The Highest Good
Disclaimer: I am not JKR. I make no money off of playing with her fantastic characters, but I do derive quite a lot of pleasure from it. Cheers!
Chapter 1: Mala Fides
Summer had come once again, but this year the freedom it brought seemed oppressive rather than gratifying. There was too much time, Ginny decided, to think. She wished there was something she could do – something tangible, something difficult -- something dangerous, even – so long as it was something. The two months of dwelling on the transformations wrought by the Triwizard Tournament were making her go stir-crazy.
Following the terrifying narrative Harry had delivered with empty eyes from his bed in the Hogwarts' infirmary, things in the wizarding world had begun rapidly to change. Even the unfailingly cheerful Mrs. Weasley's face developed a look of grim determination as reports of "tragic accidents" and "unexplained occurrences," usually fatal in nature, slowly saturated the news reports. Cornelius Fudge, true to his word, refused to acknowledge the return of Voldemort, although it was well known that Ministry officials were being assigned in droves to cases involving the Dark Arts. Both Mr. Weasley and Percy became virtual strangers at the Burrow as summer wore on; their respective jobs kept them at the office until so late at night that often it seemed more sensible to just conjure up a pair of cots than to Apparate back home. The strain of such work had begun to tell upon both the older and the younger Weasley: Mr. Weasley, when he could come home, was too tired to tinker with his Muggle machines, and Percy had lost his arrogance somewhere in a mountain of paperwork.
So this is Voldemort, Ginny thought as she sat alone in between the rows of cabbages and carrots in the Burrow garden. Not a gleaming-eyed adversary, not a life-draining diary, not even the death's head mark floating over crime scenes that the Daily Prophet carefully ignored. Voldemort was the tired lines under her father's eyes, and the quiet, level voice of her mother, drawn taunt with barely-contained anxiety.
"Voldemort," Ginny breathed quietly, glancing over her shoulder as though saying his name might cause him to suddenly appear. Ron had come home from Hogwarts at the beginning of the summer seeming years older, and the first sense Ginny had of her brother's sudden transformation was his refusal to avoid Voldemort's name any longer.
"It's just a word," Ron had answered, tight-lipped, when his mother flinched the first time. "If we avoid it, then we've admitted to being afraid of him. And I won't," Ron had said, standing up and looking for all the world like Charlie had when he announced that he was leaving for Romania to chase dragons. Adult. Serious. Her parents looked at each other and, slowly, nodded.
And so, one by one, the Weasleys had dropped the habit of referring to Voldemort as "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," and "You-Know-Who." It was hardest for Ginny, for, although she had been too young to remember his first reign of terror, her imagination and her first year at Hogwarts gave grim color to the horror stories she had been told and her tongue seemed unable to form the word. Just that morning she had finally managed to ask her father if there was any news on Voldemort, and his eyes had widened as he heard her low voice calmly glide over the name as though she had been saying it forever.
"What?" Mr. Weasley had asked, caught off-guard by his daughter's daring.
"I said, has there been any more news on Voldemort?" Ginny said a bit more loudly than necessary, carefully enunciating the word. The twins, huddled over the comics in the breakfast nook, glanced up at their sister in shock.
"Say that again, Gin?" Fred asked, wiping smears of strawberry jam from his face. George's mouth had gone slack around a bit of bagel, and he stared at her in surprise. Ginny was annoyed. So she wasn't the bravest thing in the world; so it had taken her longer to use Voldemort's name than the rest of them; still, she wasn't a coward.
"Has. There. Been. Any. News. About. VOLDEMORT?" She roared the last bit and was gratified to see the twins recoil at the volume. Mr. Weasley looked at his youngest child with a sort of bemused pride.
"Not recently," he said, smiling a little.
"Good," she had said quietly, reaching across the table to steal a page of the funnies from George, attempting to return the suddenly tense atmosphere of the kitchen back to its former jovial air. "Fred, don't be such a pig – I want some jam, too, you know." Her brother grinned, and talk at the table soon moved on to such fascinating topics as the correct proportion of Swelling Serum to Bilbry's Balloon Bits in the twins' latest...experiment.
Ginny toyed idly with the garden trowel, half heartedly digging holes for the new plants her mother planned on setting out the next day. No news. No news meant a variety of things: no mass murders or abductions, to be sure, but no news on Voldemort's location or plans to stop him, either.
It's not fair! Ginny drove the trowel into the earth with a sudden burst of anger. If the world is about to tumble about our ears, I'd like a fair shot at fighting. Dad and Percy are at the Ministry, Bill and Charlie are up to something, Mum's got some sort of job for Dumbledore, what with all those owls she sends out every morning, the twins, well, they seem to know what's going on, at least, and Ron – Ron's in it with Harry. And I'm stuck digging holes for Mum's monkey grass.
That was what was so horrible – the feeling of uselessness. Ginny knew there were certain things that the family kept from her, the Baby of the Family, and she didn't half like it. She was just as trustworthy and brave and competent as they were, thankyouverymuch, and she desperately wanted be let in on whatever it was that she didn't know.
"Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley's voice rang out across the garden, "Supper's almost ready!" Ginny sighed. At least in the out in the garden she could hear herself think; she was in no mood to watch the twins torment Ron with their latest creation – what was it? Flavored Inflation Serum? Ginny shook her head. She didn't even want to think about what that could do.
"Ginny! Supper!" Won't be much longer, now, Ginny thought, mentally counting down her remaining seconds of freedom. Five...four...three...two --
"GINNY!" -- one. Right on schedule. Mrs. Weasley's voice had reached its critical volume: to ignore it any longer was to risk certain death.
"Coming, Mum," Ginny called back, brushing the dirt from her knees as she stood up and headed back toward the Burrow, steeling herself for the chaos that awaited.
***
Ginny entered the kitchen and was immediately accosted by three different strains of conversation.
"—but the Cannons are really on to something this year if you ask me, what with their new Seeker and replacing Grifith with Maddox – I say, that bloke's a real find – devilishly good Keeper, don't you think?" Ron looked at Ginny for her opinion on his Quidditch scouting report, but before she could pass judgment –
"Ginny!" The twins pounced. "Our favorite little sister," Fred declared, throwing his arm about her shoulders, as Ron continued to ramble on about the merits of an eleven-wizard roster versus the traditional nine. Ginny decided to overlook the obvious comment about her being their only sister in the hopes of being left alone. "You look ravishing today, Gin," George winked at her, "The smudged-face look does wonders for you, you know – wouldn't be surprised if you turn out half decent looking after all." Fred ran his fingers through his hair. "Of course, it does run in the genes," he said, "pity you're not as pretty as George, though."
Mrs. Weasley's voice wafted into the room. "Ron, go fetch your sister and make sure she hasn't fallen into her own holes...honestly, that girl – I've called her three times already –" Mrs. Weasley bustled into the kitchen, looking frazzled. "Oh, there you are, Ginny. Be a dear and set some extra places at the table, would you?" She handed Ginny a stack of chipped plates and motioned towards the magically-elongated dining room table. "You two," she barked, glaring at the twins, who were edging out the door, sensing an assignment coming their way, "I need you to tidy your room, double quick. You too, Ron. And one of you, conjure up two – no, I'll have to Transfigure the cots myself – oh, and I'll have to double the recipe now..." Mrs. Weasley broke off, doing mental calculations of whatever it was that had her in such a tizzy.
Her children stared at her. "Mum?" Ron ventured, "Someone coming over for supper?" Mrs. Weasley didn't appear to have heard. She turned to the stove and muttered something. The merrily bubbling pots doubled their size, and she dipped a spoon into one of them. "More rosemary," she said to herself, Summoning a spice tin.
"Mum?" The twins crept carefully towards Mrs. Weasley. "Something wrong?" Mrs. Weasley still didn't answer, though her mouth grew very thin and tight. She sprinkled the rosemary into the simmering pot, and then covered it again. Ginny and Ron exchanged nervous glances. It was well known in the Weasley clan that whenever Mrs. Weasley was upset she barricaded herself in the kitchen. Ginny remembered a time when Percy had come down with a particularly nasty bug when he was younger; they'd been up to their necks in biscuits and pies and cakes for months to come. Mrs. Weasley sighed, and her shoulders lost some of their rigidity as she turned from the stove. Her face was tired, and her eyes suspiciously bright. Mum looks old, Ginny thought, shocked.
"Yes, dears, someone's coming over for supper." Mrs. Weasley's voice was drained, colorless. "And they'll be here soon enough. So, please, go do what I asked." And she turned back to the stove, her demeanor brooking no more questions.
The twins, Ron, and Ginny left the room quietly, Ginny balancing the stack of plates she held against her. "Wonder what all that was about," George said in a low voice, as he, Ron, and Fred made their way up to their rooms. Ginny began to set the table, counting the number of additional places her mother had indicated. Five. Five extra seats. But whoever for? she wondered as she went back into the kitchen.
"Need any help, Mum?" Ginny asked as she watched her mother scuttle about the tiny room.
Molly Weasley was a woman possessed.
"Hmm?" With a quick flick of her wand, Mrs. Weasley lined up the serving dishes on the counter. She bent down and peered into the cabinets under the sink. "Oh, no, dear. I've got everything under control," she said as she wrestled a salad bowl that had evaded capture out from its dark hiding spot. The salad bowl snarled, snapped at Mrs. Weasley's hands, and dove under a nearby double boiler. "Blast," she muttered. "Knew I shouldn't have bought that self-tossing bowl. Nasty-tempered thing." Mrs. Weasley had reached for her wand again when there was a sudden whooshing noise from the fireplace. Mrs. Weasley straightened up. "Here they are, and hardly anything done," she wailed, flailing about the kitchen, trying to tidy things up at the last second.
Ginny looked curiously at the flames. They parted, and out stumbled – Harry Potter.