After the sterile whiteness and bright lights of the Auror's infirmary, Ginny was relieved to be on the street where her grandparents lived, with its overgrown rocks winding between modest homes with faded and cracking paint. Her father carried her through the rickety gate and along the pebbled walkway, still slick with rain, that led through her grandmother's herb garden to the front door. The plants ignored him, as always, but seemed even more interested in her than usual. Vines twined themselves gently around her legs and arms, never tightly enough to trip her. A flower larger than her head, and farther from the ground, leaned down to brush against the top of her head like a kiss.
Ginny's father knocked at the worn door, which opened immediately. Her grandmother stood in the doorway, tall and imposing in her dark green robes, her steel-grey hair pulled tightly into a bun. Behind her, candles flickered in their holders on the pale green wall, reflecting off the dark wood paneling and floor. "Arthur, Ginevra," she said, "come in." She stepped aside so that they could enter. Ginny's father handed her to his mother, a tall and strong woman who easily settled the small (and charmed nearly weightless) nine-year-old on her hip. Her grandmother kissed Ginny's forehead. "Welcome, my dear!"
Ginny wrapped her arms around the old woman and pressed her face against her grandmother's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent. She did not want her father to see the tears silently leaking from her eyes, did not want him to see how pathetically grateful she was that at least her grandmother still loved her.
Her father cleared his throat nervously. "Thank you for taking her on such short notice."
Ginny felt her grandmother's arms tighten around her, and the older woman's voice became glacial. "There is no need for thanks, Arthur. Ginevra is family, and I will not neglect my responsibilities to her."
"Mother," he said hesitantly. "We only wanted the best for Ginny."
"You have a…unique definition of what is best, Arthur." Ginny's grandmother pulled one of Ginny's hands loose and held it up, stroking her wrist around the thick bracelet. Ginny pressed her face against her grandmother's neck, closing her eyes. "Inhibitor bracelets are quite the fashion this season for children, so I hear."
"Merlin, mother! We didn't want this! Molly was sure that we could keep her from falling into the Dark."
Ginny shivered and felt her grandmother's arms tighten reassuringly around her. This had happened, whether her parents had wanted it or not.
"You prejudiced fool," her grandmother said. "You chose to risk Ginevra's life, sanity, and future in the magical world in a futile attempt to raise her as something she will never be. Can you not see what an insult that is to both your daughter and myself?"
"We had to try," Ginny's father said. "For her own good. I know you've managed your…affliction, but what parent would want that for their child?"
"So that's why you're sending me away," Ginny said, turning her head to glare at her father. "Afraid I'll contaminate my brothers now I'm as afflicted as grandmother? Well don't worry, your precious boys are safe from the evil, contagious murderer!"
She ended with a shriek. If she had been at home she would have fled the room, slamming a door if at all possible, but she could not think of a dramatic way to get to the floor, so she turned her head back into her grandmother's robes, shaking with fury and sadness.
"Ginevra!" Her grandmother's voice was stern, but her hands were gentle as they patted Ginny's shuddering back.
"I'm s-sorry, grandmother," Ginny said. She was not about to apologize to her father. "I didn't mean-"
"No offense taken, child," her grandmother said. "Arthur, I believe your wife and sons require your presence."
"But mother-"
"Now, Arthur."
"Yes, mother."
Ginny listened to his footsteps as her father left. The front door opened and closed and she relaxed. "Grandmother?" Ginny said. "Dad knew, didn't he. Mum too. That's why you were so mad. They knew and didn't do anything about it because they wanted to pretend it wasn't true."
"Yes, dear," her grandmother set Ginny in an upholstered chair. "Sit, you must be tired. I'll make tea."
Ginny knew she should not be tired after sleeping in the Auror's office, but she was, a little. She was glad to sit, even on one of her grandmother's chairs, with their embroidered cushions which she always felt as if she might slip off of, since her feet still did not reach the wooden floor. She watched in silence as her grandmother summoned a teapot and tea, poured steaming water into the teapot from the tip of her wand, and let the tea steep. The familiar movements were soothing, and soon a cup warmed her hands. "Why are they afraid of me?"
"Because they are fools who cling to a rigid ideology."
"What's a rigid ideology?"
"A very simplistic way of seeing the world." Ginny's grandmother paused, taking a sip of her tea. "Your parents, particularly your mother, believe that everything and everyone who is classed as Light is good, and everything and everyone Dark is evil."
Ginny frowned. "I thought Light was another word for good."
"You would, dear. Your parents would not have given you reason to think otherwise."
"But they don't mean the same? So I'm not really evil even though my magic is D-Dark?"
"No, Ginevra," her grandmother said firmly. "You are not evil. You are not afflicted, regardless of what your parents might say. There is nothing wrong with you."
Ginny bit her lip. "But I used Dark Magic."
"Yes, dear, so I have heard."
How could her grandmother sound so unconcerned? "I'm sorry, but I don't understand."
"Ginevra, dear, did the Muggle who attacked you suffer when he died?"
"N-no, grandmother," Ginny said, pulling her legs up onto the chair to hug them against her chest. "I don't think so."
"A child with Light Magic might have crushed him with furniture," her grandmother said calmly. Ginny shuddered at the image her words brought to mind. "Or set him on fire. You agree that this would be far more painful?"
"Yes." Ginny paused, frowning. For a supposedly evil method of killing, the killing curse was surprisingly merciful, now that she thought about it. Could her parents really be so wrong? "Shouldn't the evil spell hurt more?"
Ginny's grandmother smiled. "One would think so, dear. Perhaps it would, if the killing curse was an evil spell. Did you ever hear why it was developed?"
"No," Ginny said. The Unforgivables had not exactly been a frequent topic at home. "Why?"
"A farmwife wanted a painless, instant, and less bloody way to kill chickens."
Ginny laughed, more shocked than amused. "Really?"
"Well, that was the story my mother told me," her grandmother said, smiling. "It was long ago, and no one truly knows, but it could have happened that way."
"That makes it awfully hard to think of as evil," Ginny admitted. "What about the other two?"
"The others…let me remember. The Imperius was created by a mindhealer at St. Mungos to calm her patients, as an alternative to some addictive potions. It was also useful for emergencies where a patient was causing a dangerous situation."
Ginny would not want to be put under the Imperius, but she was not sure that it was worse than being drugged. It was hard to think of a mindhealer using an evil spell. Healers were good. After all, they spent all day saving people who would otherwise die and helping people who were suffering. "And the third?"
"The Cruciatus was created by an unusually small woman, who taught it to all the women she knew for self defense. She wanted an unblockable spell to quickly incapacitate men who assaulted women and provide them with an incentive not to try anything of the sort again, while not causing permanent damage."
Ginny thought of the Muggle and shuddered. "They deserve to hurt." Was the spell not as evil as she had thought, or was she herself too evil to see? "But I think Mum would still say these spells were wrong to use, even to do good things."
Her grandmother smiled. "Likely true, dear. Do you agree with her?"
"I don't know if it's wrong," Ginny said. "But it's stupid. The Dark Arts are addictive, make people crazy, and are likely to get you sent to Azkaban."
"Ginevra, dear, that is at best a partial truth," her grandmother said, "rather like claiming that brooms and bludgers are responsible for Quidditch accidents. The Dark Arts are powerful, like a fast broom in Quidditch. Whatever you may think of them, they were created by and for those with your kind of magic. You would be a natural."
Ginny shivered. She did not want to be a natural at the Dark Arts. "I don't have to use them though? I can choose not to, can't I?"
"No one will compel you to practice the Arts," her grandmother said. "Even if you wish to, no responsible teacher would let you learn more than a few curses and defensive spells until after you graduate from Hogwarts."
"Good," Ginny said, relieved, and asked the other question that had been puzzling her since she woke in the Auror's office. "Was my magic always Dark? Would I have ever known if it hadn't all got loose like it did when I k-killed the Muggle?"
Her grandmother sighed. "It was, dear. Your parents and I knew, but, as you heard, they hoped to raise you in a way that would keep it from breaking loose. If they had succeeded, your access to your magic would have increased slowly with age, and the most that anyone would have noticed would have been a talent for hexes."
"I wish it had worked," Ginny said, briefly imagining herself growing up an ordinary witch.
"I never expected them to hold this off as long as they did," her grandmother said. "Ginevra dear, whatever you may wish, no one can put things back the way they were."
"I know."
"So, going forward, your magic is Dark. For Morgana's sake, stop wincing child, this does not mean that you are evil. It does mean that your magic is naturally more wild and related to your emotions than your brothers'. You must learn to control it."
"I know." Ginny looked up to meet her grandmother's soft black eyes. "Will I be ok if I do?"
"Yes, child. The danger is if you fail to control your magic or, worse, allow it to control you. When that happens, it can lead to madness and destruction, not because your magic itself is evil, but because it is strong and wild and unpredictable. Do you understand?"
"Yes, grandmother," Ginny said. She did not want to understand this. She did not want to need to. "This is why the Aurors were so scared, isn't it. Accidental magic never really is in control, and if it's Dark and I used a lot of it then it could have got loose somehow and hurt them. And maybe driven me crazy or something too."
Her grandmother nodded. "Yes, dear. You were in a great deal of danger even after the Muggle died."
"Grandmother, I don't want this," Ginny said, hoping that somehow there was a way out. "I just want to be a little girl. I don't want to have to keep control of dangerous magic inside me that could kill me and everyone around me. It's not fair!"
"Ginevra," her grandmother said gently. "Life is not fair. You must either control your magic or have it drained and live out your life as a Squib. No one can change the nature of your magic."
Ginny stared at her, appalled. To live without magic would be horrific. But her family… "I've lost them," she whispered. "My parents. At least some of my brothers. No matter what I do, they won't love someone with Dark Magic."
"Do try not to be so dramatic, dear," her grandmother said. "Arthur will come to his senses, and with any luck will convince your mother as well."
Ginny took a deep breath. "I hope you're right."
"Of course I am," her grandmother said, lifting Ginny into her arms again. "Now take a nap, and I'll wake you for dinner."
Ginny's grandmother carried her up the stairs to the attic bedroom she always stayed in when she visited and tucked her into the soft bed with its light green blanket. Ginny rolled onto her side and fell asleep hugging an aunt's old stuffed unicorn to her chest.
Ginny woke to music. It was haunting, slipped off in unexpected directions whenever she thought she knew where it was heading, and the harmonies sent chills down her spine. It was nothing like the cheerful songs she knew. Curious, she rolled out of bed, rubbed her eyes, and padded downstairs to find her grandmother, eyes closed, playing the piano and singing. Ginny's feet hurt, so she quickly sat on the nearest chair as the song flowed around her, the music almost tangible.
The song ended and her grandmother opened her eyes. "Good evening, Ginevra."
The music was still echoing through Ginny's mind. "What was that?"
"A ballad I learned as a girl. 'Maia's Choice,' I believe it was called. It tells the story of Maia, a wild dragon whose cave villagers had settled near. After her eggs hatched, when she could not yet leave the hatchlings safely, her mate raided the nearby villages to bring them food. The villagers banded together and came to kill Maia and her mate and capture their young. She fought them and died while her mate escaped with their young, far away from humans, where he could raise them in freedom." She paused and said, as if in warning, "it's one of many songs Dark families teach their children."
"It's beautiful," Ginny said. She felt odd, as if she was a string in the piano and the music and tale of the dragon were the hammer that struck her, setting her vibrating. "Would you teach it to me?"
Her grandmother smiled. "It would be my pleasure. Come, we have time before dinner to sing it through again." She waved her wand at Ginny's chair and it flew through the air to land next to her piano stool. Then she turned to a cluttered bookcase beside the piano and rummaged through the music on the middle shelf. After a few moments she pulled out a small leather book, old enough that its pages were fragile, opened it to near the middle, and handed it to Ginny. "Here are the words."
Ginny held the book carefully. She had never been allowed to touch anything so old, and the pages felt fragile. Then her grandmother began playing again and she forgot about everything else. The music wrapped around her, carrying her along, and by the third verse she found herself singing with the older woman as if she had known this song all her life. When it ended she felt hollow, as if her heart had gone with the song.
"We will sing again later," her grandmother said, seeing her expression. "Come, dear, it is time to eat."
Ginny followed her grandmother into the kitchen, waiting in the doorway while the older witch lit the candles on the table and in the wall sconces. The light flickered off the worn, wooden table where two place settings of chipped china had been set across from each other. "Where's grandfather?"
"Septimus has gone to persuade your parents to be sensible." She served chicken soup, which had been simmering in a small cauldron over the fire, into two bowls, placing one in front of Ginny and one in front of her own chair. "He prefers not to see or hear what I will teach you, so that later he may claim ignorance." She flicked her wand and a loaf of warm bread lay on the table between them, neatly sliced, and looked at Ginny seriously. Her dark eyes seemed mysterious in the candlelit kitchen. "You should know that your father asked only that I teach you control. We agreed that you would be free to choose whether to learn of other aspects of your heritage, such as the songs."
Ginny nodded, and took a spoonful of soup. It was delicious. "I would like to learn more songs, please."
Her grandmother smiled, "I had hoped that you would."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. Ginny was enjoying the chance to share a meal with her grandmother and no older brothers. Too many things had happened in the past day, and most of them she did not want to think about. Here, sitting in her grandmother's kitchen eating soup and bread, she could ignore it all, just for a few minutes.
When they were done eating, her grandmother washed and dried the dishes with a few flicks of her wand, then turned to Ginny. Her dark eyes glowed in the candlelight. "Come, Ginevra. We will begin your training tonight in the back garden." She held out her hand.
Ginny took her grandmother's hand with only a second's hesitation. She did not know what she was going to learn tonight, and she very much doubted her parents would see it as anything but a possibly lesser evil, but she trusted her grandmother. It helped that the stories she had shared earlier that afternoon, and the song before dinner, had called to Ginny as nothing else ever had.
This was as it should be, she thought, as she sat beside her grandmother in a small circle of grass surrounded by herbs. The more dangerous plants seemed to be here, in the back garden. They all leaned toward the center of the circle, and Ginny would have sworn one of the flowers winked at her.
"My family often named their children after constellations and stars," her grandmother said softly. "My father was named Arcturus, after one of the brightest stars in the sky." She pointed to the Plow. "Do you see the way the Plow's handle curves? Follow that behind it and Arcturus is the first bright star you'll come to."
Ginny leaned against her grandmother's warm side and followed her finger. There was no moon, and the sky was filled with stars, far more than she had ever seen from the Burrow. There, the lights from the nearby Muggle village had shone, even at night. Here, there were so many stars that, without following her grandmother's hand, she would have struggled even to find the Plow. She gazed at the orange star, thinking of the great-grandfather she had never known.
"My oldest cousin also has Father's name," her grandmother said. "He's the head of the family. Poor man, ninety years old and his brothers and son all dead. He's all alone except for his daughter Lucretia. She married your mother's uncle Ignatius, you know, but he died years ago and they never had children. Well, there's his son's eldest still living too, but Sirius was always a bit wild."
"What did he do?" Ginny asked, curious. These people had never been in the family stories she had heard. She had certainly never been told that her mother's uncle had married someone who had likely been a Dark Wizard. And Sirius, her wild distant cousin, sounded interesting. She felt something brush against her wrists, first one, then the other, and heard a few whispered phrases in Latin, but it barely registered.
"Well, first the boy ran away from home and got himself disowned, not that I can blame him for that since they did the same to me for marrying your grandfather, but the fool let himself be sent to Azkaban after the Dark Lord fell." Her grandmother sighed. "Named for the brightest star in the sky, and the boy hadn't enough sense to even attempt to defend himself when all around him people who were far more involved than Sirius were claiming, successfully, mind you, that they had been under the Imperius the whole time."
Ginny listened, eyes wide. She had never heard the story from this perspective before; it had always been about courage and honorable death for the cause of the Light. It was a matter of pride that it had taken five Death Eaters to kill her mother's two brothers. She had never thought of the aftermath for those who fought on the other side, or thought that they must be someone's grandchildren. Something, the tip of a stick, brushed her wrists again and she shifted.
"Technically, they are no longer my family," her grandmother said. "Great-Uncle Sirius made sure of that when he blasted me off the family tree. But my parents and sisters said that should be their decision to make, and even someone from a family who consorted with Muggles was better than the Malfoy boy they'd engaged me to as a little girl, who was all set to drag me with him to the continent to offer our services to Lord Grindelwald. It was hard, though, when the next Dark Lord was here in Britain, and people I'd grown up with felt it was their duty to support him."
Ginny had never thought she was a particularly empathic person, but she found herself imagining what it would be like if she somehow found herself fighting against her family. She shuddered. "It must have been awful, with people you cared about trying to kill each other."
"It was as if the world had gone mad," her grandmother said, dark eyes filled with emotion. "My younger sister Charis and her family supported the Dark Lord, while our oldest sister's husband and eldest son were Aurors. We used to pray that none of our children would kill each other." She sighed. "The Aurors came to Charis' home one night, and when they left Charis, her husband, and their eldest daughter were dead. Callidora's husband was at work that night, though I do not know if she ever asked whether he was part of the raid. On the other side, your father and his older brother both joined a Light vigilante group. Your father lived, but your uncle died on one of their raids, and Morgana only knows who killed him." She sighed. "So many dead or locked away in prison, and for what? Thank the darkness we have had these years of peace."
Ginny could think of nothing to say to that, and so remained silent, listening to the sounds of night in the garden. After a while, her grandmother took Ginny's wrists in her own. "Lie down on your back," she said softly.
Ginny obeyed. Was this her promised lesson? The grass was cool and slightly damp against her back and a mild breeze wafted strange scents past her nose. The night felt wilder and far more alive than it had a few minutes ago. She felt as if she could cut herself on the edges of everything in sight. "What do I do now?"
"Look at the sky," her grandmother said. Her quiet words dropped like crystals into the silence. Ginny looked, and almost gasped at the sight. She had looked earlier, but it had looked nothing like this. Millions and millions of tiny sparks blinked at her from the depths of space, like the burning eyes of millions of wild black cats. Between them was the darkness, endless and soft as it caressed her cheek with the night breeze.
"Feel the earth beneath you," her grandmother continued. Ginny reached out her arms and touched the earth to her sides. The sky went on forever. The earth was simply there, solid and reliable. She clung to it as she stared up at the sky. She felt as if she were falling into the darkness, stars glittering as they danced around her.
"Feel the wind on your face, the cool air you breathe in." The air was cool and moist and smelled of strange plants. Ginny took a deep breath in and slowly let it out. Her lungs tingled with the magic in the air. There was a tension in the night now, as if lightening was about to strike.
"Feel the water that falls from the sky to bring life to the earth." Ginny had just enough time to wonder where she was supposed to feel water when the first drop of rain hit her cheek. She squinted at the perfectly clear sky as rain fell out of the air above her. If she had thought the air was full of magic earlier, the rain was that magic made fluid, falling to melt into her. A sudden wind whipped the rain around her. She breathed in rain as well as air, coughed, and the wind calmed, brushing her skin gently with the last few drops of rain.
"Listen to the night." Her grandmother's voice was as serene as before. Ginny listened. She heard rustling leaves, a few bird cries, owl wings flapping overhead, and, beneath it all, a whisper of a wild, eerie song, full of dissonance and unexpected turns, the original that the song Ginny had sung earlier with her grandmother was only a pale echo of. "What do you hear?"
"Music," Ginny whispered, not wanting to speak over it. "It's so beautiful."
She heard a smile in her grandmother's voice as she replied, "Remember this, Ginevra. You are a child of the night. Whenever you begin to lose your balance, remember this." The air was still thick with magic as her grandmother stood, her robes rustling.
"May I stay out here a little longer? Please?" Ginny asked as her grandmother held out a hand to help her to her feet.
"Not tonight, dear. You need a warm bath, clean bandages, and bed." Her grandmother chuckled. "Give me your hands; I need to turn the inhibitor bracelets back to full strength."
"They were off?" Ginny stared up at her grandmother, a tall shadow in the night. Wasn't that dangerous? So that was why the stars had been so much brighter when she lay down than they had been at first, why her grandmother had rambled on about family, fascinating though it had been. The air whipped around her, and she felt her hair stand on end. "You distracted me."
"Breathe," her grandmother murmured, "and look up at the stars."
Ginny took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, looking up at the stars. The wind calmed. Her grandmother took her hands, gently, and Ginny watched as the stars dimmed to mere specs of light. She wanted to cry at the loss.
"I'm sorry, dear," her grandmother said, carrying her back into the house. "You will have them off soon, I promise."
