Closer
- Story Summary:
- Hermione/Ginny. Contemplative!Ginny pines after Somewhat-Oblivious!Hermione. Short and lovey (as opposed to lovely).
- Posted:
- 05/24/2003
- Hits:
- 716
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Many large things once began as little things.
A ripple can become a wave and a wave can become a tsunami. Waves destroy cities while love, which begins as an inkling of fascination, builds them. It's amazing what things have in common.
It started out as a little thing, constructed from the dregs of a warped and fickle heart. It was a touch, a lingering glance, a brief hug or a shoulder to cry on during hard times.
Ginny had loved Harry Potter since she was a child. She loved his voice and the way he smelled, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. She loved the callouses on the palms of his hands, the way his nose turned pink when he blushed, even the way his eyes grew dark when he was angry.
So wasn't it natural, she asked herself, that she had come to love one of his closest friends?
It was love by association, or so she convinced herself for some time. At first Hermione had been competition, that malicious thing. After Ginny realised she was no more romantically interested in Harry than Ron was, Hermione had become something of a paragon of society, a role model - for if Ginny could be like Hermione, wouldn't Harry love her too, just a bit?
Ginny lies awake now, as she has nearly every night since she slept in the Chamber of Secrets. She listens to the footsteps of the older girls as they move past her dormitory to the next, on their way to beds and sheets and pillows and sleep, which seems to evade Ginny more and more. She waits for the whispering, tired shuffle that replaces Hermione's more often - used purposeful stride.
It does not come. Ginny moves her covers to the side and stands, a wisp of sound accompanying her slight movement.
With slight reserve, she makes her way down the stairs, observing Hermione in a moment of solitude. Ginny pauses, toying briefly with the idea of returning to her bed, mulling over the thought that if she were to retrace her steps and bury herself under her covers, perhaps her heart would be buried as well, lost in folds of cloth and sleep.
She ignores that wicked urge and completes her passage across the room, natural silence becoming polite noise to alert the room's only other occupant.
Hermione makes a small exclamation of surprise (never a word, only a small noise coming unbidden from the back of her throat) and clears space off at the table, moving books from the extra chair to the floor. These midnight meetings are not uncommon, and Hermione is accustomed to Ginny's presence - a small comfort in times when any comfort is welcome.
"How are you?" Ginny asks, twisting a stray curl of unruly red hair behind her ear as she waits for the flood of answers that always follows the three simple words - they are not quite the three words that Ginny would like to say, but they are a start.
She listens quietly, feeling the thing that was once small inside her swell near to bursting, guiding her blood through her veins to fuel her pulse.
Hermione is always bothered by the same things, but Ginny never tires of hearing them. Advanced Charms is more difficult than expected, Ron continues to poke fun at SPEW, she suspects some of her teachers are coddling her simply because she is Head Girl . . . and yes, there are always platonic and nearly maternal apprehensions regarding Harry. He prefers playing Quidditch over studies, she and Ron are his only friends, and what does Ginny suppose will happen to him once he graduates?
There are countless others. Hermione's thoughts on Harry seem to be the only thing about her that changes. Ginny suppresses a smile as Hermione finishes, looking embarrassed that she has talked for so long.
"How are you?" Hermione asks, repeating the question softly.
Ginny flouders nervously for a moment before saying simply, "Fine." She slouches to rest her chin on her forearms sleepily. At night, Hermione's voice serves almost as a Sleeping Draught, waving away Ginny's worries with the promise of a good night's sleep. She starts when Hermione reaches out to brush the flyaway fringe from her forehead, experiencing a moment of terror that quickly passes. She leans into that touch, watching Hermione's eyes turn misty, eyes crinkling at the corners, just like Harry's.
"Maybe you should go to bed," Hermione whispers, her fingertips lingering on Ginny's temple.
Nodding, Ginny stands, leaving the chair out from under the table.
She smiles, leaning around the stairwell for one last glance, watching Hermione gather up her papers again and return to her work, knowing she does not plan to go to bed until both the fire and the candles have burned low.
It is a large thing now, looming over the horizon, on the brink of being something more. It continues to expand, and Ginny draws her palm along the stone as she feels her way back to the dormitory, thinking that she may soon burst if the something inside her is amplified to proportions much greater.
She is so close now, tantalisingly close - and yet, well . . . her situation is daunting. Taunting. Utterly frustrating.
At least, if even by a fraction, she is closer.