Recent forays into dating had proven that she was more than the long-haired tagalong to a gang of boys, but it hadn't proven anything to her. So when she caught glimpses of herself in the mirror she often found herself surprised, curious. This is what a girl's body looks like.
Ginny was standing there, her fingers running up and down her chest, down to her hips, mapping the topography of her body when the door swung open abruptly and Hermione burst in.
"Ginny—oh," she said, her breath catching slightly. Ginny raised her arms to cover herself quickly, trying to appear nonchalant. Hermione was silent for a fraction of a second before continuing. "Your mum wants to know what's taking so long, says supper has been on the table for ages. It's not even all out yet, but she's . . . well . . ."
"She's Mum," Ginny said genially, forcing the blush down.
"Right. I'll . . . I'll just go and tell her you're coming, then." Hermione darted out the door and down the steps.
Ginny stood at the sink, gooseflesh rising on her skin. She breathed slowly, deliberately. Embarrassment washed over her, hot waves of it crashing down. But mingled with that mortification a different heat, thin and sharp and heavy, a thunderbolt from the back of her head straight down between her legs.
Air dragged into her lungs in shallow swallows. The heat between her legs liquefied as she thought about that half-second pause, thought about Hermione looking at the expanse of her skin, the rounded oh in her mouth, more a sigh than an exclamation, that pause—
"Ginevra! Now!" Her mother's shriek sliced through Ginny's reverie. She scrubbed hastily at the stains on her skin and pulled on a clean shirt and new pair of trousers. She gave a brief, mournful sigh at the tangle of hair and slicked it back with her hands into a ponytail, trying to hide the snarls and errant bits of vegetation.
At the table, Ron was shoveling food into his mouth faster than he could chew it. Half-masticated bits of beef fell to his plate, mingling with a mountain of potatoes nearly submerged in a lake of gravy.
"Honestly, Ron," Hermione chided. "You eat like an ogre." He looked up, wounded. Turned pleadingly to his mother, who was nodding approvingly at Hermione. "How do you put up with it, Ginny?"
"At least one person in this house has been eating like that since before I was born," she said. "It just becomes part of the landscape." Ginny shrugged and sat next to her, feeling a peculiar boldness. It wasn't out of the ordinary for Ginny to sit with Hermione with the girl visited, but tonight it was different. It felt slightly dangerous to be sitting next to her, like they had a secret. With that feeling, Ginny realized that Hermione's half-second pause hadn't been coincidental. She couldn't help blushing then, the scarlet blooming on her cheeks.
"Are you all right, dear?" her mother asked. "You've gone red."
"Oh—I'm, I'm fine, Mum. Just a little flushed . . . from practice."
"Well, eat up. I'm sure you're ravenous as well."
Ginny had been quite hungry, but suddenly she was sure she couldn't eat anything. The feeling of Hermione there, the atmosphere charged slightly, Hermione stiff beside her, like she was trying to keep herself from reaching over and—
"Pass the butter, would you?" Ron poked Ginny's arm. She rolled her eyes.
"Ronald, it's exactly as far from you as it is from me. Get it yourself."
As he opened his mouth to retort, a half-chewed pea dropping to the plate with a ping, Hermione picked up the butter dish. As she was passing it to Ron, Ginny sighed heavily and reached for it without noticing. Their fingers brushed barely, Ginny quickly snatching the dish before Hermione dropped it. She set it down in front of Ron. "Say thank you," she said.
"Thanks, Ginny," Ron mumbled. "Thanks, Hermione."
"Like an animal," Ginny sighed. She turned to Hermione, who was rubbing her finger feverishly with her thumb. She watched the girl for a moment, until Hermione realized she was expected to speak. She cleared her throat, and said too loudly, "When will Mr. Weasley be home, Mrs. Weasley?"
"I don't know, my dear. Any time, I expect. Though it has been getting later and later at the office. What with all of the goings-on, you know. Which reminds me, I want all of you packed up by tomorrow afternoon. We've got to be in London by seven, and I don't want any delay."
"Yes, Mum," Ron and Ginny said in unison. Hermione nodded.
After dinner, Ron disappeared into his bedroom to read back issues of Quidditch Quarterly. Ginny and Hermione helped Mrs. Weasley with the dishes. Mr. Weasley came in as they were putting away the last of the pots, leaning down to kiss his wife on the head. He ruffled Ginny's hair and gave Hermione's hand a courtly shake, but did not say much. Things at the Ministry were not going smoothly, the death of Barty Crouch had shaken the atmosphere severely, and the reasons behind it, while vehemently denied by the highest powers, were common knowledge among Ministry staff. Paranoia was mounting, fear and suspicion. Mr. Weasley knew far more about the matters being discussed than he let on, but for a multitude of reasons kept quiet, both at work and at home.
As Mrs. Weasley prepared him a plate, Ginny and Hermione retreated to Ginny's bedroom. They sat on Ginny's bed, quiet for a beat.
"I saw you practicing, you're really good," Hermione said finally.
"Thanks," Ginny replied, a touch awkwardly.
"I mean, you're definitely good enough to play for Gryffindor."
"That's my plan."
"Good."
"Good."
They were silent again, the weight of that faint secret pressing on them. Ginny felt the heat begin to flare in her belly again as she thought of Hermione looking at her, the girl's eyes large as she took in Ginny's nakedness. That half-pause.
"I'd better start packing," Hermione said suddenly and leapt off the bed. "Don't want your mum upset with me."
"Don't worry about her," Ginny smiled. "She'd never yell at someone who does so well at Potions."
"I wish I had your Charms skill," Hermione sighed. "You're very talented at it."
"You're just as good as me. Better, probably."
"Oh no," Hermione said forcefully. "You've got natural ability."
"Well . . . thanks?" Ginny replied. Hermione was standing very near her, bringing that secret with her, holding it up in front of her in a sealed envelope. The liquid tremor spread through Ginny's body, a delicate nervousness in her limbs, her mouth drying slightly as Hermione looked into her eyes. Another brief, heavy pause and she had turned around again and was neatly folding her things into her trunk.
Ginny watched her leaning from the cot piled with her belongings over to the trunk. Admiring the smooth line of her body as she bent over the trunk, the patch of skin above her jeans where the hem of her shirt pulled up. Fizzing sparks raced through Ginny, carrying the heat across her skin. This is what a girl's body looks like. Her whole life Ginny had only seen the long hard lines of boys' bodies, the sexless straight planes of her brothers, the flatness of their chests, their hips, their uninteresting profiles. The mystery of a girl's body was tangible to her; she could see her own but had nothing to compare it to. Hermione's body, with its developing fluidity, was tantalizing in its nearness, in its sameness, its difference to anything Ginny had ever seen. She wanted to reach out and touch that spot, the smooth pale spot above her waist, the buttons of vertebrae pushing up just slightly. Ginny wanted to run her fingers over those tiny hills, the soft plains of her back, to see if it felt the same as her own skin. She wanted to touch Hermione to see what a girl's body felt like. She wanted to do it to feel that pulsing heat blossom and spread.
Hermione was tucking the last of her clothes into the trunk, back to Ginny, when Ron slammed into the room. "Bloody Cannons," he roared. "Gave up the Snitch to those bloody Harpies. They could've had it, too, only twenty points down in the end. Why they let the men's and women's teams play against each other I'll never know."
"Probably to prove girls are better at Quidditch," Ginny snickered.
"Oh fuck off, Ginny."
"Charming, Ron," Hermione muttered, snapping the lid closed with a click. "It's only one game, and it doesn't count in the championships."
He stared at her. "I didn't think you cared about Quidditch, Hermione."
She blushed slightly. "I've taken an interest."
"Krum's being signed up probably didn't hurt," he said, an edge to his voice.
"No, it didn't, but there are other reasons a person can get interested in something, Ronald."
His face twisted in a half-grimace. "Whatever."
"Did you need something, Ron?" Ginny asked.
"Oh, right," he mumbled, digging in his pocket. "Mum wanted me to give you this."
He held out a folded scrap of paper. Ginny took it with trepidation; notes from Mrs. Weasley were rarely good news. She unfolded it and groaned at the spidery exhortation to make sure she packed enough underclothes. "Why can't she just tell me these things?" she moaned.
"Because Mum can't say the word "pants" without breaking into hysterics, you know her."
Ginny sighed. "Thank you." She stared at him expectantly for a beat, waiting for him to leave. "Thank you, Ron," she said again, louder.
"Oh—right," he said, and tromped out the door.
"How did you manage to survive, Ginny? I mean, six brothers!"
She shrugged. "I learned to play sports. And swear creatively, and I could fight Ron and Percy by the time I was eight."
Hermione giggled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Ginny was captivated by the delicate shell-colored flesh, the scalloped edge of her ear, the softness of her earlobe, the long slope of her neck. This is what a girl's body looks like. She wanted to stare at Hermione for hours, to examine her carefully, to measure the girl's flesh against her own. She wanted to stroke that tender throat carefully, to run her fingers along its hollow, down the fall of her chest, across the swell of her breasts, just to see what it would feel like. Ginny's imaginary charting reignited the ember low in her belly, the map of Hermione's body was the map of a strange continent, dark and mysterious. Ginny wanted to feel all of it, to explore it, to possess Hermione with her hands and understand a girl's body better than she understood a boy's.
"Ginny?" Hermione said, almost a whisper, almost hoarsely. Ginny blinked rapidly, terrified that Hermione had divined her thoughts.
"Um, yeah?"
"Do you—do you think—do you think you could--"
The door swung open again, Mr. Weasley filling the frame. Ginny jumped, then sighed. Always interrupted. She'd never known a peaceful evening in her life. She was faintly glad for her father's intrusion, however, since she wasn't sure she wanted to hear what Hermione was going to ask her.
"Heard you creamed Ron out there, Puddle."
"Sure did, Dad. He nearly broke the kitchen window, but I saved it."
"That's my girl. And how's Hermione, then?"
Hermione smiled. "Just fine, Mr. Weasley."
"Getting all packed up for the trip?"
"Nearly finished," she said, pointing at her trunk.
Mr. Weasley smiled and chucked Ginny on the arm. "Wish you could be around more, Hermione. Teach my wild ones a thing or two."
Ginny nearly choked. Hermione blushed.
"I wish I could too, Mr. Weasley. I love it here."
He looked at her approvingly, then stepped farther into the room, his face grave. "Girls," he said seriously. "I wanted to make sure you knew how important it is that you stick together. We're going to a safe place, but the things we're facing are quite dangerous. I need your word that you'll look out for each other."
"Of course," Ginny cut in. "I mean—that is, yes, we'll make sure."
"Absolutely," Hermione added, throwing a sideways glance at Ginny that made her flush.
"Good." He rubbed his hands together briskly, his voice brighter. "Well, have a good night, you two. See you in the morning."
"'Night, Dad," Ginny called after him. The door clicked shut. Ginny went to it and turned the lock. "No more uninvited guests," she said wryly. Hermione gave a wan half-smile. Tension crept back into the atmosphere. Ginny felt the peculiar boldness rising in her, carried up on the billowing heat that was filling her body. "You were going to ask me something?"
Hermione gaped for a moment, then shook her head and turned away. "It's nothing," she mumbled. "I'm exhausted, aren't you? And we've got to get up early tomorrow to finish getting ready. I think I'll turn in," and she was on her cot, facing the wall.
Ginny settled into her own bed, trembling with warm pleasure. As she drifted into sleep she saw herself like a Muggle explorer, khaki vest and trousers, long sharp knife, cutting through dense jungle to find Hermione, stretched naked across a glittering stone altar. As the half-dream Hermione raised her head and held out her hand to Ginny, sleep dropped on her like a heavy curtain and the image disappeared.