Forbidden and Wrong

She sat down at the desk, silent tears marring her perfect face. They were coming for her. She knew it. And soon they would find the entrance to this hidden room. Slowly, she opened the drawer at her right and removed a pen and a blank book. The Shield Charm she'd put up would hold out even after they found her, but not forever. The mob would bring about her end, she knew, but they she would not let them harm her until she had first told their story.

She opened the book to its creamy white first page. She felt the grain of the paper, admired its soft texture. But there was no time. She uncapped her pen and spilled forth the truth. Her lover had been murdered, and she herself was next. But the pair would not go in silence. Slowly, Hermione's hand formed the words: "Ginny was beautiful..."

Ginny was beautiful. I thought so from the first day I met her back at the Burrow. It was summer, I was eleven, and I happened to be infatuated with her brother at the time. Ron was blundering and thickheaded, not at all right for me, but try to convince an eleven-year-old lovesick girl of that and you won’t get too far. But even though I felt nothing for her at the time, I vividly remember climbing out of my parents’ car, seeing Ginny in the yard, and thinking, “Wow, Ron’s sister is lovely.”

It was a fleeting thought; driven from my mind almost instantly when I was knocked over as Ron, Fred, and George all slammed into me at once, trying to make a big show of my arrival. I must admit I forgot about her almost entirely. My mind was too full of “important” things, much too important to share with a mere ten-year-old, even if I was sharing a room with her.

We didn’t really become friends until my third year at Hogwarts. Ginny had been spending the summer recovering from her traumatic first year and was starting to show advanced maturity. We forged a friendship one night in the common room over Butterbeers and a few homework tips. Until about halfway through my fourth year, we became like best friends. There were always Ron and Harry, but neither of us could get the same things from our friendships with them than we could with each other. They were only boys, after all.

But one day at lunch, I noticed Ginny seemed distant. She was picking at her food, and I kept catching her staring at me, then looking away when she saw me looking back. For the time, I decided not to say anything. She mellowed out a week or so later and I shrugged it off as some phase. In her fourth year she got her first boyfriend. She seemed happy with him, and we all had our hands full with the D.A. anyway. Then one day, she came to me in the common room, in tears.

“What’s wrong, Gin?” I asked, getting her a chair.

“Michael and I broke up,” she said through her sobs.

“Oh, Gin, I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She nodded. “But not here. Can we go to your dorm?”

“Sure,” I replied. She followed me up the stairs and through the door marked ‘Fifth-years’. The dorm was empty; most of the students were still at dinner. We sat down on the edge of my four-poster bed. She toyed with a loose thread on the neat crimson bedspread and said nothing. After a few moments I decided to break the silence. “So, what happened between you and Michael?”

“Nothing,” she said quietly, wiping at her tears.

“I thought you said you’d broken up,” I replied, confused.

“We did break up. That’s why. He broke up with me because I never would kiss him or let him put his arm around me or anything. He said he thought I wanted to be with Harry because I would hang out with you guys more than with him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I couldn’t think of anything else. “He should trust you more than that, though,” I added.

“But he was right. Well, half right. I do want to be with someone else, that’s why I hang out with you guys all the time, but it isn’t Harry,” Gin said slowly, her eyes on the floor.

“I don’t understand, Ginny...”

“Yes you do, you must!” she objected, snapping up her head to look at me. I looked at her eyes and the anguish I saw in them startled me. “It’s you, Hermione, it’s always been!” At that, she stood up and ran from the room, flinging the dormitory door open as she left. I stared at the door swinging wildly, and her words began to sink in. “It’s you, Hermione...”