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Yes, well. Victoire has always been a bit of a bitch, hasn't she?

Ginny stills her tongue between her teeth before the thought flies out loud into the open. She loves her niece, but facts are facts. Proof positive is Teddy, slumped, sullen, and absently fingering his balled-up socks in her breakfast room at 10:42 on a Friday night.

"I'm sorry," he says, straightening under what, Ginny realizes, must have been quite a hard stare. "She's your blood kin. I shouldn't…" He shifts. Through the glass table, she can see his toes curl against the polished oak floor. She's a poor substitute for Harry, knew she would be when she invited him in. She feels the familiar pang of disappointment that the two of them have never been better friends. But that doesn't mean she can't try one last time to put him at ease.

She rises from her chair. "Actually, I was just thinking this probably calls for something a bit stiffer than the old chamomile, yeah?"

"Yeah." Teddy says, and then adds, "I mean, if you say so."

Ginny turns in the doorway, props her hand on the jamb. "You're an adult, now, Teddy. What do you say?"

And that's all it takes. A bit of even footing. He raises his head, squarely meets her eye. "I say, yes. Something a lot stiffer, please."

Hours later, Ginny tries to remember the last time she talked with anyone like this; actual give-and-take, adult conversation. Lily talks at her, an endless flow of words. And Harry, when he's home, talks to her, but it's not the same as this. After one last, long bout of laughter, Ginny pushes her hair back from her face. She looks across the empty glasses to Teddy, his dark, roguish eyes still on her, and feels the final shift. Something inside rising up to shake off the dust.

"So," she says, unfolding herself from her chair. "Eggs on toast? I'm feeling… peckish." Her voice wavers.

Teddy never blinks. He says, "Yeah, I think so."

Moving to the kitchen, she's already accepted what's going to happen as he follows too close behind. Even the sight of Lily's family portrait on the icebox can't stop the anticipation trilling through her skin, and she lets him pull the egg carton from her hand and pin her against the counter.

She should stop him. She should put her hand on his chest and say they're both just lonely. She should step away and remind him of whom he came to see in the first place. She should be the responsible adult and tell him that this cannot end well and so it shouldn't even begin. But before she can do any of these, his mouth is moving with hers in sweet, new ways, and he tastes like the very best whiskey Harry's money can buy, and it's all utterly futile. All the words in the world won't talk this need away, so she drags him closer. She pulls her stomach in as he reaches down, then rolls onto the outer soles of her bare feet, opening up, letting him touch her like the nineteen-year-old he is. And, finally, after he's tugged her jeans to her ankles and tongue-flicked every last reservation from her body, when she gathers enough strength in her spine to move her head forward, she looks down at him on his knees, promises herself she'll make him leave before Lily wakes in the morning, and says, "Let's go to bed."

.oOo.

It's only one night, then never again.

Until the Sunday at the Burrow, when he skives off the pick-up Quidditch game and disappears into the house. Ginny makes sure Lily is well engaged picking pears with Molly, then goes to find him waiting in her old room.

"This is bad," she says as her feet leave the floor. He lifts her up onto the dresser, spreads her knees apart, and shoves her knickers to the side. He grabs her hips, pulls her forward.

"Yeah. I'm terrible," he groans out, sliding inside. "But you're so fucking amazing I can't help myself."

And now, it is twice.

.oOo.

She's glad she only ever buys white bed linens. The rapid fading would be a tell-tale sign, otherwise.

Five weeks in, she draws her fingers through his dark turquoise hair. Teddy lifts his lips from her hip bone and says, "I'll do anything you want. I'll be whoever you want me to be. Just say it, and it's done."

And, though intrigued, Ginny politely declines.

"'S allright." Teddy grins. "I'll figure it out."

And he does.

He learns how firmly to grasp her hair, and where to bite her shoulders. He learns how far to slip his fingers past her lips, when to pull them away, and just where to touch her after. He learns how hard, how soft. When to lick, scratch, or nip.

Things Harry won't do to her, can't do to her. Teddy figures it out.

"All right. Professor Longbottom, then?" He offers, and then morphs when she bites her lip and doesn't say no.

"You realize most of this is just wild conjecture," Teddy says, gesturing below his waist, before leaping on top of her and muffling her squeals with his mouth.

"If you tell me your fantasies," he says, "I'll make them come true."

Eight weeks, and he asks "What about this?" His stature shudders down on itself while other parts bloom. "Would you like a go with this?"

Hermione, ten years younger and a fair bit curvier, stands at the foot of the bed. Small ripples roll down her throat. "I can even sound like her, if you want."

Ginny stares, breathes through her lips. Beneath the sheet, a white hot ache pounds in her thighs. She crosses her ankles and shakes her head 'no'.

"You do like it," Teddy says, stepping forward in a bang-on mimic of Hermione's walk. "You've thought about it, yes? At least a few times, over the years." He reaches for the night stand and grabs the hair brush, eyes never leaving Ginny's. He leans over her until their lips almost touch. "Don't you want to know what it's like? I can be soft and sweet," he drags Hermione's lips over Ginny's jaw. "Or I can be very stern, indeed." He steps back, slaps the flat side of the brush to his palm. "So, tell me, what's your pleasure?"

This is insane and so very, very wrong. The words "Scarlet Woman" scream through her mind.

But it's all just a game, Ginny thinks as he slides Hermione's body over hers. Everything, all of it, nothing but a game…

.oOo.

There's not a moment in the day he's not in her mind. As she's washing Lily's hair, or chopping onions, or sorting laundry. Anytime she's on her hands and knees, he's behind her in spirit. She's not sure what she means to him, or even what he means to her. He doesn't see other girls, and she's taken to feigning sleep when Harry finally comes home. She hides her left hand from herself, wrapping it in her napkin below tables, plunging it deep in the bubbles of the dishwater, tucking it under her pillow at night.

.oOo.

"Have you seen Teddy around, recently?" Harry asks over his plate of rashers and eggs.

"No, not lately," Ginny lies, over-pouring the coffee. "Why?"

"Just found a pair of his old socks under the icebox. Hand-knitted ones, with his name stitched in the heel. No telling how long they've been rotting, there. It's been, what? Since the beginning of summer he last came round?" He shakes his head, pushes his fork through the golden yellow yolk. "That's pitiful. I should invite him for dinner. What about Friday? Is Friday okay for you?"

When Harry is home, he's so sweet and sincere. Ginny kisses his head, lets her fingers linger over the stubble on his cheek.

"Yeah. Friday works for me."

"Good," Harry says. "Good."

.oOo.

Teddy comes early for dinner. Four hours early.

She kisses him long and slow. She pulls his shirt over his head and says, "I want you, today. Just you. No games. No disguises."

He tilts his head back and looks in her eyes. And he seems to feel exactly what they're getting at, because he's gentle as he lays her down. He touches her like it's his last chance, and she doesn't realize until they are done and he's dressed and he's kissing the inside of the ankle sticking out from the sheet, that it was just that: The very last.

That night, they sit at a table with Harry and Lily. Ginny keeps her left hand on her glass all night, the glint of her wedding ring blinding in the candle-light.

.oOo.

Victoire returns to her senses.

Molly's a bit too excited about the rumours of wedding bells.

"Oh, it will be beautiful, dear." Molly says, folding the serviettes, and sending them flying into the drawer. "Just like yours and Harry's. And they will be happy, won't they. Just like you."