Author's Note: Um, Sophia's not a Mary Sue. Really, guys. Really. coughs nervously
Disclaimer: None of it belongs to me.
PART FOUR: GINNY
Chapter One:
When she opened her eyes, it was to see a pair of worried grey ones staring back into them.
"Uhh...hello?" she said.
The eyes seemed greatly less worried, and a voice--probably belonging to the same man as the eyes, she thought, yelled, "She's alive!" It struck her that there was something sort of...wrong...about the way he said it, and about the way she'd spoken as well, but she put it out of her mind. At the moment, she was too busy trying to figure out where she was, what had just happened, and--no, wait, who she was. Uh-oh.
"Who am I," she muttered, and the owner of the grey eyes looked alarmed.
"Your Highness...do you not know who I am?"
She stared at him, trying to place his face. "Um, no. Sorry. Where," as she realized that the surface she was lying on was rocking, "Where am I?"
"You are in Venice, my Lady! You have come home at last!"
"Uh...sorry? I'm afraid I don't remember anything." No, that wasn't true, she could vaguely recall falling from some great height, but that memory was cut off by the landing. She supposed she'd knocked her head on something or other, and lost her memory temporarily. Satisfied with her explanation, she sat up, and wished she hadn't. Her head hurt.
"Careful, my Lady! You have had a nasty shock!"
"Have I?" she wondered.
"Yes! Your ship sank...you are the only one who survived. We found you on the beach. But you are all right now, and we will take you to your father's house. He is very eager to see you, after all these years." All of this was said very fast, as if the man was afraid of punishment.
"My...my father?"
"Yes, my Lady! The Lord Giovanni di Carapaccio awaits your return with great anticipation...he has missed you! How did you find school?"
"Turned left at Greenland," she muttered with some humor, and then wondered where the quip had come from. She clearly wasn't herself--But then, she thought, how can I be, when I don't know who myself is?
"Listen," she said, "I think you've misunderstood me. I don't remember anything, I don't know who I am, or what my name is. I don't remember anything," she repeated, "a bout anything. All I can remember is falling."
The worried look had returned to the man's eyes. "The doctor will look at you, my Lady. You will recover, I'm sure."
"But--tell me my name, at least!" She was desperate. At least she could find that out.
"Beatrice, my Lady," the man--probably a servant?--said wonderingly, "You are the Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio, returned from going to school in France these past ten years."
"Oh," she said, "I am?" And the servant nodded reassuringly.
After the gondola had bumped into the building, she'd been helped from it through the front door one of the palatial homes facing the Grand Canal. Once inside, she'd been whisked off by a maid frantic to clean her up and get some decent clothes on her--"These French fashions," she'd said, "whatever will they think of next." Beatrice--for she supposed that was her name--wistfully watched h er old clothes being taken away, presumably to be burnt, and only just managed to save the contents of her pockets, among which was a puzzling polished stick. After being thoroughly scrubbed and dressed in a sumptuous brocade gown, powdered and bejeweled, she was to be presented to her father in his study. She was a bit nervous, considering that she had no memory of him whatsoever. A servant went in before her, and announced in a loud voice, "The Lady Beatrice, my Lord!"
Supposing that was her cue, she walked in, to see a small, round man with fiery orange hair and a huge smile on his face.
"My Beatrice!" he said happily, "You've come home at last!"
"Yes, Father," she said, "But...I'm afraid that I don't remember anything. I'm sorry, sir."
His smile fell a little, crestfallen, and she hastened to say, "But it may come back to me. You do seem somewhat familiar."
Somewhat familiar! The words stung him, but he plastered his smile back onto his face.
"The doctor will soon set it right, Bea, and in any case, it's been years since we've seen each other. I suppose," he said dryly, "you will have to regale me with tales of school in France later, as you do not presently remember any of it. And it is my duty to inform you of the situation here.
"We are at present in a very precarious situation. Venice has much power, and is resented because of this--by the Church, by Firenze, by the Turks, and most especially by Milano. This is a dangerous time, therefore. I must tell you that you cannot trust anyone who is not a Venetian, I do not care what they say to you. All of them may be against us. You may see things here, in this study, which you do not understand. Do not mention them to others. Am I understood?"
"Y-yes, Father," she said, and his face relaxed.
"There is a ball tomorrow night. Your return will be announced, and you will be presented to the Doge. Catherine will be there--do you remember Catherine?" She had to shake her head. "Ah. You were friends when you were younger. Perhaps you may see her before the ball, in case you have forgotten any of the steps."
"That--that may be a good idea," she said, "Thank you, Father."
He smiled. "Bless you, child." As he sat down at her desk, she realized that it was a dismissal.
As she was about to be presented at the ball, she couldn't understand why she would have been friends with Catherine when she was younger. Unless she had been equally insufferable herself--it was always possible.
Catherine had introduced herself by looking her up and down coldly upon arrival in the di Carapaccio house, and saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry about the shipwreck--it would make me look awful for a week as well, I'm sure! So harrowing!"
Deep in her mind, Beatrice had thought, Grrr.
Later, though, after Beatrice had mastered all the modern dance steps in a surprisingly short time, Catherine had warmed up, and proved to be (as expected) shockingly superficial. She looked over the dresses that Beatrice was expected to
wear, tut-tutted, and told her firmly that she was wearing one of her own dresses that night at the ball.
"No one, but no one, wears that sort of thing any more. Completely out of date. You'll be the laughingstock of the ball."
"I--I will?" Bea had said timidly, and Catherine had laughed, a tinkling, silvery laugh.
"Oh, yes, darling. Now, you just pay attention to me, and everything'll be fine. Just follow my lead." She then proceeded to--rather disdainfully--give one of the maids a list of things to fetch from her father's house, and upon the maid's departure, said, "There're a lot of things you'll have to shape up, here, darling--the help, for one thing! They say the sign of a good servant is that you can't see them, and well, darling--the impudence of that maid!" And she shook her head in disbelief.
"But," Bea's brow furrowed, "all she did was ask you if you wanted the things now or later."
"Darling!" Catherine had looked at her incredulously, "Have you gone mad?" So Bea had remained quiet on the subject.
Now, waiting in the outside hall of the palace for the steward to announce her, Bea wished that Catherine was by her side. She might be a twit, but at least she knew what was going on, unlike Bea.
Suddenly, she heard her name being called, "Newly returned from France, the
Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio, daughter of Lord Giovanni di Carapaccio!"
That's my cue, she thought grimly, and walked in.
She could feel the eyes on her as she progressed down the red carpet towards the Doge's throne. More, she could feel the eyes of the Doge, staring coldly at her from the other end of the room, which was seeming a mile long. Finally, she reached the throne, and swept down in the elegant curtsy that Catherine had taught her, remaining down until the Doge gave a curt nod, and she rose and moved off to one side. There. That was over. Now she only had to get through the rest of the ball, knowing that eyes were watching just to find a reason to discredit her. Catherine had explained this; that life in court was a constant struggle for supremacy. Bea didn't think it sounded particularly nice, but it seemed as though it was what she'd been born for. She could hear whispers as she walked though the hall-
"--shipwreck--"
"--only survivor--"
"--washed up on the beach--"
"--lost her memory--"
"--how romantic!"
She smiled a little, and decided to find Catherine, but when she did, Catherine turned her back on her, making Bea both confused and hurt. Even if she'd found Catherine to be a stupid prat, at the very least she could acknowledge her! But it seemed that no one was talking to her.
"Hi," piped up a voice behind her, "I'm Sophia di Capella." She turned around to see a short, stocky girl with black hair and grey eyes.
"I'm Beat rice," she said, smiling.
"I figured," Sophia said, laughing. "They say that you don't remember anything?"
Bea grimaced. "Not a thing. I go to see the doctor tomorrow."
"Oh. Well, I'd be happy to help you if you're having trouble or anything--shopping, directions, you name it!"
"Thanks," said Beatrice gratefully. Why couldn't Catherine have been like this?
"No problem." Sophia glared darkly at Catherine. "She," she said, "probably hasn't told you anything more than not to embarrass yourself--and herself by implication, since everyone knows your father asked her to teach you all the niceties of a ball."
"Basically," said Bea, thinking of the previous afternoon.
"But what everyone's waiting for is for him," and here she pointed out a dark-haired man on the other side of the dance floor, "to ask you to dance. He's the Lord Paulo di Brindisi, and he's the most powerful man besides the Doge, who doesn't dance, just sits there on the throne and glowers all the time."
Beatrice let out a small giggle, and Sophia threw her a conspiratorial glance. "I should warn you, though, if you take up with me, you may get a lot of ribbing. I'm not very popular--mainly because I say things like that!"
"I don't care!" said Bea, happy to obtain a friend.
The evening wore on, and suddenly, as the musicians struck up a slow tune, the dark-haired man that Sophia had pointed out came over and held out his hand for Bea's.
"The Lord Paulo di Brindisi," he murmured, bending to kiss her hand.
"Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio," she returned with a smile.
"Enchanted," he smirked, "May I have this dance?"
"But of course," she returned, feeling very sophisticated, and he led her onto the dance floor.
Afterwards, she decided that he was nothing special, he smelt of wine, and he leered at her the entire time, but when it was over, as though there had been some sort of signal--and she supposed there had--the other men at the ball were literally lined up to dance with her, and Catherine turned around with a benevolent smile on her face. She danced with the men, but her grudge against Catherine was not forgotten and the time that she spent not dancing was spent in deep conversation with Sophia. When she collapsed into bed, she had an invitation from Sophia to come visit her the next day, and an admirer's bright green eyes staying in her mind.
Maybe I'll get used to this place, she thought happily as she drifted off
to sleep.
Chapter Two:
A few months later, she couldn't remember why she'd felt so out of place here. Of course, the doctor hadn't been able to bring back her memory, and Catherine was still unforgiving about the snub she'd given her at that first ball, but Bea didn't really care. She had Sophia, and she had Mario, and that was all that mattered, after all.
Mario... She collapsed backwards onto her bed, a ridiculously goofy smile
on her face as she thought of him. With untidy black hair and green eyes, he'd stood out among her many admirers, and his humor had won her over quite early. She remembered the first time they'd seen each other--quite by accident--outside of a ball or social function. It had been after church, in San Marco Square. She'd just been admiring the architecture--it took her breath away--when a few children playing had rushed by her with such exuberance that she'd nearly fallen into the canal.& nbsp; What had saved her was a steady arm grabbing her around the waist and hoisting her back to safety.
"Oh," she'd said, looking up into his brilliant green eyes, "thank you!" He'd smiled, somewhat rakishly.
"My duty, Lady. Anytime you're about to fall into a canal, just call my name, and I'll be there in a second just to save such a beautiful lady as yourself."
"Oh," she said, spluttering with laughter, "I'm not beautiful."
The next look that he gave her was completely serious. "I beg to differ." As he walked away, he called out behind him, "I'll be seeing you around, Lady Beatrice."
And since then...she sighed happily. He'd been so attentive. Of course, Sophia didn't like him, but Sophia didn't like any of Catherine's friends. And Sophia could just be the teensiest bit judgmental sometimes. Mario was nothing like Catherine. He only went to Catherine's parties because their parents were frie nds--that was all. And because of him, Bea was getting invited to the parties as well--and she normally insisted that Sophia was invited as well. Sophia nearly always declined, which Bea thought very unsporting of her, but she said that she didn't mind if Bea went, so Bea did usually go. And now--she sighed deliciously. She thought she was in love. Those eyes... Sometimes, though, she woke up in the middle of the night, convinced that something was wrong with the whole thing, that
something was missing, that Mario was wrong, that he was lacking something. But those feelings were almost always gone by the morning, and she ascribed them to middle-of-the-night fears.
She heard the ringing of the church bell in the distance, and sat up with dismay. Was it that late? She would be late for her appointment with the painter, and who knows what he would say! Frantically, she jammed her feet back into her slipp ers, brushed off her maid, Maria, who attempted to fix her hair, and ran downstairs and to the front door, where a gondola awaited her. Jumping in and steadying herself, she gave instructions to the hotel where the painter was being lodged while he stayed in Venice.
When she arrived at the painter's she was somewhat unimpressed. She'd expected a workroom full of paint and easels, but instead there was only a dark green sitting room with slightly uncomfortable chairs. The painter--the famous Albrecht Durer from Germany!--spoke to her in heavily accented Italian, telling her to sit in the chair and hold still. He had seen her at a ball, and told her father that he wished to paint her as his first subject in Venice. Her father was much flattered, and today was the first appointment. She was so excited that she could barely keep still. He smiled, but his voice was strict. "You ar e to keep still, or I cannot sketch you correctly."
"Oh, very well," she said, and proceeded to clamp her hands down into her lap, though her eyes still laughed merrily, and she could not keep a half smile from her face. He sighed, and began to sketch.
He had been sketching for half an hour when his assistant came in.
"Are you not done yet?" he asked in German.
"This one will not sit still--she is lively, though she is beautiful." Durer replied.
"Why, thank you," Bea said, and stopped in surprise when she realized that she'd just spoken in German as well.
Durer looked at her incredulously. "You speak German?" he said, in that language.
"I suppose I do," she laughed, "You see, I cannot remember anything of my life before I came here. Perhaps I learned it at school."
"It is flawless," he told her, looking at her with new interest.
"Thank you," she blushed, and the session continued.
BR
That night, she had a dream. She was in the middle of a field, with Harry and Hermione and Ron. Ron, my brother Ron, she realized with a shock, and my name is Ginny, not Beatrice. What's been happening?
"Hi," said Hermione, and Ginny noticed how strained she looked, "This is really hard, so it won't last that long. Just let me...here." She took out her wand, pointed it to each of their foreheads, and said, quite firmly, "Memorium"
"What--what happened?" Ron said. "I couldn't remember anything..."
"Yeah, neither could I..." Harry contributed, and as Ginny looked at his pale, drawn face, she felt a pang of guilt. "Hermione, what's going on?"
Hermione gave a sort of a grimacing smile. "Something--probably one of Voldemort's plans--pulled us apart during our group Apparition--and Ginny, too--and threw us back in time. He would have had to summon a kind of Elemental--"
"Like Pro fessor Silverleaf?" Ginny asked.
"Sort of, a Temporal, which is a different race of Elementals, with kind of different abilities. They can jump through time, and somehow he got them to drag us to different times."
"How do you know this, 'Mione?" Ron asked, "I've had no memory the entire time, I didn't even know I was a wizard!"
"Remember when I put that memory charm on me? Well, I guess it held my memory in place. All I know is that I knew exactly who and what I was, but I was sick for a few weeks." Of course, Ginny thought, That's why I can speak both Italian and German, I put the Lingua Franca charm on myself a few weeks ago when Hermione and I were trying to talk to those Spanish wizards.
"A few weeks!" Harry said incredulously, "I've only been away for a few days!"
A few days! Ginny thought with alarm, Where has he been to make him so
pale?
"I've been away months," she told him.
"Me too, about a month," Ron said.
"And I've been away about two months, too, but luckily I'm nowhere dangerous. I think that was a mistake on Voldemort's part--not that I'm complaining! What about the rest of you, when've you gone?" Hermione asked.
"I'm in Venice," Ginny told her, "in 1505. It's kind of neat, but I think there's about to be a war."
"I'm in Athens, in 1943," said Ron, "I'm staying with a nice British couple--they just kind of took me in, even though I was wandering the streets in a daze! There's a war where I am, too, though--everyone's wondering if the Germans are going to get to Athens or not, and whether or not they should pick up and get out of there."
Ginny felt a cold wash of worry for her brother's safety.
"Hey, you're kind of near me, then," Harry put in, "I'm in the same war, same year, but I'm in Warsaw, in the ghetto. They made me a soldier," he said, somewhat proudly. A soldier! He could get hurt...
"Harry," Hermione said with alarm, "You're not in the Jewish ghetto, are
you?"
"Um...yes?"
"That's really dangerous!" Oh, no, Ginny thought.
"What month are you?" Hermione continued.
He had to think for a minute. "May. May first, currently."
"Harry! Do you remember what happened in the Warsaw ghetto in the beginning
of May 1943?"
"No...should I?" Ginny was beginning to dread what Hermione would say
next.
"Yes! I--oh, damn." She was surprised to hear Hermione swear, but it made sense when the dream around them began to waver. "Look, I can't hold this any longer. As soon as I figu re out how to raise a Temporal I'm going to come and get you all, okay? And then we'll go back to our time. Just--remember!"
And Ginny sat bolt upright in bed, crying out, "Harry!"
Chapter Three:
She was Ginny Weasley, not Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio, and her father was Arthur Weasley, and was tall and skinny, not short and fat, and she had six brothers, most of them insufferable (though she missed them terribly right now), and a wonderful, wonderful mother, and her best friends were Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, and not Sophia and Mario...
That must have been why it'd been strange, with Mario. He looked so much like Harry--of course she would be attracted to him.
On the other hand, was it so wrong to be going out with Mario? She had no obligation to Harry--he'd never given her the slightest indication that he thought of her as anything more than a friend. And Mario loved her--or at least, it seemed lik e it. And maybe she could love Mario, too--he was certainly attractive!
What was she thinking? How could she go on about this? She didn't belong here, none of this was right, none of it was real.
But, said a niggling little thought, it is real. For three months, you have been Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio, and everything you did during that time has been real, and your life here is as real as it ever was--you just have a past, now. "Oh, dammit," she sighed into her pillow, and wished that Hermione would hurry up about finding a Temporal so that she could get out of there. Things just got very confusing.
She got out of the gondola with a certain amount of trepidation, and took Mario's arm gratefully, firmly ignoring the butterflies in her stomach at his nearness. This party threatened to be as lavish as any of the ones that Catherine had given, and Ginny felt somewhat nervou s at her first party with her memory intact. Not that she'd told anyone she'd acquired her memory--just a few mentions that she was beginning to remember classes in her old school, and so forth. No one knew who she really was, and she would have to be careful not to give herself away.
As soon as the music began, Mario whirled her away in a dance. It was amazing, he didn't let her go once that night, and, what with the wine that she'd been drinking, by the end of it, it had all turned into one big, shiny blur. She giggled, gossiped with Bella (one of Catherine's friends), and always, Mario was not far away. She danced every dance with him, and when she was not dancing, she would lift her eyes and blush to see him watching her steadily from across the room.
After some time of being there, she found his arm around her waist, and he murmured into her ear, "It's a bit warm in here, don't you think?" She agreed , and he began to lead her upstairs. She pulled back, half laughing, half serious.
"Where are you taking me?"
"There's a balcony upstairs that's not as...heavily populated," he said, eyeing the balcony on their floor disdainfully--those who had been especially drunk had been put out there so as not to damage the beautiful mosaic floor. Ginny smiled and followed him.
"How do you know this house so well?"
"I've been here quite a bit," he answered absently, showed her to the balcony. She stared down at the water, pondering her life, trying to figure out what she was going to do. Behind her, Mario smiled.
"What are you thinking, my Lady?" "Mm." She knew that she couldn't tell him the truth. "It's beautiful out tonight."
"You're beautiful."
She turned to him and smiled. "Don't be silly. I'm nothing special."
"I beg to differ. Beatrice--I--" He was obviously having difficulty.
"What?" she said, wondering if she wanted to hear what was coming next or not.
"Oh, God, Beatrice," he groaned, and the next thing she knew, he was kissing her.
It felt very nice, and even though she knew that she should pull away, the wine clouded her brain, and the embrace was allowed to intensify. As he began to attempt to unlace her bodice, however, she came back to herself.
"No!" she said, pulling away, "Mario, no!" He looked at her. She leaned heavily against the cold stone at her back, and sighed. "No. This isn't right."
"Beatrice...what is wrong? I thought you wanted this."
"No. No, I'm sorry, Mario, but I don't. I thought I wanted it, too..."
His eyes lit up with hope. "Bu t I don't. I want something else...I'm in love with someone else, someone you remind me of a little. And it wouldn't be right."
"Someone else?" he said jealously, "Who?"
"From my school," she said quietly, "I'm starting to remember. That's why I pulled away. I'm sorry, Mario."
"Go," he said coldly, turning his back to her.
"Mario--" She reached out to touch his arm.
"Go, Beatrice!" he snapped. "Leave me."
She sighed. "Very well."
She was sluggish for the next few days, going dully through her daily routine. Mindful of the fact that Hermione would probably come and get her, and unsure of how long Hermione would need to recoup between time hops, she told her "father" that she'd written to some friends from her school and invited them to come and stay; she wanted them to meet her "family".
Now, she was sitting in Sophia's chamber, thoroughly conf used.
"It's a good thing you didn't let Mario go ahead," said Sophia, "You could have gotten pregnant."
Oh, God. She hadn't even thought of that. "You're right," she told Sophia, "you're right. But...I still want to be friends with him, and he won't even talk to me."
Sophia shrugged. "You probably hurt his pride. No big loss--I always said he was an ass."
"You never did like him. But you have to admit, he can be a nice guy."
"Sure, when he wants something! But," said Sophia slyly, changing the subject, "who's this other guy that you're in love with?"
"In love with!" Ginny exclaimed, "When did I ever say I was in love with him?"
"Pardon me, it was just too, too obvious," Sophia said sarcastically. Ginny gave in.
"There's a boy from my school who I'm...yeah, I suppose I'm in love with him. He's one of my best friends. I used to be totally infatuated with him, and ran ar ound making a complete fool of myself, but I got over that...this is something different."
"Hm!" said Sophia with a twinkle in her eye, "So what are you going to do?"
"What can I do?" Ginny said hopelessly, "I don't want to lose his friendship! What if he gets all freaked out and never speaks to me again?"
"Oh, be realistic, how could he do that?" Sophia snapped back at her. "Anyone can see you're gorgeous."
"He can't," Ginny said glumly.
"Oh, shut it," said Sophia, and the conversation might have degenerated from there, had not there been a loud popping sound, and three people falling out of thin air into Sophia's chamber.
"Um..." said Hermione, sitting up and smiling weakly at Sophia, "Hi!"