Author's Note: I do quote some dialogue directly from Order of the Phoenix for a scene in this chapter. Obviously I am not JKRowling and mean no disrespect for incorporating her magical words into this little fic.
Fourth Year
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place is so different from The Burrow. Everything about the dark, sombre place reeks of the Black ancestry and their Pureblood ideals. I know that other traditional Purebloods view my family as blood traitors, and Mrs Black and Kreacher ever so kindly do not hesitate to remind my brothers and me of our 'filth'. I feel especially bad for Hermione since the Black family house is pretty much the antithesis of her Muggleborn heritage. Kreacher is particularly nasty to her without good reason. However, Sirius is open and welcoming to the Order of the Phoenix, and to me, his opinion counts more than his dead mum's and the sullen little house elf.
Yesterday night you arrived at Sirius' house. It was quite late and I had already gone to bed, but your advent caused quite a stir within the household. Originally there had been hushed tones and whispers as the Order discussed whatever they needed to discuss but when you showed up the grim voices had turned into words of welcome and joy. Mum had fussed over your appearance, of course, and the twins were showing off with their newly acquired Apparition skills. You thundered up the stairs, quite unaware that some people were trying to sleep, and greeted my brother and Hermione loudly.
Not once did you mention my name.
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"Hey, Gin," you greet me.
"Good morning," I mumble sleepily and rummage around in the cupboards for some cereal and a banana.
You notice my fruitless search and say, "Oh, er, your mum made some pancakes earlier. They're on the table if you want to eat them."
Ever since I became a teen, my mind has been foggy with sleep in the morning. I yawn and turnaround from the cupboards to blink at you stupidly. "Hmm?"
A small smile of amusement is on your face, but you wisely hold your tongue about my not-so-responsive state so early in the morning. "Pancakes. Your mum made them for breakfast. There are plenty left over, and they are sitting on the table." At my inquiring glance around the room, you add: "Everyone already ate. I was just about to clean up when you came downstairs."
"Oh. Hmm. Time?" Yes, my vocabulary is limited to monosyllabic words if I have been awake for less than an hour.
"Quarter 'til eleven."
I stare at you, flabbergasted. "Dear Godric, it's early."
You chuckle. "Considering that you were asleep at eight last night, I would have thought you to be a morning bird."
Oh, so you were wondering about me when you arrived yesterday. Interesting. "Mm, well, you thought wrong," is my response. I grab a plate from the counter and sit down across from you. There are heaps and heaps of fluffy pancakes stacked in the centre of the table. I have no idea which one to pick.
"Blueberry is on the right, chocolate chip on the far right, banana nut on the left, cinnamon pumpkin on the far left, and plain in the middle," you tell me helpfully.
"Your left or mine?" I ask dumbly as if I do not have eyes to see the tell-tale blueberries or orange-y tinge of the pumpkin.
"My left," you respond easily, still smiling amusedly at me but not calling attention to my brainless question.
Apparently my question was entirely useless anyways since I reach for the plain pancakes in the middle. I take two and lightly drench them in maple syrup. You study me unobtrusively and take a swig of your chocolate milk. Immediately I am transported back to a time when I was eleven and you were enjoying your quiet breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes and chocolate milk in the Great Hall.
"Let me guess: you had chocolate chip this morning," I say into the silence as I come back out of the little flashback.
You raise an eyebrow in mock elusiveness. "What makes you think that?"
I stand up and reach across the table to dab at a chocolate smear on the corner of your mouth with my napkin. Your eyes watch me with an intense carefulness. All of the sudden there is this odd sort of tenseness in the room. Our faces are so close to each other that I can feel your breath every time you exhale. It's warm, soft, and I can smell traces of chocolate. Your breath clouds my mind and my mind goes blank until the only thing on my mind is you. My eyes flutter shut and out of the blue I am wondering what it would be like if I closed the distance between us and kissed your lips. Taken back by this bold thought, I retreat to my side of the table and attempt to alleviate all the tension with a blunt, joking remark.
"Oh, the fact that it looks like someone shit all over your face did absolutely nothing to make me think that you ate chocolate chip pancakes," I say with my typical crassness that I picked up from my older brothers.
You laugh, and all the weird heaviness in the air disappears. "Silly me. I thought it you knew because of my well-known obsession with anything chocolate."
"Hmm," I say, playing along. "No, that must've slipped my mind."
When I look back into your smiling eyes, however, an underlying curious darkness in them has me thinking that you were wondering what it would be like to kiss, too.
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You smile and you laugh and you act like the Harry I knew before the Triwizard Tournament, but sometimes you get this melancholy feeling about you and the whole room dims with your depressing, quiet outlook. I watch you fly away into the negative recesses of your mind, and it hurts me so much that you refuse to talk about whatever is bothering you.
Right now you are standing by the floor-to-ceiling window in the study, looking out at the city. You look so broken. What happened during the Triwizard Tournament? I know You-Know-Who was there and he killed Cedric Diggory, but what really happened, Harry? What did he do to you to make you shatter to pieces? What did he do to make your eyes haunted with things no fifteen-year-old should ever be burdened with?
What did he do to you?
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You've got a busy day today. You and Dad leave early this morning for the Ministry where your Hearing is going to take place. Maybe you'll see Percy – although, I am sorry if you do. Nobody wants to be around that pompous git more than they absolutely have to, save Mum, of course.
Hermione's confident that the Ministry will grant you pardon for your use of under-aged magic. I wish I could share her faith, but these days the Ministry has been so corrupt that I honestly do not know or trust the way they operate anymore.
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Apparently the devil wears Prada. And it's the worst shade of pink imaginable. Not to mention all the fluffy cats and the horrible high-pitched voice that sounds like nails on a chalkboard calling me out in class when I obviously do not know the answer.
I hate Dolores Jane Umbridge. I hate the Ministry for sending her to Hogwarts. I hate her for wanting to convict you of under-aged magic when you were obviously trying to protect yourself and your pig of a cousin from a Dementor attack. Dear Merlin, I bloody hate that witch.
And the nerve of her to interrupt Dumbledore during his traditional welcome speech at the Start-Of-Term Feast! I swear, if I have to hear one more ridiculous ahem from her, I will bat-bogey hex her into oblivion.
Godric, when does she leave already?
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Gryffindor Tower is a nightmare. It was all fine and dandy until you showed up. People were all crowded about saying hi to friends they hadn't seen in awhile, and the new slightly petrified First Years were trying to stay out of everybody's way.
And then my brother, Hermione, and you stepped through the portrait hole.
Immediately it became silent. Smiles slowly fell upside down. Michael Corner, a Ravenclaw boy in my Year, stops trying to flirt with me; his mouth curls into a sneer when his eyes alight upon you. It's stupid, really, how Michael thinks he needs to continuously impress me when I already agreed that I would be his girlfriend. I only agreed to it because I used to fancy you, but I gave up on you months ago when I saw that you still hadn't gone out of your Cho-phase.
You look around the Common Room, wondering why it is so silent and why so many eyes are staring you down. I want to help you, to tell you that you are not alone, but Michael's arm is wrapped loosely around my waist and reminds me of my choice to remain your friend and nothing more. I bite back the words I want to say and watch the scene unfurl in front of me.
Seamus Finnegan is the first to speak. He holds up The Daily Prophet as evidence to justify why his mam didn't want him to come back to Hogwarts after all the doubt on Dumbledore's and your word that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back. Nobody believes your ulterior motive is that you want to go save the world from You-Know-Who and his band of Death Eaters. None of them view you as Superman like I still do. They all subconsciously blame you for Cedric Diggory's death even though the proof is there that you are not the one at fault.
You handle the disparaging remarks with dignity and I envy you for your tight control on your temper for once. But then some insolent Gryffindor snidely comments about the "suspicious" circumstances of Cedric's death, and you crack. It takes everything in Ron to physically pull you out of this mess. He nobly stands up for you, but I can tell that nobody really cares about the wholesome words he describes you with. That is, no one but me.
You and my brother disappear up in a seething, furious rush towards the Boys' Dormitories. My eyes follow your progress up the stairs until I can see you no longer.
I hate that I didn't do anything. Even though I'm Michael's girlfriend, I am still your friend which means that I am allowed to stick up for you, right? I want to go up to see you, to talk to you, but Michael gently lures me back into his conversation and you are all but forgotten from my mind.
When I do tuck myself into bed that night, I wish I could have some sort of telepathetic link (that's what Hermione and I call telepathy after an excruciating lesson with Professor Trelawney) so I could let you know that I'll be around if you ever do want to talk.
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You storm into the Common Room after your first detention with Professor Umbridge. "Hey, Ginny," you acknowledge me with a terse nod in my direction. After years of getting mad at you for not addressing my presence, it seems to be that you have finally caught on to greeting me whenever you see me despite whatever mood you are in.
"Hey," I say, glancing up from my Potions essay. You're scowling and in some awful, furious frame of mind. I wish I could help but I know you need your space right now.
"Fucking hate Umbridge," I hear you mutter as you irately stomp up the stairs to the Boys' Dormitory.
"Don't we all," I agree whole-heartedly as I go back to my essay.
Just as fast as you go up the stairs, you come back down the stairs with your Firebolt in hand. Normally you would ask me to accompany you for a quick spin on our brooms since we've started to have our mindless little talks while flying, but not-so-surprisingly you do not invite me on this outing.
"If anybody asks, I'll be out on the Pitch," you say.
"Alright," I reply. We both know nobody will ask since it is currently about two in the morning.
"I'll be out for a while," you tell me as if you think I care. Which I do, but you're not supposed to know that.
"Mhmm."
You open your mouth as if you are going to say something else but then you change your mind and head out of the portrait hole. I glance back at my half-finished essay. My quill is poised over the parchment but it seems to be that my mind has gone blank. All the stress and fury and negative emotions you were exuding are now making me anxious and restless.
"Ah, screw it," I mumble and throw my quill down in defeat. Obviously my essay (which is due tomorrow – I mean, today) will not be getting done. Snape will just have to deal.
Without even realising it, I stand up from your couch in front of the fireplace and head over towards the windows that overlook the Quidditch Pitch. The sky is dark and inky but clear, and the moon is a spotlight on the lake. Its bright beams cast an angelic glow over you, even though you are flying recklessly and pulling stunts that only the devil could survive. I watch you fly away off the Pitch and into the clouds. A sharp feeling of longing pierces through me. Come back, I want to say. I'll be with you someday. I'll come out and fly with you and you can tell me what that witch did to you. But I know that's not what you want, so I stay right here on the ground, waiting for you when you come back down.
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The Hog's Head is crammed full of people: me, my boyfriend Michael Corner, Neville, Dean, Lavender, the Patil twins, Cho and her bestie named Marietta Edgecombe, Luna, Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, the Creevey brothers, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, Zacharias Smith, Fred and George, Lee Jordan, and Aberforth and his goat. We all wait patiently for Ron and Hermione to bring you to the tiny pub.
Once the three of you enter, Hermione wastes no time in explaining to everyone that we are all here to create a training programme that will effectively help us prepare for the real world by practising defensive spells, something that Professor Umbridge vehemently refuses to do during class. You are to be the instructor since, you know, you've had the most experience fighting against the Dark Arts.
We call ourselves Dumbledore's Army.
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Surprisingly, days pass by rather fast under Professor Umbridge's awful reign. Of course, it helps that there are regular D.A. meetings in the Room of Requirement. The fact that these clandestine meetings are forbidden by the High Inquisitor just makes the whole prospect of defying the rules even more alluring. As Hermione ever-so-eloquently said: "It's sort of exciting, isn't it? Breaking the rules."
Soon, you have taught us how to effectively execute the Disarming Charm, the Impediment Jinx, the Reductor Curse, and the Stunning Spell. Everyone is flourishing under your careful tutelage, and these days Neville is basking in praise instead of scorn from our fellow classmates.
Michael is determined to always be my partner when we practise the spells. I don't mind, really, but you seem to, for I have noticed that your jaw clenches whenever you see me and him together. I catch your eye from across the room where you are helping Cho master a relatively easy spell that everybody learned back in First Year. I give you a small smile of encouragement, but your eyes are quickly enraptured by the shininess of her raven-black hair.
She's going to get you two killed in a battle against a Death Eater. I hope you don't expect me to pick up the pieces after it happens.
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The Gryffindor Quidditch team is playing Slytherin tonight in our first match of the season. Ron is the new Keeper, and I pray to Merlin that he doesn't botch anything up. He may be a Prefect this year but he is certainly far from perfect.
In an attempt to stop worrying anxiously about Ron and his obvious nerves, I surreptitiously watch you fly a warm-up lap around the Pitch. It looks like you're flying around the world, what with the sun being swallowed by the greedy darkness of night. It almost feels like we're standing on the edge of Earth, waiting to tumble into the seemingly nothingness of space. Poetic thoughts aside, the game starts off smoothly with a shrill little screech of Madam Hooch's whistle.
It's actually a rather good game because of our victory. But Ron didn't play well, and it is evident to everyone in the stands because his fumbles are impossible to miss. In response to his less-than-stellar Keeper skills, Slytherin starts up an insufferable round of 'Weasley Is Our King'. It takes everything inside of me to not hex one of the slimy little gits into oblivion. Godric knows that they deserve it. The thing is, my name is also Weasley and while I am not a king and the song isn't about me, it sure damn well is an insult to my brother and that is something I cannot tolerate.
I stand up furiously when the chorus of the Godric-awful song starts up again, even louder than the last time the Slytherins chanted it.
"WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN,
HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN. . .
WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN
WEASLEY IS OUR KING!
WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN. . .
WEASLEY CANNOT SAVE A THING
THAT IS WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING:
WEASLEY IS OUR KING!"
You, however, beat me to the punch when you and George attack Malfoy. I'm torn between congratulating you for your excellent right hook to Malfoy's pointy little rodent face and hating you for not letting me be the one to punch the arrogant intolerable bastard.
Then Professor Umbridge does the unthinkable and confiscates yours, George's, and Fred's broomsticks. She denies the three of you the right to play Quidditch for the rest of your lives. I'm to replace you as Gryffindor Seeker, apparently. That's a load of rubbish since everybody knows I kick ass at Chaser and am only mediocre at Seeker. Malfoy, that damn smug toadying toe rag, gets off scot-free, of course.
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It's Christmas time. 'Tis the season to be jolly and all that sappy hippogriff shit. There's nothing really to be happy for at the moment, though. Dad's been maimed at the Ministry. He is doing alright now, thanks to you. That dream you had about him being attacked by a snake in the Department of Mysteries was apparently true, and you saved him from death by alerting Dumbledore of what you saw in your dream. Or nightmare, as it should be called.
Everyone is in gloomy spirits. Besides the fact that Dad almost died, Percy didn't come home for the holidays for the first time and he sent back his Christmas sweater that Mum knitted for him this year. That wasn't what depressed everybody, though. Well, at least not me. And the twins. And Ron. None of us really care to be subjected to Percy's holier-than-thou judgment.
No, what makes me miserable is the fact that you've closed yourself off from everybody. Now, this is not the first time that you have done this, but it hurts me as much as it did last year. You mope around Grimmauld Place as if you have nothing better to do than to pity yourself and blame yourself for the fact that everybody you get close to dies or gets hurt at some point.
I'm not one for bullshit or the bitchy attitude of a hormonal fifteen year old boy, so I confront you to knock some sort of sense into you. (And so you will quit the whole goth thing. Lately you've tried the dark-and-mysterious style but in all honesty, you come off looking sullen and stupid.)
"Hey," I say, cornering you by the staircase. There's no escape unless you leave Grimmauld Place, engage in a long and painful conversation with Mum while you help her out with the dishes, or hex me and continue merrily up the stairs. Considering that you would never want to leave Grimmauld place if you were given the choice, abhor dishes (you call them a cruel and unusual punishment to which Hermione laughed her ass off. Must be a Muggle reference.), and are certainly not merry, I am not surprised that you cave and tell me what's been going on with you these days.
"Hullo," you say cautiously. You know what I'm up to, and I can see that you hate me for intervening in your silent-and-tortured artistic lifestyle or whatever you're calling it.
"Nice day, isn't it." It's not a question.
"Very nice," you agree. "Would be nicer if you would let me past you."
"Hmm." I don't move.
We stand there in the hallway for a few tense and awkward moments.
"Something you wanted?" you ask, reluctantly accepting that I'm not going to leave until you give me the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Godric.
"As a matter of fact, yes," I say pleasantly. "What's with the whole silent thing?"
"I didn't want anyone to talk to me."
I furrow my brow. "Well, that was a bit stupid of you, seeing as how you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels."
You open your mouth, close it, scowl, and then open it again. "What brought you to that conclusion?"
I roll my eyes. "Because I know that you've been fretting over that dream. I heard you tell Dumbledore that you were the snake. And You-Know-Who controls Nagini, his snake, right?"
"Right." You look into my eyes, a trifle bit apologetic. "Erm, I didn't mean to bring up the whole Chamber of Secrets incident."
I shrug. "Doesn't bother me," I lie, my voice deceptively light. You still haven't learned to detect when I lie. "I'm pretty sure He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was not controlling you, Harry. The fact that you remember everything in your dream is proof that you were not being manipulated. When Riddle made me do things, I had no recollection of them. Like the whole Mrs Norris episode? I would have never known that I was the one who did it if you hadn't rescued me from the Chamber of Secrets and told me everything that had happened."
A look of relief floods your face when I tell you that You-Know-Who probably didn't possess you. "Ginny, I don't think you realise how happy I am to hear that."
"What, that I petrified Filch's cat?" I joke.
You chuckle and gone is the brooding façade that you've been sporting ever since your dream about the snake attack. "No, dork. Although the twins were pretty glad to see that tattletale be out of commission for awhile."
I smile up at you. "Glad to be of help," I say softly and make a grand sweeping gesture toward the stairs as I move out of the way. "Mum's making stuffed turkey and mashed potatoes tonight, as well as anything else that's festive that she can think up. Merry Christmas, Harry."
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After a few days upon returning to Hogwarts, I and a few other D.A. members are abruptly and rather rudely pulled into Umbridge's lair. The toad of a woman is grinning evilly at us, and once I glimpse around the room, I see that you and most, if not all, of Dumbledore's Army is assembled in front of the High Inquisitor. This does not seem to bode well.
Two girls in particular stand out. One is covered in bright red unsightly sores that spell out SNEAK. Cho is crying pitiful tears beside her.
Immediately, everyone in D.A. knows what has happened. It's kind of hard not to know when the truth is glaring bright red in our faces. Well, more like Marietta Edgecombe's face.
We've been ratted out to Umbridge.
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Uncomfortable chairs, the scratching of quills, blood-tainted parchment, detention that is literally torture. . . . I hope you don't chase another girl, Harry, because they all have air for brains and lying bitches for best friends. Except for me, of course. But, as Umbridge has so politely asked me to do, I must not tell lies.
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Don't forget the battle in the Department of Mysteries. Don't forget the prophecy concerning you and the Dark Lord. Don't forget about the look on Bellatrix's face when she murdered Sirius and he fell backwards in the Whispering Veil. Don't forget Lucius's promises he never intended to keep or the way the Death Eaters thought they could overpower us. Don't forget the triumph and sense of accomplishment Luna, Neville, Hermione, Ron, and I felt when we actually had to use those spells you taught us in D.A. Don't forget how you refused to be conquered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and subdued him by showing him the power of love. Don't forget how so many of us would willingly die for you and what you represent: freedom from this dark, oppressive world that limits those who are not Purebloods. Don't forget that Michael and I broke up and he is now dating Cho. Don't forget the fear and adrenaline that flowed through your veins when you thought Sirius was in danger. Don't forget the way Dumbledore duelled You-Know-Who. Don't forget your Occlumency lessons and the detentions with Umbridge.
But most importantly, Harry, please don't forget about me.
Author's Note: Ya'll are superheroes for reviewing. Cheers!
