A/N: First, I'd like to give a huge THANK YOU to my continued readers & reviewers! :D Cyber cookies for you. Second, there will be a few notes on this chapter and review replies at the chapter's end. And third: I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 4: Daydreams and Michelangelo
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Luna Lovegood, nestled into the corner of her Charms classroom, was lost in a daydream.
The glassy-eyed expression she wore was so common that even Professor Flitwick didn't bother trying to get her interest. In fact, he probably thought that was just how Luna looked when she was paying attention.
Her concentration had first wavered when she tried to remember her strange dream from the night before. There had been nine people, she knew—but not people, not exactly. They were more than that. She could see their powerful auras in her dream: a sort of mist that lit them at the edges. And somehow—she didn't understand exactly how—she'd known from the start of the dream that what she was seeing had really happened.
Still, as soon as Luna tried to remember why the nine figures had been so important, her attention slipped again and she started thinking about Dean Thomas.
Dean was perfect. She'd known it for a long time now, ever since they'd recuperated together at Shell Cottage. No—since before that; she'd known it from the first days of their shared captivity at Malfoy Manor, when Dean had told her the story of his life on the run. He'd talked in a low voice when the Death Eaters weren't around. Luna had felt comforted by the way his voice grew raw from talking, and from emotion. His eyes, dark like gemstones in shadow, had been as expressive and unabashed as his words. He had a golden soul, like a true Gryffindor. Luna could see it as plainly as she'd seen the misty auras of the gods and goddesses in her dream. She had to bite her tongue sometimes to keep from telling him.
Luna sighed. Right about now, Dean and Ginny were in Care of Magical Creatures together, and Ginny's greatly improved mood after lunch suggested that they were probably having a grand old time.
"Miss Lovegood? Would you care to demonstrate?"
Luna jumped and focused on Professor Flitwick, who was holding his wand aloft with an expectant look on his face.
Luna cleared her throat. After a moment's hesitation, she raised her wand (trying her best to imitate Flitwick's exact stance), and then—"Sorry, Professor, but could you repeat the pronunciation for me one more time?"
Luna was no amateur at being caught out during the middle of a daydream.
Flitwick smiled indulgently. "Of course. It's SEN-sus OPT-i-ma," he said.
Luna nodded her thanks. So they were working on the Supersensory Charm—now she remembered. She'd read ahead in her Charms book over the summer, as any half-decent Ravenclaw would. She repositioned her wand. "Sensus Optima!" she said, imitating the stabbing motion followed by a wide loop that was required for the spell.
It was as if her head had swiveled around in a very unnatural direction—while somehow still facing forward. Luna's range of vision now encompassed an otherwise impossible view of the classroom, starting behind her left shoulder (the gray stone wall) to behind her right one (including a group of fascinated Ravenclaws, some very bored Hufflepuffs, and the bookcase toward the back wall of the room). A flood of sounds washed over her at the same time. Luna could hear one of the Hufflepuff's heavy breathing and the swish of Flitwick's robes as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. Even her skin crawled with new sensation: a brush of air from the girl next to her uncrossing her legs raised the hair on Luna's arms. Underneath it all, Luna heard the beat of her own heart, as loud as a heavy drum.
Overwhelmed by it all, Luna began to shake, and the tremors felt so strong under her increased awareness that she thought she might be seizing. Luna, closing her eyes, felt her wand slip from her fingers, and the sound of it hitting the floor—magnified to her sensitive ears—broke the spell.
When she opened her eyes again, she realized three things. First, her violent trembling was really nothing more than a light shivering, so small as to be imperceptible to anyone but herself. Second, Flitwick was beaming at her. Third, even the bored group of Hufflepuffs were now watching her with interest.
"Fantastic!" Flitwick said through his smile. "It can be very overwhelming the first time, can it not? But never fear, that's why I've assigned you some meditative practices as homework. Advanced charmwork is heavily reliant on concentration—"
And then Flitwick was off again, describing the direct correlation between time spent meditating and ability to cast the most complex of charms, as evidenced by recent magical studies involving Buddhist monks in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.
Luna found the subject very fascinating for a while, but before long, she found her mind slipping back towards her daydream—back towards Dean Thomas.
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Ginny, struggling to stifle a laugh, managed to turn the sound into a coughing fit. This tactic was so effective that Hagrid thumped her heartily on the back (she was thrown forward several feet) and asked, "Yeh all right there, Ginny?"
"Y—yes, Hagrid," she managed, her eyes trained on the giant professor and definitely not looking anywhere near the vicinity of Dean. "Just a tickle in my throat, thanks."
"Right. Some folks have allergic reactions to these, mind, so yeh'd best back off if the cough gets worse." He gave her his familiar reassuring smile before wandering across the group to oversee Malfoy and Zabini.
Just as she'd gotten control of herself, she approached Dean and nearly lost it again. He was sitting cross-legged on the grass, fighting off two overly enthusiastic kneazles: one draped across his shoulders like a feather boa, purring audibly, and the other kneading his thigh.
"Ow!" he said. "Some partner you are, Gin." He glared at her, an expression which was decidedly unthreatening coming from someone who was covered in cute, furry creatures. "I could use a little help."
"You should take it as a compliment," she said. "I've heard they can identify untrustworthy characters . . ."
"Yeah, I heard that, too. During our lesson just now," Dean pointed out, but she was laughing again. The kneazle on his thigh had straightened up and put its paws squarely on his chest.
Taking pity on him, Ginny approached with careful steps and offered a palm to Dean's lap-kneazle. The spotted, amber-colored creature eyed her with interest, gave a few cautious sniffs, and then leapt down from Dean and tangled itself around Ginny's ankles.
"I like them," she said to Dean, who was trying to shift the shoulder-kneazle, still looking rather disgruntled. "I wouldn't mind a pet one."
Dean grimaced at her. "You sound like Luna," he said.
Ginny lifted the kneazle at her feet into her arms. Giving it a few careful pats, she cast a glance at the rest of the group. The Gryffindors seemed to be enjoying the lesson, asking Hagrid for their kneazles' names as he walked amongst the students. The Slytherins seemed a bit more wary of the creatures. Watching their shy but not disinterested approaches with narrowed eyes, Ginny saw new meaning in their timidity: they seemed simply unsure of whether or not they would earn their kneazles' trust. As the most recent "guilty party" in the War, they were, Ginny could understand, desirous of avoiding the pointing finger—or, in this case, the pointing paw.
Ginny almost chuckled again.
At that moment, Malfoy glanced up from beside Zabini and accidentally caught her eye. She was surprised to discover that he, too, wore the traces of a laugh. Zabini went on talking beside Malfoy, and by the mischievous expression on his face as he looked down on their two chosen kneazles—a pretty pair of white and black ones, respectively—he was midway through a sarcastic comment about the lesson.
The smile dropped off Malfoy's face, but he kept staring across the patch of grass at Ginny with an annoying level of intensity. She felt an illogical sense of guilt—I wasn't looking at him on purpose—and yet she couldn't tear her eyes away.
Luckily, her kneazle chose that moment to gnaw her finger in a gentle reminder to start petting again. Ginny, brought back to reality by the insistent creature, let her locked-in gaze drop away.
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"—just don't understand why that's so amusing," Blaise continued. He stopped when he realized Draco wasn't paying attention anymore. One glance at his fellow Slytherin explained why. Draco was gazing across the patch at the redheaded Weasle, his face expressionless. "Draco?"
Draco's gray eyes slid to meet Blaise's look. "You're a fully-grown wizard in Slytherin and you just admitted that your greatest ambition is to own a house full of kneazles," said Draco. "Explain how that's not amusing."
Blaise sighed, half at Draco's words and half at his annoying ability to pay attention to a conversation while actually not paying attention to it at all. "How do you always do that?" Blaise asked him, just as the pure white kneazle at his feet starting rolling itself over his impeccably-polished shoes.
"Do what?" Draco asked. He'd already moved on. He picked up the black kneazle and held it as if it were an extremely dark, cursed object set to kill him any moment.
"You know what," Blaise said. "I saw you looking at the Weasle, and yet you heard every word I said . . ." When Draco refused to take such bait, Blaise added, "And I never said I wanted a house full of kneazles. I only said I wanted to breed them. There's a difference." He glared at the pale boy across from him.
Draco's black kneazle, though dangled in an awkward position, started purring up at him.
"How's the dormitory situation?" Blaise asked, pretending to be too occupied with petting his kneazle to catch Draco's immediate glare.
"There is no situation," he replied. "I have thus far succeeded in avoiding her entirely, and I hope that will keep up."
"It's going to get boring playing chess with me every night, mate." Blaise grinned at Draco. They'd stayed up late the night before, lounging in front of the Slytherin fire like in their early Hogwarts days. It felt—well, it felt really good to be able to do it again, burdened with only the worry that they'd have too many classes with Gryffindors this term, and nothing heavier.
Draco snorted. "Beating you every night, more like."
Blaise's kneazle lifted its head and hissed across at Draco (who, admittedly, had lost to Blaise the night before). Draco, eyebrows raised in shock, glanced between Blaise and the kneazle.
"I don't believe it," he said. "Kneazle breeding really is your true calling."
Blaise laughed, distracted, and it wasn't until much later that he realized Draco had, as always, found an artful way to change the subject.
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The rest of the day went by in a blur, and before long at all, Ginny found herself departing from the Great Hall with a full stomach; a yawn; and a warm, contented feeling. She managed a subtle wave goodnight to Harry that only McGonagall seemed to notice—and maybe Snape, because he glared a bit, but then, that was his resting facial expression—as well as a sleepy farewell to Luna and Dean, who were heading up to the library before curfew.
Ginny felt more tired that her day had really warranted, but when she reflected on everything, she figured that the surprise of "Professor Potter" and her subsequent breakup had taken a lot out of her. She supposed that she should also be more morose over that, but, on the contrary, she couldn't shake the guilty relief that had settled over her. It was nice to be an average student, not the girlfriend of Harry "The Hero" Potter.
"Lux," she told the unicorn tapestry, and as it rolled up and peeled away from the wall to let her inside her dormitory, she reminded herself that she wasn't quite an average student this year. She was Head Girl, which was no small feat. And, oh yes—she had some things to take care of regarding that . . .
Lost in her thoughts, she almost didn't notice Malfoy until she was halfway across the common area. When she did see him—thrown across a seat by the fire in a lazy, irreverent way that reminded her of someone she couldn't quite place—she froze.
"Malfoy," she said, caught by surprise, and he turned that very focused gaze on her again. "I—I was just thinking about our Prefect meetings," she managed.
He didn't move. In fact, he was so still that he could almost be a statue, one built of pure white marble, from his pale hair to his pointed, aristocratic features. The indolent curve of his body stretched across the chair was a perfect imitation of sculpture—alive, but frozen. Ginny had seen statues like that in wizarding history books, some made by great wizards like Michelangelo. Malfoy, she thought, would fit right in.
"What about them?" he asked.
"What about—oh." Ginny's cheeks felt hot. "Well, what day works for you?"
He shrugged, but kept his eyes trained on her. They were a pale gray, she noticed, although they took on colors from what was around them, and right now they were alight with fire from the hearth. "May as well do tomorrow. I have no preference."
Ginny's rising annoyance replaced a bit of her embarrassment. So this is how he's going to be? "Fine. Can you tell Zabini and Parkinson? I'll tell the Bakers, Luna, and Dean."
"I'll get Bardot too, then, shall I?" He sounded utterly bored, as if they were discussing the less stimulating footnotes to the Endless Proclamation issued by the Goblin Convention in 1404.
"Yes. That would be . . . nice." Ginny ground her teeth. "Tomorrow at eight? In here?"
"I suppose we'll have to tell them all our password?"
"Well . . ."
"Nevermind," he said. His face was turned toward the fire now, making his words harder to catch. "Let's just hope they don't abuse the privilege."
Ginny rolled her eyes, marched to her bedroom door, and whispered "Blast-ended skrewts," as quietly as she could manage. Malfoy was annoying, but he had a point. She didn't want him overhearing her password. She couldn't have him abusing any privileges.
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A few minutes and a quick change into pajamas later, Ginny was ready to turn in early and read before sleep, when she remembered that she still had Hermione's letter from Harry. Strange that she hadn't just delivered it by owl . . .
Ginny Summoned the letter from her robe pocket and unfolded it, already feeling the pangs of loneliness at the sight of her friend's handwriting.
Dear Ginny,
Congratulations on being Head Girl! I heard it from Ron, who heard it from your parents, and they're all so very proud of you for it. Of course, I am, too, but I'm not surprised at all. You'll be brilliant.
I suppose you know by now that Harry's going to be teaching Defense along with Lupin this term. He says he's doing it as a favor to Snape, but I think it was really Dumbledore's idea—you know, that portrait of him in the Headmaster's office. It just reminds me of something he'd suggest. I think it can't hurt to prepare these generations for what's really out there, even though they (hopefully) won't have to face anything like it in their time. Harry hasn't given up on being an Auror, of course, but I think he's up for teaching for a year or two first.
Ginny hadn't thought of Harry's Auror ambitions once since seeing him at Hogwarts. She felt a wash of shame at the realization. The Auror exams were said to be strenuous, so maybe all this conventional teaching would be a good refresher course. Whatever his reasoning, it must have been hard for Harry to delay his path to his dream. Feeling a bit humbled, Ginny read on.
I have exciting news on my own career front, but we're keeping it hidden from the press, which is why I sent Harry with this letter just in case the owl got stopped. (Aha, Ginny thought.) You know I started consulting with the Magical Archaeology and Artifacts Office at the Ministry for some curse-breaking work—just simple stuff, you know, for now—but I've decided to sign on permanently with a project they've only recently discovered. You'll find out more soon, I promise—I can't say more now. We're starting excavation tomorrow. This is big, Ginny, really big!
I'm sure I'll see you soon. Best of luck at Hogwarts. Let me know if you want any of my old study charts for N.E.W.T.s!
Love from,
Hermione
An odd sort of ache had filled Ginny's chest by the end of the letter, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or to cry. Ginny really did miss the older girl. Even though Hermione would always be more Harry and Ron's than Ginny's, the two of them had shared many a moment throughout their time at Hogwarts and during the War.
Some parts of the letter puzzled her, however. An excavation? Something big? Hermione had a tendency to exaggerate the importance of the work done through the Magical Archaeology and Artifacts Office, as it was crucial and captivating to her and practically ignored by everybody else. So why should Ginny care about it? And what was Hermione talking about—"I'm sure I'll see you soon"? Christmas holidays were a long way off considering school had only just begun.
Ginny puzzled over the letter in the darkness before sleep, but in the end, she decided it would be no use guessing at Hermione's meaning. Either she would tell or she wouldn't.
Despite all her love for the girl, this was just the sort of thing about Hermione that annoyed Ginny most. In true Weasley fashion, she couldn't stand not knowing once her curiosity had been piqued.
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A/N: I spy with my little eye . . . a hint of plot! Haha. There are small clues of what's to come scattered throughout, but it's not a lot, so I appreciate your patience as we build toward the meat of the story.
Thanks again marinka and Cauchy for your reviews! You've made some great points so far, which I really appreciate and will take to heart as I continue. Marinka, you brought up the Slytherins' oddly self-sacrificing manner in the Defense class last chapter - and you're so right, that was a bit OOC from what we know of Slytherin in canon. Part of my explanation for that in this fic is that I would like to address how Slytherins would have to change a bit after the War. I don't see them changing their overall ambitious and cunning nature at all, since that's what makes them Slytherins, but I think they would use it to adapt to a world without Voldemort. (I think they might be forced to, if they didn't want to end up in Azkaban.) I might not have chosen the perfect exercise to demonstrate this in that lesson . . . but I also think Draco/most Slytherins are just the sort to want to die rather than live forever on an island full of Gryffindors. XD I hope that makes sense, without seeming too flippant.
ANYWHOO! Please read and review! Next chapter soon, I hope.
