"That is such bollocks, Ginny, that is such absolute bollocks." Harry's face was deep scarlet. Ginny set her jaw, trying to keep her fury at bay. He was pacing the room, making broad circles around the furniture. Ginny was rooted to her spot, fists clenched, breathing shallowly through her teeth. "I mean, of all the things to say to someone, of all the things, you had to say this."

"Well, what did you expect me to say?" she muttered, her voice low to prevent herself from shouting. "That I wanted to be with you forever, even though I don't want to be with you at all?"

"Something like that!" Harry bellowed. "This is a relationship, it takes effort."

Ginny couldn't control herself. "Don't tell me about effort," she shouted. "Don't tell me that I'm not trying hard enough! If you knew—if you had any idea—"

"Idea of what?" he shouted back. "How am I supposed to have any bloody idea about anything going on inside your head when you don't tell me?"

"Because it's a relationship," Ginny spat. "It takes effort."

Harry slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the glasses. "Fuck, Ginny. Do whatever you bloody please." He stormed out of the room, kicking over a vase on his way out. The childishness of the gesture was so absurd that Ginny burst out laughing. Harry slammed the bedroom door in response.

"Could've been worse," she said to herself as she righted the vase and straightened the flowers. At least it was done. She had been thinking for weeks of how it would happen, mapping out every possible reaction like Quidditch strategies. She flipped through the mental game plans, from simplest to most complex, and decided it had been somewhere in the middle. At least he hadn't cried. That page had been placed decidedly at the back of her game book, the reaction she had dreaded the most. But it hadn't happened. Shouting was easy, kicking over home accessories a decided touch of humor that she hadn't anticipated. It made everything so much easier to deal with. Juvenility made real life so much more palatable, especially if it wasn't you.

She sighed as she looked around the living room. So much clutter. Gryffindor banners, a replica of the House Cup, piles of half-read books, their places marked with errant parchment. Empty ink bottles, bent quills, and the wrappings from several Chocolate Frogs littered the tabletops. Scarves, gloves, torn capes on every chair. Everywhere Ginny looked were reminders of how little distance she'd traveled from the Burrow, from childhood. During the brief moment when she'd been on her own she had reveled in bare surfaces, in clean dishes, in order and tidiness. And then she'd moved in with Harry.

The suspicious neatness of his flat should've been a clue.

When she had first arrived, everything had been tucked carefully into its own area, too carefully, as though everything were brand-new and hadn't been removed from its original packaging. Harry had been slightly nervous about her touching anything. Only later did she realize that this was because behind the surface cleanliness lurked an irrepressible wave of clutter; the cupboards were black holes of trunks, potion bottles, splintered bits of old brooms, pristine jugs of cleaning products still emblazoned with their softly twinkling quality seals. She had grinned and borne it in the early days, had rolled up her sleeves and slowly but surely excavated closets and cabinets until she had achieved a sense of harmony within the house.

However.

Harry's inherently immature nature had quickly taken over, his disregard for cleaning up after himself making the rooms fill up with junk again until the entire place looked like it had been overtaken with a thicket of Devil's Snare so dense Ginny was amazed they could find anything. She had tried to be jovial about it, to prod Harry with subtle hints disguised in a joking tone that he, in his thickheadedness, had interpreted as only that.

Now, standing in the aftermath of her relationship, Ginny was almost grateful for the minor disaster of their living space. It was awfully convenient to have such an obvious sticking-point to use as a springboard for that inevitable conversation. It had been so easy to start in about the state of the bathroom—really, Harry, an alchemy kit? In the toilet?—and from there jump straight into her imminent departure from their living arrangement. She hadn't even had to go into the real reasons, hadn't needed to mention—

It was so tidy. Not a clean break, but a clean house.

She wandered through the rooms collecting her things. She wasn't taking anything they had bought together, didn't want the reminders. Only the things that were hers. She could easily find a new bed, a new sofa, and in the meantime she was sure Hermione would let her stay. Hermione, who hadn't made the disastrous choice to move in with Ron. Harry was bad, but Ginny had known her brother all her life, and Hermione wouldn't stand a chance against the hellish pit he called his house.

Ginny poked around for the telephone before pulling out her wand and summoning it. It came barreling out from the spare bedroom, a sock caught on the antenna. She flicked the sock to the floor and dialed Hermione's number. The pulses of the Muggle dial were still slightly jarring to her, but Hermione lived in London, in a proper flat, and Ginny supposed she had to get used to it. The distance from magic was something else she still relished, living on her own meant she was free to use or not use it as she chose, and sometimes she just didn't feel like it. Using Muggle technology made her feel adventurous and slightly rustic at the same time, like a visitor to a foreign country that hadn't yet developed the flush toilet.

Hermione didn't answer. The tinny greeting played in Ginny's ear and she opted not to leave a message. She'd surprise Hermione, it would be fun.

Ginny amassed a pile of her belongings, kicking old newspapers and unmatched shoes out of the way, and surveyed her haul. So much of it was ancient, books and bits of detritus that had traveled with her since her childhood. She poked at the figurine of Rowena Ravenclaw her great-aunt had given her in the hopes of guiding her toward a House that would produce at least one intellectual Weasley and sighed. She didn't need it. There were so few things she felt like she needed. Clothing, obviously, which might prove difficult to get at the moment. Harry was still fuming in the bedroom; periodically Ginny heard a heavy thump that signified he wasn't done kicking things yet.

She stared hard at the pile of things and, with characteristic impulsiveness, pointed her wand at it and set it on fire.

As it burned, occasional flickers of purple and green signifying the destruction of IMPORTANT DOCUMENT: DO NOT BURN, she sighed. Weight was dropping off her. First Harry, now all this useless rubbish.

She wanted to leave. The clothes could wait, she decided. Harry was angry, but he wasn't terribly impulsive, so it was unlikely that she would return to find a charred pile of jumpers. She grabbed her shoulder bag—she'd need her Muggle identification (a graduation gift from her father) and whatever other random and unnecessary garbage it was that cluttered up bags.

"I'm leaving, Harry," she called toward the bedroom door. A sharp crash answered her. "Please don't break everything, you know you won't clean it up and you've never been good at healing charms." Another crash, and she shook her head and walked out of the apartment.

The trip to London was one she preferred to make by Floo powder, so she walked to the village station and flipped a coin out of her pocket. "London," she said to the bored attendant.

"Third hearth, speak clearly and close your eyes," the girl mumbled. "Enjoy your trip."

"More than you could ever guess," Ginny replied, scooping up the pouch the girl dropped on the counter in front of her. She nearly skipped to her hearth, and called out her destination. The green flash, the brief crushing pressure, and she was emerging from a dingy, graffiti-covered fireplace into the bustling London station.

"Okay," she said to herself. "Where does she live?"

Ginny wasn't entirely sure. Somewhere in the northern part. There was a church nearby. And a park. As she emerged on the surface street her heart sank. She could see five churches from where she stood, and verdant slices of neighborhood parks peeked out between at least half the buildings. "Apparition it is," she muttered. She turned and descended back into the dimness of the Floo station.

Moments later she Apparated in front of what she hoped was Hermione's flat. Not knowing precisely where it was she had focused on the landscape she remembered. It looked the same as it had the one other time she'd visited, several months ago to celebrate Hermione's acquisition of the place. She examined the list of names next to the front entrance carefully. "Granger . . . Granger . . . Granger . . . there it is!" She pressed the button, with only the faintest whisper of anxiety. What if she wasn't home? It wouldn't be difficult for Ginny to return to Harry's place, not in terms of transportation, anyway, but she was so determined not to return except to collect her belongings, she was so finished with it, all of it, and now if Hermione wasn't home, she didn't have any other choice, she should have thought it out more fully instead of strategizing the actual break up, where was she—

"Hello?" A breathless female voice through the speaker, one Ginny didn't recognize. It wasn't Hermione's place. Shit.

"Ummm . . ."

"Is someone there?" The voice sounded distracted.

"Yes, I'm looking for Hermione Granger?"

"Oh—yeah, just a minute—Hermione? Someone at the door for you."

Ginny sighed with relief. She had found it. A small flush of pride and satisfaction washed over her. Being on one's own was most definitely preferable. Harry would've insisted on calling, and scheduling, and taking a car, and then probably not going at all. She didn't understand how someone who had absolutely no sense of things being returned to their proper place could be so absolutely hell-bent on itineraries.

After a half-second, Ginny heard Hermione's voice through the speaker. "Yes?"

"Hey, it's me," she said.

"I'm sorry?" Hermione sounded formal, clipped, worst of all, Ginny realized, she sounded busy.

"It's—it's Ginny. Weasley," she added, suddenly hesitant. She was acutely aware that she hadn't been on her best behavior when it came to communication—she'd only visited once, after all, and hardly ever wrote. She called more frequently, but usually it was just out of a desire to use the Muggle telephone. Just like your father, her mother's voice barked in her ear. It wasn't her fault if Hermione was the only person she knew who actually had one and actually used it for its intended purpose. And she liked Hermione, she really did, Hermione had been one of her best friends for so long that sometimes she forgot that she forgot about her. I've taken her for granted, she thought, which is entirely my fault, and there's absolutely no reason I should be jealous that Hermione has other friends—

Ginny paused her thoughts. She wasn't jealous, that was silly. Who knew who was up there with her? And even if Hermione did have other friends, and it was entirely likely, no, it was all but guaranteed that she did, well, she was entitled to, and after all, it was mostly Ginny's fault anyway, she should've called more, hopefully Hermione would let her stay—

"Ginny? What are you doing here?" The voice was surprised, and vaguely panicked. Ginny went cold. She should've left a message, at least, she should've made sure she actually talked to Hermione first, she should've just stayed with Harry—

"I'm—I was just in the neighborhood. I can come back, if you're busy. Or not," she added by way of apology.

There was a pause that felt as though it lasted centuries. What's she doing? Ginny wondered. Is she trying to think of how to tell me to go away? Is she cleaning up? Is she figuring out how to get that girl—

Ginny stopped the last thought from developing fully. It is no business of mine who that girl is or what she's doing in Hermione's apartment at ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning. Remember, you never write, she chastised herself. And why would she assume something sordid anyway? Why would that little nascent blip of an idea even think about crossing her mind? There was no reason to imagine anything untoward going on up there, maybe that girl was her visiting cousin, maybe Hermione had fallen on hard times and been forced to take a roommate, there were a million reasons she might be up there, so what if Ginny had immediately thought of the time when she'd burst into Hermione's rooms at school and seen her and Luna—

"Um—just give me five minutes, okay?"

"Yeah, five minutes, great, no problem, I'll be here."

"How about—how about I meet you in the café across the street?"

Ginny was decidedly confused. But she needed a favor, so she decided to pretend she wasn't. "Sounds great," she said as nonchalantly as she could.

"Okay," Hermione said, and was gone.

Ginny stared at the speaker for a moment. The suspicion that something untoward was going on up there was becoming stronger. Why else would Hermione want to meet her across the street? Why not just invite her up? Or tell her to come back later? This clandestine business smacked of Hermione trying to get rid of her, Ginny realized. And people who are your best friends—or who were your best friends, at any rate—don't try to get rid of you unless . . . unless . . .

The shock on Hermione's face. Luna's dreamy eyes. The purple blossom on Hermione's throat.

Ginny shook her head. Hermione was with Ron, mostly. No, she was. She was Ron's girlfriend, Ron was her fella, It was totally, completely, for-sure a fact. Hermioneandron. Ronandhermione. Purple marks on Hermione's neck.

Stop it!

Ginny crossed the street to the small café and ordered a coffee, trying to keep her fumbling with her Muggle money to a discreet minimum. When she had managed to successfully pay for it, she sat at a booth near the window and scanned the side of Hermione's building, trying to pick out which flat was hers. All of the windows were shuttered. What would she have seen if they hadn't been? A cloud of brown hair, pushing some mysterious figure into a back room? And why, in Ginny's imagination, was the mysterious figure naked?

Stop it!

She was being ridiculous. But she was a witch. Sometimes witches just . . . knew things. She wasn't magical for no reason.

Ginny was on the point of using said magic to spy on Hermione when the she appeared in the door of the café, pointedly not disheveled. In fact, it looked as though she had given herself a complete makeover in the past five minutes, or else she had figured out how to wake up looking like a movie star, a potion Ginny occasionally dearly wished for. She caught Ginny's eye and most definitely pasted a smile on her face, Ginny knew, to make it absolutely clear she wasn't at all put out by Ginny's sudden appearance.

"Hello, Ginny," she said, her voice most emphatically not strained.

"Hullo," Ginny replied, standing and giving Hermione an awkward hug. Awkward on Hermione's side, Ginny noted, as the girl stiffened slightly and pulled away after a fraction of a second. "How are you?"

"I'm—uh—" Hermione's eyes darted around the room, as though searching for hidden cameras. "Fine. I'm fine."

"I'm really sorry to have come bursting in like this," Ginny said, and was immediately embarrassed. It's fine. It's fine. No way does she remember that those were in fact exactly the words I said when she and Luna—

"It's fine," Hermione said quickly, a faint blush spreading on her cheeks. She does! She does remember it, which means that girl in her flat was—"So . . ."

"Um. Yes. So." Ginny poured three sugar packets into her coffee and stirred them furiously.

"What brings you to London?" Hermione prodded. "Are you all right?"

"Yes!" Ginny said, perhaps too forcefully as she ripped open another packet of sugar and sent fine glittering dust spreading over the table. "I mean, yes. I'm fine. Actually, I'm probably better than fine, one could almost say I'm great."

"That's—that's great," Hermione said. Silence fell on them then, heavy silence, and very, very loud.

"You look good," Ginny said, not knowing what else to say. It was true, after all, the life of a single girl living in the city was clearly working out very well for Hermione. Single? Ron. Ron. She's going with my brother.

"How's Ron?" they asked simultaneously. The blush on their respective cheeks was enough to stop traffic.

"He's fine," Ginny choked. You don't know? You're his bloody girlfriend. Unless. Purple marks on Hermione's neck. Long blonde hairs on her sweater.

"Oh, good. I mean, I haven't seen him in so long, with him being away, training, you know, up in Scotland."

"Right," Ginny agreed. Ron was, in fact, at this moment completing his third year of Auror training. How he'd managed nobody in the family could quite believe, but nobody asked questions. The consensus was that it was a gratitude appointment for all the hard work and effort Ron had put in during the days leading up to the final battle. Harry had been offered the same but had taken a leave of absence after his second year to spend more time with Ginny. "He's fine."

In truth, Ginny had no idea how her brother was. While her lack of communication with Hermione was questionable, with Ron it was downright unforgivable. She had been passing on messages from Ron and Hermione to her mother for months. She'd have to find a way out of it now, try to backtrack a little the next time she was asked about how their cat was doing.

"That's good," Hermione said, and that silence thudded down on their heads again.

"Anyway, I'm here because . . ." just say it. Just say it. "Because I dumped Harry."

Hermione looked shocked. "When?"

"This morning. About 8:30."

"Why?"

Hermione didn't sound as shocked as she was trying to. Ginny eyed her carefully, trying to determine precisely what reaction she was actually having, and laid it on the spectrum between confusion and, curiously, a complete lack of surprise.

"Socks," Ginny said simply. Hermione raised her eyebrow. "A lot of things. Point being, he's probably broken all the dishes and I set most of my things on fire."

At this Hermione looked genuinely taken aback. "You set your things on fire?" she said incredulously.

"Well, not all of them," Ginny replied hastily, realizing what she had proclaimed made her sound very dangerously like a lunatic. "Just old things that I didn't want any more."

"I don't understand," Hermione was satisfactorily confounded. "You dumped Harry and he's broken all the china and you set your old things on fire?"

"That about sums it," Ginny nodded, and sipped her coffee. She hadn't realized how much sugar she had been adding, and the resultant brew made her teeth squeak.

"Ginny--" Hermione was fumbling for words. Ginny could see the old Hermione peering out from behind whatever sophisticated, mysterious façade had been plastered over her, reinforcing Ginny's original impression that there was in fact an Old Hermione to complement this New Hermione, who was cool and secretive. The Old Hermione could be plainly dumbfounded yet unflappable; the kind of girl who would have friends who set things on fire in fits of pique. The New Hermione had new friends, naked ones, probably, who skulked around her flat answering the buzzer.

Stop it!

"I don't understand," Hermione finished finally.

"What part?" Ginny asked, forcing herself to take another swallow of her liquid, caffeinated icing.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione caught herself on that, looking briefly embarrassed. "I didn't mean it like that," she continued. "I just mean . . . well, what are you doing here, in London?"

"I've . . . I've, um . . ."

"You haven't set the furniture on fire, have you?"

Ginny flushed scarlet. "No!" she cried. "Of course not, that would be irresponsible! Harry still has to live there, you know, and it was his furniture anyway."

"So where are you--" Hermione stopped. Her mouth dropped open, just slightly.

Ginny squirmed. This wasn't going nearly as well as she'd hoped, but then again, how well could she reasonably have hoped, dropping in on a friend who was so much of a friend that Ginny frequently forgot she was a friend? A friend who lived in a different city, a proper city, where people did all kinds of strange and grown-up things, whereas Ginny had just left a sleepy hamlet where people kicked over vases and set figurines ablaze.

And Hermione wasn't Hermione, not really, she was New Hermione, and Ginny realized with every second that ticked past that this was a very important distinction indeed. New Hermione had strange visitors. New Hermione didn't speak to Ron any more than she did. New Hermione probably wouldn't brush long blonde hairs off her sweater—

Stop it!

Ginny gulped. Her molars ached from the coffee. She needed to say something.

"Who was that?" Not that. Shouldn't have said that. Stupid. Stupid.

"Who was what?" Hermione asked, growing distant and suspicious.

"At your flat," Ginny said, barreling on. The subject had been broached, the line of questioning set out, Ginny had no choice but to follow where it lead. It was increasingly unlikely that Hermione would be letting her stay, even for a few days, and the likelihood of that when weighed against Ginny's desire to know about the mysterious girl made it inevitable that Ginny pursue her inquiry. "That girl who answered the buzzer."

Ginny could see cogs whirling in New Hermione's head as she tried to find a way to not answer the question. She could see the very drawings from the chapter on Occlumency in their textbook as New Hermione mentally scanned them.

"Look, Hermione, it's fairly obvious that I've cocked this whole thing up, and that I'm going to have to go back and face Mum's wrath about this entire scenario and that I'll probably be too embarrassed to face you for . . . years, maybe, so you really can tell me, it's quite all right."

New Hermione stiffened, stared hard at Ginny for a moment, and then dissolved. Old Hermione slumped down on her hands, her elbows hard on the table.

"Lydia," she muttered.

"I'm sorry?" Ginny said, probingly.

"Lydia, all right?" Hermione looked up, her cheeks bright pink.

"Lydia your . . . cousin? Roommate?"

"Lydia my girlfriend, Ginny. My girlfriend Lydia."

As suspicious as Ginny had been, she was still taken slightly aback by this pronouncement. Her jaw dropped without her meaning to, and Hermione dropped her face to the table.

"I didn't mean to do that, Hermione, honest," Ginny said quickly. She grabbed another sugar packet and dumped it in her coffee, which was quickly turning into a grainy brown paste. "It's just . . . surprising, is all."

"Is it really that surprising?" Hermione said, her voice muffled.

Ginny thought about it. Purple blossoms. Long silvery strands. How's Ron?

"No," she said, and shrugged. "Not really."

But still, this was really something.

"How long have you and Lydia--"

"Six months, all right?" Ginny couldn't tell if Hermione was embarrassed or angry, and settled on both. Unfairly, she thought, since Ginny was in no way outraged, horrified, or particularly shocked. She had played professional Quidditch for two seasons.

"I think that's great, Hermione," she said, and put her hand on the girl's.

"Yes, well, don't go running to Ron," Hermione snapped, very Old Hermione.

"I haven't spoken to him in months," Ginny reminded her. "I'm not going to tell him about Harry, why would I tell him about this? Besides," she continued, "he's got to suspect something when his girlfriend—his alleged girlfriend—doesn't write or anything, and him in another country, practically."

Ginny was pleased with herself for dealing with the situation so well. She was so pleased that for a moment she forgot that she had nowhere to live, and even if she did deign to return to Harry's flat she'd have at least a week of cleaning shards of glass from the corners, not to mention the hours of feigned listening and understanding she'd have to do as Harry tried in his schoolboy way to talk about his feelings.

"So it's good, then, you and Lydia?"

Hermione didn't respond. Ginny watched her crumpled form and thought she detected the faintest heaving of her shoulders. Crying? Why would she be crying? Ginny didn't really give two damns about who Hermione slept with, though she was a bit crushed that she wouldn't have anyone interesting to talk to at future family gatherings. Bill would be there, at least, but with that French bitch of a wife, so that pretty much ruled him out. And George was only half as fun now that Fred—but she couldn't think about Fred. She focused on how totally she had been neglecting Hermione to not even know about this. To not have any earthly idea why Hermione would be crying.

"Hermione?" she said more gently, and reached out to gingerly touch Hermione's hand. The girl recoiled slightly and Ginny snatched her hand away.

"I need a pint," Hermione's muffled voice declared.

"It's ten-thirty in the morning."

"I know what bloody time it is. I need a pint."

Ginny wasn't sure how one requested a pint in a Muggle café. She looked around, confused. A young waiter noticed her and came over.

"Two pints, please," she said. He looked at her expectantly.

"Bitter," Hermione mumbled.

"Two bitter pints, please," Ginny said brightly. The man looked at her askance, but walked back to the bar.

"Pints of bitter, Ginny," Hermione corrected. Old Hermione.

"Oh."

Hermione lifted her face from the tabletop. She had been crying, a little, the tears still glimmered in her eyes. Quite prettily, Ginny noticed. Though there's a certain type of girl who looks prettiest when she's crying. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's nothing," Hermione lied. "Just kind of overwhelmed. Wasn't expecting this, you know."

"Me either," Ginny agreed. "But honestly, I'm not upset."

"At all?" Hermione sounded vaguely affronted.

"Not at all," Ginny confirmed. Her opinion seemed to have a negative effect on Hermione, who laid her head back down on the table. The waiter brought two glasses filled with dark liquid and set them on the table. He stared at Hermione for a moment until Ginny handed him some Muggle money. He looked at it, looked at Ginny, looked back at the bill and when Ginny didn't appear to require anything else shrugged and tucked it in his apron.

"You gave him five times more than it cost," Hermione said into the heavily lacquered oak.

"Well, whatever. I don't know how it works," Ginny said dismissively. "Besides, I doubt I'll be needing much more of it, since I'm now headed back to the Burrow."

"Why are you going back there?" Hermione asked. Ginny rolled her eyes. Honestly, some people got so wrapped up in their own problems that they didn't hear a word one said.

"I've broken up with Harry, remember? I don't have anywhere to live."

"Oh," Hermione said. She took a long swallow of her beer. Ginny did the same, trying to blend in, but the taste made her mouth twist unpleasantly.

"How do you drink this?" she said, disgusted.

"It's an acquired taste, that's for sure."

"Give me firewhiskey any day." Ginny slid the pint glass across the table. "You can have mine." Hermione took another swallow.

"I suppose you could stay with me," she said after a long pause.

"Hermione, don't be ridiculous. You've got your life and everything. All I've done is broken up with my bloke and set Rowena Ravenclaw on fire."

Hermione didn't seem to notice the strangeness of Ginny's statement. "Actually," she said, fortifying herself with more bitter, "I've just broken up with my . . . bloke . . . as well."

"She's a man?" Ginny said, only half-joking. Muggle London was a strange place, and being a Muggle was a strange business indeed.

"Don't be thick, Ginny." Hermione gave a wan smile. Ginny sighed with relief. At last Hermione had smiled.

"When did you do it? She was just there--"

"She was just leaving," Hermione corrected. "We had a tremendous row this morning."

"When?" Ginny asked, already knowing the answer.

"About two hours ago," Hermione replied.

"Hmm," Ginny said.

"Hmm?"

"That's when I dumped Harry," she reminded her.

"Oh," Hermione said and took another drink. Her glass was nearly empty and Ginny nudged her own rejected pint closer to Hermione's hand.

"So what happened?" she asked.

"Socks," Hermione replied. "Lots of things."

"I know exactly what you're talking about," Ginny nodded. "Socks."

"Yeah." There was another silence, though this one was not nearly as loud as before.

"So . . ." Hermione began, twirling her glass.

"So."

"So do you want to stay with me?"

"I promise I won't set anything on fire," Ginny said.

"There are a few things I could do without," Hermione replied, smiling again. Quite pretty, Ginny thought. She could understand why someone would—

Stop it!

This new thought had slid quietly into her head, sneaking in through a back door. Ginny tried to flush it out, to send it running back the way it came, but all she managed to do was chase it in circles around her brain. Very pretty, easy to see why—

Stop it!

Ginny had never particularly thought of any girl in this particular way before. Certainly she had thought some girls were pretty and some girls were not, but that was just a fact, just a set of rules laid out by whoever it was who made the rules about those things. Certainly. Of course, she'd never not particularly thought of any girl in this particular way before. It hadn't seemed like a productive use of her time to consciously not think of some girls as pretty, and to consciously not derive some sort of aesthetic pleasure from looking at them. That French bitch was pretty, very pretty, Ginny thought, and the more she thought about it the more she realized that emphatically not thinking about something might be just the same as thinking about it, and what's more—

Stop it!

Experiment time, Ginny thought. She looked hard at Hermione, looked at her face as the girl regarded her glass, tried to scrutinize the downcast eyes, the way the lashes nearly lay against her cheek, still damp with tears, down the long plane of Hermione's nose to her soft rosy lips, which as Ginny scrutinized them began to tremble as though they knew they were being looked at.

Interesting.

She still couldn't imagine herself kissing them, however. Couldn't imagine pressing her own lips to Hermione's, and in no small part was this due to the twin facts that Hermione had been her best friend for years and Hermione was, ostensibly, her brother's girlfriend, at least to everyone but Hermione and now Ginny. Though the longer she thought about not being able to imagine kissing her, the more the idea shifted to Ginny imagining herself kissing her. Damn her suggestible brain, she thought, mentally smacking the back of her hand. It had gotten her into far more trouble than she cared to think about, most recently that particularly important letter from the International Quidditch League about possibly coming back to play for the Harpies in the upcoming season and which had gone up in a flash of purple flame not two hours before because a split-second idea about setting old things on fire had manifested itself in her reaching for her wand and . . . setting them on fire.

Does that mean I'm going to kiss Hermione? she wondered, and shook her head.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, apparently having noticed Ginny's shake.

"Oh—nothing," she said, trying to appear cool.

"So you'll stay?" Hermione ventured, her eyes almost imploring Ginny to agree. Her eyes which grew dewier and more prosaic by the second as Ginny couldn't decide whether or not they actually were, or if it was because she couldn't decide about it.

Make a decision, her brain shouted. Whatever you decide is fine by me.

Oh, but the decision meant so much! Ginny was fairly certain that if she decided to stay with Hermione she would end up eventually kissing Hermione, if Hermione didn't mind her doing so, all because she couldn't decide if she wanted to. All because the idea was there, and the more she thought about things the more concrete those things became, and the whole reason she'd gotten together with Harry in the first place was because he wanted her and she thought that since he wanted her she must want him, and it hadn't been so awful except for the socks and the books and the bristles from brooms everywhere you looked, and except for the sex which Ginny realized now probably wasn't as good as it ought to have been, and would sex with Hermione be better?

"Yes," she said, decisively. "I'll stay."