Just A Girl

- Just A Girl -

Ron notices Ginny has a body, the summer of his fourteenth year.

She smiles at him strangely over the breakfast table, her hair wild and unbound, and he should be surprised that he's noticed, but he's not. Nothing surprises him about his little sister, he thinks.

He puts the muffin in his mouth absently, watching her chew on a bright red strand as she plays with a cup of orange juice. She's always fidgeting.

Something is different about Ginny, and Ron can't seem to put his finger on it. He doesn't think about it, just talks about Luna and the Cannons and the strange new weeds in their garden without pausing, not paying attention to himself. Ginny just listens, like she always does.

Ginny's still wearing her nightgown, even though it's eleven o'clock and she should at least put a robe on. His eyes are fixed on the frilly fringe at her throat, and it's so girly and foreign to him, he shudders, startling himself.

"Ron?" she says, taking another sip and licking her lips.

His eyes fly up to hers, and his torrent of words stops; he's at a loss. He wonders where mum and dad are, and why does it seem so -strange- to be sitting alone at the sunny, bright kitchen table with his little sister on Sunday morning.

"Thanks for the ring," Ginny adds, smiling wider. She picks up her hand and brings it to her face again, her eyes tracking her movement as she waves her fingers in front of him. "Luna told me it has healing powers," she grins.

"Yeah, and you know that must mean it will call down the wrath of the cookie-monster gods," Ron snorts, thinking Ginny must have noticed the underlying awkwardness. He can't be the only one who'd noticed she's different. She has to know.

Her toes bump against his under the table, and Ginny giggles, drawing her last piece of bread around on her plate with a fork. Ron jumps a little, feeling skittish and about three seconds away from pushing back his chair to leave. What he needs is some fresh air and a nice sane aerial game of catch-the-chipmunk with Fred and George. They had invented it yesterday, and it seems vastly preferrable to feeling his skin prickle at the way Ginny was -looking- at him and the way the sunlight glinted on her fringe. She had developed breasts this summer, too. Not that Ron had noticed, of course.

At dinner, something's still off, but he doesn't have to think about it because mum's talking about chores and he can tune out the world. Ginny's laughing loudly and dad's muttering something about work and possibly flying cockroaches, Ron can never be sure.

"Remember the dishes, Ronald," mum says sternly, as if she thinks Ron is deaf, which is just unfair. He may not be paying attention, but he can hear perfectly fine.

He doesn't know how in the world they ended up with both their arms and faces covered in soap. Soap everywhere: soaking through Ginny's dress and sticking in frothy clumps in her hair, a dusting on her nose and a bit on her chin. Ginny's laughing loudly, looking at Ron every now and then and going into fresh fits of hilarity. He's trying to finish off the horrible mess he'd made of an elementary cleaning spell before their mother comes back down the stairs, and Ginny isn't being any help whatsoever. He glares at her resentfully, but she just leans back against the counter and howls.

"See if -I- ever help you with anything," he grumbles, trying yet another variation on the scourging spell. It seems to redistribute the soapy water in interesting ways. He can feel some at the back of his neck, seeping down his collar. Something is dripping down Ginny's left ear, and she's looking absolutely pained with laughter. Ron sighs.

"Fine. Be that way." He reaches to rub the soapy mess all across her cheeks and forehead, and ends up running his slippery fingers all the way down her damp braids, skidding until they finally stop at her miniature new breasts.

Neither of them breathe.

Ron's hand can't seem to move, and he's flushed darker than a tomato, but that's not helping. Ginny's looking at him with this awful seriousness in her gaze, like she -wants- something, and Ron would be a little scared by that look if he could feel -anything- outside his shock and a nice thick layer of mortification.

Ginny's not smiling anymore, and Ron's hand drops. There's a protracted silence where he just waits for the other shoe to drop, expecting her to yell or at least stare at him accusingly, maybe laugh it off if nothing else. His skin itches uncomfortably; they'd never really -looked- at each other so blatantly before, which seems strange but is nevertheless true.

"Ron...." She whispers his name in a different sort of voice, and Ron swallows. Her eyes are unreadable to him, and he feels more than a little trapped by the look in them, caught completely unprepared. He swallows again, slightly relaxing as the normal noises of an evening in the Weasley househould return, especially the tiny little clicks and buzzings particular to the kitchen. This is just Ginny. What is he thinking?

"Yeah," he says, his voice breaking a little. He scowls, hating the way that sounded, but mostly, at that moment he decides it's really about time he gave in and rinsed the dishes by hand.

The water's running as Ginny sighs. "It's okay, you know," she says softly, taking a step towards him. "I know what you want."

Ron freezes, hand becoming still mid-movement underneath the water, and his eyebrows shoot up all the way up his forehead. He can't seem to -say- anything, to his consternation.

"I want it too," she says in a slightly conspiratorial tone, and Ron just boggles. He's still not really -thinking- about what she's saying. It's easier to just listen to the nice easy splash of the running water. He realizes it'll hit him soon, but it's nice to delay it as much as possible.

"Huh--what--?" he sputters, his mouth moving freely again. "Are you-- what--?"

Not at his most coherent, presently, but then, Ginny's still looking at him like that, and the shirt's soaked through, and everyone has their limits. Ron reaches his when he realizes he could see his sister's hard nipples poking through her clothes.

He knows he's staring. He knows he's staring at her breasts. He knows there's a protracted silence where he's staring at her breasts. On the other hand, he can't -stop-.

"I can see your--" he says before he catches himself. He thinks dying would really be good right about now, and then he gets a hard-on.

Ron squeaks, shifting his weight and trying not to be very obvious. He kind of turns around, pressing his hips into the counter and staring at the very well-washed dishes, which are just laid out neatly for putting away now. Nothing to do but put them away, really.

"It's okay, you know," Ginny says in a small voice. "I-- I mean, if--"

He groans. He -cannot- be having this conversation with his -sister-. This conversation doesn't exist. This whole day doesn't exist. Ron thinks homicidal thoughts about his erection, but it just keeps pressing stubbornly against the counter, throbbing in time with this run-away heart.

"Nothing," he says cryptically. "There's nothing. Nothing's okay. Look, just go away, okay? I don't want you here," Ron grumbles, hoping to sound authoritative for once. "Go... paint your nails or something."

"Ron!" she cries, and he closes his eyes. She'll never leave him alone now. "You can't pretend--"

"I'm not pretending anything! God, you're such a pest! Will you just -leave-?"

"No," she says with almost no inflection. "Why should I? It's my house as much as yours, Ronald."

He hates it when she calls him that. She's not his mother. He's -older- than her. It's just ridiculous.

"I'm older than you and I say so," he says, not that this approach had ever worked before.

"I'll tell Hermione you've been an arse to me all summer when she comes next week, you know. I'll tell her all about you."

Ron groans. His cock twitched at the mention of Hermione, and now he's really confused.

"Will you shut -up-, at least? Make yourself useful or something."

"How?" she says, laughing a bit. "You've been done with the dishes for about ten minutes now."

"Well then, go to bed, Ginny! It's time, isn't it? Ten o'clock, right?" he smirks, forgetting about his condition in favor of his glee about being able to stay up until midnight legally this year.

Ginny sighs, probably making faces at him even though he hasn't turned his head to see. "You just don't understand, do you?"

He cringes, remembering Hermione saying something similar last May. "Is this one of those silly female things?" he asks, but he already knows. It's always one of those female things, in the end.

"No, actually. This has to do with you this time. I...."

Ron wishes she would hurry up and tell him. While not looking at her breasts, he has a distinct lack of interest in talking about whatever her little problems are supposed to be.

Ginny makes small rustling noises beside him, but she's not moving away. At least he doesn't have a hard-on anymore, Ron thinks with a grimace. Thank goodness for small favors.

"Actually, this is about you. You and me."

"Me and... you?" Ron echoes. "What do you -mean-, me and you?"

"It's really simple, Ron. I'm thirteen and... I just need to know a few things, and you're going to tell me."

"I am?" Ron whispers increduously. His harmless little sister is -demanding- something from him?

"I think you should do it. You know? I think you.... I mean...."

"I think you should go to bed," he says flatly.

"I know you noticed," Ginny says, and this isn't like her at all. This new voice of hers makes Ron cringe in distaste. It's like she's trying to sound like someone she's not and failing. Instead, she sounds like a bad voice record of his sister; not someone else and definitely not herself.

"I'm not tired," she says in her ten-year-old voice.

Ron just waits.

"Okay, okay. You're no fun," she pouts.

He just smiles grimly. As long as she thinks so, he's fine.

::

He watches more closely and tries not to look at all, the next week or two. The time passes so slowly when the days are hot and humid like this, the sky a perfect cornflower blue with a scattering of puffy clouds. Ron feels the sweat bead at his temples, coalescing until it's a sheen, obscuring his vision.

They're sitting in the vegetable garden, and they're not talking. They don't really talk, lately, but they look at each other a lot. Ginny wipes her hair out of her eyes with the side of her wrist. She's sweating too, and Ron considers hosing her down with the huge watering can beside her knees just to break the silence. He hates silence.

She's sitting there and tearing carrot after carrot from the soft ground, and Ron is slowly feeling himself go insane. It's really impossibly hot; his trousers are wet and crusted with dirt, and he isn't exactly going to be running the two miles for a swim in the nearest lake, not like this. Somehow, there are new rules now, even if Ron doesn't know what they are.

Ginny's looking straight at him as she upends the watering can over her head, throwing it back as she laughs. She's absolutely drenched with water and she's grinning madly, looking happy and normal and carefree, and Ron almost feels old, looking at her.

"How'bout a swim?" she mumbles, shaking her head and sending cold water flying everywhere. Ron shivers when a drop hits him on his bare shoulder, which had been uncovered ever since he'd given up and taken off his shirt in abject misery around noon.

He jumps up, starting down towards the lake without bothering to think about it much longer, quickly beginning to run. There was just something about the whoosh of the air as he went faster and faster that made every trouble he'd ever had seem awfully far away, and it was almost better than flying. Almost.

"Hey, wait up!" she yells, and he laughs and runs faster down the narrow pebbled path.

"No way!" he calls back. "Try and catch me!"

She was never able to before.

::

Sitting very still, toes dunked in cool water, they just watch the waves moving restlessly. They'd been in this spot for hours now, and the sun had set already. Soon, they would have to go and explain to mum and dad how fascinating the flora and fauna was, although really, they could've found them ages ago if they'd really been worried.

"Want to go again?" she says, and he looks at her skeptically.

"It's nearly midnight, Gin. The water's probably bloody -freezing-. Are you completely mental or do you just like living on the edge... of being mental, I mean?"

"You have no sense of adventure," Ginny complains.

"You're going to have to do better than that," he smirks, though he remembers with some pleasure that he'd thought to wear boxers for once. There was such a thing as going too far.

Ginny takes her shirt off quickly, revealing a large expanse of pale, freckled skin to the moonlight. Ron keeps breathing, if only because Ginny's wearing a bra. His mouth is ridiculously dry, and his eyes feel as if they're never blinking again, but he doesn't want to stop looking anyway. He wants to be able to remember this on his deathbed: his eyes trained on the soft, small swell of breast above the lacy cup, the goosebumps covering her stomach and upper arms, the bright flush staining her cheeks. Everything.

"I want you to," she says softly, not looking at him. "I'm tired of waiting. I want to be a woman -now-, and I thought, you're my -brother- so you're not going to -hurt- me, right?"

She doesn't say -what- she wants him to do, but the dryness in his mouth tells him for her. She walks into the lake slowly, turning her back to him. She isn't really walking in any particular way, and he can't see her too well, but there's no way he could miss the sudden ache in his stomach, like there's been a sudden drop.

The water really is very cold at night, he thinks, testing it with a toe and scowling. He would really rather just go back. They'd left their wands at home, too.

Ron could see Ginny's thighs moving back and forth for a long minute after he stops looking, the afterimage looping sickeningly in his mind. Milky-white, like the rest of her. In the sunlight, she'd look almost tan, he knows that, but she's different at night, more insubstantial, maybe.

It doesn't feel quite real when he walks into the bracing cold water. The waves keep slapping across his chest and the wind picks up, throwing his fringe into his eyes, but he's lost in a sort of daze, walking forward until he's right in front of Ginny, staring mutely at her face and neck and shoulders, which is all he could see of her.

"This is stupid, you know," he says, stumbling forward a little. His teeth are beginning to chatter a little, and he could feel the warmth her body radiates, or at least he can imagine he does. "You're not really warm, are you," he says, but it's not really a question. It makes Ginny scowl in confusion.

"What?"

"Nevermind," he answers, shivering convulsively. His fingers don't have anything to do, so he flexes them, hissing a bit when his index finger brushes against something. He thinks maybe it's her thigh.

"You can just pretend," Ginny says, looking at him seriously, like she expects him to understand her girly secret language. He wants to laugh, do -something-, but he just keeps staring at the bit of pale shoulder that's visible to him.

"What for?" he whispers, leaning forward involuntarily.

They're both holding their breath.

A frog croaks loudly somewhere near the shore, and Ginny's whole body jumps a bit.

She looks at him with those huge, wide-open eyes, the same way she used to when she wanted something from him and she knew she was four and he was five and she was -entitled- to everything that was his.

"Make-believe I'm just.... You know, just a girl," she whispers, her soft voice cracking slightly.

Ron shivers. I know you are, he thinks reasonably, but he can't make himself say it. Not standing with his half-naked sister in increasingly freezing water. That's not how it's supposed to work. Ron might not know everything, not like Hermione, but he knows the things he needs to.

"Pretty please," she adds, trying to smile and managing to make her mouth twitch weirdly.

It's merely a split second, almost not quite -there-, but he does it. He closes his eyes and sways on the balls of his feet a little.

His lips connect with something slick and cold and shockingly -there-. It takes a quarter of a second for it to sink in, and in that time Ron manages to have pressed himself flush against the smaller body in front of him, take a sip of the impossible sensation of barely-there breasts pressed into his chest.

He jerks away, panting painfully and taking several frantic, mindless steps backwards. He feels himself about to run. This is just all wrong.

"Make believe you want me," she whispers, looking into his eyes. He can't quite distinguish their color in the moonlight, though he'd seen it a million times and knows it's just like his own. At that moment, he could imagine it's not.

"I'm not good at make-believe," he says, closing his eyes again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~