The Photoshoot

Ginny Weasley had always imagined herself a little braver than she really was. She liked to think her hair—so red it was almost rude—meant she was up for anything. But sitting on her knees, alone in the Gryffindor girls’ dorm, she realized how quickly bravery melted into nerves. The summer sun was slinking in through the high windows, catching on the dust motes and making the scarlet drapes glow like embers. The castle was as empty as she’d ever seen it, echoing her own thumping heart.

She kept glancing at the door, not because she expected anyone to burst through—every other Gryffindor girl had gone home for the break—but because she half-hoped someone would. Someone to laugh at her for even considering this. Hermione would be mortified and write a pamphlet about the dangers of low self-esteem. But Hermione wasn’t here, just Ginny and a suitcase of Muggle clothes she never got to wear at home, and a battered Canon camera on loan from Luna’s dad.

The photographer’s name was Nick. Nick something. He’d signed his letter with just the first name, as if that made him less intimidating. She wasn’t sure if he was a Squib or just very good at pretending magic didn’t exist, but his photos had appeared in magazines at the Flourish & Blotts’ newsstand, and that was enough for Ginny. He’d offered to do a portfolio for her “for free, for fun, for the love of it,” and she’d said yes before she could overthink it.

And now she was here, in her dorm room, about to take her clothes off for a complete stranger.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. They felt like they’d been left out in the sun, prickly and hot. She tried to imagine this scene from outside herself: Ginny Weasley, star of the Gryffindor Chaser line, sitting cross-legged on the dark red bedspread, fingers trembling as she held his letter. “Don’t worry about posing,” he’d written, “just be yourself. I’ll make the rest work.” He’d promised these photos would only be for her unless she wanted otherwise, and she believed him. He had a way of writing that made every word sound like a gentle nudge instead of a command.

A minute later, she heard the knock, soft and deliberate. She pulled the door open just enough to see him. Nick was older than she’d expected—maybe thirty, with hair that needed cutting and the sort of long, tired face that made her think he’d seen a lot of things he’d rather forget. He smiled like she was the only person in the world, and she felt her nerves flicker down a notch.

“Hi, Ginny,” he said, cradling his camera bag to his chest. “You want to set up in here, or…?”

“Here’s best,” she said, and stood aside to let him in. She’d spent all morning making the room look less lived-in: tucking away the old spell books, folding the patchwork quilt, even clearing the half-eaten Honeydukes wrappers from her desk. Still, it looked more like a girl’s bedroom than a studio. She hoped that was all right.

Nick blinked around, taking in the gold and red and the walls plastered with Quidditch posters. “You’re a Chaser?” He gestured at the signed photo of Gwenog Jones over her bed.

Ginny felt her chest straighten. “Captain, last two years. We won the Cup this season.”

“I saw that match, actually. Wasn’t sure if it was polite to mention.” He started unpacking his gear on the rug, everything laid out in neat, quick order: camera, light meter, battered reflector. “You nervous?”

She nearly laughed. “Little bit.”

He looked up, and his eyes were so steady she felt she could tell him anything. “I get nervous before shoots too. I think it’s a good sign. Means you care about how you come across.”

She nodded, chewing her lip. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Most haven’t. All you need to do is breathe for me, all right?” He adjusted a lens. “I can start with some portraits, clothes on, if you want. Warm up to it.”

The day’s heat had thickened; the room felt close and private, like the inside of a tent. Ginny has on her grey Gryffindor uniform and sat by the window, letting the sunlight spill across her face. Nick didn’t talk as he shot, just gave little hums of approval and the occasional “beautiful” under his breath. Ginny let herself relax, let herself pretend she was a model and not a nervous schoolgirl.

After a while, she stopped noticing the camera. She thought about Quidditch, about the way it felt to launch herself into the air and know she’d stick the landing. She thought about her brothers and how none of them would believe this was her. She thought about Harry, but not for long—she didn’t want him in the room for this, even in her head.

Slowly, she took off her clothes, piece by piece, until finally she stood in front of him wearing nothing at all. She was surprised how comfortable she felt now.

He clicked the shutter, adjusted the focus, caught her looking up and off to the side, caught the way she hugged her knees to her chest and smiled, real and unguarded.

When he lowered the camera, she waited for him to say something about her body. Instead, he asked, “How do you feel?”

Ginny thought about it. Warm, a little dizzy, like after a really good match. “Good,” she said, surprising herself. “I feel good.”

He smiled warmly at her, and she shyly smiled back at him…