Chapter Text
Ginny Weasley had never meant to fall in love with Hermione Granger.
It wasn’t like she’d planned it. She didn’t sit down one day and think, “You know what would really spice things up this summer? Emotional devastation.”
But there it was — as obvious and inconvenient as a rogue Bludger in a library. Hermione Granger, war heroine, best friend, relentless know-it-all, and — because the universe apparently had a sense of humor — Ron's girlfriend.
Ginny groaned and flopped back on her bed, parchment falling to her chest. The ceiling of her childhood bedroom was still plastered with faded Chudley Cannons posters and stars that had long since lost their glow. Her quill rolled to the floor. She let it.
She had written the letter three times now — once sober, once after two swigs of Firewhisky from George’s hidden stash, and once while crying into a hand-knitted jumper. This version was the best: brutally honest, slightly sarcastic, and absolutely never meant to see the light of day.
She’d even started it with:
“Dear Hermione, I love you. Please ignore everything that follows, especially if you ever want to look me in the eye again.”
She sat up again, re-reading the last line she’d written:
"Sometimes I think you already know. And it terrifies me more than facing another bloody Death Eater."
Merlin, she was a mess.
Ginny wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and reached for the letter, ready to fold it up and hide it again. Her fingers hovered for just a second too long — and that’s when she heard it.
Creak. Creak. Thud.
Heavy footsteps, accompanied by off-key humming. Definitely George. Or Charlie. Or possibly a Niffler in combat boots. She stuffed the letter under the loose floorboard beneath her bed just as her bedroom door swung open without so much as a knock.
And in walked Harry Bloody Potter, holding a bright green sock that she’d last seen being eaten by the ghoul in the attic.
"Found your sock," he said cheerfully. "And maybe your emotional undoing too."
Ginny blinked. “What?”
Harry leaned against the doorframe like he thought he was in a dramatic play. “Just saying. Some things shouldn’t be left lying around. Like, for example—" he glanced pointedly toward the floorboard—"dangerously honest parchments, full of unresolved feelings.”
Ginny's stomach dropped like she’d just seen Snape walking out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel.
“You didn’t,” she said slowly.
Harry grinned like he absolutely did.
Ginny lunged. “You read it?!”
“I skimmed,” he said, dodging her tackle. “Well, I read enough to know that I’m right and you’re very emotionally repressed.”
“Give it back!”
“I don’t have it!” he said, laughing as he darted around the bed. “You already hid it again. You’re lucky I’m on your side.”
Ginny stopped, panting slightly, cheeks flaming. “You are not on my side. You’re meddling.”
“I’m helping.”
“You’re interfering!”
“I’m interfering helpfully.”
She grabbed a pillow and launched it at him. He caught it midair, smug. He always got irritatingly agile when he was being annoying.
“Harry,” she said, voice low now. “You can’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Not to Ron. Not to Hermione. Not even to Hedwig’s ghost, I mean it.”
Harry held up his hands. “I’m not that dense. If I told Ron, he’d do that thing where his ears go red and then he’d punch a tree. And Hermione…” He paused. “Well. She deserves to know.”
Ginny collapsed back onto her bed with a groan. “Don’t you think I want to tell her? But she’s with Ron. And she’s Hermione. And I’m—what? Her flirty sidekick with a war hero complex and a repressed thing for brilliant brunettes?”
Harry considered. “I mean… yeah.”
She tossed another pillow. He didn’t duck in time.
“Gin,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed now. “You’re not going to explode if you talk about it.”
“I might,” she muttered.
They sat in silence for a few seconds, broken only by the sound of gnomes shrieking outside and George shouting “MUM, THE SHED MIGHT BE ON FIRE” from the backyard.
“I just—” Ginny said finally, “I can’t lose her. As a friend, even. And if I say anything, that’s it. She’s Ron’s. And I’m… the girl who writes stupid letters and hides them under floorboards.”
Harry didn’t make a joke. He just nudged her shoulder.
“She’s not anyone’s, you know. Least of all Ron’s. And maybe—just maybe—she’s been writing letters too.”
Ginny looked at him. “Now you’re just romanticizing things because you feel guilty for dumping me.”
“Hey,” he said with a grin, “I only dumped you because you were clearly in love with someone else.”
Ginny threw the final pillow at him — and this time, he let it hit him.