Chapter Fourteen: All Hallows' Eve

The next two weeks passed quickly. The seven of us met whenever possible, but most of the planning was accomplished via passed notes in hallways. Bellatrix terrorized the school for a few days, but thankfully left before doing permanent damage. The new D.A. members were inducted at a haphazard meeting in which Seamus tried to teach the basics of hand-to-hand combat that he'd picked up in a Muggle martial arts class. Gryffindor played Hufflepuff in Quidditch and very nearly lost, owing to Luke's being sick and forcing me to play Jack Sloper at Keeper. I smacked Amycus Carrow when he touched my hair during Dark Arts one day and earned a straight month of Saturday detentions. Fawkes developed the habit of leaving dead mice on my pillow; I developed the habit of falling asleep wearing the Sorting Hat, alternately badgering it for advice and just listening to it. Over the centuries of serving and observing Hogwarts, it had picked up an impressive amount of anecdotes.

Everything's worked out except how to actually get into Snape's office, I thought at the Hat as I settled into bed on October 30th. We reckon there's got to be a password for the statue guarding the staircase, and we don't know what it is.

I believe you'll find that that particular issue resolves itself, the Hat responded.

What do you mean?

While the Sorting Hat pondered how best to explain—an activity that was accompanied by a light sort of tickling in my ear—Fawkes swooped in through his rookery and settled onto the roost, welcomed by chirps from Pig and Arnold.

The various inanimate objects in this castle, Miss Weasley, the Hat began, were not placed for mere decoration. Every item—every statue, every light fixture, every portrait, every tapestry—was chosen and placed by the Founders for a specific reason. Do you know what the principle duty of the Headmaster of Hogwarts is stated to be, according to the school's founding documents?

The school has founding documents?

The Sorting Hat sighed in my ear. If I didn't know any better, I would swear that the only student to have ever read Hogwarts, A History is Hermione Granger.

She's certainly one-of-a-kind, I agreed. Wait, at the beginning of the year, McGonagall mentioned something about that. She said that Dumbledore considered the safety of his students to be his greatest responsibility. Is that right?

It is indeed.

So the Headmaster's main job is to take care of the students, I thought slowly, trying not to get ahead of myself, and everything in the castle was placed where it is for a specific reason...does that mean that the statue to the Headmaster's office is also supposed to be sort of...watching out for us?

It is my opinion that if you approach the statue and explain to it your honest intentions, the spirit that it was imbued with will be moved to assist you.

"Brilliant," I breathed.

"So it's just going to let us in?" Neville asked incredulously at breakfast the next morning. "What's the point of Snape putting a password on it if it's just going to let us in?"

I shifted one of the hundreds of jack-o-lanterns lining the center of the table so I could lean closer. "I don't think Snape really gets the castle, you know? He's in charge and everything, but I dunno, Nev, if you heard the way the Sorting Hat talks, it's like everything in the castle is alive and somehow conscious."

Neville sat back, still looking skeptical, but raised his glass of pumpkin juice. "Well, cheers to the Founders, then."

"Cheers to the Founders, eh?" Luke echoed, settling into the seat next to Neville. "Why's that, mate?"

"Oh, for, uh...pumpkin juice," Neville finished somewhat frantically. "I love the stuff."

"Right, me too," Luke said, giving Neville a funny look. "Anyway, did you guys hear that Bellatrix Lestrange is back?"

My eyes shot to Neville, who had paled instantly. "What are you talking about?"

"I guess Snape invited her for the feast and ball tonight," Luke said, completely unaware of the effect his words were having on Neville. "Supposedly, Halloween's one of her favorite nights of the year."

Neville gulped and stood up awkwardly, panic written all over his face. "Ginny, I'm going to go talk to Parvati and Meg about a, uh, prefect thing. See you at the game."

"Secret D.A. things?" Luke asked knowingly as Neville hastily left Great Hall.

I glared at him, refusing to answer. "Nice to see that you're feeling better. We almost lost to Hufflepuff because of you being sick, you know."

Luke rolled his eyes and spoke through a mouthful of porridge. "You've only told me about half a million times, thanks."

"Just because your girlfriend broke up with you and you're feeling all mope-y doesn't give you an excuse to fake sick to get out of a game," I said, surprised by the vehemence in my own words.

"Fighting words, there, Gin, steady on," he said, clearly just as surprised as I was. "I really was ill, you know. And I haven't moped about Abby in at least a week."

"Well...just...don't screw up tonight," I blurted. "I don't want to be the first Gryffindor team to lose against Slytherin in almost a decade."

I hastily pushed away from the table and stalked out of Great Hall, consciously trying to calm myself down.

"Did you see Guy's face after Ritchie hit him with that Bludger?" Jimmy crowed as we paraded back into the locker room, flushed, glowing, and triumphant after a narrow but brilliant victory over Slytherin. "Thought he was going to piss himself, he was so mad."

"And Astoria after Luke blocked all three of her penalty shots?" Natalie continued. She high-fived Luke over my head; I winced and ducked.

"Aww, what's the matter, there, captain?" Luke joked. "Thought you'd be beside yourself that we beat them."

"I am," I said, smiling and trying to make it look less forced than it felt. I was thrilled that we'd won the game, but the knowledge that Bellatrix Lestrange was watching from the Headmaster's box made me extremely uncomfortable. "Honest. You played really well."

"So did you," he replied cautiously. "Is everything okay?"

I looked up at him just in time to watch as he tugged his Quidditch robes and sweaty undershirt over his head and turn to me with his hands in his pockets, his hair ruffled, and his glorious chest and six-pack available for my perusal.

"Yes, everything is fine," I insisted, determinedly looking at his eyes. "I'm just a little tired from the match and I'm not really looking forward to playing dress-up all night."

"Oh, so you're upset that no one asked you to the ball?"

"What? No, I—I've had other things on my mind." I picked up my water bottle and took a long draw, avoiding his eyes. To be honest, I'd been so busy planning the night's illegal activity that I'd completely forgotten about getting asked to or asking someone to the dance; Meg, Parvati, and Bianca had been full of gossip about who was going with whom for the past few days and I'd been largely successful at tuning them out.

"Well, you can come with us, if you want. I'm sure Daphne wouldn't mind," Luke offered nonchalantly, thankfully pulling a shirt on.

"Thanks, that's sweet of you, but-." I fully processed the name he'd just said and dropped my water bottle. The lid flew off and water started pooling around my sneakers; I barely noticed. "Daphne? Daphne who?"

He popped his head out of the collar of his shirt, looking bewildered. "Daphne Greengrass, Gin, how many Daphnes do you know?"

Rage started pitting in my stomach, tying my intestines into knots. "You're taking Daphne Greengrass to the ball?"

He chuckled, apparently oblivious to the tension in the room. Everyone else had fallen silent at my last question and was watching the two of us cautiously. "Well, I think technically she's taking me, since she's the one who asked, but yeah. What of it?"

"'What of it?'" I echoed. "WHAT OF IT? She's a Slytherin, she's a completely terrible human being, she's been shagging Crabbe for years, and she—she—Merlin, Luke, she's basically my arch-nemesis, what the hell are you thinking?"

I crammed all of my things into my bag and ran from the room, the wet soles of my shoes squeaking with every step.

"Ginny!" I heard Luke plea behind me. "Ginny, wait up, please!"

His fingers closed around my arm when we were in the hallway leading out to the pitch. He pulled me around to face him and put his hands on my shoulders, stooping a little to meet my eyeline.

"Ginny," he said softly. "I've been sad about Abby, Daphne's pretty and funny and smart, she asked and I said yes. That's all. If I'd have known it was going to upset you this much I never would have agreed. I didn't know."

"Bullshit," I spat. "I'm not some moony-eyed Fourth Year who follows you around swooning over your biceps, I'm your Transfiguration partner. We spend hours together every bloody week and you've heard my stories about Daphne, you've seen me at Quidditch practice after Daphne's been practicing her curses on me during detention. You know how I feel about her."

"Ginny, I..." Luke trailed off. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"You know what I'm thinking, Luke?" I said. I could feel my next words rising inside me, and I tried desperately to hold them back, but the anger had built up to a fever pitch. "I think that someone who's trying to prove he's not exactly like his parents should maybe not be shagging the Slytherin princess."

I shrugged his hands off my shoulders harshly, turned on my heel, and marched off.

"I'm not shagging anyone!" Luke shouted after me.

"I don't give a Dinklebee's arse who you shag!" I shrieked, whirling around. "Shag the entire damn Slytherin house for all I care! They're all pretentious, conniving, evil little twits anyway!"

A small noise to my left startled me; I looked over and felt all the anger leave my body in an instant.

"Bailey," I began, taking a step toward the silently crying Slytherin. "I didn't-."

"I just wanted to say congratulations on winning the game," she said through her tears.

"Bailey," I tried again. "You know that I don't-."

That was as far as I got; the tiny blonde girl ran back toward the castle with her face in her hands.

Well. Shit.

I picked my way through the feast. My anxiety about the activities of the night was gone, replaced by a simmering anger at myself and Luke. Next to me, Neville was methodically working his way through a plate of food with shaking hands and making a point of not looking at the Head Table.

After what seemed like hours, Snape announced that the feast had ended. He clapped his hands and the tables disappeared; Great Hall was instead filled with giant pumpkins, cobwebs, and a whole range of other Halloween-themed decorations. A live band—well, an un-dead band, technically—started playing in one corner.

Neville, Luna, Michael, Meg, the Patils and I made eye contact from our various locations as everyone bewitched their costumes into existence.

It didn't take long for the initial stage of our plan to be set. Padma was going to act as our first lookout, staying in Great Hall and keeping an eye on the various figures we needed to keep track of: Snape, Umbridge, Filch, the Carrows, and, as of that morning, Bellatrix. Parvati and Meg were the next layer of protection. Stationed just outside the doors to Great Hall, Meg was ready to have a complete blubbering meltdown in Parvati's arms should any of our targets leave the dance.

Luna made a non-discrete getaway by shrieking that the Adalantian Sheerfish was about to be born and streaking out of the hall; Neville used her distraction to slip out unnoticed. I was watching some of the younger Ravenclaws imitate Luna's antics when a hand touched my shoulder. Michael.

"Dance with me?" he asked.

I sighed, but placed my hand in his. "Sure."

He led me to the dance floor as the band struck up a slow song. I caught Padma's eye and she minutely shook her head—not yet.

"You look lovely," Michael said as we settled into a gentle sway, his arms low on my back and mine around his neck.

I laughed. "I'm dressed like a Weird Sister, Michael, I'm not supposed to look lovely."

"You always look lovely to me," he said in a low voice.

"It's not time, yet, Michael, you don't have to be acting right now."

This part of the plan, although simple in goal, was complicated to execute. Luna disappearing was standard practice and Neville wasn't exactly known for his dancing or love of parties; Michael and I, however, would be more noticeable in our absences. We needed excuses to be gone for an hour or more, excuses that would ensure no one came looking for us. We'd decided to stage a big, dramatic scene in which Michael declared his love, I spurned his advances, he shouted something awful about Harry, I ran away and he followed me, presumably to make up. If we played our parts well, no one would question our prolonged absences from the dance.

"I'm not acting," he said. "It's the truth."

A hand tapped Michael on the shoulder.

Luke.

Great. One moment I didn't want to deal with, interrupted by another moment I didn't want to deal with.

"Mind if I cut in?" he asked.

"Not now," Michael said.

"C'mon, mate, just for a dance or two," Luke continued, inserting an arm between Michael and I.

"I said, not now," Michael repeated, pushing Luke's arm out of the way. "Bugger off."

"What's your problem?" Luke asked. "It's a party. We're supposed to be having fun."

"You're my problem at the moment," Michael retorted. "You come here with a girl you know she hates and then you expect that she's actually going to want to dance with you?"

"Lucaaaaas," Daphne slurred, appearing from nowhere and draping her scantily-clad self all over Luke's front. "Where'd you go?"

"Not now, Daphne," Luke said through gritted teeth, staring at Michael like he was trying to make his head explode through sheer force of will.

"But I found a rosebush just for us," she said in a stage whisper, catching the Luke's earlobe between her teeth.

"I'm not interested, Daphne, I keep telling you-."

Daphne seemed to suddenly realize what she was standing in the middle of and turned to face me and Michael, pressing the back of her body into Luke, who immediately put both his hands high in and air and looked to the ceiling for help.

"Hi, hot Ravenclaw boy and Gryffindor slut," she said. She leaned forward toward Michael, grabbing Luke's shirt for support. "You know, I'd be careful with this one if I were you. She's probably carrying all sorts of diseases."

Fighting the ball of rage in my stomach for what seemed like the twentieth time that day, I looked around the room, my mind racing. We couldn't afford to delay much longer or our timing with Neville and Luna would be off. Padma caught my attention, shrugged in a "just roll with it" kind of way, and winked.

Showtime.

"Michael," I said, sliding myself between him and Daphne, "weren't you saying something earlier about how I look tonight?"

"What?" He asked, his eyes a little unfocused, still glaring at Luke. "Oh, right, yeah-."

But whatever compliment he was about to pay was drowned out by my shriek as Daphne seized a fistful of my hair and yanked. I stumbled backward, found my footing, and straightened up, fixing a strap of my dress and calmly turning to face her, noticing as I did that quite the circle of spectators had gathered around us.

"You are the single biggest idiot I have ever met," I stated. "I don't catfight."

"Aw, afraid you're going to get your poor-little-dead-boyfriend-loving ass kicked?" She taunted, tucking one of her perfectly curled blonde locks behind her ear.

I laughed. "You misunderstand. I didn't say I don't fight. I said I don't catfight."

And with that, I kicked off my heels and launched myself at her. Sixteen years of six older brothers had taught me well; I got in a several good swings and she'd only managed to land a light claw to my cheek before someone—Michael—pulled me up and restrained me.

"You heard what she said!" I sobbed theatrically, trying to find a balance between what I needed to accomplish and my overwhelming desire to beat Daphne's bony little butt into the ground. I struggled free of Michael's arms and was both pleased and disturbed to find that I was already crying. "You heard what she said about Harry. I don't—I can't!" I heaved one last giant sob/gasp/cry and fled, praying that Michael would have the sense to follow.

"You're a little scary sometimes," Michael gasped when we finally stopped running, two corridors down from our planned rendezvous with Luna and Neville.

I laughed, wiping my cheeks for tear tracks. "I can't even tell you how long I've wanted to do that."

"You'll catch hell for it come Monday," he cautioned. "I'm sure practically knocking out another student is worth a ton of demerits."

"Worth it," I said happily. "Definitely worth it."

We rounded a corner to find Neville pacing and Luna dancing in small concentric circles. We formed a tight square and ran through the details of the plan one final time.

"Right," Neville said, his jaw set. "Luna, you're going to...?"

"Stay here and keep a lookout," she said promptly. "Everyone has their coins?"

We each produced a D.A. Galleon, then tucked them back away in a pocket—mine went on a string around my neck, as my dress didn't have pockets.

"And who are you going to warn us about, Luna?" Michael asked.

"Snape, Umbridge, Filch, the Carrows, that Lestrange harpy, anyone who might cause a problem," she said in a sing-song voice. "Don't fret, Marcus, everything will be fine."

"Michael. My name is Michael."

"Anyway," I interrupted. "We'll message you when we're leaving Snape's office and splitting up. Where does everyone go from there, Luna?"

"You and Marcus-."

"—Michael-."

"You and Michael will take the sword to the Room of Requirement, Neville and I will return to the ball," Luna recited. "Will you dance with me when we get there?"

Neville flushed. "Well, yes, I suppose so. Um, we should get going."

"Good luck, then," Luna said. "Do try not to get killed."

"Cheers," Michael said, rolling his eyes.

The three of us took off at a trot down the corridor, checking each corner to make sure it was clear before moving on. We came to a halt in front of the statue guarding the stairs to the Headmaster's office; Neville and Michael gestured me forward.

I shifted my weight awkwardly from bare foot to bare foot, still not sure how to go about addressing a statue and asking it to abandon its post without giving the proper password. "Look, I, uh...I'm Ginny Weasley. Ginevra Molly Weasley, really. I don't know the password, and I know that you're not supposed to let me in if I don't know it, but the thing is, see, Snape's got the Sword of Gryffindor in there. I don't know how much you know about Snape or You-Know-Who or Harry...I don't imagine you get out much...but the Sorting Hat said that if I came here and was honest, you might be willing to help."

There was a pregnant pause, and then, unbelievably, the statue cocked its head.

"Oh, you're listening? Okay. So, here goes: I intend to steal the Sword of Gryffindor from Severus Snape's office and somehow get it to Harry Potter. I believe that doing so will help Harry win the war against You-Know-Who and, well, that'll be really, really good news for Hogwarts students."

The statue seemed to consider my explanation, then fluidly leapt to one side.

"Really?" I asked, astonished. "That worked? Brilliant, thanks!"

I darted past the statue and started up the stairs, but a grating sound and protests from Neville and Michael stopped me cold. The statue had returned to its original position and was barring them from accessing the staircase.

"Oh, come on," Neville complained. "We're with her, stealing the sword so we can give it to Harry and all that."

"We think Snape's absolute rubbish," Michael added.

The statue was literally unmoved, though, and we agreed that in the interest of time, it was best that I went on alone. Michael pulled a series of leather straps with bronze buckles from his pocket and awkwardly leaned over the statue to secure it around me. "It's for holding the sword flat against your back," he explained, pulling one of the straps tight under my armpit and another across my hips. "In case we have to run. You're going to want both hands free."

"Thanks," I said, readjusting my dress under the straps. "Keep an eye out, yeah?"

They both fervently agreed. I took the stairs two at a time and pushed through the door into Snape's office without giving myself time to pause or chicken out.

The sword was the very first thing I laid eyes on; it was so prominently displayed, centered above the desk, that there was no way not to look at it. The next thing I noticed was that the portrait frames were just as empty as the last time I'd been in this room. Apparently, Hogwarts' former Headmasters didn't think much of Snape, either. I started picking my way across the floor—judging by the state of the room, Chives hadn't yet succeeded in badgering Snape into letting him clean the office—and planning how in the world I was going to get up to the sword; climbing was certainly going to be involved.

I knotted my dress up above my knees, shucked my black wig to the ground, tied my hair up in a ponytail, and started climbing the front of one of Snape's many bookshelves. I clambered to the top of it easily, silently thanking Fred and George for all those times they'd chucked my shoes or teddy bear up into the trees in our backyard, and plotted my next move. The portrait frames were huge—each easily as tall as I was—and looked sturdy, but I wasn't sure if they'd actually support my weight.

"No backing out now, Weasley," I told myself out loud. I inched to the edge of the bookshelf, transferred one hand and foot to the edges of a huge, gilded portrait frame, then ever-so-slowly moved the rest of my body to join them. The frame or hinge or wall creaked slightly in protest, but I didn't go toppling to the ground. I let out a sigh of relief and progressed to the next frame.

Three frames later, I was directly beneath the sword, close enough to touch it, and was just pondering how I was going to lift the sword from its hangers and secure it on my back without plunging to my death when a kind, friendly, familiar voice from somewhere near my navel made me shriek, jump, and press myself against the portrait with white knuckles.

"This may be one of the more inappropriate situations I've ever found myself in with a student," said Albus Dumbledore, bright blue eyes winking up at me.

"S-s-sir?"

"Never fear, Miss Weasley, I'm certain that my being dead will take most of the spark out of the story."

"Y-y-yes, sir."

"Now, I presume you're wondering how to get both the sword and yourself safely down to the ground?"

"Yes, sir."

"I believe I can be of some assistance in that matter," Dumbledore said. As he spoke, his portrait swung forward on invisible hinges; I shrieked yet again and hung on tighter, but there, in the wall behind the portrait, a door-sized cavity had been carved and in it rested—

"The true Sword of Gryffindor," Dumbledore explained. I wedged my way around to the back of the portrait and stepped over into the cavity, picking the sword up with both hands. "I fear that poor Severus has only a replica," he continued. "An excellent duplicate, but still merely a replica. I had to ensure that the sword made it into the proper hands."

"Brilliant," I breathed, swinging the sword over my head and securing it into the many-strapped contraption. "What should I do with the fake one, then?"

"I believe that hiding it behind this portrait would be in our best interest. We wouldn't want Severus knowing that he has been deceived."

I leaned out as far as I could—by balancing on my toes and hooking my fingers around the edge of the hole, I was just able to reach the fake sword and pull it back into the hiding place. "Wow, this one looks exactly like the other one. It's incredibly well done."

"Goblin-made, like that from which it was copied," Dumbledore intoned. "It cost me several dear favors to have it made. Come along now, Miss Weasley, I'm sure you are on a tight schedule."

The descent was far easier than the climb, despite the length of metal strapped to my back.

"Thank you, sir," I said, looking up at the portrait. "I—for everything. We all miss you terribly. Harry worst of all."

He looked down at me through his half-moon glasses, smiling, but a hint of sadness rimming his eyes. I pressed my hand against my breastbone, which was irritated for some reason—I must have scratched it during the climb—as he spoke. "I will never truly be gone, Miss Weasley. Not from this castle, and not from the hearts of those who fight for it."

I nodded, unsure of what to say—unsure if I'd be able to say anything without crying—and turned for the door.

"Miss Weasley," he called as I put my hand on the doorknob. I turned back, tears hazing over my vision despite my best efforts. "Fawkes. Is he all right?"

I managed a small laugh, scratching the annoyed bit of skin on my chest as the pain grew. "He leaves dead mice on my pillow three times a week."

Dumbledore smiled, and this time it reached all corners of his face. "He'll grow out of that."

"I actually have a question about him, sir," I said suddenly, taking a few steps back into the room, "there's this thing he does with his...feathers..." I trailed off as my fingers brushed against the source of the irritation: my D.A. Galleon, strung around my neck, glowing white-hot.

I threw the door open and flung myself down the stairs. I just made out Dumbledore calling "I'm sorry!" before the door slammed shut and I threw myself past the statue, which didn't even get a chance to completely move out of the way. I barreled into Neville and Michael, both of whom were red in the face (presumably from shouting for me), grabbed each of them by the hand and took off at a dead sprint. We got through two flights of stairs and several hallways before we took a corner and screeched to a halt.

There, sitting in the middle of the corridor, was a light brown bunny with a purple bow around its neck. As one, Michael, Neville, and I started stepping backwards.

"Naughty, naughty children," it sang.

"Naughty, naughty children indeed," echoed a sweet and perky voice from behind us.

"The naughtiest," agreed a deep, slimy timbre that, as usual, made my skin crawl.

"This is going to be fun," chorused a fourth voice that I heard in nightmares of that horrible night in the Department of Mysteries. Neville grabbed my hand so hard that I felt a bone pop.

Umbridge, Snape, Bellatrix, and a bunny that was already the size of a tiger and still growing.

"At least I got to punch Daphne before I got killed," I said under my breath. Michael snickered, then everything went dark.

[A/N] Hi to new reviewers and readers! Now that I've finally figured out how to PM-reply to reviews, I promise an individual response to anyone with comments/questions/love/hate. Also, sorry I'm skipping over the Quidditch matches, I just have no idea how to write them and they don't really do anything for the plot.

[A/N] re: the sword swap—I know I'm off-canon here. I promise I have a reason, and I promise to explain that reason in the next chapter. For now...roll with it.