The first note falls out of Ginny's pocket in the middle of Potions, just as she's bending down to reach for the arrowroot that's rolled off her desk.
Avoid seventh floor corridor. Carrows will be out sniffing for trouble.
She scans the room under the fall of her hair, trying to determine which one of the students huddled over their cauldrons slipped it to her. No one looks in her direction, no one sends her sly, meaningful glances. Frowning, she reads the note again before discreetly feeding it to the fire burning under her own cauldron. Ginny's not sure if the information can be trusted; she doesn't know the source after all. However, the Carrows have been acting more jumpy than usual, doling out severe punishments for the smallest infractions.
Perhaps it would better to be more cautious just this time. She sends word to the remaining members of the DA and after two fruitless nights of lying in wait, the Carrows give up and move on to set their traps in another location inside the castle.
This happens two more times. On both occasions the timely warnings allow her or one of other DA members to slip through the despised teachers' clutches, surviving to fight one more day.
Ginny wishes she knew whom to thank for the save.
The impulse comes to her as she's sitting on her bed, trying to find a distraction from her Charms homework. Taking out the note—she saved the last one—from its hiding place inside her nightstand, Ginny smooths it out over the cover of her textbook. Underneath the neat handwriting she adds her own.
Who are you?
Nothing happens at first. Ginny resigns herself to dismissing it as unenchanted when a message begins to scrawl underneath her writing. Her heart tries to leap into her mouth.
A friend.
A diary once told her the same thing and her gullibility led to a year of misery and pain. She should be more cautious but for some undefinable reason Ginny senses that her correspondent is telling the truth.
She dips her quill into more ink and puts it to paper again.
Will you tell me who you are?
Again the response is slow in coming.
Does it matter?
Chewing on the matted end of her quill (and ignoring the faint voice of her mother lecturing her in the corner of her mind), Ginny considers the question for a few moments. In the end the mystery student's identity isn't important. Not everyone wants to openly rebel and attract the attention of the Carrows. And any support, however small, is definitely appreciated.
No, I guess not. Thanks. For the warnings.
It's the least I can do.
That last response occupies much of her thoughts for the next several days as she mulls over her classmate's identity. Ginny views her fellow students with new suspicion but no one appears any different. No one acknowledges her glances with a quiet nod.
After a week she decides to stop looking.
Her curiosity (and just a tiny bit of boredom) gets the better of her. In a fit of whimsy she pulls out the note one afternoon and writes another message.
I thought tonight's pudding was pretty good. Had two servings. Didn't eat the rest of my dinner.
She's not expecting an answer. When the words start flowing across the parchment, Ginny feels a small rush of excitement go through her.
Rum-soaked raisins. Feeling the effects yet?
There was hardly enough in it to make a house-elf drunk.
I know. Very disappointing. Though I managed to convince one of my house-mates that if he ate six of them he'd be drunk for sure. He's currently in the loo vomiting it all up. Maybe lunch as well.
She's surprised by the soft laugh that slips out of her.
How did you like dinner?
Was that you? The exploding soup was a nice touch. Didn't know a person could turn that shade of purple.
What are you thinking of?
Something I've read. There's a pause before the writing continues. It's not enough that we do our best. Sometimes we have to do what's required.
A frown creases her forehead. They haven't talked much about the steadily worsening situation at Hogwarts. Ginny hesitates before replying: Is that why you sent the notes?
I don't really know.
Even though she waits for a good hour, nothing else comes after that.
Can I meet you?
It's the third time Ginny's asked. She's been refused on previous requests, but to her surprise (she's chuffed about the change as well) the answer is different this time around.
Library. Muggle Studies section. 8PM tonight.
Ginny grins, feels her blood hum with excitement.
Great!
She slips into the darkened library just before the designated time, managing to avoid Madam Pince, and heads for the Muggle Studies section. A thick layer of dust covers the spines of the books and the shelves as well. Not surprising since they have hardly been touched since the start of term. Ginny moves carefully and quietly, her footsteps muffled by a charm she's placed on her shoes. She inspects every aisle and but sees no one. Not until she reaches the last one, where she finds a male student flipping through one of the books, his back to her. The candles have been dimmed in this area, making it difficult to discern his features, and she doesn't dare light her wand to alert him to her presence. All she can see is his short, close-cropped hair and long, elegant fingers. When he twists around to retrieve a book from the shelf, the weak illumination finally allows her to see the green trim of his robes, and more importantly his profile.
The stone tiles on the floor feel like they're shifting under her feet. Her shocked gasp alerts her mystery correspondent to her presence and he immediately pushes back the chair to stand.
"No," she protests, shaking her head. "Not you." In a blink of an eye her wand is out, held in a hand that shakes ever so slightly. Her mind races as she gropes about for an explanation. This is simply not possible. Unless of course, it's a trick. Ginny looks around wildly, searching for an escape. She could bring the stacks down on him…it might buy her enough time—
"It's not a trick, Weasley," he drawls, keeping his hands up and staying perfectly still. The part of her brain that hasn't completely given over to panic recognizes that he's deliberately assumed a non-threatening stance. Still, Ginny remain suspicious.
"Why should I believe you?" she demands, angrily jabbing her wand in his direction.
He raises a thin eyebrow at her. "Haven't I proven that I can be trusted?"
"Not really. This could all be trap." Ginny takes a step forward, eyes narrowing. "An elaborate set-up to pick us off one by one and hand us over to the Death Eaters."
Blaise shrugs. "Seems rather inefficient to me. I'd like to think that I'm smarter than that."
She huffs indignantly, continuing to stare him down. The library remains silent around them and when the clock near the entrance strikes the quarter-hour chime, she finally accepts the truth of his statement and lowers her arm. Blaise shifts into a more relaxed posture, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers and leaning against the desk. Even so, he keeps a wary eye on her, specifically the wand still tightly gripped in her fist.
"I don't understand," she says slowly. "Why are you doing this?"
At a loss for words Blaise looks down briefly, fingers tapping nervously on the wooden surface on the desk. "I don't really know myself." he admits softly. "I didn't really care. About Muggleborns. About the Death Eaters. About…well…him. None of it mattered to me. I just…went along with it at first. It was easier, you know?" At the sight of her narrowed eyes, he heaves a resigned sigh. "I guess you wouldn't think that."
He looks away from her, shoulders hunched over. He seems miserable, a startling contrast to the sneering attitude he throws around in front of everyone else. "And it was only talk. Yeah, Draco took it seriously. Some of the other Slytherins too. But I didn't think it would lead to this." He throws his arm out, indicating the deserted section. "I just…this isn't what I thought would happen."
"You didn't do anything to stop it," she states flatly.
He cringes slightly at that. "You don't know how hard it is—"
Her back stiffens. "Don't talk to me about how difficult things are." Her gaze flicks down at the book by his side. "'A Biography of Winston Churchill,'" she reads out loud, then looks back at him in shock. "You're reading about Muggles?"
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "They're kind of interesting, in their own way." Glancing over her shoulder, he says, "You should go. They'll be starting patrols soon. Take the staircase to your left as you exit and you should be able to avoid them."
The angry part of her wants to do exactly the opposite; why should she believe him anyway? Somehow Blaise must have read her thoughts. "Don't be stupid Weasley. I'm not going to turn you in now," he huffs in exasperation.
Even though she still doesn't trust him completely, Ginny decides to follow his advice. For now. "Fine," she spits out as she turns on her heel to leave. When she reaches the Gryffindor common room safely, she finally admits to herself that perhaps Blaise isn't like the rest of them. That there's something to the regret he's voiced out loud to her.
The realization leaves an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Ginny isn't eager to see him again. Doesn't want to trust a Slytherin. Nothing good can come out of it, she tries to tell herself. Remember what happened to Dumbledore.
Still, one night she finds herself pulling out his last note and picking up her quill. She takes a deep breath, then starts writing.
Can we meet again tonight?
Her legs rock back and forth as she waits for Blaise's response. When he finally does, a smile breaks out across her face.
Yeah, I would like that.