Chapter 2
It was approaching 3am at the Burrow and all was still in the dead of the night. Six of the seven members of the household were fast asleep, contentedly lost in peaceful dreams. Ginny Weasley was lying fitfully in her bed, staring at the ceiling after hours of tossing and turning in a futile attempt to get to sleep.
The holidays thus far had been a nightmare. Her parents were still treating her like a quasi-criminal, Ron and Percy were treading on eggshells around her and going out of their way to avoid her and the twins were reacting to the unbearable tension in the house by behaving even more maniacal than usual.
Sighing Ginny stopped trying to find answers to problems that had no answers and went back to counting sheep. She had reached her seventieth sheep when her mindless counting was sharply interrupted by the sound of an owl tapping on her window.
She apologetically petted the dashing black owl, scolding herself for forgetting to requisition some owl treats from the Weasley's meagre supply. She sat down and was instantly engrossed in the volume of the letter that she had just received. An hour later when she was finally finished she bolted over to her desk and started scribbling a response.
Lord Blaise Zabini, aka Medici
Casa Novina, Somewhere in Campania.
Dear Blaise,
Words can't express how much your last letter helped to cheer me up. It came at a particularly grim time in these unbearably long holidays. I have only one complaint- three pages extolling the beauties of Campania?! Whilst many young girls of a romantic, overly-sappy frame of mind might appreciate you channelling Byron I'm afraid I will never be one of them. The phrase a picture tells a thousand words comes to mind….Quite seriously though I'm glad one of us are enjoying the holidays.
The markets in Milan sound absolutely amazing. I'm afraid your detailed descriptions of high fashion were somewhat wasted upon poor little me. You must remember that you're talking to somebody that has never owned anything new- let alone haute couture. But the people you described seeing! I'm so jealous… You asked me to send you back a 'taste' of what I've done and seen these holidays.
So here it goes- don't be too harsh, I'm nowhere near the poet that you are! I live in a semi-rural corner of England, with the village of Ottery St. Catchpole a little over a mile away. The only life forms I see outside my window each morning are chickens and cows
.
There are a few wizarding families living in the area- but many more are muggles. Our house; the Burrow, is a sight to behold. The only way the entire structure manages to remain upright is through magic- apparently a few too many magically added rooms can do that to a building, especially when the architect cum builder was my dad.
The anti-muggle wards make the place look like a dilapidated one room shack, which if i'm being honest is probably how most of the wizarding world sees it. Despite that i've never really minded; its quirks are what gives this house charm and makes it a home. I suppose my brothers might feel less charitably inclined; they have to share rooms and poor old Ron lives underneath one of the nosiest ghouls in existence who frequently drips water through the water into his room at inopportune moments. The advantages of being the only girl!
The heart of the Burrow is definitely the kitchen, which is where mum spends hours each day cooking three huge meals. It's where we all congregate together as a family; there's no dining room so we eat in the kitchen instead. Mum's a great cook but terribly traditional; Italian pasta is too foreign for her let alone Asian noodles! When I got to Hogwarts I couldn't believe the huge variety of foods that were on offer. But all we eat is terribly heavy, traditional English fare. It's not so bad in winter but in summer i struggle to finish what's put on my plate -it's almost too rich. And let's face it; even though my mum is a great cook English food in general sucks. But she would be absolutely horrified if i were to point any of this out to her, even before Hogwarts when she still liked me.
I think in many ways mum's cooking is representative of her view of life. In many ways her worldview is very sheltered, very insular, not looking beyond the confines of her terribly small world. I wouldn't mind so much if she didn't expect me to become her clone. See mum is very traditional in other aspects too. Men are meant to work and women are meant to stay at home and have children- lots of children. Quite frankly leading the existence that she does is my idea of a nightmare. I know she's happy. I also know that I could never be happy leading the life that she does. It frightens me how she sneers and looks down her nose at those 'scandalous career women'. Women should only work before they get married and even then they should be subservient to men. Every time she begins another rant I have to suppress the urge to stand up and scream "But what about me? What about what I want? What about my hopes and dreams?" It scares me where this will end. I know that if I do what I want mum regard it as a personal betrayal, but if I do as she wants than I will be miserable. What a heavy topic for such a lovely day! Moving right along...
My eldest brother Bill is a curse breaker in Egypt. We've always being close; he is the only one of my brothers who writes to me at least once a fortnight and has done since I was old enough to read. Given the huge age gap it's kind of funny that he's the one person out of all my brother's who I feel closest too.
Bill is one of those outrageously cool and awesomely smart people who if I didn't love him so much, I would hate; he's almost too perfect. Oh dear...that just made him sound like a paragon. Trust me he's not! He can be impetuous, arrogant, too swift to judge, too slow to change his mind and is most definitively a player. But despite all of that I love him and miss him and I really, really want to see him again. But we can't afford to go to Egypt and Bill hasn't come home for a proper visit for six horribly long years. He's come home for a day or two at Christmas and that's it.
There was this huge row. Mum's idea of Utopia (don't you love Walter Scott, I could read him forever) is for someone to get married at eighteen, get a job at the Ministry, rise through the ranks and have lots and lots of children. And Bill got a ludicrous amount of Outstanding's in his NEWTs, was head boy and was a pureblood. A job at the ministry was his for the taking. Only he didn't take it. He applied to Gringott's and got accepted into the Curse breakers Academy. He wanted to see something more of the world, do something more than the conventional 9-5 job and he's always been nutters about runes and wards. To cut a long story short mum went spare, Bill left and dad as usual didn't do anything. Dad keeps ruefully mentioning that we should take a family visit to visit Bill. Typical dad; realising too late to do anything that he made a mistake and coming up with a solution that we'd never be able to afford.
My brother Charlie works at a Dragon Preserve in Romania. We've never been as close. There's too much of an age-gap between us. When he announced what he wanted to do mum raised no objections. I think she'd given up on him. Care of Magical Creatures was just about the only subject that he got a grade about Acceptable in his NEWTs. He was really good at Quidditch but they have really short career spans and then nothing to fall back upon.
Mum would say that she loves us all too pieces and would be aghast if anyone ever thought that she favoured any of her children. But I think if I had to pick a child; Percy would be it. Percy is ambitious; so ambitious that sometimes I wonder how on earth he got into Gryffindor. If I had to pick a word to describe Percy it would be pompous. You know how prefect selections come out these holidays? Percy's been driving everyone mad fretting whether he will get it. Percy's life dream is to become the Minister of Magic. Mum couldn't be happier.
I'm tired of writing about my family. Fred, George, Ron and dad will have to wait for another letter. Your letter was revealing you know. More for what it didn't say than for what it did. You said your dad was dead and then said absolutely nothing about your mother. Do you even live with her Blaise?
Back to village life. When I was little I used to love going down to the village; it was like a whole new world and it was fantastic. My mum loathes grocery shopping (or more the fact that economy necessitates that she has to buy in the muggle world) so she used to send us kids. We grew most of our stuff, but some goods like flour we have to buy..
But as I grew I began to understand just why my brothers loathed going so much. The owner of the grocery store is a lovely old lady by the name of Mrs Landingham. Every time we went she used to give us kids free fruit. It wasn't till last year that I finally got that she does it because she doesn't think we get fed at home. I cringe with embarrassment whenever I think of it. Our robes might be eighth-handed but our muggle clothes are even worse. The entire town thinks my parents are some type of new-age Hippies. But despite all of that the muggle world is truly amazing; it's like a real life fairytale. Have you ever been to the pictures? It's awesome! Apparently muggles have this thing called television that allows them to watch movies all the time. I'm really jealous; TV is so much better than the wizarding wireless.
But if I had to nominate one muggle thing that I couldn't possibly live without it would be there literature. I could read their novels all day long. Muggles, unlike most wizards, seem to understand the joy and pleasure and pain that comes with reading fanciful tales. They understand that words, even fictional words, have the power to open minds and to change the world. That's what makes Ron's friend, Hermione Granger, such an enigma to me. She's muggleborn so she should understand but she doesn't. Everybody always talks about what a bookworm she is but she doesn't truly read anything she devours. She just regurgitates what she's read and recites it verbatim as the gospel truth. She never questions what she reads or tries to add her own knowledge to what she's just stated. When you hear her talk it's like she's a walking encyclopaedia, but like all encyclopaedia's she only scratches the surface of any given subject and never goes any deeper.
I hate to end on that though but the sun's rising and mum will be up soon. Thanks for writing Blaise.
Enjoy your holidays!
Ginny
PS Your owl's adorable, but I'm afraid I've forgotten his name?
Tying the letter to the owls outstretched leg, she sank into bed, going to sleep with a smile on her face for the first time in weeks.
It felt like she had slept only moments when she was rudely awoken the next morning by her mother's sharp knock on the door, accompanied by the barked order "Get Up!"
Dragging exhausted body out of bed was a chore, but it was better than facing her mother's inevitable wrath if she had to come upstairs to rouse her once more. She was even gladder that she had forced herself out of bed when she saw the letter lying on the desk. She hurriedly hid it in her most secure hiding location and then dragged herself down to the breakfast table.
She had never thought that she would ever feel the urge to flee in the Burrows kitchen but the desire to get out had been growing ever since she got home. And thus life went on.
A week later her father came home and announced that he'd won the Grand Galleon Prize Draw and that he could now afford to go to Egypt. And for the first time, in a long time, Ginny felt what it was like to experience a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.
A/N I'm a bit worried that Ginny seems too ready to give away too much to a perfect stranger. My explanation? She's so very lonely and getting no support from home. Also for the point of plot Fleur's older.