I Wished For You Once
Chapter Four
If Ginny would look back to the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match of her fifth year, she would find that she had forgotten most of the details that usually accompanied a successful Quidditch match.
She would recall several things, though—that her performance was appalling, for instance, and that Michael Corner's commentary made it sound worse.
Michael had just announced the score: Fifty to ninety, Slytherin in the lead. But of course Slytherin is in the lead, Ginny thought, angry with herself. Concentrating on the game prevented Ginny from mentally tallying her errors, but she was sure it was more than her fingers could count. If normally her passes were performed with extreme precision—the perfect timing at the exact position—now she could barely make a pass without causing herself or the other Gryffindor Chasers to fumble with the Quaffle. If, before the accident (You bloody well know it wasn't an accident, Ginny told herself), her flying was smooth, executed almost effortlessly, now she struggled to keep her flying stable. And knowing what a fast-paced game Quidditch is, Ginny knew that every second—and therefore every fumble—had been crucial.
Presently Ginny was battling, as she had been for the past hour, with the relentless pounding on the back of her head. Katie had just dropped the Quaffle to her; now she was racing towards the goal guarded by Bletchey, the Slytherin Keeper, flanked on both sides by Slytherin Chasers.
"Give it up, Weasley!" yelled Pucey from her right.
Ginny kept her eyes onto the goal posts, Quaffle tucked under her right arm, clutching the handle of her broomstick hard to steady herself; the pain was causing her to lose her balance. Michael's voice boomed in the background: "IT'S WEASLEY WITH THE QUAFFLE, CAN SHE FLY ALL THE WAY TO THE GOAL THIS TIME? CAN SHE NOW? BUT WHAT'S MONTAGUE DOING?"
Ginny suddenly felt the Quaffle slip from her arm—she held on to it tighter—but she was too late—
"MONTAGUE STOLE THE QUAFFLE! Yet ANOTHER error for Chaser Weasley of Gryffindor! Now Montague's flying towards the other end of the pitch—"
"Liked the Bludger I sent you last week, Weasley?"
Ginny looked up. Malfoy was circling the pitch just above her, smirking.
Swearing loudly, Ginny wheeled her broomstick around and tore after Montague. He and Pucey, a few feet apart, were passing the Quaffle to each other. As another wave of pain washed over Ginny's head, she gritted her teeth, fighting to keep her eyes open, her mind set on what she had to do.
"A Bludger from Kirke—misses Montague by inches—Montague still in possession—"
Ginny accelerated; as Montague made to pass the Quaffle to Pucey, she flew in between the two Slytherin Chasers—
"WEASLEY STEALS THE QUAFFLE—NO, SHE DROPS IT—AND MACDONALD CATCHES IT! GRYFFINDOR IN POSSESSION!"
Ginny heard Montague and Pucey swear as they charged after Natalie. Flying more slowly, Ginny watched as Natalie ducked a Bludger and sent the Quaffle flying cleanly through the goal posts.
"TEN POINTS FOR GRYFFINDOR!" Michael yelled.
Ginny looked around her. She was at the Gryffindor end of the pitch, very near Ron, while most of the players were on the other side.
Not too far from her, very near the ground, something glinted against the bright sunlight....
A flash of scarlet suddenly dove for it, almost brushing Ginny's side. Another flash, this time of green, rushed towards Ginny from above.
"GET OUT OF MY WAY, WEASLEY!"
Ginny was unable to move, nor did she try to. Malfoy lost some crucial seconds decelerating and swerving around Ginny. During those moments, Harry sped towards the ground, and at the last nanosecond—right when everyone thought the red blur would certainly hit the ground—pulled up.
"AND POTTER... HE'S GOT THE SNITCH!"
Ginny suddenly became aware of the hundreds of spectators on the stands yelling in unison. Harry emerged beside her, clutching the Snitch in his right fist, raising it above his head. He was grinning, almost drunkenly, not so much with triumph as with the exhilaration of having flown at top speed towards the ground, risking his neck in the process.
Katie suddenly materialized beside Harry and gave him a bone-crushing hug. Amidst the cheers of the crowd, the Gryffindor team descended slowly to the ground.
Ginny tried to show any emotion that indicated her happiness at winning, but found that she could not let out even a small smile. She had wanted to fly today to share Gyffindor's triumph. But how could she now, when she did nothing—nothing at all—for the team?
As though hearing her thoughts, Jack Sloper gave her a gentle slap on the back. "Nice blocking, that one between Montague and Pucey—"
"Not funny, Jack," Ginny said coldly.
Jack took his hand away, as though suddenly stung. "Hey, I meant it! When you flew in between those two, remember—?"
Jack cut himself off as Ginny shot him a look that spelled "shut up or you'll get it." She wasn't in the mood for celebrating; her whole body felt leaden. The voice of someone yelling towards the team didn't help matters. She only wanted to go back to her dormitory and lie on her bed.
She shouldn't have remained on the team after she got injured...
"...The best you can do, huh, Weasley?"
Only then did she realize that the shouts were directed towards her. Turning around and squinting against the bright sunlight, she saw Draco Malfoy sneering at her.
"Oh no," mumbled Katie. "He's tried this last year, you know he's only a sore loser—"
Malfoy didn't stop, however. "That was all you can do, stay in place until you block the other players, isn't that right?"
Ginny closed her eyes. I'm not in the mood for this, she thought. Aloud, she said, "Let's get out of here."
"That Bludger really did wonders, didn't it?"
"You're just sore you lost even if you had tried to wipe one of us off the pitch," spat Katie. She tugged at Ginny's shoulder and tried to squeeze her way out of the small crowd that had gathered around to congratulate them. "Come on, let's go."
Ginny wheeled around to follow Katie—but not without her seeing the look of malevolent recognition on Malfoy's pale face.
"Do you know that she tried to wipe a few students off the castle a few years back, too? And I don't think it's only because of a Quidditch match."
Ginny suddenly froze. The hair at the back of her neck started to prickle.
Katie had stopped, too, and was now facing Malfoy again, her fingers biting into Ginny's shoulder. "What are you saying?"
"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry said suddenly.
Ginny turned around slowly. Harry and Malfoy eyed each other with contempt, but each bore different expressions Ginny was sure she alone could see. Harry's forehead was knotted warily, as though knowing what was coming, and—to Ginny's horror—Malfoy's lips were curled into a knowing, triumphant sneer.
"But of course you know all about it, don't you?" said Malfoy in a low voice. "You went down there to save her, didn't you?"
Harry's eyes darted briefly towards Ginny to his right; the bright sunlight reflected on his glasses made it difficult for her to see what they were telling her. Somehow, it made her feel as though something heavy had sunk into the pit of her stomach.
There was a heavy silence before Harry spoke again, his Adam's apple bobbing once.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Malfoy's eyes scanned the crowd. Upon seeing Ginny, his smile widened, and Ginny already knew what he was going to say next even before he opened his mouth.
"But who can forget about the attacks during our second year? It was her fault, wasn't it?"
Katie took her hand off Ginny's shoulder as though suddenly scalded.
Everybody's eyes turned towards Ginny. Her heart had stopped beating, she was sure of it. It was the only thing that registered in her mind as she stared back at Malfoy.
"IT WASN'T HER FAULT!" someone yelled. It was Ron, who seemed to be the first to come into his senses among the people around them.
"Sure it wasn't," Malfoy said, snickering. "It was only the Dark Lord possessing her."
A startled gasp rippled in the crowd. Several people backed away, as if Ginny reeked of evil, of menace—of Voldemort.
Ginny stared at all of them numbly. A whirlwind of emotions was threatening to overcome her; part of her wanted to retort, but something held her back: that part of her which had always known that what Malfoy had just said was true.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Ron take a threatening step towards Malfoy. Jack Sloper, coming to his senses himself, held him back.
"Don't," muttered Jack.
"It was your father's fault in the first place," Ron told Malfoy angrily, completely ignoring Jack. "If he hadn't used that diary to possess Ginny—"
"Ah, now who's going to believe such a tale?" Malfoy said with a laugh.
Ron started to say something, but Ginny didn't hear it. As she stared at Malfoy, she saw Malfoy's hair lengthen...now his pointed chin was held higher...his nose, sharper than before...he was a bit taller now, and he was now his father, and she was an eleven-year-old again, and he was sneering down at her that day in Flourish and Blotts....
Yes, it is your fault. The voice in her head sounded like Lucius Malfoy himself. You wrote in that diary. You let the basilisk out. You almost let Tom Riddle out....
Ginny squeezed her eyes shut. "Stop it," she gasped. "Ron, just stop it..."
As Ginny opened her eyes, the first person she saw was Michael Corner, his face failing to conceal a look of disbelief and deep disgust.
She looked away from him...to find Harry staring back at her helplessly, his mouth opening and closing, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words to do so...
...And suddenly she didn't want to be here anymore.
The crowd easily made way as she ran her way out of the Quidditch pitch, not daring to look behind her.
I really should have asked Fred and George to smuggle the damned firewhisky.
It was close to sundown and Ginny's stomach had been rumbling for about an hour now. She didn't feel the need to eat, however; in fact, after hours of wandering aimlessly wherever there was nobody around, she hardly felt like doing anything at all.
Ginny sat on a bench in the Gryffindor changing rooms, her head in her hands. All in one day she had made a fool of herself in Quidditch, bared her secret to the school, and made herself persona non grata in Hogwarts.
She wanted to blame Malfoy. She should blame Malfoy. But Malfoy had not lied. It was she who had been harboring a secret for years now; it was she who had been studying and making friends without showing her true colors.
It had been difficult to seem nonchalant whenever the Chamber of Secrets or the basilisk were mentioned in casual conversations. Her professors, particularly Dumbledore, had insisted that they didn't have to know it was she whom Tom Riddle had possessed, but she had always been afraid of letting herself slip. She didn't want others to think badly of her.
But now that they knew, would they skirt her whenever they passed by her in corridors? Would her classmates want to sit beside her in class? Would they—?
Ginny suddenly looked up. She thought she heard footsteps outside. Ginny's heart sank. Now what would that person behind the door think when he sees her sitting by herself here, as though she was scheming something sinister?
As Ginny watched, a shadow appeared in the afternoon light filtered through the crack under the door. A moment later, the door opened slowly.
To Ginny's surprise, it was Harry who poked his head in.
Harry looked around cautiously; then, upon seeing Ginny, audibly sighed in relief. "There you are."
Ginny shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "Yeah. Here I am."
Harry, looking uneasy once again, let himself in. He buried his hands into his jacket pockets.
"Everybody's been worried," he said, peering at her through his glasses. "We've been looking all over for you."
"Yeah, well, you can tell them I went down to the Chamber of Secrets to bring Slytherin's basilisk back to life."
Ginny half expected Harry to scowl and tell her that it wasn't funny, the way Hermione always did at Ginny's dark jokes. Harry, however, merely looked at her and smiled slightly; it didn't seem to bother him.
"We really have to go back," he said, sitting on a bench opposite her, still with his hands in his pockets. "It's getting cold out here."
Ginny hardly noticed. "Oh, just go back there and tell them I'm safe," she told Harry. "I'll be fine. Go on."
Harry returned her gaze. Something in his eyes told Ginny that he was trying to read her. She had nothing to show, however—no tearstains on her cheeks, no puffy eyelids—but perhaps only the remains of the haunted, petrified look in her eyes after the Quidditch match.
Ginny suddenly felt self-conscious. She raised her eyebrows. "Well? What?"
Harry looked away and sighed once more. "Well, I can't go back without bringing you with me, now can I? I'll wait."
Ginny almost laughed out loud. Since when did Harry wait for anyone who didn't seem to want to go with him? She nearly pointed this out, jokingly of course, when Harry took something out of his jacket pocket.
It was a Snitch. It was the one he caught in today's match, Ginny realized.
Harry looked at the Snitch struggling in his fist, its silver wings beating against his fingers. Then Harry released it—and caught it again just when the Snitch started to fly out of his grasp.
Ginny watched, amused, as Harry released the Snitch again and caught it as it flew above his head. He did this over and over again, releasing, catching, letting the Snitch go and capturing it again. It was a game, thought Ginny. His own little pastime. It was just strange that she never saw it before.
In a short while Harry seemed to have forgotten that Ginny was present; he seemed to be lost in his own world, in his own time. As he released and grasped, released and grasped, he seemed to fall farther and farther into his thoughts, leaving her behind.
"Harry," Ginny suddenly blurted out, "what are you doing?"
Harry froze with the Snitch in his fist. He looked at her, seemingly disoriented, and then smiled apologetically. "Something I picked out of...somewhere." He shook his head dismissively. "Are you ready to go back?"
Ginny fixed her eyes on him. The simple act of releasing and catching the Snitch didn't strike her as particularly special, but the way Harry dismissed it...it struck her that it meant something else to him.
For some reason, Harry showing her the act made her feel as though he was opening his arms to whatever she wanted to say...
Seizing the moment, Ginny started to speak. "Harry...what are they saying about me?"
Harry looked frankly surprised. He didn't seem to expect her to ask anything about it.
"Well," Harry began, looking uneasy, "they...they were shocked..."
Ginny stared at him.
Harry sighed. "You know how it is, Ginny. They...well, some of them consider anyone who's been corrupted by Voldemort...you know."
"Evil," finished Ginny.
"No," Harry said suddenly. "Not evil. Just...just...tainted. Like they're different."
Ginny bit her lower lip. Different. It never had been a word she had used on herself. She was just like anybody else...until that incident in her first year, when she was, somehow, singled out as the one who should bring Tom Riddle back to life.
Then she asked, "But how do they feel, knowing that it was me who let the basilisk out?"
"It wasn't you," Harry said sharply. He straightened on his seat. "It wasn't your fault. Remember that."
Oh, how she wanted to believe it. The very few people who had known and believed it—her family, Harry, Hermione, Dumbledore—had told her the same thing: "It was not you; it was You-Know-Who inside you who did it." It sounded easy enough to remember.
But whenever she encountered Dementors or had dreams of Tom Riddle, she found it more and more difficult to forget that it had been she whom Tom Riddle had used as his eyes to the outside world; that it had been her mouth, her voice, her hands that he had used to Petrify her schoolmates.
Ginny's smile was painful. "That's exactly what Dumbledore told me," she managed to croak out. "That day in the hospital wing. He said, 'It wasn't your fault. Remember that.'"
"It really wasn't," Harry said. "And you shouldn't care about what others think; you know it wasn't you."
It suddenly struck Ginny that it was the exact same thing she could have told Harry last night, even if he had denied that he had been thinking about his godfather: It wasn't your fault.
And all that has happened that you have been blaming yourself for are not your fault, either.
At the end, it was this thought that made her let Harry accompany her back to Gryffindor Tower.
Much love goes to Alcarcalime and Coffeebean for the talks under acacia trees, late-night chats... and of course, the beta. :)