Harry could say it. "He was the bravest man I ever knew."

It was a good story, a neat explanation for a surprising name choice.

It helped that it was true.

People cared rather a lot about the opinions of one Harry James Potter. His explanation could suffice, at least for most. He was brave, Harry could – and did - say. Those who fancied themselves detectives could reflect on Harry's celebrated compassion, his sympathy toward the remorse borne of violence and unrequited love. Harry wanted to honor his mentors, they could say – the mentor of twinkling eyes and subtle plans, and the mentor of sneering grimaces and secret aid.

These explanations were true, and having found them, the curious would probe no further.

Ginny didn't mind. She'd never been one to seek credit. As long as she got what she wanted, that was good enough. Ron, in his younger days, had resented being in the shadow of his older brothers, and later his friend. Ginny, as the only girl of a large family, had been special from her earliest babyhood. And at Hogwarts, she'd been far enough from Harry's orbit to chart her own course.

Harry had the best story. Ginny didn't need the Daily Prophet telling the world that she'd been the one to propose the name.


Watching Harry tell Ron was part of the fun. His goggle-eyed expression sent her straight back to age eight, when Fred had filled the cupboard with slugs and Ron had opened it, becoming covered in slime. Now she got to play the role of Fred.

"What the hell, Harry? How'd you get Ginny to agree to that?"

"I know you respect him greatly, and we all owe Snape a good deal, of course," said Hermione. "But wouldn't a nice memorial plaque have the same effect?"

Harry brought out the bravery excuse, and his friends, remembering Snape maintaining his careful façade even as Riddle led into his attack, backed off.

Ron even laughed, at the end of the conversation, imagining how Snape himself would enjoy being a Potter. "Just do me one favor, mate? If you ever tell that portrait of his, make sure I'm there."

Ginny wakes up, patting her growing tummy. It's too early to feel this new baby move.

Lily if it's a girl, we'll figure out the middle name later.

If it's a boy…

That's the stumper.

She sympathizes with her mum and dad, giving two names to six boys in rapid succession.

Harry wakes next to her.

"Alright, Ginny?" he asks.

"Trying to think of a boy name," she says. They had ruled out names from her family side when she was pregnant with James. She found it too raw. Didn't want to be responsible for a new Fred, if she couldn't have the old one back.

"It's a girl," Harry says. "You'll see. I can feel it deep down – you don't even need to bother coming up with boy names. And there's always Fleamont to fall back on, in the unlikely event I'm wrong."

Ginny snorts. "It's the perfect name," she says. "I always dreamed of having a son named Fleamont. But you just know Fleur would put some French spin on the pronunciation."

She and Harry take turns trying French versions of their family names, more and more nasal, until they are shaking with quiet laughter. "If you wake up James, I will kill you," she warns her husband.

Harry had learned Frère Jacques in primary school, but never really understood the words, and Ginny had never learned even that.

"You mean… Zheeeeims?" he whispers.

"I think the 'M' has to be silent," she whispers. "Zhéièi(m)s."

Harry chokes with laughter. Ginny elbows him. "Hey!" he says out loud. "Relax – I cast a Quietus charm as soon as he fell asleep. Little Zhezsh won't hear a thing."


It's been a long time since Ginny's referred to her sister-in-law as Phlegm.

Lying awake, Ginny remembers the frustration in Hermione's eyes when Ron's head would whip around to watch Fleur enter (or exit) a room. She remembers the tight angry line of Molly's mouth when Fleur would reminisce yet again about French cuisine.

The nickname was a petty kind of revenge, but Ginny had enjoyed it.

Hermione had annoyed Ginny by admonishing her, then going out of her way to try speaking French with Fleur. It sounded like she'd succeeded, which was even more annoying, and Ginny really didn't like feeling annoyed with Hermione.

Ginny was glad to be no longer sixteen.

But, that summer, Harry had laughed WITH her at Phlegm, and it had made Ginny feel amazing. Adult Ginny knew this wasn't something she ought to have been proud of. But there had been something so bleak about that summer – that summer when Dumbledore's name hung in the air, unspoken - and wedding preparations were only adding to the tension.

Fleur, either too aloof or oblivious to be hurt by childish nicknames muttered just out of her hearing, made an easy escape valve.

Making Harry laugh had felt like that perfect Quaffle throw. Still did.

It was funny, Ginny thought, how our feelings about someone can reverse.

Fleur was first a competitor, then an irritant, and now the kind of indispensable irritation only family can be.

Tom was the perfect confidant, and then a murderous enemy. Now – dead, a nightmare whose memory no longer held power to harm.

Luna was the weirdest element in Hogwarts castle, a total joke. And then, an ally as courageous as any Gryffindor. And now, a friend.

Dumbledore had never meant all that much to Ginny on the personal level. Other than a comforting speech in the Hospital ward, he'd not interacted with her individually. But then, after he was really gone, in that horrible year, and even – no disrespect to Minerva – in Ginny's final year, it felt like the spirit of the castle itself had fled.

The image of Severus Snape floated into her mind.

Snape was …

It was hard to explain, even to herself.

After the Astronomy tower battle, Ginny heard others talking, saying either how much they had (or hadn't) trusted Snape, how much he had (or hadn't) meant to them. How he'd always been unlikeable. Suspicious. Inexplicable as a member of the Order.

She heard the hurt and betrayal in the voices of the Professors.

She never heard anyone voice the bitter words that echoed in her own mind, "I identified with him."

She never knew, and never would know, that he had felt the same about her.

Pure-blood, sporty, fiery Ginevra, with the jolly family, the Quidditch victories and the string of boyfriends.

Half-blood, sneering, chilly Severus, with the burning mark on his arm, the dusty home, and the secret unrequited love.

Sometimes, when they looked at each other, they each saw a reflection of their hearts: the tools Riddle had tried to forge into his own weapons that had turned against him and struck back, the hearts that burned with desire to see him overthrown and destroyed.


After Harry had shared Snape's final moments, his true alliance, some of his inexplicable decisions made sense in hindsight. Break into his office to steal a sword? Detention with Hagrid in the forest, rather than a torture session with the Carrows.

But even before then, from Ginny's earliest years, there had been strange decisions.

Her 2nd year, she couldn't sleep, and Snape caught her out in the castle at night. She wasn't sneaking into the kitchens or planning a prank like Fred and George, just sitting slumped in the corridor, listlessly flicking her wand from one hand to another. He took 10 points from Gryffindor first.

"And detention, Miss Weasley," he glared down at her. From her vantage point on the floor, he was all nostrils and cloak. "Saturday morning. 6 am. Meet me in the Great Hall."

He escorted her back to Gryffindor tower. "Why are you roaming the corridors?"

"Couldn't sleep," she said.

"Is the Gryffindor common room so much less appealing than the stone floor?" he sneered.

Ginny didn't reply. Curling up into an armchair and falling asleep in front of the fire in the common room wasn't as cozy as it had seemed last year. The common room now was full of students she'd rather avoid on nights like these – Harry, her brothers, other 2nd year students who either looked at her with pity or guilt (Gryffindors tended to blame themselves for not thwarting Dark magic).

She shrugged.

His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I can't blame you for avoiding the … unarguably distasteful company likely in your common room. However, Miss Weasley, it is not safe, or permitted to wander the hallways. You will confine your wanderings to daylight hours." He glared down at her. "Believe me, Sirius Black will not hesitate to harm you or hold you hostage to gain access to his intended victim."

She refused to flinch.

They reached the slashed Fat Lady portrait, now guarded by Sir Cadogan.

"Are you going to stay in your tower at night?"

"Yes," she said, thinking of how to get out again. "Professor."

"See that you do. And bring your cloak and gloves tomorrow."

Ginny met Snape at 6 am. He led her outside to where the brooms were stored. It was still dark, but the stars couldn't be seen through the thick layers of clouds.

"The school brooms need to be evaluated systematically and repaired," Snape said.

A fine, stinging sleet whipped into Ginny's face as she rode the first broom, a battered Cleansweep. It fared decently around the Quidditch pitch until she picked up speed and tried to climb higher. Then it vibrated and jolted haphazardly in the wind, and she had to use all the strength in her forearms to control it.

She landed back where Snape had stationed himself. He'd brought out a stack of student essays and had transfigured himself a small desk and chair. The sleet bounced and slid off the protective shield he'd cast, and he sat grading by the light of a small Bluebell fire.

"Broom bounces at medium speeds," Ginny said, "and it can't handle the wind."

Snape wrote a label on a scrap of parchment and applied it to the broom with a Sticking Charm. Wordlessly, he gestured at the next broom in the pile.

The sleet only intensified as the sky behind the clouds grew lighter, and Ginny's gloves were wet through by the time she'd tested the third broom. A pale sun rose behind the clouds as she tested broom after broom, until Snape remarked, "Inside. Slytherin has booked the Quidditch pitch."

More detentions, in rapid succession, built on the slightest of pretexts. The nib of her pen made an annoying scratchy sound in class. "Never learned how to trim your quills, Miss Weasley? Detention."

Saturday was spent tramping through the ice-covered snow to where willows and birch lined the Black Lake. She repeated the Severing Charm, hundreds of times, filling a basket with the straightest twigs.

In the darkness, lit only by their wands, the willow twigs were hard to see and lashed her in the face, pulled her cloak, and tangled her hair.

"Sensible witches tie their hair back or wear a hat for work." Snape remarked, rejecting yet another twig. "Naturally, you prefer an alternate approach."

Sometimes the detention was more than earned. "Miss Weasley, hexing fellow students in the corridors again, are we? 10 points from Gryffindor, and detention all week."

Ron Weasley and Potter would have protested and pointed out the obvious – that the Slytherins now groaning and clutching various body parts were larger, more numerous, and located in an obvious ambush formation. Ginny Weasley tucked her hair behind her ear, straightened her robes, and nodded curtly.


Madam Hooch supervised her week of detentions, using the twigs to repair the brooms, teaching her how to use magic to reshape the broomsticks to prevent vibrations. Madam Hooch wasn't much for conversation, but every now and then she'd remark on an old Quidditch game she'd played or give a pointer about broom care.

On Wednesday morning, Madam Hooch slighted the Board of Governors. "It's all well and good, these teachers and parents buying brooms for their favorites," she said, "but I've been writing the Board for years about the need to swap out our entire stable. Some of these brooms precede your parents, Miss Weasley, and I don't mind saying it's more than I can do to keep them windworthy. You're doing well, mind, but our work won't last the season before these will be falling into splinters."

Madam Hooch had played on the Harpies. Keeper. "A thankless position, really – all pressure, plenty of finger-pointing if you lose a goal – but there's nothing like hovering in the air watching the opponent zoom toward you, figuring out their plans one second before they pull off their maneuver."

Madam Hooch thought the Nimbus 2001's were a poor improvement on the 2000. "Shameless marketing ploy," she said. "Meant to catch the eye of the rich and Quidditch-ignorant."

Ginny snorted, thinking of Lucius Malfoy. "Guess it worked."

Madam Hooch gave her sidelong glance. "I can see why you keep landing in detention." She paused to fix the charms on an ancient Cleansweep. "You know, I could use a bit of extra help checking these before my flying classes each week. The First Years who are still struggling really need the better brooms."

Ginny smiled, tentatively. "I could test them. And fix them if they just need a little maintenance."

"Right, well, try staying OUT of detention, then," Hooch told her. "If you end up getting assigned to Filch or cauldron-scrubbing, you won't be much use as an assistant."

Ginny couldn't keep the smile off her face all day. And that night, she slept with no dreams of Tom.