They used to be rivals, and playmates, and best friends. And when they were younger - she talks about this all the time - Mrs. Weasley would sometimes dress Ginny up in Ron's clothing, just because they were so alike. It seemed like the right thing to do.

But no, no, not really.

Ginny doesn't look like Ron.

He's got a longer face, all wry and pointed, and his eyes are the color of honey blue. Honey is sweet as the angle of his jaw, the spaces between his fingers, the careful glance over the Quidditch field. And blue, blue is deeper than the first time Harry saw the ocean, when salt made kisses feel a mile high. How many miles per hour did they go, kissing like that? Still, when they opened their eyes, nothing had changed. And that was a dare from Hermione, if you can believe it.

Ginny is the short and stocky kind of Weasley, sort of like the twins, and Ron definitely isn't. He's always been tall, but now he's taller than Percy and Bill, with wide thin lips and hair the color of so many things. The packaging of Harry's new Quidditch goggles, apples, bronze, the underside of a phoenix belly, and cinnamon jelly beans. Harry looks through him to see, sometimes, like a telescope - through all things, and not only when it's bad out. Ron has got this simple logic, right, so quaint. It puts the image of a dirt road in one's mind. Unrefined. But Harry knows: if you listen, it's got miles more to it than you thought, and it leads everywhere. Ron's mouth is the crossroads of Mecca. His pink lips open and close boyish wisdom, and his tongue darts straight into Lavender's mouth.

("That stupid bint," Hermione mumbles under her breath.)

When Harry finally finds that unfortunate green monster inside, he has to believe it's for Ginny. And he says to himself, over and over, that it must be for Ginny. He starts to watch her, follow her, think of her. But Ginny looks nothing like Ron, and in his head its a much larger hand stroking his hair and undoing his belt buckle.

One night after a game, he pats Ron on the leg - pats Ron on the leg! - and as he's moving away his hand shies over one of those knobbly knees. His breath catches on the sharpness in his throat, strange words that feel as if they should come out in parseltongue: I want you. He coughs, but it lingers.