Note: Obviously I think Remus did it because my favorite Ginny ship is Ginny/Remus, but I've left it deliberately vague so that anyone who ships Ginny could like this.

~*~

The problem with loving a Weasley is that there are freckles. Everywhere. The freckles have their own mesmerizing power. One can count and get lost in them. How like stars they are! I might see a shape, but it is fleeting in the moving expanse of skin. Everywhere from head to foot I find them more and more. Freckles.

I know I have had enough of idle wonder, and I choose to chart the points of the heavenly body I have on earth. When Ginny comes home, I stand before her with a pot of mendhi ink and a paintbrush in my hand.

"Take off your clothes." Yes, it is direct and not very romantic, but I am on a mission.

She looks at me unsurely and nibbles on her lower lip. As she nibbles I see yet another freckle I haven't seen before. It is a faint one darting across her nose. It innocently opposes the darker cluster near her lips that continually invites me to kiss her again and again.

"Trust me," I urge when she is reluctant to answer, and trust me she does. She allows me to guide her into the kitchen.

There on the table where we have had many a meal and the occasional love-making session, I have spread a pristine linen sheet. She methodically removes her clothing and precisely folds it into a neat and orderly pile. This is ceremony, and my worship of her has just begun.

When she is finally naked I stare at her and those unnumbered freckles in wonder. She is breath-taking and I am the one who knows it above all else. I have seen the three freckles at the apex of her breasts and the group that gallops across her lower belly like playing dogs.

As I lie her down upon the sheet I lean in to refresh my memory of what I know to be there. I search for the hidden realms of what I have not seen. I begin with the patience of one charting unexplored territories to draw the constellations on her back.

She squirms at first because my touch is light and her skin is sensitive. Soon she stills into a dream-like state and I paint all that I see. One point connects to another in a myriad of ways so I have become lost in her pliant flesh. This is madness, and I am its willing victim.

It is said that the story of the gods are told in the night sky. I have no need for gods or stars as I stare at this before me. I only know that which has captured my attention and refused to release me.

When I have completed the map of my lover's body, she has fallen asleep. She breathes freely and I watch as she rises and falls. On the nape of her neck I place a kiss, soft and gentle. She answers by murmuring my name as I reverently cover her with linen.