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Ginny is beautiful in that she’s all smooth, supple skin, and rounded limbs that taper into tiny wrists and tiny ankles. Ron fixedly watches her move through the kitchen with grace and perfect timing, even though she’s only making them tea. For some reason, he realizes, she has put on their mother’s apron, and he imagines that Ginny probably looks just as she did when she was 16. He closes his eyes and she turns on the tap, he hears the water flow into the tea pot with the soft pattering of liquid against metal. She crosses to the stove and in his mind’s eye Ron sees their mother—Molly at 16 lengths of creamy skin like Ginny’s, freckles dotted along the tops of her breasts, like Ginny’s. Ron opens his eyes and Ginny is setting their teacups down in front of him. Her hair falls past her shoulders now, red curls that like her freckles dance just above her chest. Ron knows this, and not simply because she wore barely-there swimsuits this summer that made Harry blush at the way her lovely body spilled out of them in all the right places. Ron takes his teacup; he holds the chipped porcelain in his hand and the teapot cries out that its water has boiled. End.
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