Black is the Prettiest

Ginny brushes her hair before the full length mirror. It shines, the coppery curls mocking her. Horrid, nasty, carrot curls, the Weasley inheritance and Ginny´s bane. Hermione sits on the bed, eyes focused on the magnifying mirror in her lap, flinching as she applies her own makeup. Ginny watches her in the mirror, combing her hair far longer than she needs simply for the excuse to watch.

Hermione is ready to go and Ginny feels inadequate. She always feels inadequate alongside the other Gryffindors, and she feels the same around the other Hogwarts girls, but she hates them for different reasons.

Hufflepuffs she loathes for their charitable kindness. "Here, Gin, I´ll get that," when she gropes in her purse for the few Knuts for a butterbeer. "Look, Gin, this colour looks so much better on you, I look like a cow in it, you take it," when they notice her admiring their nice new clothes.

Ravenclaws she detests for their passive wisdom. "Oh, Virginia," they always call her by her full name, "I´ll help you with that if you´ll show me that way you braided your hair the other day," when she´s obviously struggling with her work. "Really, Virginia, the only way to get ahead is to pay attention in class. You´ll never purge off the Weasley reputation if you don´t learn!" Cho said this once when Ginny asked for help with Charms. Ginny leaves the room when Cho walks in now, even in the middle of dinner. No wonder she´s kept her skin-and-bones figure for so long.

Slytherins are hateful; Ginny needs no excuse to hate them back. Pansy sneers whenever Ginny passes her in the hall, Millicent and Morag taunt her mercilessly and loudly. Really, Ginny agrees that they ought to chuck all the Slytherins out. What good did a Slytherinever do for anyone? They even stole away her Harry, enamoured him with a pointed face and too-blond hair. No, Slytherins are below her contempt and yet she relishes the warm, bubbling abhorrence they inspire.

But the Gryffindors. Her own house. She hates them too. Hermione, forever the clever Hermione, Ginny´s chief despair. Hermione, who looks like a woman now, when Ginny has hardly changed from the nervy little girl who confessed her obsessions to a phantom diary. Hermione, who laughs and kisses Ron and hugs Harry and forgives them both for their bumbling, boorish, boyish crudeness. Ginny can never forgive Harry for his latest crime, and Ron is just her brother, with whom she sometimes fights, sometimes plays.

Ginny knows that her eyes linger too long on Hermione, longer than they linger on dark, exotic Parvatior tall, waif-like Lavendar or slight, impish, grinning Natalie. She wonders if anyone else has noticed. She wonders how she would react if she knew.

Ginny jumps when a hand rests on her shoulder, turning eyes to her friend and her hate. Hermione´s eyes are concerned, questioning, and Ginny knows she should have been paying attention.

"No," she says shortly. "No, I´m not ready. Hermione, look at me. I´ll never be ready."

Hermione frowns, leading Ginny by the hand to the bed. Ginny tries to ignore the sparks running from her hand to her brain. They sit, Hermione gracefully, Ginny automatically. Ginny hears none of the words that come from Hermione´s lips, but she watches those lips anyway, drowning in the full redness of them like she always imagined drowning in Harry´s green eyes. She leans closer, watching as the lips falter, lifting a hand to trace her thumb over the smooth glossed surface. The lips have stopped moving completely and Ginny´s frozen fingers are burned by a cautiously exhaled breath. She snaps her hand away and looks up into Hermione´s startled eyes. They are brown, plain Jane brown, and Ginny decides right then that brown is lovelier than green or blue or grey or anything else, really.

But then the eyes close and Hermione stands and is gone, and Ginny is left alone in the darkening room and she changes her mind again and now black is the prettiest.