She trudged up the street. Her feet felt very heavy. Her head felt heavy. She felt as though she'd aged twenty years since she'd left that morning. She felt old.
She spotted the flat and relief surged through her. Almost there. Up the stairs—honestly, hadn't Muggles heard of elevators?—and then she was at the door, sliding her key in, turning the knob, whispering her faint plea that Hermione really be there, that it be true.
Hermione looked up as Ginny slumped in. She had been reading A History of Magic.
"How can you read that?" Ginny asked, trying to appear cheerful. "I don't know if anyone told you, Hermione, but exams have been over for six years."
"I'm just going through all my old books. It sounds silly, I'm sure, but I really . . . missed them."
"Not at all silly, coming from you." Ginny hung her coat on the peg and rubbed her temples.
"So?" Hermione asked, her voice neutral. Ginny shook her head and slid to the floor. She looked at the ceiling and groaned. Hermione leapt up and crossed to her. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Ginny replied. "Really. I'm really, really fine. Oh Hermione," she said suddenly, and flung her arms around the girl's neck. "I'm so glad you're not imaginary."
Hermione smiled quizzically. "To be quite honest with you I'm glad too," she said. "What happened?"
"Well," Ginny paused. "Would you mind getting me some of that firewhiskey?"
"Come on, hop up," Hermione said, pulling Ginny off the floor. "Sit yourself down on the couch."
Ginny flung herself on the sofa, her arm across her face. "It was awful, Hermione. Like, really, really terrible."
"Didn't you think it was going to be terrible?" Hermione called from the kitchen. Ginny rolled her eyes.
"Well of course I thought it would be terrible, but thinking something is terrible is much easier than the thing actually being terrible, you see."
Hermione came back into the living room, shaking her head. "One of these days you're going to have to give me the decoder ring to your brain," she said setting down a glass.
"What's a decoder ring?"
"Never mind," Hermione said. "So it was terrible."
"Yes," Ginny said, sitting up and taking a swallow of the whiskey. She grimaced. "First of all, he was drunk."
"I suppose that's to be expected."
"He'd been drunk for a week," Ginny clarified. "The flat smelled like a distillery."
Hermione shook her head sadly. "I'm so sorry."
"I'm sorry too, for Harry. So we had a screaming fight about my leaving, and then he cried, which was probably the worst part."
"Did you tell him . . ." Hermione paused and looked at Ginny meaningfully.
"I didn't tell him about you," she said. "But I might have mentioned that part of the reason was because I just couldn't love him in the way he wanted." She took another drink. "He asked me where I was staying. I just said I'd found a flat in London."
Hermione nodded. "So are you going to be okay?"
"I feel great," Ginny said. "I mean, I feel bad that Harry took it so hard, of course, but going back there just made me more certain I'd done the right thing. If that makes sense."
"That, contrary to most of the things that come out of your mouth, makes perfect sense." Hermione grinned. "I'm glad you did it."
"I am too, I guess. I'll ring over in a few days, just to make sure he's not still on his self-pitying bender." She sighed. "I'm so happy to be home. Did you have a good day?"
Hermione shrugged. "It was all right. Didn't do much."
Ginny nodded. She leaned back on the sofa, her head flopped over the armrest.
Hermione's bedroom door was open.
She sat back up abruptly. She didn't want to let Hermione know she'd been obsessing over the room, but she had to ask. But how? What should she say? She couldn't decide if she ought to point it out, or wait for Hermione to mention it. But it certainly felt monumental. So she had cleaned it out while Ginny was away. Of course, it made perfect sense that she would do it when she was out. It would be much easier than trying to explain rubbish bags full of dirty pictures. Ginny was burning to know what Hermione's room looked like stripped, as it were, of pornography. Not to mention the piles of Lydia's garbage.
What makes you think she's thrown all the photographs away? she thought. Maybe she's kept them. Maybe she just didn't want to go to all the trouble of getting rid of Lydia's things while you were around. But that was ridiculous. Lydia's things had simply been an extension of the rest of the flat. It had to be the pictures. Ginny felt a pang of sadness when she thought of the dark-haired girl, crumpled in a ball, shoved deep in a bin somewhere. The girl had been insufferable sometimes, really, but she had been helpful too.
I'm just in your bloody mind, you idiot.
Right.
Still.
"Ginny?"
"Your door's open," she blurted. Bollocks. So much for nonchalance.
Hermione bit her lip, which Ginny decided was probably her favorite thing in the world.
"Erm—yes," she said, slightly embarrassed. Ginny raised her eyebrow. This confirmed it! It had to be the pictures, what else could make Hermione blush and squirm so adorably? "I cleaned it out. I got tired of looking at—for, looking for my books. Plus there was loads of Lydia's stuff in there."
"Where'd you put it?" Ginny asked, amused. Hermione grinned and nudged a teacup on the table. Inside were the miniaturized remains of Lydia.
"Our entire relationship in a teacup," Hermione said. "Looking back I'm amazed it filled even that."
"Did you even like her?" Ginny asked. Hell, she'd been through one horrible set of painful revelations today, she figured she'd earned the right to hear about somebody else's relationship misery for a change.
Hermione furrowed her brow. "No, I don't suppose I did. She was certainly interesting, and very intelligent, but not in the sort of way where one . . . thinks a lot," she smiled at Ginny. "And the art bit, that was quite fascinating for a while. Until I lost my walls." She shrugged. "But like her? No. My friends thought I was absolutely mad as well."
"Your friends?" This was the first Ginny had heard of any other friends. She was glad for it, part of her had been dreading the possibility that Hermione had been living alone, sequestered with that dreadful girl and no real friends. That's stupid, though, she thought, Hermione's brilliant and lovely and wonderful, of course she'll have had other friends.
Ginny felt momentarily shamed at even imagining Hermione living alone, miserable. But she supposed she couldn't blame herself entirely; since she'd had so little contact with her over the past four years it was inevitable that there would be things she didn't know. And how, she thought. Plus she'd always rather imagined Hermione's life in stasis, always pictured her exactly as she had been when they had been close, that she disappeared into a little pocket in space and time when Ginny wasn't with her. And besides, Hermione wanted to give up magic, she thought. That meant keeping her magical life isolated from her Muggle life.
"Yes, friends," Hermione said, smiling slightly. "You didn't think I spent my days locked up here writing bad poetry, did you?"
"Oh no, of course not," Ginny replied hastily. "Your friends, right."
"Nicola and Petra," she said. "You'll meet them, I'm sure."
"Are you?" Ginny was hesitant. She did fine when she was surrounded by witches and wizards, she could be the life of any party. But with Muggles—proper Muggles, not just Muggleborn—she was certain she'd screw it up somehow. She also couldn't make Hermione look like a fool for choosing her, didn't want anyone thinking that she was just replacing Lydia—how ridiculous for anyone to think that who'd met the girl, and Hermione already said her friends didn't like her, but still, it was possible—
"They wouldn't have it any other way, and they can be quite . . . insistent," Hermione said. After a beat, she added, "they already know about you, anyway."
"They . . . what? How?" Ginny was confused.
"Well, I . . . told them," Hermione replied. "We met for coffee while you were out."
She had been busy, Ginny thought. Perhaps she'd been fooling with a Time-Turner again. "Oh," she said. What was she to think of this?
"I hope you don't mind," Hermione said almost shyly. "It's just that . . .well . . ." she blushed.
"What?" Ginny asked. "What is it?"
"I sort of told them about you ages ago," Hermione said in a rush. "After I broke up with Isabelle--"
"Who's Isabelle?" Ginny said, very confused indeed.
Hermione laughed. "Oh Ginny, I'm so sorry. I keep forgetting how long it's been. Isabelle was . . . well, she was my first proper girlfriend."
The word still sounded so odd coming out of Hermione's mouth. Of course, it will be coming out of mine in due course, I should probably get used to it. The thought made her giggle.
"Anyway," Hermione said, eyeing her with a mix of amusement and slight exasperation, "I met her through Petra—she works at a bank—and she and Niks sort of set us up."
"Was she pretty?" It was the first question that popped into her head. "I'm sorry, that's so shallow. And none of my business."
"No, it's fine! Yes, she was pretty."
"What did she look like?"
Hermione sighed. "Do you really want to know?"
Ginny really did, though she couldn't for the life of her think of why. She didn't see how hearing about Hermione's pretty ex-girlfriend could possibly make her anything but vaguely depressed. She nodded, and swallowed the rest of her firewhiskey. "Tell me."
Hermione sighed, then stood up and poured herself a drink. She summoned Ginny's glass and filled it.
"All right. Her name was—is—Isabelle Laurent, and she--"
"She's French?" Ginny cried. She thought of Bill's hateful wife and despised Isabelle already.
"Her parents are French. They moved here when her mother was pregnant with her."
"Still makes her French," Ginny muttered.
"Anyway," Hermione continued. "She worked at Petra's bank, doing something very high up. I never really cared that much, to be perfectly honest, it all sounded dull as ditchwater to me."
"This from the girl who was doing a little pleasure reading from A History of Magic."
"Are you going to let me tell you this?" Hermione sat down next to Ginny on the sofa, throwing a pillow at her. Ginny choked slightly on her whiskey and nodded.
"Carry on," she said.
Hermione leaned against Ginny, resting her head on Ginny's shoulder. It felt lovely.
"So Niks and Petra set up sort of a blind date for us at one of their parties. And their parties are more often than not sheer shrieking insanity, so it's really not an environment conducive to discussion."
Sheer shrieking insanity sounds interesting. Maybe I could work harder at not coming across as a brain-damaged foreigner in front of Muggles. She was also struck by the idea of Hermione attending such a party. Hermione, for whom a late-night trip to the library was considered a wild evening out.
"What did she look like?" Ginny persisted.
"Rather like Katie Bell, actually."
Ginny thought it suspicious that Hermione seemed to be seeking out girls who looked like her old classmates. It would appear she hadn't done such a good job of erasing her past, after all. Of course, she'd been set up, it's not like she'd chosen this French person.
"Taller, though," Hermione continued. "And with curly hair."
Ginny bit her tongue to prevent herself from asking what color Isabelle's hair was.
"It was blonde, Ginny, in case you were wondering."
She blushed. She tried to picture a tall, blond Katie Bell. Katie had been quite pretty, she thought. And if she were taller . . . Ginny frowned. This Isabelle was making her very cross indeed.
"Don't get jealous," Hermione said. "After all, it was me who left her."
"I'm not jealous!" Ginny protested. Hermione eyed her skeptically. "I'm not!" Maybe a little.
"We were together for nearly a year and a half."
"What happened?" Ginny asked. She was very careful not to sound too eager.
Hermione looked away, slightly embarrassed. "You," she whispered.
"Me? But I wasn't even around--" She stopped She doesn't just fancy you, you dense git.
Hermione bit her lip again. Ginny wondered if she had a mark from doing it so often. Not that she minded. "I realized I didn't want to be with someone who wasn't you," Hermione continued in a low voice. "That's when I told Niks and Petra about you. I said you were a footballer."
"Footballer?"
"It's a sport. Not really anything like Quidditch, but then again . . . what is?"
Ginny nodded. "You'll have to tell me about it if I'm going to meet them."
"I'm going to have to tell you a lot of things if you're going to meet them," Hermione agreed.
"So you left Isabelle, who thank Merlin didn't look like Fleur, because if she did I would've had to pummel you, really I would, and then what?"
Hermione sighed. "And then . . . nothing, really, until I met Lydia."
"So you were alone for . . ." Ginny added the figures in her head. "Three years?"
"Something like that," she said.
"Merlin's beard," Ginny whispered. "I'm sorry, Hermione."
"Don't be sorry, silly. You didn't have anything to do with it. Besides, it's not like it was the most horrible experience of my life. I've been through that, we both have. Comparatively, three years without a girlfriend was like Wingardium leviosa."
"Oh," Ginny said. She'd only been on her own once, very briefly, before she'd moved in with Harry. And she had truly enjoyed the solitude, but couldn't imagine it for three whole years. And three years without . . . even bad . . .
"Good thing I happened along, isn't it?" she said, trying to lighten the mood. Hermione laughed.
"Indeed," she said, turning around and kissing Ginny sweetly. "The best thing."
Ginny reached up and caught Hermione's face before she pulled away. "Good," she breathed, and pressed her mouth to Hermione's.
There was a sudden liquid warmth in Ginny's body, like her limbs were made out of water. She'd felt it stirring the first time she'd kissed Hermione, but how could she not, she'd had the girl's body pinned against the counter and was all but devouring her. This time it was sweet and soft, Hermione's warm weight pushing against her, and she felt slightly faint. She was overcome with the urge to stroke Hermione's skin, to feel how smooth it was under her shirt.
This is new, she thought, unable to decide if she was nervous or delighted and settled on both. I hadn't really thought this far ahead. Do I want to—
Do you? The dark-haired girl asked. Ginny wasn't sure if she was glad to see her or if she was ruining the moment. Hermione was whimpering softly; combined with the image of the girl Ginny was quite losing her bearings.
I'm not sure, she thought.
I think you are, the girl said, slightly superior. Ginny definitely didn't need her knowing glances.
Maybe I am. But I don't want to move too quickly.
An admirable idea.
I think so.
Looks as though she wouldn't mind, the girl observed. Hermione had woven her fingers through Ginny's hair and was running little kisses all over her face, which was doing nothing to help Ginny's composure. And she kept making those little whimpering noises. Ginny's head swam. The girl wavered in her mind, becoming faint and translucent. Hermione nipped Ginny's earlobe and the girl vanished entirely.
Her brain had turned into a quivering mass of sensation. The feel of Hermione's mouth on her skin had eclipsed any possibility of rational thought. Without knowing quite precisely what it was she was doing, Ginny slid her hand down Hermione's back, pausing just slightly at the hem of her shirt. Hermione whimpered again and Ginny felt quite dizzy, the sound so close to her ear, so soft, so quiet, so lovely.
Her body was humming, yes, that was the right word for it. Humming, not like anything else. Nothing, no, not at all like Harry, who at most had made her body buzz. There was a distinct difference, she decided. The buzzing had been dull, quieter, more persistent than passionate. But this—
Hermione looked up suddenly, worry marking her face. "Is this all right?" she asked, anxious.
"Lovely," Ginny breathed.
"I don't want to rush anything, to make you do anything you don't want--"
"Hermione, darling, you should know me well enough to know when I don't want to do something I don't do it," she said, pretending it was true. It was nearly true. It would be true from now on because this was most assuredly something she wanted to do.
"I--"
"Hermione," Ginny said firmly, taking her face in her hands again. "You know how I feel about you, right?" As soon as she said it she knew it was true. She loved Hermione, properly, the way she'd tried to love Harry. I love you.
She was quiet for a moment. "I think so," she whispered.
"I . . ."
Say it! Say it! Bloody say it! You know it's true, now bloody say it!
"Yes?"
"Hermione, I--"
A sudden loud tapping at the window startled them. Hermione leapt up, leaving Ginny a deeply unpleasant mix of hot and cold. "What the bloody hell is it?" she cried.
"An owl," Hermione said, pointing at the window.
So it was. A large barn owl perched precariously on the windowsill, a small envelope tied to its leg.
"You've got to be joking," Ginny groaned. Hermione opened the window and tugged the envelope free. The owl hooted softly and flew off. "What is it?" She felt very cross again.
Hermione turned pale as a sheet. "It's from Ron," she whispered, her hand trembling.
"Ron?"
"Yes."
"He never writes!"
"I know," Hermione choked, growing impossibly paler. "Here. It's to you."