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In the beginning
Molly Weasley had always wanted a daughter. Ginny knew this from when she was old enough to understand things like that; boys were different than girls, and Ginny’s mum had wanted a girl. Ginny didn’t really get why it made a difference, why it mattered, but she was glad she made her mother happy.
Age 8
“What a pretty little girl!” The exclamation came from a shopkeeper in Diagon Alley while they were out buying her older brothers their school books. Ginny tried to hide behind her mother, still clinging to her hand. She cringed at the endearment, as she did every time a stranger commented on her appearance. She hated when strangers called her things like that. She didn’t know why, but it made her insides squirm. Her mother apologetically told the stranger that Ginny was just shy before calling her boys back to her so that they could move on to the next shop on their list.
Age 11
When she started at Hogwarts, some of the kids at school called her “Girl Weasley,” and it drove Ginny spare. She wasn’t sure quite why it grated so much; she only knew that she hated it. She quickly became proficient at bat-bogey hexes, and, in turn, her classmates quickly learned to address her by her proper name.
Midway through the school year, Ginny got her first period, and with it came a crippling shame and a sense of wrongness that she couldn’t bear. She had begrudgingly gone to see Madam Pomfrey for “supplies” at the insistence of her dorm mates, but had been unable to look the kindly matron in the eye. When Pomfrey reassured her that this was a normal and healthy part of becoming a woman, Ginny felt something crawly make its way down her spine. She muttered a thank-you as quickly as she could and rushed back to her dorm.
Age 13
When she received her dress robes for the Yule Ball in the mail from her mother—frilly and pastel and dainty and everything she was not, did not want to be—Ginny cried. She’d teased Ron about his robes, but now she regretted it. She hadn’t realized how much she loved wearing a uniform every day; the ability to blend with the rest of the student body, with no differentiations but the crest embroidered at her lapel. The thought of donning this… thing made her nauseous. But she thought of her parents, and how hard it must have been for them to get together the funds to buy this for her—her, the only daughter, whom no hand-me-downs would suit—and she dried her tears and put it on, cleaning up her face with a quick charm so that no one could see that she’d been crying. Her dorm mates oohed and ahhed and told her how beautiful it was and how lucky she was that Neville had asked her to go to the Ball with him.
Age 14
When Ginny’s breasts began to develop, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She’d known, in the abstract, that it would happen; it had happened to all the other girls, after all. Somehow, though, she’d managed to ignore that fact until the reality was upon her. They were sore, and they were visible, and she hated them. Her friends thought that her displeasure was because they were so small, and she didn’t know how to tell them it was because she didn’t want them to be there at all. She took to wearing sports bras daily to better hide them beneath her robes.
Age 15
Dating Dean Thomas had seemed like a good idea, at first. He was a good friend, and funny, and a good kisser. The longer they were together, though, the more he wanted to touch her. He didn’t pressure her, of course; he wasn’t a monster. But she could see it in the careful, tentative wandering of his fingers from her back to the sides of her ribcage, in the light press of a palm on her thigh. He treated her differently, too; as a friend, she’d been an equal, but now he was… solicitous. Chivalrous. Carrying her bag, placing a gentle hand at the small of her back to guide her through a door ahead of him. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she’d broken it off.
Dating Harry had been different. For one thing, his hands hadn’t wandered. For another, other than the snogging, he didn’t treat her any differently than he had before. Sometimes, she thought that Harry didn’t much care that she was a girl. He looked at her, yes, but she’d seen him look at boys, as well. Harry appreciated people; it didn’t matter what kind they were. It was why he was so popular—he liked people for who they were. He collected the Hagrids and the Lunas and the Nevilles of the world, and he wrapped them around himself like a blanket of reassurance.
Age 16
In her sixth year, Ginny didn’t think of anything but survival.
Age 23
Ginny had only been dating Luna for a month or so when they went out with a group of Luna’s art school friends for the first time. Luna easily integrating into the Muggle world had surprised many of their Hogwarts friends, but Ginny hadn’t thought it odd at all. Someone as unique as Luna was an oddity everywhere, and therefore fit anywhere. It was one of the things Ginny loved about her.
As Luna made introductions, one in particular stood out: “This is Jack,” she said, gesturing to a tall, thin person with shaggy black hair that reminded Ginny a bit of Harry’s. “They’re in my experimental film seminar.”
Later, when they were curled up together in bed (Ginny found that she felt more comfortable in her body with Luna. Luna only touched Ginny where she wanted to be touched, and never asked “why” when Ginny said she didn’t like certain things. She didn’t complain or comment when Ginny left her sports bra on while they had sex. She made Ginny feel safe) Ginny asked about Jack. “Is Jack a boy or a girl?” she asked, her stomach fitted to Luna’s soft, smooth back, her fingers playing with her girlfriend’s wild blonde hair. “I couldn’t tell.”
“Neither,” Luna answered blithely, “they identify as genderqueer.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Ginny confessed after a moment.
“It means they aren’t either,” Luna reiterated patiently. “They aren’t a boy or a girl, they’re just Jack.”
“But they must be something,” Ginny argued, feeling off kilter.
“Not really,” Luna said. She turned in Ginny’s arms, trailed her fingers over her lover’s face, tracing the freckles there. “I don’t think that what body someone has defines them, really, do you?”
When Luna’s fingers retreated from Ginny’s face, they were damp with tears.
When Gin was 23, they realized, with the support of their girlfriend and a transgender support group that they’d visited for the first time at the invitation of Jack, “just to see,” that they had never been a ‘she’ in the first place. All of the little broken pieces inside of them rearranged themselves into something new, and they felt whole and seen and right for the very first time.
Age 24
Coming out was a slow process for Gin. The name was the easiest part; people had called them Gin for short from time to time anyway. The pronouns were a bit harder. The Wizarding world was small and sheltered and slow to change. Still, Gin pressed on, telling first their closest friends, and then their Quidditch teammates, and then their brothers. A few people were shitty about it, but Gin had never expected anything else. They’d heard many coming out stories in their support group; they knew that not everyone would understand. “I don’t need you to understand it, I just need you to respect it” became their armor. Luckily, most of their friends didn’t seem to care at all. They’d lived through a war, after all. Many things didn’t seem as important as they once would have, after that. The general response seemed to be “whatever makes you happy,” and it wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t hateful, and for now that was enough.
Gin put off the hardest conversation for last.
Molly Weasley had always wanted a daughter. Gin had known this from when they were old enough to understand things like that; boys were different than girls, and Gin’s mum had wanted a girl. Gin hadn’t really gotten why it made a difference, why it mattered, but they had been glad they made their mother happy.
When Gin came out to Molly Weasley, they cried. “I’m so sorry, mum,” they said, wringing their hands in front of them on the worn kitchen table where they had shared so many family meals; so many happy memories. Their eyes were trained on the warm, honey colored wood, unable to face the disappointment, the heartbreak that they were sure they would see in their mother’s eyes. “I tried so hard, I really did. It just never fit. I didn’t… I know you wanted a daughter. I don’t want to let you down. But this is who I am. I’m sorry.”
Molly was quiet for long enough that Gin couldn’t help but glance up. Their mother looked sad, but not disappointed. “Oh my dear,” she said, reaching her hands—hands that had begun to wrinkle with countless loads of laundry and sinks of dishes and years of life—across the table to grasp those of the child she had once thought was her daughter. “Oh my sweet baby. You could never disappoint me.” Tears filled the warm brown eyes; eyes framed by crinkles formed of laughter and grief and so, so much love. “You’re perfect as you are. You will always be perfect as exactly who you are.”
When Gin began to cry in earnest, Molly got up from her seat and rounded the table, wrapping her youngest child in the tightest hug that she could manage. “I did think that I wanted a daughter,” she murmured, resting her chin atop fiery red hair, “but I suppose I was wrong. It’s happened before, though don’t you dare tell your father I said that.” Gin let out a wet laugh, and Molly ran a hand up and down their forearm comfortingly. “I might not have gotten a daughter,” she continued, “but I got you, and I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else.”