As Ginny attempted to navigate her way through the clumps of scarlet-and-gold clad bodies littering the Quidditch pitch, she couldn't help but be caught up in their enthusiastic whoops and cheers. More than once a congratulatory thump on the back almost sent her sprawling face-first into the mud, but she didn't mind, not really. After all, it had been a rather close match, and if Ginny hadn't caught that last Quaffle by the tips of her fingers, hadn't knocked it forward at just the right angle and speed, seconds before Harry's own gloves wrapped around the snitch . . .
Well, close or not, at least we've still got a seventh shot at the cup, the red-head smiled, shielding her eyes against the downpour and crossing the last few steps to the castle. Nevertheless, you'd think at least one of these troll-brains might have the sense to move this to the common room. Harry, maybe, or Ron even. He never did much like lightening, not since that stormy Halloween when Fred and George locked him up in the broom shed.
Ginny laughed at the memory--her brother's ashen eight-year-old face, his squeaky pleas to the twins for mercy, followed by promises to never, ever steal their candy again. But then, she reminded herself, of what a different world that was, a time before any of them could even spell the word "hormones." A time when courage meant riding one's broom beyond the yard, and not facing nature's wrath for some snogging.
For that, Ginny sensed, was what must be giving Ron this new bravery now. Just minutes after their victory had been announced, a few seconds after the Gryffindor chaser had fought her broom through the shouts and water-spray in the stands to find Hermione and to tell her that she'd meet her upstairs, she had seen them: Her black-haired captain with a winged gold ball in one hand and a Ravenclaw's midnight locks wrapped up in the other. Ron, a few feet away, matching Harry, grope for grope, with some brunette that his sister couldn't quite make out through the mist.
Well, whoever she is, Ginny mused, stepping into the shelter of the girls' changing room, I do hope she makes him happy.
As she stripped off her sopping uniform, piece by piece, the red-head glanced around at the empty lockers and showers, taking in the stark silence and forcing her thoughts to turn from concerns about her brother's new girlfriend, back to the fears she now held about her own. Being the only female Lion left did have its advantages. And such post-match moments of solace were foremost among them.
It was just so . . . so sudden, Ginny remembered, removing one sock, then the other. To go from kissing and holding hands to . . . all of that. There's no reason I should be complaining though, not with how good it felt. Good? Fuck 'good,' it was amazing. And Herm was the one that initiated it the first time, four nights ago after practice . . .
But why?, she forced herself to consider once again, fighting back the lust rising steamily from the image, What changed, and what does it mean? After all, Herm still won't let me touch her, not like that at least. Tries to play it off, saying she prefers to please me, but I can see the fear in her eyes . . . Is she driven by a conviction that that's all I want? Thinks she has to, or I'll. . . but no, she seemed so proud, so happy to do it, so satisfied, each and every time she made me orgasm, and Merlin, there've been so many . . .
However, no matter how many questions Hermione Granger's girlfriend asked herself, she could find no satisfactory answer. No explanation beyond the feeble few already offered up by the brown-haired girl herself: "Don't worry about me;" "Of course I understand that you'd wait, but really, Gin, I love it when you let me;" "Not this time, it's just these stupid headaches;" "It's just the wrong time of the month."
Ginny fished through her bag for a clean jumper and jeans, wondering if she dared to push the girl even harder. Not for Hermione to allow her access to her body, but rather for Hermione to give her the truth, the real reason she wouldn't so much as take off her shirt. That is, of course, she sighed, if my love even knows it.
Standing to dry off further, Ginny eased her guilt via affirmations that she had, in fact, at least tried to learn more, to do the right thing. First through gentle questions and timid offers to take things slow; then through other means.
The Gryffindor girl had even spent the whole day before in the library, a feat for any Weasley, looking for books on trauma and recovery. Although she found a few mentions of rape here and there, mostly case law on Unforgivable Transgressions, she feared that the text she so wanted might not even exist. The one that explained how to love another through such a dark memory, how to understand each new nuance of pain, how to fight them off, one by one, in favor of showing the victim the full light of hope ahead . . .
Of course, there is another book I could try, if I had it in me, Ginny reminded herself, the one tucked beneath our mattress, growing longer day by day. But she couldn't make herself stoop that low, not unless a life or death situation warranted it. Tempting though it might be, her girlfriend's diary was simply out of bounds.
Lost in these thoughts, and shivering in the emptiness of the cavernous changing room, the red-head tried to pull her pants on quickly. Thus, as she was zipping them, she almost missed the sound of a soft footstep behind her.
"Hey," she smiled, turning, "I said I'd meet you up-..."
"Meet me where?," a male voice interrupted, adding teasingly, "and really Ginny, you don't have to cover up like that. S'not like I've never seen a pair before . . ."
"And you're not going to see these ones now!" Ginny snapped back angrily, taking a hesitant step toward her bag and then quickly pulling out her wand.
Chuckling, Dean Thomas shook his head, a light blush rising against his dark skin. "You always were an easily riled one. Okay, okay. Put your blasted shirt on then! I'll be the gentleman and close my bloody eyes."
"What are you doing in here anyway?," Ginny asked, still steamed, keeping her eyes on his face until the her breasts were once again beneath a sheen of cotton.
"I missed you, Ginny-kins, and it's not easy to get you alone, you know," Dean smirked, opening his eyes and stepping toward her.
"Don't call me that. And alone?," she replied, stepping back, "Why would you need to . . . I've already told you, Dean, I won't go there. Won't do that. Not when we were dating, and certainly not now."
"Listen, okay. I get it. Marietta and Cormac last year, got half the witches in here terrified they'll have to manage their N.E.W.T.s while hiding a swollen belly. But, honestly, it was just one fight, Ginny-kins, not something worth breaking up over, not after how long we had in, how long I patiently waited, getting nothing for it and barely complaining."
"Besides, I got us a little something over the summer, something to make sure it won't happen to us if you're still worried," he added, stepping closer again, and pulling what was unmistakably a condom from his pocket.
Gripping her wand tighter, Ginny felt the hard, cold lockers against her back, saw Dean right in front of her. Swallowed. This is Dean, she reminded herself, stalling the panic that ran hexes through her mind, he'd never hurt you. How many times did he beg, you saying "no," giving him excuses until he simply gave up? Surely, he wouldn't . . .
His voice interrupted her. It was still light and low. "Gin? Ginny-kins? Come on. We're meant for each other," he whispered, leaning in for a kiss.
She dodged it, stepped away, breathed when he didn't pursue. "Stop it, Dean. NOW. It's through. I told you last spring, and I'll say it one more time. I want nothing to do with you, nothing. You know why we really broke up, and . . . ."
"Oh, come on, Ginny," he interrupted, sitting down sulkily on the bench,, "I thought maybe if you weren't afraid to . . . please tell me this is not still about her."
"And if it is?"
"For Merlin's sake!," Dean shouted, throwing down the condom and squaring his shoulders in anger. "Nearly a year we spend together. I say one thing, one thing, that everyone else was already saying . . ."
"Everyone was not," Ginny replied, her own voice rising, "At least not anyone worth talking to. You called my best friend a whore, Dean. Forgiveness is NOT negotiable."
"I didn't get the impression you two were even very close. And besides, my mum had only wanted to warn me . . . She heard from someone at the ministry, someone high up, that Hermione slept with about a dozen of her father's servants and that she even . . ."
"Whatever your mother heard, it was a lie!" Ginny roared, drawing more courage from her need to protect her girlfriend than she had been able to from her need to protect herself. "And you're an ass for repeating it. I swear, Dean Thomas, if you ever, ever say something like that about Hermione Granger again, I'll curse off your manparts and hide them so far in the forbidden forrest . . ."
"Alright, alright, enough! You don't want me? Fine. I can do better." Dean spat, "But I'm warning you, Weasley, keep going around with that one and you'll never get another guy. Keep those legs closed so tightly, and you won't long keep him if you do. Merlin, you act like you're in love with her or something, the look on your face," he finished, bitterly, turning to storm from the room when he saw sparks lighting the tip of her wand.
Right about one thing for once, Ginny thought, knowing her ex had only been to trying get a rise out of her, that he didn't really know the truth.
When he was gone and she heard the door slam behind him, the red-head sunk down against the lockers to try to quiet her still thumping heart. How afraid I was, to think that Dean might . . . when I knew he would never actually, Ginny thought, when I had my wand and the whole school to scream for. How much more terrifying must it have been for Hermione? All those three months, knowing what was coming and not being able to . . . no wonder she's so afraid of it, afraid of anything that might remind her body of where's it been. I'll never know what that's like. And although I'd give my life for her, I might never be able to change it . . .
Ginny closed her eyes against the thought of it, overwhelmed by her love for Hermione and the helplessness it inspired, unsurprised when she felt the tears sting them.