March
By Oscura
Warning - femmeslash, unrequited Disclaimer - I do not own or make any profit from these characters.
Hermione studies in the evenings. She sits cross-legged in an old armchair, books and parchments balanced around her on her lap; quill - as often as not - dangling from her mouth (which is the palest colour that can reasonably be called red), louche, like a cigarette neglected while she reads. Sometimes she gets ink on her face or hands, then later Ginny watches (curled on the bed in her thin nightgown, her feet are always cold) as she scrubs at it and frowns, and brushes her hair quickly, angrily.
Ginny thinks the others don't much like her being there, sharing Hermione, knowing her so much better than they do. Sometimes Lavender looks at her resentfully. Sometimes Parvati brushes past her unnaturally quick and off- hand. Ginny never says anything. She'd take a bet that she's the only one who knows that Hermione smells very, very faintly of white orchids (those hot holiday evenings alone with Hermione in her bedroom; Ginny wants to bottle the faint scent and have her thin wrists smelling of Hermione's skin).
Ginny doesn't think about Hermione that much. She never says, "Hermione is beautiful. Hermione makes me. feel. Something." It's a nightly challenge now, not to think about her, an exercise in self-control - Ginny chooses one of Hermione's features (wide mouth or blue eyes, dark hair, delicate elbow.) to look at, to lose herself in. And it's all glances, furtive, but not strange or horrible (when it feels so natural), Ginny casually looks round, no one's watching, and then gazing at her, as though she were a spell for Ginny to memorise.
Ginny reproduces Hermione on the black backs of her eyelids at night, like printing a photograph. She reconstructs her in visualised charcoal or the clear, smooth colours of oil paint; it's very gradual, Ginny usually falls asleep halfway through, she isn't addicted, it's not as though she were in love. ("In love". Words she takes care not to say any more.)
And tonight Ginny is looking at (trying to concentrate) Hermione's ear as she scribbles quickly, confidently, her hand curving graceful over the page. She is flicking through a book on Ancient Runes seeking some reference that Ginny (who ought to be writing an essay on vampires) wouldn't understand, even - especially? - if Hermione tried to explain it to her.
Hermione's skin is very white, and her hair, falling forward, is the colour of coffee, she keeps pushing it back with her creamy narrow-boned hand. She certainly isn't pretty, she's much too pale, everything about her too finely cut, ascetic almost.
When the others in the common room begin to stir and put their books away, Ginny has to look down at hers and look away from Hermione's white, white ear and the arc of her hair across forehead and neck. But that delicate skin and the coils inside Hermione that the ear leads to are Ginny's now, something for her to hide and treasure, and add to her picture on the verge of sleep.
Warning - femmeslash, unrequited Disclaimer - I do not own or make any profit from these characters.
Hermione studies in the evenings. She sits cross-legged in an old armchair, books and parchments balanced around her on her lap; quill - as often as not - dangling from her mouth (which is the palest colour that can reasonably be called red), louche, like a cigarette neglected while she reads. Sometimes she gets ink on her face or hands, then later Ginny watches (curled on the bed in her thin nightgown, her feet are always cold) as she scrubs at it and frowns, and brushes her hair quickly, angrily.
Ginny thinks the others don't much like her being there, sharing Hermione, knowing her so much better than they do. Sometimes Lavender looks at her resentfully. Sometimes Parvati brushes past her unnaturally quick and off- hand. Ginny never says anything. She'd take a bet that she's the only one who knows that Hermione smells very, very faintly of white orchids (those hot holiday evenings alone with Hermione in her bedroom; Ginny wants to bottle the faint scent and have her thin wrists smelling of Hermione's skin).
Ginny doesn't think about Hermione that much. She never says, "Hermione is beautiful. Hermione makes me. feel. Something." It's a nightly challenge now, not to think about her, an exercise in self-control - Ginny chooses one of Hermione's features (wide mouth or blue eyes, dark hair, delicate elbow.) to look at, to lose herself in. And it's all glances, furtive, but not strange or horrible (when it feels so natural), Ginny casually looks round, no one's watching, and then gazing at her, as though she were a spell for Ginny to memorise.
Ginny reproduces Hermione on the black backs of her eyelids at night, like printing a photograph. She reconstructs her in visualised charcoal or the clear, smooth colours of oil paint; it's very gradual, Ginny usually falls asleep halfway through, she isn't addicted, it's not as though she were in love. ("In love". Words she takes care not to say any more.)
And tonight Ginny is looking at (trying to concentrate) Hermione's ear as she scribbles quickly, confidently, her hand curving graceful over the page. She is flicking through a book on Ancient Runes seeking some reference that Ginny (who ought to be writing an essay on vampires) wouldn't understand, even - especially? - if Hermione tried to explain it to her.
Hermione's skin is very white, and her hair, falling forward, is the colour of coffee, she keeps pushing it back with her creamy narrow-boned hand. She certainly isn't pretty, she's much too pale, everything about her too finely cut, ascetic almost.
When the others in the common room begin to stir and put their books away, Ginny has to look down at hers and look away from Hermione's white, white ear and the arc of her hair across forehead and neck. But that delicate skin and the coils inside Hermione that the ear leads to are Ginny's now, something for her to hide and treasure, and add to her picture on the verge of sleep.