Electromagnetism Chapter 10: The Handwriting on the Wall, a harry potter fanfic

Many a friendship -- long, loyal, and self-sacrificing -- rested at first upon no thicker a foundation than a kind word.

Frederick W. Faber

Somewhere in the dark and dusty recesses of his mind, Harry was aware that he was lying on a hard wooden floor in what he dimly remembered to be Madame Malkins' Robes for All Occasions. Aware though he was, when it came to actually doing something about that, he was hopeless. His arms felt suspiciously as though they'd been cemented to the floor, and his eyelids were being most uncooperative. As strange as this was, it was nothing compared to the feeling that his veins were filled with Fire Whisky, something that was, unexplainably, both painful and enjoyable at once.

Then Harry sensed two cold hands lay themselves on his chest, and he felt the heat leaving his body. He found himself reluctant to see it go. Almost as if he'd been a barrel of warm toffee, which, as it cooled, became stiff and distressed. Rather desperately, he tried to hold onto some of the warmth, half feeling that he would split in two or explode into dust if it left him.

Abruptly, he returned to consciousness, and found himself sitting upright, and forcing Frank's hands away from him. When he thought she was far enough back, he jumped to his feet and retreated a few steps, breathing heavily. Dizzy, he grabbed the nearest clothes rack for support. He was drowsy and disoriented, but the most surprising thing was the look of absolute shock on Frank's face.

She was as pale as a sheet, and he could see the whites all around her pupils. Her hands were held out in front of her as if to ward off some unknown evil, and they were trembling.

'H-Harry?'

His knees felt weak, but he let go the rack, trying to stand up straighter. He frowned.

'I think so. What's wrong?' He could feel some of his strength returning, and walked shakily over to her. He tried to take one of her hands, but she backed away, lowering her hands to her sides.

'You're—you're—'

But there was an explosion outside, and both teens snapped to attention. Frank shook her head violently.

'Later. You're going to tell me everything. Right now, we need to get these people out of here.'

She dashed to the front of the shop, and dragged an unconscious man away from the window.

'Here,' she pushed the man into Harry's still shaky arms, 'take him to the back, and wake those other two. I'll take care of our visitors.'

She then pulled out her wand, and with a flick, the shutters on the windows slammed shut, and the door at the front of the shop locked with an audible click.

Harry retrieved his own wand from the floor where it had fallen from his hand, and whispered 'Ennervate.'

The man's eyelids fluttered, and he looked directly into Harry's spectacled gaze.

'What in Merlin's name happened?'

Harry offered him a hand up off the floor, and shook the hair out of his eyes. He was getting a terrible headache.

'There's been an attack in Diagon Alley, can you apparate?'

The man nodded. 'Yes, but—'

'Then I suggest you do it, as soon as possible. Do you need a moment to recover?' He knew from experience how disorienting it was to be stunned.

'No, no, I'm fine. Right. I'm fine.' The man seemed to be trying to reassure himself. 'But who are you? Why are you here?'

Harry shook his head again, and immediately wished he hadn't, as it only made his head ache worse. Unfortunately, his hair must have moved, because the man's eyes immediately moved to his forehead. Harry resisted the urge to groan. 'It doesn't matter; just go.' And he turned his back on the man, walking over to where he'd seen the elderly woman fall.

There was a quiet pop from behind him that was almost lost in the noise from the commotion from outside. Spotting the hem of a periwinkle robe under the racks, and quickened his pace, kneeling beside the woman. Her white hair was fanned across her face, and she was collapsed across her bright blue purse. Harry carefully rolled her over, easing the bag out from under her, and brushing her hair back gently. Taking out his wand, he spoke the words to rouse her, and she winced as if in pain.

'Can you hear me? Are you hurt?' Harry asked quietly, as his head was still bothering him.

The woman took a deep breath, and tried to sit up. She winced again.

'I think I've broken my hip.' She opened her eyes. 'Where am I?'

'You're in Madame Malkins', but there's some kind of attack outside; it's not safe here. Can you stand?'

The woman shook her head, her eyes now shut in pain. Harry gritted his teeth, and, ignoring his own pain, slid his arms under the woman, and pushed upwards with his legs. This was familiar, he thought, except he'd been rather wetter when he was carrying Ginny. And his head hadn't then felt like a bludger was loose inside it. He adjusted the old woman in his arms, and took a step to make sure he wouldn't fall. Turning around, he saw Frank standing beside the sales assistant and looking at him strangely.

'She's hurt...Mungo's...' Harry managed to gasp through the pain in his head.

Frank raised her wand, and Harry felt the weight lifted from his arms. Black spots danced before his eyes, and he breathed a little easier.

'Thanks, sorry, I forgot.'

The woman, now floating a few inches above Harry's arms, didn't appear to have noticed the change.

'All right,' Frank took control, 'Beryl, there's a fireplace in the back room, right? I need to you to take this woman to a healer's. Do you have any Floo powder?' Beryl nodded. 'Good, take care, and get out as fast as you can.'

Beryl the sales assistant looked as attentive as a private receiving orders, and nodded sharply before leading the floating customer away from the conflict outside.

Frank turned to Harry and, not meeting his eyes, opened her mouth to speak. The two large display windows at the front of the shop shattered, and four or five people (Harry wasn't sure; they blended with the spots already dancing before his eyes) climbed in. One picked up a fallen manikin and hurled it into the desk where it skidded over the side and landed on the previous intruders. They'd been unceremoniously piled there, fortunately no more awake than the manikin.

When the new interlopers saw Frank and him, they advanced toward them, smiling unkindly at the two out-numbered teens. However, though Harry couldn't see it, Frank was returning their smiles with a delighted grin of her own. This had nothing to do with how good Harry looked in his dress-robes, and everything to do with the intimidating persons in front of her. Barely sparing Harry a glance, she moved in front of him, centered her weight, and raised her wand.

Harry, if he had been in any state to do so, would have done the same, but the din of the attack was washing over him in waves of pain. It warbled like a badly tuned radio, and Harry swayed with it, fighting for consciousness.

If he'd not been so pre-occupied, he would have noticed Frank fending off their attackers, and if his head hadn't been saturated with pain, he would have noticed her winning.

She cast a pale yellow beam of light with her wand, and followed it up with a pulse of energy from her other hand. The man she'd been aiming at was overcome with violent hiccups and then knocked off his feet by the second curse. He barreled into the person behind him and they both went down in a heap.

Frank dodged two curses sent her way and fired two quick curses with her wand. Her smile widened when they cleanly hit their marks, and two more went down: a woman who went more up than down as she was lifted bodily by the front of her robes and hung on a hook near the ceiling, and the other man, who suddenly found himself attached to the floor when he conveniently tripped and his limbs stuck to the hardwood.

The last assailant began a quick fox trot with the formerly discarded manikin as the radio struck up a jaunty tune from its place on a shelf at the back of the room.

Harry, his head reeling from pain and hardly noticing the surreal tableau, suddenly lost the feeling of the ground beneath his feet, and his legs gave out. Just before the world went black, he felt two strong arms wrap around him and fire swept back into his veins.

Ginny closed her eyes, trying to block out the storm, but even the backs of her eyelids were awash with the white light. A brief relief came as thunder crashed, and the lightning strikes abated. White spots glided across her field of vision, and she opened them, noticing that the three Canadians were still more concerned with the storm outside.

Her head was pounding in an unfortunate offbeat to the thunder. The flash of lightning and its subsequent rending of the air around them were doing nothing for the pain either. It felt like someone was trying to squish her brain through a plastic straw with a sledgehammer. Not a nice feeling. Desperately, she dug the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, trying once again to block out the light, the noise, and the pain.

And suddenly, it stopped. Lightning flashed once behind them, but the thunder sounded much more distant than it had a moment ago. Without its sharp cracks, she felt that she was regaining at least a semblance of sanity. She massaged her temples and took deep, calming breaths. Izzie, Dominic, and Charles, however, were still staring, their bodies tense, expectant.

Ginny frowned, uncomprehending until from seemingly right above them, light flared briefly followed by a crack so loud, she was almost certain she could hear it echoing inside her head. Every echo caused more pain, and the ripples spread. All she could see now was white light: her head was full of it. Every pore, every thought—her consciousness was teetering on a precipice. She struggled for control, and for a moment, she thought she had it, but alas. Her concentration failed, and she was enveloped by the blessed darkness.

Hermione's eyes flew open, and her neck whipped around.

'Damn!'

It was rapidly becoming chaos. Shoppers who had been finishing their final purchases in the fading light were taken by surprise when predictably black-robed figures suddenly slipped from various hiding places: inside empty cauldrons on display, and from behind locked doors. When the first curse flew, everyone panicked. They'd obviously been reading the Prophet because even though no one knew why it was happening, they all knew what was happening. It was one of the seemingly random attacks by the followers of He Who Must Not Be Named. The kinds of things parents tell their children to inspire fear and obedience. A deadly nighttime story that was quickly becoming a reality.

Making a split decision, Hermione plunged a hand into her shorts' pocket and pulled out two paperclips.

'What are those?' Ron asked, his head swiveling between the peculiar behavior of his girlfriend and the commotion in the street.

'Paperclips. Emergency portkeys. Frank's got others.' Hermione seemed reduced to one or two word sentences as she concentrated on the stationary supplies in her hands.

'I've just got to hook—'

But she never finished her sentence because just then, a shout pierced the din.

'Gran!'

Hermione's head shot up, eyes sharp, and frowned.

'That was Neville!'

She worriedly met Ron's gaze. Together, they dashed out of the alley, and into pandemonium.

Neville Longbottom was distressed. He and his Grandmother were shopping for school supplies in Diagon Alley, and she was mildly berating him for having broken his old wand.

'Really, Neville. I don't see how you could have been so careless. That was your father's wand, you know. I'm immeasurably proud of you for holding your own against the followers of He Who Must Not Be Named, but that was a very good wand. He got his Auror's certification with it. I only hope this new one will be sufficient.'

She was bustling along a step or two ahead of him as he carried their various purchases. His new wand, pine and dragon heartstring was, though his grandmother didn't know it, resting placidly up his sleeve. Ollivander had seemed particularly happy to see him, though he too lamented the loss of Frank Longbottom's wand. But then, Neville reflected, Ollivander seemed happy to see anybody.

He adjusted the weight of the bags, and marched resolutely after his gran. He smiled slightly as he felt the cool wood of his wand brush up against his forearm. It was really nice having a wand that was actually his. He felt more confident, and, though he didn't dare admit it, he thought he'd felt something different about this wand: something better and stronger. But of course that was absurd...and so his denial continued.

Neville was used to these kinds of shopping trips by now, as it was going to be his sixth year at Hogwarts. Every year he trailed behind Gran while she picked out what he'd need for the upcoming semester. It was never very exciting. He only wished that he could perhaps see someone he knew. Normally at least one of his classmates was out shopping on the weekend before school started. His gran turned sharply around the corner, as she led him to the apothecary, their last stop of the day.

Unexpectedly, Gran stopped, standing poised in from of the apothecary. There was a 'Closed' sign on the door.

'Well really,' she began, clutching her big red handbag self-righteously. But at that moment, there was a sound of breaking glass, and the window to their right shattered with a quiet tinkling. Everyone in the alley was still now, their heads turned to the broken window, each daring the other to speak first, and enquire about the peculiarity. Some began moving quickly away, as if unwilling to take a part in the oddity of the broken window. People had begun to murmur amongst themselves, and others were looking around for whatever might have caused the broken window.

Neville noticed the change at once. The atmosphere of the crowd went from curious to alarmed in the blink of an eye. Something was definitely not right. This was affirmed a moment later when the first curse flew. Neville watched it arc through the air, a beam of yellow light, coming straight for him.

Acting instinctively, Neville grabbed his Grandmother's arm and pulled her away as the curse hit the framework of the broken window. With a feeling of detachment, Neville knew with utmost certainty that they had to leave immediately.

More curses were flying now, and he hurried as he weaved through the crowd, dragging his gran by the arm. He'd grown a bit in the past year, and took advantage of his greater height to roughly shoulder his way through the panicking people.

The air above them was lit up like a cruel and brutal display of fireworks. People around him were screaming, and Neville staggered when the man he had been about to elbow out of the way was hit by a green beam of light, and fell to the ground, his eyes glassy.

People jostled, and Neville tightened his grip on his grandmother's arm. She was calling at him to slow down, but he didn't listen, couldn't listen. He knew he had to get her to safety.

There was a yell from above him, and Neville looked up in horror as a woman came hurtling through the air, straight for him. His mind went blank as she came closer and closer. Neville finally reacted. Pushing his grandmother away, he brandished his new wand and yelled 'Mobilicorpus!'

The falling female slowed, then stopped, and when Neville released her from the spell, she was almost to the ground. Crying, she stuttered a thanks, and took off running. Neville turned back to his grandmother, and saw her a few feet away, her wand out, trying to fight her way through the bedlam, calling for him to wait for her. Fortunately the people were thinning, as more of them rushed down the alley, away from the disordered crowd.

He started to run, reaching out to her, but stopped short when something flew directly over-head. It whipped through his hair, and hit his gran in the shoulder. The green light seemed to seep insidiously into her dress, and as if it was happening in a time that wasn't quite logical, her vulture-topped hat fell, and her face froze in what would be her last and final expression of shock.

From her vantage point on the wall, Martha Holding watched as Potter fainted, and slumped to the floor. The girl with curly hair and a wicked hiccupping jinx scooped him into her arms, and together, they disappeared.

Martha frowned. Richie Danks was still fox-trotting around the room with that idiot manikin. Why was she constantly surrounded by incompetence!

Squirming, she tried to unhook herself from the wall. She kicked her legs, and flailed her arms to no effect. She called out, but Danks and his manikin were unresponsive, and everyone else was out cold. Furious, she crossed her arms and fumed. Morons, the lot of them.

When they found him, Neville was crouched over the late Augusta Longbottom's body, his eyes wide. He seemed lost in his own world, not really registering what was going on around him. There were bags looped around his limp wrist, though a few of the parcels had fallen out, and were now strewn haphazardly in what seemed to be his own personal field of carnage.

Ron was silent for a moment before he bent down and gently slid one arm beneath the dead woman's neck, and one under her knees. Standing, he made a gesture to Hermione with his head. She nodded, and stooped to gather Neville's parcels. Helping him stand, she took Ron's hand, and, with one last look at the dwindling fight, she looped the two paper clips together. The last thing the teens heard as they were pulled away to safety was the sound of apparating Aurors, once again, too late.

Ginny, her eyes closed, frowned. Something wasn't right. She didn't remember falling asleep. Still frowning, she opened her eyes, and said frown deepened. Three faces were looking down at her where she was curled up on her seat.

'Ginny?' Dominic asked uncertainly.

'How on earth did you sleep through that!' Charles added incredulously, her cheeks flushed.

Ginny, still frowning, reached up to rub her forehead, and suddenly remembered the lightning storm. She sat up abruptly and craned her neck, looking for the clouds that she'd seen perhaps moments ago. They were still there, but the only lightning flashed unthreateningly a good twenty minutes behind them.

'I-I don't know,' she began, 'I had a headache, so I must have just closed my eyes for a second...'

'It's been a bit more than a second, eh?' Izzie pointed out.

'Has it?' Ginny felt disoriented, and tried not to let it show. 'Right. Of course.'

'We should be at Pascale's soon,' Dominic commented, eyeing the dark clouds ahead of them, 'But first it looks as though we'll be going through a quite the shower.'

Sure enough, not five minutes later, the first drops hit their windows. It started as a pitter-patter, and then crescendoed abruptly as Ginny felt the impact of many liters of water pounding on the roof of the van. Air that had previously been warm was now chilled, and Ginny took deep breaths, cooling her head and clearing her mind as she watched the water run down the glass in rivulets.

There was a slate-blue house sitting comfortably at the end of a gravel road. It was surrounded by a knee-high picket fence, traditionally white. Equally white trim decorated the sloping eaves, and a perfectly round window was inset in the yellow front door. The brick-laid walkway led a smooth path from the porch steps, through the black-eyed susans, the hazelnuts, and the raspberry bushes, and back to the little white gate at the front of the garden. If one were to look up when standing in front of this little white gate, one would see first a white-painted porch, then the peaked gables. Further up was the darkly contrasting shingled roof, and just above that, a girl. Beside the girl was a red-brick chimney, strong and resilient. But this is not the chimney's story; that's for another time.

This girl on the widow's walk, standing sentinel above the soggy gravel road was perfectly still. One might almost miss her against the dark sky, were it not that she wore a plain white dress, and carried an immense black umbrella, easily large enough to shield two, if not three people. Rain fell, drumming an intricate solo on her capacious shelter.

She smiled when she finally saw the pacifying vehicle emerge from the spray, windshield wipers flapping furiously. Underneath the black umbrella, she wiggled her bare toes in the puddling water.

When the girl emerged from the front door a moment later, her umbrella was folded, and hooked around the banister in the entry hall where it hung, dripping steadily onto the floor.

He was getting out of the car, helping down his sister, friend, and another girl. This new girl had bright red hair that turned darker as it got wetter and wetter. She asked him something, and he smiled at her, squeezing her hand.

When he looked at the front porch, however, he only had eyes for her. A broad smile lit his face, and he walked towards her, his arms held wide. She laughed with relief, and bounded down the front steps and into his arms. He twirled her about and she laughed again, this time at his soggy and disheveled appearance. The boy's smile faded, and he said her name, clutching her shoulders, telling her how good it was to see her at last.

A throat cleared behind them, and the two turned, hurrying to help unload the van.

Standing behind the screen door, an old woman smiled. All was right once again. Satisfied, the grandmother retreated to the kitchen, where her kettle was whistling.

For the next few days, Harry flirted shamelessly with consciousness. Frank, his ever-present watcher, was currently stretched out on a wicker chair that she'd dragged in from Ginny's room. She had a crocheted throw pulled over her knees, and Hermione's cat curled up in her lap.

'Don't look at me like that Crookshanks, you know that there's no way I could have known.'

Crookshanks blinked and lifted his chin, waiting to be scratched. She frowned and sighed, her hands obediently massaging the orange fur.

'You think I shouldn't beat myself up about it, eh? Well it is my fault. He would have been fine, or at least mostly fine if I'd been paying attention. I got careless. I always was unbelievably crap at multi-tasking.'

She sighed and scooped the cat up in her arms, burying her face in his fur.

'And I'm so sorry about it, I just wish he'd wake up so I could tell him!'

She released the protesting cat and began scratching behind his ears.

'But there's so many things I want to know! How did it happen--and when--and who else knows? I mean, for goodness sakes, I don't even know if he knows!'

Crookshanks continued to purr unsympathetically.

'Though I've been thinking. Doesn't it seem just a bit too coincidental to you? Exactly how many Fielders do you think there are?'

She stopped stroking, and he gave a plaintive mewl. She resumed.

'You're completely right. Of course there's no way of knowing. Like I can just to go up and ask someone? I'm sure that'd go over well. "Hi, I'm Frank. You haven't happened to have been feeling a bit radioactive lately, have you? No occasional glimpses through things? Do light bulbs become shockingly expletive when you approach?" Give me a break.'

Crookshanks gave her a disdainful look, stretched, his claws digging into her thighs, and bounded across the room, slipping through the door.

'It's not my fault!' Frank called, almost desperately, and buried her head in her hands.

She looked over at Harry's prone figure; his constantly disordered hair stark against the white sheets and his pale skin. His eyelids were still: concealing the life she knew they hid. If she stared hard at the sheets over his chest, she could barely make out the movement: a slight raising and falling.

She felt tears prick her eyes, and drew in a shuddering breath. How could she let this happen? She'd given back everything she'd unwrapped and tried to remove, but his system would need time to recover from the shock. She was such an idiot.

The healers were all confused about what was causing his coma, but attributed it to magical exhaustion, especially when Frank had told them that Harry had been the one to take out the attackers in Madame Malkins'. She may also have exaggerated the number, saying that three more escaped through the windows... It didn't matter in the long run, but it was the least she could do for him. Keep the healers off his case for the time being.

Her only problem was Dumbledore. For some reason, he didn't seem convinced with her fabricated story. She'd met him a few days ago, when he'd come to the Burrow after visiting the wreckage that was Diagon Alley. She'd never been good at lying, but his ice blue eyes seemed to pierce straight through her.

There had been a quiet funeral for Neville's grandmother, and she was now buried in the small Longbottom cemetery next to her late husband. Neville had gone to stay with the Lovegood's, who Frank had also met recently, and who were wonderful to Neville. Only a brief walk from the Burrow, and perfect for Neville because even though he was his grandmother's heir, he didn't quite feel up to moving into that big old house. In fact, Mr. Lovegood was talking about Neville staying with them until he graduated, which Frank thought was very considerate of him. Apparently, he'd lost his wife a few years ago, and was no stranger to grief. Neville hadn't actually told Frank all these things, but Hermione had been sharing Harry's bedside with her often enough, and sometime in the long hours of the early mornings, she'd become much more forthcoming with Frank.

Ron also spent a fair bit of time in Harry's room (which used to be his brother Percy's), but he got fidgety, and would always end up pacing or compulsively tearing at a rip in the sofa.

He and Hermione had been spending most evenings together outside, or in the sitting room with a chessboard in front of them, neither one playing. Frank noticed these things silently, not begrudging them the time they spent together, free of worry.

The British Ministry of Magic was in an uproar. The Daily Prophet was having a field day, pinning the Ministry from every angle, and there had been countless resignations because of what was being called the Diagon Alley Disaster.

Most people were blaming the Ministry and specifically the Minister, Cornelius Fudge. It was looking more than probable that he would be forced to resign.

According to what she'd heard from Ron, Hermione, the twins, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Dumbledore, this was a good thing.

Thoughts jumbled, and guilt gnawing at her conscience, Frank closed her eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Ginny,

Why haven't you responded to my last letter? I know it takes a few days for inter-continental flights, but I can only hope it's coming soon, because I'm anxious to hear about how you're doing in Canada.

There was an attack on Diagon Alley the other day. We're mostly okay. Ron and I are fine, but it's lucky we were carrying emergency portkeys, because we were almost right beside the source of the trouble. Neville's gran is dead, and he's been staying with Luna. Harry exhausted himself somehow though, so he is still in a coma, but the healers say he'll pull through. Still, it's the oddest thing; they have no idea what happened to him. I was reading the reports, and for all appearances it seems that he was drained magically, but he doesn't show the classic symptoms for fatigue, nor over-exertion. I'll keep you updates with how he's doing.

The Ministy is in big trouble, and everyone is pushing for Fudge to resign. You can't blame them really, can you? I mean, his dependability, though we knew otherwise, suffered a major blow when he had to publicly announce that Voldemort is back, and now that he's failed to protect Diagon Alley... Well, let's just say his chances don't look good. If Harry's awake when he actually does resign, we might throw a party. It would be ample reason to celebrate.

Ollivander has disappeared, and strangely, his shop is otherwise in perfect order, as if, perhaps, he was expecting to leave. Almost all the rest of Diagon Alley is in ruins. Forty-two people died, and Saint Mungo's is full of injured people.

Miraculously, the twins' shop escaped much of the damage. Their sign caught fire, but otherwise, none of the Death Eaters seemed interested in a joke shop. Your mum says it's a miracle.

I didn't want you to be left out of the loop, or to hear about the Disaster and worry. You'll probably get one from your mum when she stops smothering the twins and telling them how clever they are. I'm not joking. That actually happened.

Write me back soon, and try not to worry.

Hermione

Ginny darling,

Hermione is concerned that she may have been a bit harsh in her letter. Everyone is fine. Your father's been very busy at work, because they've assigned everyone who hasn't resigned to working on the Disaster. They've placed him in the Department of Magical Law, where he's been sorting through the files of the Death Eaters they have in custody.

Fred and George are fine. The stores on either side of theirs are almost beyond repair, but they've said that when they painted their shop, they placed wards around the walls to stop any of their inventing accidents from disturbing their neighbors. Lucky for them, it kept the Disaster out as well. For once, I'm thankful for their ridiculous inventions and the scorch marks on my ceilings. It's worth every single headache they've ever given me, though don't you dare tell them that. The two of them been helping with the Diagon Alley cleanup.

Harry is still unconscious, but the healers say he should recover soon. His energy levels are rising, and he ought to be awake any day now. I know you're probably in fits about him, but beyond looking a bit peaky, he's as right as rain. Or will be when he wakes up.

We are all astoundingly safe; there's really nothing to worry about.

Tell me how it has been going in Canada. Also, ask your new friends if they'd like to come home with you for Christmas; we've always got room.

Take care of yourself,

All my love,

Mum

Ginny tossed her damp shirt onto the top of the pile and stepped into the shower. She wrung out her already-wet hair, and turned the water on. She shivered as the hot stream hit her cold skin, and winced as her limbs began to thaw.

They'd arrived at Pascale's almost an hour ago, and she still had no idea what to think of the strange girl. She'd never met anyone with hair as pale as hers, not even Fleur Delacour. It was so pale it seemed to shine of its own accord, kind of a ghostly white. Not, Ginny admitted, that she'd had much time to properly meet the girl. Pascale and Dominic were so wrapped up in each other, she doubted they'd even realized she was there. Izzie and Charles, and Pascale's grandmother and Uncle Larry had immediately sat down for tea in a comfortable, old friends kind of way, so when Pascale's grandmother suggested she take a shower, Ginny had jumped at the opportunity.

Not that the near-scalding water didn't feel heavenly against her chilled skin, but there was a thought, a niggling worry, something Ginny couldn't forget. She would swear that she hadn't fallen asleep. How could she? One minute she'd had a raging headache, barely able to move, and the next in a peaceful slumber? And what was up with Dominic, Izzie, and Charles during the storm? Sure it had been interesting. She'd even go so far as to call it creepy. But they'd seemed almost unnaturally absorbed. Then when she thought about how the storm made her feel, Ginny got a sharp shiver despite the hot water. She'd felt torn, as if by two of those pulling things that her father had brought home shortly before Ron started Hogwarts. They were attracted to each other in a very particular way... or to metal. What were they called? She thought back to the cool summer day that she and Ron had traipsed all around the house trying to find things to stick them to. Her favourite had been the kettle, because of the loud ringing noise they made when the force to stick became too strong, and the magnet was pulled out of her hand. Ah ha. It had felt like she was being pulled apart by two really big magnets. She frowned and blew out a breath, spraying water off her nose. Two really, really big magnets.

Ginny turned off the water, and wiped her face with her hands, dislodging water droplets. She wrung out her sopping hair, and reached for the pale yellow towel. She smiled when she found it to have been sitting under a warming charm.

Once wrapped in the soft and dry terry-cloth comfort, Ginny bent down, delving into the pile of damp clothes and emerging triumphant with her wand in hand.

Ten minutes and quite a few drying spells later, Ginny was dressed and busy plaiting her hair. It was good for the soul, she decided. There was nothing simpler, and nothing quite so soothing as a single braid. Idly scratching her shoulder, Ginny finished it off, tied it, and stepped out into the hall.

Hello. How was your morning? Good, I trust. I've been in the garden. I've finished picking the last of the raspberries, and the gnomes are adding another layer to their fort. I am wishing that the rain will wait until they're finished, or it's all going to come down in a large pile of mud.

How do you like raspberry jam? I've got a recipe of my mother's that is very pleasant on scones, and the batch I made last night should be cooled. We could have a picnic while we watch the gnomes. They're amazing. Their constructions are so intricate, I have no notion of why anyone would want to toss them out of the garden. They've built a trench now to convey water to their underground mud baths. I think it's excellent. Though, I'm not sure why they'd want to be any dirtier, and the stream is getting a little bit muddy, but that's fine. It'll wash away. That's its purpose.

I will be in the kitchen in ten minutes. The picnic basket is in the pantry.

Neville smiled, refolded the note into the airplane that had flown moments before through his open window, and slid it into his back pocket. He was sitting on the bed in the Lovegood's guest room. It was a nice bed. Soft, but springy. The duvet was covered with bluebells. He knew now that there was a matching spread on Luna's bed, and curtains with the same print hanging in the kitchen. He slid a hand through his hair, and took a deep breath. Glancing in the mirror across the room, Neville immediately wished he hadn't. His usual mousy brown hair was marred by a pale but easily distinguishable streak where he'd been passed over by the curse that killed his gran. It was a constant reminder of what he'd allowed to happen. Neville grit his teeth and tugged sullenly on the colorless lock. Various people, clearly feeling pity towards him had tried, to no avail, to fix it magically, but nothing they did made any difference.

A faint tune sifted through the open window, and Neville recognized Luna's voice. When she sang, she sung without any restraint: no self-consciousness at all. There were no words, and her melody was constantly changing. She sang simply for the joy of it, and Neville was sure he would now recognize it anywhere. He felt a wave of gratitude as he recognized that he'd never really appreciated her unquestioning kindness until now. She didn't press him, but whenever he was so full of thoughts or guilt or grief that he felt like boiling over, she was always there to listen and sooth. There was almost a lulling quality about her, a special trait that enabled her to acknowledge problems and hardships, acknowledge them and move on, forgiving, but not forgetting. He admired her for it, and would ever be thankful.

Smiling once more, Neville shouldered his thoughts and walked out of the room, the tranquil tune following him down the hall on his way to the kitchen for some raspberry jam and scones.

A/N: Hello, anyone who is reading this story. It's been a while since I've had a decent review, and I'd be much obliged, since keeping all of my plot points straight in my head and on the screen is a tiring and thankless pursuit. Thank-you if you do decide to tell me what you think; you will make a very stressful week a little less arduous.