She's like a heady scent, a musk that hangs over me at all times, a shroud. She is my skin, my heart, my body, my soul, everything, inside and out. She sucks upon a sugar quill, and sits in a tennis skirt and white teeshirt on the arm of my chair, and at once I hate her and love her.
Why are you sitting so near me, Ginny? Are you doing it on purpose?
Her brother Charlie is lounging on the couch, directly across from us, and my smile is frozen to my face as the hereditary Weasley eyes move from Ginny to me. Charlie says something (I can't hear anymore. I think she's deafened me.) and she laughes. Ginny stretches her freckled, too-thin arms out and lets out a large (But to me, mute) yawn, and leans lazily against the back of the chair. She's too near me, now. I involuntarily take a deep draught of the late-summer air and with it mingles the faint musk of Ginny's sweat – she and Ron had been playing Quidditch – mixed with a sort of toilet-powder scent, a faint, subtle, saccharine-sweet perfume that flares my senses and I lose myself among the vision of her, Virginnia, the only red-haired angel ever to grace Heaven itself.
She's doing it on purpose. I'm sure.
I can hear a sort of mumbling sound, like that of a distant train coming along the Underground. At once it seems as though my eardrums burst and the distant train's sound turns into that of Mrs. Weasley calling my name.
"Hermione!"
I snap out of it, and see three Weasleys (A clown, a cook, and a concubine, from what I've heard at Hogwarts.) looking my way. I can at once feel my blood boiling and feel the heat rise to my cheeks. I answer at once and am asked if I'd like something to drink. With a mutter of no, I excuse myself and retire to the room I share with Ginny by night. After a while, I hear a low hiss outside the window, and, tracing Crookshanks to the bookshelf, look outside to see Ginny, freckles painfully evident against the chaste white of her tennis outfit.
"You can come out and play Quidditch with me, if you want." She says. "There's no-one else left who'll play with me."
How thoughtful she is. How sacharrine-sweet. Just like the sugar quill she holds between her canine teeth, a grinning, pseudo-innocent vampire in the dark.