I tried so hard to focus on Fred and George. They were outside on their brooms, yelling nonsense at one another. I didn't—I should know what it meant. But I couldn't focus right now.

I slipped down under the blankets, letting the cooling charm lap against my skin. Sometimes it was too hot even for that.

Something was wrong.

I didn't call for Dad. I had stopped calling for him a long time ago. If Hermione were here, she would talk to Mum for me. But even then, there was only so far Hermione could go. Mum treated her like one of the kids these days, Ron's future wife.

I heard the way she talked about Hermione's dimples, the wild brown hair, how delicate her wrists were. Weird things, things that showed how Mum was raised. Things she said to me, encouraged me—And still the wall of fire grew.

Still the heat burned behind my eyes.

There was something—

Wrong.

Mum came into the room sometime between the heat starting and casting the silence spell. She knew what spells were being cast, something—

She had done something to the house. I don't know—Didn't care really.

The smell of incense and cheap ingredients made me curl a little tighter around the dragon in my belly.

"You are going to the lake later, with Harry," Mum said. Molly said. Someone said.

"Y…I guess."

"You are going."

I could have recited the spells backwards and forwards. I did them almost all the time now. Things took on gauzy film, and dimmed. I couldn't taste things, not really. And the ache was still there, my brain was just too muted—yes the right word, muted—too muted to really—

And I could move again.

"Make sure you look presentable."

That was the closest Mum—I didn't know if I wanted her to say I love you. But it was close enough. Close enough to something I didn't want to… say.

"I always do."

There was a snort. Laughter.

Mum… Molly… Really it was Molly these days. Didn't feel much like a mother.

I had 10 hours before the burning came back. I might let her cast the spells again. Might let her lure my body into a weird sense of… Or I would do it myself. I would do it myself, again. It wouldn't be as strong… but I could—

"Ginny Weasley, get your arse up and make your bed."

There is was.

The tone.

I wasn't special.

She didn't give a shit about any of us.