A moment later, Molly Weasley shuffled into the warm kitchen, an overfilled laundry basket pressed against the front of her worn white bathrobe. "Kids," she muttered, shaking her head, "Always acting as if I've never seen a tantrum before, as if their temper is so bloody important that I should gape in shock and grovel to hear the source of it. Really!"
Setting her basket on the table with a thud, Mrs. Weasley snapped out a single fluffy, green towel, then looked up at Ginny and Hermione, studying them for a moment before sighing heavily, shaking her head again, and motioning to the two chairs across from her.
"Might as well sit down, both of you," she said, her voice lower and crosser than usual, "seems we've got a lot to talk about it, and this laundry won't fold itself."
Ginny swallowed, released Hermione's hand, and obeyed immediately. It wasn't her mother's tone that frightened her; she'd seen her a lot more fired up than this. And it wasn't the look on her face either, even though the older woman did seem much more pale and drained than usual. No, what scared Ginny was Molly's actions. For never, never, in all her sixteen years had she come home to anything less than a smothering hug, a kiss on the cheek, an offer of something to eat . . .
Could she possibly know already?, Ginny wondered as she watched her mother quietly picking at the lint on one of her father's jumpers, before stopping to take a handkerchief to her nose. And is she . . . crying? Then maybe it's something else, or maybe the news has reached her and it's everything I feared-- disappointment so profound that she's at a loss for words, unsure if she even wants to be in the same room as us.
"Well?" Molly interrupted Ginny's thoughts, irritably tossing both her and Hermione a pair of jeans, "Are you two going to just sit there staring at me? Or are you going to fill me in on what's so bloody important that my son's got his knickers in a bunch and my daughters couldn't even be bothered boarding their train?
Neither girl answered her, and looking over, Ginny saw that her girlfriend's calm had been replaced by a confused brimming of tears. She wasn't surprised. After all, imagining Mrs. Weasley's infamous stern lectures and actually being the subject of one were two different things entirely, and this was the brown-haired girl's first experience with the latter. It's okay, Ginny tried to tell her, taking her hand under the table. It'll be over soon, and we'll still be together. She'll still love us, no matter how she reacts at first, I promise, Herm. It's okay.
Ginny's mother, however, must have also noticed the effect that she was having on the newest addition to their family because she immediately changed her tack and softened her tone.
"Girls--Gin, Hermione--I'm sorry. I-What am I thinking? I'm just so exhausted, and I don't want you to catch this . . . it's just a stupid cold your father brought home from work. He's upstairs sleeping the worst of it off now, probably dreaming about muggle germs and actually smiling. As if I don't have enough to manage with the holiday so close, and then your brother goes and slams a door in my face, and really . . . but it's good to see you both, it is. And if you don't want to tell me what this is about, well I can't make you, yet, but . . ."
Molly paused to blow her nose again, and Ginny grabbed at the moment, suddenly afraid that she would lose her courage entirely if offered any escape. "Mum," she started in a rush, closing her eyes, "We do want to tell you."
Then Ginny paused, swallowed harder, and quickly pushed out the rest: "I'm a-a lesbian. Ron just found out, and he's angry because I'm dating, well, Hermione. I love her, Mum, I really do, and I know you must be shocked, but I'm sure, we're sure, and nothing can change it."
Feeling her girlfriend squeeze her hand tenderly beneath the table, Ginny breathed and braced herself for the reaction. Mrs. Weasley, however, said nothing. Rather, she was overtaken by a sudden coughing fit and merely turned her face once more into her embroidered handkerchief. Several long seconds ticked away before she emerged from behind it, and when she did, Ginny immediately noticed, with relief-tinged shock, that her coughs had taken on the strange, entirely unexpected, tone of a chuckle.
"What on earth was I thinking, not assuming that that was what Ron was on about in the first place?" Molly asked herself aloud then, with a bemused smile.
"Oh, Ginny, really, don't look so surprised," she continued , turning her attention back to her daughter, "I've had you figured out for years now. Granted, I wasn't sure about Hermione, if you two were . . . well, Charlie thought so. Told me as much when he got your first letter about the kitten back in July . . . But then, when Hermione took off for Bill and Fleur's, we were all a little worried, your father too, that maybe it was one-sided."
"And we felt simply horrible," Mrs. Weasley added in a quieter tone, "that we didn't talk to you about it; that we wanted to and just didn't know how; there's no book to prepare you for these things you know . . . but then the night before school, when the two of you didn't come back to the party, when I went into your room later and found you asleep, together like that . . ."
"Mum!" Ginny squeaked, her face reddening.
"Well, I would have knocked, but really, it's not like . . . well, of course you two weren't, aren't . . .," Molly muttered, her own face suddenly taking on the same hue as her daughter's, "I mean not that there's anything wrong with it, nothing at all. It's just that at your age, you don't want to rush into. . ."
"Mum, please. Stop, please." Ginny interrupted her, now completely mortified, "You have nothing to worry about."
Molly seemed ready to say more; however, Hermione, quick and clever as always, reverted back to an earlier and easier subject. "So, you're okay with it then, Mrs. Weasley, with us?"
"Of course I am, dears . . ." Molly started, her voice weary, yet light-hearted.
The older woman continued, speaking more words of hope, caution, and pride, but her daughter found herself unable to listen fully, drawn inward instead by her own thoughts. Amazing. Mum . . . she knows, really knows, and suspected all along to boot! And she doesn't care, not one jot, not as long as we're happy. Dad and Charlie too from what she's implied. I can't believe it. But it's real. Ginny felt a warm contentment spread through her, one that had nothing and everything to do with the hand that she held.
Another hour passed, as the three of them left off the laundry and discussed Lavender's note, Ron's reaction, the first half of their term at school, the status of their grades and Gryffindor's Quidditch standings.
During that time, Molly had admonished Ginny to be extra kind to her brother, to remember how she, herself, had felt during the first few months of summer. With blushing pride, she had also told them both how much, and how unconditionally, she loved them. And, of course, in a sterner voice, she had reminded each of them, more than once, about how she expected their marks to remain high, despite whatever distracting feelings might now tempt them to push homework aside. Finally, with a yawn, the Weasley mother glanced at the clock, then shooed the girls upstairs to unpack and wash up while she started dinner.
Obediently, Ginny began to follow Hermione toward their bedroom; however, she paused on the bottom step and found herself unable to resist turning back and rushing into the kitchen to wrap her mother in a grateful embrace.
"Oh, Gin," Molly sighed, holding her youngest child tightly against her, "It'll all come out alright; with the school and everyone, you'll see. Now go on and make sure Hermione knows that too," she added, gently swatting Ginny on the shoulder, "and enough with the hugs for a while, okay? Unless you want to end up wiping your nose every five seconds . . ."
Four days later, Ginny laid in bed, watching Weasel stalk an errant owl feather that was floating in front of her window. The feisty kitten seemed quite a bit fuzzier than usual, as did everything else in the room, probably due to her watery eyes and the pinching pressure invading the bridge of her nose.
Turning on her side to release a ragged cough, Ginny reflected on how right her mother had been, like always. Maybe it wasn't the hug that sealed it, but somehow, whatever germs her parents possessed had spread through the Burrow like a wildfire, until almost everyone staying there for the holiday--Fred, George, Bill, Fleur--had matching red eyes and raspy voices. Even Ron had somehow caught it, although Ginny wasn't sure how, since her brother had been holed up in his room, sulking and refusing visitors, for days.
Hermione's sure healthy enough though, Ginny mused, which is odd, considering her refusal to, even temporarily, abstain from kissing me. Not that I'm complaining, but if she has some kind of antibacterial charm hidden up her sleeve and just isn't sharing it, I swear . . .
As if called forth out of thin air by her girlfriend's thoughts, the brown-haired witch suddenly pushed her way into the room, carrying a tray of toast and hot tea. "Aren't you supposed to napping, love?," Hermione chided quietly, setting down the comfort food and pulling Ginny's blanket snugly back up over her.
"Can't," Ginny grumbled, shrugging the blanket off again, "Not with all those post owls tapping at the bloody windows. How many so far today?"
"Just two," Hermione answered casually, "and that makes eight total, only one of them Gryffindor. Not so bad, once you consider how many students are in the school."
Ginny nodded, trying to pretend, like her girlfriend and mother, that the howlers they had begun receiving from several homophobic Hogwarts families weren't anything to get worked up about. The red-head, however, could still hear the screeches of the first one echoing in her mind--You should be ashamed of yourselves . . . utter abomination . . . any respectable wizarding family who wants to carry on their line . . . in front of impressionable children no less . . ."
Remembering gave her a chill, and she was glad when the older girl covered her again with the blanket before crawling into bed beside her.
"Gin," Hermione murmured, noticing her girlfriend's contemplative scowl, "Don't let it get to you. Your parents are happy, Luna's ecstatic, Fred and George are already planning to breed a line of gay pygmy puffs in our honor . . . And Harry wrote to me again this morning, said he and Roxie were definitely coming for New Year's, said they'd try to talk to Ron, get him to come around too . . . "
Ginny nodded, faked a half-smile, and then snuggled closer to the brown-haired witch.
"That's better," Hermione went on, running a hand soothingly through her red hair, "Now drink your tea and potion, and then at least try to sleep a little. The worst of it's over, and tomorrow's Christmas. And personally, I'd like it if you were healthy enough to at least pretend to enjoy the present I've picked out for you."
That's right, Ginny remembered, as a tinge excitement managed to rise up within her, tomorrow is Christmas, which means Charlie, and new sweaters, and mum's eggnog, and the twins so full of fire-whiskey that they can't remember all the words to Jingle Elves . . .
Yet, as the red-head closed her eyes, even the comfort of those thoughts couldn't prevent other worries from chipping away at her joy. For Christmas meant that they were one day closer to the start of school. And it was the one day that Molly would insist they all spend together, no matter how much Ron protested. . .
But maybe my love is right, Ginny thought, feeling Hermione's warm arms around her waist, Hermione's even breaths rising and falling against her back, I do need to stop worrying so much. Harry'll be able talk some sense into him. Or mum and dad . . . After all, Christmas is a time for family, for showing love, making amends, and even . . .
Yet whatever else the next day might bring, Ginny Weasley wasn't able to predict it. For with that thought, she finally slipped into sleep.
