Disclaimer: JKR does the hard work and reaps the rewards.

A/N: Yes, I am still alive! For the past year I've been working on this sequel to Captive (if you haven't read it, you better, because otherwise you won't know what's going on), working and going to school, and generally having large arguments with Harry and Ginny, who thought they deserved one big smutfest. They tend to get sulky when I explain about character development, plot, and other such nonsense things.

Anyway, I have some misgivings about this fic, but my lovely beta-reader, Cliodne, says it's fine (after she's tweaked it, of course), and I shouldn't be so worried. It's up to you to tell me what you think.

I have several chapters written (13 is in beta), but I won't be posting them all at once, simply because I don't want to run out before it's finished. So, without further ado, I give you the sequel to Captive, which I named Ambivalence and am still looking for a better title. (I'm open to any suggestions!)

AMBIVALENCE: Sequel to Captive

Prologue

Wan morning sunlight drifted through the high-arching window, making the white linen privacy curtains and crisp sheets glow softly as Ginny Weasley, bent down, slowly tied her laces. Beyond the surreal, contained world of white, she could hear the rustling of Madam Pomfrey preparing the infirmary for the usual routine of bewildered, magically mishap-afflicted students that would wander through in an hour.

"Are you about done, Miss Weasley?" the matron called, her feet rapping on the hard floor as she bustled past the curtain, her shadow carrying bundles of linen.

Ginny opened her mouth to answer, flinched, and cleared her throat. "In a moment, Madam," she croaked, her voice barely carrying.

"You're not staying in here another day, mark my words!"

Only weeks ago, the irony of the situation would have made Ginny laugh. Everyone knew that nothing pleased Madam Pomfrey more than having a long-term invalid amongst the usual stop-bys, and now that she'd had Ginny for two weeks, the nurse was kicking her out the door.

Ginny gave a weary sigh and rubbed at her eyes. They felt itchy; she didn't like to think what that meant.

At least I'm not shaking, she thought glumly, turning her palms up and then turning them over before her. She had gotten the trembling under control last week, but it still crept up on her every now and then. Despite her impressive restraint the last few day, Ginny had little doubt that it would be all for naught today.

Not for the first time this November, Ginny wished she were as invisible as she had been during her first and second years. It had been easier to "recover" from the Chamber of Secrets when hardly anyone actually knew her or took time away from themselves to realize she had been affected. No, this time she would have to be very careful.

And she did not know how she could possibly pull it off.

"Miss Weasley!"

"I'm going." Her throat did not have the capacity to snap. Ginny shook herself but did not bother to set her shoulders as she picked up her school bag (full of today's books that Hermione had brought her last night), and took a deep breath before pushing aside the privacy curtain.

"Well, you've nearly missed breakfast," said Madam Pomfrey, hands on her hips. "You'll suffer more weariness if you don't eat properly."

Ginny nodded and let her eyes slide away from the matron. The double, arched doors were open, ready to welcome unfortunate students. With nothing for it with Madam Pomfrey standing there, glaring meaningfully, Ginny dragged herself through the archway and into the corridor.

The trembling began deep in her chest. A few ambitious Ravenclaws were coming down the corridor, eager to arrive early and prepare for class. One of them, a prefect whose name Ginny could not process through the throbbing that had traveled from her chest to her ears, raised her eyebrows at Ginny and broke away from the group.

"Ah, Ginny Weasley!" she said, sounding unnervingly like Percy. "Back to classes today, I see."

Her eyes, Ginny noticed, were a sharp, appraising brown. Behind her, the other Ravenclaws began to whisper, but the prefect did not seem to notice. Instead, she arched an eyebrow expectantly, and Ginny realized she was supposed to answer. She gave a curt nod.

"Good, good," the Ravenclaw said. "You would not want to fall behind your classes."

"No." Classes are definitely foremost in my mind. As the Ravenclaws strode away, Ginny shook her head. Percy had "consoled" her the summer after her first year with "at least the basilisk took you at the end of the term, so you did not miss any revision time or your exams." Perhaps it was just a way to look at the silver lining . . .

As she slowly trudged away from the infirmary, Ginny considered bypassing the Great Hall altogether and going straight to her Transfiguration class. Or better yet, her dormitory. The only thing stopping her was Hermione and Ron; she'd promised them she would be at breakfast.

She did not, however, promise Harry. She had not seen him in a week.

The trembling started to pinch her bones. Ginny bit her lip and swallowed hard as another group of students, mostly Hufflepuffs, passed her on a staircase, trying to inconspicuously stare. She was nearly to the Great Hall and only ten minutes of breakfast remained.

Maybe they gave up by now and left, she thought hopefully as she came down the last stair before the Great Hall. Colin Creevey and Hannah Abbott were talking avidly by the great, open doors, and like a ghost, Ginny drifted past them. She gritted her teeth to keep the ache from expanding to her muscles.

The Great Hall, nearly empty now except for small groups of stragglers, seemed gray and pale under the bleak November sky. The entire month had been one bloody metaphor for her.

Her fingers twitched at her sides and Ginny steeled herself as she gazed around the enormous room. The urge to flee nearly overwhelmed her as she set eyes on the Slytherin table. Shrewd, cold eyes glared at her. Almost sadly, Ginny felt the absence of Draco Malfoy's haughty, malicious gaze.

Reluctantly, Ginny looked toward the Gryffindor table, and deeply wished she hadn't. Among the usual stragglers casting her sympathetic, curious looks were Ron, Hermione, and Harry. She quickly looked to the floor, not wanting to interpret their expressions or meet any eyes. I'll have to be able to look at them, before they start asking questions, she told herself sternly. And if they start asking questions, I'll break down and everything will come out, and then I might as well be dead.

She wished Voldemort had killed her. Or Lucius or Draco . . . Her death would had solved quite a bit and been a blow to the dark forces.

But no, she was still alive, and still a danger.

I can't go in there, I can't, her mind screamed, but her feet knew that everyone was staring and that the plan must go through. All too soon, Ginny was sitting beside Hermione and setting her bag on the floor.

"Ginny!" Hermione said, breathless with happiness and concern.

"We didn't think you'd come," said Ron, finishing the last of his orange juice. Ginny felt heat prick her eyes at his casual, easy comment that she knew hid his intense concern. "'Bout to bring breakfast up to the infirmary." Sitting on the other side of Hermione, he scooped up some still-warm scrambled eggs with melted cheese and dumped them on the plate before her. "Eat up. Mum's sent me three letters this morning telling me to make sure you eat."

Despite herself, Ginny shot him an annoyed look. Ron merely shrugged good-naturedly. "Don't give me that look. I'm just doing my part so I don't get a Howler in Transfiguration or something."

If her face muscles could remember how to do it, Ginny would have smiled at him. Instead she shrugged and used her fork to push at the yellow and orange mound. She tried to breathe silently and steadily, but the silent, still presence across from her aggravated the shuddering of her marrow. Could she even last the remaining five minutes of breakfast?

"Glad to be out of the infirmary?" asked Hermione delicately on Ginny's right.

"Sure." If her blood had not been so cold, she would have blushed. As far as anyone but Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore knew, Ginny had been incarcerated against her will for the past two weeks.

"You know, I didn't mind it at first," Hermione went on, obviously determined to keep a conversation going. "It was horrid to be away from classes, but really, it was quite peaceful in the evenings for homework."

Ginny shrugged. She hadn't touched her books. But that was going to change now. She had a feeling that she would find any excuse to do academics rather than play games or chat with her friends in the common room.

"You are the oddest girl, I swear," Ron muttered. Ginny heard him drop a kiss on Hermione's cheek and stopped her eyes just before they inadvertently flicked toward Harry.

"Oh, Ginny," Hermione sighed after a moment. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"I'm not really hungry. I had some fruit just before I came," Ginny lied, making sure to meet her friend's eye. Lying smoothly was definitely an acquired skill from Tom Riddle. Before she could let Hermione consider this statement, Ginny checked her watch. "We better get to class, huh?" Shouldering her bag, she stood up.

The others followed and Ron muttered something about 'bloody N.E.W.T.s' as they filed out the door. Harry and Ron took the lead at the stairs, the word 'Quidditch' passing between them, and Hermione hung back to say something encouraging that Ginny failed to understand. She drew her hands farther into her sleeves to hide their shaking; she focused carefully on her breathing, keeping it steady and unnoticeable. Her eyes stayed on the shoes and hems in front of her.

I did it, she thought numbly. I didn't look at Harry even once, I didn't break down in front of everyone. Maybe I can do this. Maybe Ron and Hermione won't ask about why we haven't said anything to each other.

"We'll see you at lunch, okay, Ginny?" Hermione said, startling Ginny out of her thoughts.

She looked up and blinked, confused until she realized that they'd come to the corridor that led to her classroom. They had to go up another flight yet.

"Oh. Right. See you, then."

"Good luck! I'll help you catch up tonight!" Hermione smiled reassuringly and gave her hand a squeeze.

Ginny nodded, not quite registering what the Head Girl just said.

"Don't worry, Gin," said Ron. "McGonagall's tough but not mean. At least you're not in Potions anymore." And then he tugged Hermione's hand and started up the steps.

She braced herself for the inevitable as Harry's shoes hesitated at the bottom. The shaking, trembling pain prickled her skin, and she bit her lip.

Harry began trudging up the steps after his friends only a second after Ron and Hermione had started. Startled, Ginny looked up, realizing that the inevitable had missed her.

Only two steps below Ron and Hermione, Harry turned his head to look back. The pain ignited; she almost cried out. His pale face set determinedly, Ginny could see the hurt and deep concern darkly in his green eyes, and knew that Harry was taking her request to 'pretend nothing happened' quite seriously, but, like her, he could not quite reach normalcy yet, so would remain quiet until then.

She wanted to scream I'm sorry, Harry! I'm a liar! But he turned away and disappeared onto the next floor.

Heat stung her eyes and Ginny leaned against the wall, fighting back the worthless tears. She couldn't be strong anymore, not really, not real strength with courage and bravery. Tom Riddle had been right all along; she was weak. She had betrayed Harry by surrendering to Voldemort. Only "fortune" had whisked her out of the dark lord's clutches before her betrayal could be enacted. Knowing this she could not let Harry be close to her again.

She'd suffer her weakness and protect Harry from herself, and herself from Harry's hate if he ever knew the truth.

Almost two years later . . .

Chapter One

"The First Day of Life"

Rain drizzled down upon the navy umbrella Ginny Weasley carried as she stepped carefully off the curb, missed a puddle, and hurried across Charring Cross Road. She pulled her trench coat tightly around her as a passing bus sprayed dirty water at every disgruntled, groggy-eyed pedestrian. Ginny scrunched her nose in dismay and paused under a used bookstore's overhang to gather her bearings.

All around the shops were opening, but at a less enthusiastic pace than last week. It seemed that with this gloomy start of the week that summer was truly over and the tourists would be fewer. Ginny wasn't concerned with Muggle tourism. What lay heavily on her mind, like the bleary gray rain clouds, was that it was September the first and she was not on her way to King's Cross.

Last June Ginny had graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with less than half her year. She didn't want to count the fatalities. It was easier to pretend most families—whether Muggle or wizard—simply did not want their sons and daughters to return when the school was only half functional. Although this was disheartening and somewhat true, it was better than accepting all of reality.

"More people are returning this year," Ginny thought as she watched a little man push his pretzel cart down the street, looking very miserable. "It won't be like last year."

Yet she knew as she stood under her umbrella, trying to delay walking the three steps to the Leaky Cauldron, that her melancholy spirit wasn't just about Hogwarts. If only it were, she thought absently, letting her eyes trail up to the solid gray sky. But nothing would be gained this morning by dwelling on everything, especially standing out in the rain.

Sighing, Ginny stepped out from underneath the overhang and found the door to the Leaky Cauldron. She glanced surreptitiously around at passing Muggles before entering the pub.

Immediately, the pungent aroma of butterbeer, fire whiskey, and baking bread swaddled her. . She squinted in the dark interior as she moved her way through the scattered, chaotic mess of tables, noting that the pub was already serving three customers (a hag and two old, grizzly wizards). Old Tom waved to her from where he was preparing the fireplace for Floo entrance.

"Morning, Miss Ginny!" he greeted cheerily, saluting her with his floppy cap.

"Good morning, Tom."

Ginny left the warm comfort of the room and stepped out into the back lot, her wand out to tap the wall. She had been following this routine for a week now, and it felt strange and comforting, old and new. Every morning from her flat she took a bus to Charring Cross Road, walked down the long, winding street, and entered Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron. During July and August, when she had been living at the Burrow, she merely had to Apparate to the Leaky Cauldron, which was quicker and cheaper.

"Don't think about the money right now. You're going to work," Ginny scolded herself as the brick wall opened to a dismal, dreary Diagon Alley.

Stepping into the flow of wizards scurrying to work, Ginny let her feet take her to Flourish and Blotts. A grin crept onto her lips, despite her sense of foreboding, as she saw Mr. Whitworth, one of the shopkeepers, squeezed into the display window, rearranging the feature titles of the month. The Hogwarts' set curriculum, which had been displayed all August, was already stacked in boxes to the side. Mr. Whitworth tapped on the window and waved cheerily, and Ginny took a deep breath, shook herself, and swung open the door to the familiar tinkling bells.

"Top o' the mornin' to ya, Genevieve!"

"What are you setting up, sir?" Ginny replied, heading for the back storeroom where she could let her coat and umbrella dry.

"Oh, nothing particularly splendid, in my humble opinion," spouted the bookkeeper, his voice carrying far to the back of the crowded store. "So many writers these days can only scribble rubbish."

Ginny winced as she hung her coat on a hook. She paused to gather herself. Had this not been September the first, and not rainy, she might have been able to pull off a convincing, bright smile and cheerful disposition. At least it isn't Halloween, Ginny reminded herself. Her body gave an involuntary shudder.

"The morning is tarrying!"

"Yes, sir," she called. Trying to ignore the ill flip in her stomach, Ginny bustled out into the lobby area of the store. Mr. Whitaker's small, bent frame was silhouetted against the display window, and Ginny quickly hurried to relieve him.

"We might get a small Hogwarts rush before ten," he said as he took a seat in a lumpy chair situated between the window and another table piled with The Witch's Harlequin Series. "Late enrollers. That Hermione Granger's article in the Daily Prophet last week reassured some of the wary, you know."

Ginny nodded but didn't answer. She'd read the article, but was not convinced it would encourage parents to allow their children to return to Hogwarts. So much doubt remained of the school's safety and staffing quality. Over the past year, Hermione Granger had been acting as the school liaison and representative to other schools and the Ministry. In Ginny's sixth year, Hogwarts had suffered devastating damage not only to the castle and grounds, also within the student body and staff. After Voldemort's defeat, Hogwarts had been all but inhabitable and unable to function properly. Minerva McGonagall had become Headmistress and only sixth and seventh years could attend. Only half the staff had survived the war, and the most apt students helped in the reconstruction. Very few students returned, whether or not they were pure or Muggle-born. Only now was the school officially opening to all years, but sentiment had been uneasy, and Ginny doubted the Sorting would be very long.

Needing a distraction, Ginny glanced down at the books she was displaying in the window. She frowned and shook her head. Witch Love in War, How I Survived, and The Secret Lives of Death Eaters. The most popular genre for wizard literature right now was often exaggerated accounts of the war. Anything concrete and accurate was still being investigated and researched, but that didn't stop buyers. In Ginny's opinion, she'd rather not read about Voldemort, the Order of the Phoenix, Death Eaters, or . . .

Ginny quickly shelved the books, her eyes quickly darting for any sensational, speculative cover than would ruin the rest of her day. Relieved to not find a single cover plastered with a bad newspaper photo or flashing lightning bolts, she resumed finishing the display.

At one point, the bell chimed and Ginny heard an anxious mother's voice say, "Excuse me, sir, but do you have any Hogwarts books left?"

"Right this way, ma'am."

"Mum!"

Ginny craned her neck to watch a small, slightly built boy with messy brown hair and round glasses point excitedly at the small magazine stand tucked in the corner. He was already wearing his black Hogwarts robes.

"What is it, Tobey?" his mother responded impatiently, her arms already filling with what looked like the first year set.

"It's Harry Potter! See?!" Tobey was waving a colorful comic and jumping up and down.

Ginny stifled a groan and stepped down from the display window with the extra books to be shelved. If she had her way, she'd burn every single one of those wretched comic books. It featured an outlandish caricature of Harry Potter's Seeker abilities, childhood, school life, and final battle with Voldemort.

"That's nice, dear," said Tobey's mother, rolling her eyes at Mr. Whitworth. "But you've got plenty of books right here."

"Mum, I need something for the train ride! Ferris Bennington told me it was really long, and he's a prefect and he should know, and he's seen Harry Potter fly and hex Death Eaters and even—"

Ginny tuned out Tobey as she completed her first task of the day and moved onto her usual morning routine. She grabbed her duster and began removing the thin layer of dust that Mr. Whitaker thought charming with one hand while straightening books with the other. "It's not real dust. The books are charmed against that. But the smell of dust in a bookshop—that's all part of the experience. Just can't let it get too thick."

"Oh my, these are getting heavy. Are you sure these are all required?"

"Here, ma'am," Ginny said quickly, stepping forward, duster tucked under her arm. "I'll take them to the counter for you."

"Oh, thank you, dear!"

The woman gladly shifted the heavy, familiar texts into Ginny's open arms. Ginny was about to turn away when the woman did a double-take, and then narrowed her eyes. Inwardly, Ginny winced, but she kept her face unreadable.

"Aren't you . . .? Oh, you look familiar! Let me think . . ." She put a finger to her lips, squinted again, and suddenly smiled. "Of course! Gina Weasley, isn't it?"

"Ginny."

"Yes, yes. All over the Daily Prophet after, well, you know, everything."

"Lots of people were." Ginny tried not to let her face turn red, but it was hard under the strain of books. It was over a year ago since the end of the war, and still those incriminated and innocent were heavily publicized in The Daily Prophet, especially members of the Order and those close to it. Perhaps three years ago she might have enjoyed the attention, but now it only depressed and annoyed her.

"And to think," exclaimed Tobey's mother, "you survived that encounter!" The woman's light blue eyes were wide with horror. "Not many did, you know."

"Yes." Ginny shifted the books, wondering if she could just turn her back without being rude. Her arms shook not with the weight, but in cold memory of her time in Voldemort's captive. She still didn't know who had leaked the story to The Daily Prophet.

"Mu-um!" Tobey hollered, leaning around a shelf end. "We're going to miss the train!"

"Oh, right!"

"I'll just ring these up, then," Ginny said breathlessly, taking her cue. However, she was barely liberated from the onslaught of the persistent woman or Tobey's exclamations as he perused the glamorized comic book.

"Do you know Harry Potter?" the boy asked, peering determinedly behind his round glasses.

Ginny paused, wondering if she should lie. But the hope in the young boy's eyes and his mother's piercing stare made her falter.

"Yes, I do."

Tobey gasped, his eyes going wide. Ginny concentrated on keeping her cheeks from blushing, and nearly double-charged Standard Book of Spells, Grade One. Hastily she slid each book into a purchase bag and gave Tobey's mother the total. The boy was still staring at her, as if wondering what to do about it all.

"Have a good day," Ginny said as she took the galleons from the woman. She barely heard Tobey's mother tell him to close his mouth and come along. One of the things she had been trying to avoid thinking about had been placed before her by a tiny, wide-eyed boy in round glasses. Tobey looked nothing like him, really, but it still sent a jolt through her to hear his name.

"Well, that was probably our Hogwarts rush," said Mr. Whitworth, scurrying up to the counter where Ginny was standing dazedly. His beady little eyes, surrounded by feathered wrinkles, peered knowingly at her. "Something on your mind, Genevieve?"

Ginny blinked and shrugged her shoulders. "Not really." It was pointless to think she could evade her keen employer, but neither did she want to talk about what was bothering her. It would take too long, make her too tired. Nothing could be done about it, anyway.

"Must be a strange day for you," mused Whitworth as he pulled a small bin of quills down for inspection from a shelf by the counter. He refused to sell damaged quills. "Your first true day of adulthood, of independence . . ."

Ginny said nothing as she accepted the two damaged quills from the aged wizard and placed them in a small box under the counter. She didn't mind damaged quills, and he happily allowed her to take them home. Sometimes she discovered that one or two quills were perfectly fine.

"You'll miss Hogwarts, I suppose?"

"Yes. Some things." It was the truth. Yet she had only truly had two good years, and even then they hadn't ended very well. Last year had not felt like Hogwarts at all, but she had learned much.

The problem was that Ginny couldn't pinpoint exactly where her melancholy came from. She had plenty of reasons to be depressed, but why was today so poignant? Was it really as Whitworth said, that today was her first true mark of independence? Living in a London flat, working at Flourish and Blotts, and not going off to school? Ginny thought back at where she had been one year ago, wanting desperately not to return to Hogwarts without her brother, Harry, or Hermione. The war had barely been over, and the wizarding world was still recovering. Ron, Harry, and Hermione had dived into helping with reconstruction, and Ginny had at first felt lost without them. She had known as she boarded the Hogwarts Express that Hogwarts would never be the same again.

But it wasn't that . . .

Ginny was busy sorting out the writing journals and diaries when Mr. Whitworth sidled up, a familiar curious, mischievous glint in his eye as the corners of his mouth turned upwards in excitement.

"How is it coming along?" he whispered, despite the store being empty.

Ginny ran her index finger along the spine of a velvety purple journal with a tassel marker. She pressed her lips in a thin line. Non-committal answers suited Whitworth when it was about everyday things, but not writing. Yet she couldn't be too secretive with the old wizard, since he was the one who had pushed a writing journal into her hands, fervently telling her what she had desperately wanted . . .

"Oh, I don't know," Ginny sighed, setting the purple journal down. "I have . . . things, ideas . . . but they're all out of sorts."

Whitworth raised his eyebrows and smiled a bit more.

Ginny gave him a long look. "I know what you would say to that. And, yes, maybe I am, and I'm trying to do something about that."

"Perhaps you just need a focus," suggested Whitworth. He removed his tiny spectacles and cleaned them on his embroidered vest. She was reminded of the old Muggle printmakers she'd seen on a Muggle film over the summer. "You know," he said slyly, "you could easily write your own account of the war, and it would be better than anything these so-called writers can do."

Ginny snorted. Oh, she was quite sure hers would seem just as sensational as any other book out there—except her story would be true. "I couldn't do it," she said quietly. "So much of it is private. I just couldn't."

Whitworth smiled knowingly and patted her forearm. "You decide for yourself." He paused, and then said pointedly, "When am I going to read you?"

"When I have something good." In the beginning, Ginny had owled her first writings to the shopkeeper, starved for instruction and guidance. Although Whitworth was a tough critic, he had understood her insecurity and lack of familiarity with writing. She valued his opinion greatly, and he was one of the very few people who knew her ambition. Not even her family knew. Only Whitworth had read anything.

"You'll never be published if you don't let others see your work," Whitworth often chided gently whenever she refused to bring him a manuscript.

Ginny knew this, but she couldn't suppress her compulsive urge to keep her secret. And she was good at keeping secrets; as good as she was at lying. All my secrets have hurt people, including myself, except for this one. Perhaps this was why she wanted to keep her passion—one that didn't need to be returned by another—a secret, stashed away from everyone else who could criticize it. It was a part of her no one else could have, a part of her that didn't hurt.

"Suit yourself, my Genevieve," sighed Whitworth, letting his chin drop and his head shake. He gave a wheezy cough, then straightened up. "Would you be so kind as to move the Kindleshack volumes from the backroom to the balcony shelves? We sold five of them over the weekend."

The rest of her shift went as such. Ginny quietly went about her assigned tasks, and Mr. Whitworth did not interrogate or comment on her somber mood. Generally Ginny shoved all else from her mind to appear happy and talkative as ever, but today, the first of September, too much had compounded.

At one o'clock, her shift ended, and Ginny donned her trench coat and stepped out onto the busy, winding street. Diagon Alley was crowded with Ministry workers out on lunch and a quick bit of shopping. The sun had not emerged, but it had stopped raining. Ginny wove through the crowds towards a small but almost offensively noticeable shop near Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Weasley Wizard Wheezes – Inventors of Magical Mayhem and Fun flashed in buoyant letters in a convincing imitation of a Muggle cinema marquee. On either end of the sign, a curious customer was daring to sample a Canary Cream. Ginny smirked at the sudden transformation to an adorable but bewildered little bird.

It was never hard to feel better when Fred and George were around. Over the summer, Ginny had frequently lunched with her twin brothers, often obliging to play the guinea pig for a new product—but only after securing her welfare and their promise to counter the effects before she left.

"Oh look, Fred!" hollered George as Ginny stepped into the shop, the "Chicken Dance" blasting over her head. She never did understand her brothers' obsession with the Muggle tune. "Our little ray of sunshine has graced us with her presence!"

"I'm not late, you twit," Ginny said, carefully picking her way across the store to the counter. She had to duck a small flying dragon blasting random objects with sparks, including a tiny Quidditch player that looked remarkably like a pale, blonde Slytherin Seeker. "Where's Fred?" she asked curiously, noticing that the other twin was still missing.

George, who was sporting vivaciously spiked hair with vibrant blue tips, grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "Angelina stopped by. I never did see her leave."

"They're back together?" Ginny couldn't mask her surprise. After Fred and George had left Hogwarts rather abruptly (and spectacularly), Angelina had apparently kept close correspondence with Fred, and had even sneaked out of the castle to see the twins unveil their new joke shop. Yet after a year of courtship in the middle of a war, they had broken up.

"Yeah, guess so." George grinned again, and then bent his head to study a diagram of . . . what, Ginny wasn't sure. It looked like a layout for another invention, including theorized spells and chemical solutions.

"What are you working on now?"

"It's a secret."

"Come on!" Ginny nudged his elbow. "You can tell me! You always tell me what you're doing. It's the privilege of being your little sister and guinea pig!"

George shook his head and didn't meet her eye. "Sorry, little sis, but I can't let you in on my secret."

"You mean Fred doesn't know?"

George didn't reply.

Ginny scowled and fingered her wand inside her coat pocket. She could easily hex George before he knew what was coming. "You're such a prat."

"Don't even go for your wand, little one," George smirked, barely flicking a glance her way. "And didn't Harry teach you anything about not warning the person you're about to hex?"

"Shut up. Tell me what you're working on."

"Um, no."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Not that I care, anyway." She began wandering off down an aisle, which mostly contained refined versions of the first Wheezes. She wished George hadn't mentioned Harry.

"So, how's the independent life?" George called as Ginny examined a role of Extendable Ears.

"Fine."

"Mum's worried about you."

"When isn't she?"

"She hasn't seen you since you moved to your flat."

"Well, I don't live at The Burrow anymore. It really makes sense."

"I know," said George. "It's just hard on Mum, you know? You're the baby, and now you've fallen out of the nest, and she's worried you're going to go splat."

"Gee, thanks," Ginny said sarcastically.

"Are you going home for dinner Saturday?"

"Yeah." It wasn't like she had a choice, Ginny wanted to say, but it would only lead to more questioning. No one in her family seemed to understand that she wanted to get away. Charlie and Bill lived far from England, but they were the oldest, and would probably tell her she wasn't ready to strike out on her own. Not even Ron looked at her as if she were an adult.

At that moment, Fred emerged from a door that had been disguised as a bookcase—another Muggle thing Ginny wasn't too sure about. Fred and George seemed to think it a brilliant joke and kept saying things like "I have to go plot world domination" or "Quick, Robin! To the bat cave!"

Fred's hair was tossed and falling in his eyes, and he had a certain glow about him. "Greetings, wee one!"

George had already rolled up and hidden his diagram. "Let's go, I'm famished."

"I see Angelina went out the back way," Ginny said evenly, fighting a grin.

"Oh, yes. She thinks it's fun."

Walking down the streets of London after her lunch with Fred and George, Ginny was able to lose herself in the crowd and sink deep into her thoughts. The sky was an undistinguishable color, as if undecided whether to cloud darkly over for more rain, or give everyone a slight sunnier change in weather. The uneasiness of the atmosphere did nothing to improve Ginny's mood.

"You're so . . . passive these days," George had said at lunch. Ginny had not commented. How could she? The observation had sent her into a very contemplative mood, from which neither twin could revive her, and it only reinforced George's conviction.

Ginny sighed and shook her head. Perhaps this was what was wrong with her and why today was so . . . blah. She had become passive to everything, indifferent to what was happening, the importance of today and any other day.

Last Sunday she had moved into a flat with Alyson Baker, her closest friend in her own year. It should have struck Ginny as something momentous, a turning point in her life. She was officially independent, out on her own, on the brink of the future . . . But she had felt nothing, really, no sense of occasion. If she could spot any emotion, it was relief, a sense of escaping a prison. And today it was the first of September, the mark of her no longer attending school, of the beginning of a new era at Hogwarts. An era without her, without Dumbledore, without Harry . . . Again, she felt nothing.

Last year's commemoration had been populated with rounds of excitement and importance to the other graduating witches and wizards, yet Ginny had not felt the passing of it. She had waited, searched for it, but nothing had come to be. Only a small flicker of relief.

Why couldn't her relief be accompanied by an enthralling thirst for freedom? She wanted it, yet now that it was nearly here, she did not feel satisfaction or excitement in it.

"I can't help it," she sighed under her breath as a small dog yipped at her while its owner bought a paper.

Ginny wasn't completely passive; she felt a lot of things—she just repressed them. She had to, for what else could she do about it? So much had come to pass, and it was no one's fault but her own that she wallowed. It made no sense to feel sorry for herself, not for what she'd done. It had been her choice, she had willingly done it, and now she had to live with it.

But self-deprecation felt more secure than moving on.

By four o'clock, Ginny reached Barslow Lane, a residential street spotted with apartment complexes, small coffee shops, and a pawn shop. She drew her keys out of her coat as she reached a soggy sort of brick building with a chipped balcony on the second floor. On the front step sat Mrs. Dowry with her floppy hat topped with velvet, crumbled flowers.

"Hello, Mrs. Dowry," Ginny greeted politely. She kept on, knowing the woman wouldn't respond.

Barslow Hall was owned by Alyson's Uncle Harold on her mother's side. Apparently the Bakers were a large, London-centralized family that dealt mostly in real estate. Harold Baker had been happy to offer a two-bedroom flat to Alyson and Ginny for half the rent, as long as they didn't make their magical powers obvious to the other tenants. Barslow Hall was five stories with no elevator, and Ginny and Alyson lived on the fourth floor. But it was in a safe neighborhood, the utilities were reliable, and the tenants not too loud. Perhaps the only obvious fault was the interior design, which consisted mostly of red. Right off Ginny had changed the red carpet to blue; the walls were still seashell beige.

"How was work?" a sing song voice called as Ginny entered the flat.

"Fine. Slow. Fred and George say hi."

Alyson Baker emerged from the bathroom, her hair wet and tangled, a purple dressing gown tied loosely around her tall, athletic and slender body.

"Are you going somewhere?" Ginny asked as she dumped her purse, umbrella, and coat on the small rickety table just inside the door.

"Yeah. Susannah asked me to go clubbing with her. I was bored, so I said yes." Alyson scowled as she delicately worked a comb through her thick dark hair. It always tangled and knotted. "You should come. You look pale."

"I had a long day." Ginny surveyed the small living room/kitchen area. Although it was a two-bedroom flat, it was small and slightly crowded. The kitchenette consisted of a small stove, fridge, sink, and counter with quaint white cupboards, with a small area of generic tile. Carpet began at the "edge" of the kitchen and formed a tight square area complete with two windows overlooking the small back lot and brick wall. Alyson had found an old, faded green couch at a flea market to occupy the empty space, and it sat in the middle, facing towards a wall that might have been for a television. Instead Ginny had placed a small bookshelf in its place, which was cluttered with books, magazines, and pictures of their family and friends.

"This place needs a lot of work," said Alyson, following Ginny's wandering eyes and drawing her attention. "Posters, pillows, maybe some fish . . ."

"Yeah."

"So, are you going clubbing, then?"

"Not tonight." Ginny's eyes traveled to the closed door of her room and frowned. "I think I'll write tonight."

Alyson gave her a look. "Sure. But I think you need to get out more. Joe's coming with me. I may try to get him with Susannah, but she's a bit too . . . bubbly for him."

"No."

"Ginny!" Alyson cried exasperatedly. "Don't act like you did all summer. I won't let you."

Ginny bit the inside of her lip and didn't meet her friend's eye.

"Fine, you can skip tonight, but I will get you to enjoy yourself." With that, Alyson retreated to the bathroom, and Ginny closed herself in her room. Without undressing, Ginny pulled back her quilt and curled up in the protective darkness of her bedroom.