CHAPTER 7

HOGSMEDE

Since the last time I had been here, The Three Broomsticks had not changed in the slightest. The ceilings were still low, the fireplace still inviting and the air still sweet. Memories of the thrill of being out of Hogwarts bubbled up from the deep as I gazed around the pub. The people hadn't changed either. There was the familiar gaggle of warlocks, wizards and witches alike. Look, there was Rosmerta, golden waves still framing a round, smiling face. And over there was a bunch of Hogwarts students, rosette cheeks shining from the wind and rain outside. It must be a Hogsmede weekend. Unless the group had found a secret passageway out of the school, and were skiving. Not like I hadn't done that before.

I followed Hermione and Harry over to the bar and sat on one of the rickety barstools. The wood of the counter was soft from all its years, and the stool creaked happily as I put my weight on it.

"Two butterbeers and an apple juice, please," Harry ordered. The apple juice was for me. Nurse Jenna had dropped off my special, extra healthy diet plan the other day. It wasn't exactly one to raise the spirits. Minimal fatty, sugary and salty foods, except on a Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Five portions of fruit and veg, each of which had to be different colours. Four different potions which was supposed to aid digestion. Lots of different muggle vitamin pills, so I'm making sure I'm not deficient in anything. All washed down with only water or fruit juices. And most importantly, absolutely no alcohol or caffeine – apparently my poor little liver can't cope with it. Yum.

"Yes, Harry, err, Mr Potter, coming right up," Rosmerta said, and scurried away.

It's bizarre, being the girlfriend of the most famous wizard of all time, bar Merlin. Everyone knows him as 'Harry-Potter-the-Boy-Who-Lived' and some people even still call him 'The-Chosen-One'. Consequently, when people meet him in public, they're never about what they should call him. I've heard everything, from 'Sir Living Potter,' to 'Mr Chosen Harry'. Harry doesn't care if they get mixed up between 'Harry' or 'Potter', so long as they don't call him one of his many titles. Trust me; he doesn't like being called 'Chosen One'.

Rosmerta fluttered back to our group, two bottles of butterbeer in one hand and a glass of juice in the other. She put them in front of us, saying, "One for you, Miss Granger, one for you, Mr Potter," with a huge smile on her face.

Then, she turned to me, and put the glass gently in front of me. That round face of hers seemed to droop at the sight of me, her usually so cheery demeanour changing, wilting, like a flower in winter. I swear, her cheeks seemed to actually deflate, her hair loose its bounce in one instant. "And the apple-juice." She looked me up and down, and said in a soft voice, "And I'm very sorry, Miss Weasley." Then, before I had time to register what had just happened, she scarpered.

I looked after her and felt my cheeks reddening. Harry seemed to have picked up what had just happened, for I could feel him stirring beside me. He sighed and gently touched my hand. He understood why I had frozen to my chair, why I was now the colour of a tomato. I had hoped, optimistically, that no one would have heard about my condition. I had wished that the secret had remained, well, secret. But evidently not. Of course, I was stupid not to have expected it. I'm Ginevra Weasley, for crying out loud. It was naïve of me to expect that the general public won't have heard about my condition.

My eyes opened to the fact that everyone knew, I took another glance around the pub. It would have taken a trained eye to see it, but I could tell that everyone in the pub was trying to steal glances at me. Or maybe it was Harry. Or maybe both of us. That warlock with the curly moustache was concentrating a bit too much on his foaming glass, and his eyes kept flicking up towards the bar, to where I was sitting. And the group of students were taking it in turns to walk to the bathroom, so they could have an excuse to look towards us. And the witch with the toddler had even moved seats so she could pretend she was talking to her husband, not staring at me.

My cheeks felt like they were on fire. I bet that they were even redder than my hair, and that's saying something. I felt myself sweating slightly, and my teeth worried on my lip. Usually, I'm not at all self conscious. Secretly, I adored the fame that I received from being a quidditch player and Harry's girlfriend. I never shied away from the cameras, never got tongue-tied or awkward, even gave interviews readily. But that is because the reasons that I'm relatively known make me extremely happy. I love being with Harry, I love playing quidditch. I don't mind when people want to talk to me about them.

But being famous for being ill… it wasn't the same. It felt like I was a freak show, everyone purposely trying not to stare, everyone secretly thinking 'oh you poor thing'. No, it was worse then that. I was a bird, a humming-bird, perhaps, caught and trapped inside a cage in a zoo. Everyone staring, me panicking, trying to get out. Its beautiful wings wanted to fly, to get out, but it was shut in. My heart beating fast. There was no escape for me.

I got up so suddenly from the barstool that it fell over with a clatter. All of those who had been trying-not-to-look jumped, and hastily returned to their conversations. One girl knocked over her glass, and began siphoning the drink off the table with her wand. I gazed around the pub, at all of those people who were dying with curiosity, and left without a backwards glance.

I heard Harry getting up too, as I strolled towards the door, trying to get his galleons from his pocket to pay for the drinks. But then I heard Hermione say, "no," and stop him from following me. I was glad.

I didn't stop walking until I reached the stile at the end of the lane in Hogsmede. I remembered Harry telling me about meeting Sirius here, and I smiled, the memory of the pub momentarily replaced with happiness and grief. I always liked Sirius. He was kind, funny, and understood my wish to get out of the Burrow, not to follow in my mother's footsteps. We both had understood the thrill of disobeying the families expectations. He had not wanted to be a Slytherin, and I hadn't wanted to be a house-wife. Sirius and I were similar in that respect.

I clambered over the stile and started walking aimlessly towards the hills. If only my death was to be like his. Swift. Painless. He had been smiling when he fell through the veil. I bet that I won't be laughing when I'm strapped to a bed in St Mungo's, not even able to open my own eyes because my muscles are slowly being disintegrated by my own immune system. My early morning promise to try to enjoy myself today for the sake of Harry and Hermione had totally disappeared, replaced by the all too familiar self-pity and grief.

Stop it.

Don't think about that.

With an inhumane effort, I pulled myself together. I had already attempted to heave myself out of the spiral of self-pity I had been in for so long, and I wasn't going to give up now. I don't like admitting defeat. To try to distract myself, I considered mundane things. A cereal bowl. A hairclip. Then the thought of all the sickly curious faces came rushing back to me, and I changed tactics. Try beautiful things now. Snow capped mountains. Bright green eyes with flecks of blue.

I took a moment to look around me at the countryside. The mountains were a deep purple, coloured from the heather and dying bracken. The sky looked like someone had slashed a cut into the dark cloud cover with a knife, and it was bleeding silvery glow. It spilled out onto the hills in perfect beams of delicate light. I'd never seen anything so beautiful and yet so sad.

A loud bark jolted me out of my contemplation of the scenery, and I looked around me. I couldn't see the dog that had made me jump so severely, and I wondered if I had imagined it. Maybe my condition would send me mad. There was no telling. It seemed that I was already hallucinating.

Another loud 'yip' persuaded me that I was not crazy, and I started scanning the area for the dog. After five seconds or so, I saw its golden tail poking out from behind two or three boulders, and I went over to it, hoping to make friends. I had always loved dogs, especially big ones, like Sirius. They were always the most intelligent, the most fun loving.

I slowly approached it, remembering suddenly that this dog might be wild. It might not want to make friends. It looked like it was digging in the pile of leaves, and I didn't want to interrupt it. But no, it had turned around when it heard me coming, and its tail was wagging furiously. Its eyes were not happy, however. It looked worried, or sad. How could a dog look worried?

"Hey, boy," I said, reaching out my hand.

It sniffed it eagerly, and then turned back to what it had been doing. I took a couple steps forward and looked too. The dog wasn't digging, like I had thought it had been. When dogs dig, they go at it frantically, their legs working furiously, throwing mud everywhere. This dog was gently pawing the ground, its muzzle snuffling at the pile of leaves.

Then, I saw what the dog had been sniffing. What was there made my heart stop, made my breath catch in my throat. There, jutting out from the pile of leaves, was an unfathomably small – yet unmistakably human – foot.

"Dear God," I whispered, my eyes opening wide.

I quickly dropped to my knees and brushed away the leaves with frantic fingers. A leg, an arm, a body. I gave up trying to shift the pile and scooped up underneath the lump with both hands at once, lifting the child to me. I cradled it like a mother should, and blew off leaves from its face and looked down. It was wrapped in a woollen jumper and wore a tiny, well-fitted, knitted cap. The baby could not have been more than a day or two old.

I touched my hand to its soft cheek. It felt cold beneath the backs of my fingers.

"What kind of person would do such a thing?" I asked quietly, looking down at the tiny baby in my arms. I looked up at the heavens, as if expecting God to answer my question. Who would so willingly throw away a life like that, when there were people, like me, who wouldn't ever get the chance to even have children?

As I looked back at the child, it moved its jaw sluggishly, a dry-mouthed gesture, as if wishing to be fed.

"Dear God," I said again.

I had not contemplated until that moment the possibility that the child might be alive.

Holding the child firmly against my chest, the dog and I sprinted back towards the stile, back towards the village. My anger at the public and my pity for myself was quite forgotten in the baby's, now open, blue eyes.

*Sob* Poor baby!

Oh, can I just make it clear, that Harry Potter is not mine, nor is the idea of having a list, or finding an abandoned baby. It has all been done before by a number of different authors. I just want to make it clear that the idea isn't mine, I just wanted to have a go at it!

Please review!