In a world where the Weasleys were known for their broomstick-riding and fiery tempers, Ginny Weasley carved out her own niche—one stitch at a time. The common room of Gryffindor was her stage, and every chilly morning, when the fire crackled softly and the rest of the students had shuffled off to class, Ginny emerged from the warmth of her dormitory, slipping into one of her beloved latex catsuits.
She owned them in every color imaginable: a deep crimson red that reminded her of home, a forest green so vivid it could have been plucked from the heart of the Whomping Willow, and a buttery yellow that shimmered like new parchment. Each suit was snug against her skin, whispering against her as she twirled in front of the mirror.
The first outfit of the day was always a thrill—whether it was smooth black or a bold pattern. She twirled with a wand in hand, imagining the envy of her friends. But just as she thought to leave, another twirl—and perhaps one more—was called for. And when the others returned from class, they found only Ginny and her cat.
At night, under her blankets, she imagined professors noticing or even a trend starting. Her closet was full, each catsuit adding to her collection. The common room became her stage, each outfit a new chapter in her story.
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