Title: Where There Is Desire

Summary: "Crowns don't always sparkle, love, as they rust and they crack and they get lost with time, because Albania is far and the heart is heavy, and weary eyes give up searching." Hermione, Ginny, and autumn nights. / One-shot for David Noklevername.

Prompt: Advent Calendar challenge- HermioneGinny and "The fire burns, even on the coldest day."

Day: Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Recipient: David Noklevername

Notes: Well, it's the fourth of December, and you know what that means? A new fic! This was written for David Noklevername, who pitied my lack of femmeslash. This isn't as long as I wouldn't hoped, but short and sweet, so I sincerely hope you enjoy!

"Why do we fall in love so easy, even when it's not right?" - Pink, Try.

Hey, hey, little girl, didn't you know that girls like you aren't supposed to cry?

(Fire's a heavy price to pay for desire, sweetie.)

Girls like you, they chase after their prince, and after a few bumps in the road, they get him. Simple, right? Autumn girls like you aren't made to be princesses, but hell, when did you say you wanted to be? Look up, little girl; your destiny is written in the stars.

But uh oh; your prince isn't running. Rather, he's looking at you with a gleam in his eye, and he's kissing another (blondes over redheads - summer over autumn - who would've thought?), and your whole world is crumbling down.

But look, little girl - it's written all over your face, mascara lines and all. You don't love him.

Did you ever really?

You had a little crush, but little girls are supposed to have crushes. Little girl, you aren't anything out of the ordinary.

Maybe he wasn't your prince after all.

So, go on, chase after Michael - oh, isn't he handsome, isn't he smart? But he's not right for you, little girl, and you know it in your heart of hearts. After all, he runs off with Cho Chang, another reminder of the Golden Couple who never lasted that long anyhow.

But Dean - oh, Dean is sensitive, oh, Dean is gorgeous, and oh, Dean's not yours. He belongs to the little Irish one who set your hair on fire, once.

Dean wants fire, but fire inside, not a pretty little autumn redhead girl with too much brain and not enough heart.

And who do you go to next, flower?

All the boys have lost your interest, because they're all emerald eyed and black haired and they're never who they're supposed to be. Your prince found another, but that's okay, because remember, you didn't love him. Did you?

But sweetie, if you want someone to love, you're looking in all the wrong places.

(You're looking on the wrong side of the dormitories).

She actually appreciates you, little girl; she actually cares. And though you don't believe it, she may even love you (as a friend, right?) if you loved her back. The fire still burns, even on the coldest day, sweetheart. It's already autumn. And she's not melted yet.

Ice queens, darling, don't feel; they mimic and they mime, but they don't feel. Don't you know that? And yes, she's pretty, and yes, she's smart, but little girl, that's not everything.

Queen Hermione sits on her throne.

And you forget what it's like to be behind bars.

Everything's fine, for a while; no one's yours, so they say, but you're not anybody's either, so fair is fair and all that. Until the day. The day, child, where everything changes.

There are whispers in the hallways and the corridors - whispers like, "Suppose she was chasing after the wrong Weasley," and, "Someone's got a thing for redheads." Hermione ignores them, puts her curly head down, and rolls with the tide, because she can't do anything else.

You're flattered and embarrassed and a little bit scared, because she was your friend, angel, your ice queen...

Fires get put out.

And ice melts.

But listen here, little girl; you think you don't watch her, but look, sweetheart, and you'll notice that your eyes never leave her. You're subtle, yes, oh so subtle, but people will begin to notice. People will begin to care.

Since when have you?

Pretty princess, castles don't stand forever, whatever they tell you. They fall and they crumble and stone is not diamond, darling, so it can be broken. Crowns don't always sparkle, love, as they rust and they crack and they get lost with time, because Albania is far and the heart is heavy, and weary eyes give up searching.

Princes don't always come, little girl. But you don't always need them to.

Hermione is yours, darling, and you want her, and everything she entails. You want a jealous brother and a jealous ex-boyfriend (even if only one is jealous of you) and you want snow and icicles and forests and parchment and crowns and bars and autumn and love.

Ginny Weasley; oh, how you fell, little girl, but oh, how the mighty have risen.

Her eyes are brown (brown like autumn leaves and forest floors and oak tables and leather-bound books, not green like envy and snakes and a mother's love and Harry) and her hair is brown (brown like warm smiles and soft hands and ink-stained fingers and scars that spell Mudblood, not black like midnight terrors and scarred hands and clutching fingertips and scars the shapes of lightning bolts and lockets and lies).

Hermione is not like Harry, but you find that that's a hard thing to be. And you love it.

Baby, baby, maybe you're not made for happiness, but you're happy now, sweetheart, so revel in it, enjoy it. It might even last.

Because your eyes are brown, too, little girl, even if they're the brown of rust and old age and magic wands and Molly Weasley, and your hair is red. It's not red like Gryffindor and blood and anger and brains in a department of mystery, but it's red like passion and copper and fire and rose gardens, sweetie.

And though Harry's with another and Ron doesn't speak much anymore, it's getting better - finally, you're allowed to live, baby girl, and you're allowed to breathe.

It's better.

Maybe you can look at her without slipping your elbow into the butter dish, but that's not what love is, angel.

Love is autumn leaves and leather-bound books, ink-stained fingers and scars that spell Mudblood. Love is fire and ice, a coldest day and a flame where there should be frost. It's a bookworm and a Quidditch player, an only child and one of thousands; an ice queen and a princess burnt to the core.

It's Hermione and Ginny and autumn nights. This is love, little girl.

And where there is desire, darling, there will be fire.