A single spider, no larger than a knut, threaded its way gracefully between the desk corner and dungeon wall-across and back, across and back-building a web while Ginny sat watching. She still held the memory ball tightly. She felt its gold casing etching painful furrows on the inside of her closed fist, but she didn't loosen her grip. She still hadn't decided-whether she should shatter it or return it.
The first one would feel better, she knew, but the decision was hardly hers to make. A dull ache began to creep up Ginny's tailbone from sitting too long on the hard stone floor, but it was barely noticeable beneath the burn of the bile in the back of her throat and the stinging of unspent tears in her eyes. She'd been here how long now? Twenty minutes? An hour? Playing the same scenes over and over in her head, trying to make sense of them . . .
The red-head's first instinct, of course, when she had tumbled from out of the remembered and back into to the real, had been to seek out Hermione. She wanted to run to her, to wrap her in her arms as fiercely as the night that Dean had first awoken Ginny's fear, to ease her own pain (in having witnessed these acts) through the feel of Hermione safe in her arms. But she still didn't know what Hermione wanted.
The last words of the last memory echoed in young girl's head: "I am, Ginny, but I can't. I am, but I can't." Am what? Ginny wondered, Gay? Straight? In love with me? Hurting and confused? Were these memories a goodbye message, a "See how much I've been hurt already; isn't it best you just leave me alone"? Or could they be a plea for help, a cry for understanding, an explanation of why things had ended up like this?
She thought she understood at least the first memories, the snapshots of the two girls together. She thought that Hermione must still care for her in some way, perhaps even miss having her around, or why else would she have saved so many happy memories of our past? She thought she might even have a good idea of the what the later memories meant, and after watching them, she thought she might know what Hermione meant by "I can't."
But she wasn't sure, and eventually she had to admit the source of that uncertainty. She had no context in which to place her interpretations. She needed answers now more than ever, but first, she needed the courage to ask for them.
Ginny straightened her legs one by one, easing the stiffness that the damp dungeon air (and her cramped position) had slipped into each calf. She stretched her arms in the same way and tried to clear her head, but after enough calisthenics, she knew she was only stalling.
It came down to one question, really. No matter what Ginny did now, it could be the wrong thing. So would she rather error on the side of angering Hermione by seeking her out when she didn't want to be bothered or on the side of abandoning Hermione by not seeking her out when she needed a friend?
Okay, maybe there was a second question too. Would she rather hear the truth, no matter how painful, or go on in ignorance, never quite knowing the true source of her broken heart?
The answers to both meant finding Hermione.
As stupid as Ginny felt knocking on the door of a room she once lived in, she knew barging in wasn't the way to start so delicate of a conversation. The red-head had even forced herself to walk here slowly, to not be winded and sweating when she reached the dorms, to put her calmest face forward.
She was impressed that she managed to maintain that calm when Hermione answered the door, when she led Ginny inside and offered her a seat on the bed while the brunette went to curl up in the overstuffed chair by the wardrobe. As they passed, Ginny silently slipped the We-Remembrall from her hand to Hermione's and when she sat, she watched the older girl examine it briefly before tucking it back into her robes. It was seeing the little bulge that it made there at Hermione's side that caused Ginny's composure to loosen, as a new thought occurred to her and all of her other questions were temporarily dislodged from her mind.
"Herm," she started, taken aback by the realization, "Have you been watching those? Is that what you meant by you've been 'trying to make sense of it all'? Why . . . why would you do that to yourself? I could barely watch some of it and I didn't have to . . . I can't imagine."
At first Hermione wasn't forthright with her answer, merely shrugging, but maybe she saw how truly concerned Ginny looked, because after a moment, she offered more. "Some of them less often than others," she said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, "But mostly I don't have to; they're already in here" she finished, as the hand lingered on her temple.
"But it's okay," she continued, "Really, Ginny, at least as okay as it can be. I've seen a hundred variations of them, hundreds of times, when I used to have nightmares, and after a while, when you're awake and have the choice, well . . . you learn to go somewhere else in your head when you need to . . . There were a lot of time when I needed to . . ."
Ginny nodded and swallowed, unsure at first of what else to say, then determined to take the risk. "I think we should talk about them, Hermione, about why you decided to show them to me, what they mean . . ."
She watched as Hermione bit her lip and looked away, not confirming that she was willing or denying that she was able to do as Ginny asked.
"Hermione," the younger girl tried again, "Please. I'm not going to pretend I don't know how hard of a thing that is to ask of you. But if you were willing to let me see that, if you trusted me enough to be there in the room when he . . . Hermione, you have to let me help you. You have to help me. I need to understand."
Ginny stopped talking when she thought she heard something, and Hermione filled the silence, "I know . . . I know I need to. I just . . . I don't know how. I don't know where to start. Maybe if you asked, it would be easier. Ask me any question. I promise, I'll answer it this time. I'll make myself answer it."
"Okay," Ginny said, pausing for a moment to recollect her thoughts and then surprising herself with the direction that they took her.
"What I want to know first, I guess, is . . . I want know how you feel about me, about us. Was any of it real, Hermione? When you told me you loved me, when you kissed me? Was it only because you thought I wanted that, that I would leave you if you didn't, because I wouldn't have. I know it's not the only thing that matters here, but it would help me to know where I stood, where I stand now . . . So I have a place to put everything else."
"It's a fair enough question," Hermione started, "but I'm not sure I'm ready to answer that one yet, I don't think it'd be fair to you. . ."
"Fuck fair," Ginny interrupted irritability, before remembering how hard this was on the other girl and softening her tone, "Listen, Hermione. I'm not looking for a right answer here, just the truth. I can live with being your friend or your girlfriend, your lover or just some girl who lives down the hall. What I can't live with is not knowing how I'm supposed to try to feel about you . . . not that I have much control over how I feel, but at least I'd know how to act around you, at least I'd know it was okay to be around you. I just . . . I want to know how you really feel, okay, not how you think you're supposed to feel, not what you think is fair to me. Because it's not fair to me if you tell me that you want to spend the rest of your life with me when you don't, simply because you think hearing that would make me happy. But it's also not fair to tell me that you just want to be friends, if you feel something more and you're just afraid of what that means . . ."
"I love you," Hermione said, so quietly at first that Ginny almost missed it, but she repeated it again, "I love you, Ginny, I always really loved you. And not as a friend. That's the truth. When I picture the rest of my life, when I let myself go there without criticizing what I want, I picture it with you. When I see my kids, they have red hair and freckles. When I see my wedding, it's you standing next to me, not some faceless bloke it a suit. I don't know if that makes me a lesbian or bisexual, but whatever I am, I don't think I'm that way because of what happened to me. I don't think what happened to me has anything to do with why I love you. What was it that you said to me over the summer? 'I love you because I don't know how not to love you.' That's how I feel . . . How I honestly feel."
In any other context, these words would have caused the red-head to swoon with joy, no less because the feelings sounded genuine than because she still shared them herself. In this context, however, Ginny didn't know what to feel. There were too many emotions swarming together and shouting to be heard. She knew what she wanted to ask next, what she wanted to ask because of this, but she found her words as tangled as her thoughts.
"Can I . . . Hermione, I know this might sound like the stupidest question that I can ask right now, but can I . . . I mean, it's just talking about this, knowing the other questions that I have to ask. . . It'd be so much easier if . . .Of course, you can say no, but . . ."
"What, Ginny," Hermione encouraged her, "It's okay. I promised you could ask me anything."
The youngest Weasley took a deep breath. "Can I . . . Can I hold you?"
Hermione smiled then-a small, sad smile, but it seemed authentic -and she slowly nodded her head. "I always felt better when you did."
It was more awkward than the red-head thought it would be at first, as Hermione climbed onto the bed, as Ginny gently embraced her, leaning back, adjusting Hermione's head so that it was resting in the cradle of her shoulder, then tucking it softly beneath Ginny's chin. Finally, she remembered the right angle to hold Hermione snugly in place with one arm, so she could gently caress her hair with the other. In that moment, Ginny finally felt home again.
And she wasn't sure that she wanted to ask any more questions. She wasn't sure that she didn't just want to close her eyes and sleep here, smelling the honey and lavender, letting the warmth of a moment smooth out the pain of many months.
But Ginny knew she couldn't take the easy way out, couldn't have this again just to lose it. She cleared her throat gently and continued running her fingers lightly through Hermione's curly locks. "Why, Hermione? Why did you end it with me?"
"It's . . . I guess it's complicated."
"But it was because of what you showed me, right, it has to do with those memories?"
Hermione nodded into Ginny's shoulder.
"The first ones," Ginny continued, "They're all of us, me and you, they're some of the best memories we have."
"They're my best memories," Hermione agreed, "The ones I needed to hold onto. They reminded me of how happy you made me, but they also reminded me of why I had to stay away, how much I didn't want to hurt you."
"How would you have hurt me, Hermione? I think I know, but I need you to tell me."
Hermione didn't answer at first, and Ginny knew she might have to prod further. "Was it the memories of Jacob? Was it those things he said to you?"
She felt Hermione stiffen at the mention of his name, and Ginny slowly began rubbing gentle circles on the small of her girlfriend's back, letting her know it was okay, reminding her that she wouldn't leave her, that Hermione could do this. Ginny gave her the opening, hoping it would help. "In the first one, he was trying to make you do something you were ashamed of. Talk to me about it, Hermione. Tell me what made that memory hurt worse than the others . . ."
"He . . ." Hermione started, letting herself relax a little in Ginny's arms, "He used to make me have orgasms . . . Not all the time, but sometimes, he would do different things until . . . And he said it meant that I wanted it, that my body wouldn't have responded that way if I didn't."
"Hermione," Ginny breathed, having understood the gist of this already but still finding it painful to hear it spoken out loud in the other girl's voice, "Hermione, you know that that had nothing to do with it, right? You know that our bodies are designed to react certain ways to certain stimuli, no matter what we want. If you eat a poisoned piece of Treacle Tart, your taste buds are still going to get all the same flavors, it doesn't mean you wanted the baker to kill you . . ."
Hermione nodded again into Ginny. "I didn't know at first, I guess, but yeah, now . . . Like I said, you helped me see it wasn't my fault, any of it, you and your family helped me to see that a long time ago. It's just hard not to let the old beliefs creep in sometimes."
"Tell me what it has to do with us, Hermione," Ginny said, encouraging her to continue when the silence had lasted too long, "Tell me what you're afraid of." Again, she thought she knew, but she felt it needed said.
"What Ron said . . . He was right, I can't bear the thought of a man touching me. But I can't bear the thought of a woman touching me either, not in that place . . . I can't even touch myself there. And I didn't want things to end with Ron because of sex, no more than I wanted things to start with you because of sex, and I liked it when you kissed me. I liked when I could give you pleasure. But Ron reminded me of what I already knew, that you were wondering why I wouldn't let you touch me, and I wondered how long you'd be willing to wonder that, if I was keeping you from ever experiencing real intimacy because it didn't feel safe to me . . .
"And then there's what Ron said in the woods that day, the third memory, that you shouldn't be afraid of someone you love . . . I think it might be true, and yet I am afraid. Not afraid that you'd hurt me. I know you'd never hurt me, Ginny. But I'm afraid that if you were to touch me like he did . . . It's why I couldn't even be naked with you, for fear that I might let myself go too far, that a hand would stray to the wrong place, and it would take my mind back to that bedroom . . ."
"I would never," Ginny emphasized "never touch you like he did. Because when I touched you, it would be out of love. It would be gentle; it would be with affection and adoration, and as much for you as it was for me. Because I wouldn't touch you until you were ready, and I would only touch you in the way that you were ready to be touched, and if it didn't feel safe, we would stop, and if took a year for it to feel safe just for me to kiss your shoulder, it'd be a happy year that I got to spend with you. Even if I just get to spend the rest of my life holding your hand, it'd be worth it, because again, I get to spend it with you."
Hermione nuzzled in closer and whispered, almost teasingly, "You're allowed to kiss my shoulder," before resuming the reserved and quiet-tone that her voice had held all night, "but thank you for saying that, Ginny, thank you for meaning it. I think . . . I don't know what I think . . . I'm not really ready to try anything tonight, but if I ever was, I'd want it to be with you. Only . . . "
"Only what, love?," Ginny asked, "Tell me what you're thinking."
"The next to last memory, the one where he . . ."
"Where he said that anyone that came after him would know he was there first?"
The older girl nodded one final time, and then she was quiet again. A few minutes passed, Ginny holding Hermione close to her as she felt her robes begin to dampen, heard the quiet shaking of Hermione's tearful breath.
"Hermione," she said, when she'd had a chance to think it through, "I do know he was there first. But I'm not thinking about that when I'm with you . . . And even if I ever did, it wouldn't matter to me, not in a bad way at least. What he did to you is about him. Yes, I know it hurt you, but it didn't make you any less loveable than you were before he ever thought of causing you that pain. . ."
"It made me damaged," she said quietly, "It made me used goods. It made me broken . . ."
"Have you ever read Hemingway?" Ginny asked then, moving her small hand north from Hermione's back and returning it to stroking the hair along the side of her girlfriend's face, "It's A Farewell to Arms, I think, or maybe it was one of his short stories. Dad practically got the whole collection when this old muggle library closed down, and when he was in St. Mungo's after that snake attacked him at the ministry, Mum didn't like him to be left alone. Me and my brothers used to take turns reading to him. Anyway, whatever the book was, there's this one line that really stuck with me. 'The world breaks everyone, but afterward . . ."
"'Some are strong at the broken places,'" Hermione finished for her. "It is A Farewell to Arms. I haven't read that since I was 10, but I remember the line."
"You would," Ginny nudged her playfully before returning to her more soothing caresses, "But the point here isn't your brilliant memory. It's what the line means, Hermione, at least what it means to me. The world does break everyone, maybe some of us it breaks a whole lot more than others. But if anyone was strong afterward . . . Because that's what I think if I ever think about him touching you first . . . not how damaged it makes you, but how strong it makes you. You're the strongest person I know."
"Then, you'd want to be with me, even if it meant we might never . . . Even if it turned out that the reason I'm with you is because I love you, but one, just one of the many, reasons I love you is because of what Ron said, because I feel safe with you."
"Hermione," Ginny answered, "keeping you safe is probably my favorite thing in the world to do. Or is it making you happy?," she teased, "Or is it loving you? Maybe it's knowing that you love me and that you think I have the best right-wing feint in all of Quidditch and that I'll be this sexy International Superstar and you'll end writing my best-selling biography because you know me better than anyone . . ."
"Stop it," Hermione nudged the other girl with her elbow, laughing the first laugh Ginny'd heard from her in months, "My first Quidditch-book bestseller is obviously going to about Krum. Not that he's nearly as cute as you. But he is already famous, and I'll have a whole year needing something to distract myself while you finish out Hogwarts and get yourself recruited . . . Not that it would hurt you to have your loving girlfriend scouting out the bludger-bashing competition, giving you secret tips on the newest flight moves . . ."
"Like you even know which end of the broomstick a player is supposed to sit on," Ginny teased back, lying down further on Hermione's pillow and pulling the covers up over them. "I can't picture you within a league of a Quidditch pitch if you don't have to be . . . If anything you'll spend the year in law school, or writing some dull 21st century revision of Hogwarts: A History, insisting it's the most fascinating subject since self-slicing bread charms."
The conversation lingered on this subject, each girl teasing the other, more serious subjects occasionally weaving their way in. They resumed an earlier argument about the wallpaper color of their future living room, returned to discussing the most sense-offending names for their future children. The topic didn't matter to Ginny ,and she let it shift where it may.
What mattered was the honesty. What mattered was that the lines of communication had opened tonight in a way that couldn't be easily closed, in a way that would make their relationship whole. What mattered was that the younger girl still held Hermione, their positions shifting here and there as they drifted closer and closer to sleep.