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What if Ginny is the only girl at Hogwarts?	By : Kujira Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 4145 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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CH.21 - Appointment with Madam Pomfrey
The Hospital Wing smelled, as always, of antiseptic, dried herbs, and a faint, underlying sweetness of calming draughts. Ginny waited her turn on one of the crisp, white-sheeted beds, watching as Madam Pomfrey moved with brisk efficiency from student to student. The annual health check was a routine affair, a blend of standard diagnostic charms and gentle poking and prodding. For most, it was a boring interlude in the school day. For Ginny, this year, it felt different. After the tumultuous events of the past weeks, the sterile, orderly environment was a strange comfort.
“Miss Weasley, you’re next,” Madam Pomfrey said, her tone professional and unflappable.
Ginny hopped onto the indicated bed. The matron waved her wand in a complex pattern, murmuring incantations under her breath. Soft, colored lights—green for general health, blue for magical core stability, a gentle gold for metabolic function—washed over Ginny’s body. Madam Pomfrey made notes on a floating parchment, her expression neutral.
After a few minutes, she lowered her wand. “All seems in order, Miss Weasley. Physically, you are in excellent health. Your magical core is strong and stable for your age.” She paused, her eyes scanning the parchment again. Then she looked directly at Ginny, her gaze clinical and direct.
“There is, however, one finding. A rather curious one.”
Ginny’s stomach gave a small, involuntary lurch. “A finding?”
“Yes. It’s a rare, but naturally occurring, physiological development. It pertains to your reproductive system.” Madam Pomfrey’s voice remained perfectly matter-of-fact, as if she were discussing bone density or lung capacity. “To put it plainly, your body has developed with a unique quality that will significantly heighten your experience of sexual pleasure. Far beyond the norm.”
Ginny felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She stared at the matron, unsure if she had heard correctly.
“The corollary of this,” Madam Pomfrey continued, consulting her notes, “is that this same quality will, in turn, make your body exceptionally pleasurable for male partners. Your vaginal canal, for instance, possesses an extraordinary elasticity and resilience. It will accommodate penises of any size without risk of injury, registering only sensations of pleasure. Furthermore, its tissue will maintain a healthy, pink appearance regardless of the frequency or vigor of intercourse.”
The clinical detachment with which Madam Pomfrey delivered this information made it all the more surreal. Ginny’s mind, unbidden, flashed an image of Hagrid—his massive, rough hands, his sheer scale. A vivid, shocking memory of being filled by him surged to the forefront of her mind, and her face burned crimson. She could only sit in stunned, embarrassed silence, nodding slowly as if absorbing a lesson on the properties of Bubotuber pus.
Madam Pomfrey finally looked up from her parchment and fixed Ginny with a stern, but not unkind, gaze. “Now, Miss Weasley, it is crucial that you understand this is a physiological observation, not a prescription for behavior. This condition is not a valid reason to engage in promiscuous activity. You are a sixth-year student at Hogwarts, and your primary focus must remain on your studies and your future.” She leaned forward slightly. “Do not let a biological quirk dictate your choices. Am I clear?”
Ginny nodded again, her voice having seemingly deserted her. “Yes, Madam Pomfrey. Crystal clear.”
“Good. That will be all. You may go.” The matron made a final note on the parchment and turned her attention to the next student waiting.
Ginny slid off the bed, her legs feeling a little unsteady. She walked out of the Hospital Wing into the bustling corridor, the sounds of students laughing and chatting feeling distant and muffled. The diagnosis echoed in her mind, not as a source of shame, but as a startling piece of self-knowledge. It explained so much—the intensity of her experiences, the ease with which her body accepted what should have been impossible, the way she seemed to crave more.
__
The sterile, sage-infused air of the Hospital Wing seemed to cling to Ginny long after she had left, Madam Pomfrey’s clinical pronouncement repeating in her mind like a strange, new incantation. “Exceptionally pleasurable… maintain a healthy, pink appearance… significantly heighten your experience.” The words were a key, turning in a lock she hadn't known existed. It wasn't just in her head; it was in her very flesh and blood.
The matron’s advice, “less sex, more studying,” was sound. It was responsible. It was what a good, normal sixth-year witch should be thinking about. But as she walked through the castle, the advice felt as distant and theoretical as a passage from Advanced Potion-Making. Less sex? How? It was like asking the lake not to be wet or the Forbidden Forest not to be dark. Sex had woven itself into the fabric of her daily life, as natural as breakfast in the Great Hall and far more satisfying. It was her solace, her thrill, her secret power.
Yet, the advice had planted a seed. A goal. If she was to have "less sex," it couldn't be a vacuum. It had to be a replacement. A different, more compelling focus. Her mind, sharp and strategic even in matters of the flesh, began to calculate.
The encounters with the Gryffindors, Giant Squid, with Fang, with Hagrid… they were exhilarating, but they were fleeting. They were about sensation, about being used, about losing herself. But they were also, she realized with a jolt, a form of escape. From what? From the gnawing feeling that had persisted since the Yule Ball, since she had first truly seen Harry not as a hero, but as a boy. A boy she had always loved.
A plan, clear and desperate, formed in her mind. It was the only structure she could impose on the chaos of her own desires. She would confess her love to Harry Potter.
The logic was brutally simple, a syllogism of the heart and the body:
If she succeeded, and Harry became her boyfriend, then she would have a reason to stop. Not just a reason—a rule. A vow. I will be faithful. The very thought sent a contradictory thrill through her. The idea of belonging to one person, of having that anchor, felt like the ultimate rebellion against her own nature. It would be difficult, agonizingly so, to turn down the raw, animalistic pleasure she knew she could have. But the prospect of having Harry—of his smiles being for her, his touch being hers alone… that was a pleasure of a different magnitude. It was a focus, a purpose. It was "more studying" of a different kind—studying the lines of his face, the feel of his hand in hers. It would channel her immense capacity for pleasure into a single, concentrated stream.
And if she failed? If he looked at her with pity or confusion… well, then the experiment would be over. The structure would collapse. And if it collapsed, she would be free. Free to seek solace in Cormac’s brutish strength, in Hagrid’s overwhelming scale, in the Squid’s alien embrace. If he rejected her, she thought with a sad, resigned finality, then she would have no reason to hold back. She could cheer herself up in the only way that truly worked for her. Rejection, then, would simply be permission to continue, to dive even deeper into the physical world that her body was so perfectly designed to inhabit.
The decision, once made, brought a fragile calm. Her path was set. She would either ascend to a complicated, monogamous heaven with the boy she loved, or she would plunge, unmoored, back into the swirling, sensuous depths she had come to know so well. Either way, the uncertainty would be over. She was going to talk to Harry.
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What if Ginny is the only girl at Hogwarts?