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Millicent "Mills" Bulstrode wasn’t known for her words.
She was built like a boulder—strong, tall, solid, yet surprisingly agile—and could read the movement of those around her with instinctive precision, break through any block, dodge murderous bludgers, and assist the league’s best chaser in scoring goal after goal.
She knew her body better than a pageant queen knew how to smile.
But words? They often failed her. She never knew the right ones. Or when to say them.
Her teammates often mistook her silence for unfriendliness, keeping her at arm’s length. It left Mills feeling like the human embodiment of an on-the-job fart: an inevitable part of playing a physical sport, but best avoided if one could help it.
At least, that’s what it felt like without Ginny—her captain, her wingmate, and honestly, her first real friend. Ginny, who pulled Mills into conversations by asking her opinion. Who lingered by Mills’ locker. Who invited her to lunch, the pub, and her flat for the weekend. Who always shared a room with her on away games.
On one such night—one bed buried under their luggage, the other hosting an hours-long conversation, their slightly slurred, sleepy words slipping between them, a pillow-length apart in the dim light—Mills wished, for the millionth time, that she was better with words, better at saying what she meant.
Ginny had just finished sharing something quite personal, how a diary riddled in dark magic had possessed her in her first year at Hogwarts. And Mills reckoned she should respond with something comforting, like I'm sorry. But the words felt too small, too inadequate. So she said nothing. She simply looked into Ginny’s honey-brown eyes and hoped her gaze conveyed what she felt: tenderness.
When Ginny spoke again, her voice was gritty, barely more than a whisper. "It's your turn to tell me a secret, Millie."
A secret? What would even count? Nothing she could think of came close to rivalling literal possession by the Dark Lord. Then she thought of Hogwarts, specifically her second year, and a memory pushed its way forward: Lockhart’s duelling club.
The same heat that used to burn her face then came rushing back just as fiercely. Before she could stop herself, heart pounding, she muttered, "That year, I had a thing for Hermione Granger.”
Ginny snorted. "That's not—" Then she stopped. Her eyes widened as the words fully registered. "Wait, you're serious?”
"She was really smart, good with a wand," Mills explained, "and when I tackled her, erm, she—she smelled good."
It was mortifying to admit. Mills knew that the moment someone confessed to feeling anything for anyone, they set themselves up for rejection and humiliation. And if anyone was paying attention to the Daily Prophet—Mills wasn’t, but her teammates gossiped about it enough in the locker room that she considered herself decently informed—they’d know Granger rejected just about everyone.
Twelve-year-old Mills had never stood a chance.
Just like twenty-two-year-old Mills surely didn’t have one now.
Ginny didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease. Instead, she went quiet, her voice shifting into something tighter, wound with that nervous energy she sometimes got during a tough game, like her whole body was bracing for impact.
"Do you still fancy her? Like… would you shag her if you got the chance?"
Those were difficult questions to answer. Mills couldn’t say, no, I’ve moved on, because then Ginny might ask, to someone else? And that was a conversation she wasn’t ready for.
So she settled for answering the second. "Maybe? I reckon she's still fit." Then she groaned and pulled the duvet over her face, because after she said it, she realised she didn't want to shag Granger at all.
"Even better with a wand now," Ginny murmured, nudging at Mills’ lumpy, self-buried form. "Loads more experience."
"Ugh. It doesn't even matter. It's just something I've never told anyone… so there."
"But, you know I’m going to help you out now, yeah?" Another nudge. "Hermione’s coming to our game in Chudley, so I’ll reintroduce you then… You'll just have to refrain from wrestling her."
Mills quickly uncovered her face, her hair sticking up in every direction. "You don't have to do that.”
"Don’t you worry, Millie." Ginny playfully pinched her cheek. "She'll take one look at these dimples and fall arse over kettle." She sounded a bit strange, but Mills assumed it was because she was taking the piss.
*
The Harpies beat the Cannons 340–170 in an exhausting six-hour match. The misty, overcast sky made it difficult for the Seekers to spot the Snitch, dragging the game out longer than anyone wanted. When it finally ended, Ginny invited the whole team to The Burrow for a post-match celebration, a chance to recover with a home-cooked meal.
While the others returned to their hotel rooms for an outfit change—after being told a very single Harry Potter would be in attendance, their joggers just wouldn’t do—Mills went straight there with Ginny.
For the first time, she saw her friend’s childhood room. The walls were covered in Quidditch posters, Gryffindor flags, and family pictures, mostly of Ginny with her twin brothers. Mills took a moment to take it all in before Ginny’s voice sounded behind her.
“How are you feeling about seeing Hermione?”
Mills shrugged and let out a nonchalant grunt. “I doubt anything will come of it.”
“Not with that attitude.”
It was then that Mills noticed an open bag of makeup sitting on the dressing table. Immediately, she thought of images she'd seen before of normal friends painting each other's faces. Before she knew it, her eyes had lingered on the bag a moment too long. Long enough for Ginny to ask:
“Do you want to use my makeup? You can, if you’d like.”
“You reckon I need it?”
Ginny’s face flushed slightly. “Not at all. It just—it looked like you wanted to.”
The idea felt pointless. Like putting lipstick on a bulldog. But a part of Mills, a very reckless part, wanted to experience what she’d seen others do. With Ginny.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she asked, “Could you do it for me?”
Ginny's flush deepened, but she flashed a wide, confident grin. “Definitely!” She grabbed the bag, then dragged Mills to the bed and sat beside her. “I’ll keep it natural,” she added, pulling out a tube.
Mills wanted to ask, what’s the point, then?, but didn’t. Because deep down, she knew what she’d get out of this wasn’t quite what others did.
Ginny leaned in, close enough for Mills to catch the scent of something sweet on her skin, to feel the soft, warm puffs of Ginny’s breath against her nose, her lips.
It made Mills' head and neck tingle.
"This is a moisturiser.” Ginny smoothed a white cream across Mills' forehead, down her temples, along the curve of her jaw. Her touch was slow, careful, almost reverent.
Mills felt herself still, her body tighten, as she held her breath and swallowed a sigh.
Then came another cream, this one translucent and meant for “all tones,” Ginny said, “to smooth out skin and cover blemishes.”
As Ginny kept touching her, Mills willed her muscles to relax, taking small, measured breaths, trying not to make a sound, not to do anything to break the moment.
She let herself stare at Ginny’s freckles, her light brown eyelashes, and her thin, small, but perfectly soft-looking lips. Her mouth was slightly open in concentration, and it was the most attractive thing Mills had ever seen.
Every so often, their eyes met, and the air between them shifted, somewhere between too cold and too hot. Tingly. Like when Mills’ hands and feet had been numb with cold for too long, only to sting with a prickling chill under a hot shower.
It also felt anticipatory, like the breathless moments before a match’s final play, when it was anyone’s game and every player sat an inch off their broom, thighs tensed, bodies coiled, ready for anything.
Yes, Mills told herself, think of cold weather. Think of Quidditch. Think of anything but the way Ginny swallows. Anything but the pads of her fingers gliding over Mills’ cheeks, as if she were delicate, special. Anything but the soft mist of Ginny’s breath sinking into her skin, sending shocks of pleasure down her spine, pooling like a bubbling potion beneath her navel.
Mills’ fingers twitched in her lap, restless, secretly wishing to pull Ginny closer, until there was nothing between them but thin fabric. Her heart pounded in a steady, insistent rhythm, a beat her body wanted to move to, grind to, with an ache it had never felt this badly before.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t act on what she wanted. Not with Ginny, her first real friend. Her bloody captain!
So she exhaled, slow and measured, though louder than she intended, and asked, her voice husky, slightly frustrated, “Are you done yet?”
"Erm." A furrow appeared on Ginny's brow. “Yeah. Just about. The only thing left is your lips.”
"I know how to use a stick if you’ve got one."
Ginny smiled, but it was weak, her amusement not quite reaching her eyes. She dug through her bag and pulled out a tinted lip balm. “Will this do?”
"You tell me, Captain," Mills said, her tone flatter and more sarcastic than she intended. She didn’t want to sound as raw and frayed as she felt.
Ginny hesitated. “Your lips look great as they are, Millie.” But she handed over the balm anyway, then walked out of the room, muttering, “I’m going to the restroom.”
*
When Mills looked in the mirror moments later, she saw her usual self—chiseled jaw, crooked nose, dark brown eyes—just without the usual blemishes.
She looked good. It was easy to see the appeal of all those creams. But for her, the best part was the application, not the final result.
*
It was a chilly evening, cold enough for a bonfire in the paddock. While her teammates ate at the picnic tables or loitered in the kitchen, Mills stood apart, right by the fire, watching the flames flicker high into the star-studded sky.
“Oi, Mills!” Ginny called, strolling up to her with Granger. “Don’t scorch yourself. I need my wingmate in tip-top form, thanks.”
Mills took a step back, even though she hadn’t actually been in harm’s way.
“You’ve met Hermione, yeah?” Ginny asked, playing it cool—like she hadn’t planned this a week ago.
But Mills hadn’t memorised her lines, nor did she want to go along with the charade. She simply nodded. “Yeah.”
Smiling warmly, Granger said, “Nice to see you again, Millicent. Congratulations on your win. Even Ron, the biggest Cannons fan, can admit it was well deserved.”
Without further ado, Ginny clapped her hands together. “Oh! I need to get out the pasties! Have fun, you two.” Then she hurried off.
The fire crackled while Mills awkwardly strained for something to say. “So… How’s your cat?”
A look of affection flickered over Granger’s face. “Crookshanks is doing well, thanks for asking.” She paused, then tilted her head slightly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems like Ginny has misunderstood your interests. Am I right?”
Mills’ heart stopped. She met Granger’s too-knowing gaze. “What do you mean?”
“She seems to think you’re interested in me, but I don’t think you are… at least, not as interested as you seem to be in her.” Her hands moved when she talked. “I mean, during today’s game, which lasted six hours, mind—”
Mills didn’t need a list of evidence. She cut in. “Ginny’s my captain.”
Sighing, Granger nodded. “I know.”
Silence settled between them again. And Mills didn’t plan on filling it this time.
Granger fidgeted, looking ready to leave, but before she did, she said, “It’s not my place, but if I’ve learnt anything lately, it’s that misunderstandings are hurtful.” Her expression was pensive, detached, but the tightness around her eyes felt well-worn, shaped by experience. “You might think it only affects you, but misinformation robs others of the choices they might’ve made had they known the truth. So don’t pretend something’s there when it isn’t, or that it isn’t when it is. People deserve honesty. A chance to make informed choices.”
With that, she left Mills thoroughly lectured, a bit stunned, and with something to consider.
*
Mills spotted Ginny in the garden, beer in hand, slouched in a chair beside a teammate. Catching her eye, she gave a quick jerk of her head toward the house in silent invitation. To her relief, Ginny stood without hesitation and followed her upstairs.
As soon as Ginny's bedroom door closed, Mills blurted out, “I don't fancy Granger.”
“It went that badly?” Ginny stretched out on the bed, leaning against the headboard, her head tilted back.
Mills sat beside Ginny's feet. “Not really… I stopped fancying her in third year.”
“Oh.” Ginny furrowed her brow. “Then why did you let me believe you still did?”
"I didn’t mean to... I just wasn’t keen on you asking who I fancied nowadays. It was convenient—you believing I liked someone else."
Ginny raised a brow, her narrowed eyes saying, I’m not going to ask, but tell me anyway.
Mills clocked her expression, then dropped her gaze to the duvet. “It’s someone on the team, so nothing can come of it.”
“Why not? There’s nothing in the rulebook against it.”
“Team dynamics…”
“...are affected by feelings in the room all the time. You might as well try to be happy.”
Feeling a bit riled, Mills laid down the truth like a trump card: “I don’t want to fuck up what we have if you don’t feel the same.”
Mills’ hands trembled in her lap. Despite the panic rising in her chest, she forced herself to meet Ginny’s gaze, letting everything she felt show on her face, her body.
It’s you I want, okay?
Ginny didn’t respond right away. Not with words. She scooted down the bed, settling beside Mills until their thighs and shoulders touched.
“Millie.” Her voice was quiet. “I feel the same. But I need you to be sure of what you want, to not feel pressured because I’m your captain.”
It was hard to believe Mills had heard correctly, but the want in Ginny’s eyes—in the soft parting of her lips—was unmistakable. Affirming.
“I’m sure.”
Mills’ gaze lingered on Ginny's mouth. “Can I?” she whispered.
“Yes, definitely.” Ginny sounded breathless, her words caressing Mills’ cheek as she leaned in.
Heart racing, Mills kissed her gently, savouring the wet warmth of her soft mouth. When Ginny hummed against her lips, she did it again, deeper this time, drawn in by every sound of approval, each one more rewarding than any goal she’d ever scored.
Mills might not have had all the right words, but that night, she made all the right moves. And maybe that was worth more in the end.