Ginny stared at the ceiling. The play of light across the pale, faintly pebbled surface was infinitely distracting. She'd spent the vast majority of her life in the country, away from headlights and streetlamps, and now, laying stiffly on Hermione's sofa, blankets pulled up to her chin, she couldn't stop looking at them. The sweeping arc of light as a car turned the corner. The constant flicker of the lamps, vague shadows cast by people walking on the street below. It was fascinating in its newness.

It was also a welcome diversion from thinking too hard about actually being here, in Hermione's house, and Hermione herself not twenty feet away. Ginny sighed and tugged on the blanket, which was just slightly too short and pulled up over her toes. She tried to focus on the lights, the sound of motors and the murmuring of the people below, anything but Hermione laying—somehow—in the squalor of her bedroom, being stared at by a multitude of naked eyes. She wondered, despite herself, if Hermione ever felt judged by them, especially since Ginny figured most of them were Lydia's idea. Maybe all of them, Ginny didn't know, and anyway it would be perfectly all right if Hermione's tastes extended to the rather shocking, who was Ginny to judge?

It would be perfectly all right because it meant Hermione cared about sex.

Stop it!

Ginny chastised herself for being prudish, which surprised her a bit. There was nothing wrong with Hermione caring about sex. Merlin knows it actually mattered. Ginny herself had no real experience with meaningful sex, or even particularly good sex, but she was acutely aware of the lack of it. Harry had been so attentive early on, but attentiveness didn't always equal skill, and for such a renowned wizard he certainly could've done a better job handling his wand—

Ginny snorted, and immediately felt guilty. A wave of awfulness crashed over her. Here, alone in the quasi-darkness, she was suddenly very aware of what had happened. She'd left Harry. She'd just up and left—no that wasn't it. She'd been thinking about doing it for a very long time, but having actually done it was something else entirely. And now, in another city, she couldn't help but feel terrible about it. She was dreadfully happy, that was what was so awful. She couldn't shake the relief.

The thoughts poked at her brain again. Was it only relief that was making her so happy? Was it exclusively and without reservation simply because she'd left Harry? Could it possibly—and this was just idle speculation, of course, nothing to get worked up about—could it possibly be because she was now laying on the couch of her best friend, who despite not seeing her in months had welcomed her in? Who, as it turned out, fancied girls and hadn't Ginny used that very thing as one of her reasons for leaving Harry?

No! Of course not! She hadn't meant it.

The dark-haired girl from the photograph suddenly blinked into her mind.

Didn't you?

"We're not going over this again," Ginny whispered furiously.

The girl shrugged and blinked out again.

"Bitch," she whispered. Who did she think she was, trying to convince Ginny that her motives for coming here were less than wholesome? All she had meant to do was see if Hermione might lend her a couch for a few nights until she thought of something better to do. And honestly, the reason she had thought of it had absolutely nothing to do with anything else. Honestly.

But now Hermione was looking at her in that funny melty way and Ginny couldn't stop searching for tears in her eyes, and how was that ordinary? If only she didn't make decisions the way she did, if only she thought things through. There's the problem, though, she realized. She thought and thought and thought and it was always those sneaky half-ideas that really had nothing at all to do with the matter at hand, the ones that just popped up of their own accord, that decided things for her. She hadn't ever thought Hermione to be particularly pretty or not pretty, all right, it was a lie, but she had only thought about it that one time, the time after her and Luna, and for the last time, she ought to be given a pass for that one, because for the last time it was unreasonable to expect anyone not to wonder what it would be like, kissing a girl, after they'd just walked into a room and seen it. And she'd only thought about it for a week, at the most, and if she'd happened to be walking around that week preoccupied with it, well it was to be expected. And so what if she'd been jealous of Luna, Hermione was her best friend, and if anyone was going to kiss her it ought to have been—

Stop it!

Ginny pinched herself on the arm. She hadn't been jealous! All right, so what if she had, it didn't mean anything. Right? Right. Nothing at all.

So why was she so secretly satisfied that it was her laying in Hermione's living room? She didn't fancy Hermione, that would be ridiculous. Anyway, if she did, it's not as though Hermione was going to come bursting out of her bedroom and flinging herself into Ginny's arms and pressing her red lips to Ginny's, not that she'd been imagining it, not that it would happen, no matter how much Ginny secretly hoped it would.

I do not! I do not secretly hope that!

Hermione's bedroom door creaked slightly.

Ginny's breath caught in her throat. Her heart paused and she went cold all over, except for her cheeks which she was fairly certain were emitting a neon glow. Had Hermione heard her thoughts? Her stomach dropped. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible for Hermione to have picked up on what she had been thinking, no matter how skilled a witch she was she'd never been good at Legilimency, Ginny was quite sure she remembered Hermione moaning over her lack of ability on that very subject.

Was it Legilimency she couldn't pick up, or Occlumency? The question suddenly took on an immense weight. If Hermione knew—

"Ginny?" Hermione whispered. Ginny peered up over the edge of her blanket, pulling it up to her nose just in case her cheeks really were visible in the faint light. "Ginny, are you awake?"

"Uhh . . ." she mumbled, trying to decide if she should pretend to be sleeping. She realized she'd just answered her own question. Damn. "Yeah. Is everything all right?"

Hardly.

"I just . . . heard a noise," Hermione said feebly. Ginny's heart jumpstarted and fluttered rapidly as though it were making up for the moments it had been stopped. She hadn't heard anything. That could only mean that Hermione was inventing things, and what reason could Hermione possibly have to invent a reason to come out and see her unless . . . unless . . .

"I was worried it might be Lydia," she continued, "since I'm really not certain of her mental state."

Ginny worked very hard to control her breathing, which at the moment could most closely be compared to childbirth, as Hermione came and sat next to her on the sofa.

"Not certain?" she choked.

"Well . . . I'm sure she took it a lot harder than I did," Hermione said. "Frankly I'm amazed she didn't try to break the door down."

"Funny," Ginny said, thinking of the paving stone. This Lydia was turning out to be quite a piece of work. She couldn't for the life of her understand how Hermione had ended up with her. Though there wasn't a lot she could understand about this New Hermione.

"I don't know what I ever saw in her," Hermione said suddenly. "I mean, she was quite pretty, in a wearing-lots-of-natural-fibers kind of way. And she was an artist, which I must admit was not something I knew much about."

"Maybe because she was so different?" Ginny ventured. Hermione shrugged.

"It's possible."

Ginny said nothing. She waited for Hermione to go on, burning with a curiosity she could barely contain. She wanted desperately to know all about this girl, to know all about why Hermione would've left Ron for her. Because she never fancied him, her brain reminded her. Purple marks on her neck. Long silver hairs.

"I suppose that must have been it, yes," Hermione said after a moment. "She was quite different."

"How did you meet?" Ginny asked, trying to keep her tone nonchalant.

"At the café where she worked. It was right around the corner from the Weekly Review offices."

"Oh."

"You don't mind me talking about it, do you?" Hermione said, nervous. "I mean, if it's upsetting to you--"

"Hermione, for the last time, it's not upsetting to me. I promise you. A little strange, maybe, but honestly it's only because I had thought you were going with Ron, and if anything I was surprised that you weren't."

Ginny congratulated herself on how natural it sounded. Really, though, it had been the first thing she'd thought, and what was the point of going into more detail when it wasn't absolutely necessary?

Hermione fell silent. She bit her lip. Ginny bit hers, though more to keep herself from licking them, which wouldn't have been at all appropriate.

"I'm not quite sure why I took up with her, really. Not because she was a girl, because I've . . . I've . . ." she stopped again, eyes downcast. Damn her, Ginny thought, sitting there looking all lovely and tremulous and fragile. It isn't fair, how does she expect anyone to keep their head when she sits there looking like that?

Stop it!

"You've . . ."

"I've always been this way, Ginny. Always. Not that I didn't care for Ron, I did, but it was because he was such a good friend, you know? And the rest of it—oh, this sounds so awful, but the rest of it was I think because I just felt so sorry for him."

"It's a common reaction upon meeting him," Ginny said, trying to lighten the mood. Hermione offered a slight smile.

"Yes, but he liked me so terribly much, and I thought with everything that had been going, with the war and all, it would just be . . . cruel of me to let him down." She stopped and took a deep breath. "I do love him, Ginny, but more like one loves a brother, I imagine."

"You don't have to justify it to me," Ginny said softly. "I'm not going to judge you."

Tears sparkled in Hermione's eyes and Ginny was overcome with that same damnable urge to take Hermione in her arms and comfort her and it was very difficult indeed to restrain herself especially now that Hermione had just come right out and told her she'd always been the way she was about girls while sitting eighteen inches to her right.

The lump of clay in her head began shifting. Ginny had the slightest suspicion that it was starting to take on a definite shape, though she couldn't at all tell what it was.

"It's just been very difficult," Hermione whispered. Ginny couldn't help herself and reached out her hand. Before she knew what she was doing she had laid it tentatively on Hermione's shoulder. Just comfort, that's all. I'm just comforting her. I've done it a million times, there's no reason for me to get all funny about it now.

"I'm sure," she said, mentally kicking herself. Bloody good job she was doing of being thoughtful and helpful and all those other fuls she figured she ought to be.

There was another moment of that same deafening silence.

"Anyway," Hermione said, straightening up. Ginny felt a pang as her hand slipped away. "Suffice to say I started going round to the café more often than usual, and Lydia noticed, and one day she asked if I'd like to go with her to a show at some squalid little gallery and oh Ginny, it was so hard to pretend I liked the paintings, but I did, and I must have said something right because . . ."

"Mm-hmm." Ginny didn't want to sound too eager.

"Well, she moved in with me after about a month, and it was all very nice for a while, until I realized I didn't give a damn about art, or politics, or any of that."

A month? And she'd been living there six? And Ginny had come to visit . . . seven months before? So Hermione had already been seeing Lydia when Ginny had been there?

"And then with the clutter, it just ended up being too much."

"Right," Ginny said, trying to dig up her recollection of that previous visit. Had there been any clues? Anything to imply that Hermione wasn't the girl she thought she was? Or had Ginny always thought she was the girl she thought she was, had that one day so many years ago made such an impression that it didn't make any impression at all, and instead just became another part of Ginny's picture of her? It must have done, otherwise Ginny felt she should've been at least slightly shocked by the turn of events, and she wasn't shocked at all, not even in the slightest, in fact she was the distinct opposite of shocked. She was curious. She was hopeful.

No, no, no. She wasn't hopeful.

You are, the dark-haired girl said. You're hoping she'll snog you. I don't see why you're pretending.

"I'm not pretending!" Ginny snapped. Hermione looked confused.

"Pretending?" she said.

"Oh—I mean . . . nothing."

Hermione stared at her, mystified. The silence pounded at Ginny's ears. The lump of clay grew more distinctly rounded as she gazed at Hermione's face—not gazing, just looking—and the urge to touch her grew stronger and stronger the longer they sat. She grew very nervous. The look just kept going, neither one of them breaking it, and Hermione's expression was changing from what-are-you-on-about to that dangerous shall-I-kiss-you and was it just Ginny or did the light from the street catch Hermione's hair in a way that made her look silvery like a veela and was it just Ginny or was Hermione inching closer to her and was it just Ginny or was Hermione about to kiss her like the look promised and—

A car alarm shattered the stillness. Hermione and Ginny leapt apart, giggling slightly. "Sometimes it's like a bloody war zone around here," Hermione offered nervously.

She had been! She had been about to kiss me!

Ginny couldn't decide if she was disappointed or relieved.

But why? Aside from Ginny's ever-increasing desire to see exactly what it was that made kissing another girl suddenly so irrepressibly intriguing, why precisely had Hermione been leaning in, which Ginny was absolutely certain she had been. The cold tendril of fear that she had indeed somehow heard Ginny's thoughts crept back into her head. What else could it be? Hermione certainly wasn't interested in her, not that way, Ginny was sure of it. They had been best friends for ages—which hasn't stopped you, her brain reminded her, rather unkindly, Ginny thought—and after all, it was Luna she'd kissed in her room those years ago. And Ginny hadn't exactly been a presence in Hermione's recent life, she'd only shown up that day, it wasn't as though everyone was as impulsive as she was, and definitely not Hermione, at least not Old Hermione who took ages to decide on anything, but who knew, maybe New Hermione was different in this way as well. In any case, it was definitely significant.

"Well," Hermione said.

"Well."

"I suppose I should get to bed."

"Yes."

"I've got some things to do tomorrow."

"Yes, of course."

"I'm meeting another possible contributor for the book."

"Good, right."

"Did you have any plans?"

"I'd been thinking I might go round to Harry's flat, get some of my things. Maybe look for a place of my own."

Hermione's face fell just slightly. Or was it just Ginny?

"Oh. Well, there's no hurry, you can stay here as long as you like."

Could I stay for six months?

Stop it!

"Thanks," Ginny said. "Really, it means a lot to me, you letting me barge in and disrupt your life."

"It's not a disruption, Ginny," Hermione's face softened adorably.

Stop it!

"It must be, I mean, with everything that's going on with you I'm sure a houseguest wasn't exactly what you wanted right now."

"You're not just a houseguest, Ginny. You're my friend. And I'm so glad you're here. I didn't think I'd have anyone to talk to after Lydia left, and the worry had been driving me somewhat mad." She smiled. "I had hoped I'd be able to talk to you, you know. I was just . . . nervous about calling. I didn't think I'd be able to do it, but now you've solved it for me." She put her hand on Ginny's arm, making Ginny feel warm and uncomfortable and pleased and anxious all at the same time.

"I'll go to Gringotts tomorrow," she said, "and get some Muggle money. And first thing I'm going to do is the shopping, since I was right about you not having any proper food in the house." Hermione laughed. "Is there anything in particular you'd like?"

"If you bring me a decent Camembert I swear I'll have to kiss you," Hermione said and stopped suddenly, blushing. Ginny couldn't tell, but she was fairly positive the shade matched her own. Thank Merlin for darkness, she thought.

"Camembert, right," Ginny coughed slightly. "Anything else?"

"Oh just—just anything," Hermione said hastily. "Anything you like."

"Right."

Hermione lingered on the couch for a moment longer as though she were trying to decide what to do. After a beat she stood up and smiled awkwardly. "Well, goodnight," she said.

"Goodnight," Ginny replied. Her brain was whirring insistently, trying to make sense of the past twenty minutes.

Hermione went to her bedroom and paused at the door. "You know what you could get?" she said.

"Hmm?"

"Some chocolate frogs. And firewhiskey," she added. "I really hate Muggle beer."

Ginny smiled widely. "Check."

"Goodnight," Hermione said again.

"Goodnight."

The bedroom door clicked shut. Ginny exhaled, a long, shaky breath. Her mind was racing. Hermione had very nearly kissed her, the more she thought about it the more convinced she became. But why—

She refused to think about why. For the moment, the fact of it was more than enough. Hermione's mouth, soft and trembling, her lips slightly parted, the excruciating slowness of her movement toward Ginny, yes, it had definitely happened, it wasn't just Ginny's imagination. Granted, Ginny's imagination had been in high gear since Hermione had told her about Lydia in the café that morning, since Ginny had suddenly become aware of how awfully pretty she looked with tears in her eyes, since she had realized she couldn't stop wondering what it must be like to lean in and press her own lips to Hermione's, and not since that day so many ages ago had Ginny been so fixated on anything.

Told you, the dark-haired girl said smugly.

"Yes, well, just shut up about it," Ginny grumbled. She hated being wrong.