"Your Patented Daydream Charms are rubbish," said Ginny, and tossed the box with its lurid art at her brother, who brought his arm up at the last second and deflected it from smacking him in the chest.

"Ouch, Ginny," George complained.

"I paid two sickles for that!" Ginny said. "And all it gave me was—"

"If you have a complaint, feel free to send an owl. The proprietors of the shop will hear you, I assure you," George told her in his most pompous manner. He picked up the box and raised his brow at the illustration: a saucy witch was crooking her finger at a swarthy wizard, luring him into a darkened corner.

"I will be sure to do that," Ginny retorted.

"I wouldn't have figured you for this one, anyway," said George.

"My daydreams are—"

"—no one wants to hear about your daydreams," said Ron, from his seat under the window where he sat playing a game of wizard's chess with Harry. "We're your brothers, right, Harry?"

Ginny ignored the slash of embarrassment. "Well, no one wants to hear about yours either, but we've got to hear about you moaning about Hermione every night. What, you thought we could only hear the ghoul?" While Ron spluttered and made a rude gesture at her, Ginny slipped into her dad's chair, and crossed her legs over the arm. "I'm serious, George."

"Send an owl," he said.

Ginny might have made more of an issue of it, but coming in to find Harry there had thrown her even more than her thirty minutes with the Patented Daydream Charm. Weak autumn sunlight filtered through the window, practically illuminating him. And here she was wearing an old jumper of her mum's and a mismatched billowy skirt. Better than wearing a Quidditch jersey and nothing else, she thought. It was a lazy Saturday morning, and she'd wanted to spend most of it in a warm, pleasant daydream.

She darted a glance over her shoulder. To her relief, Harry stared down at his chessmen, who were brandishing their weapons at him and jeering. He looked up, though, a moment later, and caught her. Her cheeks heated and she turned back around, summoned the latest edition of The Quibbler, and buried her nose in an article about the mating habits of the crumple-horned snorkack. Her thoughts kept trying to stray, but she held them ruthlessly in check, forcing herself to go over everything she knew of the creatures she was reading about, and to read every single sentence.

Thankfully, it was not long before her father came.

"Well, this is a sight I've yet to get used to," Arthur said with tired cheer. "I keep thinking you've all been sent down from Hogwarts for bad behavior."

"Even me, Dad?" George said, clutching his heart. "Aren't I your best boy?"

Arthur chuckled as the rest of them laughed.

Ginny's laugh died early. An image conjured from her daydream — of her running through a dark manor house, heart tripping wildly in her chest, thorns burrowing into her bare feet with every step — arced across her mind. She'd felt like she was being chased the entire thirty minutes, and that wasn't even the worst of it.

"It's just weird not being back at Hogwarts this year," Ron said, cutting into her thoughts, "even though I wasn't even there last year."

"I imagine it is," said Arthur. He lifted his wand and murmured a few words. Five goblets shimmered into existence, then bobbed their way to Ginny, George, Ron, and Harry. Ginny took hers as her dad conjured a bottle of sparkling wine.

"Careful," she said, when he stuck his wand in his mouth and held it with his teeth, "Mad Eye would have words with you about your teeth."

"And he'd be right," said Arthur around the wand.

"Where's Mum?" Ron asked.

"She's gone out to Diagon Alley for more floo powder, you wouldn't believe how quickly we go through that," said Arthur.

"So that explains why she hasn't popped in to switch my wine with juice," said Ginny. She lifted her goblet and toasted them. The wine fizzed merrily on her tongue. Her brow furrowed. "What is this?"

"It's wine," said George.

"It tastes like laughter," said Harry.

"It's from the Hysterique, a wizarding region in France — Fleur's parents sent it over last Christmas," said Arthur.

Ginny looked at Harry over the rim of her goblet. It did taste like laughter. There was something special about the bubbles, and it was not just warmth from the alcohol that filled her belly, but of humor. Harry caught her eye and gave her a little smile before he ducked his head.

"I've heard stories about Hysterique," George began.

Arthur cleared his throat. "I wanted to make sure you lot are, er, carrying on with everything all right." He sipped his wine. "There's a lot of... upheaval."

Ginny sat up a little straighter. Her dad rarely made overtures like this; it was her mum who generally took hold of one of her children, sat them in the kitchen, and got them to spill what was bothering them. She had a knack for it. Her dad, though... Little lines of grief bracketed his mouth, and Ginny wondered if he'd chosen the laughing wine because of Fred.

No one said anything.

Arthur took off his glasses and rubbed them on his robes. "Your Mum and I wished things would ease back into something more normal, the board of governors..."

"I don't think I would have returned to Hogwarts," said Harry, "even if the board had decided to reopen this year."

"I certainly wouldn't have," said Ron. "After a year on the run? No thanks."

"Yes, well..."

Everyone looked at her. "Well, I wouldn't have gone back. Dad, you'll just have to get used to half your children not bothering with NEWTs." To her horror, her hand shook a little, sloshing the wine left in the goblet, spilling a few drops onto her thumb.

If it had been her mother, Ginny's proclamation would have been met with distress. Arthur merely looked at her steadily, blue eyes warm.

"What d'you mean, you wouldn't go back?" Ron asked, incredulous.

"It took me a minute to decide to return to Hogwarts for my final year," Arthur said.

"You never told us that!" said George, sitting up. "Not even when Mum was having a go at me and Fred for leaving Hogwarts to start Wheezes!"

"I'd forgotten," said Arthur.

"Why didn't you want to go back, Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked.

"Ah. There was an... incident late in my sixth year," said Arthur. "I was prefect, you know, and it was a bit of a... mess." He gave Ginny a fleeting look. "It was enough that I wasn't sure I wanted or needed the extra year of education. I was of age, I could head to work."

"What made you go back?" Ron asked.

"Your mum," said Arthur. "It was simple. I didn't want to risk losing her to some — some robust fellow."

As the rest laughed, Ginny forced a little smile. Both of the relationships she'd tried to have were hardly worth remembering, except for the odd ways they'd both ended. She was unlucky in love; she didn't see that changing. There was no one at Hogwarts who could change her mind. Quickly, she tossed back another swallow of the laughing wine.

Ginny avoided looking at Harry.

"And my seventh year was much quieter than my sixth," said Arthur. "I was not nearly as haunted as I thought I would be. I was glad to go back."

Haunted. Ginny turned the word over in her mind.

In truth, Ginny was grateful not to be expected at Hogwarts this year. The decision by the board of governors to keep Hogwarts closed until all eleven of them — Lucius Malfoy having been ousted for being a known Death Eater — had decided the security measures were once more protecting every inch of the castle was not a popular one. Everyone from the Minister to editor of the Daily Prophet had had scathing opinions of the decision: You Know Who was gone, the world needed to move on, and it was safest at Hogwarts. But Ginny had never found Hogwarts to be particularly safe, not since her first year. She did not think much of the decision by the governors, but was fiercely glad for herself that she was not expected to return.

There were too many ghosts roaming the halls. There were too many memories of last year, when she and Luna alone had tried to hold the students together and fight the Carrows. Hogwarts was where Fred had died.

Ginny dropped her magazine and rubbed her upper arms vigorously. "If I wanted to be haunted even more than I already am, I'd go back," muttered Ginny. Unfortunately, she said this during a small lull and everyone heard her.

"Me too," said Harry, after a pause.

Ginny gave him a small smile.

An awkward silence fell over the room. It pressed down on her shoulders. And, in truth, Harry also haunted her, so his support was nearly as uncomfortable as the silent exchanges her brothers and father were now having over her head. So what if she didn't want to go back to Hogwarts and wouldn't even if all eleven governors hadn't had bowtruckles up their bums. They didn't need to have a meeting about it.

Ginny shoved herself up from her chair. "Going for a fly, see you later," she said.

It cleared her head, flying did. Today was no exception. There were no ghosts in the air with her, trying to catch her old Comet by the twigs. Instead, there were thin streaks of pale blue sky, thick clouds, and a heady wind. Ginny flew into it, eyes half-closed, emptying her mind of everything except the need to stay away from any of the Muggle roads and towns that crisscrossed this part of Devon. Eventually, once the sun was high, Ginny perched above the orchard and stared down at the red and gold leaves. Gryffindor colors, she thought, wistful. Shading her eyes with her hand, she gazed beyond the blazing colors of the Burrows orchard and toward the hill where Luna and Xenophilius Lovegood lived.

They were gone off to Sweden; Ginny didn't think Luna would return for months. Shoulders drooping, she let her broom head in a slow, steady spiral to the ground, giving it only very vague guidance, until her feet brushed the ground.

It came back to her, then, the daydream she'd had. It was meant to be a playful thing, something fun to do while having a lazy morning. Instead it had been...

"Where are you?"

The voice again. Ginny whirled around. Her heart skittered in her chest. She was in a great hallway that began and ended in shadows, giving it the look that it never ended. There was someone behind her — in one of the alcoves, behind a rich tapestry — she could hear him breathing in a steady cadence.

Her feet were bare and she was dressed in a filmy white gown that floated about her as practical protection as a cloud. Moonlight illuminated her, surely? Nothing would be hidden from him.

Ginny fled down the hall, bare feet beating a sharp tattoo.

"Ginevra..."

"No!" she shouted. But as soon as she did, a gag was stuffed in her mouth by an invisible hand. Spitting, hissing like a cat, she scrabbled at it. But it wouldn't come out of her mouth, and the footsteps were getting closer.

This isn't supposed to be happening.

The thought followed her as she ran in her ridiculous gown, gagged and chased by a mysterious wizard. Ginny spied a small door and darted through it, flinging it shut behind her.

"Ginevra!"

Ginny ignored the command and ran heedless into gardens under silver moon. Rocks dug into her feet and her fingernails dug into her palms. Twin pain. The hem of her gown caught on the statue of a peacock, ripping, and sending her sprawling to the ground. Disbelief welled inside her. The footsteps behind her quickened.

Just keep running. It will be over soon.

Ginny obeyed, picking herself up, wishing she had her wand... wishing she had her broom.

Ginny jolted. She clutched her wand in one hand and her broom in the other. Fresh anger with George surged within her, and she spun around and marched toward the Burrow. Ginny got lucky and found him propped up on the fence looking out at the yard, watching the gnomes eat worms. The drawn expression on his face told her he was thinking of Fred. Ginny didn't care.

George let out a short scream when the first bat dripped out of his nose with satisfying plop. His eyes rolled and he looked about wildly as more of them came out and flapped the wings, shedding gunk on him. "Ginny!" he croaked.

"How dare you create something like that," said Ginny. "That was a rotten trick, making it look like some — some peasant daydream." None of them were specifically sexual in nature — none that George had out on the shelves in the main room, anyway — but her plan had been to have a nice little daydream and come back warm and aroused and ready. She had not expected to wake up from it frightened and disturbed. After she'd recovered a bit, the first thing she'd done was grab the box to see if there was some sort of warning. "That was rotten of you, George Weasley, and you should be ashamed of yourself."

Then, while he swore, Ginny spun on her heel and headed back to the Burrow. Her spirits were marginally lifted.

"Ginny!" he shouted after her.

Ginny made a rude gesture and kept walking.

"Are you still going to help out at the shop this week? Ginny!"

She spun around. He took a couple of steps backward and eyed her wand. The bats still flapped about in circles around his head. But his nose no longer dripped with them. He was fast with his counter-curses – he had to be. She softened as she took in his mismatched slippers and slope to his shoulders, the wary stance, and the loneliness he seemed to inhabit.

"I shouldn't," she said, but with little heat.

George shook his head, bewildered. "I looked at the packaging, Gin, it was just a normal little daydream—"

"It wasn't," she said.

"Well," he said, dropping his hands to the side. "You've not got a lot of experience, have you?"

"What—"

"I just mean, it just…"

Ginny fingered her wand. George looked at it, then at her.

"Never mind," he said. "I'll check and make sure nothing funny's going on." His tone told her he was just doing it to humor her, but there was no manufacturing the desperation in his eyes. "Look, I need you. I'll pay you double what I said I would. Triple. It doesn't matter. Take what you want. But I'm—"

His voice broke. And so did Ginny. "Of course I'll be there," she said, rolling her eyes a little. "I'll be there. But I do want you to check out the daydreams."

"Of course," he said. "Of course."

But as Ginny went up the back steps, avoiding the old pair of Wellington boots on the back stoop, she promised that she'd prod George enough that he'd actually do it. He was forgetting that while Ginny had very little experience with dating, she had more than enough experience of being trapped and trying to escape. But the last thing she wanted to do was think of Tom Riddle and his diary, so she found herself in the kitchen, pulling meat from the charmed ice box, and deciding she would help her mother by doing most of the cooking for dinner that night.

Ginny sat beside Harry at dinner.

It was warm at the table; by the time they got to the prime rib, Ginny was sweating under her mum's old jumper. Everyone was quite lavish with their compliments, especially her mother, who was thrilled not to have had to prepare the meal after a day's shopping in Diagon Alley. She kept exclaiming that the crowds reminded her of how it was when she was a child, being dragged along by her brothers and sister, and having to hold tightly to their hands unless they wanted to get lost.

"Lost in Diagon Alley!" Ginny snorted.

"I almost did, remember?" Harry said, smiling at her. "I went a grate too far—"

"But that was Knockturn Alley," she said.

His gaze did something just then. Ginny drew back, confused.

"I can't believe you remember that, that's all," Harry said.

"As I was saying," said Molly, "it was sunny and rather warm and people were in excellent moods, even the hags at Double Double Toil and Trouble."

"Well, Harry got rid of the tosser, didn't he?" Ron asked around a bite of prime rib. "People are happy again."

"It's not that simple, Ron," Harry muttered.

Ginny cut a glance at him, then looked away. There were still a lot of aspects of Harry's final defeat of Voldemort that she did not fully understand. Voldemort had tethered himself to life by the use of dark magic, and the entirety of the year he, Ron, and Hermione had spent on the run, they'd been chipping their way at those tethers. None of them had been incredibly forthcoming on how everything had fallen out, though Ginny suspected her parents knew more than they were saying. But whatever it had been, it weighed heavily on him.

He's as haunted as I am, Ginny thought. Then, giving herself a mental shake for her silliness, she turned back to her food. Molly kept up a steady stream of observations; other than helping out in George's shop, Ginny had not spent very much time in Diagon Alley, preferring to stay at home. She'd loved it as a child, and she found herself looking forward to the next week, resolving that she would spend her lunch hours browsing the shops.

"No, no, Mum," she protested, when Molly raised her wand at the end of the meal. "Sit and enjoy the evening. I'll do the clean-up."

"But you did the cooking!"

"I don't mind," said Ginny, shrugging. And she didn't. She still had a bit of restless energy coiling in her, but she didn't feel like going out and flying again. The clean up would be just the sort of activity she wanted.

To her surprise, Harry volunteered to help.

"You don't have to," she said, as they both carried a pile of plates into the kitchen.

He shook his head. "After all those years at the Dursleys, it still feels wrong to me to be sitting while someone else is cleaning."

Ginny muttered an imprecation under her breath, and was rewarded with a smile from Harry. The kitchen was small and warm, and she filled the sink with hot water from the faucet and dipped her wand in to add soap. Huge bubbles formed on the shiny surface of the water and drifted upward.

"Impressive," said Harry. "I'll get the rest."

Ginny dunked her dishes and the set Harry left on the sink. She half expected dishes to float back in the kitchen of their own accord, Harry having decided to overcome his upbringing as a Muggle servant. Instead, he returned within a minute, heavily laden with the rest of the dishes. "You weren't joking," she said, eyes round. "Did you even use magic?"

"No," he said, cheerful.

"They really did use you as a servant," said Ginny.

Harry shrugged.

For the next minutes, they worked in companionable silence. Her heartbeat eased back into its normal rhythm. The kitchen was pleasantly warm. Ginny hadn't canceled her spell, and bubbles continued to float through the air, wafting up to ceiling, and bobbing around the room. Her mum used to do that when she was little, usually in the bath, until all the room was filled with bubbles. She'd loved it.

She cast a glance at Harry, who scrubbed one of the serving dishes with a scrubber that had been transformed into a rubber chicken one too many times by Fred and George, and still retained a hint of that shape. It squawked a little whenever Harry scrubbed too hard. He had not seemed to notice the bubbles, even though one was now caught in his hair.

She bit her lip and subtly added a bit more power to the spell.

"How is it, being an Auror?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"I'm not an Auror," said Harry. "Not yet, anyway. It's… different."

"Not what you were expecting?"

He thought about that, pausing with his hand still curled around the squawking scrubber. "It is, and it isn't, I suppose," he said. "You knew they fast-tracked the lot of us who joined up?"

Ginny nodded. In general, Aurors had to spend three years in training before they went out on their own. But their numbers had been so depleted by the war, and numbers depleted even further when they had to examine each of the Aurors who had worked under the last regime. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and the Ministry was begging for people to help out with rounding up the remaining Death Eaters. Ginny had almost joined up herself. Almost.

"So it's training and working at once," said Harry. "There's a lot of studying old cases. It should be boring – the Ministry has records on nearly every known dark wizard, British or not. They're teaching us to look for patterns, watch for the signs—"

"Like what?" asked Ginny.

"Oh… like people gone missing, people acting funny, new curses," said Harry. "I spend half my time reading, it seems, but I've got to do all that outside of work." He cut her a glance. He ought to have looked silly, with a bubble the size of a quaffle perched on his hair like a witch's hat. Somehow he didn't. "It's good work."

"Is it something you really want to be doing?" Ginny asked, before she could stop herself. She bit her lip. "I just meant… you've been basically doing this since you were a first year, haven't you?"

He smiled at her. "You know, no one's asked me that before."

"Sorry," she said, turning back to look at the dishes she was drying.

"No need," he said. "I don't mind. Sometimes I think I'm mental for going from Voldemort straight to the Aurors – and I wouldn't have done if Kingsley hadn't totally cleaned out the Ministry, trust me."

"If you still find a bit of the Umbridge type, I can teach you the Bat-Bogey Hex," she said. Then, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper, she added: "I've discovered a way to make the bats come out a – rather different orifice."

Harry laughed outright at that. "George is lucky he got off lightly today."

Ginny flushed. "You saw that?"

"Managed to catch it from the window in Ron's room," he said. "What was that about?"

Ginny dried off the dishes as she considered it. She found herself staring at one of the bubbles, which had managed to turn a shimmery blue. "Have you ever used one of their daydream boxes?" she asked abruptly.

He blinked. "Erm, no?" he said, making it sound like a question. "Aren't they one of the wonder witch products?"

It was Ginny's turn to blink. "I don't think so. I've worked in the shop a couple of times, and I see both witches and wizards buying them." Everyone fancied a nice little daydream, didn't they? Fresh annoyance with George stirred within her. How many of them knew what they were getting into, being chased like that, with the constant threat of being overtaken. "I think a lot of people fancy a daydream, now and then."

"So you think I ought to buy one?" Harry asked.

"Well, no," said Ginny. "Because George is a prat." All over the kitchen, bubbles started to pop. "Sorry," she muttered again. "It wasn't a pleasant little daydream," she said. "It was meant to be just a… a daydream. But it was more like a nightmare." She hesitated. "It was exactly like a nightmare. I didn't appreciate it."

His brow furrowed. "That doesn't seem right," he said.

"And George had the gall to say it was because I'm 'inexperienced'," Ginny said, building up to a good rant. "I don't think a lot of witches want to be chased around in the dark, running over a bunch of thorns." The images from her daydream weighed down on her. That voice in the dark, calling her name as she ran. "It was very unpleasant."

"I certainly wouldn't want that," said Harry, pulling a face. "Did he call you inexperienced before or after you hexed him?"

Ginny thought about it. "Before," she said. Then added darkly: "But I ought to have done it after, too."

"Definitely," said Harry.

They were done with the clean-up, now. Ginny stood with her arms folded over her chest, and Harry leaned on the counter, idly turning the bubbles still swirling around them different colors. Something eased inside her. The daydream had been unpleasant – personally unpleasant, she realized; it had dipped into the part of her brain where she kept the memories of her first year. But watching Harry charm the bubbles different colors had her relaxing her stance.

"Maybe next time I will," she said, just to say something.

Harry nodded. "You know, my dad used to do this," he said.

Ginny blinked at him. "You remember that?"

He shook his head. "I don't remember anything at all of my parents," he said. "I just know he did it. He made different colored bubbles come out of his wand."

"My dad did, too," said Ginny. "But it was my mum who used to fill the entire room with them."

A smile flickered on his face. "That sounds like fun." He looked like he wanted to say more, though Ginny couldn't think what; this was the longest conversation they'd had, Ginny thought. It was nice and easy, and she sighed a little when Ron yelled for him from the other room.

"A minute!" Harry yelled back.

"I think we're done here," said Ginny, gesturing to the clean counters, and dishes drying in the rack. Even the rubber chicken scrubber was quiet.

"Right, yeah," he said. "I'll see you later, Ginny."

"See you," she said.

Though she wasn't tired, Ginny headed up to bed then. Her small room on the second landing was nearly as warm as the kitchen. Long ago, when her room had been a nursery, her parents had charmed the walls and floor. Either they were exceptionally long-lasting spells, or her parents snuck in while she was away to renew them, because they had never once faltered. Ginny sighed a little and shut the door.

Tonight was the longest time she'd spent in Harry's company since well before the war. Embarrassment stirred within her. There had been that one… incident… the night after Harry defeated Voldemort, but Ginny did not like to think about that. Instead, she pulled on her pajamas – a fuzzy old set that had kneazles on them – and sat cross-legged on her bed. Sleep would not come for quite a while, she knew, not when it was so early. And even then, she didn't want her thoughts to be full of running through dark manors, being chased by an unseen monster with a silken voice.

Her parents drifted up the stairs.

"—one thing I heard, Arthur, at the alley, is Narcissa has not been seen since June—"

"—how the Malfoys managed to stay out of Azkaban yet again—"

Ginny rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. Her parents still tried to keep things from her like she was a child, and yet had not seemed to realize that she could hear them talking whenever they walked by her door. Parents, she thought. She leapt off her bed and occupied herself with tidying up her small desk.

George was next to walk past, whistling a little tune. "Night, Gin!" he called as tromped by.

"Night," said Ginny.

"Oh, good, you've forgiven me," he said in a falsetto. "I don't know what I would've done."

"Shut up, George," she retorted.

He started whistling again.

The last to walk by were Ron and Harry. She knew them by their footsteps, of course. Ron stumped by, chuntering to Harry as he went. They paused on her landing, but neither one tried to speak to her through the door, and she did not speak to them. Then they started up the stairs again.

"Are you coming?" Ron said.

"Yeah, sorry," said Harry, who was still right outside her door. Her heart did a funny little skip. "Got lost in thought."

Then, he, too, moved away and up the stairs. Ginny let out a little sigh, stopped tidying, and climbed into her bed, under the starry blue bedclothes. There were little flowers embroidered on her sheets, and her mum had charmed them to smell as sweet as the real thing. She was good at the household type charms; nearly as good as she was at dueling. Everyone was accounted for, no one was missing, and the Burrow was as safe as anything. Even after the war ended, the first thing her dad and Bill had done was add wards to the property, just in case.

Ginny heaved a sigh.

Then, as she did every night, she heaved off her bedclothes, grabbed her wand, and added her own protective enchantments to her room, as powerful as she could make them. Guilt niggled at her. She trusted her parents and the Burrow's protection, but no matter how she tried, she couldn't sleep lately without having done it herself, always waiting until everyone in the house – no matter if they were staying or not – had headed up the stairs, and would not do a last minute check only to find themselves unable to even touch her door.

Once that was done, Ginny let out a small sigh of relief, crawled back into bed, and told herself, again and again, that she was safe.