Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“As everyone here already knows, we are gathered here today because we all believe that she is the key to a brighter future for the wizarding world. Not to brag, but I already knew since we were at Hogwarts that she was going to change the world,” Neville proclaimed, holding a glass of champagne as he made eye contact with Hermione from across the room. “Soon we will be announcing her campaign for the Minister of Magic!”

The crowd roared in celebration. Hermione shook her head slightly, a pleased grin tugging at her lips despite herself.

“I speak for myself and on behalf of the entire staff when I say that we support and believe in you unequivocally. So even if it means you are leaving the International Relations Department—which I know your team will be sad about—we are happy for you to go and do greater things.”

He lifted his glass, and was followed by the myriad of others who joined in with shouts and claps in her direction. Hermione smiled and lifted her own glass to them before taking a sip. It wasn’t often that they held a party in the office, but Neville had decided to splurge for the celebration of finally finishing their campaign strategy.

Although Hermione was still a bit nervous about it, she trusted that her team had done and would continue to do a great job once the actual campaign began. Still, a knot of anticipation twisted in her stomach—success meant everything, but so did not failing. The roar of the crowd comforted her, but also reminded her of the weight of expectation pressing on her shoulders.

He made his way towards her with easy confidence, cutting through the room like he owned it. Despite being here all day he still looked pristine as ever—pressed robes, not a hair out of place. No wonder women flocked towards him whenever he entered a room. The problem, however, was that he only had eyes for the one person not easily charmed by his looks—Luna, whose serene strangeness had him hopelessly captivated.

She quirked an eyebrow toward him, a playful smile on her lips. “That was quite a touching speech.”

“I am known for being a great speaker,” he smirked.

“You should run for Minister of Magic then. I heard there’s going to be an opening.”

“I’ll let you have this one for now. Maybe after you I’ll consider it,” Neville joked.

Neville had been a constant in her life. Although most people assumed their relationship was mostly political, Hermione considered Neville a true friend—one of the only people outside Harry that she trusted enough to confide in whenever she needed help. When she told him about the opportunity of becoming Minister of Magic, he immediately formed a team to back her campaign—she hadn’t even needed to ask. Neville had supported her throughout her career, never once having an issue with her being Muggleborn despite all the pureblood disdain. In truth, Neville had carved out his own formidable reputation as one of the most successful businessmen in the wizarding world, controlling vast reserves of rare magical plants. His dominance in that sphere meant few dared cross him; he commanded respect in every circle he moved in.

Hermione loved the work she was doing, and Neville and Harry had made it possible for her to implement programs and develop real systems to help wizards. She had always been interested in politics since she was a child. The rush she felt whenever she knew—even in small ways—that she was making an impact was addictive. How could she not be, when her mother had also been a local politician in the Muggle world? Although Hermione’s world was different from the one her mother navigated, she constantly drew from the knowledge her mother had taught her and applied it in her own way.

“Neville, honestly, I’m truly grateful for everything you’ve done,” Hermione said warmly.

Neville rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. You know this is nothing to me. You’re forever footing the bill for my grub and pints. I practically clear out your fridge, and I’m fairly sure I polished off all your liquor. This is the least I could do.”

Hermione laughed heartily. Neville and Harry were forever turning up at her flat, mostly because it was cosy, while their own places looked like every other bachelor’s place. Though Hermione couldn’t cook to save her life, she always stocked enough groceries each week to feed an army—an army consisting largely of those two, who could eat for Britain. More often than not she’d come home to find one of them already in her kitchen throwing something together for tea. She wasn’t the least bit surprised to see them making themselves at home.

Life since Hogwarts had been nothing short of relentless for Hermione. It felt like a constant uphill slog, one battle after another, as if she had been climbing an endless staircase with no chance to rest. From her earliest days at the Ministry she had been thrust into crisis after crisis—committee debates that stretched into the night, opposition from pure‑blood traditionalists who sneered at her very presence, and the ceaseless demands of those who wanted her time, her mind, and her energy.

Now, at thirty‑two, she stood as one of the most influential figures on the political stage. Yet her reputation was a muddle: to some she was loathed outright, dismissed for being Muggleborn or written off as unbearably prim and proper; to others she was respected but not beloved, her image competent but uninspiring. She had long since made her peace with that. Hermione had no appetite for adoration—what mattered was that her record remained spotless, free of scandal or folly, her achievements undeniable even to her detractors.

She knew her ambitions invited scrutiny. Every owl post, every handshake, every headline was weighed and judged. She learned to temper her temper, to hold her tongue in interviews, to smile politely when faced with the same tedious questions about her background. It was exhausting, but necessary. She told herself that the momentary discomfort was a small price to pay for what she sought.

Her goal had crystallised into a single, unshakable vision: she would become the youngest Minister for Magic, and the first Muggleborn to hold the office. Hermione vowed to ensure that nothing—absolutely nothing—would be allowed to stand in her way.

With that thought fuelling her determination, Hermione tipped back the last of her champagne in one swallow. Without missing a beat she plucked Neville’s glass from his hand and drained that as well, earning a startled look from him.

“Whatever happened to the two‑drink limit?” came a familiar voice from behind.

She turned to find Harry watching her, still clad in his Auror uniform, which somehow managed to look both imposing and sharply handsome on him. His brows were knit with a mixture of curiosity and concern. He knew her habits as well as anyone—Hermione never exceeded her carefully set limit at social functions, and she certainly didn’t knock them back in such quick succession. His raised eyebrow said everything: something was weighing on her, and he was determined to find out what. Harry had been steadily working his way up through the Auror ranks, and it was no secret he was well on course to become Head of the Department before long.

“I… just liked the champagne so much?” she offered weakly, her tone far from convincing. Even Neville’s eyebrows rose at that, unimpressed by her excuse.

Harry and Neville exchanged a knowing look.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Harry murmured, already guiding her towards her office. Neville, never one to miss an opportunity, snagged a few bottles of alcohol from the side table and trailed after them.

The moment the door shut behind them, Harry flicked his wand and cast a silencing charm over the room. His stance shifted into that unmistakable Auror’s interrogation posture, arms folded, gaze sharp. Hermione knew immediately there would be no dodging him.

“Alright then,” he said firmly, “out with it. What’s wrong?”

“I’m just worried that something will go wrong,” she sighed, slumping slightly into her chair.

“Like what?” Neville asked, setting the bottles down with a clink.

“I don’t know. Just… something.” She shrugged helplessly. Truthfully, there were a hundred different disasters she could imagine, but at that moment she couldn’t put her finger on a single one.

Hermione began pacing the length of the office, one hand raking through her hair in frustration. “We don’t even know who I’ll be up against. You know the old pure‑blood families won’t just stand aside and let me win.”

“Relax, Hermione. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Harry said evenly.

Neville chimed in with his usual pragmatism. “Our analysts have already run the poll numbers against the likely candidates—you’re the frontrunner by a healthy margin. It’s still early days, and if anything changes we can adjust the campaign strategy. For now, you need to breathe.” He pressed a glass into her hand, though she kept pacing, ignoring it.

She couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in her gut that something was bound to go wrong. She didn’t usually give in to paranoia, but tonight it clung to her like a shadow, impossible to shake.

“God, Hermione, we’ve been over this a dozen times,” Harry said at last, his voice softening but edged with exasperation. “You need to unwind.”

Not this again, Hermione thought grimly.

“Harry…” she warned.

“I know, I know,” he cut in quickly, holding up his hands. “But hear me out.”

“Just go on a date, have an orgasm or two, and come back refreshed, ready to take on the world,” Harry quipped.

Hermione rolled her eyes, while Neville smirked in the corner, clearly amused.

“I’m sure there’s a queue of men and women out there who’d jump at the chance to date you,” Neville added slyly.

“I can’t.” Hermione pressed her fingers to her temple. “There’s too much at risk right now.”

“You’ve been saying that for the past two years!” Harry exclaimed. “You’ve got to come up with a better excuse.”

Before she could protest, Harry snatched up her phone and thrust it into her hands. “Here.”

Neville leaned closer, curious. “What is it?”

“It’s a Muggle blind‑dating app. I’ve already set it up—all you need to do is add your interests and what you’re looking for in a partner, and it’ll handle the rest.”

Hermione groaned. “I knew I shouldn’t have given you free access to my phone. I’m not doing this.”

“You’ve no excuse now,” Harry pressed. “It’s a Muggle app. No one in our world will ever know you’re running for Minister.”

He wasn’t wrong. Reluctantly, she let the two of them tinker with her profile, filling in details and arguing over preferences. Harry insisted she not use her real name.

“Matilda?” Hermione repeated, eyeing the alias he’d typed in.

Harry grinned. “Well, yeah. Bookish, clever, with a touch of magic. Suits you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes again.

“Oh, come on, that was funny!” Harry protested with a cheeky smile.

The app then prompted Hermione to input the interests she was looking for in a partner. With a sigh she tapped tall, athletic, charming, friendly—every vague description she could find. She already doubted the app would return anything worthwhile.

Her own profile now read: Matilda, 31. Interests: reading, puzzles, cats.

Almost instantly, her phone pinged. A match.

“Oh, that was quick,” Neville remarked, leaning over as Hermione opened the profile.

The screen displayed: Annabelle, 30. Interests: sports, rainy days, dancing.

Harry craned his neck to peer as well. They already knew Hermione was bisexual—she’d confessed it just before they’d left Hogwarts. As the saying went, it had been her “bisexual awakening,” though she had never told them what triggered it. Since then she’d never been with a woman, not out of lack of desire but because she was awkward about it, and because she had never truly come out.

Hermione had often considered revealing her sexuality publicly, but the thought of how it might affect her political career stopped her cold. Being Muggleborn was already enough of a battle; to add another label felt like tempting fate. She dropped her phone onto the desk with a weary sigh. Harry’s sympathetic look said he understood—she wanted to, desperately, but fear held her back.

“Done!” Harry declared suddenly.

“Done with what?” Hermione asked, suspicious. It was only then she realised he was holding her phone again.

“What did you do?” she demanded.

Harry’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “Just helping you along.”

Hermione’s stomach sank. “You didn’t—”

“Oh, I did.” He flashed her a smug grin. “You’re welcome.”

For a moment Hermione sat frozen, too stunned to react. Then she lunged at him. “Give it back!”

Harry leapt aside, keeping the phone out of reach. Hermione narrowed her eyes, then jabbed him hard in the stomach. With a grunt he bent forward and she snatched the phone back.

Her eyes widened at the screen. A message had already been sent to Annabelle from her account. The words glared up at her: Hey there. Do you want to hook up sometime?

Horrified, Hermione felt heat flood her face—surely she couldn’t blush any harder if she tried. Panic rose as she fumbled to unsend the message, but the app gave her no such mercy. She resolved she’d simply explain the mistake, apologise profusely to the poor woman… only to discover she couldn’t send anything until Annabelle replied.

God. This was mortifying. With a groan she pressed her fingers to her temples, wishing the floor might swallow her whole. At least the app was anonymous: no photographs, no obvious identifiers. In theory she could just ignore it and pretend it had never happened. Yet the knowledge that somewhere out there “Annabelle” had just received a shameless proposition from her made Hermione’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

A couple of days later, Hermione was back to her usual grind. As head of the International Relations Department, her days were a blur of meetings, memos, and endless Floo calls. The last thing she expected was a notification from that wretched dating app.

New message from Annabelle.

“What the hell,” she muttered under her breath.

She took a steadying breath, though it did little good, and tapped the message.

Annabelle: That is one of the less subtle approaches I’ve received here, I must say.

Hermione wanted to strangle Harry.

Matilda: God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t send that message—my friend did. I’m mortified.

She had barely set her phone down when it buzzed again, a jolt of surprise and—Merlin help her—excitement shooting through her.

Annabelle: I never said it was a bad thing. So… are you not looking for a hook‑up then?

Matilda: Oh, I am. Well, kind of.

Annabelle: Kind of?

Matilda: I don’t know how to do this.

Annabelle: You haven’t done this much, have you?

Matilda: Never actually.

Annabelle: Are you talking about online dating or hooking up?

Matilda: Er… both. And talking to women.

Surprisingly, Hermione found the exchange almost… easy. They were just words on a screen. What harm could come from that?

Annabelle: My, my… I’m interested to know how it’s going so far.

Matilda: Good? I mean, you’re the only match I’ve had so far.

Annabelle: Tell me then, why did your friend think it necessary to send me that message?

Matilda: Because he knew I wouldn’t message you first.

Annabelle: And what’s wrong with me?

Matilda: Nothing! It’s just—I’ve no experience with women. I don’t even know how to start a conversation, let alone flirt. He said I needed to hook up with someone because I’m too stressed.

Annabelle: And that’s not what you want?

Matilda: I don’t know. I doubt it would even help with the stress.

Annabelle: Pity. I’d be more than happy to help a woman in need.

Hermione froze, her mind tripping over the implications. Was this stranger seriously offering to…? She barely knew her, and yet the idea was intoxicating.

Matilda: Do you do this often?

Annabelle: What—chat to women online?

Matilda: That, and… hook up?

Annabelle: Honestly? No. I hardly ever use this app. I was surprised I even still had it installed.

Matilda: So how do you usually meet women?

Hermione’s curiosity was piqued now. She wanted to understand, to gather information—as if this were some research project she could study her way through.

Annabelle: Usually at a bar or an event. We talk, see if there’s a spark. Then we end up back at mine. Not to brag, but they always want to come back.

Matilda: I bet they do.

Hermione couldn’t help picturing what Annabelle might look like—someone that confident had to be gorgeous.

Annabelle: I should sleep now, it’s late.

Hermione glanced at the clock. Four in the afternoon.

Matilda: You don’t live in London?

Annabelle: I do. I’m just travelling at the moment. Back in a week.

Matilda: Alright. Good night, Annabelle.

Annabelle sent a photo.

Hermione’s eyes widened at the black‑and‑white image: Annabelle in nothing but bra and knickers, seated on the floor before a mirror. Long legs, toned stomach, the soft swell of her breasts—all framed by the glow of a camera flash that obscured her face. Hermione was utterly unprepared. She’d received plenty of suggestive photos from men, but never from a woman—and never one that made her body react so viscerally. She groaned, almost in pain.

Maybe Harry had been right. Maybe she did need to get laid.

Annabelle: Let me know if you change your mind, darling. You’ve got time to think about it. Dream of me tonight. ;)

Matilda: You might very well be the death of me.

She typed it before she could stop herself, her gaze fixed on that maddeningly seductive picture.

Annabelle: Mmm. Then I’ll make sure you die satisfied.

Hermione buried her face in her palm, mortified at her own response yet unable to quell the physical reaction Annabelle provoked. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what this woman might do to her.

Chapter Text

Flashback

There wasn’t a single thought in this boy’s head.

Hermione had suspected as much for years, but watching Ron Weasley struggle over the same line of text for the third time in one sitting only confirmed it. Would it be offensive to say she saw it coming? Hardly. It was practically tradition at this point: teachers, desperate to salvage a grade, sent struggling students her way. And of all the hopeless causes, Ronald Weasley was fast proving himself the most exhausting.

The Weasleys had a reputation—brawny, good at Quidditch, but rarely gifted in the classroom. Still, Hermione had expected at least something rattling around in Ron’s head. What she found instead was a vast, echoing emptiness. Even now, he was staring at her with that dazed, slack-jawed look as if the parchment might suddenly sprout answers of its own.

“What was the question again?” Ron asked, sounding unreasonably tired.

Hermione blinked at him. Tired? From what? She was the one bending over backwards for the past hour, drilling him on the same three problems, only to be met with blank stares and wandering attention. They hadn’t even made it past the third question, and there were twenty-five on the assignment—due at the end of the week.

One hour was not going to cut it. But, she reminded herself sharply, this wasn’t really her problem. She was only doing this for the extra credit.

Instead of answering, Hermione picked up her things and began packing. "I’m not tutoring you anymore," she said firmly as she slid her books into her bag. Ron only shrugged in response.

Of course he wouldn’t care. Education meant nothing to him. He was a wealthy pureblood, son of Arthur Weasley—the politician everyone in the wizarding world seemed to revere. Arthur had carved an impressive path in the DMLE and later the International Relations Department, pushing through bills to support Muggleborns and squibs suffering inequality. Unlike most purebloods, Arthur Weasley had no patience for outdated beliefs, and it had earned him immense respect. Hermione would bet that when election season came, Muggleborns and half‑bloods alike would line up to vote for him.

A great man, by all accounts. Pity none of that intelligence, charisma, or decency seemed to have rubbed off on his sons. His only daughter, however, was another story.

She had the intelligence and the charisma, certainly—but human decency? Hermione doubted it. Ginny Weasley had been a thorn in her side since the school year began. Hermione could not fathom her sudden fascination; all Ginny seemed to want was to irritate her in every possible way. Before Ginny’s involvement, it had been an open hunt—Malfoy and his friends ganging up on her whenever they pleased. But once Ginny set her sights, it was as though the others had stepped aside, leaving Hermione barricaded in a private torment that belonged to Ginny alone.

Since the day Ginny’s Quidditch talent had been revealed, she strutted about like she owned the castle. Everyone adored her—wealthy, athletic, magnetic. And when Hermione said everyone, she meant it: girls, boys, even teachers seemed to fall under Ginny’s effortless spell. It infuriated her. It made Hermione look like a liar whenever she tried to complain about Ginny’s constant pranks—trash slipped into her bag, belongings hidden, fireworks under her chair. Petty, untraceable torments that Ginny always denied but which her laughter and smug little smirks betrayed.

God, Hermione hated her.

"Nothing from Weasley boy again, huh?" Harry’s voice broke through her brooding. "You’ve got that scowl again. Right there." He tapped the line forming between her brows—a mark that was in danger of becoming permanent thanks to the two Weasleys tormenting her life.

"I’m not tutoring him anymore," she declared.

"You said that last time."

"I know, but this is final. He’s… Harry, he’s…" Hermione trailed off, unwilling to voice it. Saying it aloud felt cruel, even if it was true.

"So dumb? Stupid?" Harry offered dryly.

Hermione sighed. "He’s not even trying."

The bell rang then, echoing through the corridors to signal lunch in the Great Hall. She and Harry fell into step, making their way toward the feast, when a pair of boys barreled past, shoulders colliding hard against hers. She staggered sideways—only to be caught by firm, deceptively gentle hands at her arms and waist.

"If you want to be close to me, Granger, just say so," Ginny Weasley purred, smirking down at her. Copper hair spilled like molten fire over her shoulders, not a strand out of place. She always looked infuriatingly perfect. The most ethereal girl she had ever seen—until she opened her mouth.

"In your dreams, Weasley," Hermione snapped, pushing her off and brushing her hands briskly over the places Ginny had touched, as though she could wipe away some invisible residue.

"In my dreams? Never," Ginny drawled, her tone dripping with feigned boredom. "The only time I’d ever dream of you, Granger, is if I were trapped in a nightmare." She laughed then—that same cruel laugh Hermione had been forced to endure all month.

"Funny, considering you spend so much of your waking life glued to me," Hermione shot back, lifting her chin.

Ginny’s smirk only deepened. "Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just convenient entertainment. Like a puzzle I’ve yet to solve."

"Or like a bug you enjoy tormenting," Hermione said sharply.

"Exactly," Ginny replied without hesitation, eyes glittering with something sharper than amusement. "And you make the most delightful noises when you’re rattled."

"Are you implying that I’m scared of you?" Hermione shot back, her eyes narrowing. Ginny only arched her brows in lazy curiosity.

"Because that’s far from the truth." Hermione held her gaze, firm and unyielding. Ginny met it head‑on, the air between them tightening as though neither would look away first.

Then Ginny stepped closer, leaning in until her breath brushed Hermione’s ear. "I’m sure I can find more creative ways to fix that," she whispered, lips curling into a wicked smile. With a casual flick of her hair, she turned and sauntered off, leaving Hermione rooted to the spot, pulse hammering in her throat.

Hermione clenched her jaw until it ached, closing her eyes for a fleeting moment as if sheer willpower could steady her. She did this often whenever Ginny was near—trying to cage her thoughts, to calm her racing pulse. But it was impossible to ignore the way Ginny’s scent seemed to drown her senses, or how every exchange left shivers trailing down her spine.

Present

Hermione’s phone buzzed insistently on the bedside table. A series of messages lit up her screen in the darkness. Blinking awake, she pushed herself upright, squinting against the glow of her phone. At first, she thought it must be some sort of emergency; why else would anyone text at this hour? Outside her window, the sky was still ink‑black, the faintest edges of dawn nowhere in sight.

Annabelle: Good morning, what are you up to today?

Annabelle: Ahh, I forgot about the timezone.

Annabelle: What’s your coffee order?

Hermione checked the clock. It was barely four a.m. She was a little irritated—she knew she wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep now, and she had a long, busy day ahead of her. Still, her thumb hovered over the reply button, reluctant but curious.

Matilda: Morning. I don’t drink coffee.

Annabelle: I’m sorry for waking you up.

Matilda: No, it’s okay.

Annabelle: So you’re a tea person then, what else should I know about you?

Matilda: That I’m not a morning person.

Annabelle: That’s because you don’t drink coffee.

Matilda: Why are you up early? Or is it early where you are?

Annabelle: Just about 9am. We have a game today so we have to warm up.

Matilda: Oh, so you are really an athlete. I thought you’d be just athletic. What game do you play?

Annabelle: It’s a secret. wink

Matilda: Are you famous?

Annabelle: No hahahaha I doubt you’d know me and the game that I play.

Matilda: So why all the secrecy?

Annabelle: So I have some sense of being mysterious to make it more appealing to the ladies.

Matilda: Riiighht… Does that work?

Annabelle: Are you curious about me?

Matilda: yes…maybe…

Annabelle: Then it’s working.

They kept texting all morning, the conversation flowing in an easy, surprising rhythm. Annabelle asked about her work, and Hermione admitted she was a local government official. That prompted a string of curious questions—what exactly she did, what she liked about it, what she wished she could change—and Hermione found herself answering more than she expected, almost enjoying it. She was surprised at how effortlessly Annabelle kept things alive, weaving playful remarks into genuine interest. Before she realized it, the clock was creeping toward seven and she was already late to start her routine.

Matilda: I have to get ready for work.

Annabelle: Can I see?

Matilda: See what?

Annabelle: See your work outfit—or maybe before you change into that. smirking emoji

Hermione’s face heated instantly. She had almost forgotten she was talking to another woman on a dating app. Of course there would be flirting. She glanced at the outfit laid out for the day—a light blue blouse tucked into a skirt that hugged her waist, topped with a practical cloak. Nothing special. Still, after a moment of hesitation, she snapped a quick picture, cropping it from the neck down.

Matilda: sent a photo

Annabelle: moaning, groaning, dying

Annabelle: Soooooooo sexyyy

Annabelle: Thank your friend for sending me that message. I can’t wait to see you in person.

Matilda: Who said we’ll meet? I didn’t agree to anything.

Annabelle: shocked emoji

Annabelle: Are you rejecting me?

Annabelle: crying emoji

Matilda: No… but I didn’t agree either.

Annabelle: Am I not attractive enough for you?

Annabelle: sent a photo

It was a picture of her sprawled across a hotel bed, the background barely noticed because the focus was entirely on her toned stomach and impossibly long legs. She wore only the tiniest pair of cotton shorts, leaving very little to the imagination. Hermione’s throat went dry. Oh God. She was so… so hot. Hermione couldn’t think of a better word if she tried.

She stumbled into the kitchen with shaking hands, filling the kettle and willing herself to breathe normally. Her fingers trembled so badly she was grateful for the oversized mug she chose—the walk from the counter to the table threatened to spill half her tea otherwise. Steam curled up, warm against her flushed face, but it did little to steady her.

Matilda: You are… very good at tempting me.

Annabelle: I could say the same to you.

Annabelle: I’d want to tear your blouse open with my teeth and run my hands under that skirt.

Hermione swallowed hard, her body tightening at the words alone. She really, really needed to get laid.

Annabelle: Would you like that?

Matilda: yes…

Annabelle: Good. Are you going to see me Friday morning?

Annabelle: I promise I won’t bite. It’s just for coffee and tea. If we don’t like each other then we can forget about it.

Hermione paced the kitchen floor, teacup in hand, Harry’s nagging voice echoing in her mind—if you don’t take this chance, you’ll regret it. She needed to unwind. Meeting someone new was normal. This wasn’t a date, just a drink, nothing special. She exhaled sharply and began typing.

Matilda: Okay.

Annabelle: Yeah?

Matilda: Yes, okay.

Annabelle: Great! I’ll text you the details soon. No take backs!

Wednesday

Hermione’s team was already preparing her for the Friday night Ministry gala, a crucial networking event where she needed to be seen, heard, and remembered by influential politicians. Every ally gained would matter.

Parvati had set up a meticulous board covered with faces, names, and notes. Each person came with a list of interests, conversational entry points, and topics to avoid. Hermione recognized most of them—many she had crossed paths with before—but this time she had to do more than show up prepared; she had to impress, to leave them thinking she was the future.

“There are seven key figures we absolutely must lock in tonight—or at least have them invite you into their inner circle,” Parvati said firmly. “Those seven will open doors to more events, more endorsements.”

She turned to Hermione and Neville. “You and Neville will work the floor, circulating and making polite contact. But Hermione, you’ll need to wait for Neville’s signal. He’ll create the opportunities, and then you move in with your pitch.”

Hermione nodded, jotting quick notes, impressed by the level of detail. “Parvati, this is amazing work.”

“Thank you. But it means nothing if we don’t secure at least half the names on that list.” Parvati tapped the most prominent profile pinned to the top. “The most important one—former Minister Arthur Weasley. If he invites you to his annual Christmas ball, you’re in. That ball is the gateway to his closest circle. His approval isn’t just symbolic, Hermione—it’s a stamp of legitimacy. Everyone watches who Arthur chooses to include, and those invitations often determine the shape of alliances for the coming year.”

Hermione knew she was right. She had never been invited before; Arthur kept it intimate, his closest friends only. But those friends were the most influential players in the political game. If Arthur approved of her, if she earned his endorsement, she would be untouchable in the polls.

Parvati’s dossier gave her cues: Arthur loved talking about his family. His children, in particular. Hermione scanned the neatly written profiles:

• Bill Weasley: Married to Fleur Delacour, also working within the Ministry. They already had children, and his reputation was solid and dependable.
• Charlie Weasley: Still in Romania working with dragons, notoriously private and reserved, little else publicly known.
• Percy Weasley: Rising star in the Ministry’s Department of Magical Transportation. Meticulous, ambitious, rumored to be drafting reform proposals that caught international attention.
• Fred & George Weasley: Owners of the wildly successful joke shop business, now expanding into France. Beloved for their charisma and business acumen.
• Ron Weasley: Auror under Harry’s leadership. Brave, loyal, though not particularly remarkable in policy circles.
• Ginny Weasley: Hermione’s gaze lingered here. Auburn hair, luminous against pale skin. Pro Quidditch player and part-time model. Perhaps the most famous of the Weasley children after Arthur himself. Beloved by the public, splashed across newspapers and magazines constantly. She was a vocal advocate for queer rights in the wizarding world. The notes mentioned past relationships with other players, though recently the gossip columns had been quiet—no new women linked to her name.

Hermione stared at the moving photograph on the profile. Ginny’s eyes seemed to meet hers, unblinking, as if daring her to look away. A knot twisted in her stomach; she hated that even on parchment, Ginny carried the same air of defiance and magnetism that had unsettled her back at school. The photograph tossed her auburn hair back with a laugh Hermione could almost hear, lips curving as though she knew precisely the effect she had. Hermione blinked hard, tearing her gaze away, but not before a flush crept up her neck.

“What do we have for Molly Weasley?” Hermione asked, searching through the Weasley folder.

“It should be right after Arthur,” Parvati replied, flipping a page. “She never worked at the Ministry, but she manages the charities Arthur started. She’s influential in that space and very well‑connected among pure‑blood families. She could be a useful gateway to Arthur.”

“Is she attending the gala?” Hermione asked.

“Likely, yes. Arthur RSVPed with a plus one. At past galas, Molly was always with him, so there’s a strong chance she’ll be there.”

“Before I forget,” Neville interjected, “your assistant Tina asked me to tell you the dress will be delivered to your house today. Make sure to try it on in case it needs any adjustments.”

“Thanks, Neville.”

Hermione hammered out details with Neville, refining their plans late into the night. She remained in her office until nearly nine p.m., reading and rereading profiles, memorizing strategies, every turn of a page the only sound in the quiet room. The lamp on her desk cast long, lonely shadows, and the weight of expectation pressed heavily against her shoulders. She was used to being the last one out, the silence of her own determination pressing in around her, but tonight it felt different—heavier, edged with the knowledge that Friday’s gala could either solidify her path or shatter it.

The ping of a new message jolted her from her concentration, making her jump.

Annabelle: Still busy?

Matilda: Yes, unfortunately.

Annabelle: Can I ask what you are doing?

Matilda: Reading files about politicians.

Annabelle: Anything juicy?

Matilda: Hahahaha no, I wish. It’s mostly their background, what they do, what they don’t like. Boring stuff.

Annabelle: So why are you reading it?

Matilda: I have to get to know them before I talk to them.

Annabelle: Sounds stressful.

Matilda: It is stressful :(

Annabelle: There are a lot of ways to de-stress…

Matilda: Oh yeah, like what?

Annabelle: I can show you next time… winking emoji

Friday

Meeting a stranger in a Muggle café was nerve‑wracking enough, but Hermione’s nerves were shot from the moment she left the house. She hadn’t slept a wink, tossing and turning as her mind jumped from tonight’s Ministry gala to the woman she was about to meet. By the time she arrived—five minutes early—her stomach was in knots. If she’d stayed home, she was sure she would have lost her nerve entirely.

Annabelle had told her yesterday she was back in London and excited to finally meet in person. Hermione was excited too, though she’d never admit it aloud. If she was being honest, it would be nice to put a face to that gorgeous body. Annabelle had been flirty, yes, but also kind and curious. Hermione wasn’t looking for a relationship, and that made this… perfect. Two strangers who knew almost nothing about each other, sharing coffee. If it went well, maybe it could be something more. If not, no harm done.

She hadn’t told Harry or Neville—maybe she should have, but the idea of them teasing her was unbearable. She reached into her bag, fingers closing around her phone, ready to type out a nervous confession into their group chat. But before she could, a light touch landed on her shoulder.

“Hey,” came a warm, friendly voice from behind her.

Her heart jumped into her throat. This was it. This was Annabelle. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she turned, nerves spiking with a dozen frantic thoughts—What if she doesn’t like me? Is this outfit too plain? She had chosen simple blue jeans and a white blouse, casual enough for Friday at work, but now it felt almost inadequate.

She plastered on a smile as she turned around—only for it to vanish instantly, replaced by wide‑eyed shock. Standing in front of her was Ginny Weasley. And judging by the equally stunned expression on Ginny’s face, the surprise was mutual.

“Weasley? What are you doing here?” Hermione blurted, eyes darting around the café as if Annabelle might still walk in any moment. Panic clamped around her chest. The last thing she wanted was Ginny witnessing her on a date—or whatever this was—with another woman. This was none of Ginny’s business, and yet, the timing could not have been worse.

Ginny’s gaze swept over her slowly, deliberately, from head to toe. Hermione squirmed under the weight of it. Seeing Ginny like this, so close, was like brushing against a live wire. Her entire nervous system lit up, every defense she’d carefully built over the years trembling under the pressure. And she had done so well avoiding her until now.

Ginny was wearing a black leather jacket paired with dark trousers and a crisp white shirt—an effortlessly stylish Muggle look that made Hermione’s thoughts tangle. Ginny ran a hand through her hair, and Hermione couldn’t help noticing it was the same hand that had rested on her shoulder only moments before. The gesture seemed casual, but it left Hermione unsteady.

“Uhh, I’m meeting a friend here,” Ginny said at last, her voice careful, though her eyes never left Hermione’s face. Hermione, meanwhile, looked anywhere but at her, silently begging Annabelle not to walk through the door just yet. She needed Ginny gone, quickly.

“Uh… okay,” Hermione muttered, already fumbling for her phone, intent on sending a message to Annabelle. But Ginny spoke again before she could.

“How are you?” Ginny asked softly, her brown eyes alight with curiosity. Hermione caught the flecks of honey in them, details she hadn’t allowed herself to remember for years. The familiarity of it made her throat tighten.

Hermione really didn’t want to answer her question, but she also didn’t want to come off as rude. What had happened between them was years ago, when they were both just kids. She had moved on. Surely Ginny had too. She was probably a whole different person now from the infuriating girl Hermione remembered.

“You look great,” Ginny added suddenly, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Are you and Potter finally tying the knot?”

“What?” Hermione blinked. “Where did you hear that?”

“I’m only assuming,” Ginny replied smoothly. “Ron mentioned you two were still close. I just thought—well, it made sense.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “No, we are not together. I’m sorry, Weasley, but I really have to go.”

She grabbed her phone, already dialing Annabelle’s number. Annabelle had given it to her in case the café was crowded and they couldn’t find each other. Turning her back to Ginny, she pressed the phone to her ear, heart hammering as the line rang once, twice, three times.

“Hi, are you nea—” Hermione began, only to stop short when Ginny—also holding a phone to her ear—suddenly stepped in front of her.

“Matilda,” Ginny whispered.

Hermione’s mouth fell open. No, no, no, no, no. It couldn’t be. The only time she had ever even entertained the idea of being with a woman was with—no. Her thoughts refused to finish the sentence.

She ended the call in a rush and bolted from the café, weaving into the crowd outside. Behind her, she heard Ginny calling her name, but Hermione couldn’t bring herself to stop. She had to get as far away as possible.

Chapter Text

Hermione was still catching her breath by the time she reached her office, lungs burning from the speed‑walk across Muggle London. She was certain she’d gathered more than a few curious stares along the way, but she didn’t care. None of it mattered. They had a much bigger problem now. Ginny Weasley.

She knows. She fucking knows.

Her childhood nemesis, the one person she had avoided for years, had discovered her secret—the one thing she couldn’t afford anyone to know. Ginny Weasley knew she was into women. This wasn’t just bad. This was catastrophic.

She stumbled into her chair, dropping her bag with shaking hands. Tina appeared in the doorway a moment later, concern etched across her face. “Are you alright? You look pale. Do you want some water?”

Hermione forced a tight smile, nodding once. She wasn’t alright. Not even close. This was the worst possible start to one of the most important days of her career. She had known something would go wrong—that was why she had been hesitant about dating in the first place. Distractions led to mistakes, and mistakes led to moments like this.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. Ginny’s name flashed on the screen. Hermione immediately declined the call. A moment later, a flurry of texts appeared.

Annabelle: Please, can we talk?

Annabelle: I’m just as surprised as you are.

Annabelle: Hermione, please. Can you let me know if you’re okay?

Annabelle: You don’t have to say anything, just let me see you.

Annabelle: I swear I won’t cause trouble, I just need to know you’re okay.

Annabelle: Hermione, please don’t ignore me.

Hermione’s chest clenched, a sick weight pressing down on her ribs. Her fingers trembled as she stared at the glowing screen, Annabelle...No, Ginny's frantic words still burning into her eyes. With a sharp inhale, she deleted the app in one decisive motion, as though erasing the evidence could somehow undo what had already happened. The icon vanished, but the panic stayed lodged inside her like a stone. She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, trying to steady herself, then snatched up her phone again. There was only one thing left to do—call Harry.

“There’s an emergency,” she told him, voice low and sharp. “You and Neville need to come to my office. Now.”

Harry didn’t ask questions, but she heard the worry in his tone as he promised they were on their way. Hermione set the phone down, pressing her palms hard against her temples. Her mind kept repeating the same frantic thought over and over again—

Ginny knows.

Within a couple of minutes Harry was already barging into her office. Hermione was pacing back and forth, her nerves fraying with every step. She already felt defeated; all she wanted to do was climb into bed, turn on the television, and pretend none of this had ever happened. Especially not the memory of the shock on Ginny’s face—the way her eyes had widened, her mouth parting in stunned recognition. God. Hermione had been staring at nearly naked pictures of Ginny Weasley for a week now. And of course it had to be her. What kind of cursed luck did she have, that the one woman she allowed herself to talk to turned out to be the devil’s spawn herself?

“Harry,” Hermione finally managed, her voice tight. “I—” She tried to piece together a coherent explanation, but the words caught in her throat. Harry tilted his head, worry etched across his features.

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be fine.” He crossed the room and gently rubbed her arms in comfort. But Hermione shook her head, disagreeing.

Before she could continue, Neville appeared in the doorway. “Sorry, there’s a commotion outside about a delivery. I think it’s for you.”

Hermione sighed and followed them out. At least five delivery men stood in the corridor, each holding massive bouquets. They kept asking for someone named Matilda and insisted they couldn’t leave until they were certain she was alright. Tina, flustered, was trying to wave them off, telling them no Matilda worked here. The men, however, refused to budge, calling out “Matilda!” loudly, their voices echoing down the hall.

Harry noticed Hermione frozen in place, staring at the spectacle as the delivery men insisted they could not leave without confirmation that Matilda had received the flowers and was safe. Their voices echoed, each one repeating the instructions they’d been given, demanding a reaction from the mysterious recipient. Hermione’s stomach churned as she realized they were trying to flush her out.

Without missing a beat, Harry stepped forward, flashing his Auror badge with a practiced authority. The corridor fell quiet instantly, but the men still looked uneasy, repeating that their orders were to see Matilda herself acknowledge the delivery. Hermione could hardly breathe, standing back as Harry squared his shoulders, voice low and firm. “Matilda is fine,” he insisted. “You’ve delivered them, now leave the premises.” He gestured sharply to Tina. “Collect the flowers, all of them, and take them into Hermione’s office.”

As Harry’s words carried down the hall, Neville placed a steady hand on Hermione’s back and quietly guided her away, shielding her from the curious stares still lingering in the corridor.

“What the hell was that?” Neville asked once the door shut behind them.

Hermione’s mind was reeling. Did Ginny send these? How had she even pulled it off so quickly? They had parted ways less than an hour ago. She grabbed one of the flower arrangements, fingers shaking as she searched for a card. Her stomach dropped as she read the notes tucked into the blooms: Please call me – Annabelle. Please let me know you’re okay – Annabelle. Talk to me, please – Annabelle. Don’t run away from me – Annabelle. Just five minutes, that’s all I ask – Annabelle. I’ll wait as long as it takes – Annabelle. Dozens of variations of the same desperate plea, each one cutting deeper than the last.

This day kept getting worse. Hermione closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply, as though a few lungfuls of air could steady the panic twisting in her chest. She could feel Harry’s and Neville’s eyes on her, both of them waiting for her to speak, the silence stretching heavy and suffocating. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She had rehearsed confessions like this in her mind before, but now that the moment had come, the words seemed impossible. Harry finally shut the door behind them, sealing off the outside world, and stood there in patient expectation, his expression steady but his gaze sharp, as if bracing himself for whatever storm Hermione was about to unleash.

“God,” Hermione began, her voice catching. She didn’t know how to say it without shocking them, so she decided to just rip the bandage off and say it directly. “I—I met up with Annabelle in a Muggle café. And... it turns out Annabelle is none other than Ginny Weasley.”

“What?!” Harry and Neville shouted in unison. The volume made Hermione wince and clap her hands over her ears.

“I thought you stopped talking to her,” Harry said quickly, confusion written across his face.

Hermione groaned, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. “We’ve been talking every day since. Merlin, what am I going to do?”

Neville frowned, more cautious than Harry. “Why are we worried about this? It sounds like she’s desperate to talk to you.”

Hermione snapped her gaze to him. “Neville, Weasley knows I’m into women! We aren’t exactly the best of friends historically speaking. She could leak this to the press in a second, and if she does—” Hermione broke off, pressing her palms against her eyes. “This could destroy everything I’ve been working for.”

Realization dawned on Neville, and the office fell into heavy silence for several minutes. Finally, Harry crossed to the desk and drew his wand, casting a series of detection charms over the flowers, carefully checking each bouquet for curses or concealed threats. Only once he was satisfied that they were harmless did he begin inspecting the notes themselves, his brow furrowing deeper with every line he read. He gathered all of them afterward, laying the stack neatly before Hermione as though presenting evidence.

“Isn’t she… uhh, out?” Harry asked at last, not taking his eyes off the messages.

“Yeah,” Neville said, nodding slowly. “I’ve read plenty of her interviews. She’s vocal about queer rights in the wizarding community, always talking about empowering people still in the closet.”

“That doesn’t sound like somebody who would out you, Hermione,” Harry said thoughtfully. “And judging by this, you walked out of that café?”

“Yes,” Hermione admitted reluctantly, hating how quickly Harry zeroed in on the truth. “But we’re talking about Ginny Weasley here. She’s gone out of her way to make my life miserable before—why would this be any different?”

Harry tilted his head. “When did she do that, exactly? Was it something recent—or are you talking about back when you two were in that ridiculous prank war?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, bristling under his calm, investigative tone. Irritation prickled in her chest—Harry thought it was just some silly prank war, but he hadn’t seen the way Ginny could be. Charming, yes, but also deceptive, always finding ways to twist things to her advantage. Harry only shrugged in response, patient and maddeningly reasonable, which somehow made Hermione even more exasperated.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione snapped. “She can’t be trusted with this information. What happens if she leaks it?”

“Alright, alright,” Neville cut in, raising his hands. “We can’t do anything about it right now. And she doesn’t have proof—not really. The name you used was Matilda. There’s no Matilda here. Even if the story got out, we could deny everything.”

That was true—that had been their original plan from the start. Harry had been smart to suggest using a different name on the app, and Hermione nodded slowly, feeling the faintest flicker of relief. It was a small comfort, but she clung to it.

“Don’t think about it too much,” Neville added gently. “We have a big night ahead of us. Focus on that instead. We need you at your very best. We’ll handle this if it becomes a real problem.”

Hermione exhaled shakily, though her nerves still hummed. Harry, however, hadn’t moved from the desk. He was still staring down at the stack of notes, his brows knit in deep thought, and it unsettled her. She didn’t want to ask what was going through his mind. She didn’t want to hear him put it into words. All she wanted was to shove Ginny Weasley out of her head and bury herself in preparation for the gala. Right. Focus. Work.

Hermione managed to calm herself enough to get ready for the ball. She wore a long baby‑blue gown that dipped low at the back, the sheer sleeves dusted with tiny crystals that caught the light so she appeared to shimmer with every step. It was elegant and eye‑catching without being ostentatious—exactly how she liked it.

She walked arm‑in‑arm with Neville, clutching him for balance in more ways than one. The night had barely begun and they had already made their first rounds, greeting organizers, key figures, and political allies. Hermione had no issue mingling with pure‑blood elites; most of them disliked her privately but tolerated her publicly, knowing she was a safe bet against uncertainty. If they were smart, they understood that aligning with her benefited them as much as it did her. And Hermione knew how to play the game.

The problem was the hardest ones to sway were precisely the people she needed most—those who had nothing to gain from her personally and whose loyalties were locked tightly within their existing circles. To break in, she had to be invited in.

Neville was invaluable, making introductions and smoothing the way, but Hermione noticed quickly that the conversations never strayed into politics. Everything remained surface level, polite chatter about weather, family, and—inevitably—hobbies.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, former Minister and one of her prime targets, spoke warmly with her, but it was like trying to chip away at stone. Hermione tried asking after his family, even steering toward his hobbies, but quickly realized she was out of her depth. Quidditch again. Always Quidditch. Or gambling, or Muggle sports, or other pastimes she had only skimmed in Parvati’s dossiers. She could recite where they frequented, what topics they often discussed, but she could not match the passion in their eyes when they spoke of it. Her responses felt thin, shallow, and she knew it.

By the time she excused herself, the first name on the key list was already a bust. She slipped away from the crowd for a moment, inhaling deeply, trying to recalibrate before diving back into the fray.

That was when Hermione noticed Arthur Weasley standing a little apart from the bustle, observing one of the many paintings that lined the hall. He was studying a replica of The Third of May 1808. Hermione steadied herself, rehearsing her words, then approached.

“Do you like the painting?” she asked lightly.

Arthur glanced at her and smiled. “Intrigued, yes. But truth be told, I don’t know much about it.”

Hermione’s eyes softened as she turned to the piece. She took a steadying breath before speaking, careful not to rush her words. “It’s by Francisco Goya,” she began. There was a pause where she wondered if she should go on—would it seem pretentious? Still, the thought slipped out anyway. “It depicts the execution of Spanish rebels by Napoleon’s army.”

Arthur’s brows lifted slightly, clearly listening, and Hermione pressed on, her voice quieter now. “Goya forces us to look at cruelty without glamour. He wanted people to see that power without conscience turns human beings into executioners.” She hesitated, her mind flickering with memories of old speeches she’d read, reasons she’d written in her journals as a teenager. Then, softly, almost to herself, she added, “It’s a reminder that laws, traditions, even magic itself, mean nothing unless they serve justice.”

Arthur considered her words, then asked, “Do you like it?”

“I do,” Hermione answered quietly. “Because it reminds me why I wanted to serve in government since I was young. I’ve always wanted to change lives, to build a better world—a world I’d want my children to live in, if I ever have them. I want to leave something behind for future generations, especially Muggle-borns.” Inwardly, she berated herself; she wasn’t supposed to talk politics so openly at a gala like this, but sometimes the words slipped out before she could stop them. And before she could change the subject, Arthur was already replying.

Arthur’s gaze softened. “I admire that about you. I’ve heard whispers of your interest in the next election. You’d make a fine Minister, Hermione. I don’t say that lightly.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced her expression to remain composed. Hearing those words from Arthur Weasley—someone she had quietly admired since Hogwarts, someone who had spoken up for Muggle-borns when few others would—was overwhelming.

“You’ve always been brave enough to stand up for those without a voice,” Arthur continued warmly. “I see that same fire in you. Whatever happens in that election, don’t lose sight of why you’re doing this.”

Hermione inclined her head, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Weasley. That means more than I can say.”

Hermione, remembering the notes in Arthur’s file, carefully shifted the topic. “How is your family, Mr. Weasley?”

Arthur’s entire face lit up, his eyes sparkling with pride. “Oh, they’re wonderful. Each one of them is off doing their own thing, carving out their paths. I was so busy when they were growing up, and sometimes I worried I wasn’t there enough, but seeing them now… it makes me proud. Sometimes I even wish a few of them would start giving me more grandchildren already.”

Hermione smiled politely, seizing the thread. “And how are the grandchildren you already have? Bill’s children, I mean?”

Arthur’s expression grew even warmer, his voice rich with passion. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. They’ve got Fleur’s elegance and Bill’s steadiness. Watching them grow—it’s one of the great joys of my life.” He chuckled fondly, adding, “One of them has even started showing an interest in politics. I caught him flipping through some of my old photos and speeches. Imagine that, a grandchild following in his grandfather’s footsteps.”

Hermione laughed, the sound genuine. “That sounds adorable. And I’m sure if he’s inherited even half of your charm, he’ll go a very long way.”

Hermione found herself genuinely intrigued by how deeply he spoke of them, his affection evident in every word. Wanting to keep the conversation alive, she asked, “And Fred and George? How are their ventures going?”

Arthur chuckled. “Oh, still turning the world upside down. Their shop’s thriving, of course, but the real mischief is with the grandchildren. They’re teaching them all sorts of bad habits.”

Hermione laughed with him, shaking her head. “That sounds exactly like them.”

For a moment, they simply smiled at each other, sharing the warmth of the memory. Internally, Hermione thought, This is going great. Really great. He seems to be enjoying this, and so am I.

Arthur then turned the question back to her. “And what about your family, Hermione? I admit, I’m curious—what do your parents think of your career so far?”

Hermione’s lips curved into a small smile. “My father is a dentist, and my mother works as a deputy councillor in our local government back home. I suppose I take after her in many ways.”

As she spoke, a fond memory surfaced—late nights at the kitchen table, her mother sipping tea while poring over reports. She remembered her mother’s steady voice, the words she often repeated when Hermione fretted about the future: ‘Power without principle is hollow, Hermione. If you can’t use it to help people, it’s not worth having.’ That line had stayed with her all these years.

Arthur nodded approvingly. “Wise words. No wonder you’ve grown into the woman you are.”

Hermione agreed softly. “She is a great woman. I miss having her around, if I’m honest. Working in the Ministry means long hours, and I don’t see my parents nearly as often as I’d like. I even miss her home cooking.”

Arthur’s expression gentled with sympathy. “I’m sure that can be easily remedied. My Molly would be glad to cook for you. Most of our children don’t live close by anymore, but whenever I organize a family dinner or event, they’ll usually make the effort—well, except my youngest. She doesn’t seem to want to stay in one place these days. Barely stays in one country, truth be told.” He shook his head with a sigh.

Hermione’s chest tightened. Part of her wanted to ask more, but she quickly pulled herself back. Don’t spiral about Ginny. Stay on track. This is going well. She quickly steered the conversation elsewhere. “Is Mrs. Weasley with you tonight?”

Arthur smiled. “No, she chose to stay behind and play with the grandchildren.”

Hermione laughed. “That sounds like she’s having a better evening than all of us.”

Arthur chuckled along with her, the warmth between them easy and genuine. Then his eyes shifted, locking onto someone behind Hermione. The conversation was winding down, she realized, and Arthur lifted his hand in a wave. Hermione’s mind raced, cataloguing her small wins with him tonight and how she could build upon this. The mention of Molly’s cooking—that was something she could follow up on later, an opening to grow their connection.

Arthur stepped forward then, greeting the newcomer with a fond hug. Hermione swayed politely to the side to give them space.

“Ms. Granger, this is Ginny Weasley—my only daughter,” Arthur said, introducing her.

Chapter Text

Hermione locked eyes with Ginny Weasley. Ginny Weasley, who was smiling at her, copper hair spilling like molten waterfalls over her shoulders and down her back. Her skin seemed to glow, and the deep green dress she wore made her look like some woodland deity, while the rest of them were mere mortals. Hermione’s brain stalled, caught in a looping cycle of panic and resistance. She needed to think of a quick solution, to anticipate how this conversation would go. She could not let Ginny ruin the progress she had made with Arthur.

“Granger, how have you been lately?” Ginny asked, eyes raking over her in a way that made Hermione’s stomach twist. Her lips pursed, as though she was holding back some sharper comment.

“Oh, right. I forgot you two are just one year apart,” Arthur said cheerfully. “Did you know each other back then?”

Hermione opened her mouth, ready to dismiss it as little more than acquaintance—she needed to distance herself from any association with Ginny.

“Hermione and I hung out a lot back then,” Ginny interjected smoothly. “She’s always been the smartest one in the room.”

Arthur chuckled and nodded in agreement. “And I’d wager that’s still the truth now.”

They both laughed, and Hermione forced herself to laugh with them, though inwardly her discomfort coiled tighter.

“So?” Ginny pressed, her eyebrows curling upward in curiosity.

“What?” Hermione snapped back, more sharply than she intended.

“I asked you how you were,” Ginny replied.

Hermione inhaled and forced herself to recover. “I’ve been well. No complaints so far. And Mr. Weasley has been wonderful company.”

“Please, call me Arthur,” he said warmly.

Hermione smiled at him in appreciation.

“I’m guessing you’ve already talked about Dominique and Victoire,” Ginny remarked.

“Of course. They’re my pride and joy,” Arthur said proudly.

“Ouch. I’m right here, Dad,” Ginny teased, nudging his arm.

Hermione observed quietly, her chest aching with a pang she didn’t want to name. She wondered if she would ever share moments like this with her own parents at a wizarding event. They would never come, of course—they hated being a spectacle, and they always feared holding her back. They meant well, but sometimes Hermione longed for their presence more than anything.

Arthur’s laughter brought her back. He turned to Ginny. “How have you been, love? Your mother is already looking forward to seeing you at family dinner next week.”

Ginny’s expression faltered. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to come. The team might have engagements that day.”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “You always have an excuse.” He glanced at Hermione, mischief in his eyes. “Miss Granger, perhaps you can help me convince her.”

Hermione blinked, startled, then forced a polite smile. “I’ll try my best.”

Ginny raised her brows at her, the faintest smirk playing at her lips. Hermione curled her hands into fists at her sides to calm her nerves.

“Look,” Arthur went on, “Miss Granger was telling me she misses her mother’s cooking, and I told her Molly could fix that. You’ll have to come, Ginny, so she won’t feel out of place with all your brothers.”

Ginny tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Is that true? Are you coming to family dinner, Hermione?”

“I—I…” Hermione’s heart stuttered. She was screaming inwardly. This was a win. An invitation. An opportunity. Arthur’s endorsement, a foot in the door to the Christmas gala. She couldn’t let her rivalry with Ginny sabotage this. “I would love to go, Mr. Weasley.”

“Great!” Arthur clapped his hands together, already satisfied, as if the matter were settled. Ginny hadn’t confirmed, only lifted her brows in silence, but Hermione prayed she’d have some prior engagement. For now, she savored the small victory.

Arthur then turned the attention back to his daughter. He asked Ginny to tell them about her recent travels, adding for Hermione’s benefit that Ginny had been abroad often outside of Quidditch and was quite worldly for her age.

Ginny shook her head modestly. “Not that worldly. Most of what I do is just see the sights and try the food. I don’t really spend long enough in one place to get to know the locals properly. The games keep me moving. I only get those chances when I have rare downtime.”

“Which seems to be always,” Arthur said with exasperated fondness. “You’re never here long. Your flat is collecting dust, you know.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing interesting about what I do when I travel.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Hermione interjected before she could stop herself. “Have you learned anything about them—even just a tiny bit of insight?”

Ginny tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. There was this Muggle boy I met in New York, about eight years old, already working in his family’s business. Answering phones, taking orders—it was mesmerizing to watch someone so young handle responsibility with such skill.”

Hermione’s eyes softened despite herself. “That does sound interesting.” She took a sip of the champagne she’d been holding all this time.

Ginny added casually, “I also caught a theatre play. And I liked it.”

Arthur perked up. “Which one?”

“Matilda the Musical,” Ginny said.

Hermione choked mid-sip. Champagne burst from her mouth in a scattering spray—some of it shot painfully up her nose—and she began to cough, eyes watering. She fumbled for a napkin, patting at her gown and then, mortified, at Ginny’s dress.

“Oh my God, I am so, so sorry—” she blurted, voice frantic. “I’ll get this cleaned, I’ll pay for it, I didn’t mean—” She dabbed at the stain in awkward, clumsy circles, cheeks burning. Her hands were trembling so badly she nearly dropped the napkin.

“It’s fine,” Ginny said, calm and almost amused, taking the napkin from Hermione’s hand. “Honestly, it’s nothing.”

Hermione kept apologising, words tumbling out in a rush: “I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll take care of it, really. I didn’t mean to—” She tried to steady herself, but inside a hot, irrational fury flared. I wanted to kill her, the thought seared through her mind, sharp and ridiculous and utterly true. She hated that the thought existed, hated that Ginny’s serene smile could send her pulse into dangerous beats. She pressed the napkin harder against the fabric, as if the motion could scrub away the betrayal of her own body’s reaction.

“It’s alright,” Ginny said smoothly, though Hermione could feel the smirk beneath her tone. Inwardly, Hermione cursed. Ginny knew exactly what she was doing—every word, every smile, calculated.

Then Ginny caught her hand and announced to Arthur, “We’ll be right back. Just going to clean up.” Before Hermione could protest, Ginny was already dragging her toward the nearest loo. Still dumbfounded, Hermione stumbled after her, her mind spinning with outrage and embarrassment.

The moment they stepped inside, Ginny checked each stall, then turned the lock on the main door. Hermione, already seething, finally found her voice. “What the hell were you thinking?” she hissed, her chest tight with fury.

Ginny clutched her stomach and laughed loudly at Hermione’s expense. Typical. Of course she would find this funny—it wasn’t her career on the line. Hermione itched to pull out her wand and hex her, just to ease the rage simmering in her chest.

“What do you want?” Hermione snapped, fists clenched at her sides. Ginny was still laughing, wiping tears from her eyes, but slowly she composed herself.

“What do you mean?” Ginny asked innocently.

“If you think you can use this to blackmail me, you’re wrong, Weasley. I’m not afraid of you. You will not destroy what I’ve worked for,” Hermione spat, her voice sharp with anger. She hated how easily Ginny made her lose control. Decades had passed, and still Ginny Weasley could pull her strings like no one else.

“Blackmail you? What? I—what?” Ginny blinked, visibly confused.

“Don’t act high and mighty. You’ve always enjoyed tormenting me,” Hermione shot back.

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, lips pursed as though she was trying to assess Hermione’s every word. Hermione braced herself, waiting for the pin to drop, waiting for Ginny to name her terms. Instead, Ginny stepped forward, and Hermione instinctively stepped back.

“While I did enjoy our time together when we were younger, I don’t recall any of it being one-sided,” Ginny pointed out smoothly. Her tone had softened, less mocking now, and the truth of it stung—back then, their sparring had been constant, a dance of attack and retaliation so tangled Hermione could barely remember who had started it in the first place.

It just frustrated Hermione even more.

“What do you want?” she reiterated firmly. Prolonging this mess wouldn’t help; every second wasted here risked undoing everything she had built. Ginny just stared at her like she had gone mad.

“I don’t want anything from you, Granger,” Ginny said finally. “I just wanted to know if you were okay. You walked out on me. Am I that hideous you had to run away?” Her smirk was maddening.

Hermione felt her composure splinter. This was all a game to Ginny, but to her it was her career—her team—her future. Everything she had fought for was at risk. She paced the tiles, running a hand through her hair, fighting to cage her emotions before they exploded.

“Woah, calm down,” Ginny said gently, reaching for her shoulders. Hermione flinched violently, and Ginny’s hands flew back, palms raised in startled retreat. Her expression shifted to confusion, then dawning realization.

“Talk to me. What did I do wrong?” Ginny asked softly.

Hermione stopped pacing and stared at her, incredulous. Was she serious? Anger surged, propelling her forward until Ginny stumbled back against the counter. Hermione’s voice cracked with fury: “This is not a game to me, Weasley. You are jeopardizing my entire career.” A hot tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it. She turned away quickly, wiping it with the back of her hand, trying to reassemble her mask, but her irritation still burned through.

Ginny looked stricken, her confidence gone. “I wasn’t. I swear I wasn’t trying to. I don’t understand. Please—tell me what I did wrong. I thought it was just a coincidence. A shock, yes, but funny, even.”

Hermione faltered, confusion creeping in. Ginny’s face held no guile, only bewilderment. She cut straight to the point: “Are you planning on leaking my sexuality to the press?”

Ginny’s mouth fell open. “Why would I do that?” she shouted, voice raw with disbelief.

“Oh, maybe because tormenting me has always been your favorite pastime,” Hermione shot back, her tone sharp and bitter.

“Hermione, look—I… Merlin, how did this happen?” Ginny raked a hand through her copper hair, frustration written on her face. “I genuinely didn’t know you had any concerns about your sexuality being leaked. I’m sorry. I never even thought about that. I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked, desperate. “I swear, I would never tell anyone. Never.”

Ginny’s voice softened as she stepped closer. “Tell me what I can do, Hermione. Anything. If it takes a magical binding contract, I’ll sign it. If you want to Obliviate me, fine—I don’t care. I just want you to feel safe.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, followed by another apology. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Hermione stopped pacing, breathing harder, studying Ginny’s face to see if there was any deception. Silence stretched between them. Ginny cautiously pressed on. “There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to women. You know that, don’t you?” Her eyes softened, her tone laced with compassion, as if she were trying to comfort Hermione about something she shouldn’t have to hide.

“I’m not ashamed of my sexuality, Weasley,” Hermione said firmly. “I’m just not broadcasting it to the public because of the complications it comes with. I’m a Muggle-born politician running for Minister. Exposing myself would not help with the current climate.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “You’re running for Minister of Magic?” Shock lit her face. “Merlin, Hermione—wow. I mean, I should’ve expected it from you, but… wow.”

Hermione stood there with her arms crossed, unsure how to proceed, her heart still hammering. “This means a lot to me. If you have a heart—or even just a shred of humanity—please forget you know anything about me.”

“Right. Of course.” Ginny nodded quickly, remorse flickering across her face. “I’m sorry again, Hermione, for… for everything. Please believe me, I would never put you in that position. For what it’s worth, I didn’t even know you were into women.” Ginny cleared her throat awkwardly. “That is… nice to know,” Ginny murmured, her voice low and uneven, before clearing her throat as if to reset herself.

The moment Hermione had settled everything with Ginny, she immediately sought out Neville. She still didn’t feel confident about Ginny, but there wasn’t much she could do now. She had to talk to Harry and Neville later, just to have some peace of mind.

“Ahh, there she is,” Neville said the moment he spotted her. “Hermione, please join us. We were just discussing your work on the Integrated Wizarding Finance Bill—the one that could reform how our current banking system handles international exchanges.”

Around the table sat Arthur Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Tiberius Ogden, and several more members of the Wizengamot. It was quite the crowd, and Hermione felt the weight of their attention the moment she stepped closer.

Hermione smiled, immediately pulling herself together for the conversation. “It’s not a brand-new idea,” she explained. “It’s modeled after systems the Muggles have been using for decades with great success. By introducing transparency and standardized oversight into our banking structure, we can reduce corruption, improve efficiency, and give wizards easier access to financial services. I truly believe it could be transformative for our community.”

Questions began flying from every direction. Some pressed her for details about safeguards against fraud, others asked about exchange rates with international wizarding banks. Hermione answered each carefully, her confidence growing with every nod of interest she received. Out of the corner of her eye, she realized Ginny was seated next to her, listening intently.

Neville glanced at Hermione, his expression edged with concern. She reassured him with a squeeze of his hand under the table before continuing her explanation.

Soon, Ogden and Arthur became engrossed in a side conversation related to her proposal, and Hermione leaned back to listen.

That was when Ginny’s whisper reached her ear. “You’re doing great. I know you don’t need my help, but ask Tiberius about the shipping delays in his business. He’ll appreciate it.”

Hermione steadied her breath, refusing to turn toward her. “And you know this how?”

“I’m a Slytherin,” Ginny replied lightly. “I know things—little secrets, useful tidbits. Information you won’t find in the Prophet.” She gestured subtly toward Tiberius.

“Mr. Ogden,” Ginny said smoothly, seizing the moment, “I heard from your niece Octavia about the shipment issues you’ve been facing. Have you been able to resolve that yet?”

Tiberius blinked in surprise. “You know Octavia?”

“I’ve met her a couple of times after matches,” Ginny interjected casually.

“She does love her Quidditch,” Ogden chuckled before his smile faded. “But no, the problem remains. It’s been three months. The U.S. Imports Department has made us jump through hoops, and even after meeting every demand, the paperwork still seems blocked somewhere down the chain.”

“If I may,” Hermione said, leaning forward, “what exactly is being held up?”

“Nothing tangible,” Ogden sighed. “Just signatures and approvals that never seem to move. It’s strangling my business.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “I know someone in that department. I can reach out and see if we can get a clearer picture. At the very least, I can make sure it’s not being deliberately buried.”

Ogden’s face brightened as he extended his hand. “Ms. Granger, that would be an incredible help. My business has been suffering. Any assistance at all is deeply appreciated.”

“Of course,” Hermione said warmly, shaking his hand. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll do my best to help.”

At last, she turned her head toward Ginny and whispered, “Thank you.”

Ginny only smiled, the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes.

Kingsley cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Hermione, forgive me if this is blunt, but there are already rumors circulating. Are you truly running for Minister?”

Before she could answer, Neville cupped his hand as if to whisper but pitched his voice loud enough for the table. “She doesn’t want to say yet, but I’ll tell you—she’s running in the next election.” He smirked, eyes twinkling.

A ripple of murmurs spread across the table as the assembled witches and wizards turned to Hermione expectantly. Straightening her shoulders, she echoed Neville. “Yes. I am eyeing the next election. I’m still building support, of course, but it is my intention to run.”

Neville jumped in quickly. “She already has the confidence of the current Minister, Millicent Evermonde. Naturally she can’t comment while in office, but Hermione has worked closely with her and has made a tremendous impact on the International Relations Department. Millicent told her personally it would be an honor to hand over the reins when the time comes.”

Hermione felt heat rise to her cheeks but pressed on, her voice steady. “Minister Evermonde showed me what it means to lead with principle. She inspired me to embrace my background as a Muggle-born and use it as a strength to push the wizarding world forward.”

Ginny spoke up suddenly, her tone wry. “Well, we all know our community has been stuck in the Victorian ages for far too long. We don’t even have mobile phones, for Merlin’s sake.”

Hermione allowed herself a small laugh and nodded. “Exactly. Magic gives us wonders, but Muggles have achieved incredible progress through technology. We need to encourage innovation here as well—fund new ideas, support entrepreneurs, and build an economy that thrives on progress, not just tradition.”

Ginny elbowed her father with a teasing grin. Hermione caught it and added smoothly, “I’d say that sounds fantastic, right, Dad?”

Arthur chuckled, a touch flustered. “Oh, right, yes. I’ve seen Ms. Granger's work on a few projects over the last decade. I’d say she’s leading us toward a better future. I was never very knowledgeable about Muggle innovations, but I’ve always been fascinated by their methods of transportation. What’s the one you own again?” he asked, turning to Ginny.

“The motorcycle?” Ginny offered.

“Yes, that’s the one.” Arthur’s eyes lit up as he turned to Ogden. “The machinery they use is remarkable—complex, powerful. Some of them might even go faster than brooms.”

“You own a motorcycle?” Hermione asked, genuine curiosity slipping out before she could stop herself.

“I do,” Ginny replied. “I rarely ride it these days—I’m hardly ever home long enough.”

Hermione gave a polite nod, unconvinced. Ginny arched an eyebrow. “Do I need to show you for you to believe me?”

“No,” Hermione said quickly, “I’m just surprised you’d be interested in something so Muggle.”

“And why is that?” Ginny pressed, her voice low.

Hermione scratched at the back of her neck, desperate to redirect the conversation. But Ginny leaned closer, whispering, “Do you think I don’t like Muggles, Granger?”

Hermione hesitated, then whispered back, “Yes.”

Ginny’s expression sharpened, her voice dropping to a promise. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“We are not talking later,” Hermione retorted.

Ginny only arched her brows in challenge.

“I thought we could be friends now,” Ginny said.

“I never said anything of the sort,” Hermione answered indignantly.

“You know, being friends with me has its perks.” Ginny gestured subtly toward the table and the powerful figures around them. “All these people? I know a lot about them—their families, their secrets. I can help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Hermione said through gritted teeth.

“Oh yeah?” Ginny smirked. “I watched you struggle with Kingsley earlier. You do know there are ways to steer a conversation away from Quidditch, right?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her curiosity pricking despite herself. Her skin prickled at the thought that Ginny had been watching her earlier, unnoticed, studying her every move. “There is?”

“You’d know if you were my friend.” Ginny’s grin was sly, the challenge unmistakable.

Harry texted Hermione early the next morning—a Saturday, though their jobs never seemed to stop—asking if she wanted to grab breakfast before heading to the Ministry. By the time she arrived, Neville and Harry were already deep in conversation. Neville was shoving a croissant into his mouth, flakes scattering across the table, while Harry was cutting into a stack of pancakes.

“What did I miss?” Hermione asked, sliding into the seat across from them.

“Harry lost our bet and doesn’t want to pay,” Neville said, words muffled by pastry.

“I did not lose. It’s still early, and I know I’ll win,” Harry retorted.

Hermione raised a brow. “What exactly are you betting on?” she asked, taking a bite of her sandwich.

“Oh, nothing special. Quidditch,” Harry said quickly, elbowing Neville. Hermione narrowed her eyes at them—whatever it was, they were up to no good.

Harry changed the subject smoothly. “I heard Ginny was at the gala. How was that?”

“Nothing happened. We talked and settled the matter and she—uhh—apologized,” Hermione said quickly, trying to make it sound like it was no big deal.

Neville slid a folder across the table, the parchment inside scribbled in Ginny’s rushed hand. “She sent this to me last night. Said to use it for your advantage. It’s a list of charity events and parties she thinks could help you get in with certain circles. She even wrote she’d be happy to assist, though she guessed you’d refuse.”

Hermione flipped through the pages, scanning the names. These weren’t the top-tier events Parvati had prioritized, but there were dozens of second-tier opportunities. “We don’t need her help,” she said flatly.

Harry and Neville exchanged a look. “I thought everything was settled?” Harry pressed.

“It is,” Hermione insisted, “but that doesn’t mean I trust her. Why would she hand over information without wanting something in return?”

“Maybe she feels guilty about the mix-up?” Harry suggested. “Why not just ask her? Even if she does want something, it might be a favor we can afford to give.”

Neville tapped the folder. “The gala was a good start, but we still didn’t secure the circles we targeted. Right now, all we’ve got is Arthur’s dinner invitation. We need more wins, Hermione. This list could be useful.”

As if she somehow knew she was being talked about, Hermione’s phone pinged on the table. The screen lit up with the name still saved as Annabelle. She hadn’t bothered to change it, or even block the number.

Ginny: Good morning, friend.

Ginny: Want to meet for coffee and not walk out on me again?

Hermione: We are not friends, and I’m already drinking my tea.

Ginny: Lunch then?

Hermione: Busy.

Ginny: Dinner?

Hermione: Busy.

Ginny: Oh, come on. We can be friends. You’ve already seen me half naked.

Hermione coughed so hard she nearly inhaled crumbs from her sandwich. Neville jumped, thinking she was choking, and thumped her on the back while Harry shoved his water glass at her. The image of Ginny’s bare skin flashed through Hermione’s mind with brutal clarity, and she wanted nothing more than to fling her phone into the nearest fireplace. Brilliant, she thought bitterly. Now I’m going to asphyxiate over Weasley’s abs. What a dignified way to go.

Chapter Text

Ginny was humming and dancing barefoot across her kitchen tiles, the wooden spoon doubling as a microphone between her fingers. The stew she had been boiling for the past hour bubbled gently, waiting for the final addition of the vegetables she was happily chopping. Music blasted through the flat, bouncing off freshly scrubbed walls and polished counters. She had cleaned everything yesterday—another distraction, another way to fill the time. It struck her how strange this was. This had been the longest she’d stayed in her flat in the last two years. Normally she was in and out within three days at most during her downtime, always running, always restless. But with the season over and three long weeks before training resumed, she was stuck with something unfamiliar: stillness.

Tonight was special. She would see Hermione Granger again. After days of being turned down, Ginny was clinging to the excuse of the family dinner. For once, she was actually looking forward to it. She’d skipped so many of those dinners over the years, avoiding long hours at the table with family politics and her dad's latest endeavour. But tonight? Tonight Hermione would be there. And that was reason enough.

They had been texting, on and off, over the past few days—mostly Ginny sending suggestions to meet up for a quick bite, Hermione always finding a way to decline. Ginny got it. She wasn’t stupid. Hermione was guarded, careful. She had every reason to be. But Ginny didn’t see the harm in it. Plenty of her friends were straight, and she was seen with them all the time. Photos of her with one woman or another sometimes got framed like they were romantic, but no one ever made a big deal out of it. Why would it be different with Hermione?

She shook her head, smiling faintly as she tossed another handful of chopped carrots into the bowl. The truth was simpler: she just wanted to be close to her again. To hear that clipped voice scolding her, to see that line carve itself neatly between her brows when she was frustrated, to feel the satisfaction of provoking her until she finally snapped back. Back at Hogwarts, those fights had been the highlight of Ginny’s days. They had lit her up in a way no Quidditch match or Slytherin prank ever had. And Merlin, her life lately had felt so dull in comparison.

She sighed, catching her reflection in the kitchen window. Excitement, nerves, anticipation—they were all there in her grin. Whatever tonight held, at least it wouldn’t be dull.

A familiar swoosh came from the fireplace and Astoria stepped gracefully out of the Floo. “Well, well, well—you cleaned!” she declared, clapping slowly as she surveyed the spotless kitchen. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Astoria had been her best friend since Hogwarts, a foil to Ginny’s bluntness in every way. Where Ginny was all rough edges and directness, Astoria embodied the effortless polish of a pure-blood aristocrat. She glided about in expensive clothes, always perfectly put together, always making an entrance. More than once she’d tagged along on Ginny’s travels, keeping her company when life on the road grew lonely.

“Come here and taste this,” Ginny said, pointing the ladle toward her.

Astoria leaned in, accepted the sample, and hummed with approval. “That’s great. Are we having it for dinner?”

Ginny shook her head, lips quirking. “Nope. I’m bringing it to Mum’s for family dinner.”

Astoria held up a hand. “Hold on. You are going to family dinner? Did something happen?”

Her sharp eyes were already studying Ginny as she moved through the kitchen, cleaning up the mess and stacking used utensils in the sink.

“Nothing happened. I’m just going to dinner,” Ginny said.

“You’re not telling me something. You have that grin on your face. Did your body get somebody pregnant? Is somebody getting married?” Astoria inched closer, her tone gleeful. She always loved a bit of gossip, and the way she dug up information often outpaced the Aurors themselves. Ginny had learned plenty from her—skills she’d tried to use to catch Hermione’s attention, though with little success.

“Can’t I see my family without anything happening to them?” Ginny protested.

“You can, but you don’t,” Astoria shot back. “You’ve been everywhere but here, and suddenly you’ve got time for family dinner? I see your family more than you do! So tell me, what’s happening?”

“That’s not true! I see them all the time. They visit me at away games, and whenever I’m here.”

Astoria narrowed her eyes. “Whatever you’re hiding, I’ll find out soon anyway. So why don’t you just tell me?”

Ginny hesitated, knowing if she uttered Hermione’s name, Astoria would see straight through her. She needed to be smarter than this—lie to her best friend, just this once.

“Dad’s just got this new…thing, and I’m helping him,” she said quickly.

Astoria gasped and smacked her arm. “You did not just lie to me, Ginny Weasley!”

Ginny yelped, shielding herself with a laugh. She really was a terrible liar.

“I’m not hiding anything, it’s just—I can’t say anything! And you are a big gossip, so you can’t be trusted with this information!” Ginny shot back, half-laughing, half-serious.

Astoria slumped into one of the chairs, pouting theatrically. “I hate that you’re hiding this from me.”

Ginny hated it too. She told Astoria everything—every scrape, every Quidditch disaster, even the gory details of her sex life when Astoria pried them out of her. But this? This wasn’t her secret to tell.

Ginny arrived at the family home earlier than she would have liked—nearly an hour before dinner. But if she knew Hermione, she’d be there early too. Hermione was never late to anything.

“I’m home!” Ginny called the moment she stepped out of the Floo, lugging the massive pot she’d cooked earlier, her arms straining. She hurried to the nearest table and nearly dropped it, catching herself just before it clattered to the floor.

“In the kitchen!” her mum’s voice rang back. Ginny picked up the pot properly and hurried through the familiar hallways. Their house had grown into something like a manor over the years—seven bedrooms for seven children, plus enough space for Arthur and Molly to host endless gatherings. They could have afforded servants, but Mum had always insisted on doing things herself. Caterers were for events; family meals were her domain. Her cooking had been an anchor in Ginny’s life, and of all the siblings, Ginny alone had inherited her passion for it. She loved cooking. She especially loved cooking with her mum.

“Hello, dear,” Molly said warmly the moment Ginny entered the kitchen. “What do we have here?”

“Oh, just beef stew. Learned it when I was travelling,” Ginny said, setting down the pot with relief.

“It smells lovely.” Molly stepped forward, cupping Ginny’s face with both hands, eyes soft. “How are you, love? I’m glad you’re free tonight.” She kissed both her cheeks, and Ginny smiled, pulling her into a hug.

“I missed you,” Ginny whispered.

“I missed you too.” Molly squeezed her sides playfully and pinched her waist. “You’re getting thin, Ginny. Have you been eating properly?”

“I’m not thin, Mum. I’m literally the fittest I’ve been in my life,” Ginny protested, pulling away.

“We need to fatten you up a little,” Molly tutted, eyeing her critically as only a mother could. Ginny laughed, the kitchen suddenly feeling like home again.

Ginny peeked into the dining area and the lounge—empty. Her brothers would no doubt tumble in just before dinner, and her father was probably still in his office.

“Has the guest arrived yet?” she asked, glancing back at her mum, who was busy arranging bowls of food she’d already finished.

“Not yet. Do you know Ms. Granger?” Molly asked without looking up.

“Somewhat,” Ginny said lightly. But the moment the words left her mouth, her mum’s gaze sharpened, pinning her. It felt like everyone had been silently examining her about Hermione, waiting for her to slip.

“Have you corrupted Ms. Granger?” Molly asked, one brow arched.

“Mum!” Ginny yelped, unable to stop the shock. “There was no corruption,” she muttered, mortified.

“I see. So not yet then,” Molly snickered, then stilled, realization dawning. “Is that why you’re here tonight?”

“What? No—I just said I missed you,” Ginny insisted quickly.

“Ginevra Weasley,” Molly said firmly, “you know Ms. Granger is running for Minister. We can’t have you meddling. She is a woman of quality!”

“Am I not a woman of quality?” Ginny shot back, arching her brows.

“Yes, but your women of choice as of late aren’t,” her mum countered. And she wasn’t wrong. Ginny had dated her fair share of shallow admirers who wanted her for her fame or money, and she’d been foolish enough to try to make it work. Her mum had hated every one of them—and had never been shy about saying so. Sometimes she’d even shown open hostility.

Saved by the sudden whoosh of the Floo, Ginny grinned at her mum’s stern look and hurried out to check who had arrived. It was Bill, Fleur, and the kids.

“Auntie Ginny!” Victoire squealed, arms flung wide as she barreled toward her. Ginny laughed, scooping her up and twirling her in a circle. “How are you, pumpkin?” she said, peppering her niece’s cheeks with noisy kisses until Victoire squealed with laughter. Dominique followed more quietly, skulking forward to hug her leg.

“What’s wrong?” Ginny crouched down to meet her eyes.

“He wanted sweets before dinner, but her mum said no,” Bill explained, ruffling Dominique’s hair.

“I’ll sneak you more chocolates later tonight, okay?” Ginny whispered conspiratorially. Dominique’s lips twitched, and he nodded solemnly.

Ginny hugged Bill and Fleur warmly, falling into chatter about their kids, when the Floo roared again. Fred, George, and Ron tumbled through, already arguing loudly about something ridiculous.

Then Arthur stepped into the room, beaming. “Great, you’re all here,” he said, moving from child to child with hugs and kisses before scooping up his grandkids and carrying them off to the kitchen to greet Molly.

Ginny and Fleur busied themselves helping Molly lay out the dinner table. Ginny realised how much she’d missed the chaos—the laughter, the voices overlapping, even if not all her brothers were present. Percy and Charlie wouldn’t be joining tonight, tied up with work and other commitments. She made a mental note to visit Percy soon, and maybe catch Charlie before her vacation ended.

“Ginny, are we winning the World Cup this year?” Ron asked, his favourite question.

“I already won two. I think it’s best to give the others a chance,” Ginny said with a grin, knowing Ron would hate that answer.

“What do you mean? You need to win more!” Ron spluttered.

“He’s right, you know,” Fred chimed in. “We sell your merch more than anyone else in the league. If you win another World Cup, sales will soar.”

“So you’re just using me to boost business?” Ginny teased.

“Yes,” the twins chorused, laughing.

“I’m surprised you’re joining us today, Gin,” Ron said, eyeing her curiously.

Before Ginny could respond, the Floo roared again—and Hermione Granger stepped out. A smile spread across Ginny’s face instantly. Hermione’s big brown eyes swept the room, probably searching for her dad. Her dark curls were loose tonight, and she looked stunning. The last few times Ginny had seen her, her hair had been in a bun. Not that Ginny had minded—Hermione’s neck was entirely too enticing.

“Scratch that. I’m not surprised you’re here,” Ron muttered, glancing from Ginny to Hermione with a knowing look.

Ginny made her way toward her, and by the time Hermione noticed, Ginny was already at her side.

“Hello, friend,” Ginny said brightly. Hermione’s eyes widened, clearly not expecting to see her here.

“Hi, Ginny,” Hermione replied through gritted teeth. Oh, Ginny was already loving this reaction. “I thought you wouldn’t be here.”

“Why would I miss seeing my friend? Besides, I grew up in this house and you’re trying to impress my dad,” Ginny teased. She gently steered Hermione into a quieter corner, eyebrows already furrowing.

Line between the brows—check!

“What is your goal here?” Hermione asked, voice low and sharp.

“What do you mean? Shouldn’t I be the one asking that question, considering I’m the one helping you?” Ginny countered smoothly.

“I don’t need your help. I need you far away from me.” Hermione’s scowl deepened. Scowling—check! It was barely the start of the night and Ginny had already ticked two things off her list. This was going to be fun.

“Ms. Granger,” Molly’s voice rang out, warm and welcoming. A polite smile was plastered on her face. “Would you like a drink to start with?” She ushered Hermione toward the table, though not before flicking Ginny a stern, knowing look. Ginny smirked to herself—maybe she’d annoy her mum a little tonight too.

When they settled at the table, Ginny wasted no time slipping into the seat beside Hermione. Molly took her place at the head of the table on Ginny’s right, while Hermione sat stiffly to her left, trying to mask every flicker of emotion. Of course Ginny knew better.

They began to eat, the conversation weaving around casual topics—catching up, laughing lightly, family stories. Then Hermione let out a soft, involuntary moan as she tasted the stew. “Mmm. This is so good, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Thank you, dear, but I can’t take the credit. Ginny cooked that one,” Molly replied.

Hermione blinked at her. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Well, you would know if you said yes when I invite you to eat,” Ginny quipped. Hermione rolled her eyes, but Ginny counted it as another victory.

Leaning in, Ginny dropped her voice. “Did you use the file I sent Neville?”

Hermione immediately straightened, bristling. “No. Like I said, we don’t need your help.”

“Why are you resisting this?” Ginny asked, but before Hermione could answer, her hand darted under the table. She squeezed Ginny’s thigh—a warning to stop—but the touch only sent a shiver racing up Ginny’s spine.

All throughout dinner Ginny tried to draw Hermione into conversation, throwing in sly remarks, questions, even a few jokes, but Hermione kept herself anchored to Arthur and Molly instead. Every time Ginny managed to force a response out of her, it was clipped, efficient, deliberately cool—as if Hermione was determined to build a wall of ice between them. Frustration simmered under Ginny’s skin. She wanted her attention, hungered for it, not the distant nods and stiff answers. The more Hermione withheld, the more Ginny’s determination sharpened. It felt like a duel, one she was losing, and Ginny hated losing. She tapped her fork against her plate, plotting new angles, new ways to crack through that careful armour Hermione wrapped around herself.

At one point Molly leaned toward her, whispering, “You’re terrible at this.”

Ginny bit the inside of her cheek as her mum covered a laugh with her napkin, eyes dancing with mischief. “I guess your charm doesn’t affect women of quality,” Molly added slyly. Ginny exhaled through her nose, forcing a smile she didn’t quite feel. She’d have to change her game. The evening dragged on and she didn’t get another chance to corner Hermione—everyone was far too invested in what Hermione had to say. And what she was saying…well, it was admirable. Ginny couldn’t help but watch her, admire her, even as the frustration gnawed.

When Hermione finally rose to leave and began bidding her goodbyes, Ginny reacted before she could think. She shot up from her seat. “I’m coming with you!” she blurted. Every head turned her way.

“Ah—well, I mean, I’ll drop her off at her apartment, then Floo to mine,” she added quickly, already slipping to Hermione’s side. Hermione stood stiff, Floo powder in hand.

“What are you doing?” Hermione whispered harshly.

“Let’s just go. I already said it out loud,” Ginny murmured back with a grin.

Hermione sighed, clearly exasperated.

When they arrived at Hermione’s flat, Hermione shoved a handful of Floo powder into Ginny’s hand almost immediately. “Here, now go,” she said, already stalking toward her kitchen. But Ginny followed, unable to stop herself. She leaned against the doorway, watching as Hermione retrieved a bottle of clear liquor, poured a generous glass, and then, upon noticing Ginny still there, downed it all in one go. Her face twisted at the burn.

“Could I get some of that?” Ginny asked lightly.

Hermione turned, staring at her in disbelief.

“This needs to stop. We are not friends, Ginny. We’ve never been friends. There’s no reason to start now,” Hermione said firmly.

Ginny sauntered into the kitchen like she owned the place, plucking Hermione’s cup and pouring herself a splash of liquor. She tipped it back without breaking eye contact, the warmth spreading through her chest. Hermione’s cheeks were already tinged pink—probably from the absurd amount she’d just downed.

Ginny set the glass aside and stepped closer, bracing her palms on the counter to cage Hermione in. Hermione’s breath hitched, her throat working as she swallowed.

“Why do you hate me?” Ginny asked softly. There was no bite in her voice, only genuine curiosity, an ache to understand.

“I—I don’t hate you. I just—” Hermione faltered, clearly scrambling for words. Ginny tilted her head, studying her.

“All night you’ve been cold with me. You won’t accept my help. You refuse to sit near me, to talk to me. If that isn’t hate, then what is it?” Ginny’s voice dropped to a whisper, low and coaxing. Hermione shuddered, pressed against the counter, her guard slipping.

Ginny remembered their conversations on the app, the way it had all begun with Hermione’s friend nudging her toward a distraction because she was stressed and frustrated. Could it be that the distance Hermione kept wasn’t about dislike at all—but attraction? The thought sent a thrill through her. She needed to test it.

“Hermione,” she breathed, leaning to brush her lips near the shell of her ear. “Do you want me?”

Hermione’s breathing grew ragged, her chest brushing against Ginny’s with every inhale. When Ginny pulled back to check her reaction, Hermione’s eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide, her face betraying need she was still trying to deny.

“Do you want me on my knees? Do I have to grovel for you to forgive me?” Ginny murmured, her voice rough with challenge. Hermione closed her eyes, throat working as she swallowed hard.

“Or…” Ginny drawled slowly, leaning closer, “do you want my mouth on you?” Her lips hovered at Hermione’s neck, breath hot against her skin. “Like this.”

Hermione’s arms pressed against Ginny’s shoulders, a token effort to push her away—but the strength just wasn’t there.

“Use me,” Ginny whispered, the words tumbling out raw. “Use me for whatever you need. Use me.” She surprised herself with the conviction in her voice. She meant it—she would give Hermione whatever it took, if it meant staying close.

In a sudden surge, Hermione’s lips crashed against hers, a bruising kiss that stole Ginny’s breath. Ginny whimpered into it, the sound swallowed between them as Hermione clung to her.

She was so aware of Hermione’s taste lingering on her lips, the heat radiating from her skin, the desperate tug of Hermione’s hands clutching at her clothes. Their bodies slid together and Ginny gasped at the sensation, at the sparks firing straight to her core with every touch.

Hermione whimpered as Ginny’s hands slipped beneath her shirt, skimming over the top of her jeans. Ginny ached to feel the bare skin beneath, to know how it tasted against her mouth.

In a bold move, she hooked her arms around Hermione’s legs and carried her toward the living room, lowering her onto the couch and pinning her there as their mouths met again and again. Ginny sucked on Hermione’s bottom lip, drawing a moan from her that made Hermione arch her back, hips bucking against Ginny’s body. Ginny shifted, sliding one leg between Hermione’s thighs to give her the friction she sought. She was drowning in the heat pouring off her, intoxicated by it.

“Take this off,” Hermione commanded, breathless. They tore at their clothes until both were stripped to their underwear. Hermione straddled Ginny on the couch, and Ginny’s breath caught. She was glorious—her imagination hadn’t come close to doing her justice.

They connected their mouths again, the sound spilling from Hermione deep and guttural, almost helpless. Ginny matched her intensity, losing herself in the kiss until she was breathless. She trailed her lips to Hermione’s neck, sucking and licking, and Hermione arched forward with a whimper, fingers twisting in Ginny’s hair to drag her closer.

Hermione shifted suddenly, grinding down on Ginny’s leg. Ginny could feel the heat of her, slick and desperate. She guided Hermione’s hips with encouraging hands, urging her to keep moving, and the friction sent shocks straight to her own core. Hermione’s hips moved faster, her moans reverberating through the room, winding Ginny tighter and tighter. All Ginny could think was how badly she wanted to feel her, taste her, drive her over the edge with her fingers.

Hermione bucked once, moaning loudly, her body twitching against Ginny’s before collapsing bonelessly on top of her. For a moment Ginny could only stare, stunned, arousal fogging her mind. She shook Hermione lightly, but she was already out cold—spent, exhausted. Ginny lay there on Hermione’s couch, her own body thrumming, her desire unresolved, not knowing what to do with herself except crave more. Ginny Weasley was temporarily lobotomized by her arousal. 

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with a dull pounding in her head, the kind that made every thought sluggish and heavy. She shifted, wincing as the stiff cushions beneath her reminded her she wasn’t in bed. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open and realized she was sprawled on her couch. A blanket was draped over her, but underneath she was wearing nothing more than her bra and underwear. Her stomach dropped.

Memory came creeping back in fragments. The heat. The kisses. The way Ginny had pressed her into the cushions, lips hungry, hands bold. Hermione groaned, dragging the blanket higher over her chest as if she could shield herself from the rush of images that refused to stop flashing in her head.

It had felt good—too good. Her lips still tingled with the phantom softness of Ginny’s mouth, insistent and warm. She could still feel the ghost of fingers skimming her skin, leaving trails of fire wherever they touched. She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to will the memories away, but her body betrayed her with every remembered shiver.

“What have I done…” she whispered to the empty room, groaning again as if the sound alone could undo it. But it lingered, every detail etched into her skin. The truth she couldn’t deny: it had been a long time since she had felt that wanted, that alive.

“What did you do?” Harry’s voice rang out from the corner. Hermione’s head snapped up to find him leaning casually against the wall, coffee mug in hand, smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Harry! What are you doing here?” she yelped, clutching the blanket tighter and curling her knees up to her chest, desperate to cover every inch of exposed skin.

“I practically live here,” he said easily. “And I was going to check up on you about the dinner.” He gestured with his mug, circling it in the air as if outlining a picture. “But this—” his eyes flicked toward the discarded clothes and general disarray—“tells me you had a great night.” The amusement in his tone was unmistakable.

Hermione groaned, her face flaming. The smirk in Harry’s tone only made it worse, and she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. She gathered the blanket tightly around her like armour, rolling herself up in it before darting for her bedroom. Harry’s chuckle followed her retreat, smug and insufferable, and she slammed the door behind her, burying her hot face in the covers as if she could suffocate the memory of both Ginny—and Harry’s grin—out of existence.

She showered, hoping the hot water could wash away her sins and embarrassment, scrubbing until her skin flushed. But no matter how hard she tried, the memory of Ginny’s mouth, her hands, the heat between them lingered stubbornly. When she finally stepped out and dressed, Neville was already in the sitting room with Harry, the two of them murmuring over coffee. Neville’s eyes flicked to her, and he couldn’t quite hide the smirk tugging at his lips.

“Seriously? You can’t even last a day without telling Neville?” Hermione scowled, her voice sharp as she crossed her arms. Harry only shrugged, far too smug about it all.

Neville grinned and reached out to cup her cheek with mock affection. “Aww, even after having sex you’re still grumpy. Did Weasley not do a good job?”

Hermione’s fist connected with his stomach before she could think better of it. Neville wheezed, laughing through the groan. “So aggressive.”

“We did not have sex!” she blurted, cheeks burning. Her stomach knotted as flashes came back—the way she’d ground against Ginny’s thigh, the intoxicating press of her mouth. Heat pooled low in her belly, and she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to give them more ammunition. It was humiliating enough that she’d passed out the moment she came. Ginny had probably been annoyed by that, but Hermione couldn’t afford to think about it now.

“And how did you even know it was with Ginny?” she snapped.

“We didn’t. You just confirmed it,” Harry said with a triumphant grin.

“So was the hate sex good?” Neville waggled his brows, clearly delighted with himself.

“We didn’t have sex!” Hermione barked again, fists balled at her sides like a child about to throw a tantrum.

“How did you end up in your underwear then?” Harry pressed, leaning forward eagerly as if waiting for a courtroom confession.

Hermione groaned. She hated this interrogation—her two best friends far too invested in her so-called love life. No, not even that. Her sex life. Except she didn’t even have one. Not really. And she definitely didn’t with Ginny, no matter what they thought.

“We are not talking about this. This—” she circled her hand between the three of them, glaring—“we need to establish boundaries.”

“Where was that energy when you were practically trying to marry me off?” Harry shot back.

“I did not try to marry you off,” Hermione countered hotly. “I simply wanted you to stop eating my food and maybe find love.”

“You put out an ad for single wizards. You signed me up for speed dating. You even hired a matchmaker,” Harry listed, smirking.

Hermione pursed her lips, fighting a smile. She had done all of that. But honestly, it had worked—Harry had learned how to talk to women because of it. He’d been on several relationships since. None had lasted, but at least something good had come out of her meddling.

“You set me and Luna up—left us by ourselves to see a movie. You abandoned us on purpose,” Neville added, clutching his chest like the memory still pained him.

“Stop saying it like you didn’t enjoy it. You got a girlfriend out of it!” Hermione shot back, exasperated. “If I hadn’t meddled, it would’ve taken you years before you even thought about asking her out. You were both so hopeless with women. You should be thanking me.”

“Was it just a heavy make-out session?” Harry quipped, ignoring all of Hermione’s earlier protests. She groaned, dragging her hands down her face in frustration.

“Will we be seeing Ginny more often, then?” Neville asked slyly.

“There’s nothing going on between us,” Hermione snapped back. There couldn’t be… right?

The Floo roared suddenly, and all three of them turned. Within seconds, Ginny stepped out, arms laden with grocery bags—far too many for one person. Hermione’s stomach dropped. What is she doing here now? This was bad. Harry already had that smug smirk plastered on his face.

“Oh, hey,” Ginny said, slightly startled to see Neville and Harry there. “I’m cooking breakfast. Want some?”

Both men nodded eagerly. Ginny breezed past, setting down her bags and immediately getting to work. She didn’t so much as glance at Hermione, her attention fixed on the ingredients she unpacked. Meanwhile, Harry and Neville looked like vultures circling, hungry for the answers Hermione had refused them.

“So, Ginny,” Neville began innocently, “what brings you here?”

“You didn’t tell them?” Ginny asked over her shoulder, arching a brow at Hermione.

“Tell them what?” Hermione’s confusion only deepened.

Ginny started scooping flour into a bowl, mixing it deftly with eggs and milk. From Hermione’s limited culinary knowledge, it looked like she was making her own pancake mix. She just stared, half in amazement, as Ginny moved around her kitchen like she owned it—opening cupboards Hermione didn’t even realize she had, pulling out pans and utensils with practiced ease.

“About last night,” Ginny said casually, not even looking up.

Hermione choked, panic spiking in her chest. If these two idiots ever found out what really happened, she’d never hear the end of it.

“Nothing happened last night,” she said quickly, voice clipped. That finally made Ginny look up—smirk tugging at her lips—but she said nothing more, simply turned back to cooking. Within minutes she had eggs frying, bread toasting, and pancakes sizzling in the pan, all at once. Even Harry and Neville watched in astonishment.

It was like watching a professional chef at work.

Ginny then set a steaming mug down in front of Hermione. Hermione blinked at it, caught off guard.

“Tea with milk and two sugars. I remember,” Ginny said lightly, already turning back to plate their breakfast. The smell of it made Hermione’s stomach betray her with a loud rumble.

Within minutes, the kitchen table was transformed into a full spread: pancakes stacked high, golden hash browns, perfectly scrambled eggs, toasted bread, a rainbow of cut fruit, and even a pot of vegetable soup simmering away. Hermione stared at it all, half in awe, half in disbelief. She couldn’t even remember the last time her table looked like this. Usually it was takeaway containers or the boys’ half-hearted one-dish attempts. And here Ginny was, conjuring a feast as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Merlin, I could get used to this,” Harry said appreciatively. He and Neville immediately dug in, piling food high on their plates and groaning with satisfaction at the first bite of pancakes.

Ginny slid into the seat beside Hermione, casually placing food onto her plate. Their legs brushed under the table, and Hermione silently thanked the stars that Ginny was wearing jeans.

Hermione’s attention drifted to the vegetable soup. The smell was too tempting, and she scooped up a spoonful. The moment it touched her tongue, warmth spread through her chest, rich and comforting. A surprised groan escaped her before she could stop it. She lifted the bowl to her lips for another sip, unable to help herself. It was that good.

The room fell quiet, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and content chewing. Hermione forgot, for one blissful moment, that Ginny was right there beside her.

“Was my cooking up to your standards?” Ginny asked at last, her tone deliberately light. Hermione knew the question was meant for her, but with a mouthful of pancake she couldn’t answer right away.

“Ginny, can you tell us what happened last night?” Harry cut in slyly. Hermione shot him a withering look.

“I’m going to be part of the campaign team,” Ginny said casually, spearing a bite of egg. Hermione’s head snapped toward her.

“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” she hissed.

Ginny leaned in closer, her knee pressing against Hermione’s beneath the table. Then her fingers drifted, slow and deliberate, ghosting along the bare skin of Hermione’s leg. Hermione stiffened at once, pulse quickening, her throat working as she swallowed hard, every nerve on edge.

“We were in the kitchen talking, and I asked you to use—” Ginny began, only to be silenced by Hermione’s hand clapping over her mouth.

“That’s not—I didn’t—” Hermione stammered. Ginny lowered her hand slowly, eyes gleaming.

“I distinctly remember us sealing that with a—” Ginny teased, fingers sliding higher up Hermione’s thigh, threatening to disappear beneath the hem of her shorts. Hermione yelped and shot to her feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor. The worst part was Ginny’s brazen grin—openly flirting with her in front of her best friends. It wasn’t helping Hermione’s case, and she couldn’t stop her body from responding no matter how much she wanted to deny it.

Harry and Neville quickly covered their faces with their hands, but their shoulders shook with barely suppressed laughter. Ginny, unbothered, calmly continued eating as if nothing had happened. Hermione felt a hot, furious prick of irritation, she hated how much fun they were having.

“That’s great, Ginny. Maybe you could come with us tonight. There’s that private gallery viewing you mentioned in your letter. I got us in, and maybe I could snag you an entrance as well,” Neville said, still grinning.

“No need. I’m already invited to the event. I’ll see you all there,” Ginny replied smoothly.

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She wanted to protest, to put an end to this before it spiraled—but one wrong word and Ginny could expose everything. So she bit her tongue, lips pressed tight, silently seething.

After the boys had stuffed themselves full of Ginny’s cooking, Harry and Neville suddenly decided to make themselves scarce. They mumbled something about errands and left together—but not before Harry leaned in close to Hermione’s ear, whisper-chanting, “Hate sex! Hate sex! Hate sex!” with an obnoxious little fist pump in the air. Luckily, they were far enough that Neville and Ginny didn’t hear. Hermione swatted at him, but he dodged again, grinning like a fool. She groaned inwardly. She had been so violent all morning, she realised, but ever since waking with thoughts of last night her body had been humming, craving another release. Not that she could just slip away to her room with a house full of people. And now, with Harry and Neville gone, she was alone with Ginny—and her body wanted it even more.

The clatter of dishes filled the silence between them. Hermione scrubbed at a plate harder than necessary, pretending that if she focused enough on the soap bubbles she could ignore the way Ginny was leaning against the counter, watching her.

Finally, Ginny broke the quiet. “So… what’s your reservation?”

Hermione froze, plate suspended halfway to the drying rack. “Reservation?”

“About us.” Ginny’s voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was an edge to it that made Hermione’s stomach twist. “I’m not pushing for a repeat, Hermione. I just… want to know what you’re thinking. Because last night—” her gaze flicked over her, deliberate “—didn’t feel like a mistake.”

Hermione set the plate down with a sharp clink. “It was,” she said quickly, her throat dry. “A misjudgment. I’d had too much to drink. I was tired.”

“That’s the story you’re going with?” Ginny asked, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Hermione glared at the sink. “Yes. Because there’s too much at stake for anything else. I can’t afford distractions. Especially you.”

“Especially me,” Ginny echoed, her chuckle quiet. “Fair enough.”

Hermione turned to face her at last, gripping the towel in her hands like a lifeline. “Then tell me this: what do you even want out of helping me? Why are you doing this?”

Ginny tilted her head, as if the question amused her. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Don’t friends help each other?”

Hermione snorted. “Help from a Slytherin usually comes with a price. So out with it. What do you want?”

For a moment Ginny didn’t answer. She just looked at her—slowly, openly, her eyes roaming in a way that made Hermione’s throat go desert-dry. Heat prickled under her skin. What if Ginny did say it? What if she wanted sex in exchange? Would Hermione—Merlin help her—would she actually agree? It wasn’t as if she’d be losing anything. That quick, blinding orgasm last night had been the first real release she’d had in years. Just the press of another warm body against hers had ignited something she’d thought long dead.

Ginny’s eyes finally lifted to hers, steady, unflinching. “I don’t think you’re ready to give me what I want.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her pulse tripping over itself. She couldn’t even muster a reply.

Ginny smiled faintly, pushing off the counter to collect a dish towel. “So for now… let’s just stick with friends.”

Tonight’s event was straightforward: show up, socialize, and mingle enough to take the pulse of the room—who knew who, what alliances were shifting, and whether there was any new information worth noting. Their little ensemble consisted of Neville, Luna, Parvati, Harry, and herself. All of them dressed to impress, because even if Hermione wished otherwise, this was still an affair run by pure-bloods. Any slip on her part would be remembered and whispered about.

The pressure tonight was lighter—no debates, no speeches, just their presence. A chance to enjoy themselves while still quietly doing their jobs. And Hermione told herself firmly: she wouldn’t let Ginny distract her. Whatever had happened between them, it was a one-time mistake.

As they entered the gallery, her companions dispersed easily: some drifting toward the bar, others catching up with acquaintances. Hermione made a beeline for the displays. Many of the artifacts and paintings had come from private collections, pieces that hadn’t seen the light of day in decades. Her curiosity burned—history and context had always been her solace, and she was determined to lose herself in it.

When Ginny finally arrived, Hermione felt an unexpected wave of relief. The Quidditch star was immediately swarmed, every other guest eager to greet her. For once, Ginny’s magnetism worked in Hermione’s favor—she was left alone, able to wander the exhibits in peace before dinner began and the real social maneuvering started.

Parvati slid up beside her, eyes sparkling.

“Ginny’s part of the team now, huh?” Parvati murmured.

Hermione sighed. She wanted to say no, but deep down she knew Ginny would always find a way to insert herself. She could only hope she’d vanish back into training soon and all of this would fade into memory.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Hermione admitted at last.

Parvati snickered softly. “She’d be a great addition, you know. From the information she’s already given me, I’ve managed to secure us invites to several key gatherings. She’s also passed along names you should contact—I’m working on scheduling meetings with them now, and Tina’s helping coordinate.”

Hermione pressed her lips together but didn’t respond. That was when Parvati’s gaze sharpened.

“Be honest with me, Hermione. Is there something going on between you and her? Because I swear, the moment Ginny walked in she hasn’t stopped looking at you. And if she’s blackmailing you…” Parvati’s voice dipped lower, “…well, I wouldn’t put it past her. Not with your history.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. She shook her head quickly. “No, it’s… complicated. The past few weeks have been complicated since she reappeared in my life. But I think we’re past that now.”

Inwardly, Hermione added the part she couldn’t say aloud: I really hope she’s changed.

When the call for dinner came, the guests filtered into the dining hall. The stage at the far end was brightly lit, drawing all attention to the speaker who would soon take the podium. The rest of the room, however, was cloaked in soft shadow.

Hermione took her seat at the long table, grateful for the dim lighting. She told herself she didn’t care when Ginny slid into the chair beside her without a word of acknowledgment. Perhaps she had finally gotten the message. But the thought died quickly when she felt fingers brush against her dress, nudging the slit wider until cool air kissed the bare skin of her thigh.

Hermione’s hand snapped down to swat her away. “Stop it,” she hissed under her breath.

“You’re making a scene,” Ginny whispered smoothly, voice full of amusement. “Behave.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, her irritation rising. Ginny was tormenting her again, and there was nothing she could do about it without drawing attention. The room was focused entirely on the stage; she and Ginny were practically invisible in the dark.

Fingers traced back and forth over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, deliberate and maddeningly slow. Hermione’s breath caught, her chest rising and falling too quickly, each brush leaving sparks racing through her. She clenched her napkin in her fist, trying to keep her hands occupied, trying to look composed. Her eyes darted around desperately, scanning the table for any sign that someone might notice—but the shadows held them safely, all attention fixed on the stage. To everyone else, they were just two silhouettes listening politely to the speech.

Ginny, on the other hand, looked the picture of innocence, her expression calm and composed as if she were paying rapt attention to the speaker. But under the table, her hand slid higher, stopping just shy of Hermione’s center. The heat radiating there was undeniable, and Hermione knew Ginny could feel it—confirmed when Ginny stilled deliberately, turning her head just enough to glance at her.

In the dim light Hermione could barely make out her features, but she felt the weight of that gaze, the deliberate pause. Her throat went dry. She couldn’t look away. Each faint movement of Ginny’s fingers sent jolts through her, making her clench involuntarily. Her body was betraying her, anticipating something more.

Without breaking eye contact, Ginny let her fingers drift just above the damp edge of Hermione’s underwear. A quiet groan escaped Ginny’s throat, quickly covered with a cough, while Hermione sat frozen, holding her breath, pulse hammering in her ears.

Ginny’s touch continued, moving up and down in torturously slow strokes, deliberately avoiding the one spot Hermione ached for. Hermione’s breathing grew shallow, every nerve alight, her entire focus narrowed to the blinding need building inside her. She bucked her hips slightly, desperate for more, which earned her a smug smirk from Ginny. Their eyes remained locked, a silent battle of will, Hermione glaring even as her body betrayed her with every shiver.

Ginny looked so pleased with herself, and Hermione’s frustration mounted—until at last those fingers slid higher, pressing down exactly where she craved it. Hermione gasped quietly, the sound escaping before she could stop it. Oh gods, more—please. Her hips rolled again, urging Ginny to keep going. Her head fell back against the chair as Ginny began circling her clit in slow, deliberate movements, winding her tighter and tighter. She was close, so close, her entire body trembling with it.

And then—applause thundered around the room. The speech had ended, the lights flaring brighter, breaking the cover of shadow. Ginny’s hand was gone in an instant, leaving Hermione slack and undone, denied the release her body screamed for. She wanted more—Merlin, she needed more—but it was wrenched from her grasp, stolen in the cruelest moment. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she forced herself upright, praying no one could see the truth of what had just happened under the table, while inside she ached with the certainty that she wasn’t going to get it.

Chapter Text

Hermione considered herself a reasonable person. Not nice, not particularly warm, but decent. Fair. She would never classify herself as cruel or unkind, though at the moment she was very seriously contemplating hurting at least half the people in this room. None of them had done anything unforgivable—most of their offenses could be remedied with a quick word or correction. Yet her mood was so black, so foul, that she could feel it radiating outward like storm clouds gathering. The tension was palpable. Everyone around her tread lightly, speaking in cautious tones and moving as if afraid she might devour them whole if they slipped up.

And, truthfully, she might.

This was all Ginny Weasley's fault.

Ever since that night, Hermione’s own body had turned traitor. It refused to respond to her the way it used to. Every attempt at release was met with failure, as though her body knew exactly what it wanted and was withholding it until she gave in. Merlin knew she had tried—oh, she had tried, over and over again in the past week—but nothing worked. Each time she reached the edge, the bliss she craved slipped out of reach, leaving her aching, restless, and furious.

Worse still, Ginny seemed to take sadistic delight in feeding her torment. Every encounter became another layer of torture. At a meeting just three days ago, Hermione had made the mistake of glancing up, only to catch Ginny twirling the end of her straw with her tongue, swirling it far more suggestively than necessary. Hermione’s throat went dry as she imagined that same tongue tracing over her, licking, sucking, circling her most sensitive places. She’d stared too long, too openly, and by the time she realized it, she couldn’t even recall what Neville had been saying. The heat that had pooled low in her belly lingered long after the meeting had ended.

Another time, Ginny had stretched languidly in front of Hermione, arms lifted high so that the hem of her shirt rode up just enough to bare a strip of toned skin. Hermione sat close enough to reach out, close enough that the thought of touching that skin made her fingers twitch. She gripped the arms of her chair instead, nails digging into the wood, forcing herself to stay rooted. When Ginny’s eyes slid knowingly toward her, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She hated herself for reacting, hated that Ginny could so easily unbalance her.

This had become a nightmare. She couldn’t focus. Her patience was razor-thin, her temper constantly simmering, and her body perpetually wound tight with need. And the key to her problem—the only solution she could imagine—was the very root of it.

Ginny Weasley.

Hermione breathed in deeply, forcing herself to compose, to will the red fog of frustration away so she could think clearly. Across the room Ginny smirked, and Hermione felt the familiar flare of heat in her chest. That smirk thrived on her flustered reactions—any reaction, really. Even silence wasn’t protection; Ginny only pushed harder when Hermione tried to ignore her. Harry and Neville had already noticed, and now Parvati was beginning to catch on. Hermione couldn’t let this spiral further. She had to fight back. Two can play this game, she told herself.

The thought sparked something unexpected—excitement, humming like electricity through her veins. It reminded her of Hogwarts days, plotting elaborate retaliations for Ginny’s pranks. She almost laughed at the memory, a smile tugging at her lips, her fingers drumming against the desk as scenarios flickered through her mind. How delicious it would be to see Ginny caught off-guard for once.

She knew Ginny wanted her. And Merlin help her, she wanted Ginny too. But this was not going to happen on Ginny’s terms. Ginny wanted Hermione to yield first, to surrender the upper hand. Hermione had no intention of letting that happen.

The next morning, the team gathered for another campaign strategy session. The table was littered with parchment, empty teacups, and a box of sweets Parvati had brought along. Neville was knee-deep in numbers, muttering about polling discrepancies, while Ginny lounged back in her chair with arms folded, eyes glinting every time they flicked toward Hermione. Parvati and Tina were busy reviewing the issue Neville kept grumbling about, their quills scratching furiously as they compared notes. Hermione rubbed her temples, exhaustion seeping through her bones—it had been another impossibly long day, and the only thing that sounded remotely appealing was sugar. She reached for a custard donut, aware at once of Ginny’s gaze following her like a physical touch. Everyone else seemed occupied, wrapped in their own tasks, which only emboldened her.

Hermione’s eyes flicked back toward Ginny, and just as she suspected, Ginny was already watching her.

“Are you alright?” Ginny asked, her tone deceptively casual. A test.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Hermione replied smoothly, flashing a smile. She took a slow bite of the donut; the white powder clung to her lips. Instead of wiping it away, she cleaned it with her tongue, dragging it across her mouth languidly. Ginny’s eyes tracked every movement, unable to tear away. Bingo, Hermione thought, savoring the moment.

Hermione sat across the table from Ginny, close enough to feel the weight of her stare. She deliberately pressed the donut between her fingers until the custard oozed thick and slow, dripping along her skin. She lifted her hand, swiping the cream onto two fingers, and brought them to her lips with maddening languor. Her tongue circled once, twice, tracing the sweetness as though tasting every grain of sugar, before she let a quiet, lingering moan slip from her throat. Eyes fluttering shut, she drew her fingers deeper into her mouth, sucking gently, then pulled them out by degrees, her lips clinging to the tips until they left her mouth with a faint pop.

When she finally opened her eyes, Ginny was transfixed—mouth parted, breath shallow, chest rising and falling as though she’d just run a mile.

Not satisfied, Hermione squeezed the donut again, coaxing the custard to ooze in a slow, sinful trail down onto the exposed curve of her cleavage—she’d already unbuttoned her blouse just enough, anticipating this exact spectacle. Ginny’s gaze snapped downward and stayed there, pupils blown wide, jaw slack. Her lips parted as though she’d forgotten how to breathe, and her fingers curled into fists against the table as if anchoring herself. Hermione deliberately dragged her finger through the streak, lifted it with exquisite care, and locked eyes with her target. She let out a husky moan before sliding her finger between her lips, sucking it clean with a languid pull. Ginny’s throat worked in a visible swallow, her shoulders tense, every inch of her body telegraphing how tortured she was by the show she could not look away from.

A chair scraped loudly against the floor. Ginny shot to her feet, running a hand through her hair, her composure visibly fractured.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, brows raised as she assessed her handiwork. “Are you alright, Ginny?” she echoed sweetly, throwing Ginny’s earlier question back at her, though this time her lips curved in a knowing smirk.

Ginny cleared her throat. “Yeah,” she managed, but her voice cracked, betraying her.

Hermione leaned forward again, deliberately crossing her arms beneath her breasts so they pushed upward. Ginny’s eyes snapped to the movement and stayed there, trapped. Hermione tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Are you sure?” she pressed.

Ginny’s lips pressed into a thin line before she tore her gaze away, face flushed. “I—I need some fresh air. I’ll be right back,” she muttered, turning abruptly, nearly stumbling as she hurried from the room.

Hermione sat back, satisfaction curling in her chest. She stood a moment later and, forgetting herself, did a small victory wiggle of her hips right there at the edge of the table, uncaring of the others still in the room. Merlin, Ginny had that effect on her.

“What are you so happy about?” Parvati asked, raising a brow from across the table.

“The donut is great—you should have some,” Hermione replied breezily, using the excuse as she hummed happily and made her way back to her desk. She suddenly felt more energised, the exhaustion of the long day lifting just enough for her to tackle another stack of documents with renewed focus.

Later that night, Parvati proposed they run a mock press conference. “We need you prepared for ambush questions,” she explained. “Some reporters already have it out for you. You’re not exactly adored in the press, Hermione. Too restrained, too clean. They’ll try to poke holes in everything you say.”

Ginny raised her hand lazily. “I’ll play the aggressive journalist. I don’t know a thing about government policy, so I’ll stick to the fun stuff.”

Parvati’s eyes lit up. “Perfect. Target her personal life. Ask the kind of pressing, diabolical questions the press would throw at her just to rattle her.”

Ginny smirked and began scribbling notes on a scrap of parchment. Hermione watched them from her chair, lips pressed together, knowing this was necessary but already dreading the spectacle.

When they were ready, Tina arranged the chairs in a neat row to mimic a press panel. Neville took his place at the side, pretending to be Hermione’s campaign manager, while Parvati and Ginny settled opposite Hermione like hungry reporters.

Parvati started gently. “You’ve been adamant about education reform for years. Will this be your first priority if you take office?”

Hermione straightened, answering smoothly. “Of course—amongst other things. There’s a dangerous gap in our education system. We need greater depth, more specialisations, and better channels for knowledge transfer from experts to students. We must open opportunities for graduates and nurture their talents properly instead of letting them stagnate.”

Parvati nodded, jotting notes. Ginny raised her hand. “Follow-up. How will you gain traction when this means more years in school for children? Parents will push back—they’ll want their kids working, not buried in books.”

Hermione met her stare evenly. “I understand it’s a big change. That’s why we’ll roll out the program in targeted areas first to study its effects, then expand nationally once we see consistent results. In the smaller communities we’ve piloted, children are thriving. They’re choosing rare specialisations, discovering passions early because we nurtured them instead of pushing everyone through a one-size-fits-all system.”

Ginny tapped her quill against her parchment. “That sounded fine, but it’s like you’re reciting from a document. No passion. The public won’t feel it if you don’t show them what drives you.”

Hermione frowned slightly. “I’ll remember that. Next time, I’ll make sure they hear my conviction, not just my words.”

Parvati nodded approvingly. “Good. Let’s push harder.”

Ginny leaned back, eyes glinting. “Miss Granger,” she said, her voice menacing now, the tone of a predator closing in. “Do you truly think you have what it takes to be Minister?”

Hermione inhaled, spine straightening. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Every department I’ve worked in, I’ve left stronger than I found it. Everyone I’ve led can attest to my dedication and my results. But this isn’t just about hard work—it’s about vision. I want to reshape our world so talent is nurtured, justice is upheld, and opportunities are open to every witch and wizard, not just the privileged few. I don’t want to manage change. I want to create it. And I will.”

Ginny smiled despite herself, a glint of pride in her eyes. “Better,” she said simply.

She leaned forward, quill poised. “You’re just thirty-two. You’d be the youngest Minister in history. Do you really think you have enough experience to take this position when most of your predecessors had a decade more under their belts?”

Hermione didn’t flinch. “Experience matters, yes. But so does perspective. The younger generation is living with the consequences of the mistakes made before them. It’s time their voices were heard. I bring both experience and a fresh vision—and that balance is exactly what this office needs.”

Ginny’s eyes sharpened. “Miss Granger, you’ve never been seen dating anyone. Is this deliberate, or are you hiding a relationship?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “It is deliberate. Most of my time has been invested in projects, reforms, and service. I haven’t had the luxury of a relationship.”

Ginny pressed, her tone colder. “So you’re single? Is anybody showing interest?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “These lines of questioning are unnecessary. Can we move on?”

Ginny folded her arms. “It is necessary. Pure-blood families will sneer at your age and marital status. They’ll use it to imply you’re less of a woman.”

Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine. I’m single. I’m open to a relationship, and perhaps one day to having children. But right now there are greater needs—our people, our future. My priority is serving them.” Her words rang with conviction, threaded with warmth.

Ginny’s expression cooled further. “What’s your opinion on same-sex marriage?”

Hermione met her gaze squarely. “Yes. It’s a fundamental right. We have no authority to deny anyone the ability to love and marry whom they choose.”

Ginny tilted her head, pouncing. “What is your sexuality, Miss Granger?”

Hermione’s hand fisted in her lap. “I—” Her eyes darted to Tina, then to Parvati. A sudden dizziness swept over her. This wasn’t supposed to come up—not here, not now. But what if it did, in front of the real press? She could feel herself spiralling, struggling to think.

Hermione tried to open her mouth again, but Tina’s confused frown caught her eye and her chest constricted. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She looked down at her lap, horrified to see her hands trembling.

“Can you give us a minute?” Ginny’s voice cut through the haze. There was the shuffle of footsteps toward the door, and Hermione could only watch Parvati and Tina and Neville leave. Ginny dragged a chair closer, reaching out to steady Hermione’s shaking hands.

“Hey,” Ginny murmured softly, her thumb rubbing slow circles over Hermione’s knuckles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”

Hermione looked up. Ginny’s eyes weren’t mocking or sharp now—they were warm, gentle, almost protective.

“No, it’s alright,” Hermione managed. “You did the right thing. Better that I see how I’d react here than in front of real reporters. I need to be ready. I just… how do I even answer it?” She searched Ginny’s face, desperate for guidance.

“Everyone on your team loves you,” Ginny said firmly. “Whatever your answer is, they’ll stand by you.”

Hermione hesitated, then whispered, “How was it… for you? Being out. Not hiding, not pretending.”

Ginny’s lips curved in a bittersweet smile. “Freeing, at first. Like ripping a hand off my throat so I could finally breathe. But then you realise—it’s only one hurdle. Labels aren’t the end of it. The world has so many other battles waiting. The first step feels impossible… until later you see it was actually the easiest.”

“That sounds scary,” Hermione whispered.

Ginny laughed softly, shaking her head. “It’s not that bad. I’m not minimising what others go through, but for me? I chose to focus on moving forward instead of being weighed down by what I couldn’t control. I can only do so much, and the rest… the rest I let go.”

Hermione nodded slowly.

“You’re doing bigger things, Hermione,” Ginny added, her voice steady but warm. “You’ll get there in your own time. Not telling the whole world about your sexuality is fine. The people who matter already know, and they love you. Everyone else?” She gave a little shrug. “They can fuck off.”

That startled a laugh out of Hermione. “So I should tell the reporters to fuck off?”

“Maybe,” Ginny said with a grin. “I would.”

The room settled into a quieter rhythm, the tension of the mock press fading away. Hermione let out a long breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and studied Ginny. It struck her, unexpectedly, that this—talking without barbs, laughing without venom—wasn’t half bad.

“You know,” Hermione said carefully, “having you as… well, as a friend isn’t nearly as terrible as I once thought it would be.”

Ginny’s eyes lit with mischief. “Merlin’s beard, did Hermione Granger just admit we’re friends? Mark the date, history is being made.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. The verdict isn’t final. There’s still time for the jury to reconsider.”

Ginny chuckled. “I’ll take a provisional friendship. Besides, you’ll come around. I grow on people.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Like mould?”

“Like charm,” Ginny countered smugly.

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. The knot in her chest loosened. She glanced down and realised Ginny was still holding her hands, the tremor gone now. Hermione said nothing, letting the warmth of Ginny’s touch linger, resting her hands there without protest.

Chapter Text

Ginny had never really thought much about Hermione Granger back then. She knew of her, of course—everyone did. The quiet, bookish girl who always had the answers, who professors praised and classmates both admired and resented. But Hermione had never been someone Ginny paid attention to beyond the usual passing acknowledgement. Hermione belonged to her brother’s year, to Harry Potter’s orbit, to a circle that had nothing to do with Ginny.

Until the night of the Yule Ball.

Ginny had been fourteen, awkward in her dress robes, still feeling like a child trying to pretend she was grown. She had been third year then, half wishing she could disappear into the shadows of the Great Hall, half envious of the older students who carried themselves with such confidence. The music swelled, candles floated, and colours shimmered across the enchanted ceiling. And then—

Her eyes found Hermione.

She remembered it vividly: Hermione stepping down the staircase in that periwinkle dress. The soft glow of the lights caught in her curls, her smile brighter than the torches lining the walls. She laughed at something Viktor Krum said, and in that moment, to Ginny, she looked untouchable. Ethereal. Ginny felt her breath catch, her heart hammering in a way she didn’t understand. She couldn’t look away.

She didn’t know why she was staring. She didn’t even question it. She only knew that something in her shifted—that the sight of Hermione laughing, radiant, had burned itself into her mind. While the rest of the Hall blurred with noise and colour, Hermione was sharp, clear, unforgettable.

From that night on, Ginny noticed her in ways she never had before. In the corridors, between classes, at meals—Hermione was suddenly everywhere. Ginny found her gaze seeking her out instinctively, watching the way she tucked her hair behind her ear as she read, or the way her brow furrowed in concentration. It became a quiet habit, a secret she carried, like a folded letter hidden in her pocket. An obsession she couldn’t name.

Astoria slid onto the bench beside her during dinner one evening. The Great Hall buzzed with chatter and clatter, but Hermione sat apart from it all, nose buried in yet another book. Ginny noticed she’d been reading a different one yesterday and wondered idly how many she managed to finish in a week. Ginny barely got through one if she forced herself. What went on in Hermione Granger’s head? Ginny itched to ask.

“You’re staring again,” Astoria murmured, smirking. “She’s going to notice eventually and think you’re some kind of creep.”

“I’m far too beautiful to be called a creep,” Ginny shot back.

“True,” Astoria teased, “but it’s still creepy behaviour.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and asked, “What do you know about her, then?”

Astoria shrugged. “Not much. Muggle-born, smartest in her year, terrifying when she’s angry. I once saw her go off at Potter—don’t know what for—but he looked like a cornered mouse about to bolt.”

Ginny laughed under her breath. She didn’t think Hermione looked scary at all. Ginny already had a few inches on her thanks to Weasley genes, and Hermione’s eyes were too warm, too soft, to be truly frightening. It was more like watching a tiny puppy try to bark and bite—endearing, really, not intimidating.

Ginny bit into her sandwich, forcing herself to look away. She’s not going to disappear, she scolded herself. She tried to focus on anything else—the mug in front of her, the same shade as the dress Hermione had worn at the ball; the mango juice in her glass, the colour of the ribbon Hermione had tied in her hair yesterday. Everywhere she looked, she found echoes of her. Ginny shook her head hard, as if she could banish the thought.

Astoria elbowed her, frowning. “You alright? You’ve got a look on your face like you’re about to duel someone.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Ginny lifted the sandwich again, though she didn’t bite. Her appetite had been vanishing like this for weeks. Every time her eyes strayed toward Hermione, her stomach gave that same traitorous flutter, her skin buzzing as though even the air between them was charged. Nothing felt steady anymore. One moment she convinced herself it was nothing, the next she felt her entire body argue against her logic. Her thoughts told her to stop, to look away, to be normal—but her chest tightened, her pulse quickened, and it was as though her mind and body were locked in a battle she couldn’t name, each refusing to yield.

Astoria leaned closer, her voice low. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m fine.” Ginny flashed her a practiced smile. She told herself she was alright—just fascinated by Hermione, nothing more.

But as the days went on, she found herself deliberately avoiding places where she knew Hermione would be. The library, mostly. It wasn’t as if Ginny went there often, but every time she passed the entrance, a tug in her chest made her stumble. She’d quicken her pace, almost running, as though she could outrun the pull. For a while it worked. Until Astoria insisted on studying in the library.

Then Ginny could do little more than fidget. She knew exactly where Hermione would be—her usual chair—and from their table Ginny couldn’t see her. She pretended to read, tried to bury herself in homework, but the lack of a glimpse made her feel like she might burst. She tapped her fingers restlessly, legs bouncing under the desk, sweat prickling at the back of her neck. It wasn’t even hot in the room, yet she was overheating.

Astoria sighed, finally setting down her quill. “Ginny, this is not working. Go.” She shooed her with her hand.

“What did I do?” Ginny asked, genuinely confused. “I’m just sitting here.”

“Go,” Astoria repeated firmly. “Do what you clearly want to do.” She jerked her chin toward Hermione’s corner.

Ginny crossed her arms, defensive. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mmhmm,” Astoria hummed, returning to her parchment with exaggerated focus. When Ginny tried to settle back into her chair, Astoria pulled her wand and aimed it lazily at her.

“Do not come back until you do what you need to do, Weasley.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” Ginny whined. “I want to sit here with you. See? I’m nearly finished with my homework.”

Astoria snorted. “We both know you could finish that later. You’re not as hopeless as your brother, so don’t lie to me. Go see Granger.” Her voice softened at the end, almost kind.

Ginny clenched her jaw, heat rising in her cheeks. Why should she go see Hermione? They didn’t even know each other. She shouldn’t be thinking about her at all—yet she couldn’t stop.

By the time Ginny reached her fourth year, nothing seemed especially remarkable about life—except the changes in herself. Puberty was hitting hard: she’d shot up taller, her skin clearer, her chest filling out, her hair glossier than it had ever been. She didn’t know why people made such a fuss, but when she returned to school, the difference in how others treated her was undeniable.

Suddenly she was a celebrity. Boys stared, girls whispered and angled to be her friend. Was I that ugly before? she wondered, half amused, half bewildered. Her father often brought her to political events, so she was no stranger to attention. And with six brothers constantly invading her space, Ginny was used to being interrupted. But this… this was different. It was as though eyes followed her everywhere. Everyone’s eyes—except one.

Of course, Hermione Granger wouldn’t notice her. She lived in a world apart, books and causes and friends in Gryffindor. Ginny told herself it didn’t matter.

She hated the house rivalries; thought them the stupidest tradition ever, breeding spite instead of unity. Most Slytherins relished it, making life miserable for Gryffindors just to win the House Cup. Worse still, it made friendships across house lines feel like betrayals—befriending someone outside Slytherin was treated as disloyal, almost scandalous. Ginny had no patience for that kind of drama, and not that she was looking to befriend anyone from another house anyway. She had Astoria, and that was enough. Ginny had refused to participate in the rivalry so far, though last year Slytherin barely scraped a win over Gryffindor. This year she suspected Gryffindor would take the lead.

One afternoon, Ginny was wandering the corridors with Astoria—and, annoyingly, Ron tagging along—when a commotion echoed down the hall. Probably another spat; teenagers with the emotional range of a teaspoon, Ginny thought. But then she heard a familiar voice, sharp and clear. Her feet moved before her mind caught up. She rounded the corner to find Malfoy and his cronies squared off against Hermione and her friends. It looked like a gang war about to erupt, and Ginny couldn’t help but laugh under her breath. It was the same tired routine—Malfoy goading Potter, and when he was feeling particularly vicious, dragging Hermione into it. Ginny hated it. Or at least she told herself she shouldn’t care, that it wasn’t her concern. She kept her distance, determined that minimal interaction with Hermione was better for her health and sanity.

Astoria and Ron finally caught up with her. Astoria muttered, “Not again.”

“Malfoy needs to be stopped,” Ron growled.

“Yeah, but everyone’s afraid of him because of his father,” Astoria replied. “So no one ever does.”

“That’s why he struts around like a king. I fucking hate that bloke,” Ron spat.

I'm not afraid of him, Ginny thought, but didn’t say aloud. Her eyes followed Malfoy as he sneered, looming over Hermione again and again. This was nothing new; Hermione could hold her ground, like she always did. Ginny only wished the two boys flanking her would step up for once instead of shrinking behind her. She didn’t know who she despised more—Malfoy, or those two cowards. Well, definitely Malfoy, but the other two came close.

The argument escalated, voices rising until Hermione and Malfoy were face-to-face. And then, without warning, Hermione swung and her fist connected with Malfoy’s nose.

Ginny’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t believe Hermione had done it.

“Holy shit,” Ron muttered, half horrified, half impressed.

Ginny was impressed too—so much so she had to clasp her hands to stop herself from clapping. Elation surged in her chest. She couldn’t take her eyes off Hermione: the crease in her forehead, the sharp line between her brows, the same expression she wore when she read. Wild curls framed her furious face, and somehow, impossibly, Ginny thought she was even more beautiful like this. Her heart pounded at the sight. Hermione finished with a few final words and began to turn away. Ginny thought it was over: Hermione had won. Draco would swagger off and try the same tired tricks later—call her a mudblood, yank at her hair, bait Potter and Longbottom into a squabble. It would be repeated and repeated.

But then Malfoy’s hand slipped into his pocket. Ginny saw the glint of wood and her body went cold, blood pooled in her mouth. There's no way she would let this happen, she told herself, and without thinking she moved. Draco drew his wand, and Ginny’s fingers closed around hers with a single instinctive decision.

Her wand rose as if of its own accord. The word tore out of her throat raw and ugly—“Bastard!”—and a jet of light slammed into Malfoy’s chest. He vaulted backward, slammed into a suit of armour, and crumpled with a heavy thud, groaning. His cronies jerked backwards on reflex, eyes wide, glancing frantically around the hall as if trying to find where the spell had come from.

For a fraction of a second Ginny felt dizzy with anger but the surge curdled into something darker and sharper. How dare he point a wand at Hermione. Malfoy was already sprawled on the floor, helpless, but Ginny didn’t care. Malfoy never cared about anyone but himself; he didn’t deserve her restraint. Her vision narrowed until the rest of the corridor blurred to a tunnel, and all that remained was Malfoy and the hot rage burning inside her. She took another step; her tongue tasted metal. She could have ended him. The flash of the thought startled her even as it fuelled her—she wanted to hurt him, to make him pay in some irrevocable way.

“You absolute—” she started to hiss, intent on firing again, when a weight caught her and spun her around. Astoria’s hand was at her shoulder, fingers pinching so hard Ginny saw stars. Astoria’s voice was a frantic whisper in her ear. “Ginny, stop.”

But Ginny could barely hear; the world had gone distant. She felt Astoria’s other hand tap her cheek, over and over, until cold reality seeped back in. Astoria was shouting, Ron’s words were a haze, and someone was dragging at her sleeve. Hermione’s eyes found her—wide, unblinking, brown and curious, and something like wonder that softened the hardness in hers.

Ginny didn’t want to be pulled away. Her limbs resisted as if by animal reflex, but the gentle, firm hands of her friends were stronger. Still, her gaze stayed fixed on Hermione; Hermione’s gaze held, steady as a promise. Even as she was hauled down the corridor, Ginny couldn’t tear her eyes away.

News travelled fast. By the next morning, every corner of the castle was humming with the story. The Slytherins lapped it up, cheering that someone had finally stood up to Malfoy. Ginny, almost overnight, found herself celebrated and respected by her house. Even the other houses were whispering about it. Astoria kept her updated, gleefully reporting what people were saying. The Slytherin crown no longer rested on Malfoy’s head—Ginny was running the show now.

Whenever they passed in the corridors, Malfoy would sneer at her, but he never acted. He knew he’d already lost whatever was left of his dignity when someone from his own house—worse, a girl—had flattened him in front of half the school. For a time it was quiet; Malfoy left Hermione and her friends alone, licking his wounds in silence. Ginny was glad of that.

But in private moments, she replayed it again and again. The flash of fury, the raw surge of magic, the darkness that had gripped her when she’d seen him aim at Hermione. She hadn’t wanted that feeling, and yet part of her had thrilled in it. She called it a lapse of judgment, blamed it on teenage hormones running wild. It wasn’t about Hermione, she insisted. She was just sick of Malfoy. That was all.

Astoria, though, had grown worried. Ever since that encounter she’d been watching Ginny more closely. And Ginny understood why. She had lost control of herself, in a way that seemed to happen whenever Hermione was involved. She didn’t understand it. It felt like drowning in her own emotions, barely able to breathe. She waited for the feeling to fade, but instead it clung tighter. The confusion gnawed at her, leaving her mood sharp and irritable.

Thankfully Quidditch gave her an outlet. She buried herself in training, flying harder, faster, longer than anyone else. Any free time she had, she was in the air, the wind cutting her skin, her muscles burning. It was the only place she felt clear, as though the chaos inside her couldn’t quite reach her there.

It was just another Wednesday for Ginny. She was trudging down the corridor with Ron; Astoria had drilled them mercilessly for exams and now both of them shuffled like zombies toward the Slytherin dungeon. Ginny’s eyelids felt like lead. All she could think about was collapsing into bed fully clothed. She’d been up since dawn, running herself ragged, and she was drained. Ron’s constant groaning beside her only grated further on her nerves. She longed for silence.

Then, without warning, she was shoved back against the wall. Not hard enough to injure, but her shoulders still jarred against the stone. Irritation flared hot—whoever had dared would get her wrath.

Her retort froze on her lips. Hermione stood before her, eyes blazing, looking as though she might actually kill her. Merlin, Ginny thought, she’s so beautiful when she’s angry. The urge to smile rose instinctively, wildly inappropriate in the moment, but she fought it down, burying her giddiness. She blinked rapidly, half convinced she must be imagining things—Hermione’s big brown eyes locked on hers, chest rising and falling sharply with fury.

Ginny’s hand itched, desperate to reach out, to thread her fingers through those curls. Instead she pressed her palms flat against the wall behind her, forcing herself still, willing herself calm. She straightened, trying to look unaffected. Ron, for once silent, just gawked between them.

She had no idea what to do. Ask what Hermione wanted? Demand an explanation? The thought hit her suddenly—this was their first ever real conversation, the first time she had been this close to her. Her stomach twisted, fluttered, betraying her with the intensity of it.

“What. The. Hell. Weasley?” Hermione hissed, each word clipped like a hex.

Ginny’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “What?” she half-yelled, voice echoing down the corridor.

“Do you think just because you saved me from Malfoy you own me? Are you taking over his job now, tormenting me?” Hermione snapped, her chest still heaving.

Ginny blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Hermione scoffed, exasperated. “Oh, don’t pretend. Are you seriously going to stand there and act like you didn’t do this?”

She yanked a dripping notebook from under her arm, pages warped and wet, parchment ink smudged beyond repair. On the floor where it had been left, Hermione had found something else: a silver bracelet engraved with the initials G.W.. She held it up between them, the metal glinting accusingly in the torchlight.

Ginny instinctively clutched her left wrist. Of course—the bracelet was gone. She wore it all the time. Had she dropped it somehow without noticing? She hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings today, but she knew with absolute certainty she hadn’t touched Hermione’s notebook. Then another thought struck her like ice: someone had planted it. Malfoy. He was trying to pit them against each other, to make Hermione believe Ginny was the one tormenting her.

Ginny’s mouth went dry, but before she could form words she felt the corner of her lips twitch upward. Hermione’s fury had distracted her again, and this time she forgot to hide the smirk in time. The moment Hermione caught it, her face deepened into a darker shade of anger. She groaned in frustration and stomped her foot. Ginny nearly laughed at the display—Merlin, it was adorable. She wanted to see more of that fire, more outbursts just for her.

Hermione turned sharply, trying to compose herself, but Ginny leaned forward, craning to catch a glimpse of her angry face again. Hermione spun back too suddenly, and Ginny jerked away so fast she smacked the back of her head on the wall. “Ow,” she muttered, rubbing at it with a sheepish grin.

“You don’t know what you’ve started, Weasley,” Hermione mumbled darkly before storming off down the corridor.

Ron slid up beside Ginny as they both watched Hermione’s figure vanish around the bend.

“You saw that, right? She was really angry at me?” Ginny asked, still not convinced she’d imagined it.

“Yeah,” Ron said slowly. “Was it you?”

“What? No!” Ginny shot back, a little too quickly.

Ron barked a laugh. “Then why the hell were you smiling? You look guilty.”

The next morning Hermione struck first. Ginny had barely sat down for breakfast when her shirt was drenched in foul-smelling slime. She didn’t even want to know what it was made of. Her first instinct was fury, but when her eyes locked on Hermione across the hall, the other girl smirked and gave a mocking little wave, goading her. Ginny pressed her lips together, swallowing the laugh that threatened to rise.

Fine. If Hermione wanted a war, she’d get one. Ginny spent that night plotting her revenge.

Chapter Text

Ginny had just sat through yet another campaign meeting, one of the many she’d been dragged into over the past few weeks. And Hermione wasn’t there. That was the part that grated on her most. In fact, she hadn’t seen Hermione at all this week, and frustration gnawed at her insides.

She only had three days left before heading back to training. Three days to breathe. She wanted to maximize her time, steal even scraps of hours if she could, but Hermione was always busy. Of course she was. Hermione was always the busy one, the ambitious one. Ginny tried not to feel entitled to her time, because it wasn’t as if Hermione owed her anything. But still, it stung.

They had been texting, here and there. Sometimes even flirting, in that quick, sharp way that reminded Ginny of how they used to spar back in school. She knew Hermione liked the back-and-forth, the verbal duels, the game. But Ginny craved more. More of her attention, more of her time, more of her. The problem was, Ginny couldn’t be selfish right now.

Her phone buzzed. Astoria had sent her a message, asking if she wanted to grab something to eat. Ginny said yes. Lunch near the Ministry, nothing special, just a break in the day. She got there first, sitting at a table by the window, watching people flow by outside like currents in a river. Astoria wasn’t there yet.

The fatigue settled on her shoulders again, heavier than it should have been. It was barely lunchtime, and yet she felt drained, like she hadn’t slept in days. She pulled out her phone again, almost without thinking, and typed a quick message to Hermione—When are you going to be available?—before she could talk herself out of it.

Hermione replied faster than Ginny expected. Back-to-back meetings today and tomorrow. Probably back Thursday night. Sorry, Gin.

Ginny reread the message three times, each word tightening the dull ache in her chest. Thursday night. That was too late. She’d be gone by Thursday morning, back to training, back to her other life. Hermione was in New York, buried in international relations and diplomacy.

She slouched back in her seat, staring at the blank screen of her phone. That feeling—the one she’d been trying to outrun for years—crept back in. A dull, familiar emptiness. Just then, Astoria breezed in, apologizing for being late. She dropped into the chair opposite Ginny and glanced around.

“Why here of all places?” Astoria asked. “Loads of people will recognize you.”

Ginny, not quite herself, let slip, “I still have work I’ve got to go back to.”

Astoria’s brows shot up. “What work?”

Realizing her mistake, Ginny scrambled. “Er—just running errands for Dad,” she said quickly. Thankfully, Astoria was already buried in the menu and didn’t press.

They caught up, talk turning to Astoria’s recent dates. She groaned about being done with wizards in London, swearing she wanted to move abroad. “I heard Italian men are better partners.”

Ginny smirked. “You just want to try sleeping with Italian men, like you’re sampling new flavors. Newsflash—it’s all the same.”

Astoria laughed. “What do you know? You’ve never been with a man.”

“I’ve got enough brothers,” Ginny shot back. “Every last one’s an idiot. That’s enough data to build a case for why I wouldn’t date a man—even if I weren’t a lesbian.”

Astoria grinned. “Women are beautiful, though. I just like to be manhandled a little too much to give them a chance.”

Ginny leaned forward, whispering, “Of course, submissive slut.”

Astoria giggled, winked, and said, “You know it.”

The food arrived not long after, and while Astoria was distracted with her fork, Ginny sent Hermione a quick, cheeky text: I can’t believe you’re not seeing me before I go, Granger. I was gonna throw a party and get you drunk so I could have my way with you. 😉

Hermione shot back almost immediately. As if I’ll get that drunk with you again.

Ginny smirked at the screen. Speaking of that… you owe me one.

Owe you? Hermione asked.

Yes, Ginny typed, you owe me one orgasm.

There was a pause before Hermione’s reply came: Oh.

Ginny chuckled, thumbs moving. I never forget, Granger.

I think my memory was foggy, Hermione answered. I remember just falling asleep after I had my drink.

Yes, you fell asleep on top of me after you used me for an orgasm, Ginny teased.

Uhhh… came Hermione’s hesitant reply. Then another: I was going to lie and try and gaslight you, but I’m not sure I’m that creative.

I’m going to collect somehow, Ginny warned.

Hmm… I’ll think about it.

Ginny laughed under her breath. Talking to Hermione was always entertaining.

Astoria’s voice cut in. “Who are you texting?”

“Just my teammate,” Ginny said lightly.

“Mmm,” Astoria hummed. “What are you talking about then?”

“Just Quidditch… stuff?” Ginny tried, sounding less than convincing.

Before she could react, Astoria swiped the phone right out of her hands and read the screen. Her mouth fell open. “You’re fucking Herm—”

Ginny clapped a hand over her mouth before she could finish. “For Merlin’s sake, we’re in the middle of a restaurant full of Ministry employees. Calm down, I’ll tell you later.”

Astoria shook her head, eyes gleaming. “No, you’re going to tell me everything right now.”

“Not here,” Ginny hissed.

Without another word, Astoria waved for the waiter, paid for their untouched food, and dragged Ginny straight to the nearest Floo, ending up in Ginny’s apartment. Arms crossed, she turned to her. “Since when did you start talking to Hermione Granger?”

Ginny hesitated, pacing as she tried to come up with something that didn’t out Hermione.

“So she’s gay? Since when?” Astoria blurted, then gasped. “Maybe that’s why she hasn’t been seen with any man. Oh my gosh!”

Ginny stilled her with a plea. “Astoria, this cannot go out between us. Hardly anyone knows. I’m telling you now—you don’t know anything. You’ll forget about it. Do you understand?”

“Jeez, alright,” Astoria said, holding up her hands. “I’m not going to out her or anything. I’m just surprised because—well, you know the thing back then…”

Ginny’s jaw tightened. She knew exactly what Astoria was referring to.

Astoria smirked. “So you and Granger, huh?”

“There’s no me and Granger,” Ginny said quickly. “It’s just flirty texts, nothing more.”

But when pressed, she told Astoria everything—from the dating app, to their almost-sex, to the teasing back and forth that had followed.

Astoria squinted, trying to piece it together. “So let me get this straight. She was looking for a one-night stand to release stress, she bolted when she realized it was you, you two almost had sex, and now you’re playing some twisted game of seduction. She knows you want her, she wants you, and you’re still not boning?”

Ginny winced. “Uh… yeah. Pretty much.”

“Why are you still not boning?” Astoria demanded.

“Because she’s running for Minister, and I might complicate things if we start something.”

“Start something?” Astoria raised a brow. “Like a relationship?”

Ginny scratched the back of her neck. “Yeah…?”

Astoria narrowed her eyes. “So the reason you’ve been here longer is because of Granger?”

Ginny smiled despite herself. “Yeah. It’s been fun annoying her again. And she’s been tormenting me back.” She was grinning like a fool as she recounted their exchanges.

Astoria listened carefully, then gave a little “huh” as though she had just confirmed something.

Ginny frowned. “What? I know that look, Tori. What is it now?”

Astoria leaned back. “Are you still leaving for training?”

Ginny’s brows furrowed. “Yeah, of course I am. Why?”

Astoria suddenly snatched Ginny’s phone and began scrolling. Ginny lunged forward. “Who are you calling?”

Astoria shushed her with a finger and cooed sweetly into the receiver. “Hey Nicolette, how are you? Yeah, it’s me, Astoria. I know I’m calling from Ginny’s phone. She’s alright.”

Ginny’s eyes widened. She mouthed what are you doing? but Astoria waved her off, listening intently.

“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” Astoria continued. “Listen, I called because something important came up. You remember what we talked about a while ago?”

Ginny craned her ear, trying to catch Nicolette’s muffled reply.

“Yes, that one,” Astoria said smoothly. “Do you think you can help us out? Ginny needs more time.”

Ginny threw her hands in the air, mouthing what the hell are you talking about?

Astoria ignored her, walking into the other room with the phone pressed close. Ginny could only pace in the kitchen, waiting in growing agitation.

Finally, Astoria returned, handing Ginny her phone with a triumphant smile.

Ginny snatched it back. “What was that about?”

“I just bought you five more months,” Astoria said smugly.

Ginny gaped. “You what?”

Astoria gripped her shoulders. “You’ve got five months, Gin. Do not fuck this up.”

Realization dawned. “Tori, Hermione and I are never going to happen. We’re friends now.”

Astoria rolled her eyes, then slapped Ginny’s cheek a little too hard.  “Listen to me, Ginevra Weasley. You and Hermione can play this game over and over, but I know you. I was with you after she graduated. I was staring at you from outside the restaurant earlier, and I know that fucking look on your face. You’re doing it again.”

The memories of the past flashed through Ginny’s mind. “I’m not a hormonal teenager anymore, if you’re forgetting. I have control over my emotional and mental faculties. And also this isn’t the same thing. She has a goal she’s trying to achieve and I’m…” She trailed off, not quite knowing how to describe it.

“Lost and lonely?” Astoria cut in sharply. “Then Hermione Granger appeared and suddenly you’ve got this glow on you that’s been missing for years?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “That sounds too dramatic. You’re making it sound like I’m in love with her. Of course I want to have sex with Hermione, but that can’t happen.”

“Oh, shut up,” Astoria said, clearly exasperated. “If you two can’t date publicly, who cares? If she can’t date because of her schedule, then make it work. You’re free for the next five months—be her beck and call, sex on a stick she can whip out whenever. Nobody needs to know you two are boning. Stop making excuses. I know for a fact you haven’t put in the effort.”

Ginny palmed her face, feeling utterly defeated. Astoria was right—she hadn’t really pushed for it. Aside from their flirty interactions, she’d done nothing concrete. She hadn’t wanted to risk making Hermione run. She understood Hermione’s worries, she really did. But deep down, Ginny knew that if she made an effort, she could seduce her—because Hermione already wanted her. All she needed was the right push.

“Where is she?” Astoria asked.

“New York,” Ginny muttered.

“And where should you be?”

Ginny sighed. “New York.”

“Good girl. Now chop chop. Call me after your mind-blowing sex.” Astoria shoved her toward her room, and before closing the door added, “Make it happen, Weasley. Don’t come back to London without having the Hermione Granger.” She blew a kiss and shut the door with a flourish.

Ginny groaned but did as she was told. She packed a small bag, grabbed her wand, and called Tina to find out where Hermione was staying, making sure to disguise the request as if she needed to send Hermione some important files. After arranging for a Portkey, she debated whether she should book her own hotel. But then she smirked—better to have the excuse to stay with Hermione so she couldn’t back out.

By 8 p.m., Ginny was already making her way to Hermione’s hotel. She shot Hermione a quick text: Let me know when you’re back in your room. Need to call you.

You can call me now, Hermione replied.

The moment she answered, Ginny asked brightly, “Did you miss me?”

Hermione scoffed. “I love peace and quiet, and when you’re not around it actually seems achievable.”

Ginny chuckled. “How’s your day been?”

“Boring,” Hermione admitted with a sigh. “I’m already so tired and ready to pass out.”

“Are you by yourself in your room?”

“Yes?” Hermione said, though it came out uncertain.

“You sound unsure.”

“Yes. Why are you asking?”

Ginny lowered her voice. “What are you wearing?”

Hermione coughed. “A robe. I just got out of the shower.”

“Nothing underneath?” Ginny pressed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Hermione shot back.

“I really want to know,” Ginny said, voice husky.

There was a pause, then Hermione’s voice softened. “Nothing underneath. Just me.”

Ginny hummed approvingly. “You want some company?”

“Maybe.”

“Yes or no, Granger.”

A beat of silence, then a quiet, “Yes.”

At that exact moment, she knocked on Hermione’s door. A startled yelp came through the receiver. “Hold on, someone’s at the door.”

Ginny said nothing, grinning as she covered the peephole so Hermione wouldn’t see her. The door cracked open, and Hermione’s eyes widened when she saw who it was. Ginny grinned back, gaze flicking down to confirm Hermione really was just in a robe.

She pushed the door open and Hermione stepped back, half amused, half startled.

“What are you doing here? Did Neville send you?” Hermione asked, still clutching the edge of her robe.

Ginny kicked the door shut behind her, dropped her bag to the side, and stalked forward with the steady prowl of a predator. Hermione gulped, retreating step by step until the back of her legs hit the dresser.

Ginny’s eyes dropped to the ties of her robe. She rested a hand there, then lifted her gaze to Hermione’s.

“I’ve come to collect,” she murmured, her voice husky. With deliberate slowness, she tugged the tie loose, letting the robe fall open. Hermione hadn’t been lying—there was nothing underneath.

Heat surged through Ginny’s veins as her smirk deepened. Hermione’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her knuckles white as she gripped the dresser for support.

Ginny trailed a single finger from between Hermione’s collarbones down to her stomach, savoring the way Hermione’s cheeks flushed and her lips parted, her eyes locked on Ginny’s every move. Hermione whispered, almost breathless, “Ginny…” but made no move to stop her. Ginny leaned in closer, their lips just a whisper apart, and murmured, “Still ready to pass out, Granger? Or do you think I can keep you awake a little longer?”

Hermione shook her head, whispering, “I know we’ve been… uhh—”

“Flirting?” Ginny finished for her, a sly smile tugging her lips. “You see, somebody pointed out to me something really important today. You want me, I want you. So what’s the problem? We’re just friends having fun.”

She leaned in, planting a soft kiss on Hermione’s ear without letting their bodies touch. Hermione shivered, her breath catching. Another kiss, lower this time, made Hermione’s knees wobble.

“Just destressing after a long day. Nothing more,” Ginny whispered, hands already brushing down her own blouse, unfastening buttons one by one as she peppered kisses along Hermione’s neck. “Would you like that?”

Hermione said weakly, “I’m—I. I can’t.”

Ginny brushed her lips lightly against Hermione’s, close enough to feel her warm breath. It took effort not to bite down—Merlin, she wanted to. “Is that a no?” she whispered.

Hermione stayed silent, trembling.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” Ginny groaned. “Do you know how many times I’ve touched myself thinking about how you used me? It was so good.” Her voice dropped into a low moan.

Hermione whimpered, her legs pressing tightly together, seeking friction. Friction Ginny would be more than happy to give—if only Hermione would let her.

Ginny stripped down herself until she stood naked in front of Hermione. This is it, she thought. No going back. What if she sends me away? But there was no time to dwell.

Hermione still hadn’t opened her eyes, her hands gripping the dresser behind her. Ginny parted the robe wider, drinking in the sight of her—Hermione’s nipples already hard, her chest heaving. Ginny hummed in satisfaction.

She caught Hermione’s hand and pressed it to her own bare skin, guiding it slowly up her toned torso so Hermione could feel every ridge of muscle. She remembered Hermione liked it. Hermione was breathless now, trembling with restraint.

Ginny lifted Hermione’s hand higher, brushing her fingers over her nipples. Hermione gasped, eyes snapping open—big brown eyes, dilated and hazy, filled with hunger. Ginny’s grin widened. She loved that look. Hermione’s gaze roamed greedily over her body now, her hands slowly beginning to explore. One cupped Ginny’s chest, the other dug into her waist, and Ginny’s head tipped back with a groan, every nerve ending alight from Hermione’s touch. Wet heat pooled between her thighs. When Hermione’s thumb brushed over her nipple, she moaned outright, breath coming faster, dizzy with arousal.

Ginny tugged at Hermione’s robe and this time Hermione let it fall away entirely. Her hands kept moving, almost desperate, as if she had to learn every inch of Ginny by touch alone.

Fuck, Ginny remembered—she needed Hermione to agree to this. She tilted Hermione’s chin up until their eyes met. “Hermione,” she said, voice unsteady, guiding Hermione’s hand lower, pressing it between her thighs. Hermione’s fingers slipped against her wetness and she mumbled, “Fuck.”

Ginny smirked, satisfaction curling through her. She’d made Hermione curse again. “So tell me,” she murmured, “are we going to do this… or should I finish it myself?”

The thought of Ginny touching herself in front of Hermione made Ginny’s body clench with heat. Hermione's eyes searched Ginny’s, voice unsteady. “Just friends having fun.”

Ginny smiled wickedly. “Just friends helping each other come.”

Hermione’s expression flickered, worry breaking through. “I haven’t done this, Ginny. I’ve never been with a woman.”

Ginny pressed closer until their warm bodies were flush. She slid her arms over Hermione’s shoulders, lips grazing her ear. “And you’re doing great. You felt how wet I am for you.”

Hermione’s eyes rolled back with a groan. Dirty talk—clearly her weakness. Ginny grinned to herself. Hermione’s fingers moved again, and Ginny moaned, her legs trembling. She needed to come, and soon.

“Hermione, please,” she whined, hips bucking helplessly. “Yes or no?”

Hermione’s eyes locked with hers, then a finger pushed inside. Ginny gasped, struggling to keep her eyes open as the sensation overwhelmed her. Merlin, Hermione’s fingers were inside her. She wasn’t going to last. But then, just as suddenly, Hermione pulled back halfway, withdrawing completely. Ginny’s eyes snapped open in confusion, frustration clawing through her. Right—Hermione still hadn’t decided. Her lust was drowning her reason, dragging her under.

She braced herself for a refusal—but instead watched Hermione lift those slick fingers to her lips and suck them slowly into her mouth. Ginny’s knees buckled and she would have fallen if Hermione hadn’t caught her. Hermione’s eyes were darker now, hunger written all over her face, a smirk curving her lips.

“Yes,” Hermione whispered.

Chapter Text

Ginny pressed her body flush against Hermione’s, one hand sliding to the back of her neck to pull her closer. Their mouths collided, desperate, breathless, each kiss messier than the last, both of them needing more, needing closer. Ginny shifted her thigh between Hermione’s legs and nearly groaned aloud when she felt the wet heat waiting there. She bit down gently on Hermione’s bottom lip, tugging it before releasing with a low, hungry sound.

Hermione’s hands were everywhere, greedy and possessive. She grabbed Ginny’s ass, fingers digging in hard, pulling her even closer until Ginny could feel the press of Hermione’s nipples against her own chest. The thought of tasting them made her groan into Hermione’s mouth, the ache inside her unbearable now.

“I need you to fuck me. Now,” Ginny breathed, voice shaking. Hermione’s mouth was already trailing down her throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks. Ginny stumbled, afraid her knees might give out under the weight of it all, and guided them blindly toward the bed, never letting Hermione’s lips leave her skin.

By the time they reached it, Ginny was gasping. Hermione’s hands found her breasts, teasing and rolling her nipples until she cried out.

“Oh, God,” Ginny moaned. The sharp pleasure shot straight to her clit, and she collapsed back onto the mattress. For one fleeting moment, with Hermione’s mouth and hands gone, Ginny’s mind cleared just enough to catch her breath.

She scrambled backward, centering herself on the bed as Hermione crawled after her. Ginny shuddered at the sight of her—wild hair, hungry eyes—as Hermione’s hands dragged up her thighs, over her hips, finally cupping her breasts again. Her lips followed, leaving kisses, then wet trails across Ginny’s chest until her mouth closed over one nipple.

“Shit—” Ginny’s whole body arched, the wet flick of Hermione’s tongue nearly undoing her. She was already so wound tight that every touch felt magnified, too much. She writhed under Hermione, chasing friction, gasping, “Please—I’m not going to last long.”

Hermione’s fingers finally slipped lower, sliding through her folds, gathering wetness before circling her clit with unhurried precision. Ginny nearly screamed, her body jerking off the bed, moans spilling uncontrollably. Hermione’s mouth kept sucking, licking, torturing her nipples while her fingers worked steady, relentless circles below.

Ginny panted, her body trembling, every muscle wound taut. Then it snapped—pleasure surged like fire through her veins, tearing a guttural moan from her throat as she came hard, body quaking, thighs clamping around Hermione’s hand.

Hermione stilled, wide-eyed, watching her unravel. “Did you just… come?” she asked, almost bewildered.

Flushed and breathless, Ginny nodded, licking her lips with a sheepish grin. “Told you I wasn’t going to last long.” She rolled them over in one swift move, pinning Hermione beneath her. Raising a brow, she smirked down. “Are you sure this is your first time?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed crimson, but Ginny only leaned down, whispering hot against her ear. “That was so fucking hot. I want you to do it again later… but right now, it’s your turn.”

Hermione’s hands immediately reached for her again, but Ginny caught them and pinned them above her head. The look on Hermione’s face told her she liked it—arched back, lips parted, eyes impossibly dark. She whined, “Ginny…”

Ginny gave her a devilish grin. “Keep your hands there. It’s my turn to explore you.”

She lowered her mouth close, teasing. “Do I taste good?”

Hermione’s body shuddered. Ginny’s voice softened with command. “Answer me.”

“So good,” Hermione groaned.

“Do you want to taste me again?” Ginny asked, and Hermione nodded so fast it made Ginny laugh. Her hands twitched, trying to reach, but Ginny pressed them back down firmly.

“Uh-uh. Don’t move,” Ginny warned. “We’ll have plenty of opportunities for that.”

She settled between Hermione’s thighs, parting them wider, and her breath hitched at the sight of Hermione’s glistening centre. She was soaked—so ready—and the sight made Ginny suddenly feel hungry in a way that twisted low in her belly. Desire burned hot in her gut, and she had to fight the urge to touch herself. Hermione watched with hooded eyes as Ginny’s hands roamed slowly over her body, kissing and tasting everywhere but where Hermione most wanted, stoking the ache higher with every deliberate pass. Hermione whimpered softly, her hips twitching up, silently begging for more, while Ginny lingered just out of reach, savoring every moment of control.

Hermione squirmed beneath her, fists gripping the covers at her sides. Ginny pinched one nipple lightly and Hermione whimpered, the sound nearly undoing her. Ginny wanted to take her fast and hard, but she reminded herself—this was Hermione’s first time with a woman. She needed to make her feel good, make sure she enjoyed every second.

She cupped Hermione’s breast, marveling at the heavier weight in her hand compared to her own. She couldn’t hold back anymore; she lowered her mouth to take a nipple between her lips, sucking and licking while her fingers teased the other. Hermione writhed and moaned under the attention.

“Stop teasing me,” Hermione murmured, breath shaky.

Ginny tugged at her nipple with her mouth before pulling back to meet her eyes. “I want to make it nice and slow for you, Granger. I’m trying to be a gentlewoman here.”

But Hermione wasn’t listening—her eyes were locked on Ginny’s breasts, mouth open in a daze. Ginny ground her thigh against Hermione’s centre and felt the immediate gasp, the hungry roll of her hips chasing friction. Ginny bit her lip at the sight, then pulled her leg away again, leaving Hermione desperate and trembling. Hermione groaned, annoyance flashing in her eyes, which only made Ginny smirk. God, she was going to have so much fun with her. Another kind of sweet torture she could use on Hermione—though maybe not tonight, because she had plans for exactly what she wanted to do with her body.

She kissed Hermione again, slow and deep, while her hand slid lower to cup her centre. Hermione’s hips bucked instantly. Ginny swiped her fingers across and found her clit already hard and swollen, and she groaned into Hermione’s mouth at the discovery. She sucked hard at Hermione’s neck as her fingers circled, mimicking what Hermione had done to her earlier. Slow, deliberate, building her higher.

Hermione started panting uncontrollably, and Ginny pulled back just enough to watch her. The sight of Hermione teetering on the edge made Ginny’s fingers move faster, pressing harder, coaxing her body tighter and tighter.

“Mmm,” Ginny murmured, voice thick with desire. “Come for me.”

Hermione’s arms flew around Ginny’s neck, dragging her down into a messy, hungry kiss as the climax tore through her. She panted and moaned into Ginny’s mouth, lips trembling, teeth grazing as she tried to catch her breath. Her body arched up into Ginny’s, thighs trembling and clamping tight around Ginny’s hand as waves of release rippled through her. Ginny held her steady, savoring the way Hermione writhed and shuddered against her, drinking in every sound and every twitch of her body until the aftershocks finally eased, leaving Hermione flushed, gasping, and utterly undone beneath her.

But Ginny wasn’t satisfied. “More,” she growled against Hermione’s lips. “More.”

Before Hermione could even catch her breath, Ginny slid down and buried herself between her thighs. Within seconds, she was tasting Hermione’s release, flattening her tongue and lapping it all up. The taste, the heat—it made her dizzy with arousal, and she forgot everything else except how intoxicating Hermione was on her tongue.

Hermione’s helpless moans filled the room, her hands tangling into Ginny’s hair, nails scratching lightly against her scalp. Ginny groaned at the tug, and the vibration sent a shudder through Hermione’s body, her legs shaking around Ginny’s shoulders. Ginny focused on her clit, licking it again and again, relentless even though she knew Hermione was still sensitive from her first orgasm. The way Hermione jerked and gasped told Ginny she was already spiraling toward another.

“Gin…ny…” Hermione panted, voice broken.

“Hermione,” Ginny called up to her, voice commanding. “Look at me.”

Hermione forced her eyes open, dazed and glassy. Ginny gave her one long, slow lick, never breaking eye contact. “Don’t look away,” she murmured.

Hermione whimpered, watching her with wide eyes as Ginny’s mouth returned to her clit, sucking and flicking until her hips bucked wildly. Ginny growled low, the sound vibrating against her sensitive flesh. “More,” she demanded.

Hermione cried out, body tensing, hands pushing Ginny closer as her legs clamped tight around her. A guttural moan tore from her throat before her body shuddered violently and she fell back onto the bed, spent and trembling.

Ginny kissed her way back up her body, tasting sweat and satisfaction on Hermione’s skin, only to find that she’d passed out on her again. Ginny smirked to herself, thinking, well, that was a success.

Ginny woke to the sound of a door clicking. Her hand instinctively reached to the side where Hermione had been, only to find the space empty. Blinking her eyes open, she spotted Hermione returning, carefully balancing a breakfast tray.

“Good morning,” Hermione said shyly, her cheeks flushed pink. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I ordered us breakfast.”

As if on cue, Ginny’s stomach grumbled loudly, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since Astoria had dragged her home the night before. She’d skipped dinner too, busy plotting her trip here.

“I’m starving,” Ginny admitted, sitting up and reaching greedily for the food—forgetting she was still completely naked. The covers slipped, baring her breasts, and Hermione froze, eyes widening. Ginny smirked, biting into a sausage with deliberate slowness. “You like what you see, Granger?”

Hermione rolled her eyes quickly, but the flush in her cheeks betrayed her. She was already dressed for work, Ginny noticed belatedly, her blouse buttoned neatly even as she tried to focus on her own breakfast. But Ginny spotted the little furrow between her brows.

Pulling the sheet loosely around herself, Ginny tilted her head. “What’s the problem?”

Hermione stopped chewing, looking like she’d been caught out. Ginny waited, patient.

“Our… arrangement. We need to set some terms,” Hermione finally said.

Ginny barked out a laugh. “Of course you do. Tell me, then.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Right. First—this stays a secret. Fewer complications that way.”

Ginny nodded. Fair enough.

“No kissing outside of this… whatever this is. Boundaries between friendship and our arrangement.”

Ginny wanted to protest but swallowed it back, giving another nod.

“If one of us isn’t happy, we end it.”

“That’s fair,” Ginny agreed.

“And lastly… no feelings. My campaign, my career—they’re my priority. I can’t risk it.” Hermione’s gaze searched Ginny’s, almost pleading for understanding.

Ginny nodded slowly. “That’s all?”

“Yeah, I think so. Do you want to add anything?”

“I’ll think on it. For now, I’m happy with that,” Ginny said easily, and Hermione looked relieved.

Ginny leaned back with a cheeky grin. “I, uh, didn’t book a room. I was too determined to get you into bed, so I figured I wouldn’t need one.”

Hermione huffed softly but shook her head. “It’s fine. You can stay here if you want. How long are you even in New York?” She paused, then her eyes went wide. “Your training!”

“Relax,” Ginny said with a grin. “There were some changes—I’m free for the next five months.” She shifted the plates onto the desk, letting the covers slide down again, and pushed Hermione gently back onto the bed before crawling on top of her.

Hermione’s eyes darkened, her hands sliding instinctively to Ginny’s hips. Ginny smirked. “That means I’m free. You call me, and I’ll be there day or night. Think of it as your own personal stress relief hotline. You call—I deliver pleasure. Sound good?”

Hermione bit her lip and nodded, cheeks pink.

“So what do you need me to do today?” Ginny asked, eyes glinting.

“I’ve got boring meetings all day. You can explore New York… unless you’d rather sit in?” Hermione offered.

Ginny pretended to think it over, tapping her chin dramatically. “Hmm… making you think about how I made you come last night, or a tour of the city?”

Hermione gave a startled laugh and pushed her away, flustered. “I’ve changed my mind—you can’t come with me anymore.”

Ginny laughed, sprawling back against the pillows, entirely too pleased with herself.

After New York, Ginny was utterly swimming in delight. Astoria had been blowing up her phone with messages demanding details, but Ginny had promised she’d tell her everything once she got back. Now that they were back in London, Ginny felt like cooking.

She prepared a couple of dishes to bring to the Ministry, knowing Hermione’s team would be working overtime again. Might as well be useful, she thought, humming happily as she chopped and stirred in the kitchen.

The Floo roared, and Ginny expected Astoria to come barging in. Instead, when she turned, it was her mum.

“Hello, dear,” Molly greeted, her expression full of worry. “Are you alright?”

“Mom? What are you doing here?” Ginny asked, startled.

“You told us you were taking an extended leave, and I just wanted to check in on you,” Molly explained gently. Right—Ginny had sent that message in the family group chat. She’d forgotten entirely, her brain still scrambled from New York and Hermione.

“I’m great, Mom. Really. Just needed some time off. I’ve been going nonstop since I graduated, and I just wanted to recharge a bit,” Ginny said with a reassuring smile.

“Of course, honey. Whatever you need.” Molly’s gaze drifted to the food spread across the counter. “Are you having a party?”

“No, I’m bringing this to Hermione’s team. They’re working late tonight,” Ginny said lightly, resuming her humming as she packed containers.

Molly’s lips curved knowingly. “How is Miss Granger?”

Ginny couldn’t help but smile, heat creeping up her cheeks as flashes of New York played in her mind. “She’s amazing! Busy, as always. You should’ve seen her in her last rounds of mock interviews—she’s brilliant, Mum. She’s definitely going to be Minister.” Ginny’s voice held quiet pride.

Molly rounded the counter and began helping her pack, and for a few minutes they worked side by side, chatting about little things.

Then, the peace shattered. A loud voice barrelled in through the Floo: “Did you drown in Hermione’s pussy that you can’t answer my messages anymo—” Astoria froze mid-sentence, her eyes widening at the sight of Molly.

Ginny dropped her head into her hands. So much for keeping things a secret. “Good job, Tori.”

Astoria winced, mouthing sorry before giving Molly a small wave. “Hi, Molly. Any chance you didn’t hear any of that?”

“So you finally corrupted Miss Granger,” Molly said calmly, a wry edge to her tone.

Astoria snorted. “Oh yeah, and probably more.”

Ginny hurled a carrot at her. “Mum, we’ve talked about this. There’s no corruption. We’re just friends.”

“Well, according to what Astoria’s saying…” Molly countered.

“Ignore Astoria. She just wants to stir things up,” Ginny muttered, glaring at her friend.

Molly crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “If you’re not going to tell me the truth, maybe I should just ask Hermione instead.” She turned as if to leave.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Ginny grabbed her arm, panic rising. Fuck, they had just started their arrangement—she wasn’t going to mess this up already. “Fine. There’s… something between me and Hermione.” She couldn’t bring herself to say friends with benefits; her mother would never understand that. “But please, don’t tell her you know. We agreed to keep it a secret, and I don’t want her thinking I’ve been blabbing.” Ginny’s voice softened as she looked at her mum pleadingly.

“Of course, that’s not a problem,” Molly said, her tone gentler now. “Tell me—she’s treating you nice, isn’t she?”

How the hell was Ginny supposed to answer that when all they did was annoy each other and laugh about it—and now there was the added complication of sex. Great fucking sex. Brain-numbingly good sex. Fuck, now she was thinking about Hermione again, heat crawling up her neck.

“You already know she’s great. I just said it earlier,” Ginny muttered, hoping that was enough.

Molly nodded approvingly. “That’s good. Can you invite her to the next family dinner next month? Don’t give me an excuse, Ginevra. I want to know who my daughter is dating.”

“We are not dating. We are just friends!” Ginny repeated quickly.

Molly shook her head, unimpressed. “I still need to get to know her more.”

“Fine,” Ginny sighed in defeat.

She turned to Astoria, narrowing her eyes. “Are you free tonight?”

Astoria blinked. “Yeah… why?”

“Just trying to schedule your funeral,” Ginny deadpanned.

Chapter Text

Hermione stared intently at the front page of the morning Prophet, her eyes fixed on the bold headline: Cornelius Fudge Running for Re-Election. She’d probably read it five times already, but each pass did nothing to settle the unease swirling in her stomach.

Fudge entering the race against her was a problem. According to the latest poll, she was leading by seven percent, but she knew better than to relax. Fudge was beloved by many pure-blood families, and with their backing, the fight would be brutal. Hermione could already see the dirty tactics lining up.

To her, Fudge’s tenure as Minister had been one of the worst in memory. The pure-blood elite had poured their fortunes into lobbying, and Fudge had approved nearly every measure that tilted power in their favor. It didn’t take a genius to suspect he was lining his own pockets in the process, but no one had ever managed to prove it. Corruption without evidence was still corruption that got away unpunished.

Which meant she needed to remain vigilant. Extra vigilant. Her team had already started compiling information on who was backing Fudge and what their tactics might look like this time around. Unsurprisingly, the names were a roll call of pure-blood dynasties: Malfoy, Nott, Goyle, Flint, and more. Old families with deep coffers and even deeper grudges.

Her campaign announcement was scheduled for next week. Once she stepped forward officially, the attacks would begin. Hermione wasn’t afraid—she had weathered worse—but she knew she had to be careful with every word and every move. Any slip would be turned into a scandal, splashed across every headline.

Now, seated around the long table with her core campaign team, she listened as they rattled off strategies, digging into the history of Fudge’s first election. One advisor reminded her how his rivals had been paraded across tabloids, torn down for petty missteps until their reputations were in tatters. Hermione’s quill tapped rhythmically against her notes as she considered it.

“This is exactly what we need to anticipate,” Hermione said firmly. “Smear campaigns, false stories, character assassinations. They will try to paint me as incompetent, unfit, even immoral. We can’t underestimate how far they’ll go.”

Her voice carried through the room, calm but commanding. The team leaned in, already scribbling ideas, already outlining countermoves. The game had begun, and Hermione Granger was not going to let Cornelius Fudge—or the families bankrolling him—drag her down.

Her quill paused when her phone buzzed with a message from Ginny: How are you holding up with the news? Fudge is a dick, he’ll do anything to win.

Hermione’s lips quirked despite herself. She replied quickly: You’re right. We’re already planning around that possibility now.

That’s good, Ginny shot back. Let me know when you need me.

Thank you. I will, Hermione typed, and tucked the phone aside.

They’d developed a routine now. With Ginny’s unexpected availability, she wasn’t part of the campaign staff anymore, but she dropped in often—sometimes to lend a hand, more often with boxes of food she’d cooked herself. It had become almost normal: Ginny perched at the edge of the table, teasing the team, handing out meals. Harry and Neville were especially fond of her, though Hermione suspected it had more to do with being fed properly than anything else.

It had been a month since their arrangement began, and Hermione had to admit—it was working. She wasn’t sexually frustrated anymore; her mood had lifted, her edges softened. But there was something else, something harder to explain. Sex with Ginny wasn’t just release—it was enlightening. Every single time left her shaking, wanting, and somehow clearer than before.

She hadn’t been one to crave sex. But lately, she’d found herself initiating more often than Ginny. She’d learned the way Ginny’s thighs trembled and tightened around her head right before she came, the way Ginny tried desperately to cling to control but failed. She’d memorized the breathy, broken sounds Ginny made from the back of her throat when she tipped over the edge.

Hermione had never felt this hunger before—this craving for more, in every way, every position, every moment she could steal. It was heady. Addictive. While the entire sleeping-with-women aspect was new for her, she was grateful for how patient Ginny had been, never mocking her when she asked ridiculous questions, always answering and explaining with ease. Hermione found herself eager and excited to explore, to try new things with Ginny. Ginny was open with her in ways that felt both thrilling and reassuring, and Hermione liked that—liked it more than she expected.

She noticed how Ginny, before sex, was flirtatious and teasing, firmly in control, but she would unravel the moment Hermione kissed her. Afterwards, once Ginny came, she would reclaim that control and Hermione would be at her mercy again. Ginny could whisper what she wanted to do to Hermione and her body would react instantly, as though bewitched. Hermione had never been so ridiculously receptive.

There was still so much she hadn’t experienced yet, and just the thought of it made her stomach dip in anticipation. The fact that she actually wanted to seek Ginny out, to let her take her apart just to clear her mind of campaign stress, confirmed what she already knew: she had never experienced anything like this with anyone else. Before, she would retreat alone, waiting for her thoughts to settle. Now, she craved Ginny instead.

She checked the clock and realized it was already past lunch—she’d been buried in work so deeply she hadn’t even noticed the time. Her fingers drummed restlessly on the desk as her eyes flicked toward her phone. There was no point in denying herself anymore.

She typed a quick message to Ginny: Where are you?

The reply came within seconds. At home. Bored.

Can I come over? Hermione asked.

Yes. Of course.

She had never been to Ginny’s flat before. Ginny had always insisted that after they slept together Hermione should rest and save herself the back-and-forth travel. It suited Hermione fine—she usually passed out after a night with Ginny, exhaustion from the campaign mixing with the overwhelming haze of multiple orgasms. More than once she’d woken up to find breakfast waiting on the table, Ginny gone out for a run, only to see her again at lunch or dinner. They saw each other nearly every day now.

They were discreet about it. She didn’t think Neville or Harry suspected anything—and if they did, she would never hear the end of it.

Hermione Flooed to Ginny’s apartment, bracing herself for the first glimpse of her space. She hadn’t expected the flat to be this big—Ginny was rarely home, and Hermione had always imagined something smaller.

“In here!” Ginny called, her voice carrying from the kitchen. Hermione followed the sound and found Ginny beaming at her, waving her over. The smell of something baking drifted through the room, warm and savory. Hermione inhaled deeply, smiling despite herself. She loved Ginny’s cooking.

“What are you making?” she asked, unable to hide her curiosity.

“Just creamy baked chicken,” Ginny said with a shrug. “Figured you hadn’t eaten yet—you never text during lunch when you do.”

Hermione groaned softly, touched and amused all at once. She wasn’t used to anyone paying this much attention to her habits, but it felt… nice.

Ginny stepped closer, nudging Hermione gently back against the counter, caging her in with both arms. Their faces were inches apart. Hermione’s fingers threaded through Ginny’s copper hair, the strands vivid against her pale skin.

“How are you?” Ginny asked, voice soft, almost careful.

Hermione sighed, still playing with her hair, unsure how to put words to the strange calm seeping through her. Around Ginny, her mind quieted. For once, she didn’t feel the urge to think, to plan, to analyze.

Instead, she buried her face in Ginny’s neck and whispered, “I’m okay now.”

Ginny’s arms wrapped around her, fingers tracing lightly up her spine. Even the simple touch made Hermione shiver—Ginny’s long fingers always made her body hum. Hermione tried to banish the thought of how good they felt inside her, but it lingered anyway. She pressed a kiss to Ginny’s neck, then another, pulling her closer until she felt Ginny begin to tremble with restrained want. Ginny tilted her chin up, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was soft at first, then deepened as her tongue swept over Hermione’s bottom lip, asking for more. Their tongues tangled in a delicious rhythm, and Hermione thought fleetingly that Ginny was such a great kisser—then corrected herself. Ginny was good at everything. She always had been. Back at Hogwarts, Hermione had watched her excel at Quidditch, manage decent marks even in subjects that weren’t her forte, and pull off elaborate pranks with an effortless creativity that Hermione secretly admired, even when she was the target. Ginny could play innocent when she wanted, but she always knew how to get a reaction, even from Hermione’s carefully built walls of control.

Ginny lifted her easily onto the counter without breaking the kiss. Hermione felt her skirt ride up around her waist as Ginny’s hands slid over her thighs, nails scratching just enough to send shivers racing up her spine. She groaned, already wanting more, head tipping back as Ginny’s mouth descended to her neck.

“How much time do we have?” Ginny whispered against her skin.

“Not a lot,” Hermione admitted, breathless.

Ginny pulled her legs wider, slipping her hand beneath her skirt, pushing damp underwear aside. Hermione gasped—she was already so ready for her. Ginny nipped at her ear as her fingers slipped inside, and Hermione moaned, clinging to her shoulders. Ginny’s pace was firm, sure, adding another finger before Hermione could even adjust. Their kisses turned messy as Ginny curled inside her, her palm pressing against her clit until Hermione’s whole body tightened. Her legs trembled, her breath came in broken gasps, and then she shattered, the release rolling through her in waves that left her shaking, clinging, and utterly undone. Satisfaction settled over her like warm sunlight as she sagged against Ginny, still quivering from the aftershocks.

When Hermione finally regained herself, she kissed Ginny again, sliding off the counter with shaky legs. Her fingers tugged at the hem of Ginny’s shirt, intent on peeling it away, but Ginny caught her wrists and chuckled. “Later,” she teased. “You need to eat before you head back to work.”

Hermione pouted, lips brushing against Ginny’s chin in protest, but conceded. The smell of baked chicken drifting from the oven reminded her that she was actually starving.

“Shit,” Ginny muttered suddenly.

Hermione blinked at her. “What?”

Ginny looked as though she was debating whether to confess, her expression guilty and adorably awkward. Hermione found it almost cute.

“I forgot to tell you… my mum asked if you’d come to family dinner. I tried to get out of it, I promise, but she’s insisting, and—Merlin—I completely forgot to mention it.”

Hermione laughed, a little surprised. “What’s wrong with dinner? It’s not like I’ve never been there before.”

Then it hit her—maybe Ginny didn’t want her there. Her smile faltered. “Unless… you don’t want me to go?” Her voice softened, tentative.

“What? No!” Ginny blurted, panicked. “It’s not that. It’s just—ugh—my mother… Merlin.” She dragged a hand down her face and groaned. “This is so embarrassing.”

Ginny exhaled and forced herself to meet Hermione’s gaze. “I know we agreed to keep this a secret, but… my mum already knows about us. She’s known since the last time you came over.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Ginny rushed out, shoulders slumping. “I know we made a deal, and I… I understand if this makes you want to end things.”

Hermione kissed Ginny’s cheek gently and murmured, “It’s alright.” Ginny managed a small smile, leaning in to peck her lips.

“What time is it?” Hermione asked softly.

“Same time as last time,” Ginny replied. “We can go together if you want.”

Hermione nodded, and Ginny added quickly, “I made Mum promise to pretend she doesn’t know anything. But… she’s the worst actress, and she’ll probably corner you at some point. I told her we’re just friends, but she’s not convinced.”

Hermione chuckled at Ginny’s panicked look. “It’s fine. I like your mum—she seems trustworthy. We’ll just get through one dinner.”

Hermione and Ginny arrived together at the Burrow, everything seeming perfectly normal at first. Fred and George were the only ones in the sitting room when they came early, and Hermione found herself chatting with them about their latest joke products while Ginny slipped off toward the kitchen to check on her mum.

Arthur soon appeared, greeting Hermione warmly. After a few pleasantries, his expression grew more serious. “I must say, Hermione, it does me good to see someone like you running against Fudge. You’re a stark contrast to him, and people will see that. But you need to be cautious.”

Hermione nodded. “We’re already preparing for the worst. My team knows they’ll play dirty, and we’re planning around that.”

Arthur’s eyes softened with both pride and concern. “Good. I’ll send through a few journalists I trust—you’ll want allies in the press. And I’ve already started sounding out a few contacts about backing you. If they truly want Cornelius back, then they’re planning something big. It’s worrying. And I want to help however I can.”

Hermione’s heart warmed at his sincerity. “Thank you, Arthur. That means more than I can say.”

Arthur gave her an encouraging smile. “You should also put yourself out there more—more interviews, more public appearances. People need to see you, hear you. That’s how they’ll believe in you.” As he spoke, he slipped an embossed envelope into her hand.

“It’s an invitation to our Christmas gala,” he explained. “Just a small get-together, really, but it would mean the world to us if you attend. Molly and I wanted to be sure you were there. I’m sorry for the short notice—we usually invite the same few people every year, but this time we especially wanted you.”

Hermione blinked, her heart giving an odd little skip. Oh my gosh. An invite. This was wonderful news. She smiled warmly and said, “Thank you, Arthur. I’ll be there.”

Just then Molly appeared from the kitchen, wrapping Hermione in a warm hug. “No politics tonight,” she declared firmly. “Hermione needs a relaxing evening without talk of campaigns.”

Arthur chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, ma’am.” Hermione found it utterly adorable. Arthur slipped away, leaving the two women alone.

“How are you, dear?” Molly asked kindly.

“I’m doing well,” Hermione replied, smiling. “It’s been a lot lately, so it’s nice to just sit down and relax.”

Molly gasped, aghast. “Is Ginny not taking care of you?”

Hermione froze, scrambling. “No—I mean, I didn’t mean it that way—” She nearly laughed at how bad Molly was at pretending, but stopped herself quickly. Because really, what was she supposed to say? No, Mrs. Weasley, your daughter is amazing in bed. So amazing I sometimes forget my own name when she does that thing with her tongue. Hermione flushed furiously, forcing herself to swallow down the thought. Now that she was thinking about it, though, she couldn’t shake the thought from her mind—she had debauched Molly’s daughter countless times already, and it had been so good she never wanted it to stop. Heat curled low in her stomach at the memory, and she had to force herself to straighten up and recover the conversation.

“She’s taking care of me really well, Mrs. Weasley. I think she gets that from you,” Hermione said softly, managing a smile. It wasn’t even a lie. Ginny was caring in ways Hermione hadn’t expected from their history. Warm and loving one moment, deviant and annoyingly cheeky the next—and somehow, Hermione realized, she liked both sides of her.

“That’s good to know, dear,” Molly said, patting her hand. “But I know my Ginny is a menace. So do let me know when she’s getting a bit much.”

Hermione laughed. “She is a bit of a menace, but I’m used to it. She was like that back then anyway.”

Molly’s expression softened. “Thank you, Hermione—for what you’re doing with Ginny.”

Hermione frowned, confused. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Molly sighed gently. “Ginny hasn’t been herself these past few years. We don’t know what really happened, but she closed herself off, wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to push her until she was ready to talk… but now, with you, I see her happy again. She’s regaining her old self.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. She thought back over the past month, but she couldn’t remember noticing any shift—Ginny had seemed the same mischievous, confident girl she’d known at Hogwarts, only grown sharper with age. Had she missed something? Maybe she needed to check in on her more.

“I’m not sure it’s because of me, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione said carefully. “I’m just glad we are…” The words friends hovered on her tongue, but they tasted bitter. She swallowed them back with a small smile. “I’m glad we met again,” she added quietly.

The night went smoothly, and Hermione found herself enjoying their company. The Weasleys were so welcoming that it almost felt like she was part of their family. After the long, hearty dinner, Ginny and Hermione decided to take a walk together before heading home.

As they strolled under the night sky, Hermione said, “Your dad invited me to your Christmas gala.”

Ginny smiled, her eyes lighting up. “Yeah? About time. He’s been talking about you to all his friends—you’ll be the guest of honor.”

Hermione chuckled. “I’m sorry for stealing your spotlight,” she teased.

“You can have it for one night,” Ginny laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly against Hermione’s.

Hermione wanted to ask Ginny a dozen different questions running through her mind, but instead she chose the simplest one. “How are you, Ginny?” she asked.

Ginny looked slightly confused until Hermione continued. “You’ve been helping me so much, but I haven’t even checked in on you.” Hermione frowned at herself, guilt creeping in.

Ginny’s eyes softened. “Did Mum say something?”

Hermione nodded slowly.

Ginny tilted her head back, gazing up at the night sky as they walked. “The past few years… I didn’t know what to do with my life. I love Quidditch, but I’ve been playing so long it feels like my whole life revolves around it. And I’ve only got a few years left—most players retire by thirty-five. After that, they usually go into coaching or stay tied to the sport somehow. But I don’t want that. I want a life outside of it.”

Her voice was quiet but steady. “So I traveled. All over the world, trying to find what’s next. But so far… I haven’t found it yet.”

Hermione had never seen this side of Ginny, and it broke her heart. She reached out, joining their hands as they walked, giving Ginny’s a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sure it’ll come to you soon,” Hermione said softly. “I admired you back then, you know. Even when I was annoyed, you were always so charming. And you were good at everything you did—even the things you hated, you still managed them effortlessly. Whatever you decide to do next, I know you’ll give it your best. And I’ll be there for you.”

The sincerity in her own words made Hermione’s chest ache.

Ginny smirked at her. “So I was charming, huh?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, chuckling. Of course Ginny would latch onto that.

“Does that mean you were into me back then?” Ginny pressed, mischief in her tone.

Hermione choked on her own saliva, coughing as her cheeks burned. She shook her head furiously, managing to croak out, “You wish.”

Ginny chuckled and settled onto a bench, patting the space beside her. “I didn’t realize it back then, you know.”

Hermione sat, curiosity piqued. “Realize what?”

“That I was a lesbian,” Ginny admitted. “It didn’t even cross my mind until later on.”

Hermione studied her, heart tugging. She herself had known from her first kiss—there had never been any doubt. Everything had simply fallen into place for her. But Ginny… Ginny had walked a harder path.

“I wasn’t that self-aware back then,” Ginny continued, voice thoughtful. “I was driven by emotions, mostly. I thought what I felt was just fascination… until after we kissed.”

And there it was. The moment Hermione had dreaded surfacing. For so long she had buried that memory, built walls around it. It was the reason she hadn’t wanted Ginny back in her life. Even if she’d never admit it aloud, Hermione still had walls up where Ginny was concerned. That kiss, and everything surrounding it, had left a heavy weight she couldn’t shake. It was also the reason she’d never sought to be with another woman because the memory of Ginny was always there, shadowing the thought.

In her last year at Hogwarts, Hermione had noticed troubling changes in Ginny. Her once razor-sharp retaliation in their pranks and quarrels turned sloppy, poorly executed, and Astoria’s worried glances hadn’t gone unnoticed. Hermione hadn’t known what was happening with Ginny they weren’t truly friends then so she hadn’t pressed.

Then, out of nowhere, McGonagall summoned Hermione to her office and asked her to tutor Ginny. The request shocked her. Ginny had always been a strong student. But maybe, Hermione reasoned, that explained the strange behavior.

Their study sessions were uneven. Ginny could be quiet, withdrawn, but then suddenly flash her disarming charm or needle Hermione just enough to get a rise out of her. And just as quickly, she’d retreat back into her shell. What baffled Hermione most was that Ginny’s test results didn’t improve. She knew the material, she answered practice questions correctly, sometimes effortlessly, but on the actual exams she failed spectacularly.

Frustration ate at Hermione. She began to suspect Ginny was deliberately flunking, wasting her time as part of some elaborate prank. The idea gnawed at her, making her temper fray each time Ginny’s marks slipped lower despite her obvious ability.

Hermione remembered sitting down beside Ginny during one of those late study nights, not daring to look at her because it stirred emotions she didn’t want to feel.

“Astoria knew before I did,” Ginny confessed quietly. “It felt like I was drowning, denying that what I felt was what it was, that I had feelings for you.”

Hermione knew Ginny was watching her, but it took everything not to bolt from where they were sitting. She gritted her teeth. “Yeah, it must’ve been hard, being into someone like me.”

“It truly was,” Ginny said softly.

The memory unfurled in Hermione’s mind as if it had happened yesterday. She had confronted Ginny about her failing grades, furious at her for wasting time. Ginny had exploded back, shouting that she didn’t care, that Hermione would be leaving soon anyway, so why did it matter what happened to her marks? Between the yelling, Ginny had stepped closer and closer until suddenly she kissed her. Just one soft, trembling kiss—so at odds with her anger—that made Hermione’s eyes flutter closed. For a heartbeat, warmth filled her, and she wanted to pull Ginny closer. But then Ginny pulled away, horror flashing across her face, and bolted from the room.

That whole night Hermione turned the moment over and over in her head, replaying every interaction, questioning every look, every word. And for the first time, she realized there was something more she felt for Ginny.

The next day she’d gone to find her, but stumbled upon Ginny and Astoria arguing instead. Astoria’s voice was sharp with worry as she begged, “You need to stop this. You’re spiraling, Ginny. Talk to me, please.”

“I’m fine,” Ginny snapped back. “There’s nothing to talk about. I was just playing with Granger. That’s all.”

“Ginny—” Astoria tried again.

“Stop making assumptions,” Ginny cut her off. “I would never be with the likes of Hermione.”

It had hurt Hermione more than she would ever show to anyone. It broke her so deeply that she forced herself to bury it. After hearing Ginny’s words, she had shut down completely, refusing to give Ginny any attention or reaction. She pretended Ginny didn’t exist, which only made Ginny more desperate to get her attention. But Hermione was done playing her game.

The wound festered. She started questioning herself wondering if there was something wrong with her, if she was somehow less in every relationship she tried to build. She never wanted to revisit that memory again. But here they were, and all the feelings she had buried were rising fast, impossible to contain.

Her chest tight, Hermione stood abruptly, eyes blurring with unshed tears, and started walking away from Ginny. She just needed to get away.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Ginny’s voice came softly behind her. Hermione ignored it, quickening her steps until she heard Ginny’s footsteps catching up. A hand reached for her arm, but Hermione shoved it off, not wanting any connection right now.

“Did I do something wrong?” Ginny asked, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

Hermione spun on her, the words bursting free. “I was there, Ginny. I tried to find you the next day after we kissed. I was there when you told Astoria that you’d never be with the likes of me. Why? What’s wrong with me?” Her voice cracked, pain she’d carried for years finally spilling over.

Ginny froze, shocked. “You—I—There’s nothing wrong with you. Why would you even think that?”

Hermione gave a bitter chuckle. “Are you seriously going to deny you said it?”

Ginny shook her head quickly. “No. I remember saying that… but I don’t think you understood me.”

Hermione tried to push past her, unwilling to hear excuses, but Ginny wouldn’t let her go. Hermione tugged, voice breaking. “Let me go.”

Instead, Ginny’s arms tightened around her in a desperate, almost trembling embrace. “No… not until you hear me out.” Her voice was softer now, carrying a weight that was almost pleading. “I meant what I said. Ever since my fourth year, it’s always been you, every thought, every glance, every stubborn argument. Even that first conversation, when you scolded me about your notebook, I remember every detail of it. You startled me, lit something inside me I didn’t even have words for yet.”

Her breath hitched, forehead pressing against Hermione’s temple as if she could will her to listen. “You weren’t just clever, Hermione. You were luminous. Untouchable. This smart, beautiful girl who stood miles ahead of everyone else, unafraid to raise her voice, unafraid to care. Kind enough to carry the whole world, fierce enough to fight it when it was wrong. How could I ever believe I deserved to stand beside someone like that?”

Ginny swallowed hard, her words trembling but sure. “So yes, I said I could never be with the likes of you. Because in my heart I thought you were too far above me. Because you were you. And I was only… me.”

Chapter Text

In all of Hermione’s life, she had always had something to say. An opinion to share, a retort to deliver, or at the very least, a sharp question waiting on her tongue. She had never been left speechless.

Until last night.

Hermione was blindsided by Ginny’s revelation. The thought had never once crossed her mind—that Ginny admired her, that Ginny harbored feelings for her and the weight of it left Hermione reeling. It felt as though every sensible thought she had had been scattered to the wind, leaving her with nothing. Absolutely nothing. Ginny, to her credit, seemed to understand. Without pressing for a response, she had simply walked Hermione back to her flat. No words were exchanged; only the sound of their footsteps filled the silence until Ginny reluctantly turned away at Hermione’s door.

What could she possibly say to her?

It had been more than a decade since that day, and Hermione had held onto her grudge with stubborn determination. Then Ginny reappeared in her life, and little by little, Hermione’s guard began to falter. Because Ginny can weave herself into the cracks of Hermione’s defenses she had always known how to get under her skin. She had built walls, high and impenetrable, burying the hurt and bitterness deep within. And yet, with one confession, Ginny had shattered the last barrier Hermione had left.

Now she was exposed. Vulnerable. That final defense, the one she clung to in order to keep Ginny at arm’s length was gone.

The voices of the room around her were nothing more than distant echoes. All that remained, sharp and insistent, was Ginny’s voice, replaying in her mind.

Hermione checked the time—it was well past lunch, and usually Ginny would be waiting so they could eat together. She sat in the middle of a meeting, but none of the words around her registered. Her foot tapped restlessly against the floor, her whole body itching to know if Ginny was outside, if she was all right.

She bit her lip, forcing herself to look at the parchment in front of her, but her focus scattered again and again. Finally, she couldn’t stand it. She stood abruptly, aware of the curious eyes following her, but she didn’t care. She crossed the room and cracked the door open, peeking out to where Ginny usually lingered with Tina. The chair was empty. No Ginny.

Agitation pricked at her chest. Hermione strode over to Tina’s desk. “Has Ginny been by?” she asked, unable to keep the urgency from her voice.

Tina nodded. “She was here earlier. She left you this.” She handed Hermione a neatly wrapped packed lunch.

Hermione took it gingerly, as though it were explosive. The sight of it made her stomach lurch. Had Ginny been avoiding her? Had Hermione somehow given the impression she didn’t want to see her? The thought hollowed her chest, and her stomach dropped like a stone.

Hermione’s thoughts snapped back to last night—her outburst, her stunned reaction after Ginny confessed she’d once had feelings for her. Even if it belonged to the past, it was still a confession, and Hermione’s response had probably sent the wrong signals. Merlin, she was ruining this. She had to pull herself together and find a way to make it right.

All afternoon she turned over words in her head, trying to decide how to approach Ginny. She needed clarity. The facts were simple: Ginny had admitted she’d felt something for her. Hermione, for her part, had carried something too, though she had never explored or processed it. There was no sense in dwelling on what might have been. What mattered was now. Hermione wanted to continue what they had built together. The question clawed at her—did Ginny want that too? They needed to be sure they were still on the same page.

Just then, Tina interrupted her thoughts. “Do you need anything from me before we leave for Italy?” she asked casually.

Hermione froze. Italy. She had completely forgotten. Panic tightened in her chest—she wouldn’t have a chance to talk to Ginny until she came back.

Ginny’s POV

She ruined it. Why had she brought up their past? Why had Hermione ever think there was something wrong with her? Ginny hated the fact that she had hurt Hermione so deeply, that her careless words all those years ago had made Hermione doubt herself. Hermione had carried that wound for so long. Gods, she had been young and foolish then—so confused, making questionable choices left and right. But having Hermione in her life again? That was no mistake.

Ginny had thought talking about their first kiss might be a good idea. The evening had been perfect: the night sky glittering with stars, laughter between them light and easy. And then she had opened her mouth. What she had wanted to say was simple—that their first kiss had been a turning point in her life. That the moment Hermione’s lips touched hers, it was like lightning had coursed through her veins, shocking her awake. When she pulled back, those wide brown eyes had looked at her with curiosity, and Ginny had been undone by the feeling.

She had felt an all-consuming pull toward Hermione. The space between them had felt unbearable, like every inch apart was suffocating. And it still was.

Astoria’s voice echoed in her head: You’re doing it again, Ginny.

Was it happening again?

Did she feel like the distance between them was killing her? Yes. Did she feel like time was slipping away? Yes. Did she still feel that same inexorable pull toward Hermione? Always.

She felt powerless. There was a part of her that had never let Hermione go, a part Hermione still held. Last night only confirmed it. The moment Ginny said the words aloud, something clicked. She still believed what she had told herself all those years ago: she could never be with the likes of Hermione Granger.

All she could hope was that the scraps she offered might be enough to feed the hunger she carried for her. But it wasn’t. She missed Hermione. It had only been three days since they had spoken, but it felt unbearable. Hermione was probably busy preparing for her campaign announcement, and Ginny told herself she wouldn’t have time for her anymore.

Yet the ache in Ginny’s chest only grew, stretching wider and deeper with every passing hour.

A sudden ping shattered the silence of her flat. Ginny snatched up her phone, heart tripping when she saw the name on the screen—Hermione. She sat bolt upright, a thrill of excitement rushing through her like a child on Christmas morning. Then dread slammed into her. What if it was rejection? What if Hermione was writing to tell her she didn’t want to see her again? That wasn’t like Hermione… was it? With her breath caught and hands shaking, Ginny opened the message.

Hermione: I miss you.

Ginny blinked, once, twice, almost convinced she was hallucinating. The past three days had been sheer torment; it wouldn’t have surprised her if her mind had conjured the words out of desperation. But no—the message was real. Hermione missed her.

Relief and longing collided, almost knocking the air from her lungs. She typed quickly, her thumbs trembling.

Ginny: I miss you too.

What else could she say? It was the raw truth. She missed Hermione so much it felt like every heartbeat screamed her name.

Hermione: Can I see you tonight?

Ginny: Of course. Do you want me to come over?

Hermione: No, it’s okay. I’ll come over.

Ginny let out a shaky laugh, pressing the phone to her chest as if she could anchor the storm inside her. The anxiety still hummed in her veins, but it was softer now, eased by the fragile bloom of hope. At least she would see Hermione tonight—and that was enough to keep her steady, for now.

Around dinner time, Hermione walked into her flat. Ginny’s throat went dry the instant their eyes met. Every part of her wanted to close the distance, to pull Hermione into her arms and never let go, but instead they stood awkwardly apart, a gulf of hesitation stretching between them.

“Hi,” Hermione said softly. Ginny searched her face, but her expression was unreadable. What was she thinking?

“Hi,” Ginny echoed. Hermione stepped closer, and Ginny’s heart stuttered painfully at the simple movement. Hermione fidgeted, her hands twisting together, and Ginny burned to ask her what was running through her mind. Instead, she turned back to the stove, forcing composure into her voice.

“I hope you’re hungry, because I accidentally cooked enough for a small army,” Ginny said, striving for casual.

Hermione chuckled, the sound easing something inside her. “I can see that. Are we expecting company?”

“Nope, just us. You’ll have to eat for three people.”

“I might actually manage that. I haven’t eaten all day—and I’ve missed your cooking,” Hermione admitted, her tone quiet, almost tender.

Ginny swallowed hard, saying nothing. Her chest ached too fiercely. She kept her eyes on the pot, stirring and re-stirring though it needed no more attention, buying herself time to think, to find a way to clear this strange, heavy air.

Then warmth enveloped her from behind. Hermione’s arms slid around her waist, her head resting against Ginny’s back. Ginny’s breath caught.

“I hate this,” Hermione whispered. “I hate that we didn’t talk these past few days. I hate not seeing you. And I hate eating food you’ve made when you’re not beside me.”

Ginny’s shoulders slumped, the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding finally rushing out. The ache in her chest loosened, replaced by something that felt dangerously like hope. Ginny turned and wrapped her arms tightly around Hermione, breathing her in as though the scent alone could steady her. She wanted to tilt her head, to press a kiss to Hermione’s cheek, but the words came first.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny whispered, her voice rough. “I’m sorry for hurting you over and over again. I’m sorry for ever making you think you weren’t enough, that there was something wrong with you. You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, and I’ve been an idiot for not saying that to you more often.”

Hermione buried her face deeper into Ginny’s neck, her voice muffled. “I’m sorry too. I held onto that grudge for so long. I swore I never wanted you in my life again because of it. And when I finally found out the truth—that I’d been wrong—I pushed you away again. I left you. I’m the idiot. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop,” Ginny said quickly, tightening her hold. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

Hermione lifted her head, her eyes searching. “Are we going to be okay?”

Ginny forced a nod, even shaping her lips into a smile.

Hermione’s expression softened. “Good. I like being your friend.”

Ginny was certain she could hear the sound of her own heart breaking. Of course, just friends. Hermione had made it clear her career was her priority, and what they shared could never be more than that. Pain flared hot in her chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to keep her smile steady. So she pulled Hermione’s head back against her chest, hiding her face where Hermione couldn’t see the cracks forming.

Ginny closed her eyes as the ache doubled, punishing her for ever believing that sleeping with Hermione could remain simple and fun—or that she could ever stop herself from falling deeper, helplessly, hopelessly in love with her.

Hermione's POV

Her campaign was already announced. She had a lot of things scheduled and it had been nonstop work, campaign, then more work again. On the rare occasions she was free, Ginny would always make herself available. They would catch up on everything, and Ginny would even help out with the team. Most mornings she disappeared to run, keeping herself in shape, insisting she needed to maintain her physique because she had been eating far too much lately. Hermione had laughed at that memory the way Ginny had complained that her toned torso was slowly vanishing because Hermione insisted they eat together every chance they got. Hermione would argue that she didn’t eat that much; truthfully, she just liked Ginny to keep her company. It gave her a sense of peace, even when Ginny was deliberately trying to get a rise out of her. Ginny would always claim she wasn’t hungry, yet she still ended up eating just to please her. Hermione knew her friends must have noticed how much time she spent with Ginny, she had been cancelling on them if it was something outside of work that didn’t involve Ginny. She imagined they were quietly piling up their observations, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on her with pointed questions. But so far, they hadn’t said a word.

They usually saw more of each other at night. When Hermione’s longing for Ginny grew unbearable, Ginny always gave her what she wanted.

They were back to normal. Well, mostly. Hermione still carried a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that something was wrong, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. By her measure, their friendship was better than ever. They talked more, laughed more, and, truthfully, they had more sex too. Everything seemed perfect. But something in Ginny felt… different.

One evening they were curled up in Ginny’s apartment, the lights dimmed, a movie flickering across the screen. Hermione lay stretched out with her head on Ginny’s lap, basking in the rare calm between hectic days. She liked these moments—quiet, steady, unremarkable in their simplicity. With everything else in her life in a whirlwind, these downtimes with Ginny felt like the eye of the storm. She looked forward to them, craved them, cherished them. Even as her schedule demanded all her attention, her heart longed for more time like this—with Ginny.

The echoes of moans from the woman on screen filled the room. A sex scene flickered across the television: a man with a woman, bodies tangled. Hermione’s thighs pressed together as she imagined Ginny doing that to her instead. As though Ginny had read her thoughts, she suddenly scooped Hermione up with ease and carried her down the hall. Hermione let out a startled laugh, then melted into the familiar scent as she was plopped down on Ginny’s bed—soft, warm, smelling like Ginny herself.

Ginny moved to the cabinet, rummaging. When she turned back around, she was holding something that made Hermione’s pulse stutter: a strap-on. There was no mistaking it.

Desire surged hot and fast. Ginny climbed on top of her, kissing her senseless, greedy for every taste. She loved the feeling of Ginny’s body pressing her down, soft and hard at the same time. Her fingers tugged at Ginny’s shirt, desperate to feel her skin. If Hermione had her way, Ginny would never wear anything at all—she’d just walk around naked, casual and unapologetic. The sight of her fetching water in the middle of the night, bare and glowing in lamplight, was so sexy that Hermione sometimes felt like a gawking teenage boy, helpless in her ogling.

Ginny sat up slowly, giving Hermione a full view of her half-naked body. That devious smirk curled her lips as she traced the length of the strap against Hermione’s skin, drawing a teasing line down her stomach. “I want to fuck you with this,” she murmured.

Hermione’s body reacted instantly—always so wanting, always ready for whatever Ginny wanted to do to her. Ginny leaned close, voice dropping to a husky whisper against her ear. “Are you going to let me?”

Hermione arched her back, surrendering to the fire curling through her veins.

“Only if I have a turn on you,” Hermione breathed, a spark of mischief flickering in her eyes.

Ginny’s smirk deepened, dark and promising.

“That would be impossible tonight,” she murmured, fingers tightening around the toy. “Because I have the urge to squeeze as many orgasms from you as I can.”

She ordered Hermione to strip, and Hermione obeyed, lying back on the bed in anticipation. Ginny traced idle lines across her skin, circling her nipples but never quite touching. Hermione scowled at her, knowing exactly what Ginny was doing—teasing her, making her beg.

Ginny chuckled, low and satisfied. “Relax. Have some patience. Good things come to those who wait.”

Hermione rolled her eyes; patience had never been her strength. Ginny leaned down, kissing and nibbling her way down Hermione’s body, squeezing her breasts, cupping her center—always giving just enough to ignite her, never enough to satisfy. Hermione finally grabbed Ginny’s wrist, guiding her to her entrance. The brush of Ginny’s fingers made her moan, body trembling in raw need. “Please,” she begged, desperate.

Ginny stroked her again, a little deeper, still denying. Her mouth descended next, licking, sucking, drawing broken sounds from Hermione’s lips. Her eyes rolled back with the overwhelming sensation—only to cry out when Ginny pulled away too soon.

“Ginny,” she whined, frustration thick in her voice.

“You’re coming on my dick tonight,” Ginny growled, rough and commanding. The words seared into Hermione’s skin like fire, every nerve ending sparking to life. Her whole body arched, craving more, craving everything. She watched with hungry eyes as Ginny put it on, then slid back between her legs.

When the tip of it brushed against Hermione’s wet center, Ginny’s head rolled back and a loud moan tore from her throat. Hermione gasped at the sound, heat rushing through her. Can she feel it? That’s impossible—unless… Hermione reached down, wrapping her hand around the shaft. Ginny’s eyes locked onto hers, dark and hazy, thick with lust. Hermione moved her hand slowly, deliberately, and Ginny’s chest heaved, her breathing ragged as her gaze followed every motion.

“Is this…” Hermione whispered, her fingers tingling with the faint shimmer of magic. “Can you feel me?”

Ginny swallowed hard and nodded, never breaking eye contact, completely entranced by Hermione’s touch.

A surge of boldness swept Hermione. She pushed Ginny back against the nearest wall and dropped to her knees. The moment her lips wrapped around the tip, Ginny’s eyes rolled back, a curse spilling from her mouth. She was undone, wild and unrestrained, every ounce of control slipping away.

“Look at me,” Hermione ordered, her voice low and commanding. Ginny’s eyes snapped back down just as Hermione flattened her tongue along the length, from base to tip, savoring the taste. She watched Ginny’s abs tighten with every lick, every scrape of her nails dragging down her sides. The sight made Hermione’s pulse thunder—God, she loved this view. Ginny bucked forward, desperate for more.

“Do you want me to suck you off?” Hermione asked, her voice a sultry taunt.

Ginny whimpered helplessly, eyes glazed. Hermione recognized that look—Ginny was on the edge, lost in a haze of need so strong she couldn’t think straight. Hermione chuckled wickedly and began bobbing her head, deeper and faster, until Ginny’s hands tangled in her curls, guiding her with raw desperation. Hermione groaned at the tug, turned on even more by Ginny taking control, fucking her mouth with urgent thrusts.

Ginny’s hips moved faster, her back arching as her moans built, spilling Hermione’s name in broken syllables. Just as Hermione thought she would push her over, she released with a pop, lips glistening, ready to tease—only to be scooped up as if she weighed nothing. Ginny lifted her easily, Hermione’s legs spreading wide over Ginny’s arms. And then Ginny drove into her in one fierce stroke, the sudden fullness making Hermione cry out, the shock of it blinding.

“Oh god—oh god.” Hermione’s cries filled the room. Ginny wasn’t being gentle now; she was fucking her hard and fast, each thrust shaking her to the core. Hermione’s moans rose louder, ragged and raw, as Ginny struck something deep inside that made her breath hitch, made her body arch helplessly. Ginny was moving her up and down in the air like she weighed nothing, dropping her down onto the force of each thrust. The wet sound of their centers colliding seemed to echo in Hermione’s ears, amplified by the sheer force Ginny was using. The sound of Ginny’s own ragged breath, the guttural groans tearing from her throat, reminded Hermione that Ginny could feel this too—and that knowledge only set her aflame further. Ginny dragged her teeth along Hermione’s neck, a sweet sting that sent sparks racing across every nerve, flooding her body with sensory overload. Hermione clung to her desperately, unable to catch her breath as the first orgasm ripped through her, shattering her into pieces beneath Ginny’s relentless pace.

Hermione was still in a daze when Ginny finally dropped her body onto the bed. Ginny hooked one of Hermione’s legs over her shoulder and thrust forward, angling deeper inside her. Hermione gasped, the new angle sharp and overwhelming. Another orgasm was building far too quickly, different this time, too intense. Every attempt to speak was broken by the relentless rhythm of Ginny driving in and out of her. Hermione clawed at the sheets, desperate to hold onto something—anything—as liquid heat gushed out of her, her body trembling uncontrollably under Ginny’s power.

She was already spent, every nerve raw, but her body still craved more. Hermione pulled Ginny into a desperate kiss, needing her lips, needing that connection. “I know you can give me one more, Granger,” Ginny whispered breathlessly, determination blazing in her eyes.

Hermione shook her head, gasping, certain she couldn’t take any more. But Ginny’s fingers found her clit even as her hips kept pounding into her, drawing out another cry. “Fuck… fuck… squeeze me, yes,” Ginny moaned, undone by the clench around her.

Hermione groaned as another wave crashed through her, her body convulsing with release. Ginny shuddered above her, her own pleasure breaking at the same time, their cries tangled in the air as they came together.

Hermione was still in a daze when she heard a dull thud as Ginny pulled out and the toy hit the floor. The sheets between her thighs were soaked, her hair a tangled mess, her legs boneless. She was utterly spent, unable to form words or coherent thoughts. Soft kisses brushed her neck and cheeks, Ginny’s voice murmuring if she was okay. Hermione nodded weakly, reaching out to touch her, but felt Ginny shift away. She opened her eyes to see Ginny standing at the side of the bed, lips pursed, brows furrowed, watching her intently as though memorizing every detail. There was something in that expression that made Hermione uneasy—because Ginny had been doing this lately. After sex, Ginny would put a distance between them, a wall Hermione couldn’t name. She had asked her on different occasions if something was wrong, but Ginny always insisted nothing was. Still, the silence left Hermione wondering if she was simply overthinking… or if something was quietly slipping through her fingers.

Chapter Text

As they expected, the attacks on Hermione's character had been relentless. News outlet after news outlet questioned her qualifications, her record, even her integrity. They painted her as inexperienced compared to Cornelius Fudge, propping him up as a seasoned, trustworthy leader. The narrative was clear—they wanted to make her look like an upstart, too ambitious for her own good.

Hermione’s team fought back, dismissing the false accusations and countering with carefully curated publications of her accomplishments—even the quiet, unpublicized victories that the public had never known about. Piece by piece, they built a picture of Hermione’s tireless service, her unmatched record compared to the meager achievements of Fudge’s long tenure.

The real test came when Hermione appeared in a live debate against Fudge. She had prepared relentlessly for this, running through mock sessions every evening. Ginny often played the role of the interviewer, firing off challenging questions until Hermione’s answers were sharpened to perfection. Her campaign team had worked tirelessly to anticipate potential lines of attack, preparing Hermione for even the most unexpected angles.

When the night came, she was ready. Every question from the interviewer was an opportunity—and she seized each one with measured confidence. Even the unanticipated questions, the ones meant to catch her off guard, Hermione handled with clarity and conviction. Fudge, in contrast, stumbled. He was unprepared for her precision, relying instead on old tricks and propaganda that now rang hollow under the bright lights. The contrast between them was unmistakable: Fudge looked outdated, Hermione looked inevitable.

By the end of the debate, the numbers spoke for themselves. The polls shifted sharply in her favor, the gap widening. Over the next few weeks, the debate only reinforced the narrative: Hermione Granger was the leader people wanted.

The team decided tonight called for celebration.

Because it wasn’t planned, they simply spilled into the nearest bar that could accommodate the whole department and campaign staff. The place buzzed with their energy, laughter spilling over glasses and clinking bottles. Hermione, still flushed with adrenaline, let herself relax for the first time in weeks.

But then she saw Ginny.

Across the room, Ginny stood talking to a blonde woman. Her posture was taut, her expression hard, like she was containing something volatile. It looked less like conversation and more like she was getting reprimanded. Hermione’s gut twisted—an instinctive urge to intervene surged through her. She wanted to cross the room, to place herself between them, to make sure Ginny was all right.

Then Ginny’s eyes flicked up and caught sight of the crowd of Hermione’s team pouring in. In an instant, her expression softened, brightened, reshaped into something far friendlier. The shift was so swift, so precise, it unsettled Hermione. Whatever had been there before was hidden now, buried behind a practiced mask.

The blonde woman turned slightly, and Hermione realized it's Astoria. She had seen recent pictures, had heard Ginny speak of her with the easy cadence of old friendship, but they had never crossed paths in person. Astoria had been travelling until now. Hermione knew she was still a part of Ginny’s life.

Astoria’s expression was just as hard, her lips pressing close to Ginny’s ear as she whispered something that made Ginny sigh and nod. Whatever it was, it weighed heavily on her. Hermione could sense it, but she didn’t want to push Ginny if she wasn’t ready to share.

A familiar weight settled across Hermione’s shoulders—Harry, leaning in to murmur, “Who’s Ginny talking to?”

“That’s Astoria,” Hermione answered quietly. Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. Hermione understood the reaction; she’d had the same one the first time she saw an updated photo of Astoria. She remembered her as the timid blonde girl who never sought attention, though she could chatter endlessly once she felt comfortable. Now, standing before them, Astoria radiated a different kind of presence, glowing with pale skin and golden hair, poised in a way that drew every gaze. Her clothes, elegant and immaculately tailored, looked entirely out of place in the noisy pub. Hermione had seen her share of pureblood fashion, but Astoria elevated it to something else entirely. No wonder Ginny had once told her that they were opposites in style; where Ginny thrived in effortless, casual charm, her flame-red hair commanding attention without trying, Astoria was polished to perfection.

Ginny and Astoria eventually made their way over to where Harry and Hermione stood. Hermione felt the tug in her chest, wanting to be near Ginny, to uncover whatever was bothering her and shoulder it for her. She hated seeing Ginny weighed down by something she couldn’t touch.

But when Ginny reached them, she grinned, arms opening for a hug. “Congratulations. I heard from Parvati about the wide gap. I never doubted you,” she said with a cheeky smile. Hermione leaned in, inhaling her scent, longing to press her lips to Ginny’s but holding back—they were in public, and more than that, it was the rule she herself had set. “Thank you,” she replied softly.

The moment Ginny pulled away, Hermione already missed her warmth. It was getting harder to maintain the boundaries she had drawn when they weren’t alone.

Ginny then gestured between them. “Harry, Hermione, you remember Astoria Greengrass—my best friend and overall pain in my ass?”

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Oh please. You’re hopeless without me. Even your mum loves me more than she loves you.”

“That might be true,” Ginny shot back, “but only because she doesn’t know who you really are.” Both of them chuckled at the familiar exchange.

Hermione extended her hand. “Nice to finally meet you again, Astoria. I’ve heard so much about you from Ginny.”

“I hope only the good things,” Astoria said smoothly. “Seeing as you’ll be the next Minister, I can’t have you knowing my dirty secrets.”

Hermione laughed lightly. “I assure you, it was only good things.”

When Astoria offered her hand to Harry, he clasped it with both of his, pulling it dramatically to his chest. “Ciao bellissima, credo che forse siamo destinati a stare insieme.”

Hermione closed her eyes in embarrassment. He was clearly drunk and spouting nonsense. Ginny and Astoria exchanged a long glance, some silent conversation flashing between them, before Ginny smothered her laughter and quipped, “Well... there’s your Italian man.”

Astoria tried to stifle her own laughter, but then she slipped her arm through Harry’s and steered him away, leaving Hermione staring after them in confusion.

“What just happened?” she asked blankly.

Ginny chuckled. “Astoria’s been into anything Italian lately—food, wine, music—and she mentioned she wanted to try Italian men too. And well… Harry just blurted out something in Italian that probably sent all the right signals straight to her horny brain.”

“Wow,” was all Hermione managed, watching Astoria disappear with Harry toward the bar.

“Potter’s going to be eaten alive. God bless his soul,” Ginny said with mock solemnity, shaking her head. Then her grin turned wicked. “Oh well, at least you still have Neville.”

Hermione laughed, half exasperated. “Aren’t you the least bit worried about Astoria?”

“Not in the slightest,” Ginny replied breezily. “Astoria can handle Harry—I’m far more worried about him. Come on, can I get you a drink?”

Hermione nodded, and together they made their way deeper into the bar. She kept to her two-drink rule, pacing herself while keeping an eye on the room, making sure everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. The entire night, people interrupted them, eager to chat with her, congratulate her, corner her for advice. Ginny didn’t seem to mind, but Hermione did. She wanted to check in with Ginny, to at least gauge how bad things were—even if Ginny refused to admit it outright. But a pub wasn’t the place for such conversations, and Hermione forced herself to wait. Still, she hated the feeling that Ginny carried something she couldn’t share. Hermione wanted all of her—her thoughts, her worries, her opinions. Anything Ginny chose to share, Hermione clung to greedily, unwilling to let it slip through her fingers.

Ginny excused herself with a wink, saying she was off to grab more drinks and check if Harry was still alive. The playful gesture left Hermione sighing, struck again by just how much she felt for her. She tried to turn her attention back to the man rambling in front of her, but she couldn’t even remember his name, and his words had dissolved into drunken slurs that made little sense. After a few minutes of polite nodding, Hermione slipped away with an excuse, eager to find her friends instead.

Her eyes scanned the crowd until she spotted Neville and Luna twirling happily on the dance floor. Around them, her team was scattered across the pub, mingling and celebrating as more strangers began to fill the space.

Then her gaze caught on Ginny at the bar, speaking to someone. When the crowd shifted and Hermione’s line of sight cleared, she saw the woman Ginny was with—olive-toned skin, rich dark eyes, strikingly beautiful. Hermione thought she could have been a model if she wasn’t already. And Hermione rarely forgot a face; it was practically part of her profession. She was certain she had seen this woman before. The thought gnawed at her, a faint unease coiling in her stomach. There was something about her… something that made the faintest distaste rise in Hermione’s throat, even if she couldn’t yet place why.

She watched as the woman stepped closer to Ginny, invading her space, fingers brushing Ginny’s hair back and tucking a stray strand behind her ear. The woman laughed at something Ginny said and touched her arm, her gaze heavy with unmistakable desire. Hermione’s jaw tightened, irritation rising fast. She told herself to ignore it, to remind herself they were just talking—but even if they weren’t, what could she do? Nothing in their agreement forbade Ginny from being with someone else. Still, the thought hit Hermione like a punch to the gut. The image of Ginny with another woman made it hard to breathe. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to will away the ache.

And then recognition struck. She had seen this woman before—in a photograph of Ginny with her. There had never been anything explicit said about their connection, but Hermione wouldn’t know anyway; they didn’t often talk about past relationships. Ginny had only ever mentioned them in passing, saying she dated but it rarely worked, that she never truly felt in love—just going through the motions. But what if this woman was one of them? An ex? A fling? The more Hermione thought about the history she might have had with Ginny, the more it drove her mad. She needed to know. Hermione started toward them, only to be intercepted by Astoria.

“Hey, Hermione,” Astoria said.

Hermione composed herself quickly, forcing a smile though her insides felt bruised. “Hey,” she answered softly. She tried to focus on Astoria, but her eyes kept flicking back to Ginny. Astoria noticed, following her gaze, her expression sharpening as though she understood exactly what Hermione had been looking at.

“Oh,” Astoria said, her tone light but her eyes shifting in a way Hermione couldn’t quite read. “Do you know Veronica?” she asked brightly, almost too cheerfully, as if eager to talk about her.

“Uh… no,” Hermione admitted, her hands fidgeting at her sides, fighting the urge to step away.

“She’s… well, she’s Ginny’s friend,” Astoria drawled, lingering on the word in a way that made Hermione’s stomach twist. The deliberate emphasis on the word friend sent a wave of unease through her. The idea of Veronica being Ginny’s ‘friend’ in the same way Hermione was, made her chest tighten painfully. She didn’t want to give the feeling a name, but she couldn’t deny she hated it.

Hermione hummed faintly, not sure what to say, her throat tight.

Astoria continued, her tone lilting and sly. “They’re very… good friends,” she said, drawing out the words again. The repetition made Hermione’s blood boil, her nails digging into her palms. With an almost deliberate motion, Astoria shifted her so she was facing Ginny and Veronica directly, forcing Hermione to watch. Her mind raced, tangled in this unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling. She had no right to tell Ginny who to speak to or spend her time with—even if, right now, that was exactly what she wanted. Ginny was a grown woman who could make her own decisions. Of course people would be drawn to her; who wouldn’t? That's fine, really. Really fucking fine.

Astoria leaned closer, voice dropping into a whisper that slid like ice down Hermione’s spine. “The thing with Veronica is… if she wants something, she’ll get it. And from the looks of it, she’s already found her target.”

Hermione’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. The heavy, dark feeling curling in the pit of her stomach was unmistakably, jealousy. It ate at her, insistent and sharp, until every fiber of her being screamed to act. She glared at Veronica’s too-perfect smile, her sleek hair, her flawless skin. Hermione’s control was slipping. When Veronica dipped her head to whisper something to Ginny, her lips brushing far too close to Ginny's skin, Hermione’s whole body burned with the violent urge to tear her away.

Astoria’s voice cut through again, velvet and cruel. “Hope you enjoy your night, Hermione—much like Ginny is enjoying hers.” And then she walked away, leaving Hermione reeling.

She had never truly thought about this aspect before—because in some unspoken, naive part of her, she had always assumed Ginny would only be with her. She had been caught up in her own need to feel Ginny close. Now, however much she tried to bury the jealousy tearing through her, it was consuming her whole.

She didn’t want Ginny to be with anyone else. She wanted Ginny to be only hers. She didn’t want Ginny’s lips on somebody else, Ginny’s hands on somebody else. Hermione wanted to be the only one.

And in that moment, she realized how much she craved it—how much she loved that Ginny was hers, and she was Ginny’s.

Hermione had always gone after what she wanted. Veronica be damned. She would never have Ginny. Drawing in a sharp breath, Hermione tried to release it slowly, hoping for clarity, but it only sharpened the truth echoing in her chest. All she could think about was how much she felt for Ginny, how much she didn’t want to lose her, how desperately she wanted to be with her. Something caught in her throat, a voice that whispered like a blade through her denial: You love her, don’t you?

Her knees nearly buckled. She stared at Ginny, heart thundering just from looking at her. Why would Ginny ever think Hermione didn’t want her—when all Hermione had done since she reappeared in her life was think of her? Ever since that day in the café, Ginny had filled her thoughts in every way.

She moved toward them like a woman on a mission. “Hi!” Hermione said brightly, loud enough to make both Ginny and Veronica jump. She kept her focus locked on Veronica, her smile sharp, almost feral—but not quite. Just enough to send the message: you’re playing with the wrong woman.

“Hi,” Veronica echoed, voice falsely cheery. “Can we help you?” She lifted her brows in challenge.

“Maybe,” Hermione replied with airy nonchalance, though her eyes flicked to Ginny, who looked distinctly amused. “Who are you again?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“I’m Veronica.” She extended her hand, but Hermione only glanced at it, refusing to take it. The silence stretched until Veronica slowly pulled it back, awkwardly confused, her confidence cracking under the weight of Hermione’s deliberate dismissal hardened into something sharper. She stepped forward until she was almost close enough, meeting her gaze with an intensity that left no room for mistake. “Veronica, I think it’s time for you to leave,” she said, each word measured, the command ringing in the noise of the bar.

Veronica straightened, refusing to be cowed. “And why’s that?” she shot back, chin high.

A slow smile spread across Hermione’s face—calm, dangerous. “Because in about thirty seconds I’ll set your hair on fire, and Ginny here can confirm I’ve done it before.” She glanced toward Ginny, who was biting her lip to stop herself laughing, delighted by Hermione’s performance.

Ginny gave a sharp nod. “She did. Twice. Honestly, you should go.” Ginny looked away, barely stifling her laugh.

Hermione raised one brow, produced her wand as if it were the most ordinary accessory, and tapped it once against her palm. Then she lit the tip with a small spark of flame. The small, practised movement was enough. Veronica’s smile faltered; she muttered something about Hermione being mad and stalked off, heels clacking against the floor. As she left, the air seemed to snap back into place—Hermione exhaled slowly, feeling the muscles in her shoulders unclench.

Hermione looked back at Ginny, who was now laughing freely, clutching her stomach with her head thrown back. God, she was beautiful. The tightness in Hermione’s chest loosened at the sight. She arched her brows at Ginny, silently trying to communicate that there was nothing funny about what had just happened—Hermione had gone through hell and back a hundred times in the span of a few minutes.

She pressed the tip of her wand to the hollow at Ginny’s throat, sending a small jolt through her. Ginny yelped but kept grinning like a fool. Hermione tilted her wand higher, lifting Ginny’s chin with a commanding flick.

“Follow me unless you want to be with Veronica?” Hermione said, her voice low and firm. The command landed with weight, and Ginny, recognizing her seriousness, sobered instantly. Even though Hermione had already gotten rid of Veronica, she needed Ginny to understand: there could be nobody else.

The moment they found a clear patch, Hermione seized Ginny by the collar and apparated them straight into Ginny’s flat. She barely let her catch her breath before dragging her into the bedroom.

She motioned for Ginny to sit. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she leaned back against the wall across from her, studying her like she was trying to solve a puzzle she had no pieces for.

Ginny’s brow furrowed when Hermione stayed silent. A hundred thoughts raced through Hermione’s mind, crashing over one another, but only one burned clear: she was in love with Ginny. The truth hit her like a train, stealing her breath. She was about to end their arrangement, about to tell Ginny she wanted more than friendship, more than stolen moments. But what if Ginny didn’t want that? What if she didn’t feel the same? The risk pressed down on her chest until she clutched at it, trying to stop the ache from spreading.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. Ginny stood up walking towards her. This was it. She had to say it.

Of all the things she could have said, the words that burst out of her were, “I don’t want to be friends anymore!” The words came out almost like a shout, raw and trembling with urgency.

Ginny froze, stunned, her eyes wide. She slowly backed up and sank into the bed again, dazed, as though Hermione had physically struck her. “I—I…” Hermione stammered on, terrified Ginny was about to reject her.

“Is this about Veronica?” Ginny asked softly, sadness in her eyes.

“Yes—no—ugh—I mean—” Hermione stumbled over the words, scolding herself. No. She couldn’t let Ginny misunderstand this. Not about this.

Hermione dropped to her knees in front of Ginny, resting her forehead against her knees before lifting her face, voice shaking. “I don’t want to be just friends anymore,” she whispered, then stronger: “I want more than that. I want you. I want to be with you.” Her eyes searched Ginny’s desperately, hoping for the smallest glimpse of what was going through her mind.

Ginny looked stunned, her mouth parting as though words failed her. Slowly, her brows furrowed and she stood, leaving Hermione still kneeling on the floor, unmoving. Hermione’s arms dropped uselessly to her sides as her gaze fell to the floor, her heart splintering. Was Ginny walking out on her? Tears blurred her vision, threatening to spill.

“I’m sorry?” Ginny’s voice shook. Hermione looked up to see her pacing back and forth, hands raking through her hair. “I swear I didn’t drink that much, but—I think I misheard you.” She stopped abruptly, turning to face her. “Did you just tell me you want to be with me? M-more than friends?”

The room hung silent, the weight of the words pressing between them.

“Yes, I did,” Hermione said firmly, forcing her voice to steady, her gaze locked on Ginny’s so she would know—without question—that she was serious.

Ginny still looked unconvinced. “Does that mean we—you’re going to be my girlfriend?”

Hermione’s heart stumbled at the sound of it. Ginny’s girlfriend. It sounded impossibly perfect.

“If you want me to be,” she whispered, her confidence slipping away by the second.

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” Ginny asked tentatively, her eyes wide and uncertain.

“I do. Very much.” Hermione’s voice was soft but sure. There was no point in holding back anymore.

Ginny nodded slowly, still contemplative, before sitting beside Hermione and turning to face her. “Last question,” she said, tilting her head, a teasing glint flickering through her nerves. “Should I send thank-you flowers to Veronica now that I have a girlfriend?”

The wide grin that broke across her face made Hermione’s heart ache with too much feeling. God, she loves her so much. Unable to contain her happiness, Hermione buried her face in her palms, laughing and sobbing all at once. When she lifted her head again, Ginny was watching her with such tenderness it made her want to kiss her and strangle her at the same time for mentioning Veronica.

“If you do that, both of you will be bald,” Hermione warned, narrowing her eyes.

“God, watching you get jealous and threaten someone is probably the hottest and most entertaining thing ever,” Ginny said, shaking her head in wonder.

Hermione huffed, standing abruptly. “I’ve changed my mind. You and Veronica deserve each other.”

Ginny laughed, darting after her, arms snaking around Hermione’s waist before lifting her easily and dropping her onto the bed. She hovered above her, but her smile had shifted—softened into something unguarded, almost reverent.

“What are you thinking about?” Hermione whispered.

“I’ve been memorizing the memories of you on my bed,” Ginny confessed, her voice cracking, “because I thought one day you’d get sick of me, and I wouldn’t have these moments anymore. I never thought you’d actually be mine.”

Hermione pulled her down and kissed her softly. Then she drew her wand, pointed it at her left wrist, and whispered, “Finite.”

The glamour shimmered away to reveal that Hermione is wearing a silver bracelet engraved with GW. Ginny’s bracelet—the one Hermione had found back at Hogwarts. She lifted her wrist, holding it between them.

“I’ve always been yours.”

Chapter Text

Ginny woke up to the sound of muffled music playing somewhere in the flat. She rolled over instinctively, reaching for Hermione’s warm body, but the sheets beside her were empty. Panic jolted through her chest. For a dizzying second she wondered if last night had only been a dream, if Hermione wasn’t really her girlfriend after all. But then her eyes caught on Hermione’s clothes scattered across the floor—the same ones she’d worn yesterday—and relief washed over her.

The music grew louder as Ginny pushed herself upright and stumbled toward the door. Opening it, she realized it was drifting from the kitchen. And there Hermione was.

She stood in nothing but her underwear and Ginny’s oversized t-shirt, humming softly to the tune as she cooked. Her hips swayed absently in time with the rhythm, and Ginny’s breath caught. Merlin, she’s so sexy.

Drawn like a magnet, Ginny padded forward and slipped her arms around Hermione’s waist from behind. Hermione jumped slightly at the sudden contact.

“Good morning,” Ginny croaked, her voice rough with sleep. She buried her face against Hermione’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of her girlfriend.

Hermione turned her head, planting a quick kiss against Ginny’s cheek. “Good morning,” she replied brightly, before returning to her humming and the pan in front of her.

“What are you making?” Ginny asked, her voice softer now, tinged with wonder.

“Just eggs and pancakes. Go sit at the table—it’s almost ready,” Hermione said with easy cheer.

Ginny obeyed, though her eyes never left her. She watched Hermione move with effortless grace, light spilling through the window across her curls. There was a weightless feeling in Ginny’s chest she couldn’t quite describe—like she was floating.

When Hermione finally brought the plates over and set them down, Ginny let out a soft sigh. Her girlfriend had just cooked for her. Somehow, in this simple moment, life felt impossibly good.

Hermione watched as Ginny eagerly shoved a mouthful of eggs into her mouth. Almost immediately there was the crunch of eggshells between her teeth. Ginny groaned in exaggerated appreciation, “Mmmm!” and went for another bite, only to find more bits of shell and the complete absence of salt. She tried to suppress her laughter as she chewed and swallowed, pretending it was delicious. She moved on to the pancakes—half-burnt on one side and nearly blackened on the other. Still, she cut into it and stuffed a piece into her mouth.

“Sorry I burned the pancakes,” Hermione muttered apologetically.

Ginny only shook her head and soldiered on, chewing the rubbery, oddly chewy bite of pancake. There had to be something wrong with the mix Hermione had made, but Ginny kept going, determined. When she noticed Hermione reaching to snatch the plate away, Ginny pulled it closer.

“I’m just really hungry,” she said with mock seriousness, forcing down another mouthful. Merlin, it was so hard to chew. Hermione narrowed her eyes knowingly and swiped the plate back, smacking Ginny’s hand away.

Hermione tasted the eggs, grimacing, then tried the pancake—her scowl deepening. Meanwhile, Ginny had nearly finished, washing down the last bites with water.

“Ginny! This isn’t edible,” Hermione exclaimed, trying to stop her. But Ginny hugged the plate to her chest like a treasure.

“Stop! My girlfriend cooked this for me!” Ginny declared, still chewing the dreadful pancake.

Hermione sat back, resting her head in her palm, smiling helplessly as she watched Ginny devour every last bite with ridiculous determination.

“Is my cooking that good?” Hermione asked mockingly.

“Yeah, sooo good. The eggshells really elevated the texture,” Ginny said with a grin, her tone playful. She dragged Hermione’s chair closer until their knees brushed, then gently lifted Hermione’s legs onto her lap. Her fingers traced idle patterns up and down the smooth skin. For a long moment they just stared at each other in silence, the air humming with something unspoken, Ginny feeling more at peace than she had in years. Hermione gazed back dreamily, her hand absently playing with Ginny’s fiery hair.

“You’re absolutely captivating,” Ginny sighed at last.

“Careful,” Hermione murmured, sipping her tea with a mischievous glint. “I already have a girlfriend.”

“You do, huh?” Ginny smirked.

Hermione hummed to confirm. “Yeah, her name’s Annabelle. Do you know her?”

Ginny chuckled, remembering the absurdity of how they’d first reconnected. “Why’d you use Matilda as your alias?”

Hermione sighed and set her cup down, bracing herself. “Harry made the account for me. He thought Matilda was perfect—smart, bookish, and magical.”

Ginny howled with laughter. “Oh, it’s too perfect!”

Hermione arched a brow. “And why Annabelle?”

“Because of Annabelle, the haunted doll,” Ginny answered with a wicked grin.

“I see the similarities. Red hair and evil,” Hermione teased.

“Hey!” Ginny protested, though she was already grinning.

Hermione’s laughter spilled out, which only set Ginny off as well. The two of them dissolved into a fit of ridiculous, wonderful giggles.

Ginny eventually pushed back her chair to start cleaning, gathering the plates and carrying them to the sink. The whole time Hermione clung stubbornly to her back, her arms looped tight around Ginny’s waist. It was ridiculous—Ginny walked back and forth, washed the dishes, wiped down the table and counter, all with Hermione humming happily against her shoulder like an oversized, affectionate barnacle.

When Ginny finally finished and straightened, she announced she was going to shower. Hermione tilted her face up, big brown eyes wide with unspoken pleading. Ginny chuckled and kissed her nose. “Only because you’re too cute,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

When they got to the shower, Hermione still hadn’t let go—clinging as if Ginny might vanish if she did. Not that Ginny minded. Hermione’s arms stayed snug around her as Ginny guided her under the water, even while she worked shampoo into Hermione’s curls. Hermione’s gaze dropped to where her arms wrapped around Ginny’s middle, holding tight as the suds slid away.

“What are you thinking about?” Ginny asked, tilting her head curiously.

Hermione sighed, looking up at her with unguarded adoration. “Just you.”

“What about me?” Ginny pressed.

“I get this ache in my chest whenever I look at you. Not a bad ache… just this feeling of—” Hermione trailed off.

Ginny finished softly for her. “Overwhelming happiness. Calm. That all-consuming need to just be with you. It’s soothing, but at the same time it feels like standing in the middle of a powerful storm—because what you feel is too much, almost more than you can hold.”

Hermione nodded, lips parting. “Yes.”

“I feel that too,” Ginny whispered, pulling Hermione in for a kiss. Their lips parted softly, then found each other again, heat radiating between their bodies. Hermione sighed into her mouth, her nipples brushing against Ginny’s skin, hardening with each touch. Ginny’s hand slid lower, squeezing Hermione’s ass, drawing a sweet hum from her lips.

Ginny had never felt anything like this with anyone she had dated before. Truthfully, she’d never felt what she felt for Hermione with anybody else—and she suspected she never would. There would never be anyone else for her. Her mind drifted back through time, recalling all the little, ridiculous things she’d done just to spend a moment longer with Hermione.

“Do you remember when we were all forced to participate in that club fundraising event?” Ginny asked, trying to steady her focus even as Hermione nipped along her neck.

“Mmm,” Hermione hummed in acknowledgment.

“We were handcuffed together—magically bound to hold hands the whole day?”

“I remember you being insufferable that day,” Hermione teased.

“I paid for that,” Ginny admitted.

Hermione pulled back, brows furrowing. “But they had to drag you to me—you were making such a fuss about it.”

Ginny smiled faintly. “I didn’t want to be obvious.”

She continued, “In your last year, I was already a wreck thinking about you graduating. I started flunking classes on purpose, just so I could get you to tutor me.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my god—I knew it!”

Ginny chuckled. “Astoria wasn’t happy about it. That’s why you heard us fighting.”

“She cares about you a lot,” Hermione said softly.

“She does. She’s the one who convinced me to extend my vacation and go see you in New York,” Ginny admitted.

“I guess we owe her a lot, huh? She also pushed me last night to finally realize everything,” Hermione confessed.

“What?” Ginny asked quickly.

Hermione laughed, burying her face against her shoulder. “I don’t want to think about it right now. I’m just glad we’re here.”

Hermione’s hands slid up, cupping Ginny’s breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples until Ginny shivered. “Ginny, I want to try it,” Hermione whispered.

Ginny tried to clear the fog of arousal clouding her head, though it was impossible with Hermione touching her like that. Merlin, she could unravel her in seconds. “Try what?” she managed.

Instead of answering, Hermione tugged her out of the shower, both of them dripping as they half-dried in a flurry of towels before Hermione pulled her back toward the bed. Hermione was taking control, and the dizzying rush of it made Ginny’s head spin. Hermione’s mouth descended on her skin, sucking harder than usual, leaving marks Ginny knew she’d be wearing for days. When Hermione caught her nipple between her teeth, biting just enough, Ginny whimpered, jolts of electricity shooting straight to her core.

Hermione didn’t linger. Her mouth trailed lower, eyes dark and needy as they held Ginny’s. Ginny’s breath caught, her head tipping back when Hermione lifted her legs over her shoulders and pressed slow, deliberate kisses along the tender skin of her inner thighs, teasing her way closer. Then Hermione’s tongue finally found her, sliding into her entrance in a slow, claiming stroke that made Ginny’s whole body tremble. A whimper broke from her lips as Hermione began to move, and when she flicked upward to exactly where Ginny ached for her most, the jolt of pleasure exploded through every nerve ending, leaving her gasping and clutching at the sheets.

Hermione pulled back, kneeling between Ginny’s thighs, her lips glistening with Ginny’s arousal. When she dragged her tongue slowly across them, Ginny’s eyes followed the motion and she groaned helplessly. She watched in a haze as Hermione leaned over to the bedside table and retrieved the strap-on. The sight alone made Ginny’s body clench with anticipation, her imagination already filling in what was about to happen. She tried to keep herself grounded, but her pulse raced wildly.

While Ginny’s mind spun, Hermione was already fastening it on, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to figure out the clasps. Ginny sat up, voice shaky, and asked if she was sure. Hermione ignored her, swatting away Ginny’s hands when she tried to help, which only made Ginny chuckle. Of course Hermione wanted to figure it out herself.

At last, Hermione figured it out and climbed back onto the bed, parting Ginny’s legs once more. She looked almost as undone as Ginny felt, chest rising and falling sharply as if she could barely breathe. Ginny reached up, brushing a hand over her arm. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” Hermione replied breathlessly, her voice rough with need. “I just… really need to be inside you right now.”

Ginny groaned, throwing her head back. “God, when did you start talking like this? It’s not good for my sanity.”

Hermione chuckled darkly. “Ready?”

Ginny could only nod, utterly lost for words.

When Hermione finally pushed the tip in, her whole body slumped forward with a shudder. “Oh God,” she gasped, catching her breath. Ginny smirked, knowing exactly what Hermione was experiencing. The enchantments made it so that Hermione felt every inch of it too—as though the length sliding into Ginny was filling her as well, every movement echoing through her own body, sparking along her clit and making her tremble with the amplified pleasure.

Ginny rolled her hips, pushing it deeper, and Hermione let out a startled gasp, the sensation stealing her composure. The look of shock on her face only spurred Ginny further; she loved watching Hermione come undone.

Already desperate for more, Ginny wrapped her legs tight around Hermione’s waist, forcing her deeper still. Both of them groaned at once, their bodies arching, every nerve raw and sensitive as the pleasure built between them.

Ginny nipped at Hermione’s shoulder, trying to rouse her as she lay motionless above her, clearly struggling to catch her breath from the overwhelming rush. Hermione shuddered as Ginny’s hands roamed over her body, but then caught them, pinning them beside Ginny’s head. Her gaze burned with desperate intensity before she finally began to move her hips. The slow thrusts made Ginny whimper and moan.

“I see why you like this,” Hermione whispered breathlessly.

Ginny was already dizzy, her orgasm building with every stroke. Hermione’s thumb pressed against her lips, sliding slowly inside. Hermione groaned as her hips picked up pace, and Ginny sucked eagerly, circling her tongue around Hermione’s thumb, her moans muffled. The reaction only drove Hermione harder, her thrusts growing desperate, pounding into Ginny until the pleasure spilled over.

Ginny arched her back, panting as her orgasm tore through her violently, shaking her whole body until her legs went boneless.

Hermione pulled out slowly, discarding the strap-on onto the floor with a careless toss. She climbed higher onto the bed, straddling Ginny’s chest and positioning herself above her face. Ginny’s eyes darkened with greedy anticipation, drinking in the sight of Hermione trembling and desperate. She could see just how wet Hermione was, dripping for her, and the sight alone made Ginny ache all over again.

“Please,” Hermione whined, her voice breaking with need. “I want to come in your mouth.”

Ginny groaned, the sound raw, Hermione talking like that shredding the last of her composure. She didn’t need to be asked twice—she gripped Hermione’s thighs and pulled her down, her tongue immediately working, licking and sucking eagerly. Hermione moaned above her, rolling her hips, circling and grinding against Ginny’s mouth to chase the pressure on her clit. The taste, the sounds—it was intoxicating.

Ginny watched through hooded eyes as Hermione’s hands wandered up to her breasts, squeezing and pinching her own nipples. The sight made Ginny groan into her, the vibrations sending a shudder through Hermione, who whimpered loudly.

Hermione’s hips moved faster now, desperate and wild. Ginny held her steady, sucking hard on her clit, and Hermione screamed as her orgasm crashed over her, violent and unrelenting. She shook, thighs trembling, as Ginny devoured every drop of her release.

When Hermione finally collapsed forward, her body trembling, she positioned herself on Ginny's arms. Slowly, her breathing began to steady, each inhale softer than the last. Ginny held her close, staring at Hermione’s face as her eyes fluttered shut, sleep tugging at her. She looked so peaceful, lips parted, curls damp against her temples. Ginny’s chest tightened. She still couldn’t quite believe it.

Hermione Granger was now hers.

Headline: "TYRANT IN THE MAKING? GRANGER ACCUSED OF POWER-HUNGER AND CONTROL"

The paper’s blaring type caught Ginny’s eye. An anonymous former colleague of Hermione’s had given an interview, claiming Hermione was controlling, vindictive, and hungry for power. The piece listed petty grievances—how she supposedly took credit for her team’s work, how she bulldozed dissent, how she micromanaged and demanded loyalty. One sentence sneered that she wasn’t even competent at her job, that everyone in the department did the work while she basked in the applause.

It was disgusting. Compared to the attacks on her parents and the whispers about how she’d been raised, this felt petty and manufactured—but it was part of a pattern. The campaign had become a caricature of viciousness: anyone and anything that could be twisted into a scandal was being twisted. Harry’s investigation soon confirmed their worst suspicions—galleons were flowing from Malfoy account into a dozen press outlets to seed precisely these stories. They were desperate; the gap in the polls was still wide and the pure-blood backers were throwing everything they had at tearing her down.

Ginny watched Hermione weather lie after lie. Ginny had already begun reaching out—calling old contacts, arranging meetings, whispering threats into the right ears. She had lists of names to be called, records to be dug up, people to be quietly pressured; she could stop this smear campaign before breakfast if she wanted. The plan forming in her mind was brutal and efficient: expose the Malfoys’ finances, pull together witnesses against Fudge, leak stories about the families bankrolling the attacks. No stone would be left unturned.

All her planning came to a halt when Hermione overheard her talking to a journalist on the phone. Ginny had thought she was alone, but Hermione heard everything.

“You can’t,” Hermione insisted, voice steady but brittle. “If we start trading dirt, we become them. I won’t win like that.”

“You’re asking me to stand down while they try to destroy you?” Ginny shot back, hands clenched so tight her knuckles went white. “I can make them crawl, Hermione. I can make them regret this.”

Hermione reached for her hand and squeezed it—gentle, pleading. “I know you can. I know you want to protect me. But I built this campaign on principles. If I start playing dirty, I’ll lose more than votes. I’ll lose myself.”

For a long, jagged second they stood there, the noise of the city beyond the flat muffled and distant. Ginny stayed silent, her jaw clenched, anger twisting inside her. She refused to let it spill onto Hermione—this wasn’t her fault.

“Please,” Hermione said finally, her voice low and urgent. “Please don’t retaliate.”

Ginny disagreed with every fiber of her being. She had the wealth, the influence, the contacts to crush them without even lifting a finger. She could turn the tide. But Hermione was determined to play clean, even when their enemies played dirty.

But Hermione was looking at her like this—begging her to listen. Ginny closed her eyes, the weight of it pressing down until she felt both defeated and useless. At last, she gave a small nod of agreement.

There was another debate scheduled between Hermione and Cornelius Fudge, and Ginny decided she had to be there. She wanted to see Hermione with her own eyes, to make sure she was alright. She rarely went to public events anymore since the campaign began—too great a risk of being photographed beside Hermione, too dangerous for rumors to spread. So she dressed casually, pulling a hoodie low over her face to hide her hair, slipping on glasse. She blended into the crowd, passing herself off as part of Hermione’s campaign team.

Most of the audience had already taken their seats before the debate began. Ginny decided to duck into the restroom first, not wanting to risk missing a second once things started. She wanted to be present for every moment.

But when she stepped back out, someone collided with her hard enough to send her stumbling. Ginny groaned, irritation flashing—until she looked up.

“Weasley,” Draco Malfoy drawled, eyeing her up and down with deliberate slowness. “Fancy seeing you here. Come to cheer on Granger?”

“I’m here to see the debate,” Ginny said coolly.

Draco smirked. “Seems like you’re trying awfully hard not to get noticed. Don’t want people finding out about you and Granger?”

Ginny’s skin prickled, panic spiking beneath her steady expression. What was he insinuating? How could he know anything? She and Hermione had been careful—never together in public, only private gatherings with no photographers, no leaks. Malfoy hadn’t been at any of those events. What could he possibly know?

She composed herself, rolling her eyes. “What makes you think there’s anything between me and Granger?”

Draco chuckled darkly. “Please. Everyone at school knew you had a thing for her. And lately… well, there are murmurs.”

Ginny planted a hand on her hip. “Wow, Malfoy, didn’t know you kept up with Witch Weekly. Did those ‘murmurs’ also say I’m seeing someone? Or did that part escape you?” She forced a smirk, planting the seed of a lie she might use later.

“Seeing someone, hm?” Draco’s eyes gleamed. “Is that why Granger is at your flat nearly every night?”

Ginny’s stomach lurched, but she forced her expression to remain unimpressed. “Do you have proof, Malfoy?” she asked evenly.

“Not yet,” he said, smirking as he brushed past her. “But I will soon.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This was bad. Ginny’s mind spun—she needed to find out exactly what he knew so she could act accordingly. Ducking out of the corridor, she pulled out her phone and called Harry.

“Hey, Gin,” Harry answered casually.

“Harry, we have a problem,” Ginny said sharply.

“What is it?”

“We need to look into Malfoy. I think he knows something about me and Hermione. This can never get out between us, do you understand? Hermione can’t know—not until we figure it out. We’ll deal with this on our own.”

There was a beat of silence before Harry’s voice came back, low and serious. “Okay. I understand. I’ll look into it.”

Chapter Text

Hermione sat at her vanity, her eyes fixed on the velvet box Ginny had sent earlier that afternoon. The box alone was enough to make her heart race, but the folded note beside it kept drawing her gaze back.

She picked up the letter, Ginny’s handwriting just as unrestrained and hurried as she remembered:

To my lovely girlfriend,

I know you don’t like wearing flashy jewelry. That’s why I picked this. I hope you’ll consider wearing it tonight. I can’t wait to see you.

Yours, GW

Hermione read it twice, then a third time, as though the words might change if she lingered long enough. My lovely girlfriend. She swallowed hard, the simple phrase is still making her chest feel both unbearably tight and strangely light all at once even after weeks of being together.

When she finally opened the box, her breath caught. Nestled inside was a silver necklace, three emerald stones arranged delicately in a line that shimmered like captured starlight. A matching pair of earrings rested beside it. Understated, elegant, timeless—entirely her taste. Ginny had chosen perfectly, in that way she always seemed to do now, as if she had mapped every corner of Hermione’s heart without asking permission.

With slow, careful fingers, Hermione clasped the necklace around her throat. The cool metal brushed against her skin, sending an unexpected shiver down her spine. She added the earrings, then studied her reflection in the mirror. When she wore the necklace, she couldn’t help but laugh softly and shake her head, thinking Ginny must have planned this—it fit her dress perfectly. Her hair was pinned in an elegant updo, framing her neck and clearly showcasing the jewelry. The effect was striking; the silver gleamed against her skin, the emeralds catching the light and echoing the warmth in her eyes. Against the off-shoulder dark teal gown she had chosen for the evening, the jewelry didn’t just match, it transformed her.

The Christmas Gala was no ordinary event. It wasn’t a Ministry gathering or another stiff political affair. This was the Weasley family’s annual tradition—an evening where only their closest friends and allies were welcome. No reporters, no flashing cameras, no campaign managers whispering strategy in her ear. For years, she had spent the holidays buried in work or surrounded by friends, always smiling but never quite feeling complete.

Tonight was different—because now she was spending it with someone she loved. Her girlfriend.

Ginny was already at there helping her mother with the preparations, which meant Hermione had to travel there alone. She sent a quick text—I’ll be there soon—before taking one last glance in the mirror, checking her necklace and gown before she left.

When she arrived, the familiar homely mansion had been transformed into a vision of festive glamour. Golden lights cascaded from the rafters, garlands twinkled across every archway, and the scent of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts lingered in the air. The cozy charm had evolved into something almost regal without losing its warmth. Through the large windows she could see clusters of elegantly dressed guests chatting and laughing—many faces she recognized from the Ministry and Hogwarts days. Ron greeted her first.

“Hey, Hermione! Merry Christmas!” he said, pulling her into a hug. “Does Ginny know you’ll be here?”

She nodded shyly. She wasn’t sure whether Ginny had told her family about their relationship yet, but she trusted them. The Weasleys were good, kind people—private about their lives despite what the public saw. Hermione had come to see that the warmth behind those walls was very real.

Over the past few weeks, Ginny had often invited her along when she visited her parents. Hermione adored watching Ginny and Molly together—it was like witnessing a comedy routine of love and exasperation. Once, when Ginny refused to leave Hermione’s side, Molly tricked her into fetching something from the pantry, then locked the door magically when Ginny left her wand on the counter. Hermione laughed until her stomach hurt as Ginny called out helplessly, banging on the door. Molly simply hummed and went about her business, a picture of innocence.

When Ginny was finally freed, her hair stuck to her forehead and neck, her glare promising revenge. Hermione had picked a few stray strands from Ginny’s face, unable to hide her smile. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them—close enough to feel each other’s breath, lost in the warmth of something fragile and new. Ginny’s hand had found her waist, and time seemed to hold its breath.

Then Arthur’s voice had echoed from the other room, and both women jumped apart. Molly, shaking her head with a knowing smile, muttered as she passed, “You two are so bad at this. Might as well announce it in the newspaper.”

Hermione had burst into laughter, Ginny groaning beside her. Molly already knew, of course. She always did.

Hermione mingled for a while among the crowd, exchanging polite smiles and handshakes with a surprising number of Arthur’s influential friends—many of whom already knew her by reputation and spoke warmly of their support. She was pleasantly surprised by how many of them admired her work, and as the evening flowed, she found herself absorbing ideas and insights that might improve her policies and leadership. Her mind buzzed with new connections and half-formed plans, weaving together thoughts even as she sipped her wine.

She was at the refreshment table, reaching for another drink, when she finally saw Ginny. The redhead stood out effortlessly in a three-piece suit the exact shade of Hermione’s gown—of course they were matching. Hermione couldn’t help but shake her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. Ginny spotted her almost instantly and crossed the room in a straight line, her stride confident and magnetic. When she reached Hermione, she pulled her into a warm, friendly hug that lingered just a little too long to be casual.

“I suspected you planned this,” Hermione murmured, pulling back slightly, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“This is purely coincidence,” Ginny said, feigning innocence but failing to hide her grin. “You look stunning, by the way.” Her voice softened as her gaze lingered on Hermione.

Hermione sighed inwardly. Ginny looked breathtaking—the deep green suit set off her copper hair and freckled skin perfectly. It was almost painful not to touch her. And as if reading her mind, Ginny smiled, that slow, knowing smile that always made Hermione’s heart stumble.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible over the music. “But I feel like ‘beautiful’ isn’t enough to describe how you look right now.”

Ginny’s expression softened further, her voice dropping low. “I want to kiss you.”

“I want to kiss you too,” Hermione replied, her chest tightening with longing.

For a moment, the noise of the gala faded around them. The air between them shimmered with unspoken words and restrained desire. Hermione’s heart ached; she wanted nothing more than to close the space between them. She knows she can’t. All because she had a reputation to protect and she doesn’t know if she can trust everyone in this room to not turn on her.

Ginny’s smile wavered for the briefest second, never quite reaching her eyes. Hermione knew she hated it too—this quiet pretending. But Ginny handled it with more grace than she ever could.

Before either could say another word, someone called Ginny’s name from across the room. Another guest swept her away, apologetic but smiling. Hermione only laughed softly, watching her go. Ginny was far too magnetic for her own good—and everyone wanted a piece of her tonight.

Hermione watched as Ginny engaged in conversation with an older man and a younger woman. From what Hermione could make out, the man was introducing his daughter—likely in her late twenties, shy but eager, her smile betraying a mix of nerves and admiration. The girl’s eyes lit up every time Ginny spoke, and Hermione recognized that look instantly: a fan of Ginevra Weasley. She’d seen it often in the office, she seemed to draw people in like a flame.

A movement at Hermione’s side caught her attention. She turned to find a tall man with long red hair tied neatly into a bun, a sharp suit barely concealing the bold tattoos that crept up his neck and hands. There was no mistaking the resemblance, he was definitely a Weasley.

“Miss Granger, I’m Charlie Weasley. I don’t believe we’ve met before,” he said warmly, extending a hand.

Hermione blinked, quickly piecing together what she remembered from Arthur’s stories. She had never met him—Charlie lived in Romania, working with dragons. Up close, he looked every bit like someone who wrestled dragons for fun: tall, broad-shouldered, sun-kissed skin, muscles that filled out his suit, and a relaxed kind of confidence that made him instantly likeable.

“Hi, Charlie. It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” Hermione said, shaking his hand with genuine enthusiasm. “I’ve heard so much about you and your work. And I've even heard from Ron that you once rode a dragon.”

Charlie chuckled, a deep, friendly sound. “I don’t think that’s nearly as impressive as what you’ve been doing. I’ve seen your interviews and the debates—you’re crushing it. Cornelius Fudge doesn’t stand a chance.”

Hermione smiled modestly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you. I try my best. It’s still too early to relax, though—not with Fudge’s team trying to tear me down at every opportunity.”

Charlie shook his head, his expression firm but kind. “I’m sure anyone with half a brain can see through their nonsense. You’ve got integrity—and people notice that, even if the headlines don’t.”

Charlie grinned and added, “So, are you here with someone?”

Hermione froze for a moment, mind scrambling for a simple answer. Technically, she was here with Ginny. But also—not really. They’d come separately, and their relationship wasn’t public. Merlin, this secret thing was exhausting. She longed for the day she could just say it out loud—that she was Ginny’s. That Ginny was hers. Instead, she had to overthink every casual question like it was part of a press interview.

Her eyes drifted toward the crowd until she found Ginny again, still talking to the father and daughter pair. But now Ginny was glancing at her between words, subtle but constant. Their eyes met across the room for a fleeting moment, and Hermione’s chest tightened.

“I came here by myself,” Hermione said at last, keeping her tone light. “Arthur invited me.” Before Charlie could dig deeper, she gestured toward his tattoos, spotting a set of numbers etched along his fingers. “Those look interesting. Coordinates for a special place?”

Charlie followed her gaze and laughed. “Yeah, they are. To me, it’s a special place—but if you went there, you’d just find a tiny shack in the middle of a forest. It’s where I sacrifice souls for my dragons.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, her mouth parting as she tried to come up with a response.

Charlie smirked and nudged her shoulder with a laugh. “Kidding, Miss Granger. It’s just where I met my mentor.”

Hermione exhaled, shaking her head with a small grin. “All of you Weasleys are a menace.”

He shrugged good-naturedly. “What can I say? It’s no fun being too serious—especially at Christmas.”

Before Hermione could respond, Ginny’s perfume enveloped her, warm and familiar, a mix of vanilla and something sharper like cedarwood. Then came the heat of her presence—an arm slipping around Hermione’s waist, drawing her in until their sides brushed. Hermione’s body relaxed instinctively, her breath catching as Ginny gave a small, possessive squeeze that sent shivers down her spine. She looked up, startled and curious.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Ginny said lightly, flashing Charlie a smile, “but Mr. Faulkner was insisting on meeting Hermione.” Her tone was casual, but Hermione noticed the faint stiffness in it, the way Ginny’s gaze avoided hers.

“Of course,” Charlie replied with an easy grin. “I was just acquainting Miss Granger with my special place.” He winked at Hermione, who caught the way Ginny’s jaw tightened at the words.

Ginny finally looked at her then, smiling as though nothing was out of place. But Hermione saw the flicker of tension beneath that practiced calm. “Is that so?” Ginny said smoothly. “Where is this special place?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Charlie beat her to it, smirking. “It’s our secret.”

Ginny turned to him again, humming softly in response, one brow raised. Charlie seemed to catch on that something unspoken was happening, but chose not to press it. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Miss Granger,” he said, giving her a parting wave.

“Nice to meet you too, Charlie. And please, call me Hermione,” she replied warmly.

Ginny nudged her hip gently, a subtle cue that made Hermione blink before following her lead. They smiled and exchanged polite greetings as they made their way through the hall until they reached the grand staircase. Once they began ascending, the hum of the party faded.

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked quietly, unable to ignore Ginny’s silence. They reached a dimly lit corridor, and Ginny stopped at one of the doors, pushing it open.

“Are we allowed to be here?” Hermione whispered as they stepped inside. The room was dark, only outlines visible until Ginny flicked the lights on and closed the door behind them.

“I grew up in this house, Hermione. I think that gives me permission to enter almost any room I want. And this—” Ginny turned and smiled, “—is my room.”

Hermione looked around, taking in the space with wide eyes. The bedroom was huge—probably four times larger than the one she grew up in. It was beautiful and warm, reflecting Ginny’s style in every detail: soft golden lights, framed photos scattered across the walls and dresser. It reminded Hermione of Ginny’s apartment, only this was grander, more expensive, and undeniably steeped in memories.

“This is so huge,” Hermione said in amazement, spinning slowly as she took everything in.

“I was the only girl,” Ginny said with a teasing grin. “So I got the biggest room.”

Hermione smiled, walking along the wall and studying the pictures. Most were of Ginny and Astoria, laughing in different locations, some from Quidditch matches, others clearly from travels abroad. They looked happy.

“So…” Ginny cleared her throat softly. “My brother seems quite taken with you.”

“Charlie?” Hermione turned, eyebrows lifting in disbelief.

Ginny nodded, her expression tightening again.

“I’m pretty sure he wasn’t,” Hermione said with a small laugh. “We were just talking about his tattoo.”

Ginny’s mouth pursed. “I know my brother. He sought you out to talk. Do you know how often he does that at these functions?”

“I’m going to guess… not too often?” Hermione tilted her head.

“Never,” Ginny replied, stepping closer until Hermione could feel her breath on her skin. The closeness sent a shiver through her, warmth blooming in her chest. It took Hermione embarrassingly long to put it together—Ginny interrupting them, the arm around her waist, the tight smile…

Her mouth parted in realization. “You were jealous.”

Ginny blinked and leaned back slightly. “What? No.”

Over the past months together, Hermione had learned to tell when Ginny was teasing, hiding something, or flat-out lying. And Ginny was a terrible liar.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, amusement flickering. “You saw me talking to Charlie and decided that meant he was interested in me. So you found an excuse to whisk me away to your room by pretending Mr. Faulkner wanted to meet me—because you were jealous.”

Knowing that sent a heady rush through her—Ginny didn’t want anyone else getting too close to her. The thought made Hermione’s heart race, though she’d never admit how much she liked it. Not that she was any better; the idea of someone flirting with Ginny made her stomach twist just the same.

Ginny huffed out an impatient breath. “No,” she said quickly, folding her arms and exhaling deeply. “I just needed an excuse to show you my childhood room.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, lips curling in mischief. “So I could continue my conversation with Charlie about his secret place?” she asked, lowering her voice deliberately on the last two words to get a reaction. The corner of Ginny’s jaw tightened immediately, and Hermione’s smirk deepened.

Hermione didn’t want to tease Ginny for too long about it—she didn’t want to cause a rift between her and Charlie, even if there was nothing to worry about. So, she softened, stepping closer and looping her arms around Ginny’s neck before pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. Ginny’s shoulders eased immediately, her breath leaving her in a quiet sigh as she let her forehead rest on Hermione’s shoulder.

Hermione smiled and began dotting soft kisses across Ginny’s face—her temple, her nose, the corner of her mouth—until she finally pulled back to inspect her handiwork. Ginny’s face was covered in faint lipstick marks, and Hermione couldn’t help but grin proudly. It looked good on her, she thought. Maybe too good. The thought of leaving those marks on Ginny’s lips in public made her heart skip.

“I don’t want to go back downstairs anymore,” Ginny murmured, voice low and a little whiny.

“Aren’t your family going to look for you?” Hermione asked, brushing her thumb along Ginny’s jaw.

“I’ll see them again tomorrow anyway,” Ginny said simply, eyes softening as she leaned closer. Hermione’s breath hitched; she had wanted to kiss Ginny since the moment she saw her that evening. Ginny leaned in, and Hermione’s pulse quickened. Their lips brushed—warm, soft, and fleeting—before Ginny pulled back just enough to tease her, pressing her body closer instead. The heat between them was maddening; Hermione ached with wanting.

Her brows furrowed in confusion as Ginny pressed their foreheads together, tilting her head just enough for her bottom lip to graze Hermione’s top one. Then, just when Hermione leaned in to finally close the gap, Ginny drew back again, her smirk mischievous, leaving Hermione breathless and dizzy with longing.

“Ginny,” she breathed, a soft whimper escaping her lips. “Kiss me.”

Instead of kissing her, Ginny traced a fingertip slowly up Hermione’s neck before cupping her jaw. Her thumb brushed over Hermione’s bottom lip—warm, soft, maddening. The touch sent a shudder racing down Hermione’s spine, pooling low in her belly, and she could already feel the ache of want deep within her. Ginny’s nail scraped lightly at her lip, her gaze locking onto Hermione’s with that dangerous, hungry glint. “Do you want me?” she asked, her voice rough with restraint.

Hermione’s hands slid around to meet at Ginny’s lower back, loving the curve of her waist beneath her palms. She felt Ginny’s breath hitch against her as she whispered back, “You know I do.”

Ginny’s thumb trailed down the line of Hermione’s chin, guiding her parted lips toward hers. Hermione expected a soft kiss—but when Ginny finally closed the distance, it was anything but gentle. The kiss was fierce, hungry, and claiming. Ginny’s tongue met hers in a slow, deliberate slide that stole her breath, drawing a full-body shudder from her so strong her fingers fisted in the fabric of Ginny’s suit, pulling her closer still until there was no space left between them.

Teeth nipped at her tongue, then her lip, and Hermione gasped, her hips jerking instinctively against Ginny’s. Ginny’s hand slid from her waist down to her ass, fingers flexing as though she wanted to grab her properly but found too much fabric in the way. She growled in frustration, the sound low and rough against Hermione’s mouth.

“How much do you like this dress?” Ginny murmured, her breath hot and teasing.

It took Hermione a moment to process the question, her mind fogged with desire. “Uh—I don’t know?” she managed, dazed.

That was all the permission Ginny needed. With a sharp tug, the fabric tore at the seams, the sound shocking Hermione out of her haze as the gown slipped down her body in one swift motion.

“Ginny!” she gasped, half-scandalized, half-aroused. She wasn’t wearing much underneath—just a tiny, barely-there bikini. Ginny’s eyes darkened, clearly appreciating the view.

“I’ll buy you another one,” she whispered, voice rough with want, before capturing Hermione’s mouth again in a bruising kiss. Ginny lifted her easily, Hermione’s legs wrapping around her waist on instinct as Ginny’s hands gripped her ass firmly, drawing a desperate moan from Hermione’s lips.

It only grew louder when Ginny moved, walking her backward until Hermione’s back hit the wall with a soft thud. Ginny’s mouth found her throat, lips tracing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the expanse of her neck. Every touch left Hermione molten, her body arching, her hips bucking helplessly toward Ginny.

Ginny set her down, pressing her firmly against the wall, and her hands began to roam—up her sides, over her ribs, around her hips—leaving trails of heat everywhere they touched. Hermione could barely breathe, her thoughts dissolving into sensation. All she wanted was for Ginny to keep going, to slip lower and touch her where she was burning for her.

The kisses grew harder—no longer soft teasing nips but rough, hungry bites that made Hermione shudder. She could feel herself growing slick with want, arching against Ginny’s body as another gasp escaped her lips when Ginny bit down again, lower this time, sucking hard at the skin there.

Ginny groaned, and Hermione felt the vibration against her throat, the sound low and primal, sending sparks racing down her spine and pooling into pure heat between her legs.

Ginny traced her knuckles slowly back up Hermione’s thighs, the touch featherlight, almost teasing, before stroking through the thin fabric of her underwear. “God, Hermione,” she breathed, voice thick with desire. “You’re so wet for me. I can feel you—soaked already.”

Hermione bit her lip hard, trying to hold back the sounds rising in her throat. But when Ginny’s mouth found that spot on her neck again, sucking hard, a small whimper escaped her anyway. Ginny’s fingers moved firmer now, stroking with purpose. Hermione’s skin broke out in goosebumps, her hips rolling down helplessly as her clit throbbed in desperate rhythm. Everything felt hot—too hot—and she let out a low whine when she felt wetness slide down her thigh.

Ginny must have felt it too, because she moaned low in her throat, the sound vibrating against Hermione’s skin. With one fluid motion, Ginny pushed the flimsy fabric aside, her fingers gliding over Hermione’s entrance, slick and ready. Hermione whimpered, her breath catching sharply.

A guttural groan tore from her throat when Ginny pressed her fingers inside, the stretch delicious and overwhelming. Hermione’s legs trembled as she clung to Ginny, nails digging into her back, trying to ground herself as the waves of pleasure threatened to pull her under.

She didn’t have a chance to feel grounded though—not when Ginny slid into her as deep as she could, pulling out just enough to stroke over her clit before pressing back inside again. Hermione’s back arched so hard it almost hurt, sparks bursting behind her eyelids as Ginny’s fingers moved faster, deeper, rougher.

The pace was relentless—fast and hard—and Hermione could dimly hear her own breath, sharp pants turning into broken moans when Ginny’s thumb found her clit again and rubbed tight circles.

“Gi—Gin,” she tried to speak, but her words dissolved into a gasp as she bit her lip, forcing her eyes open. Ginny’s gaze caught hers—dark, intense, and full of raw want.

Her legs began to tremble, knees weakening as the pressure in her stomach built and built until Ginny drove her over the edge. Hermione cried out, hips jerking uncontrollably into Ginny’s hand, every muscle tensing and then shattering in release.

For long moments, she could only lean against the wall, chest heaving as she tried to remember how to breathe. “God,” she panted, finally managing words—only to lose them again when Ginny lifted her hand and sucked her wet fingers into her mouth, eyes never leaving Hermione’s.

A strangled sound escaped Hermione’s throat before she grabbed Ginny by the collar, pulling her forward and crashing their lips together, desperate to taste herself on Ginny’s mouth.

Hermione pulled away for a moment, her breathing still unsteady, when a faint scratching sound echoed from somewhere near the far side of the room. She froze. “What was that?” she whispered, brows furrowing.

Ginny, still catching her breath, pressed a lazy kiss against Hermione’s neck. “Mm?” she hummed in distraction.

The sound came again—sharper this time, a steady scratching against a door. Ginny perked up instantly, her head tilting as realization flickered across her face. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake…” she muttered, a groan escaping her throat. Her expression was a mix of irritation and reluctant amusement.

Hermione blinked at her. “What?”

Ginny straightened up, still chuckling under her breath as she grabbed a loose shirt and handed it to Hermione. Hermione blushed but accepted it, slipping the oversized shirt on while Ginny disappeared behind the door. From the crack, Hermione could see it led to a smaller adjoining room—probably the bathroom. She heard soft murmurs from inside, Ginny’s voice low and cooing.

When Ginny returned, she was hiding something behind her back, her grin wide and mischievous.

“This is your Christmas present,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I didn’t want you to be alone when I’m go back to work.”

Hermione tilted her head, curiosity flickering. “What are you hiding?”

Her answer came with a tiny meow—or maybe a squeak. Hermione’s breath caught as Ginny brought her hands forward to reveal a tiny calico kitten, all orange, black, and white, blinking sleepily up at her. Its little paw reached out, batting the air.

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Ginny!” she gasped, instantly taking the kitten into her arms. It was impossibly soft, warm, and small enough to fit in her palms. The kitten meowed again before nuzzling against her chin.

“Hi, cutie,” Hermione whispered, her voice melting with affection as she pressed her nose to its fur. The kitten’s paw brushed her cheek in response, and she laughed.

They sat together on the bed, watching the tiny kitten wobble and pounce clumsily over the soft duvets. Ginny’s laughter filled the room, bright and easy.

“You like it?” Ginny asked, eyes hopeful.

Hermione sighed, turning to face her. “I love it,” she said softly. The warmth in her chest made her throat tighten. She wanted to tell Ginny she loved her too—it was right there, on the tip of her tongue—but instead, she leaned in and kissed her, murmuring a quiet, heartfelt, “Thank you.”

Ginny smiled against her lips. “What do we call her then?”

“Annie,” Hermione said after a pause, stroking the kitten’s back. “Short for Annabelle.”

Ginny chuckled. “Of course you’d name her that.”

Later that night, they apparated to Ginny’s flat. Once inside, Hermione rushed off excitedly to grab the wrapped box she’d been saving for Ginny.

As Ginny peeled away the wrapping paper, Hermione said, “I know you’ve been trying to figure out what you want to do next… and I realized you’re already amazing at something you love.”

Ginny lifted the lid, eyes widening as she pulled out a set of professional knives, a gleaming copper pot, and two aprons—one embroidered with Best Chef in the World and the other with Chef’s Girlfriend.

For a heartbeat, Ginny said nothing, just stared at the gifts. Hermione’s heart fluttered nervously. “I’m sorry if it’s too much—I just thought—”

Ginny cut her off with a hug so tight it nearly knocked the air out of her. “No. No, this is perfect,” she said, her voice muffled but trembling slightly. “I needed this, Hermione.”

Hermione smiled through a rush of relief, picking up the aprons. She slipped one over Ginny’s head and tied it gently at her back before putting on the other. Then she guided Ginny toward the mirror.

Ginny stood there, looking at their reflections—at the words stitched across their aprons, at the way they fit together. Slowly, her shoulders relaxed, her lips curving into a genuine smile.

“I guess I just needed you back in my life to get mine sorted,” Ginny said quietly.

Hermione’s heart swelled. “Good thing I plan to stick around, then,” she replied, her smile tender as Ginny leaned in and kissed her again.