A little oneshot I needed to get out of my system. Deepest apologies to those of you following my WIP fics. I promise I'm working on them. Warnings on this one are mslash, fslash, and sexual situaions.
Do Enjoy.
It's not who you are to the world, it's who you are to me...
After Harry broke her heart, Ginny vowed to never fall in love again- it simply wasn't worth it. But that was before Hermione Granger kissed her, of course.
Only, it wasn't a real kiss. Well, Ginny thinks, anyway. Because while she is sure it happened in a dream (and though she'd always felt something slightly more than friendship for Hermione, her dreams had never gone this far), her lips still burned and her heart thudded in her chest like it was trying to jump from her ribcage and out the window. However, the following morning at the Burrow, where everybody meets for Sunday breakfast, Hermione acts the same as always, casually asks for the butter and jam for her morning toast, for her usual brown sugar and dollop of cream for her coffee.
Although there are little things now that she's never noticed before. Like, how Hermione isn't simply brunette. She has many hues of browns, honey and amber and even dark gold, and they light her hair like many halos. And her hands- clever fingers, slender and slightly ink-stained, always busy and moving, even when she's not talking or explaining.
And the way her tongue darts out to lick the last bit of syrup from the corner of her pink lip...
Ginny figures she's losing her mind. It's not as if it's that far to go anyhow.
oooo
Ginny wears her scars proudly. There's the one across her left forearm- a jagged, knotted thing that goes from the top of her wrist to her elbow. That was from the Ministry in her fourth year, she forgets which Death Eater kindly bestowed it on her, but she does remember that her Reducto! blasted him through a wall or two. There's a large burn on her right calf, scar tissue fused together in a shiny, misshapen circle. She's sure this one came from a spell of an offending Quidditch player- really, can she help it that Hufflepuffs are useless on the pitch?
There are countless smaller ones, nicks and bruises and cuts that come from the everyday life of living through war and in the magical world, not to mention as Fred and George's sister. And there are larger ones, internal ones, too. Her hip, shattered when she dove at Fred, knocking both of them down a flight of stairs, as a lethal spell was sent his way during that long-ago (but it wasn't so long ago, really, not if her nightmares are anything to go by) battle at Hogwarts, ultimately saving his life. Though expertly repaired in a trice by Madame Pomfrey, the injury still aches with every rainy day or chilly morning.
And her heart, of course. It was maimed and torn and still bleeds, sometimes, because Harry did indeed choose a Weasley to be by his side (and Ron was the first to call her Ginny but that just makes it easier, and harder, to hate him, but it wasn't his choice so she never tells him she's so desperately furious at him, because he's family and she'll always have roots in him), but it wasn't her.
And though she keeps their wedding photo on the mantle in her flat, she can't help but, when the nights are lonely, hold the picture tightly in her hand and let the too-hot tears (but they aren't tears of sadness; Ginny doesn't cry for sadness anymore) pour down her cheeks.
(the repair shop down the road knows her by name and always has an extra frame or two on hand)
oooo
Because it doesn't matter if you're not strong, just as long as they think you are. Being the only girl in a family of six boys has taught her this, and keeping face in front of everybody she knows is more important than actually having the strength and capacity to deal with what she has to.
She thinks Dumbledore, of all people, understood this as well, if not better, than she. She misses her Headmaster, her leader, and even though it's Harry now that the wizarding world looks to for support and answers and protection, Ginny will always have a special spot in her heart for Albus and even if there wasn't a horrid past with Harry to work around, the Boy Who Lived was, is, never quite up to Dumbledore's par.
She never could talk to anybody else, really, about Tom Riddle and the diary and losing herself so completely. But Dumbledore understood, and he listened to her and comforted her and made her think that maybe, just maybe, life could be happy again (she tries not to think how even though she was long past the age when monsters were supposedly under the bed, she never could sleep alone and it was, more often than not, Ron who shouldered the duty of sleeping on her floor when the nightmares became to loud and too much to bear).
But that was years ago, and she's an adult now. She keeps Dumbledore's picture on the mantle with Ron and Harry's, although the difference is his is covered in an impressive layer of dust and hasn't been touched, neither in tenderness nor in anger, for as long as anybody can remember.
oooo
It hits her hardest around Christmas, because Christmas was towering evergreens and enchanted snow and hot chocolate in the common room and sleigh rides on the grounds and stuffing your cloak with as much Honeyduke's merchandise as you could carry. It was laughter and violent yet amusing chess matches and hundreds of golden, fat turkeys and warm sweaters that meant more to her than the designer blouses Romilda Vane and Lavender Brown flaunted, because mum made them with love and it was tradition and it was like she knitting their family ties together, and Ginny wore hers proudly, as did her brothers (except Percy but she always figured he was a prat and a lost cause anyway), and if anything it showed truly how strong their bonds were.
This year, Christmas morning dawns and Ginny sits up in her small flat, clad only in a sweater (not a Weasley sweater because she can't stand to look at them anymore, keeps them locked in a chest under her bed and pretends like they don't exist) and her underwear and lights a cigarette. There isn't a small pile of gifts at the foot of her bed, no cheery fire in the hearth and the only clue as to it being Christmas are the several Christmas cards she's set out on the coffee table, one from Ted (it pains her every time she looks at him that he's so much like his mother) and Andromeda, another from Charlie, and one from Hermione.
The other cards she was sent lay unopened in the bin, one from her mother and father and the twins, (she doesn't want to think about her mother's face when she didn't show up for Christmas Eve) one from Bill and Phlegm (although the part-veela has gotten better as time has gone on, Ginny's never quite forgiven her for taking her brother away), and one in elegant script addressed to her from Misters Ron and Harry Potter (it's all she could do to not Incendio the damn thing, particularly when the label read to Miss Ginerva Weasley).
She supposes last night was a nice affair, lots of food and a few bottles of wine and old Celestina on the wireless. She wonders if Harry and Ron spent the night, holed up in Ron's old room just like they used to, only this time sharing a bed and not having to worry about mum walking in on them...
Merlin, she needs a drink.
oooo
"Ginny?" She hears somebody calling her, and she emerges from the kitchen, still half-naked and clutching a mug of scotch. Her stomach twists when she sees it's Hermione. She has snow crystals in her hair, which is braided and hanging down her back. Muggle clothes suite her, Ginny decides, taking in Hermione's button up cotton shirt and dark jeans.
"What're you doing here?" Ginny asks, though not in an accusing sort of way. Hermione's always been welcome, and after that last dream...well, Ginny could get quite used to her popping in whenever she feels like it.
Hermione removes her coat, and Ginny swallows thickly at the slight peak of cleavage Hermione's shirt offers. Nothing too much, of course, but a delicous little tidbit for the imagination. "Well, I figured there's safety in numbers. Afterall, a double murder really would ruin Christmas, don't you think?"
Ginny lifts a brow. "So you didn't show last night either?"
Hermione is now kicking off her boots, setting them by the front door. "No. And I'm sure your mother is in a right state. I'm sorry, but I just didn't feel like being the...what is it now, eighth wheel? Assuming Fred and George didn't show as well."
Ginny nods; her brothers likely took refuge in their own place above their shop, using their work as means of an excuse. "But you're planning on going over today?"
Hermione hesitates, then shrugs. "I don't know. I mean...I really just felt like sleeping the whole damn day away...but then I realized you'd probably be feeling the same way, and misery loves company, right?" Hermione smiles and Ginny, despite it being the worst time of year and the fact that her mother will probably be sending a massive howler first chance she gets, smiles too.
oooo
"Seriously Gin, this is so good." Hermione slurs, taking another long gulp of eggnog.
Ginny laughs, but lifts her glass to toast Hermione. "Agreed." It's this, really, that she thinks spurs on the explicit dreams of Hermione. These times, laughing and being together, not worrying about anything or feeling bitter about being alone. And really, now that Ginny thinks about it, she's never truly been alone. Hermione has been there through everything, was the one who held her together when Harry proposed to Ron, who danced with her at the wedding so she didn't have to see them lost in their own paradise together, who visited her and made sure she had a stocked pantry so she wouldn't starve.
Around Hermione, she felt as if she didn't have to hold up the defenses she did around everybody else. She really could wear her heart on her sleeve and Hermione would care for her just the same.
"Thanks." Ginny whispers, wrapping an arm around Hermione to give her a hug.
"For?" Hermione turns to her, face flush and lips pink. Ginny drinks in this appearance, of her hair that's fallen out of its braid and the small curls that frame her face, of the heat radiating from Hermione's body that melts into her own.
Little by little, she can feel her heart piecing back together, and while it might be the alcohol, right now she doesn't particularly care that Harry and Ron are probably shagging the night away.
"For being there." Ginny says, and Hermione drops her gaze for a second before bringing her eyes to Ginny's. She leans in, and Ginny can smell the liquor on her breath, mixed in with the rose perfume the older girl has worn as long as Ginny can remember.
"Always, Gin." She breathes, and presses her lips to the corner of Ginny's mouth.
Ginny's eyes flutter shut at the sensation. It's been so bloody long since somebody touched her like this, and Ginny can see in the darkening of Hermione's eyes that she wants more, and Ginny honestly couldn't say the last time somebody wanted her.
"I-" Ginny says, but Hermione gives a throaty laugh against her cheek and moves her lips squarely onto Ginny's. For a moment all Ginny can feel is the sweet shock of the eggnog, but then Hermione's lips move against her own and the action sends a pulse right down to Ginny's very core. She snakes her other arm around Hermione and they fall back onto the sofa, a tangle of limbs and hair, and Ginny can't ever remember feeling so...well, so wonderful. She is sure that she must've felt like this with Harry, but the memories seem so long ago, right now, and the only name she can bring herself to moan is Hermione's.
oooo
All they do is kiss that night, and they end up falling asleep on the couch, bodies pressed together and Ginny thinks that maybe, really, Christmas isn't so bad after all.
oooo
The next morning Ginny wakes to the smell of cooking. She disappears into the bathroom for a moment, quickly brushing her teeth and untangling her hair, and finds Hermione in the kitchen, setting out two plates full of all Ginny's favorites.
"Morning." Ginny says, stepping behind her, tentatively hugging her.
"Morning yourself." Hermione says, spinning around and giving Ginny a quick kiss. "Sleep alright?"
"Better than I have in ages."
"Good. We need to talk."
Ginny's heart, although somewhat stitched together from last night, feels like it might burst and shatter and -
Hermione places both hands on Ginny's face and looks directly into her eyes. "Last night wasn't...it wasn't just a drunken mistake or the like for me. I meant it, Ginny. I've been dying to tell you for ages, and I didn't know exactly how to. I've been so bleeding miserable watching you pine over Harry and I just -"
Ginny kisses her. Hard and fast and with fire, and they can both feel the flames of their desire licking at them, pulling them down and setting them ablaze.
Ginny leads Hermione to her bedroom. They don't speak, because the words aren't necessary. Ginny climbs into the bed and Hermione with her, and she pulls the blankets over their heads. They take it slow, undressing each other and discovering each other, skin against skin and hot flashes of arousal and flowering releases, and really Ginny thinks she could stay like this forever, making love to her best friend and never facing what lay beyond the door of her room again.
oooo
Hermione leaves that night to tend to Crookshanks, and Ginny takes a long shower and thinks. Thinks about the past and her family and she really ought to send her mother an owl. Mostly, though, she thinks about Hermione and what she's been missing this whole time. Her tunnel vision on Harry has blinded her to the other things in life, the truly good things, and if Ron makes Harry feel anything like Hermione has made her feel, well, she can't really blame him for pursuing happiness.
It's new, still, and she's cautious, but instinctively Ginny knows that Hermione wouldn't hurt her, wouldn't do this to her and with her if she wasn't serious and hell, Ginny thinks, there's nothing like falling in love to show you that things really do happen for a reason.
oooo
"I forgot to give this to you," Hermione says, handing a Ginny a small parcel wrapped in silver paper.
"Well, we were a bit preoccupied last night." Ginny concedes, taking the gift. "But you didn't need to. You're gift enough."
Hermione rolls her eyes but laughs. "If you're trying to talk me out of my knickers darling, I need hardly remind you that it isn't necessary."
Ginny pulls off the wrapping paper and is holding a frame. It's a picture, taken years ago by Colin Creevey. Hermione and Ginny and Harry and Ron are sitting at a table in The Three Broomsticks, each holding up a bottle of butterbeer. They are all smiling and Ron is pushed from behind by some tittering third-years, his butterbeer spilling all over Harry. They all laugh and Ginny looks up, pulls herself away from that memory.
"I just thought that it's time." Hermione whispers, and takes the frame from Ginny's hands. She stands and sets it on the mantle, in between the picture of Dumbledore and the one of Harry and Ron. "Time to move on, to forget the bad and remember the good."
Hermione retakes her place on the sofa, and leans in for a deep kiss. Ginny, parting her lips to allow Hermione's tongue entry into her mouth, couldn't agree more.
As ever, feedback is greatly appreciated. Quote at the beginning is an anonymous one I found while randomly surfing the web.