Happy holidays, winnett! (Hermione/Ginny, PG-13) Title: Almost Sinful Author/Artist: ? Recipient:winnett Rating: PG-13 Length/Medium: 2,100 Pairing(s): Hermione/Ginny Summary: Warning(s): Strong language Note: Written for winnett, who wanted plot, UST, and a happy ending– if nothing else, I think I managed those. I started and discarded about 4 fics before finishing this one, so I desperately hope you enjoy it– Happy Holidays!
I’ve woken up so early on this fabulous morning that it seems almost sinful to stay in bed. I get up as quietly as possible, throw on some clothes, and peep through the curtains. Outside, the dawn light has already faded from its first glow, bathing everything in daylight yellow, and the hedges lead my eyes down to the pond, which is glinting alluringly. Leaving the room, I stop to look at Hermione, who is still asleep, hair covering most of her face but moving gently in time with her breath.
Down by the pond, I jump about and call stupid noises at the birds. I realise that somebody might conceivably be watching but, never mind, I keep going, stretching and warbling and rolling around on the grass. I have the sudden urge to dip my hand in the water, which is cold, but lovely. This is when I get the idea to go swimming.
After breakfast, I mention it to Hermione. “It’s a bit muddy, but it should be alright. What do you think?”
She smiles and pushes her chair out from the table. “That sounds fun. Let’s do it. We can’t waste a day like this.”
A little later, I am dumping a towel down by the edge. Putting on my swimming costume, but the wretched thing is too small. I feel like a 13-year-old whose skin is too small for her body.
As we get in, Hermione laughs. “Wow,” she says, “It’s much warmer than I thought it would be.” I nod and dunk my head under the water. When I open my eyes again and shake the hair from my face, she has started to swim out into the middle. We race, and splash at each other, but I feel more and more uncomfortable. “I might as well be wearing a tea cosy,” I grumble.
“Just take it off, then,” she calls from the other side of the pond.
I’m wavering, but she looks back at me and smiles innocently, so I think - she must be right – there can’t be any harm in it.
I take it off in the water and throw it onto the bank. Head underneath again and feeling rather glad after all that it’s muddy. An image of myself as a penguin enters my brain.
“That looks nice,” she says, her wet hair glinting; a pause, in which her face rearranges itself several times a second, “I might take mine off too.” I can hardly object.
So here we are, both in the pond, wearing nothing. We have another race and this time she wins. “Oh no,” I exclaim theatrically, “what’s happened to me?”
“Maybe you’re feeling flustered by skinny-dipping” she suggests, laughing. I can recognise that look in her face, a freedom of expression, that only appears when we’re together alone. I can’t think of anything to say immediately, so I laugh too. Now I feel stupid, but she doesn’t notice, instead going into a star float. I can see everything – it’s like she’s forgotten she’s naked – and suddenly I feel so heady, a combination of the beautiful day, the feeling of the water, the inhibition. But somehow, such a sensation is not a good thing, so I turn around, busying myself with tidying my hair.
I want to get out now but I don’t exactly know how to. I awkwardly hurry onto the bank and grab a towel, covering myself. She watches, looking disappointed.
“I’m cold,” I call before she can say anything, and I smile like normal, and soon she has got out too and we are back inside and it is over.
I know Mum doesn’t like this music, but, it’s not exactly sinful, is it? So I’m going to turn it up quite loud and let it take over. I’m getting into a nice little dance, my hair bouncing as I moonwalk around my room and – a sudden twirl – the door’s opened and I realise my eyes are closed. Open them to see Hermione’s come in. She sits down on her bed. “I’ve so stupidly run out of books, Gin. Have you got anything I could read this evening?”
I face her, but the music is infectious, so I keep dancing as I say “Yeah, you can borrow anything in that bookcase over there. I haven’t got much non-fiction though.”
I dance around a little more, and she lies down on her back on the bed and makes no move to the bookcase. We stay like this for some time, the vibrations filling the room up and creating a sort of silence between us. Then the music changes and she suddenly gets up and join me. I remember how stupid my dancing technique is and my limbs feel like a kid’s again, so I start a little Charleston to cover it. Anyone can do a Charleston. She takes to it, with gusto, her face a constant giggle, her breasts jumping up and down. Our eyes meet and for some reason she doesn’t look away, instead grabbing my hands as we dance around. I grab hold of hers back but look away, first down at her body, then quickly over her shoulder. She initiates a twirl which goes disastrously wrong. “Oh Merlin, I’ve dislocated your shoulder!” I cry – she just laughs back, doubling over. I still my dancing and lean over her, I hope she’s not really hurt – “Are you sure you’re ok?” “Of course!” And she’s put her arm round my shoulder and now we’ve started a bizarre kind of waltz, pressed close together.
“This is totally the wrong type of dance for this song,” I say lightly. Her hand grips my back.
After a while I feel like I should be tired by now, so I stop dancing, but she’s keeping going, dancing with her back to my chest for a moment and I have no idea where she learnt that kind of sexy move from – and now she’s facing me again and her hips are relentlessly popping to the rhythm, so there’s really nowhere to look except her face which is flushed and so close. Mercifully the song ends so I sit down. It’s not too hard to refuse her hand which is pulling me back up or her “Come on, I was just getting into it”, now that her body is a little further away; and after a few seconds she’s lost that intense look and is normal and still and book-worm and good again.
I can’t believe this. I’ve actually finished my packing for Hogwarts before anyone else, even Hermione who is – where is she? She’s sodded off somewhere and left her bag open on her bed, toiletries and books strewn everywhere.
I wonder what she’s put in, peeking inside, pushing back the sides of the zip – it’s not really sinful, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me looking – and there’s all the normal stuff, but very Hermione, so many quills and not very many – is that a talking homework diary? Wow.
What’s this? A tacky green and gold bound book – pick it up – it’s a diary her parents bought her. Should I look inside?
She’s written very densely on the page, but her handwriting is not nearly as neat as I expected. The last page has been in written in two days ago, and she’s written most days she’s been here… What does that say? “I went for a flight with Ginny after that, sitting on the back of her broom. Saw the river from above, but closed my eyes a lot of the way and just held onto her waist.” I remember that. Her grip was so tight, I found it hard to concentrate. Blah blah blah, did some homework, helped Mrs. Weasley with lunch, blah blah – “I wish Ron would fuck off,” ouch “and let me be with Ginny alone. I suppose this is the sort of situation where being a girl who painted her friend’s toenails would come in handy. I wonder if I’ll ever hold her close. Once we’re back at school I’m just screwed because I’ll need to work more, and obviously there’s SPEW and she’s bound to find a serious boyfriend soon, with her hair like it is now and her body,… and so on.”
I breathe very faintly and reread that passage. I’m thinking of Hermione’s hand writing these words and my mind is boggling. Is that the noise of someone coming? Close it and shove it in again, for Pete’s sake, umm, pick some fluff off the duvet –
Door opens, closes: “Oh, hi Hermione.” She looks at me. “Hi,” she says. I am picking fluff from the duvet. “Sorry, I left all my mess over the room. Rangerio.” The things fly into the bag messily, and she comes and closes it and I stand up because I’m clearly not picking fluff from her duvet now. We look at each other. Does she guess I saw it? Is that a suspicious look, those bright eyes, mouth slightly open and the sheen of light on her cheek accentuating her cheekbone? with her hair framing her face asymmetrically and that area between her nose and her mouth, so tangible, a layer of sweat I could kiss that place right now, I could feel –
“Dinner!” calls Mum.
Ah, I feel dizzy now, just stood up from a long dream, cut loose a lifeboat and all the blood’s rushed to my head, an ache.
I follow her downstairs to the kitchen.
It’s sweet that Dumbledore makes time to chat with any student who he bumps into. But I wish he’d shut up right now, he must realise that some people have things which are preoccup– he’s gay. He’s gay, I think. I blink. Maybe I could talk to him, because no other witches or wizards – well, except one - seem to ever think about it.
“Professor, do you, do you think it’s weird to not be sure of your sexuality?”
He makes no sign of surprise at the change of topic: “If you mean unsure of whether you might be gay or straight or something in between, certainly not. I know that it took me a little time to work things out.”
“Really?” I better keep going now, “My parents never talked about it – I always thought that you would, I suppose, you would always know if you were gay. Like you always knew your own name. It would be obvious.”
He smiles kindly, and says, “Not at all. You have to work it out. If there’s a girl or a boy you think you like, you just have to go for it and see.”
My heart is beating. I understand….
So now I am standing in a side room of the Defence against the Dark Arts storeroom. A disembodied head is leering at me – is it a Goblin? No, more like a Hinkypunk, maybe, or even a – oh, snap out of it. I have to stop putting this off.
“What do you think?” says Hermione, who is standing next to me, holding two sets of silver knives, and I have no idea what she has just said. “Not sure,” I say and it’s come out a bit terser than intended. She puts one of them down and says “I’m sorry, Ginny, it’s not right of me to drag you in here when you haven’t even done this topic yet.”
I look at her. “No, it’s fine. What’s not right is something I have done. I looked in your diary.” It’s all come out too fast and incoherent and her face doesn’t react very quickly. The gravity of the situation may not hit her very soon, so I put my hand on her arm. She leans back – have I got a strange look on my face? I say something stupid, a word or two, and her mouth opens and she’s definitely realised now because her eyes are locked on mine and we breathe in synch so I Kiss Her, and she presses her hands round my back and something falls onto the floor but all I feel is her tongue in my mouth and her body, like an angel, which is here and now and in my arms. God - her smell her taste her touch – as I finally do it, I feel almost sinfully alive.