By Libertine


Amongst other things, Ginny has inherited from her father a love of muggle things. In her wardrobe she has a pogo-stick, a comic book - wonder woman - a box of Lego and a 8,000 piece jigsaw puzzle she’s never been able to complete. The flying car has become part and parcel of her obsession. Since leaving school she’s spent days chatting to muggle mechanics, loitering around garages when her parents think she’s out doing girl-things, like shopping and learning to dance. Ginny knows how to talk the talk; she knows how to walk the walk. She says: ‘fender-bender’, she says ‘duco’ and ‘fullbed’ and ‘chrome’ and ‘suspension’.

She says: ‘When?’

Pansy says: ‘Now.’

Rewind three years, and here comes Ginny Weasley, battling along a country road on her bicycle - blue paint job, silver wheels, good-as-new and only fourteen pounds fifty at a muggle opportunity shop. Shards of grass slant out of the pebbled track, tickle at her ankles. There’s a space on the back of the bike for a basket, but Ginny’s good with her hands - in more ways than one - and she’s strapped on a seat instead. Pansy’s arms are around her waist, Pansy’s thighs brush against hers. School’s out: Pansy’s scraped through her exams with a pass, Ginny’s come top in her class in Potions and Herbology.

Not that it matters.

An interruption on the way to the hills: a local kid, a round-faced dumpling of a boy, barely nine years old and teetering suddenly out of a gap in the hedgerow. Arms held rigidly forwards, legs swinging up at the knee like some overzealous soldier. The currant-eyes squinched closed and Pansy swooping in before the young somnambulist can wander blindly out into the roadway.


No answer: the boy too busy gasping air, cheeks puffed out as if blowing a balloon.

‘Could get yourself killed, playing like that.’

‘Not hardly,’ says the boy, breathlessly. He beams at them - big grin with the front teeth missing - and dashes away down a dirt path before either of them can intervene.

‘Kid reminds me of someone,’ says Pansy, scratching her head.

‘He looks a bit like Neville,’ Ginny offers.

Pansy smirks a bit. ‘I don’t mean like that.’

At the summit of the hill Ginny lays down a tablecloth, weighs down the corners with stones.

‘It’s for us to sit on,’ she explains to Pansy. ‘I don’t want to ruin my clothes.’

‘I can think of better things for us to do on it,’ Pansy says. ‘Can’t you?’

It’s cold out, chilly. Copulating in this frigid arena is a tactical affair. No niceties of foreplay, just fully-clothed-fucking with only the vital parts granted exposure. Sex a necessity in this gorse-struck wilderness, love made not for pleasure but for heat. It’s crude, it’s fast, it’s feverish, and today it means nothing.

‘Could freeze your cunt off in this weather,’ says Pansy cheerfully.

Ginny looks at her carefully. ‘Your loss,’ she replies.

A frown on Pansy’s face, a touch on Ginny’s arm that burns her. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Yes. I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look - ah, fuck. Where are you -’

Ginny starts running then, because it’s easy, because for some reason she doesn’t want to look at Pansy any more. She runs and she thinks about Harry, she thinks about boys. Their rough hands and their clumsy tongues, and the ridiculous geometry of it: grunting, groaning, pausing in the middle for breath. Their sweat smearing onto her skin, staining her. Afterwards they wanted to cuddle; she wanted a shower. She remembers thinking: There must be more to love than this.

Pansy lunges at her from out of nowhere, tackles her to the ground.

‘You’re a great fuck,’ says Pansy, ‘but you’re a shitty liar.’

Ginny struggles half-heartedly.

‘This isn’t all going to be kisses and cuddles,’ says Pansy. ‘This isn’t going to be dressing up and sweet-nothings. I call it a cunt because it’s a cunt. I call it fucking because it’s fucking. This is the real thing, Weasley. Those are the real words. Pretty it up all you like, but underneath the trimmings it’s all about pussy. How long is it going to be before you accept that?’

Ginny doesn’t say anything.

‘You left Harry because you didn’t get off. You told Neville to take a hike, you told Colin to stop bothering you. You left them for me because the boys - it wasn’t your thing. Let’s face it: you like me because I have tits and because you enjoy licking me out. So quit acting like the Queen of De-ni-al and just deal with it. One of these days you’re going to have to crawl out of the closet. And you might as well crawl out holding my hand.’

There are so many things Ginny wants to tell her, so many words that make sense in her head, but can’t yet navigate the trembling of her lips. In the end, all she manages to get out is this: ‘I want to be a mother’ - weak, sad, and it sounds pathetic even to her ears.

She’s expected Pansy to laugh, to make fun of her, but instead Pansy just stares at her for a long moment.

Then she leans in and kisses Ginny on the lips, on the cheeks, on the forehead.

She kisses Ginny’s eyelids, too.

And then she takes Ginny’s hands in hers, and kisses the knuckles - and all of a sudden the sweetness is back, and Ginny knows now it’s never going to leave.

‘Baby,’ says Pansy. ‘You want to be a mother, I can make you a mother. When you’re ready, you just say the word.’ She clicks her fingers, winks. ‘I’m magic, Weasley - remember?’

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