First, there was Michael Corner.
They met at the Yule Ball. He was sitting by the drinks when she convinced Neville she needed a break from all the dancing and smiled at her as she sipped on her punch with pure relief painted across her tired face.
“Are you alright?” he asked her with obvious amusement in his voice.
“Entertained, that’s for sure,” she told him then, smiling around her glass. “I can’t feel my feet.”
“Didn’t think Longbottom had that in him,” he admitted, smiling wider when she chuckled. “I’m Michael,” he introduced himself, reaching out his hand for her to shake.
“Ginny,” she replied. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
His hair seemed soft and his smile was crooked in the best way, so she agreed when he asked her to dance. She left him after some time, going back to Neville, but mindlessly searched for him in the Great Hall a few times after that and smiled at the thought of him when she returned to her dormitory early in the morning.
They started dating a couple months after that. She didn’t remember how that happened, but she didn’t mind not knowing. Being with Michael always felt like something rooted in the sole aspect of living in the present — no need to look back when she had all she needed right in front of her.
It was a good time, those few months with him. He was her first actual boyfriend (ever), but being with him somehow felt easy, almost habitual in a sense. He kissed her on the cheek and forehead a lot and would sit at the Gryffindor table at breakfast sometimes to hold her hand while they ate. She’d help him study in the warm buzz of the school grounds, ask him lacklustre questions and listen to him explain and answer in a way that was anything but. They’d argue about quidditch all the time — the most of which she usually spent getting irritated at his sorelosedness — and they’d bicker and fight for the pettiest of reasons and they’d make up a few days later, when she gave in and sought him out and hugged him hard, threatening not to let go.
It was good, all things considered. It was good even when her roommates bragged about how they snogged with numerous boys in the cupboards all around the school and she laughed with them, knowing that she hadn’t been properly kissed in a few weeks, even though she was the only one of their bunch who had an actual boyfriend at that time. It was fun even when she realised they — her and Michael — were often acting more like friends than an actual item, so often that many of the other students didn’t really believe they were anything more than just that.
It was fine, though, she told herself whenever she doubted. Maybe Michael just wasn’t a big fan of snogging. Or kissing her on the mouth. Or maybe he just didn’t like being affectionate in the way couples usually were — and that was okay. She was okay with that, of course she was.
But then she caught him looking.
At first, she thought she was seeing things. That she was imagining the way his eyes would light up when he talked to one of his Ravenclaw friends, the way he shied away with a red hue tinting the very tips of his ears whenever some boy rested his arm around his shoulders (like boys do, so why would his ears go red each time?). She thought she was delusional when he lost his train of thought and his eyes almost fell out of their sockets that one time they were on the stands, only half-watching a quidditch practise and her brother — Fred or George, who cares — peeled off his shirt because of the heat.
She didn’t believe her own eyes until the next school year came by and she decided to pull him by his coat to the first DA meeting. After that — after watching him gulp nervously whenever Harry demonstrated some new spell to the group; after noticing how he almost dropped his wand when he came by to help him adjust his stance — it was impossible to ignore it any further.
So she asked him one day, “Are you gay?” while they were studying on the school grounds.
Michael sputtered, eyes bulging out. “Wh—” But he caught her glance and he gulped audibly, his fingers dancing shakily on the grass. “Um. Y-yes. I think I might be.”
Ginny nodded. “Alright.”
They broke it off quietly and quickly, deciding to be friends but never approaching each other on the corridors again. Some people just expressed their flat sadness and fake empathy at the news, others asked her why it ended. She always told them it was because he was a sore loser. The truth was, it had all gone this way because she wasn’t one.
—×—
Dean Thomas was one of the good ones. From the very first moment she saw him, she knew that whoever he’d end up dating would be the luckiest person in the whole school. And, for a while, she thought she was.
He was a joy to be with. A gentleman when it mattered, always respectful when he joked. He peppered her with kisses — soft ones, long sloppy ones, heated ones that left her weak on her knees and catching her breath like a fish out of water — whenever she asked him to and every time she didn’t need to. He backed off when she told him to, touched only when and where she said was okay. Every time they fought, he’d kiss her cheek with such exasperation she would have no choice but to forgive him for whatever he’d fucked up, sometimes even for things that hadn’t happened yet.
He even grew her flowers: he’d borrowed three flower pots from professor Sprout just to be able to. He tended to them every day after class and always gave her little bundles of tea roses that he made sure smelled absolutely divine.
For a while, it felt like everything she could have hoped for. Everything she could’ve dreamed of. She could scream at the world with him, laugh beside him for hours, cry on his shoulder for what felt like days. And he would relax with her the way he never did with anyone else; she saw him at his best and she was there when he was at his worst.
She was happy. She was sure he was, too.
But he seemed even more sure when one day he randomly blurted out, “We need to break up,” as they laid sprawled across her sheets, exhausted after laughing their bellies off about some stupid thing Ron had done earlier that day.
It was barely a whisper, yet it felt like a shout. She froze, even though her muscles twitched at the statement. “What?”
“I thought it might work, “ Dean continued in a small voice, “this thing between us, but I don’t think it does.”
“Wha— the hell do you mean? Of course it does work, we work perfectly, don’t we?”
Dean stayed quiet. His arms were loose around her shoulders, but his face was tense and all of a sudden, Ginny felt suffocated. The butterflies in her stomach turned on her, starting to feast on her insides, leaving her shuddering in discomfort and betrayal.
She dug herself out of his embrace, taking in the look on his face, trying to anchor herself in any trace of doubt in his eyes, but… there was none. Only shame, for some reason. And something that seemed strangely akin to fear.
It was a terrifying thought: that Dean was afraid of her. Sure, they fought a lot, but… but she never hurt him in any way that he…
Or did she? What if she did hurt him?
It felt like a needle was shot straight through her chest, puncturing her heart. Ginny’s raised eyebrows softened from the ghostly burn. “Don’t we?” she repeated, much quieter.
Dean hung his head pathetically, avoiding her eyes. He buried his face in his hands for a second, as if trying to find a second of peace to think it all through. Ginny hoped he thought it through.
“I’m so sorry, Ginny,” Dean breathed, voice airy, filled with regret. “It’s not anything you did, I swear, so don’t you dare say that, alright? Don’t you dare even think that, you hear me?”
“Then what is it?” Ginny demanded. “What is it if not me?”
Dean looked torn. “It’s just— I’m— Uh, I’m gay,” he finally choked out. His fingers tightened on the duvet beneath them. He didn’t raise his eyes to meet hers. “Well, bi, I think, but that’s not… And I think I might… I think I might bealittleinlovewithSeamus.”
Ginny blinked. Dean pursed his lips, his whole body pulled taut like a rubberband about to snap.
“Oh,” Ginny said.
It was… something. Merlin’s arse, it was definitely something. Something so unexpected that for a split second, she wasn’t sure if she heard him right; then, she began wondering if he meant what she thought he meant. Because… because if he did, then… then he just said…
Dean was a great boyfriend. He kissed her with passion and tenderness, he held her with care and he touched her with such honesty— or, with— with what felt like honesty. Why would he treat her with such warmth if he didn’t mean it? Why would he tell her he liked her if he didn’t?
She gulped. “Did…” she creaked after a long stretch of silence, “uh. Did you know? When… when we started dating? Did you know back then? About Seamus.”
Dean sat up — his back straightened so quickly she could’ve sworn she heard his spine snap. His eyes finally met hers and they were wild, open so wide they almost fell out of his sockets. “No! No, of course not, I— I only figured it out recently, I would’ve never… if I knew, I… I wouldn’t…”
“Alright,” she told him, still trying to make sense of it all. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Dean cried out, throwing his head back. “It’s not. I’m so sorry, Gin, it’s all my fault, I’m so sorry—”
I might be a little in love with Seamus, Dean’s panicked voice played in her head again. Like a broken record, it repeated and repeated until it was all she could hear. I might be a little in love with Seamus. I might be in love with Seamus. In love with Seamus.
Honestly, it explained a lot, the more she thought about it. Dean and Seamus have always been so close, way closer than normal friends tend to be. “We just… fit,” Dean had told her once, glancing at Seamus with a tenderness she couldn’t make sense of. Not back then.
I might be a little in love with Seamus. It made sense. Nobody looked at their friends like Dean looked at Seamus. No one smiled like that when they heard their best friend laugh. No one touched them with such tenderness and no one searched for them in every room, and no one threw themselves over them so carelessly yet so cautiously, as if not wanting to hurt them with their recklessness. No one spoke of them with such a warm voice at all times, even when angry with them.
A little in love, Ginny’s arse. Dean was head over heels for Seamus — wholly, utterly, thoroughly, completely and entirely in love with his best friend, and so obviously so it was maddening. How could she have missed that?
“It’s okay,” she cut him off again, keeping her voice soft even with her throat pulled so tight it was a miracle that any sound even came out. That any air came out. “I mean it. It’s fine.” It really was, surprisingly so, even. After she made sense of it, it was almost funny. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream, too; a little bit.
“How could it be fine? I just told you I loved someone else! And— and it’s a boy!”
Oh, yes, it was definitely funny. A hundred times funnier the second time around. So hilarious. She felt her eyes welling up with tears that she immediately pushed back, ignored the maddening wet feeling in her nose threatening to start flowing like a fucking hilarious little waterfall if she didn’t sniff. (She didn’t, somehow managed to collect herself right before she would have to.)
Ginny let out a long raggedy breath. “I actually… uh, I get it. How this could’ve happened. And it’s okay, Dean, really. I mean, it doesn’t feel good that you’re dumping me for your best friend, but…”
“I’m not dumping you for him,” Dean rushed, his eyes even wider. (Ginny hadn’t thought it was a real possibility, but, oh well. Guess it was, since he looked like a cartoon frog.)
Ginny snorted with laughter. “Oh, yes, you are.”
“Am not,” Dean pleaded. “I’m not breaking it off because I hope to exchange you for him, I just— I couldn’t lie to you anymore. It wasn’t fair to you and I just— I couldn’t.”
Ginny’s throat dried up. She nodded stiffly, tearing her eyes away. “And, uh. How long have you been, exactly? Lying to me, I mean.”
Dean’s fingers were twitching, running along the sheets until he raised his hands from the bright red bedding to pick at his nails. Now that Ginny couldn’t look at him anymore, his head was hung low once again. He hesitated before his shoulders slumped and he whispered, “A month.”
Ginny laughed uncontrollably, caught by surprise. “A month. Yeah, right. Okay.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Shut up,” she cut him off, chuckling humorlessly once again. “You— you shut up. You knew for a month? And you didn’t tell me sooner why, exactly?”
“Because I thought I was just confused! I thought it would pass eventually, and— and how would I even do that? Was I just supposed to come up to you, pick you up after class and say: ‘I think I love my best friend more than you, my girlfriend’?”
“YES!” Ginny almost yelled.
Dean flinched. Ginny’s breath stuttered, too; she pulled back, putting her fingers to her head and massaging her temples roughly, trying to calm her own heartbeat.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine,” Dean told her. “It’s my fault, after all.”
“It’s not,” Ginny sighed, shaking her head. She lifted her chin and looked at him again. “You’re in love and it’s not with me. It’s fine. I wish you would’ve told me sooner, but… I get why you didn’t. I get it. It’s alright. I just need— I need to adjust to it, that’s all. I’ll be okay.”
Dean gulped, nodding. He didn’t look convinced. Ginny punched his shoulder playfully. “I meant what I said, you wanker. What do I have to do for you to bloody believe me?”
Dean breathed in loudly, cracking an anxious smile. It was crooked. Ginny thought he had never been so nervous to smile around her before. “Are you, truly? Okay with it?”
“I am,” Ginny assured him, surprisingly convincing herself a little bit more in the process. “Well, I will be, that’s for sure. But only if you tell me that ‘not exchanging me for Seamus’ thing is just bullshit you were saying not to hurt me more, ‘cause that’d be a fucking stupid thing to do.”
Dean furrowed his eyebrows cautiously. “Uh, what do you mean?”
“Oh. Are you serious?” She looked him dead in the eye, almost offended he made the effort not to see the way Seamus always stared back at him when he looked away. “He’s obviously crushing on you, too. You're gonna break up with me for him and then not go for him? Don’t crack me up.”
Dean’s mouth opens and closes. Ginny groans. “Oh, what an embarrassment you are today. Listen up, then, you bloody loser. Here’s what you’re gonna do…”
—×—
Then, there was Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived, the teenage Saviour himself.
Truth be told, Ginny didn’t actually know how she managed to pull that one. It was a well-known secret that she’d had a massive crush on the Chosen One since what felt like forever. It was also a well-known secret that Harry never paid much mind to his many admirers and that Ginny knew better than to wait for someone who would never come around. So, after a few years of sighing in helpless resignation everytime he passed by, she got over him completely.
Or, well. She thought she had until, in her fifth year, she finally got what the younger version of her had yearned so desperately for. Someone pulled in for that first kiss, someone said something strangely similar to a confession and there they were. In love, or whatever comes before that.
Ginny didn’t feel love. Not yet. Wasn’t sure if she’d ever felt it before. She knew she was capable of it, though. Knew that someday, she would feel the blooming flowers in her chest, the fluttering of butterfly wings in her stomach and the tickle of warmth seeping through her skin down to her very core, and she would simply know that was it.
She just hoped that Harry would be the one to make it happen.
And — probably because of the years that she spent convincing herself the two of them together would never happen, the years that turned into months of reminding herself that it worked out somehow — when he didn’t make it happen, she didn’t immediately stop hoping.
They broke it off before Dumbledore’s funeral. She kissed him at the Battle, still hoping, still a bit stuck on him, and when he pulled away, she made herself think it was because he was in a rush. It wasn’t until after the Battle (when they sat together on the half-destroyed stairs and the silence between them stretched on for longer than usual, for longer than what would be even considered comfortable at all) that she entertained the thought that maybe he didn’t kiss her back because he simply didn’t want to anymore.
“I can’t give you what you want,” he told her then, regret thick in his throaty voice, strained from all the pain he’d endured, all the things he’d been through in the past few hours. “I can’t love you the way you want me to.”
“Don’t tell me you’re gay, too,” she joked hoarsely, raising her eyebrows when he cast his eyes down guiltily instead of laughing at the question. She straightened up. “Oh. Oh, well. That’s just fucking perfect. Why does every boy I date turn out to be gay?”
Harry cracked a half-smile then, the bloody arsehole. “You mean, every single one?”
“You fucking bet! It’s so bloody annoying,” she threw her head back exasperatedly, then looked back at him when he laughed. “Oh, you think it’s funny? Try having your first real boyfriend and finding out he likes sweaty shirtless quidditch players more than you do, see how you like it!”
“I wouldn’t mind that, actually,” Harry sighed comically.
Ginny snorted, unable to help herself. She punched him in the gut to ease the remaining tension and it felt like mirroring the hit she’d just felt again, the exact kind of punch she should really be accustomed to by now.
It still opened a wound, though, It’ll heal soon, she just reminded herself sourly. It always does.
—×—
Harry healed fast. Ginny did, too. Had better things to do than to sulk over a boy who didn’t want her, couldn’t want her. Like visiting any and every single open bar on warm, lonely evenings for two whole months after the Battle, for example.
She drank. She laughed. She danced with strangers; kissed a few, too. Scored a date, even — with a slim Muggle guy with bleached blond hair that worked surprisingly well with his dazzling deep bronze skin. He had a glint in his eye and a smile that could light up the sky if the sun decided to quit its job one day. “Jerome,” he’d introduced himself cheerfully, sipping his cosmopolitan through a metal straw.
They talked about things that she’d never heard before. Ginny told him she’d never played Mario Kart — whatever that was — and he told her they could go back to his place and he’d show her. So she checked for her wand (it was still in her shoe) and the condom packet (that still rustled in her jeans pocket) and they walked down the street, holding each other to steady themselves, both on shaky knees and with drunken smiles sewn into their faces.
Despite the worries nibbling at the back of her brain (and the silent hope that sat there, as well), he never made a single move to touch her. They reached his apartment safely and instead of in any way responding to her mild flirting, he gestured for her to sit on the living room floor, thrust a piece of plastic into her hands and began explaining the game that popped up on his TV screen.
After an hour of a hilariously sloppy competition between two equally drunk almost-strangers, Jerome mentioned his boyfriend Steve’s vintage record collection and Ginny finally gave up.
—×—
The bar was called Rising Sun and Ginny’s never been to it before. Luna told her about it at work the next day while stirring what looked like a whole tablespoon of brown sugar into her oat milk latte, looking serene and peaceful as Ginny laid draped over her desk, feeling anything but.
“It’s a great place,” Luna told her.
“Who cares,” Ginny huffed at her. “At this point it’d be best if I started going to some Christian space instead of those goddamn pubs. Homophobic folks all ‘round, you know?… At least there wouldn’t be a chance I’d go home with another gay man,” she sighed.
“I don’t think you’d fancy going home with someone homophobic, though,” Luna pointed out. “I don’t think you should acquaint yourself with anyone bigoted, actually. It’s never a good idea.”
Ginny whined. “What am I supposed to do, Luna?”
“I would go there if I were you,” Luna hummed. She took a sip of her sugary coffee — ‘it’s almost whiter than her hair, Merlin, how can she drink that monstrosity?’ — and put a post-it right next to Ginny’s head on her desk. It had some address scribbled on it. “I think you’re a bit closed off.”
“I literally try to pick up a guy every few days,” Ginny deadpanned. “Sometimes every night, even, you know that.”
Luna hummed again. “And yet, you seem constricted somehow. I think you’re playing it safe with boys every time, only going for what you know you’ll like. Opening yourself to other possibilities might be just the solution you need.”
She patted Ginny on the head gently. “I think you should go,” she told her softly once again. “It’s a really great place to visit, even if you’re not looking for love. There’s a lot of good people there. Always ready to listen.”
Ginny rose with a groan, massaging her temples, after she walked away. She picked the post-it up and for a few long moments she just stared at the address written down in Luna’s weirdly elegant, a little dated font. Eventually she heaved another sigh and put it back down, sticking fingers into her temples with brutal force, trying to will her hangover potion to start working already.
—×—
There were very few men in the club and each of them was accompanied by some woman. Ginny noted that dully, heading for the bar immediately after stepping inside the Rising Sun. It was late already, which meant there was little hope that some other dudes would turn up sometime later.
“Woah,” the barmaid raised a brow at her when she plopped down on the stool and gestured for her without a hint of grace in her movements. “Rough day?”
“Try a month,” Ginny sighed. “Whiskey, please. Give me the whole bottle, don’t bother pouring.”
The other girl snorted under her breath, but went to grab the bottle. “Wanna talk about it?” she chirped noncommittally. Ginny took a hard pull straight out the bottle and looked at her tiredly.
She was quite beautiful — lean and tall, with sharp eyes and meticulously done braids framing her defined features. Her skin was glistening with sweat in the artificial light; a warm, rich brown colour that brought out the snowy whiteness of her teeth. She had some pale corded twig stuck in her hair and only upon further examination did Ginny realise it was her wand. A witch, then — it was even better, then; it meant she didn’t have to conceal anything about herself around her.
“I’m losing hope in men,” Ginny told her exasperatedly. “Rapidly so.”
The witch laughed. It was a clear sound, ringing in Ginny’s ears even with music playing from the speakers all around them. “I’ve been there,” she nodded at Ginny. “That a general observation or did something particular happen?”
“Both?” The bartender snorted once again. Ginny took another swig, smiling bitterly. “I dunno. I guess I’m just tired of picking up men and finding out they’re more into dick than I am. It kind of gets really old after the third time.”
“Ouch,” the witch cringed, leaning over the counter. “Just how many times did it happen to you?”
“Every single one,” Ginny sighed.
The barmaid bit on her slight smile guiltily. “Oh, shit. That’s… that’s actually quite sad.”
“I know,” she whined. “It’s like I’m cursed or something. The thing is, I already checked! Went to St. Mungo’s and everything, they all said I’m clean. No curses whatsoever.” She sighed again, her fingers absentmindedly dancing along the neck of the bottle. “I don’t know how this is my life. It seems like I’m only attracted to guys who don’t want me and can’t want me back and I— I haven’t been properly kissed for ages, shagged for even longer. What, am I not pretty or something? Why does this keep happening to me?”
“Hey, nu-uh,” the barmaid snapped her fingers, looking at her sharply. “Don’t you dare think that. It’s not your fault you keep stumbling upon the wrong guys, alright? That’s just poor luck. Not your fault at all.” She bit on her lip again, as if hesitating, before leaning further against the counter and catching her eyes. “And for the record, I think you’re absolutely gorgeous. Stunning, truly. Best believe I’d go for you in a heartbeat if I had the slightest hope you were queer. I bet that’s the reason all them gays gravitate towards you, too.”
Ginny frowned in confusion, feeling a strange warmth blooming deep in her chest. “What do you mean?” She felt hot.
“You’re so pretty, I bet they hope you’ll straighten them out.” She shrugged. “How many of them realised they were queer when they were still with you?”
Ginny blinked, thinking back to Michael Corner. To Dean Thomas. She didn’t know when exactly Harry had had his epiphany, but it had to happen between the time they dated and their last kiss during the battle. Not a long time, that is.
Her lips tightened into a thin white line. “Uh… a few.”
The bartender tapped on the counter and leaned back, shrugging carelessly. Her eyes were sharp and glistening with golden sparkles. “Seems to me like you were their last hope,” she announced. “Think about it. If you were a girl attracted to other girls, wouldn’t you hope that dating a picture perfect guy would fix you somehow?” Her shoulders twitched up again, as if on their own accord. “I know I did. They probably thought it might help, too, honestly. Who wouldn’t?”
Ginny felt empty. She glanced at the other girl and took a big gulp of her whiskey, revelling in the way it slid down her throat like liquid fire.
The barmaid put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You didn’t make them gay. You couldn’t change them even if you tried. Best stop overthinking it, trust me. It’s not worth the strain.” She pulled away with a soft smile and gestured to the bottle of whiskey in Ginny’s shaking hand. “This one’s on me. Call me if you need anything else, alright?”
She pushed herself away from the bar, but Ginny grabbed her wrist before she could move away. “Wait. Uh…”
Their eyes met halfway and Ginny found her throat all tight and dry. She opened her mouth a few times, but no words came out. The barmaid stared at her with her head cocked slightly to the side and suddenly all Ginny could think about was the way her earrings dangled around her neck, how beautiful her eyes looked in the faint light of yellowish light bulbs hanging above their heads and how she couldn’t take her eyes off of her.
“Yes?” the witch inquired with a confused smile when Ginny still didn’t speak.
Best believe I’d go for you in a heartbeat, the girl said before. I think you’re absolutely gorgeous, she’d told her. Ginny could hear it echoing in her head, bumping into every wall in her mind, ringing insistently like a phone going unanswered.
Ginny blinked and pursed her lips.
“Do you think that gay-magnet thing I got going on works the other way as well?”
When the barmaid only looked at her with an infinitely puzzled expression, she threw her head back with a quiet groan, frustrated. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. I’m so bad at this already.” She looked at the other witch nervously, letting go of her hand to pick at her nails. “I’m trying to ask you out. If you want, that is. I’m sorry, I just… I probably suck at this so bad, but you are beautiful and I kind of haven’t been able to think of anything else other than the way your eyes sort of sparkle for the last ten minutes and your hair is so pretty and your laugh is so pretty and…”
“Hey!” the barmaid cut her off with a surprised giggle. “God, you’re a cute one, aren’t you?”
Ginny’s cheeks brightened. She dropped her head onto the counter with a groan. “Sorry. Merlin, that was awful. Ignore it, please. I’m too drunk already.”
“That you are,” the witch agreed, smiling at her with something that Ginny would die before accepting was a mix of amusement and fondness. Her nails danced along the counter as she bit her lip, obviously hesitating. “Well,” she said finally after a moment of silent contemplation, “I guess you’ll have to come here tomorrow night and ask me again, won’t you? Sober this time, though.”
Ginny’s throat dried up again. She lifted her head and looked at the witch behind the counter. She was smiling, such a beautiful, wide grin full of teeth, crinkles in the corners of her almond eyes. Ginny mirrored her smile as best as she could, laughing under her breath. “I guess I’ll have to.”
—×—
Her name was Niamh, but she went by Nieve. Not many non-Irish people could pronounce her name as it was, anyway. Ginny tried once, on their second date, and she’d laughed about it until she accidentally knocked over a bottle of some restaurant’s finest wine and they ran off before they could make them pay for it.
She hadn’t gone to Hogwarts — her parents insisted she move with them to America at a young age, and so she’d gone and studied at Ilvermorny and miraculously escaped a war she would for sure be severely wounded in, seeing as she’d never felt the need to hide the fact that she was Muggleborn. She only returned to England a year after her father passed away and had tended to the Rising Sun’s bar ever since.
She lived in a small studio above a grocery store owned by a widowed old woman named Carla. Nieve helped her sometimes, when the times were rough and whenever she had a free moment. She said it was just to keep Carla off her back, as she was only keeping her dog upstairs so long as Carla was happy with her, but something told Ginny that the lovely old lady wouldn’t kick her out even if she helped some biker gang rob the shop herself.
Her dog was for sure the tamest, most clumsy pitbull Ginny’s ever seen. His name was Marcus and she was sure he loved her when he peed himself from excitement the first time he saw her. It was okay, though; Ginny loved him too. She told him that by abandoning Nieve completely when he climbed onto her lap while they were watching a movie — a.k.a. the best thing the Muggles have invented yet — and instead focusing on giving him the best belly rubs he’d ever gotten.
Nieve loved action movies, especially the ones with superheroes in them. She loved taking Ginny to the cinema, getting her to experience new things (and laughing at her when she unknowingly broke every single commonly known rule while at it). She loved Mexican food and giving flowers to Ginny every time they met, even though she was well aware Ginny had no clue what to do with them afterwards. She loved visiting her at work and messing up her hair every time she saw her and kneading her cheeks like dough when Ginny was flustered. She loved kissing her nose after, so she’d stay that way for even longer.
She loved Ginny’s friends — went with Luna for coffee every now and then, and was probably the only person who liked their coffee as disgustingly sweet as Luna did. She loved to half-heartedly make fun of Ron and scheme with Hermione, and formed a very strange alliance with Harry the first time she saw him, because apparently she somehow knew the guy he was currently into and he’d dated her girlfriend once, so they had to have a lot to talk about, Ginny could give it to them.
She loved absolutely destroying Ginny’s arse in video games and rubbing it in her face for hours afterwards. She loved cuddling with her on her couch whenever times were rough for either one of them, and she loved not mentioning how much they helped one another with their presence. She loved kissing Ginny breathless, or softly, with barely-there pecks that felt like butterfly wings on her lips. She loved being pulled along to dance, even though she had two left feet if Ginny ever saw ones. She loved laughing with her, crying with her, talking with her until the sun rose, until their eyelids would feel heavy and glued together.
Ginny thought Nieve loved her in general. And she loved her, too. Guess it was bound to happen — after all those gay disasters she’d dated, it felt only right to become one, as well.