A/N: Once again, thanks go to Cliodne, my beta, and all of you reviewing! J Also, some of you have expressed eagerness to see Harry, but I'm afraid he's rather AWOL right now. He'll come into play eventually. However, this isn't exactly a fast-moving plot, so don't expect high action or anything.
Chapter Three
"With the Rest of the World"
"Ginny."
A whimper escaped her as she felt Voldemort's cool fingertip trace her left cheek, drawing her buried face away from the armchair to him. She felt her eyelids lift.
"I am your will."
"No." It was so soft, so quiet that Ginny thought she'd imagined it.
"No? Do you still persist with your foolish 'bravery'? Gryffindor, a thoughtless and incompetent house. I believe your entire family consists of Gryffindors?"
Ginny bit her lip to keep from retorting angrily. She was not going to fall for Voldemort's taunting. Yes, I am a Gryffindor, and we're brave, just, and good. Unlike you!
"I see you are not in a conversational mood today," said Voldemort, pressing his palms together in a steeple. "Very well, we will dispose of the preliminaries. Will you or will you not be cooperative?"
"I will not."
Voldemort's slit eyes narrowed, but he did not seem at all surprised. "Very well. Crucio."
Ginny awoke with a start. Gasping against the pain that racked her body, she lay still, forcing her eyes to stay wide open. She focused on the soft glow from the city lights coming through the window, knowing that it would anchor her in reality, not in her memories. When her heart slowed, she breathed deeply, slowly feeling the effect of the dream wearing off.
At least it wasn't the worst of the nightmares, Ginny comforted herself as she carefully untangled her legs from the twisted sheets. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow. Her nails dug into the mattress. The worst of it was waking up and knowing what the other nightmares could have been and knowing that they weren't nightmares at all. The Cruciatus Curse, however terrible and agonizing, was more bearable than the truth.
But she had not been able to bear it.
"You are weak, Ginny. Why do you think Dumbledore placed that protection charm over your mind? He knew you would not last without it. You would have surrendered at the first burst of pain."
Voldemort had been right. Everyone else had been wrong.
Images, feelings, and words flashed behind her closed eyelids. Abruptly, Ginny threw herself off her bed, through her door, and into the bathroom. Without flicking on the light, she heaved over the toilet, as if Lucius Malfoy had just fed her the Restorative Draught that would render her "fit" for another round of torture. She retched until tears streamed down her eyes and hot stabs of pain sliced through her stomach. When she had nothing left, Ginny sank to the cool floor, the soft rug feeling scratchy against her cold skin. She was transported to the cold cell under Malfoy Manor.
"Gin?" A light flickered on, and Ginny jerked out of her darkness. Blinking and squinting in the sudden brightness, she managed to fasten her mind on the hovering form of Alyson, bedraggled with only one arm through her dressing gown. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Ginny moaned, turning her face away. She shivered involuntarily.
Alyson said nothing, but stepped forward to flush the toilet's hideous contents. Then she closed the lid and sat upon it, finally putting her arm through her sleeve. Gathering herself, Ginny stood up and moved to the sink to splash cold water on her face. It was an old routine, but usually Alyson pretended to still be asleep, despite being the lightest sleeper Ginny had ever known.
"I'll go make some tea," Alyson said quietly, jumping up from her perch. Clearly, she was familiar with Ginny's nightmare regimen but didn't want to make a point of it.
Ginny sighed and splashed her face. Goosebumps trailed up her arms. She stared at herself in the mirror, noting her ghostly complexion and how her freckles and the dark circles around her bloodshot eyes clearly stood out.
"You're such a wreck," she told her reflection. "An absolute mess. And you put yourself there."
Having woken herself and Alyson up at four in the morning, Ginny decided to compensate for it by cleaning the flat up as much as possible before her scheduled afternoon with Dean. Alyson thought it a "splendid proposition", and after they sat quietly with their tea while making small talk about Alyson's new job with Witch Weekly's fashion department, Alyson returned to bed.
"Feel better, okay? I'll help you pick something out for your date when I get up," was her parting.
"It's not a date," Ginny argued, but Alyson only stuck out her tongue before closing the door.
Not for the first time, Ginny was grateful for her friend. In her second year, it had been Alyson who had first befriended Ginny. Chiding the other girls for pestering Ginny for details about being taken hostage (which they thought thrilling), and being saved by Harry Potter (which they thought romantic), Alyson had established herself as the leader of the second year girls, and the others respected her. Through Alyson, Ginny had regained some confidence and friends, although she was never very close to any of the other girls.
Alyson was a contradiction. Highly inquisitive and gossipy, she was always an informant of the juicy rumors circulating Hogwarts, but with Ginny, she did not push for dormitory confessionals, and seemed to accept that Ginny did not want to talk about the Chamber of Secrets, her nightmares, or the time she was kidnapped. It'd been a shock for Ginny when Alyson announced she should just "jump Harry and get it over with in a broom cupboard." Not once had Ginny hinted at her feelings for Harry, but somehow Alyson had known.
Which was so disconcerting and wonderful about Alyson Baker. She was sharp and intelligent enough to read beyond the surface and know when not to touch beneath it. While in school, Ginny had considered her closest friend Hermione Granger, and she had confessed a thing or two to the older girl. But in seventh year, Ginny had found a deepening friendship with Alyson; it would have been a very lonely time without her.
Wrapped up in her dressing gown but still shivering (she was always cold now, it seemed), Ginny set to work on the flat. By seven-thirty, she had it looking presentable, though still obviously inhabited by poor novices.
Still burning with jittery energy, Ginny tackled an unsuccessful breakfast of eggs, toast, and bacon. She'd never been a passable cook. It was just something else that separated her from the rest of her family; even Ron could handle cooking something edible every now and then. Yet anything she touched resulted in ruin.
"What're you doing?" Alyson exclaimed near eight when she finally emerged from her bedroom. A thin haze of smoke filled the flat.
"Burning things," Ginny announced cheerfully. It was eight, she didn't have to work, and her dark feelings were tucked carefully away again. She was not going to take anyone's contemplative, scrutinizing looks today. Today was Friday, she was going to meet Dean and try to come up with a viable excuse to not return to the Burrow tomorrow.
"Spectacular," yawned Alyson, sitting down at the wobbly table. Wand in hand, she summoned a box of cereal and carton of milk. "You know, these Muggles do know a thing or two about breakfast food. Joe's showing his love for family by this," she gestured to the sugary, flaky concoction in her bowl.
Ginny rolled her eyes and sat down to a bagel, since she'd ruined all of the bacon, eggs, and bread slices. Honestly, how hard was it to toast bread? "What a benevolent cousin you have. Maybe we can hire him on as cook."
"And what, pay him with smiles?"
Ginny grinned.
Alyson stretched and smiled, shoveled cereal into her mouth, and said, "I suppose magic would work. He's been begging me ever since June. Used to try to 'startle' magic out of me since we couldn't use it outside of school. Idiot."
Ginny giggled. "Oh, if he met Dad, he could start a trade. Muggle things for magic."
"When do you meet Dean?" Alyson asked. She was down to the colored marshmallows, which had expanded in the milk and looked a bit soggy.
"Two, at the Leaky Cauldron."
"What're you going to wear?"
"What does it matter?" Ginny shrugged. "It's only Dean."
"Of course it matters!" Alyson rolled her eyes. "It always matters."
"You're getting way too into this model thing," Ginny smirked.
After a week of dreary weather, the sky cleared long enough on Friday afternoon to allow Londoners to reminisce over the warmer days of summer. Ginny enjoyed her walk from Barslow Lane to Charring Cross Road, feeling as if the sun was pouring warmth into her deeply chilled bones. She even smiled slightly as she remembered her previous afternoons spent with Dean Thomas, and her little joke that had more or less officially started their friendship.
Her fourth year at Hogwarts had definitely been her "breaking out" period. Two years had passed without anything interesting happening to her, and everyone had more or less forgotten about the Chamber of Secrets, or had grown tired of receiving no answers from her. Ginny was finally feeling comfortable and at ease with people, truly believing that they had no ulterior motives for wanting to talk to her, and Alyson's patient friendship had convinced Ginny of this. Plus, a boy was noticing her. Michael Corner had asked her for a dance at the Yule Ball in third year, and had occasionally passed her a note in the corridors. Owls over the summer had halted after she'd gone to Grimmauld Place, but Michael had apparently been interested enough not to be deterred.
But before Michael had come, something else had happened. While watching Harry stumble miserably around with Parvati Patil, his eyes cast wistfully towards Cedric and Cho, Ginny had an epiphany.
She didn't just want to be Harry's girlfriend—she wanted to be his last.
Raising her chin, Ginny had asked Neville for another dance—which resulted in toe massacre. She'd limped as subtly as she could back to the table while Neville scurried off for some butterbeer. It was then that Ginny had first chatted with Dean.
Dean had squeezed himself between two rather entwined Hufflepuffs, a sketchpad under his arm. He'd quickly spotted Ginny, remembered she was Neville's date, and hurried over. Dean had smiled, asked her how the night was going, and given his condolences to her toes, which she had not even complained about. Then he'd flipped open his notepad and begun sketching Angelina and Fred, who were in the middle of an extravagant tango. Ginny had leaned forward to watch and compliment his work. He'd shrugged it off, but the corners of his mouth had turned upwards, and he began chatting with her as his eyes darted from the sketchpad to the dancers and back again.
Later in the evening, Ginny was at another table talking to Alyson and her other friends, when Michael Corner asked her for a dance. Still empowered by her revelation, she'd accepted. Why shouldn't she? Neville had retreated to talking with 'the guys' and wouldn't miss her.
After that night, her life seemed to hold two different routes for her. Her fourth and fifth years had been her best. She was dating, participating in an illegal "study group", and befriending Harry and more people outside of her year and House. She had formed a reputation, and people seemed to forget all about the Chamber of Secrets. Pretending wasn't hard, it didn't really take a toll, because even she believed that she would be okay; Voldemort was real and out there, Harry and her family were in terrible danger, but she could deal with it, because she had survived and was living her own life.
Even while she sat on the train home in fourth year, devastated with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, she had been fully aware of another Ginny, one who had dumped Michael Corner, played on the Quidditch team, and cursed Draco Malfoy. That Ginny had bested Cho Chang, Harry's sweetheart, at creating a name for Dumbledore's Army and catching the Snitch from under her nose. When slipped into that Ginny, she could shake off the cold of the Chamber, the frequent nightmares, and the knowledge that she was stupid, weak, and going to die.
"Good for you. Just choose someone—better—next time."
"Well, I've chosen Dean Thomas, would you say he's better?"
Crossing the street with a harried group of tourists, Ginny smiled and shook her head, remembering how Ron's chess pieces had flown across the compartment. She had said it to get a rise out of him, but out of the corner of her eye, she'd seen the look he'd sent Harry. Distraction had been key, and her mind had been somewhat on her fourth year.
After the ball, they sometimes greeted each other in the corridors, and Dean had escaped from a mooning Seamus and played a game of chess, since she'd been training her used, motley assembled side to battle with Ron. When her fourth year came, Ginny did not see much of Dean; he was swamped in O.W.L.s, she had Michael and Quidditch. But once the DA had started, she had occasionally chatted with him, and one night even posed for a sketch (which she couldn't sit still for). He'd been one of the first to congratulate her after a match, and had called Michael a "cowardly sod" for getting stroppy over Ravenclaw's defeat.
And so, she had simply implied to Ron that she and Dean were dating. Immediately, she'd sent Dean an owl warning about a possible Howler and apologized that she had so inconsiderately used him to rile her brother. Dean had replied that he didn't mind one single bit, and did she want to elaborate and turn it into a joke? Seeing Ginny's name in Dean's handwriting had certainly annoyed Ron and resulted in a very strongly worded letter. Dean had laughed.
King's Cross the following September had been tense, but Ginny had diffused the situation slightly by sitting with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry hadn't spoken much, but he had seemed grateful not to be alone when Ron and Hermione had to carry through their prefect duties and had even smirked when she'd reminded him of visiting Malfoy about her little bogey hex.
But once at Hogwarts, Ginny was swept up in her and Dean's little prank. Dark eyes bright, he'd sat beside her through the Sorting and dinner, leaning close to whisper casual comments in her ears that Ron would surely take the wrong way. She had been pulled between drawing the haunted look from Harry's vacant eyes and making Ron's face turn red.
Within the first week, word had gotten round that she and Dean were a couple. Since she liked Dean, she didn't mind spending time with him to keep up the roost, but it also meant less time spent with Harry, who she was also getting closer to. Eventually, she asked Dean if they could drop the joke and simply be friends, saying they'd mutually agreed to break off the romance.
As Ginny crossed the street towards the Leaky Cauldron, she felt her stomach flip slightly. Her relationship with Dean hadn't been completely unfelt, and she would be a downright liar if she claimed otherwise.
Despite the entire joke, Ginny had found herself somewhat attracted to Dean. She liked Dean and enjoyed having lively conversations with him while they were "sneaking out to snog." However, somewhere in the antics, she had found herself wondering what it would be like to not simply pretend to be a couple. Dean had hinted that he wanted to be so, but Ginny had hinted straight back that she didn't. Even though there had been one night—the night Alyson had caught them in the broom cupboard—Ginny had wanted to end it on terms that she liked him too much to use him to make a point. Miraculously, Dean had understood, and they had parted on good terms and remained friends.
Life had just gotten too confusing.
And it still is, Ginny thought as she opened the door to the Leaky Cauldron.
A blast of raucous noise assaulted her. Friday afternoon, pay day, and everyone seemed to want to spend their galleons at the pub. Thin clouds of multi-colored smoke drifted over the pointed, floppy, and starch hats. Ginny squinted in the dim lighting, trying to make sense of the shifting, laughing throng. A gaggle of gossiping witches were pouring over the new issue of Witch Weekly, directly blocking Ginny's access to the rest of the crowded room.
"Excuse me!" Ginny called as politely as she could. Not a single witch turned her head. Rolling her eyes, Ginny pulled out her wand and whispered, "Mobilicorpus!"
"Oh my!" a witch in purple robes exclaimed, but she was pointing to something on the glossy page.
"Must be absorbing," Ginny muttered as she set the witches down. Their feet had barely left the floor, but now a narrow path allowed Ginny to merge into the crowd and weave her way towards the bar, where she might be able to spot Dean.
She spotted him at the end of the bar, talking to Lavender Brown, who was gesticulating wildly and stood out against the professional robes in salmon pink. Dean Thomas had a vaguely attentive frown on his face, and he nodded every so often, but he clearly wasn't really listening. Somehow, leaning against the bar in a burgundy jumper and dark trousers, he looked taller than Ginny remembered . . . and older. By now he was probably twenty, or at least nearly there—Ginny was horrible at birth dates—but she had last seen him at eighteen and optimistic with the war's end and an apprenticeship with a cartoonist for the Quibbler.
"Excuse me, sorry," Ginny said again, trying to make her way between three twenty-something wizards who seemed to be eyeing Lavender's startling assemblage. When none turned, she let out a huff and said loudly, "Pardon my intrusion!"
"Eh?" the sandy-haired one turned and looked down. His blue eyes swept over her and he smiled. "What's that, lass?"
Ginny suppressed an eye roll. "May I get through, please?"
"Sure, love."
"Thanks." Ginny squeezed through, vaguely recalling that she should have recognized whoever he was. Clearly, he hadn't recognized her. Shrugging, she sidled past another cluster of wizards, and then she was just behind Dean.
" . . . You think I'm right, right Dean?" Lavender was pouting, tapping her long, polished nails against her empty drink glass. "Because I know I'm right. I let him off for a year, because he said he wanted to 'explore his options'—which, I may add, just shows what a true git he really is!—and I've waited patiently for him to come around—but he hasn't!"
Ginny frowned at Lavender's contorted face. Obviously, she was talking about Seamus, but whatever point the older girl was making was lost on Ginny. Dean shifted on his feet, turned his head, and caught Ginny out of the corner of his eye.
"Ginny!" he exclaimed, sounding incredibly relieved as he turned without regard for Lavender. His eyes widened and swept over her, and his eyebrows rose as his mouth stretched into a wide grin. "Blimey, it's been ages."
"Hey, Dean," she smiled, feeling a little embarrassed.
"Ginny Weasley?" said Lavender, not bothering to wipe her disgruntled pout off her face as she peered around Dean's shoulder. She arched a brow. "You look . . . different."
"You look great," Dean said loudly, rolling his eyes in Lavender's direction.
"Thanks." Ginny felt the threat of a blush coming, but quickly ordered her blood to travel to her head in an orderly fashion. Alyson, being the helpful, generous friend that she was, had arrested Ginny for a serious, harried fashion and make-up session. Ginny had to admit that she'd liked the result. Alyson termed her look "slightly Gothic, but more reminiscent of the fantastic." Whatever that meant.
Ginny wore a deep blue medieval-style top that opened just below the elbows into flowing sleeves, a gothic black skirt, and chunky lace-up boots that had been charmed for comfort. The top was tighter than what Ginny was used to, but the assemblage seemed to accentuate her curves, making her feel less scrawny and more womanly. Alyson had advised she leave her hair down, but she'd braided a small, thin braid amongst the thick mass of copper and auburn. For make-up, Ginny had taken a daring step—for one, she'd actually put it on, and two, it was darker, heavier than she'd ever imagined herself wearing. Because she was too pale for black, Alyson had raced off for a more natural brown to line Ginny's eye and coat her lashes. Finally, her lips had been painted with Madam Valentine's No-Rub, Long-Lasting Rouge in darker-than-natural-but-not-pink-or-red-or-purple-shade that Ginny wasn't quite sure what to call, but she liked it.
All in all, Ginny didn't quite look or feel like herself, but it felt exhilarating. She felt attractive but not over-the-top, and this darker look felt somewhat liberating.
"I suppose," Lavender said loudly, offensively, "that you're not going to stay and listen to my problems, are you, Dean?"
Dean looked as if he wanted to cheerily say "pretty much!" but he scratched the back of his neck and said, "Gee, Lav, maybe you should just talk to Seamus about it. I can't really do anything about it, you know."
"I see." Lavender pressed her lips together. She looked at Ginny with a forced smile. "Sorry, I'm just going through a crisis right now. You know how it is with men."
"Yeah. Sure." No, she really didn't know how it was with men.
"What have you been up to since Hogwarts? How does the castle look?" Lavender wanted to know.
"Oh, well. It looks pretty much the same," said Ginny, feeling sad but confident on this subject. She had never really hit it off with the girls in that year, except for Hermione. "You can't really tell all that much what it looked like afterwards. Just a few differences here and there. The Great Hall's ceiling isn't quite the same, since students worked on it."
"Yeah," Lavender sighed, looking truly sorry. "All the best Charmers were needed for the Ministry and Castlereigh." She suddenly perked up. "Are you living in Castlereigh?"
Ginny shook her head. "No, Muggle London had a better rate for me."
Dean, who had looked interested in the conversation, glanced at his watch. "Hey, Gin, you want to head out? I sort of told my uncle we'd be there around four."
"Sure. Bye, Lavender," Ginny said, hoping she didn't sound as relieved as she felt. After Dean said his own good-bye, he put a hand on her elbow as they tried to wrestle their way through the throng.
Daybreak and fresher air broke as they closed the door behind them and stood in the street, blinking. Dean dropped his hand and squinted up at the sky, then dropped his chin and grinned happily at Ginny. "Well, I'm glad to be out of that."
Ginny smirked and shook her head. "Had I known, I would have gotten here faster. How long were you stuck with her?"
"Oh, just twenty minutes." Dean shrugged his shoulders. "It was enough."
Ginny felt his eyes sweep over her again, but she pretended not to notice. Dean hadn't really kept it secret he thought she was pretty, but he had also respected her enough not to make a compliment seem necessary.
"So, what are we doing, then?" she asked.
"Oh, yes. Well, we'll stop over at The Sipper—my uncle and aunt's coffee shop—but there's a couple of things to see on the way. It's near Camden, have you been there?"
"No, but I've heard of it."
"Well, then," said Dean, offering an elbow. "Shall we?"
Something about walking the Muggle streets of London with a long-time-no-see friend revived some of what had lain dormant in Ginny. Dean kept up a steady conversation without actually seeming like he was trying to fill in the silence, and bounced back and forth between reminiscing about the past and speculating about the future. They talked of Ginny's seventh year and reconstruction, Dean's apprenticeship with The Quibbler's comic strip and how he didn't think it was getting him anywhere, how Hermione and Ron seemed to have found active, important roles in the wizard world, Ginny's father's new position of regulating relations between Muggles and wizards, and what it was like living in the Muggle world.
"It's not been quite two weeks," Ginny said, as she caressed a silk scarf in an open shop in the Camden marketplace (which they had Apparated to), "so I can't really say much—but I do like it. Being independent, not having Mum nagging me about, well, everything." She wrinkled her nose at the price, and then sighed. "It's money that nags me now. We've always been poor, but it didn't really bother me."
"Can you get more hours at Flourish and Blotts?" Dean asked, trying on a cabbie cap.
"No. Mr. Whitworth's given me all he can. Mr. Crackenthorpe's been giving him trouble for it."
Dean wore a thoughtful frown on his face, but didn't respond for a while. "Is there something else you can do? You've got plenty of O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s to get a good job."
Ah, I knew this would come, Ginny thought, pretending to study a deep, crimson wash of a skirt. "I'm not really aiming for a specific career," she said, hoping it would suffice. She looked up from the skirt and gazed out at the busy walkway, which was bustling with shoppers carrying colorful bags. Four teenage Muggle girls were trying on stylish but skimpy tops that Ginny's mother would have deemed "bizarre and disgraceful." One tall girl wore large silver hoops from her earlobes, a leather cap over her long blonde hair, and high-heeled boots. The girl tossed back her head with loud, carefree laughter. She didn't seem too concerned about finding a career.
"Nothing at all?" Dean asked curiously.
Ginny tried not to squirm. "Well, I'm sort of like you. You say you're not getting anywhere at The Quibbler."
Dean frowned. "I would, if Rogers just declared me able. And it doesn't help that the magazine believes there's no need for an additional strip."
"Exactly. I can't really have my career until I'm declared able." Of course, that means I have to actually submit something . . . "But you," Ginny went on, "can find somewhere else. Why not the Quidditch League? Advertising, paraphernalia, or a comic on one of the teams?"
Dean looked thoughtful. "Well . . . maybe, but I don't really want to be in advertising."
"Illustration, then? In books, I mean."
"I'll think about it," Dean smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders as they stepped into the thoroughfare. "See? I should have looked you up sooner. You've got a shot in career counseling, you do."
"Mum couldn't disagree more," Ginny muttered derisively. But she wasn't bothered for the moment. All in all, she was having a rather nice time. Dean didn't want to talk too much about the war and reconstruction, which was fine by Ginny, and he didn't seem to be trying to measure her behavior like everyone else. "So," she said as they crossed over a small stone bridge, "where's your family's café?"
Ginny immediately fell in love with The Sipper.
She wasn't sure if it was the welcoming, warm aroma of coffee, baking buns, and cooling chocolate, or the soothing, cozy atmosphere. Old, worn, but polished beams crisscrossed the ceiling, where old-fashioned lantern lights hung down over every small, round table. The offset of the "lodge" appearance was the gray-speckled tile flooring and the modern tabletops, not to mention the counter and display case, which housed delicious, fattening pastries with fillings and icing. Muggles in business and casual clothing dotted the cushion-seated chairs, their tables cluttered with papers, cups of coffee or tea, and briefcases. Each seemed to have the intention of staying all through tea, and possibly, into the evening.
"What do think?" Dean asked quietly.
Ginny smiled. "This is great. I didn't think it'd be so quiet, though. I've passed dozens of these places before, and they're madhouses."
"Oh, Uncle Dan and Aunt Maggie try to keep the business manageable," said Dean, moving towards the counter. Ginny could see a woman in a white shirt and dark trousers with a green apron bent over, obviously struggling with something in her arms. "Hey, Maggie," Dean called, leaning his elbows on the counter.
"Oh!" Maggie Thomas startled and whirled around, dropping whatever had been in her arms on the floor. She reminded Ginny instantly of her mother, despite her hair being a nut brown streaked with gray and her eyes a soft blue. She was flushed from exertion, and had something white and powdery on her left cheek. "Dean!" she exclaimed, bending down to pick up what she'd dropped. "Get this for me, will you? Arthritis, you know. I'd have asked Ben or Cynthia to do it, but they're making mocha in the back."
"Sure." Dean took the silver bag, glanced back at the Muggles who were engrossed in their documents and computers, and pulled out his wand. "Diffindo." A neat, clean cut sliced across the top of the bag, and Ginny instantly smelled coffee beans.
"You're such a show off," Maggie chided good-naturedly as she accepted the bag. She turned to Ginny and smiled. "And who are you?"
"Ginny Weasley."
"Are you . . . you know?"
"Yes."
"Well, lovely to meet you," Maggie smiled again. "What can I get you two?" she asked, turning to a tall, cylindrical object behind her.
"The usual," said Dean, moving over to the bakery case.
Ginny gazed up at the menu board, a white surface with marker-in items and prices. She had never had much coffee, except for the creamy, sugary mixtures in Hogsmeade. The drinks with chocolate or caramel or cinnamon in them had been her favorites. Biting her lip, Ginny looked down the list, wishing that she knew what macchiato was. Well, you can't really go wrong with chocolate, Ginny reasoned, her eyes falling on 'mocha latte'.
When Ginny reached into her purse to pay (she had a bit of Muggle change, just in case), Dean shook his head, ordered two scones, one blueberry and one cinnamon, and smiled. "My treat."
Ginny rolled her eyes, but didn't argue. Ron had always been the one resentful of people giving them "charity" just because they were poor. Ginny didn't mind it so much, because she knew her friends weren't trying to be philanthropists. Certainly, Fred and George weren't bothered by it, either. And, besides, she would pick up the tab some other time.
When they'd seated, Dean leaned forward conspiratorially. "I've got an idea."