A/N: Thanks to those of you who reviewed and had faith I would get this out sometime!
Chapter Two
"The Past to Present"
"Don't act like you did all summer!"
Two days later, Ginny sat on the floor in the central room, surrounded by her many journals and rolls of parchment. It was safe to bring them out into a bigger space for now; Alyson was gone for an interview with Witch Weekly. Only with the assurance of complete security did Ginny unveil her work from the safety of her room. She didn't know what she wanted, but only that she needed to have everything before her, without disruption.
But Ginny was restless. Alyson's chide repeated constantly in her mind and spurred lethargic, melancholy memories of the summer. She couldn't remember time ever passing in such an unaffected fashion, but there hadn't seemed to be any other way to deal with everything. It was almost like first year, except that she knew exactly what she was doing.
Locking it up, shutting it out. Closing herself. Before, in the Chamber of Secrets, she had wanted to tell, to free herself from Tom Riddle's grasp, but he had controlled the part of her that kept it a secret. Now it was her own will, and it was just as destructive and painful, but Ginny couldn't stop herself. It was innate within her. She was good at pretending, at lying, at acting. But she was so tired of it.
The last summer had been spent mostly in her room, although she regularly worked at Flourish and Blotts, and occasionally she submitted to Alyson's persistent pleads for an outing. In her room she didn't have to pretend.
But it had been so lonely. Ginny had known it would be different once she graduated Hogwarts. Hermione, once her closest friend, was extremely active and preoccupied with her liaison position between Hogwarts, the Ministry, and other European schools. Ron was now training for a newly combined field of Strategic Magical Apprehension, which more or less meant he was another Auror. And Harry . . . Harry was gone.
After Harry's defeat of Lord Voldemort, he, like his friends, had plunged headlong into the reconstruction in every possible way. Unfortunately, the wizard press and public had never been satisfied with his limited, exclusive compliance, and had sought after him almost viciously. After a year, in which Ginny had gathered mostly from Hermione that Harry was very miserable, Remus Lupin had all but forced Harry to take a long, independent sabbatical from the British wizarding world.
Ginny had only just stepped off platform nine and three-quarters to learn that Harry had just left Britain only two days before. It had struck her as little as anything had in the past two years. After spending years trying to open herself to Harry—and he in turn to her—she had begun to close herself off. Their friendship hadn't ended, necessarily, but it had become less intimate, less gratifying. Over the summer after the war, everyone had been reeling and diving into rebuilding their lives. Once she'd returned to Hogwarts, Ginny found letters from Harry coming less and less, each one becoming more indifferent until Harry merely dropped in a hello through Ron or Hermione.
It's my fault, Ginny knew, but it made her no less miserable. What else could be done? She had sworn herself off Harry, lying in that infirmary bed, trying to shut out the world. What a liar she was! It seemed to be her only talent, lying and surrendering.
"You sod," Ginny muttered aloud. She jumped at the sound of her voice. Shaking her head, she blinked and focused on the piles around her.
What was she doing? What was she looking for?
The questions drew her back to the summer before her third year . . .
It was a blustery day to be shopping in Diagon Alley, but Ginny had agreed to come with her mother. Ron had wanted to stay and write letters to Harry and Hermione. Fred and George were banned from the outing, since they were mostly the cause of it. Mum had not been thrilled to find all of her cookbooks had been destroyed in the 'pursuit of inventive genius.'
Which was why they were about to enter Flourish and Blotts; for once, they were having a convenient clearance sale on cookbooks.
Ginny didn't mind one bit. She loved the bookstore, even if she'd really only been able to purchase her schoolbooks there. Most of her novels had been handed down through the family, given by a bored classmate, or bought at a secondhand store. All of her books were tattered and falling apart, despite her meticulous care, due to her habit of several readings.
Ginny loved the smell of new books.
As her mother opened the door, allowing a gush of wind to howl through and rattle the chimes, Ginny allowed herself a smile. Even the chimes were dear!
"Shut the door, shut the door!" a cracked voice squeaked as Ginny entered on the breeze. A tiny man was shuffling around the counter, waving his arms as pages fluttered noisily in the tunneled wind.
Hastily, Ginny slammed the door shut. Rain splattered against the glass paneling.
"Well," came the sigh, "what can I do for you ladies?"
Ginny turned from the door. Her mother was already perusing the cluttered discount table almost hidden amongst the teetering towers and sliding shelves of books.
"Oh, I'm fine, thank you," chirped Mum, flipping through the colorful Contemporary Wizarding Cuisine – Magic in the Kitchen! Mum always scrutinized her household books, and Ginny suddenly felt sorry as the large volume was firmly set down.
It would be awhile, Ginny decided, and slowly headed for the fiction shelves towards the back. She didn't know if she had enough money to actually buy a book, but she may be able to read a chapter and agonize over the outcome later. Finishing it in her own mind was fun, even if she may be well off from the intended plot.
But she never reached the back of the store.
Ginny's nonchalant steps paused halfway down the first aisle. She tried to move on, but she couldn't. Her fingers itched with a tingle, as if they were just waking from a deep sleep. Biting her lip, she pressed them to her thighs to stifle the sensation.
How could she have forgotten this path to the back of the store? Usually she took the winding routes through the zig-zag of shelves.
A large section on writing supplies ran from the purchase counter to the back shelves. Quills and parchment rolls of all makes, shapes, and sizes filled most of the long shelf, but Ginny had momentarily forgotten the middle: the diaries.
They spread out before her in neat stacks according to size and color. Ginny's eyes traveled over the simple leather bound to the decoratively embroidered and luscious velvets. A desire crept up, tightening her stomach and throat until she thought she'd be sick. Her fingers itched even more. She clamped her hands behind her back, hoping to still a nervous twitch.
She closed her eyes, feeling slightly dizzy. How she longed to write in a diary. She needed it. To pinch a quill between her fingers and watch ink form into curvy letters, then words, and finally whole thoughts and ideas . . . Maybe then she could find order, confession, and . . . what?
But she couldn't. She'd promised herself never again.
"You're pathetic," she whispered vehemently, not sure whether she was addressing herself or the diaries.
Slowly, Ginny opened her eyes. She knew that Tom Riddle did not lurk in any of these empty pages, but she couldn't get past it. Giving herself up in pages was stupid and childish. What good was there in it? It'd only trap her . . .
"Looking for a diary, are you?"
Ginny jumped at the quiet murmur from her right shoulder. She gave another jump to find the shopkeeper's tiny bent form leaning towards her. For a moment she just looked at him. He was old – maybe even over a hundred. Thin, spotted skin crinkled over his sharply boned face but ran smooth over his nearly bald scalp. Twinkling black eyes peered from behind thick, black, rectangular spectacles that slid down a slightly hooked nose. His smile, like a crack in the earth, curved slyly at her.
"N-no," Ginny stammered, taking a step back. She felt distinctly unsettled.
"No? You're just the age for it."
"I had a diary," she said stiffly. "Only when I was eleven. They're for silly little girls."
"Perhaps," said the shopkeeper, still smiling queerly. He rocked back on his heels, putting his hands behind his back. Immediately Ginny let hers drop to her side, but they started to itch again. His smile widened.
"Yes," the old man said briskly. "I can definitely see it."
Ginny stiffened, but kept her eyes from darting to the old wizard. How did he know? No one knew about it – no one except for Harry, her family, and Dumbledore.
"Diaries are for little girls," the shopkeeper nodded. "But that does not stop your fingers from itching, does it?"
Ginny looked at him sharply. "What?" Her fingers clenched into fists.
"Oooh, yes, I can definitely see it." The crack was widening even more, and Ginny could see the dry pink of his tongue before he spoke again. "You're addicted to the feel of the quill, the scratching of the tip on the page, the flow of ink. Constantly you're tormented by thoughts and ideas, images and words—words that flow with the ink—it keeps you awake at night, distracts you in your lessons, makes you dizzy with agitation . . ."
He trailed off, and Ginny could hear her breathing. It was shallow. Her heart fluttered with fright and excitement at this strange man's words. How did he know? She blinked as she stared down at the empty faces of the diaries before her. To her they weren't just empty; to her they were waiting to be filled.
"Now, I see your trouble," he went on, as if she weren't acting oddly in the least. "What good is a diary, when all you do is write about your miserable or wonderful day? Well, that's jolly well, but not for you. Now, a writing journal, on the other hand, is quite different."
A speckled, wiry hand appeared amongst the red, blue, black, and green covers. It lifted one of deep red leather, larger than the others, and wrapped it in the shopkeeper's arms. He ran a hand lovingly over the faintly glossy cover.
"A journal, miss, is so much more than a diary." Excitement split his voice like crackers over soup. "You've got stories in your head—characters, places, plots. Write them down in here. It can be orderly or chaotic and as personal or impersonal as you choose. As long as it is yours."
Ginny stared at the shopkeeper, undecided whether to absorb his excitement or not. He was so passionate, so true. Her eyes fell to the unopened diary—no, journal—in his hands, wondering if, possibly, she could believe him. The itching in her fingers was becoming unbearable; a corner of her mind too often ignored was becoming overwhelmed. She wanted to let it come more than she wanted it to stop.
"A . . . journal?" she finally said. He nodded eagerly. Such energy seemed to tremble in his small, feeble frame. "Well."
What could she say to him? "I'm sorry, but when I was eleven, a diary possessed me and made me set a great dirty basilisk loose on everyone. Makes one not fond of diaries, really."
There was suddenly a shriek and crash, followed by something that sounded like many heavy objects falling over one another. The shopkeeper, barely startled, smiled demurely at Ginny. "Perhaps I shall assist your mother?" And off he went, as quietly as he'd come.
Maybe one of the books doesn't appreciate rejection. Ginny turned away from the sight of her mother glaring accusingly at the collapsed discount display. Again, her eyes fastened on the many diaries—and journals—laid out before her. Flat covers of leather and fabric danced before her, whirling with the sudden vision of words forming into stories and scenes, not essays on goblin rebellions and village trolls. She tipped forward on her toes, but quickly rocked back, her heart pounding.
I'm not going to do it. I don't care what that loony man says! I don't write things except for schoolwork.
But then her eyes focused and paused. The decision was made.
Resting between a star-spangled diary and dragon-covered event booklet was Ginny's journal. It seemed to cower between the two elaborate designs, as if ashamed to be associated with them. Not quite as large as the red leather journal, this one was caught between being childish and adult. Petite, young but worldly, it was the color of the night sky, caught between deep purple, blue, and black. When her trembling hand reached out to touch it, she found what appeared to be velvet was actually soft leather.
Ginny moaned softly.
She wanted it. She wanted it badly. Not just this journal, but what the shopkeeper had said. His promise burned from her chest, down her right arm, and to her fingertips. It increased with every second she did not pick up the night sky journal. Biting her lip, she picked it up, hastily letting it fall open in her palms.
The pages were crisp, fresh, and blank. They looked inviting, beckoning . . . but not as if they would trap her. Tom Riddle's diary had looked similarly friendly, if somewhat drawing, as if demanding for its pages to be filled. She felt a pull, a demand, but her eyelids didn't feel heavy, and the dizziness was something exhilarating, not sickening . . .
I could never have it, Ginny realized suddenly as her fingers felt the smooth pages. Something as wonderful and sophisticated as this journal would probably have too many sickles, maybe even a galleon, to it.
Feeling as if she were tossing a friend into a raging sea of watery death, Ginny returned the journal to the shelf. However, she couldn't bear the indignity of its previous neighbors, so she placed it next to the red journal, the shopkeeper's choice. Sadly, she shifted a step down to gaze at the cheap brown and black books. It seemed perfectly horrid and disgraceful, but it couldn't be helped. Indifferently, Ginny reached for a brown journal.
"Oh no, that won't do! That simply will not do!"
Not for the first time, Ginny jumped at the shopkeeper's sudden appearance. The brown journal slapped down amongst its brothers. "S-sorry?"
The shopkeeper's beady eyes were alive and skittering as he shuffled towards her, heaving slightly. "Young Genevieve, that is not the way to go about it. You cannot frown when you are choosing your other half! Would you frown at your love when your heart beats so wildly?"
Ginny's jaw dropped.
"Choose!"
It was a command. Yet his eyes still shined with merriment.
Shaking, Ginny reached for the night sky, her mouth wanting to protest that she couldn't possibly afford it. "I-I can't—"
"Rubbish!"
Ginny shook her head but clutched the journal to her chest. She wanted to race out of the store with it, find a quill, and let her fingers cool the burn.
"Ginny! We're leaving soon!" her mother called.
Slowly, Ginny reached into her pockets, which were barely filled with knuts and sickles. Not even a single galleon. Heat stung her cheeks. How utterly humiliating! The family's poverty rarely troubled her, she was used to it, but now she could feel disappointment down to her very core.
"Pah. Away with that."
Ginny's eyes rose from her palm to the shopkeeper. The smile was gone, his thin mouth lost in serious wrinkles. "From one writer to another," he said quietly, and turned to shuffle upfront to where her mother was waiting.
Back in the flat, surrounded by her own words, Ginny smiled softly as she lifted her first journal from the pile. The leather was cracked on the spine from age and use, but it was still supple and made one think more of velvet than leather. Every inch of parchment was filled with words and doodles, stories and poems, thoughts and ideas. Mostly it contained observations of the people at Hogwarts; more often than not, she expanded on what she knew until it was almost fictional.
"Those were the days," Ginny said with a sigh. She had not actually been content as she'd pretended, but at least she had been set with a school life where many decisions were made for her. At Hogwarts she hadn't contemplated any future other than what Voldemort presented.
Life without Tom Riddle, without Harry, took some getting used to.
Just as Ginny was returning the journal to the pile, a rat-tat at the window alerted her to the arrival of an owl. Frowning, she slowly stood up, groaning at the stiffness in her legs. How long had she been sitting here?
"Who're you?" she demanded as she opened the window. A chestnut colored owl with a speckled front swooped in, a letter in its beak. It circled once, and then landed obediently on her outstretched arm.
The owl hooted and stretched out its neck. "Thank you." She peered at the handwriting, which was in a metallic crimson. The artistic, slashy handwriting was familiar, although she had not seen it for quite a long time. Feeling curious and oddly nervous, Ginny opened the letter, which upset the owl on her arm. It took off and found a perch on the back of a chair.
Dear Ginny,
How've you been? I bumped into Ron the other day, and he said you'd moved out to Muggle London. Anyway, I was wondering if we could get together sometime. I know much of Muggle London, and my uncle even owns a little café here.
How was your summer? Ron said you work part-time at Flourish and Blotts. He seemed reluctant to talk much about you—I don't think he ever truly got over you know what.
Write back,
Dean
P.S. Like the new owl? I named him Leonardo.
Ginny reread the letter twice, and then sat down on the lumpy couch. Dean wanted to see her. Dean Thomas. A corner of her mouth quirked up over what the name meant. Ron's indignation for her little white lie on the Hogwarts Express, Dean's surprised, demanding letter after Ron sent him a Howler, and then, for kicks, messing with Ron's mind. Dean was a wonderful collaborator.
The owl—Leonardo—hooted inquiringly when Ginny didn't move. She started and glanced down at the letter, and then out the window.
It was a bleak day, as it had been all week, with a rather undecided nature. The sky was bright gray, almost white. Suddenly, Ginny couldn't stay within the confines of the flat. Quickly, she gathered her parchment and journals, grabbed her patched, quilted satchel, shoved a Muggle notebook and pen inside, and grabbed her trench coat. She shoved Dean's letter into her coat pocket with her keys and wand, slung the satchel over her shoulder, and walked out into the afternoon.
Ginny liked walking. At home, she used to wander the many woods and fields around the Burrow, often lost in an imaginative story that she acted out, secluded from prying, skeptical eyes. In crowded London she couldn't play in such a way, but she could still imagine and lose herself. Still unaccustomed to London's traffic, pedestrian and automobile, she felt invigorated again by the sense of adventure.
Eventually when her feet began to tire, Ginny entered a large, shady park. Small duck ponds covered in lily pads blotted the sloping, grassy lawns. She spotted seven young boys playing football, and a young couple lounging on a blanket. Wanting not to interfere with either group, she continued on until she found an empty bench on a secluded bend in the path.
Then, with physical exertion giving her no other choice, she plopped down on the bench and retrieved Dean's letter.
It wasn't a question of writing back, but of what she should say. Did "get together" mean date, or just hang out? She'd done both with Dean and hadn't minded either. They didn't even separate on bad terms, but agreed that for Ron's sanity, they should call it off. Well, that was one reason. It was rather odd how they'd begun, anyway.
"Oy!"
Ginny looked up just in time to duck what was unmistakably a bludger. The air whooshed over her head. When she lifted her head, she had to duck again from wizard on a broomstick.
"What the--?" she sputtered, cautiously lifting her head a second time. She heard laughter and mild swearing. Turning to the right, she saw a group of wizards and witches decked out in Quidditch gear. Two were carrying a heavy trunk, and everyone else had broomsticks.
"Hey!" cried a boy from the football game. "Did you see that, Billy?"
"Uh-oh," muttered a tall, lean wizard. He pulled out his wand. "Mary, mind helping, hmm?"
"Oh, right!" A frizzy haired witch, in what appeared to be Muggle jodhpurs, scurried after her long-striding companion.
Ginny gaped at the group. What were they going to do, play Quidditch in the park with Muggles everywhere? They couldn't constantly Obliviate everyone – someone at the Misuse office was bound to notice.
"Hey, what about her, Michael?"
"Oh – yeah."
It took Ginny exactly two seconds to register what was happening. Clearly the Quidditch players thought she was a Muggle. Not only that, but they'd sent Michael Corner over to erase her memory! Quickly, Ginny stood up, shouldered her satchel, and marched towards the group, not at all wanting to be the one without the upper hand.
"Michael," Ginny greeted when they were only three paces apart.
"Ginny?" Michael stopped, a look of surprise crossing his face. Then he quickly looked a bit sour, as if he was still upset over the Quidditch match nearly four years ago. "What are you doing here?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing," said Ginny, raising an eyebrow and looking around him at the approaching players. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this a Muggle park?"
"You are wrong," Michael said with a cheeky grin. Absently, Ginny thought he looked rather attractive like that, but she resented his obvious delight in correcting her. "About ten meters down, it becomes wizard territory. There's a pitch, and we're playing."
"Yeah," said a familiar voice from behind Michael. "But try telling the bludger that. We need a new box, the lock keeps snapping on this one." Alicia Spinnet shouldered past Michael and grinned at Ginny. "Hey! How's it going? I haven't seen you in ages!" She put an arm around Ginny, while still gripping her broomstick (which looked to be the same she used at Hogwarts). "You've got to play! Chamberlain broke his shoulder last week, so we need a Seeker."
"I haven't played Seeker since fourth year," Ginny said quickly. But she felt a bit of excitement charge through her body. "And I haven't played at all since fifth. I'm really rusty."
"That's alright," Alicia grinned. "We were going to play sans Seeker points, or just do two chasers on a side, but this is better!"
"I don't have a broomstick. And," she added, nodding to all the players surrounding her, "aren't you all being conspicuous with yours?"
"Nope. They look like umbrellas," said a blonde, freckled wizard. He was holding a Nimbus Two Thousand and wearing—she couldn't believe it—a Cannons jersey. His hair was worn back in a short ponytail, and he had one pierced ear, which was adorned with a tiny, emerald dragon.
"Don't worry about the broomstick. You can use Chamberlain's," Alicia said dismissively. "We always bring a spare, anyway."
Ginny shrugged her shoulders and looked around at the assemblage. The tall wizard and the short witch had returned from erasing memories and were gazing at her curiously. The blonde, who reminded her of Bill, was grinning with Alicia. Michael looked less than thrilled, which Ginny thought childish of him. The other two, a witch and a wizard, whom she figured were Beaters, judging by their size, were eyeing her inquisitively as well.
"I don't know. I'm not that great of a Seeker."
Alicia rolled her eyes. "You're just saying that because of whom you replaced. Who wouldn't feel lousy following up Harry? You catch Snitches all right. If Chaser opens up, you can have a spot there, okay?"
Ginny laughed at her older Quidditch mate. Alicia did have a point. No one flew better than Harry. She felt a pull on her gut at the mention of him, but quickly pushed it aside. "So, are you Captain, then?"
The short blonde wizard laughed. "No, but I might as well give her the job. Hi, I'm Phil Mason. And you are?"
"Ginny Weasley."
"Hey! I remember your brother Charlie." Phil's grin widened. "Can you play like him?"
"No—"
"Yes, she does," Alicia interrupted, elbowing Ginny in the ribs. "She's just trying to be modest."
"Great."
Before she knew what was happening, Ginny was being shouldered down the winding path, under a weeping willow, and onto what was definitely a Quidditch pitch. A deep depression cut in the earth was surrounded by tall trees furnished with platforms to watch the game. Another team was already flying through their warm-ups, all wearing matching red jerseys.
"We haven't any of our own," explained Alicia. "Phil says we'll get them, we just need a sponsor. Not too many businesses want to sponsor an intramural league."
"Here's your ride," said Phil, pushing a Comet Three-Forty into Ginny's hands. "It lists slightly to the left, so watch for that."
"I'll watch your satchel," said the tallest wizard, the one who'd Obliviated the young boys. "I'm scorekeeper."
And then Ginny was introduced to Mary Grant, the frizzy-haired witch who played Chaser with Phil and Alicia; Cassandra Rolland, a very built woman with spiky purple hair and a pierced nose, who played Beater; and Mitch Tuesday, who could have been an American linebacker and accompanied Cassandra in the bat-wielding duo. Michael, surprisingly, played Keeper.
"Mount up!" Phil called as Dorian Wilson, the scorekeeper, sat hard on the trunk to keep it from releasing the balls prematurely.
Ginny felt a familiar thrill as she kicked off into the air and circled the pitch, feeling almost as if she were back at Hogwarts. When the quaffle, bludgers, and snitch were released, she forgot all her worries and focused solely on the game.
"And just where have you been, missy? It's nearly dark! You could have been kidnapped, mugged, murdered, or ran over by a cabbie!"
"Huh?" Ginny had barely opened the door before Alyson was upon her in a frightening impression of her mother. "What are you on about?"
Alyson grinned, flipping her dark ponytail over her shoulder. For once she wasn't dressed for a night out and was donned in grubby old sweats. "I come home, dying to tell you about my glamorous interview, and—no one's home!" She leaned around Ginny and raised her eyebrows at the broomstick. "What's that for?"
"Flying, generally." Ginny dropped her satchel on the wobbly table by the door and moved into the living room, where she deposited the old broomstick against the wall.
"No, I thought you were going to sweep the floor," Alyson snorted. "You look rather winded. Couldn't be Quidditch, could it?"
"It could." Ginny tossed her coat over the couch and went into the bathroom to start her bath water. She felt sweaty and gritty, but very charged. "I went to a park today—Heath, or something—and there's apparently a pitch there and everything. Alicia's on it, this cute guy named Phil, and—ugh—Michael."
"Corner?"
"The one and the same."
"Is he still being a prat?"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "I couldn't believe it. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I ever dated him." But she knew why. He'd smiled at her, had given her the attention she'd wanted from someone else. Sometimes she felt guilty about her first boyfriend. She was never interested that much in Michael Corner, a Ravenclaw with a handsome smile, but he had been useful to prove a point. Truthfully, she was as much a prat as Michael.
"I think I'm going to play regularly on the team," said Ginny after a pause. She hadn't meant to stop, but Alyson's raised eyebrows jerked her out of her reverie. "Everyone else is fun. It's nothing special, just a bunch of us who still like to play. Some of the teams are sponsored, but we're not. Know anyone who wants to patron us? We're not too bad, even if I've seen better on the Hufflepuff side."
"Are you Chaser?"
"Seeker," Ginny sighed, scrunching her nose. "I don't mind it. It's just that it's not as . . . active as Chaser."
Alyson chuckled. "Wow, I remember that argument. Potter took it personally, didn't he? What do you mean Seeker is boring? We were all expecting a great dirty row."
Ginny averted her gaze to the tap and turned it off, feeling heat rise into her cheeks. She should have known any mention of Quidditch would eventually lead to Harry. And then talk of Harry would lead to How is Harry these days?, which would lead to Ginny confessing that she hadn't the slightest idea, and then she would mope the rest of the night and silently chide her dejection . . .
"I got an owl from Dean Thomas today," Ginny said, before Alyson could inquire about Harry. Her cheeks were coloring again and she couldn't seem to prevent it.
Alyson's dark eyes lit up. "Oh, really? And?"
Ginny shrugged, trying to act nonchalant as she peeled off her light jumper. "He just asked how I was doing, if I wanted him to show me around London sometime."
"Oh, a date!"
"No, not a date. We're just friends, Allie. And besides, I haven't seen him in nearly two years." She untied her ponytail and raked her fingers through her hair.
"Sure, just friends." Alyson crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway, a smirk scrunching her smooth face. "I recall a particular incident in a certain broom cupboard—"
"That was still friendly!"
"About as friendly as it gets," Alyson snorted. "So, did you tell him yes?"
Ginny paused, curling her toes into the fluffy blue bath rug. "Not yet."
"And why not?"
"I dunno."
"You are so difficult," Alyson said exasperatedly. "Honestly, what's wrong with being chummy with Dean? He's cute, artsy, and up for a laugh. If you felt better, you two could come with me and whoever I can snag for a night."
Ginny bit her lip. All afternoon she'd been able to space Dean off as she searched for a flash of gold and flutter of wings. But now she had to face it again. It wasn't so much that she was avoiding Dean, but that he might notice what George had noticed. It meant more pretending that she was happy as ever.
"If you don't owl him, I will," Alyson chirped when Ginny didn't answer.
"No! No, I'll do it."
Feeling distinctly weary, Ginny shooed Alyson out of the bathroom. If only a soak in the bath could soothe more than physical ailments . . .