At the top of the marble stairs, the routes to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw divide. My boyfriend stops. "It's DA tomorrow. Can I meet you for a wander 'round the lake beforehand?"

He smiles. But I hesitate: "Michael, I'd love to... but-"

For one moment, he looks hurt, and then something seems to click behind his face, and he leans forwards and takes my hand. "Never mind the lake. Something's bothering you. What?"

Trust Michael. He notices things. I mean, he even noticed that the little Ravenclaw first year whose name I can't even remember was still looking pitifully homesick by Halloween, and went and sat by her for the feast. Terry and Anthony teased me terribly that I had a rival – but I know Michael. He noticed me like that, too: the first – in fact, the only – person to notice that I was sitting at the Yule Ball with tears in my eyes from where Neville – dear, kind, clumsy Neville – couldn't help treading on my toes all the time. And Michael was so nice about it, too. He stopped, chatted, and then turned to Neville: "May I borrow the queen of the ball for just one dance?"

He's looking at me with that level of thoughtful concern now. "Was Umbridge upsetting?"

"No... well-" I make a face. "Nothing nastier than usual." Every lesson with Umbridge is unpleasant. Not upsetting, thank you, Michael, but not nice. She never misses a shot at Harry-bashing, until I have to grip the edge of my desk very, very hard, not to snatch out my wand and hit her with the best bat-bogey hex ever. She is just EVIL, so evil one does wonder if she really is working for You-Know-Who, not the Ministry, after all.

Michael interrupts my musings. "Then what?"

"Oh-" I sigh. "It's the Gryffindor tryouts tomorrow evening – to replace... you know..."

My brothers. And Harry. And if that doesn't count as upsetting, just a bit, I don't know what does.

Michael's still looking at me. But this time challengingly. "And you're going to go," he fills in – firmly, not questioningly.

He's right. I want to. I'm a Weasley, and I've wanted to play Quidditch since I used to listen to Charlie and Bill's tales in the holidays, tales they thought I was too young and too 'girl' to understand. They don't know I can play. My brothers have never let me play with them.

But- with Umbridge and all... I wouldn't have to. Only Ron.

That could be okay...

No – not could be. Will be.

Michael's right. I'm going to go.

I grin at him. "Coming to cheer?"

He grins too. "You bet."

"I never bet, Michael Corner," I scold back teasingly. "Can't afford to lose. Remember, I'm a dirt-poor Weasley?"

That always makes him laugh, and he tugs gently on my hair. "'A wealth of red-gold, without doubt...' – but your broom's rubbish."

I know that!

But before I have time to say so, Michael's ploughing on: "Will you borrow mine?"

Borrow his?

He's right, my broom is rubbish – it's the one Charlie had before he went to Hogwarts, which Dad got for him from the place way down the far end of Diagon Alley that refurbishes broomsticks. Charlie had it, Percy disdained it, the twins double-teamed it, then it was Ron's until Bill got a new one to take to Egypt and gave Ron his old one – and then it was mine. The only broom I didn't have to steal out of the broom-shed when my brothers weren't around.

I knew it was worn-out rubbish, even then. I only brought it to school this year because – okay, this is a silly reason – but I packed it to take to Grimmauld Place when Mum said we were going to live at Order Headquarters for the summer, because I figured there mightn't be a broom-shed there, and then I brought it to Hogwarts because I didn't want to leave it behind for Kreacher to mess with. It is, after all, my broom. Give or take seven or more people owning it before me.

I only meant to bring it along – but then Michael, Terry and Anthony do let me fly with them, and one day Slytherin was out having Quidditch practice and I just couldn't walk over and get an old school broom out.

So I fetched mine.

"Merlin!" said Terry. "An antique?!"

Michael didn't wait to hex him – he slapped Terry so hard on the face the mark lasted for nearly a month. Amidst the howls, exclamations and apologies, I looked up and smiled. Bravely. "Are we still going to fly this afternoon?"

Since then, I've flown my broom. I'm Ginny Weasley and I WON'T be ashamed of our family – not like Percy. But Michael's right. I can't take that old broom to a Quidditch tryout.

But borrow his?

He means to be kind, but-

But?

But I need a broomstick. We seal the deal with a kiss. I go to the tryout on my boyfriend's broomstick.

~:~

"Well done!" Angelina shakes my hand with her usual enthusiasm, although her voice sounds a bit weary from yelling at the handful of idiots who actually showed up for the tryout. "I thought you'd have it in you, with your brothers and all." She looks down at Michael's broom in my hand. "That's not yours, though, is it?"

Does everybody in the school know I fly a Silver Arrow so old its both name and model number have long since worn off?

"I – borrowed it," I say eventually. Angelina's a friend of the twins – I'm not going to succeed in hiding much from her.

The team captain mode nods appraisingly. "Well, you can't play on a borrowed broom, really. Hmm..."

Anybody else, and she'd tell them there's an order form in the back of Which? Broomstick. But Angelina Johnson's not going to tell a Weasley that. She gives me a nice, kind smile instead: "I got a new Nimbus last year. In the short term, you can play on my old Comet."

"And my first season robes should fit you," Katie pipes up. "They won't need as much altering as Oliver's old ones did for Ron."

They mean to be kind. Kind; but–

But?

But I need Quidditch robes and a broom. And there's nothing else I can do about it.

So, here I am. Angelina's old broomstick. Katie's old robes. Even Harry's old position.

When you are the only daughter with six older brothers, you get pretty good at looking up and smiling bravely. Since that was the spot Tom got at me from, I've worked really hard on making that smile more than skin deep.

Chin up, Ginny girl. I'm the fifth Weasley to make the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

I'm GLAD and I'm SMILING.

~:~

I had almost forgotten about the tryout and Quidditch, with Dad being attacked that night and us leaving for Grimmauld Place. But it's waiting for me when term starts again in January.

After the first team practise, I go upstairs to my dorm early.

I'm … tired.

Angelina's broom is okay. Katie's robes actually fit me quite well, and don't have frayed bits and reinforcing charms on the elbows. And most unusually for me, both robes and broom are only second-hand and I know who they belonged to before. When you're the only daughter with six older brothers, you mostly end up with seventh-hand unisex stuff, or second-hand girls stuff that you have no idea who it came from. Apart from the dress when I was little that Mum made out of Aunty Muriel's old curtains. Except they were Never-Fade velvet in a beautiful rich brown colour that everybody said I looked like a princess in.

I didn't mind those at all. But now I suddenly understand why Ron hates Charlie's old cauldron so.

I shove the dormitory door open with a little more force than strictly necessary. I'm going to flop on my bed – but?

But there's an owl on it.

Correction: there are two owls and a long parcel on it, and it looks like they've been there a long time, to judge from the mess on the blanket. The bigger owl is clicking his beak in a highly impatient fashion, makes a "give-me-one-reason-and-I-will" peck at me as I fumble to untie the letter he holds out, and takes off. The second owl follows.

Who's dumping post on my bed?

I look down at the letter. "Miss Ginny Weasley."

For me, and Bill's handwriting? But I saw him two days ago...

Weirder and weirder. It's Charlie's writing inside:

Headquarters; Transylvanian Dragon Reserve.

Dear Ginny,

This Is NOT a Christmas Present!

I heard from Bill that you have made it onto the Gryffindor Quidditch Team – and we are both DELIGHTED. But with everything else going on, neither of us got a chance to say it. So, this is an embodiment of two big-brotherly hugs to say Well Done Have Fun!

Bill was doing the organising – if he's muffed it up, let me know and I will send him the really stinky old dragon egg we found in the Horntail enclosure yesterday. He'll deserve it.

Lots of love,

Charlie.

P.S. The chap doing the organising thought you might like to open this in private – love, Bill.

Open – what?

Only one thing I know in the world makes a package that shape.

Only – a broom.

It's a broom.

A Cleansweep Four. Their next but next but next but last latest release.

It's not a Nimbus. It's not a Comet. It's not a Cleansweep Eight, let alone the latest Eight point two.

But– it's MINE. It's NEW. It's never belonged to anyone else. Nobody else has bent the tail twigs, re-tied the binding, scratched their initials on the varnish, tried to re-furbish it. Nothing. Nobody else has ever even ridden it.

And my two biggest brothers thought of it.

When you are the only daughter with six older brothers, you get pretty good at looking up and smiling bravely.

But – sometimes – just sometimes – when your two oldest brothers come up trumps, unprompted by Mum or anyone else (don't tell me Harry didn't pay for Ron's dress robes) – you are, just sometimes, entitled to be a girl – and CRY.