Chapter One
--
From the moment Harry had returned from school his life had been a living nightmare. His welcome hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, of course – his uncle, Vernon Dursley, had waited outside the station in his vehicle and the moment he saw his nephew his face turned a peculiar shade of red that was all too familiar to Harry. He had honked the horn wildly and mouthed from behind the glass something that looked like Hurry up, boy, with expletives randomly inserted throughout.
It was, of course, no better for him on Privet Drive than it had ever been before. Aunt Petunia having decided it was too dangerous to have "his kind" cook meals any more, she'd declared that Harry would be tending to the garden every day this summer, "or else."
"Or else, *what*?" He'd asked, a challenge rising in his throat.
Petunia's horse-like face scrunched up as she fumbled with her words before taking a heavy swing at him with a frying pan, which Harry easily dodged. He pasted a smirk on his face through the grimace that wanted to bubble to the surface. He'd had quite enough of these people and desperately longed to be with a real family.
The sad truth though was, due to the death of his parents, the Dursleys *were* his only family – by law, that is. His mother Lily was sister to his aunt and how they could be related was almost beyond Harry. From what he'd learned of his mother through his parent's friends, his mother was the exact opposite of his foul aunt.
Harry's mother was a witch and his father a wizard. They had been, in fact, two of the hundreds of thousands of magical people on Earth amongst non-magical people, more commonly known as muggles. There were wizarding villages and communities, and wizarding schools, such as the one Harry attended; Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where young witches and wizards spent seven years (sans Christmas and Summer holidays) in training. They learned to brew potions, use spells and charms, predict the future, defend themselves against dark wizards, and even play quidditch, a game played in the air on broomsticks with different balls.
To the Dursleys, witches and wizards were freaks. They were dangerous. They were not to be associated with. They didn't exist.
Growing up with the Dursleys was extremely difficult for Harry, for they had known he was a wizard even before he did. They had locked him in a cupboard for eleven years of his life. Each summer when he returned to the house, they were sure to make his life a living hell and love every minute of it.
This summer was quite different for Harry though – it would be the last time he'd ever have to see his cousin's chubby pink face and have to listen to his Aunt's screechy voice. One more month and he would be free of them forever. He'd never have to look back.
He put up with the people as best he could, occasionally toying with their minds by pulling out his wand at the breakfast table, or staring at Dudley while whispering made-up spells. Each time a frying pan would come at him and he'd dodge it easily, enjoying the owlish eyes of his aunt when she missed, splattering grease on the far wall.
Unfortunately for the adolescent wizard, tormenting the Dursleys began to bore him after a while. Every time he saw one of them he wished that for a fleeting moment, the Ministry of Magic might turn their heads long enough for Harry to turn his uncle into a couch, his aunt into a coat rack. Every night he sat in his room, rereading Quidditch technique books Hermione had given him as presents in prior years, clipping askew twigs on his broomstick (there were none now) and writing his dear friends, Hermione Granger, and Ron and Ginny Weasley.
They were the only things, really, that kept him sane. He was sure he would've gone mad even with just a month more if it hadn't been for Ron and Hermione weekly letters – and Ginny's daily ones.
Ginny Weasley. Just thinking of Ginny seemed to have an effect on him lately – everything he found that was remotely good in the world seemed to remind him of her, and it didn't take him long to realize how very addictive the smallest Weasley was; the dark honey eyes, the trademark flaming hair, the impish smile she wore so often. They'd grown closer in the past year than Harry had ever been to anyone (with, of course, the exception of Ron and Hermione). She knew about Sirius, Harry's innocent escaped convict godfather, and the Marauders Map, a detailed map of every passage (visible or otherwise) at Hogwarts. She had spent a great deal of time during weekends in the common room studying, reading books, and playing exploding snap and quidditch solitaire – all in his company. He'd even shown her the photograph album Hagrid had given him after first year, which contained a sizeable amount of pictures of his parents.
On the train ride back from Hogwarts she had promised him she'd write often, and she held true to her word, he found – he received his first letter the night he returned from school. It read in small, loopy letters–
Harry –
Just keeping my promise. Hope your vacation's off to a good start.
Ginny
He'd written her back a short, cordial note, and sent it off minutes later – the following night Hedwig swept into the room, dropping a letter on his bed. So started the pattern; he wrote Ginny every night, and every night he received a reply – sometimes they would write for pages, talking about anything mundane and everything not. Sometimes they really didn't say much at all – they just wrote to say they were still writing. By now Harry must have memorized every curve of her writing. He knew when she was angry, when she was frustrated, sad, happy, or even sleepy. He kept every letter she wrote him carefully folded and placed in a stack under the floorboard.
On the twenty-third of July, he received no letter from her – nor did he on the twenty-fourth, or the twenty fifth, or the twenty-sixth, or even the twenty-seventh.
On the twenty-eighth, Harry had gotten into a particularly nasty row with Uncle Vernon. He no longer felt any patience, or the desire to have fun with them by threatening to blast them into oblivion. There had been a great deal of shouting, and even a punch thrown – though by whom, no one was sure. Both ended up slightly bloody in the face, and Harry stalked to his room, slamming the door rather hard.
He lay on his bed for a good hour, staring at the ceiling. He'd quite calmed down, now – he didn't usually let anger take control of him that much, and he'd certainly never gotten into a fight that – physical with anyone. It was usually all wands and curses for him.
It was well after midnight before he moved at all – going to sit at the open window. He'd watch for Hedwig, who hadn't yet returned from delivering his last letters to Ginny and Ron, over a day and a half ago. And she hadn't replied in almost a week. It was plaguing him – though Harry knew if anything was wrong, Ron would've owled him immediately – it must've been the reason the boy had been so testy lately. He couldn't help but worry.
"Where are you, Hedwig?" He sighed, turning from the window and reaching for a piece of paper that lay on the lid of his trunk. He scanned the parchment, frown fading fast.
Harry –
Yes, Hermione'll be here tomorrow, I believe. Ron is already ecstatic. He's cleaning up the house and everything. Mum says it's very strange to see him acting like that for someone – and Hermione, at that. It's not as if she never saw it coming, though. Peculiar.
I miss you, Harry. I went over to Rachel's again today and she put a silencing charm on me to get me to shut up about you. I'm going through Harry withdrawal I suppose. I can't wait to get to Diagon Alley to see you.
I think Ron is getting suspicious – he's getting rather angry that Hedwig swoops into my room every night and not his. Do try to write him more, will you? I don't think he can stand the thought of you and I being friends, but maybe he'll settle.
I do hope everything is going all right – well, all right for over there. I can't stand those horrible people, and I have a feeling it's actually much worse than you let on. Just promise you won't let them get to you so much, okay?
Don't go and curse Dudley. Until you're of age, that is.
Tonight is dull, but the sunset is beautiful.
I think … Well, I think I'm starting to sound like one great big tangent, aren't I? I'm very glad to receive letters from you, is all. It makes me feel as if you weren't so far away.
Ginny
It was the last letter he'd received from her, to date – last Sunday. Since, he'd sent her two letters. But, of course, Ginny's entire existence wasn't centered on him; she had friends and family, and things to do. He only figured that, whatever she was doing, she was having fun.
As he placed the parchment back on the trunk, a faint sound reached his ears – a steady beat he easily recognized as those of an owl. Moments later his snowy white bird swooped in, circling the room once before landing smoothly on the edge of the sill with a small package tied to her leg. He undid the twine carefully and removed the package, stroking Hedwig affectionately with his free hand. She nuzzled against his hand for a moment, then flapped her wings the short distance to her open cage.
"What's 'is you've brought me, here?"
He quietly tore the brown paper, removing it methodically to reveal a tattered book and a small slip of paper. He unfolded it, scanned it quickly by the light of candle –
Harry –
Everything all right over there? (Don't answer that – Hedwig didn't seem too thrilled 'bout going back. Hope you don't mind I kept her for a day. Thanks for the letter, by the way.) Happy early birthday! This isn't your present – not all of it, anyway. I know you'll like it – just remember not to forget anything this time.
Ron
Harry frowned as he reread the letter, more than slightly bewildered by the remarks made -- picked up the book. It was worn and faded and gray-blue with the gold embossment almost completely vanished –he could barely make out the Title; An Anthology of Great Poets, Vol. II – it looked like a book Ginny would read. But what did it have to do with "remembering his stuff"?
The book opened a little too easily and Harry kept it carefully balanced on his lap, afraid it might collapse otherwise. Between the cover and the first page a significantly whiter slip of parchment stood out from the discolored pages of the tome –
It'll activate at 8 A.M. tomorrow morning. We'll all be expecting you.
Ron
"A portkey." Harry was suddenly grinning very wide. He should have realized it right away. Ron was an absolute godsend. He didn't even have to spend – he checked the wall clock – another seven hours with these wretched – muggles. He'd be gone, forever.
He scribbled a note back hastily –
Thanks!
Harry
-- and, after handing it to Hedwig who snatched it up in her beak, stroked her with his index finger. "I'll meet you over there. Night." He watched as the owl soared out of sight and shut the window. He was awfully ready for bed – he wanted to get some sleep before packing in the morning – but he doubted he'd get any sleep. He was already thinking of the expression on his aunt and uncle's faces when they found him gone in the morning.
--
The burrow was asleep, but never silent. There were strange noises from the attic, gnome fights in the garden outside, magically-altered muggle appliances turning themselves on and off sporadically, the sound of small explosions from Fred and George's room (an all-too-familiar yet peculiar occurrence, as they no longer lived there), and, that Friday night, two rather giggly girls sitting up in a small room towards the top of the house.
"Wow, look at that," Hermione whispered, pinning the magazine down with her hands. "'101 Ways To Get Your Man Off The Quidditch Pitch And On You' – reckon you'll need to keep this article on file, this year?" she grinned at Ginny, who had suffered a steady blush for hours now.
Ginny scoffed. "Guys and sports. I'll never understand."
"And you're not meant to," Hermione chided. She rolled onto her stomach. "Just like they'll never understand the concept of common sense."
They'd been like this all night – The floor of Ginny's bedroom had become their camp. Hermione had brought over sacks full of magazines she'd picked up at Diagon Alley, in celebration of one of the two being old enough to make the purchase.
They'd poured over every issue, cover to cover, crying some, laughing a good bit more, and blushing almost without pause.
"You know, if your mother knew you were looking at these--"
"Bah," the redhead waved her hand, "Only another year. I could always get some from Parvati after holiday -- and mum's let me see some before. But, you know, if Ron knew you were looking at these--"
Hermione shook her head. "He'd be speechless for days."
Ginny gave a mute smile, and they went back to reading an "Witch is the Boss?", an article that seemed vaguely reminiscent of … well, just about every other article in all the magazines they'd looked at yet.
Hermione yawned, rubbing her eyes. Ginny was staring at the paper but her mind was obviously elsewhere.
"I miss Harry." Ginny propped her head against her palm, then sighed and lay on her back. Hermione gave a sympathetic smile. "We all do – though I don't quite think I do to the your extent."
"Shut it, 'Mione," Ginny laughed. "Harry and I are – are *friends*." She ignored the fact that Hermione had obviously noticed the blush creeping up her cheeks – she didn't quite feel like getting into it about Harry again. "It upsets me that he has to live with those horrible people – that Dunbar bloke sounds like an absolute peach."
Hermione sighed at Ginny's deliberate misuse of the boy's name. "Yeah, Dudley's … he's a Dursley. But I don't worry about Harry. He handles it all very well. Or puts on like it. I think the Dursleys are afraid of him, honestly."
Ginny nodded. It was true – there was nothing to be worried about. He'd stayed there for many years before, and he was fine. But, last year he'd stayed at the burrow – the summer where it had all begun. This was the longest she'd been away from him since they'd finally started to develop such a strong bond.
Hermione caught the wistful glance. "What's on your mind?"
"Last summer." Her voice was rather casual. Something flickered in her eyes, and Hermione rested her chin on her arms carefully, looking away.
Ginny bit her lip. She really hadn't meant to bring it up – or rather, she'd forgotten Hermione wasn't quite as comfortable with the subject as Ginny was.
It really must've been a horrifying experience for her, Ginny mused. Not knowing what was happening. I would've been scared, too.
*You were scared. Out of your wits.*
But, of course, that was a little different.
Ginny looked at Hermione in the periphery of her vision – she was positive she saw a hint of glistening around her friend's eyes.
"It's late," she murmured. "I suppose we should get to sleep?" The red head nudged the older girl on the arm softly. "I didn't mean to say anything."
"I don't really mean not to," said Hermione. Her eyes had lost their shine but already looked vaguely pink. "Sometime, I'd like to sit down and talk to you about it. I've never heard the whole story, and …" she inhaled deeply, "I'd like to know what you're willing to tell be about the – accident – incident –the --"
She turned to Ginny, who gave her a knowing smile; her voice was soft. "The attack. And I think that's a good idea."
Before Hermione could say anything else, Ginny pushed herself tiredly to her feet and trudged the short distance to the bed; pulled back the covers and slipped in comfortably as Hermione adjusted some pillows on the floor. The candles were blown out, and Ginny waited until her friend's breathing came in even strokes before willing herself to sleep as well.
--
--
From the moment Harry had returned from school his life had been a living nightmare. His welcome hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, of course – his uncle, Vernon Dursley, had waited outside the station in his vehicle and the moment he saw his nephew his face turned a peculiar shade of red that was all too familiar to Harry. He had honked the horn wildly and mouthed from behind the glass something that looked like Hurry up, boy, with expletives randomly inserted throughout.
It was, of course, no better for him on Privet Drive than it had ever been before. Aunt Petunia having decided it was too dangerous to have "his kind" cook meals any more, she'd declared that Harry would be tending to the garden every day this summer, "or else."
"Or else, *what*?" He'd asked, a challenge rising in his throat.
Petunia's horse-like face scrunched up as she fumbled with her words before taking a heavy swing at him with a frying pan, which Harry easily dodged. He pasted a smirk on his face through the grimace that wanted to bubble to the surface. He'd had quite enough of these people and desperately longed to be with a real family.
The sad truth though was, due to the death of his parents, the Dursleys *were* his only family – by law, that is. His mother Lily was sister to his aunt and how they could be related was almost beyond Harry. From what he'd learned of his mother through his parent's friends, his mother was the exact opposite of his foul aunt.
Harry's mother was a witch and his father a wizard. They had been, in fact, two of the hundreds of thousands of magical people on Earth amongst non-magical people, more commonly known as muggles. There were wizarding villages and communities, and wizarding schools, such as the one Harry attended; Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where young witches and wizards spent seven years (sans Christmas and Summer holidays) in training. They learned to brew potions, use spells and charms, predict the future, defend themselves against dark wizards, and even play quidditch, a game played in the air on broomsticks with different balls.
To the Dursleys, witches and wizards were freaks. They were dangerous. They were not to be associated with. They didn't exist.
Growing up with the Dursleys was extremely difficult for Harry, for they had known he was a wizard even before he did. They had locked him in a cupboard for eleven years of his life. Each summer when he returned to the house, they were sure to make his life a living hell and love every minute of it.
This summer was quite different for Harry though – it would be the last time he'd ever have to see his cousin's chubby pink face and have to listen to his Aunt's screechy voice. One more month and he would be free of them forever. He'd never have to look back.
He put up with the people as best he could, occasionally toying with their minds by pulling out his wand at the breakfast table, or staring at Dudley while whispering made-up spells. Each time a frying pan would come at him and he'd dodge it easily, enjoying the owlish eyes of his aunt when she missed, splattering grease on the far wall.
Unfortunately for the adolescent wizard, tormenting the Dursleys began to bore him after a while. Every time he saw one of them he wished that for a fleeting moment, the Ministry of Magic might turn their heads long enough for Harry to turn his uncle into a couch, his aunt into a coat rack. Every night he sat in his room, rereading Quidditch technique books Hermione had given him as presents in prior years, clipping askew twigs on his broomstick (there were none now) and writing his dear friends, Hermione Granger, and Ron and Ginny Weasley.
They were the only things, really, that kept him sane. He was sure he would've gone mad even with just a month more if it hadn't been for Ron and Hermione weekly letters – and Ginny's daily ones.
Ginny Weasley. Just thinking of Ginny seemed to have an effect on him lately – everything he found that was remotely good in the world seemed to remind him of her, and it didn't take him long to realize how very addictive the smallest Weasley was; the dark honey eyes, the trademark flaming hair, the impish smile she wore so often. They'd grown closer in the past year than Harry had ever been to anyone (with, of course, the exception of Ron and Hermione). She knew about Sirius, Harry's innocent escaped convict godfather, and the Marauders Map, a detailed map of every passage (visible or otherwise) at Hogwarts. She had spent a great deal of time during weekends in the common room studying, reading books, and playing exploding snap and quidditch solitaire – all in his company. He'd even shown her the photograph album Hagrid had given him after first year, which contained a sizeable amount of pictures of his parents.
On the train ride back from Hogwarts she had promised him she'd write often, and she held true to her word, he found – he received his first letter the night he returned from school. It read in small, loopy letters–
Harry –
Just keeping my promise. Hope your vacation's off to a good start.
Ginny
He'd written her back a short, cordial note, and sent it off minutes later – the following night Hedwig swept into the room, dropping a letter on his bed. So started the pattern; he wrote Ginny every night, and every night he received a reply – sometimes they would write for pages, talking about anything mundane and everything not. Sometimes they really didn't say much at all – they just wrote to say they were still writing. By now Harry must have memorized every curve of her writing. He knew when she was angry, when she was frustrated, sad, happy, or even sleepy. He kept every letter she wrote him carefully folded and placed in a stack under the floorboard.
On the twenty-third of July, he received no letter from her – nor did he on the twenty-fourth, or the twenty fifth, or the twenty-sixth, or even the twenty-seventh.
On the twenty-eighth, Harry had gotten into a particularly nasty row with Uncle Vernon. He no longer felt any patience, or the desire to have fun with them by threatening to blast them into oblivion. There had been a great deal of shouting, and even a punch thrown – though by whom, no one was sure. Both ended up slightly bloody in the face, and Harry stalked to his room, slamming the door rather hard.
He lay on his bed for a good hour, staring at the ceiling. He'd quite calmed down, now – he didn't usually let anger take control of him that much, and he'd certainly never gotten into a fight that – physical with anyone. It was usually all wands and curses for him.
It was well after midnight before he moved at all – going to sit at the open window. He'd watch for Hedwig, who hadn't yet returned from delivering his last letters to Ginny and Ron, over a day and a half ago. And she hadn't replied in almost a week. It was plaguing him – though Harry knew if anything was wrong, Ron would've owled him immediately – it must've been the reason the boy had been so testy lately. He couldn't help but worry.
"Where are you, Hedwig?" He sighed, turning from the window and reaching for a piece of paper that lay on the lid of his trunk. He scanned the parchment, frown fading fast.
Harry –
Yes, Hermione'll be here tomorrow, I believe. Ron is already ecstatic. He's cleaning up the house and everything. Mum says it's very strange to see him acting like that for someone – and Hermione, at that. It's not as if she never saw it coming, though. Peculiar.
I miss you, Harry. I went over to Rachel's again today and she put a silencing charm on me to get me to shut up about you. I'm going through Harry withdrawal I suppose. I can't wait to get to Diagon Alley to see you.
I think Ron is getting suspicious – he's getting rather angry that Hedwig swoops into my room every night and not his. Do try to write him more, will you? I don't think he can stand the thought of you and I being friends, but maybe he'll settle.
I do hope everything is going all right – well, all right for over there. I can't stand those horrible people, and I have a feeling it's actually much worse than you let on. Just promise you won't let them get to you so much, okay?
Don't go and curse Dudley. Until you're of age, that is.
Tonight is dull, but the sunset is beautiful.
I think … Well, I think I'm starting to sound like one great big tangent, aren't I? I'm very glad to receive letters from you, is all. It makes me feel as if you weren't so far away.
Ginny
It was the last letter he'd received from her, to date – last Sunday. Since, he'd sent her two letters. But, of course, Ginny's entire existence wasn't centered on him; she had friends and family, and things to do. He only figured that, whatever she was doing, she was having fun.
As he placed the parchment back on the trunk, a faint sound reached his ears – a steady beat he easily recognized as those of an owl. Moments later his snowy white bird swooped in, circling the room once before landing smoothly on the edge of the sill with a small package tied to her leg. He undid the twine carefully and removed the package, stroking Hedwig affectionately with his free hand. She nuzzled against his hand for a moment, then flapped her wings the short distance to her open cage.
"What's 'is you've brought me, here?"
He quietly tore the brown paper, removing it methodically to reveal a tattered book and a small slip of paper. He unfolded it, scanned it quickly by the light of candle –
Harry –
Everything all right over there? (Don't answer that – Hedwig didn't seem too thrilled 'bout going back. Hope you don't mind I kept her for a day. Thanks for the letter, by the way.) Happy early birthday! This isn't your present – not all of it, anyway. I know you'll like it – just remember not to forget anything this time.
Ron
Harry frowned as he reread the letter, more than slightly bewildered by the remarks made -- picked up the book. It was worn and faded and gray-blue with the gold embossment almost completely vanished –he could barely make out the Title; An Anthology of Great Poets, Vol. II – it looked like a book Ginny would read. But what did it have to do with "remembering his stuff"?
The book opened a little too easily and Harry kept it carefully balanced on his lap, afraid it might collapse otherwise. Between the cover and the first page a significantly whiter slip of parchment stood out from the discolored pages of the tome –
It'll activate at 8 A.M. tomorrow morning. We'll all be expecting you.
Ron
"A portkey." Harry was suddenly grinning very wide. He should have realized it right away. Ron was an absolute godsend. He didn't even have to spend – he checked the wall clock – another seven hours with these wretched – muggles. He'd be gone, forever.
He scribbled a note back hastily –
Thanks!
Harry
-- and, after handing it to Hedwig who snatched it up in her beak, stroked her with his index finger. "I'll meet you over there. Night." He watched as the owl soared out of sight and shut the window. He was awfully ready for bed – he wanted to get some sleep before packing in the morning – but he doubted he'd get any sleep. He was already thinking of the expression on his aunt and uncle's faces when they found him gone in the morning.
--
The burrow was asleep, but never silent. There were strange noises from the attic, gnome fights in the garden outside, magically-altered muggle appliances turning themselves on and off sporadically, the sound of small explosions from Fred and George's room (an all-too-familiar yet peculiar occurrence, as they no longer lived there), and, that Friday night, two rather giggly girls sitting up in a small room towards the top of the house.
"Wow, look at that," Hermione whispered, pinning the magazine down with her hands. "'101 Ways To Get Your Man Off The Quidditch Pitch And On You' – reckon you'll need to keep this article on file, this year?" she grinned at Ginny, who had suffered a steady blush for hours now.
Ginny scoffed. "Guys and sports. I'll never understand."
"And you're not meant to," Hermione chided. She rolled onto her stomach. "Just like they'll never understand the concept of common sense."
They'd been like this all night – The floor of Ginny's bedroom had become their camp. Hermione had brought over sacks full of magazines she'd picked up at Diagon Alley, in celebration of one of the two being old enough to make the purchase.
They'd poured over every issue, cover to cover, crying some, laughing a good bit more, and blushing almost without pause.
"You know, if your mother knew you were looking at these--"
"Bah," the redhead waved her hand, "Only another year. I could always get some from Parvati after holiday -- and mum's let me see some before. But, you know, if Ron knew you were looking at these--"
Hermione shook her head. "He'd be speechless for days."
Ginny gave a mute smile, and they went back to reading an "Witch is the Boss?", an article that seemed vaguely reminiscent of … well, just about every other article in all the magazines they'd looked at yet.
Hermione yawned, rubbing her eyes. Ginny was staring at the paper but her mind was obviously elsewhere.
"I miss Harry." Ginny propped her head against her palm, then sighed and lay on her back. Hermione gave a sympathetic smile. "We all do – though I don't quite think I do to the your extent."
"Shut it, 'Mione," Ginny laughed. "Harry and I are – are *friends*." She ignored the fact that Hermione had obviously noticed the blush creeping up her cheeks – she didn't quite feel like getting into it about Harry again. "It upsets me that he has to live with those horrible people – that Dunbar bloke sounds like an absolute peach."
Hermione sighed at Ginny's deliberate misuse of the boy's name. "Yeah, Dudley's … he's a Dursley. But I don't worry about Harry. He handles it all very well. Or puts on like it. I think the Dursleys are afraid of him, honestly."
Ginny nodded. It was true – there was nothing to be worried about. He'd stayed there for many years before, and he was fine. But, last year he'd stayed at the burrow – the summer where it had all begun. This was the longest she'd been away from him since they'd finally started to develop such a strong bond.
Hermione caught the wistful glance. "What's on your mind?"
"Last summer." Her voice was rather casual. Something flickered in her eyes, and Hermione rested her chin on her arms carefully, looking away.
Ginny bit her lip. She really hadn't meant to bring it up – or rather, she'd forgotten Hermione wasn't quite as comfortable with the subject as Ginny was.
It really must've been a horrifying experience for her, Ginny mused. Not knowing what was happening. I would've been scared, too.
*You were scared. Out of your wits.*
But, of course, that was a little different.
Ginny looked at Hermione in the periphery of her vision – she was positive she saw a hint of glistening around her friend's eyes.
"It's late," she murmured. "I suppose we should get to sleep?" The red head nudged the older girl on the arm softly. "I didn't mean to say anything."
"I don't really mean not to," said Hermione. Her eyes had lost their shine but already looked vaguely pink. "Sometime, I'd like to sit down and talk to you about it. I've never heard the whole story, and …" she inhaled deeply, "I'd like to know what you're willing to tell be about the – accident – incident –the --"
She turned to Ginny, who gave her a knowing smile; her voice was soft. "The attack. And I think that's a good idea."
Before Hermione could say anything else, Ginny pushed herself tiredly to her feet and trudged the short distance to the bed; pulled back the covers and slipped in comfortably as Hermione adjusted some pillows on the floor. The candles were blown out, and Ginny waited until her friend's breathing came in even strokes before willing herself to sleep as well.
--