Another moment and it was clear: Harry and Ron were screwing. Every last bit of sleep drained from her body. She stared up at their landing, wide-eyed and breath caught in her chest. Beneath the soft snoring of the twins was the unmistakable sound of flesh slapping flesh, of pleasure grunts and short gasps. She'd heard it enough after her parents fights to know that sound. And now it was happening here.

How could they be doing this? How? She raked her hair out of her face and stared down at the floorboards. What would Mrs. Weasley think? What would anyone think? And they were going at it, right there, with Fred and George in the room? Perhaps she was mishearing things - that's what she hoped - but no, after another pause, the sounds were made all the more clear.

She returned to Ginny's room in a daze. Her heart was plummeting in her chest. Of course they were doing it. Of course there were signs she'd missed. Of course there was yet another thing she'd missed out on. She was still the odd one out, after all her effort. And she was really hoping that would all be left behind, in the Muggle world…

Clambering into bed, she pulled her legs in close as tears built in her eyes. Why was this happening? She buried herself in her arms. She cried into her knees. It wasn't fair. She'd studied so hard to blend in with everyone. But still she was just another outsider, a repulsive Muggle-born, some stupid mudblood bitch just like people always said. And just when she was starting to fancy Ron.

Cold soaked into her pajama fabric, making wet spots on her arms and legs. She sniffed and scooted back against the wall, face screwed up. It just wasn't bloody fair. She let out a sob, then steadied her breathing, smearing tears on her hands.

It hurt all the more because she'd let her imagination run away from her, just like always… she'd imagined Ron talking her into trying broomsticks, and them practicing together. She'd imagined him confiding in her like he did with Harry - talking and sharing himself, earnestly and intently. And they'd fought so much last year. Now everything was spiralling out of control again.

She thought of them in their room, enjoying each other. Kissing passionately, nuzzling at each other's ears, making small jokes under their breaths with quiet laughter. Their hands, feeling their chests, their hips, wandering lower and pleasuring each other. Of course that's what was happening. It was how it was always going to be, nevermind her silly fantasies.

The urge in her legs was growing strong, and she slipped her fingers in to take care of it. She wiped her tears with one hand, and felt herself with the other, tracing the divide between the lips in her groin. She was already wet.

As her fingers moved sparks danced across her skin, and she sobbed again, squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head away. It was so sad. So miserable. But it was right. She knew it was. This was the real world, and everyone was just going on without her.

She rubbed, dipping her fingers between the folds of her skin. She returned her thoughts to Harry and Ron. She pictured them with their bodies against each other, their penises sticking toward their bellies and rubbing along their sides. They mouthed at each other's tongues, silently. It was romantic, in a way - having to hide their love from everyone. A love she'd never get to experience.

With her thumb, she found her nub and pressed, building herself further. Tears leaked from her eyes, down her cheeks, and she smushed them away. Sparks danced up her body. She rubbed her thumb up and down, left and right. She reached and dug with her other fingers. She'd always be alone.

Sensation arced up her body, and she gasped. Maybe Ron and Harry were in a different position. She changed the picture in her head. Maybe Harry was on his hands and knees, Ron behind him. Ron would run his hands up Harry's back, through his hair. He'd kiss his shoulder, his neck, and Harry would look back and their mouths would meet.

It ought to be her, she thought, not Harry. She ought to be the one with Ron. But of course that would never happen. A tear welled up and trickled down her cheek, but she ignored it, running her hand up her shirt as the drops fell. She squeezed her breasts. First one, then the other, pinching her nipples like Ron would. She gasped, and sobbed, fingers rubbing and stroking down in her legs. She clenched them tight, squeezing her hand, as more pleasure shot up her body. Her stomach muscles started to twitch. She sucked in breath and let it out in a rackety stutter, wishing for Ron's arms around her.

A mumble came from Ginny's bed. Hermione heard it and tried to freeze, but she couldn't shut herself down so quickly. Instead she slowed, holding her breath, restraining her fingers. Ginny shifted in her sheets.

Of course she'd been making too much noise. Stupid girl, she told herself. Idiot. Still twitching, she pulled her hands out from her warm spots and clasped them together in her lap, squeezing them tight with her legs as her stomach clenched. She sniffed, and breathed, tears rolling down her cheeks, while her body jerked and insides burned for more. What was wrong with her?

Another mumble. Ginny could hear her crying. Her thoughts raced - she had to go somewhere... the bathroom. She'd just gotten back, but Ginny didn't know that.

Moving quickly, she slipped out of bed and left the room. She heard Ginny call after her, voice quiet with sleep, but didn't answer. Hopefully going down the stairs would tell her enough. Hopefully it'd put Ginny's mind at ease, and she wouldn't have to explain herself.

She took the steps, wondering what hour it was. Really, she was being quite the idiot, and ought to just kip down for the night, ignoring everything else. The Quidditch World Cup was tomorrow - not that that was a big deal to her, but it was big for Ron and Harry, and they were her best friends - she stopped on a landing, sorrow pulling her down again. She rested against a wall. It wasn't fair. She bent her head, eyes watering once more.

A thought came to her - who knew? Maybe she'd just been imagining things. Maybe Harry and Ron weren't actually making love. Maybe she'd heard one thing, and thought it was something else.

What sweet lies. She would always be alone. She was never going to be with Ron. He didn't want her. And neither did Harry. They wanted each other. In a way that, for her, no one ever would.

She put a hand back in her pajamas and pressed, sliding her fingers along herself. She bit her lip, stairwell blurry through the film on her eyes, body craving for the embrace that would never come. Sadness was a hole in her heart, catching pleasure and need in its eddies and whirling them around like stardust outside a black hole. It lit her up. She groped. Her body surged. She squeezed a breast and pressed it upward, nipple caught at the crux of her fingers. Cold dripped on her arm. She moved faster in her crotch, thrusting her hand between her sweaty, leaking thighs, the pajama waistline scratchy on her wrist. She gasped, and sobbed, heaving breath as sparks lanced up her.

Suddenly, she stumbled. Getting ahold of herself she made down the next flight of steps for the bathroom, her footing uncoordinated. Stupid girl.

She got to the door and found a light showing at the bottom. Occupied. She sagged against a wall again, legs still thrumming. Right beside her was Percy's room, she saw, eyes dragging her head that direction. The door was wide open, illuminated by a lamp on his desk. He was still awake, then. Working on his dumb cauldron report, likely. Which meant (she thought, as she dried the tears off her face with her sleeve), she was forced to wait for him.