Chapter Twenty-Nine: Wide Awake On The Voyage Home

I spend all of Sunday cooped up in the library, trying to catch up on school assignments. My friends all wander through at one point or another to deliver food or help out for a bit; nearly everyone in the D.A. is behind in at least one subject, and a study group is as good a cover as any for some low-level rebellion planning. The Sixth and Fourth Years all have an Astronomy chart due before the Easter Holiday, so Colin Creevy and I, along with a decent number of the Fourth Year D.A. members, plan to be up on the Astronomy tower Monday night – we can't attend Hagrid's "Support Harry Potter" party, but we can at least keep an eye on it from afar.

Sitting across the table from Neville in mid-afternoon, I fight the overwhelming compulsion to tell him about Meg.

In the end, I decide to complete my long-overdue Dark Arts assignments. It's not as though I actually want to pass a class called "Introduction to the Dark Arts," but there's a particular non-vocal curse we've been learning that has a unique arm movement and I've seen Daphne trying to perfect the form in class – I might not want to be able to perform the spell, but if I can recognize it, at least I can defend myself.

It is still far, far too quiet in my dormitory. The room is so small now; just my bed, and a gaping hole in my heart where Meg's used to be. The tower's pretty good about producing a little trundle bed for Bailey when she comes up to spend the night, but she's becoming fast friends with the other Gryffindor First Year girls and isn't up here as often anymore.


A little after midnight, I bundle myself up in the comforter and take a seat on the ground in Fawkes' rookery. I prop a roll of parchment open against my knee and dip my quill into a little pot of ink, then pause. I came out here intending to write Charlie a fairly routine letter, but at this moment I feel like all of my emotions are about to come exploding out of my chest and flood onto the ground until there's nothing left inside me but cobwebs and empty space. So I write to him about that, instead.

Dear Charlie,

I don't know how much longer I can do this. I'm sorry, I know that must sound terribly dramatic – I'm here at school, nice and safe, and you're all out there in the real world fighting a war – but it's the truth. It's just so exhausting and I feel so isolated from the rest of you. Every day I wake up and I'm not sure who in my family is still alive. We all read the obituaries in The Daily Prophet at breakfast, hoping not to see familiar names, but I don't even know if the paper is reliable anymore. Your last letter was three weeks ago – what if you've died since then?

What if everyone is dead?

Meg is. Meg's dead. I told you about what Daphne did, but Snape told me the details earlier. They killed her when they replaced her with Daphne. She's been dead for months, and I didn't even know. What if that's happened to all of you? Mum and Dad, Harry and Ron and Hermione, Dean, Luna, Fred and George, Bill and Fleur, Percy, you, Lupin and Tonks?

Fenrir Greyback tried to kill me over the weekend. Or turn me into a werewolf. Don't worry, though, because I did some wonky ancient centaur magic and we're all safe – "we" being me and Luke, because did I mention that my good friend Luke is a werewolf and the son of Joseph and Arlene Bronte? Did I mention that I met Joseph Bronte? Did I mention that Hagrid's throwing some "Support Harry Potter" party tomorrow night and he's going to get himself killed? Did I mention that 99% of the time, I'm just a breath of bad news away from losing my mind?

I don't know. It feels like we're losing. Is this what war always feels like? You lose the people you care about one by one, and it's like you're losing body parts until all you are is a hard, crumpled reflection of who you were before?

Miss you,

Ginny

I cap the bottle of ink. Pig, recognizing the little clink as his usual cue, pokes his head in to the rookery, but I wave him away. "Sorry, little buddy. There's no way I can send this letter. It's going into the fireplace. I'll write a real one tomorrow."

I stand, shaking life back into my knees. As I stretch my arms up overhead, the parchment is snatched from my fingers. I look up – Fawkes.

"Fawkes," I chide, wagging a finger at the phoenix perched on a branch just out of reach. "Give that back. It's not for sending, I just needed to get the thoughts down on paper."

Fawkes appraises me with one beady eye. He opens his wings – they're huge, I realize suddenly, he's grown – to float down to me, but instead he disappears with a faint pop and I'm left with an arm outstretched to empty space.


Monday morning rolls in with a storm that raises the lake's water level by half a meter before lunch, then drifts off rapidly, leaving us a damp, grey afternoon. The entire school feels balanced on a precipice, holding its breath – we only have to make it through two days of school this week; the train home for the Easter holiday leaves Wednesday morning. Two days, and we get to breathe for a week. Two days.

I'm so worried about Hagrid's stupid party tonight that I risk detention to sneak down to his hut during dinner, but there's no dissuading him.

"I appreciate yer concern, Ginny, really I do, but I've made up me mind," he says, reaching over my head to tack up the corner of the "Boy Who Lived!" banner I was holding. "I aim ta throw this party and head fer the mountains."

"Someone's going to get hurt," I caution. "I don't think anyone's even coming, Hagrid, but someone – you – you're going to get hurt, and –."

"No' another word. We've had this talk already." He holds out his hand. "Goodbye, Ginny. Take care o' yerself."

I place my hand in his, and it looks comically small by comparison. "Bye, Hagrid."


I make my way up to the Astronomy tower with Natalie and the Creevy boys a little after 8 o'clock that night. Hagrid's party is due to start at 8:30, so I spend half an hour setting up my telescope, charting a little (I can't help noticing that Mars and Jupiter actually are moving into opposition), and worrying myself sick. I'm caught up in tracking a comet path when Laura Madley, one of the Ravenclaw Fourth Years Luna – Luna, my gut wrenches painfully – introduced to the D.A. touches my elbow gently and extends a trembling finger to point across the grounds.

She didn't need to point. I can see it just fine.

Hagrid's hut is lit up like a Muggle carnival ride. Lights on the roof make a giant lightning bolt, and lights scattered across the ground pulse in time to the music I can just begin to hear drifting across the lawn. I squint through the deepening twilight, barely able to make out two dancing figures – one big and hulking, obviously Hagrid, and another, considerably smaller and slighter figure that I can't place.

"Bloody hell," one of the other Fourth Years near me breathes, and I snap around to see that he has his telescope pointed to Hagrid's hut. I mentally slap myself and wrench my own telescope around, frantically focusing the picture until I can identify the tiny little blonde person whirling around next to Hagrid.

My heart stills in my chest. Bailey.

I'm halfway to the door when a series of explosions, their noise only slightly lessened due to distance, rock across the grounds. The other students on the tower scream, and their collective cry is echoed by a roar like a wounded animal from below. I scramble to reset my telescope, but by the time I can drag the image back into focus, it's all over. Hagrid's dim shape is fast disappearing into the trees that lead to the mountains; there are Death Eaters pursuing him, but they'll never catch up. His hut is burning. And Bailey, unconscious, is being levitated back to the castle by Amycus Carrow.

I'm dimly aware that the other D.A. members on the roof are staring at me, looking for guidance, comfort, support, anything. Instead, I look at my watch. It blinks 8:32 at me in blurry blue digits – blurry because I'm crying.

We only had to survive two days. We couldn't even last two minutes.


"Let this be a lesson to all of you," Snape says, standing in front of the Head Table in Great Hall with his hands crossed behind his back. "The time for games and childish leniency has passed."

I almost laugh at that – is that what the past months have been? games and leniency? – but I can't seem to make any noises other than the stifled, gasping sob that has taken up permanent residence in my chest. It's been less than an hour since the fiasco at Hagrid's, and the Heads of Houses have gathered us all in Great Hall to hear the pronouncement of Bailey's fate.

"Miss Norren will spend the remainder of the term in the castle dungeons," Snape continues. There's a gasp across the student body, but I find some small measure of relief – at least they aren't going to kill her. Yet. "This is punishment befitting the crime of allying oneself with or showing support to any of the following parties: Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. Remus Lupin. Kingsley Shacklebolt."

As Snape continues to list out the people who are routinely invited to my family's Christmas parties, I let my gaze drift along the Head Table. Amycus Carrow, looking positively delighted with this turn of events. Madame Hooch, her thin lips pressed into a tight line. Alecto Carrow, whispering something into Umbridge's ear that makes her sound that ridiculous, infuriating giggle. Professor McGonagall, sending a steely-eyed glare so powerful at the back of Snape's head that I'm surprised the grease on his hair doesn't start smoking. An empty seat where Hagrid belongs. Professor Flitwick, visible only as a tuft of white hair over the tabletop. Professor Slughorn, looking uncomfortable but resigned.

They're supposed to be our teachers. They're supposed to protect us.

A familiar heat sets up in my pocket. I shift casually to retrieve my D.A. Galleon and hold it under the table, sneaking a quick look to read the message – then looking again to confirm what I saw the first time.

Tomorrow. 7pm. RoR.

I pick my head up and make quick eye contact with Neville. It's plain from his face that he didn't send the message, and I try to make it clear that I didn't, either. No one besides the two of us has called a meeting this year, and most of the D.A. members don't even know how to use the messaging system Hermione dreamt up.

It feels like a trap. But, then, everything feels like a trap these days.


I spend the night with horrible nightmares of Bailey being tortured in the dungeons. 7 o'clock comes painfully slowly the next day – we have a History of Magic exam, which I dreadfully fail, and the singing baby animals at the castle doors have been replaced by Dementors. I am absolutely ready to be done with this castle for a week by the time Neville and I steal away from dinner.

"It's a little extreme, don't you think?" Neville whispers in my ear as we pace back and forth outside the Room of Requirement. "Yes, they've got Bailey in the dungeons, but that doesn't actually make this a prison. We don't need prison guards here."

"I don't know, Nev," I say, stopping in my tracks as the door grows out of the wall. "Maybe we do. We're a rebellion, after all."

"We're a dozen kids, Ginny. We're not an army."

"We had this conversation at the beginning of the year, Neville. We're willing to fight, we know that we have to fight. So that's what we're going to do." Even as I say the words, I can hear that my heart isn't in them. It's difficult to stay motivated when you feel like you're the only ones fighting.

"A little more enthusiasm there wouldn't hurt, Gin," Luke says, walking up behind Neville. He nods toward the door. "Are we going in, or are you two planning on standing around out here gabbing about being the rebellion for the whole bloody school to hear?"

I look at my hand on the doorknob. "It could be a trap."

Luke nods. "Almost definitely."

"There could be Death Eaters inside," Neville contributes.

"Or Dementors," I add. "Apparently, we have Dementors at Hogwarts now."

"Definitely could be," Luke agrees. "So what are we waiting for?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Is this what you're like when you actually commit to something?"

Luke laughs, all white teeth and tan skin and for the briefest instant, everything is normal. "Oh, dear Ginevra. Just wait until you give me a project I can really sink my teeth into." He flashes me another grin, puts his hand over mine, and pushes through into the room. I follow quickly, Neville right behind me, and I'm so caught up in trying to figure out if what Luke said was an intentional reference to him being a werewolf that it takes me a second to process who is standing in the middle of the D.A. members who arrived before us.

Professor McGonagall.

"Welcome," she says. "Please, everyone, take a seat – I cannot stay long."

The Room of Requirement seems to have prepared itself specifically for this purpose – significantly smaller than when we use it for training, it's now roughly the size of the living room at the Burrow and filled with low, squishy beanbags. We sink into them obediently.

"I'm sure the news of Miss Norren's situation is a cause of great distress for many of you," McGonagall begins. "It is of grave concern to myself and several other members of the faculty as well. I do not know this group's plans, and it was always Albus' belief that you should be allowed to govern yourselves and choose your own course of action."

She begins pacing, the click of her heels against the hardwood floors measuring out the seconds that are passing. "It is my belief, however, that the situation has escalated beyond what he anticipated. I am therefore here to implore you to take no further action where Miss Norren is concerned."

She holds up her hands to stem the barrage of protests that are immediately launched. "I understand your concern, and I will do everything in my power to see that she is taken care of during the holiday. I am hopeful that we will be able to negotiate her release after the break. But until then – please, students. The situation grows more severe than you may realize. The train to King's Cross Station leaves in just under twelve hours. Exercise restraint."

She sweeps away towards the door and the room erupts in side conversations.

"Professor!" I call, struggling out of my beanbag and chasing after her. She stops just shy of the door, pinching the bridge of her nose as she turns back to me. "How did you know about the Galleons? How'd you know how to use them?"

"My dear Miss Weasley," she sighs. "Who do you think gave Miss Granger the book on the encoding of magical messages?"

"Ginny!" Someone back in the beanbag cluster calls. I turn my head to see Luke waving me over, and the door swings shut behind me – McGonagall is gone.

"She's right," Neville is saying as I reclaim my green beanbag. "Even if we had time to put together a rescue plan before the train left – which we don't – it'd be too dangerous."

"This is insane," Michael counters. "Bailey is eleven. We can't leave her down in the dungeon for even another night, let alone a week while we're all at home with our families."

"She's probably being guarded by Dementors," Parvati reasons. "There's no way we could fight through them."

"Almost everyone in this group has a fully-formed Patronus!" Seamus argues. "Of course we can fight them!"

"The dungeons are huge," Padma chimes in. "We don't know where they're keeping her."

Luke speaks quietly, directly into my ear. "You have to say something."

I squirm around to face him, in a bright red beanbag directly adjacent to mine. "What?"

"You have to say something. You're the only one they'll listen to."

"I don't know what to tell them to do."

His brown eyes bore into me, demanding more of an answer.

"Of course I think we should rescue Bailey. She's just a kid, and she's a sweetheart, and the thought of her being down in the dungeons all alone?" A shudder runs through me as I remember the nightmares from the couple hours of sleep I managed to grab last night. "But McGonagall – and Neville – they're right, too. We don't have time to plan, and we don't know what we'd be up against."

He cocks his head to one side. "So what's it going to be? Follow your head, or follow your heart?"

Is that really what it comes down to? My heart is a Weasley, through and through. I can't lose anyone else. They still don't know about Meg. What would Harry do? What would my father say?

"We do nothing," I say quietly. I meet Luke's eyes.

He points to the group behind me, still arguing amongst themselves. "Don't tell me. Tell them."

I swivel around, clear my throat, and speak over the ruckus. "We do nothing."

Ten heads swing around to gape at me.

"I care about Bailey just as much as any of you. More than most of you – hell, Michael, you barely even knew her name until a week ago." I meet Michael's gaze and it is burning, accusing. I look away. "It kills me to say this. But McGonagall is right. She wouldn't have come here to warn us against it if there was even a chance we'd be successful. We just have to trust her. At least until after the holiday."

Nine heads shift away, resigned. I'm a little surprised that that's all it took – a few words from me, and there's really no more arguing? – but there's still one person with me locked dead in his sights.

I clear my throat again. "That's it for tonight. Everyone go back to your rooms and pack. We'll meet again after the holiday."

With a few grumbles and groans, the group begins to disperse. Michael, however, merely stands up and starts pacing. I motion for Neville and Luke to go on without me, then turn to face my ex-boyfriend.

"You don't just get to tell us what to do," he fumes abruptly. "You're not Harry."

I blink, taken aback. "I know I'm not. I never said I was. In fact, I'm pretty sure I explicitly said that I wasn't him, or my brother, or Hermione, back on the first day."

"Okay, well that's...that's not the point."

I heave a giant sigh. Between the events of the past two days and the harrowing weekend in the woods with Luke, Greyback, and the centaurs, I've just about reached my limit for drama. "So what is the point?"

He stops pacing and stares straight at me. "The point is that Bailey Norren is eleven. She's eleven, and she trusts you, and she doesn't like beans on toast."

I rub the bridge of my nose, realize it reminds me of McGonagall, and stop. "Is that code for something?"

"I," he starts, but he lets all his breath escape him in a woosh and collapses into one of the beanbags again. "No. It's not code. I overheard her telling Dennis that she doesn't like beans on toast. Eliza doesn't, either."

I fold myself into the beanbag next to his. "Your little sister?"

He nods slowly, staring off into space. "She turns eleven in a few weeks. Should be starting here in autumn." He drops his face into his hands and groans.

"Hey." I drag one of his hands away from his face and lace my fingers through his. It feels good, comfortable, normal. "Eliza's not in the dungeon right now. Bailey is. She knew that she'd get in trouble for going to Hagrid's – I'm not saying that it's right, and I'm not saying that she has to get herself out of this mess because she got herself into it – but she knew there'd be consequences. When we're all back together and we know a little more, we can try to get her out. But in the meantime, honestly? The dungeons at Hogwarts are probably one of the safest places in world right now. It might not be a picnic, but she's got a better chance of making it to April than the rest of us."

He snorts. "You know, you're probably right? Merlin, what is the world coming to?"

"Nothing good, I can tell you that," I respond cheerfully. I get to my feet and pull him up after me. "Chin up, Corner. At least you didn't have to lose to me in Quidditch again this year."

He swings an arm around my neck and messes up my hair as we leave the room. "I guess it is comforting to know that Ravenclaw won't be dead last in House points. You lot don't stand a chance without Quidditch."


"Ginny. Ginny."

I wake up slowly, forcing the face – very close to mine – to swim into focus. Annie Markel, the Fifth Year prefect. "Whassamatter?"

"You have to get up."

"What?" My brain still isn't working, but there's full moonlight streaming in through the rookery. "Why? It's not time for the train yet."

She shrugs and pulls me out from under the comforter. "Dunno. McGonagall just woke me and Ryan. We're to get the other prefects and then bring the entire House down to Great Hall."

"Wonderful," I say, trying to slide back into bed. "So go get the prefects and pick me up last of the other students."

She grabs my hand. "No, Ginny – you're the Sixth Year girl prefect. You have to help."

At least this little piece of the puzzle finally snaps into place. I'm the only Sixth Year girl Gryffindor left. I'm prefect by default. Percy would be so proud.


Twenty minutes later, Ryan, Annie, Colin, Neville, Parvati, and me have the entire Gryffindor contingent slumped over our table in Great Hall. We're the first House to have everyone present (I try not to notice that it's probably because we're the smallest House left), so while the other students trickle through the doors, Gryffindors rest their heads on the table or their neighbor's shoulder, yawning and wondering what's so important that we all have to be awake at four in the morning.

The Gryffindor faction of the D.A. are clustered around our prefects' end of the table. I scan the room and the door constantly, mentally checking off other members of the group as I see them. No one says it, but as the confusion of being woken up in the middle of the night wears off, a sense of dread starts to settle in – have we ever been woken up like this for something that wasn't terrible?

Once all the students are present, the teachers file in and stand along the periphery of the room. I look for Professor McGonagall, but she's nowhere to be seen. Snape stalks in moments later, greasy and batlike and tired as ever, clapping his hands as he swoops toward the Head Table. The actual table there vanishes, leaving just the raised platform, onto which Snape vaults. He turns to face us and silence in the room is deafening.

"Good news, children," he announces. "We've decided to release Bailey Norren."

On cue, a side door behind the platform opens and, sure enough, Bailey stumbles out, supported by McGonagall. The room fills with whispers, and I'm halfway out of my seat before Neville's fingers close around my wrist and Luke's hand clamps down on my leg. Between the two of them, I am forced back onto the bench, so I settle for staring across the platform to her – her eyes meet mine and her face, though tearstained, cracks into a small, weak smile.

She's alive. She's alive and mostly okay.

"I don't like this," Neville whispers.

"What are you talking about?" I demand. "They're letting her go."

"Yeah, but why?" Luke asks.

"Who cares?" I retort. Why aren't they as happy about this as I am? I crane around the room, looking for Michael – he, at least, should be appreciating this – but I can't find him anywhere at the Ravenclaw table. I tune in to the warning bells that have taken up a constant hum in the back of my mind. "Where's Michael?"

Before anyone can respond, Snape speaks again. "You may be wondering why Miss Norren is being released. She committed treason against our Dark Lord, so shouldn't she stay locked away, suffering for her crime?" Snape begins a slow pace across the length of the dais, and there's a distinct impression that he's enjoying the showmanship of this moment. "She should. But it has been decided that maintaining rule and order in this school is more important than keeping one idiotic girl imprisoned. And your teachers and I cannot enforce rule and order if you are going to keep staging rescue missions."

Oh no. Oh Merlin, no.

"Michael Corner of Ravenclaw was captured just hours ago in the midst of one of these ill-advised attempts," Snape continues. Another side door opens and Amycus Carrow drags Michael onto the platform by his hair. My heart jumps into my throat and then plummets into the pit of my stomach; Michael is struggling, but weakly, already bleeding and bruised in several places, and when Amycus releases him at the center of the platform he collapses to the floor and his head connects with a sickening crack. "In order to dissuade any of the rest of you from making rescue attempts to future prisoners, his punishment will be carried out now, in front of the whole school."

Snape stops his pacing. I shift my focal point from the rise and fall of Michael's chest – he's alive, he's strong, he'll be fine, please Merlin let him be fine – and find that Snape is staring directly at me. "This is the punishment that will befall all who disobey me and the rule of our Dark Lord," he says, and although his voice is still magically magnified, I know that he's speaking directly to me. This is for my benefit. "And Bailey Norren's punishment will be knowing that she's the reason this happened."

"No," comes Bailey's voice, broken and sobbing as Snape steps across the platform opposite Michael and rolls back his sleeves. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, please don't, please –!" She is struggling, trying to break free of McGonagall's restraining arms. I briefly lock eyes with McGonagall, and the disappointment I see there is staggering.

Michael struggles to his hands and knees, spits blood onto the wood. I catch his eye for just a moment, too, and he jerks his head toward the House hourglasses, where the Ravenclaw hourglass is nearly empty – making a joke about whose House will come in last place.

This is my fault. In that frozen instant, before Snape casts his first spell, Bailey screaming and pleading, Michael smiling a bloody, macabre grin, Luke and Neville's hands nearly cutting off my circulation, I know that it's true. I couldn't talk Hagrid out of the party, I couldn't keep Bailey from going, I couldn't keep Michael from trying to save her. I could have prevented all of this. But I didn't. This is my fault.


We are held in Great Hall for nearly two hours while Snape and the Carrows work through cycles of torture and forced healing by a House Elf. Michael, it seems, has a strong constitution – it takes him a long time to lose consciousness during each round, and the screams burn their way into your ears no matter how firmly you clamp your hands. Bailey, with her front row seat, keeps up a constant stream of moaned apologies.

We are released with just enough time to get to the Hogwarts Express. Our trunks, of course, meet us there magically, and a few students change out of their pajamas before we leave. I, like most, stay in the clothes I was wearing when I woke up – an old Weasley sweater of Bill's that Mum knitted a bunch of hieroglyphs into, ratty sweatpants, and shoes from two different pairs.

No one really speaks. It is, without a doubt, the quietest journey in the history of the Hogwarts Express. Dumbledore's Army clusters in a few cars toward the back of the train. Bailey and Michael both appear several hours into the ride, looking wrecked but not much worse for the wear, and we huddle around them, offering silent companionship. There are no words for what we need to express, so no one tries – we just sit near one another, noiselessly affirming the one thing we desperately need to know: we are still here.

It becomes too much for me. An hour out of London, I leave the group and find an empty compartment. I curl my legs up against my chest and stare sightlessly out the window as the trees that whip past gradually give way to buildings.

This is my fault.

.

.

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[A/N] Another nice long one for you – now that I'm back to writing this, all the ideas are just flooding out of me at once. And you lovelies with your reviews (I just officially hit 100!) make me SO HAPPY. As usual, if you're logged in when you review, I'll PM you a response – anons/unlogged-in folks get shout-outs below.

-Hays6: Thanks for reading! I'm glad the kitten creeped you out – that was the plan.

-Inky: I came back! That's the part that matters, right? I'm completed obsessed with Ginny's mystical centaur powers and Greyback creeps the bejeezus out of me, so that bit really wrote itself. La la la, you'll find out about Mars and Jupiter soon enough, la la la.

-To everyone I missed during my extended hiatus – thank you for your reviews, I'm sorry I was such a delinquent, you're all shining stars of benevolence and wisdom, etc etc etc.

Housekeeping note – I once estimated 35 chapters for this. I'm now cranking that guess up to 45. I just. Have. So. Many. Thoughts.

"Wide Awake on the Voyage Home" is the title of a song by Liam Finn.