Title: Home Again
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary:
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
I am aware that "New Moon Rising" aired in May, a good five months after "Hush" (i.e. from when Willow met Tara to when they became a couple) - however, if you look at the continuity of the season, there's a real-time gap between February and April that doesn't occur in story-time. When you knock out those months, "New Moon Rising" takes place in story-time sometime around March.
***
Hermione's home had always been a fairly quiet place. Not silent, there was frequently the classical music her mother liked, or one of her father's political commentators on the radio, or just the soft senseless noise of voices downstairs after she'd gone to bed, the rustle of turned pages, the faint rattle of teacups in saucers. There was passing traffic outside, and the neighbors coming and going in the early morning, the sizzle of bacon frying. It was Hermione's experience that life went on quietly, in a thousand little noises that meant everything was okay. Her father was downstairs reading the paper. Her mother was making breakfast with one hand holding a book out away from the stove, arm straight to keep the pages out of range of splattering grease. They'd be talking, often about two entirely different things and aware the other was only half-listening, just comfortably co-existing.
Ginny rolled over in her sleep, rustling her pile of blankets on the floor. She'd refused to take her own bed back, so Hermione lay there, staring at a water spot on the ceiling.
The ghoul had been clattering away incessantly until an hour ago, but evidently even ghouls need to sleep eventually, because it was silent now. There was no traffic on the dirt lane outside, no neighbors close enough to be making noise. She knew Mr. Weasley was out at work; in another half-hour or so Percy would be stirring, getting ready to get into the office early. He didn't eat breakfast, just charmed himself up a cup of coffee and tried to sneak out the door before Mrs. Weasley woke. Sometimes he made it, sometimes he didn't and was forced to sit and wait to eat toast and eggs.
Breakfast rarely contained any meat in the Weasley household; she'd never really considered what bacon or sausages cost before. She'd never thought of her family as well-to-do. She supposed they had been.
She was going to sell the flat in London, she'd decided, sometime there in the dark - carefully not thinking of it as *home*. She'd thought about going back, just once more, and had gotten sick. After much persuasion Mr. Weasley had finally let her read the Muggle police report. The window that backed to the alley where her mother had kept her rather untidy little garden had been shattered in. That would need to be repaired before the house could be sold.
That's my responsibility now.
I suppose the furniture should be sold . . dishes, and clothes, and books . . all Dad's old newspapers . . something will have to done with all of that.
I haven't got anywhere to keep twenty years of notable events in British history, as reported by the Times. Or the dishes that were grandmother's. Or Mum's perfumes.
I could keep the house. Move back there over the summer. It's all taken care of, all the legalities of it, the Weasleys saw to that. In the Muggle world I'm an emancipated minor; in the Wizarding world I'm just an adult. I could live there, by myself.
Alone.
No sounds but my own sounds, and Crookshanks. The only sounds at night would be Crookshanks chasing mice.
There are probably mice; it's probably infested by now. Mice and cockroaches eating everything they left in the larder, all the food going bad, moths getting into the laundry that was never finished, mildew growing in the cracks between the tile, the ivy up the back wall prying into the window frames . . it's sitting there rotting, untended . . rotting . . oh God they were cut up, 'lacerations', that's what they call it in the coroners' report, a bad car accident on a back country road courtesy of the Ministry of Magic, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office . . lacerations from the windshield, and someone must have noticed the house sitting empty and broken into it later . . just an accident . . it was the glass, the shattered glass . .
Hermione bit her lip hard to keep from making any sound. Something large seemed to catch in her throat, large enough to be a scream if she let it out. She bit down hard enough to taste blood, and screwed her eyes shut.
They must have been so scared . . so scared . . did they think someone would come for them? Did they think, with all the carefully edited stories I'd told them about Harry, that someone was sure to come riding to the rescue? That I lived in some sort of fairy-tale world where of course everything always turns out for right and good, isn't that the point of having magic, isn't that the whole point?
Did they think I would save them?
What was I doing, just then, just exactly then? Was I still on the train? The Ministry stormed Malfoy Manor just at sunset. It would have been just a little after that, then. Maybe fifteen minutes, a half-hour . .
It wouldn't have been one moment. Not one exact moment. There was a ritual, it would have taken some time.
They would have been waiting, helpless, tied down, there would have been time . . seconds ticking by, minutes, did they want it over, did they want to stretch those last seconds? Did they understand?
Cause of death was hemorrhage. Severing of the carotid artery. Discoloration of the skin around the lacerations to the extremities indicates injury close to time of death.
I shouldn't have read that. Mrs. Weasley was right, I didn't want to know that, I shouldn't - but oh, yes, I should. I should know every bloody gory detail. I should know things I'm never going to know, I should know if they screamed, I should know if my mother was crying, I should know who died first.
I should know who held the knife. Oh, I know who gave the orders, but I want to know who carried them out. Who tied them down. Who felt their blood splattered on their skin, still warm, it would have been all over, a severed artery won't just bleed quietly, not quietly, not quiet, it's never going to be quiet again it's not quiet inside my head I can't hear anything but glass shattering.
It wasn't a stupid fucking car accident how can they be that stupid how can they just fucking accept that, oh yes, car accident, of course never mind the epidural hematoma that even the Muggle pathologist noticed, never mind the blood pooling in my mother's skull for eighteen hours before she died, must have occurred post-mortem, because of course they were killed in a fucking car crash, what else could have happened to the Grangers? It's a nice normal sort of death for a nice normal sort of couple, don't you think? Just the way dentists are supposed to die, if they don't die in their beds of old age. A car crash, or an electrical fire, so very tragic but normal, nothing to be done about it, no one's fault, no way anyone could have seen it coming.
It was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard -
They should have had a normal daughter. Maybe slightly eccentric. Maybe someone who'd try to grow roses in the alley like Mum did. Maybe somebody who'd collect newspaper clippings like Dad. They'd be alive if they had.
If I'd never been born, they'd be alive.
I can't go back to school tomorrow . . I just can't . .
Hermione peeled the covers back as quietly as she could; she was wearing only a night-shirt that fell to mid-thigh, and thought about finding a robe, but discarded the idea as too potentially noisy. Ginny never stirred as she crept from the room, out into the grey dimness of the hallway, just filling with the first light of morning. The stairs creaked, and she paused half way down, digging bare toes into the carpet, afraid she would set the ghoul off again, but it didn't seem to care. Below her in the living room, however, she could hear Viktor shifting on the couch.
"Hello?" he called out softly, propped up on one elbow so he could see over the back of the couch.
"It's just me," she whispered back, hurrying the rest of the way down the stairs. In the dim light his worriedly frowning face was all planes and angles, making him look more like some fantastically grim sculpture than an actual person.
"Are you alright?" he asked. Hermione shrugged, and perched on the arm of the couch, not looking at him and suddenly not sure why she'd come down. He pulled off one of the many blankets Mrs. Weasley had insisted he needed and slung it over her knees, so that her bare legs were covered.
He'd been doing things like that constantly since he got there, making these little protective gestures; she couldn't remember him doing that last summer. She hadn't asked him about it; they hadn't talked much at all, actually, about anything of significance. They'd read together, and played chess, and he'd convinced her to let him take her on a short, dizzying broom ride over the fields behind the Burrow. He'd held her while she just sat there and stared, unmoving, unfeeling, barely aware of his presence; and a very few times he'd held her while she cried. She'd cried very, very little; she hadn't talked at all.
What is there to talk about? My parents were tortured to death and it's awful and there's nothing to be done about it, and that's all. Nothing to say.
"You're leaving in the morning," she blurted, voice smaller and younger than she'd intended. Viktor sat up and tugged her down off the couch arm, so that she was sitting almost in his lap. She let her hair fall forward to cover her face.
"I will visit again," he said. "Next weekend, if you like. It can only be one day because there is a game on Sunday, but - well, no, never mind that. I can miss the game if you like."
"No you can't," she protested tonelessly. "You'll be booted off the team."
"It doesn't matter," he insisted, and she felt him shrug. "It is only Quidditch."
"It's only what you do for a living," she retorted. "You can't - you can't stop doing the things you do just because -" her voice caught. She bit down on her already bruised lip, trying to swallow the tears, small noises like some trapped animal coming from the bottom of her throat.
"That is true," Viktor said, very carefully. His fingers were tracing senseless patterns on her knee.
"I don't want to go back to school," she confessed.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because - I don't know," she said, defensively, shrugging a little ways away from him, pulling the blanket up around her waist and hugging herself. "It's stupid."
"I doubt that," Viktor answered. "You do very few stupid things."
"Oh, but when I do, I really make them count," Hermione said scathingly. Like not telling them, trying to make it seem less dangerous, make it seem like it was all just a big adventure, nothing that could actually hurt me . . I was afraid of them being worried, worried about me . . I never thought . . I never *thought*, I am so, so*stupid* . . and so, so sorry.
But there's no point to that now, is there?
"Going back to school, it will be - going back to normal things?" Viktor guessed hesitantly. "You do not want things to go on like before. It doesn't seem right that they should."
She glanced back at him, but his face was still just abstract shapes in the dark. She leaned back and nodded against his chest. "It'll make it real," she whispered. Maybe I came down here to talk, before he's gone and we can't talk.
I don't want him to go. I don't want him out of my sight. Or Ron or Harry, or Ginny, or Mr. or Mrs. Weasley or . . or anyone. I'd like to just put all of them, everyone I care about, in one little room where it's quiet and safe and there are no windows and no glass and nothing can break and I can just stay here, just stay here and be held forever and know nothing can happen . . nothing can happen again because I'd die.
"Isn't that stupid?" she said self-deprecatingly. "As if it's not real now."
"It is not stupid," Viktor brushed her hair out of her face, fingers lingering over the curve of her ear. "I don't want to go, either. I do not know how I am supposed to think about Quidditch."
"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking up at his shadowed face. "You shouldn't -"
"Yes I should," he interrupted her, rather fiercely though quietly.
"I think I might keep the house," she said. "I thought I'd made up my mind to sell it, but now I'm not sure again. But I don't know how I can keep it if I'll be at school most of the year . . rent it out, I guess."
"You will think of something," Viktor answered, sounding very confident of that. "I think it would be better to keep it. I think you would be sorry if you sold it now, better to keep it at least a little while, live there a little while, to have new things to remember."
"What if I can't do this?" she said almost inaudibly, aware her thoughts were whirling nonsensically, like bits of paper caught in a wind, but unable to stop talking now that she'd started. "I feel like I can't even think sometimes, what if it's like that at school? What if I can't concentrate or study or remember anything, and I mess everything up and -"
- and then I'll have nothing, absolutely nothing left.
"You will do well," Viktor said very firmly.
"But what if I *can't*?" she insisted.
"Then you will anyhow," he said, as if that actually made sense. And strangely, it did. It wasn't exactly comforting, but it rang true, and made her remember the first time she'd seem him, blood gushing down his face from a broken nose he'd gotten catching the snitch in the World Cup. Ron had said he'd done it to end the game on his own terms.
"Then I will anyhow," she repeated, nodding, chin up, trying to be strong.
"Or I will come hex your professors if they do not give you good marks," Viktor suggested with a lopsided shrug, and she grinned in spite of herself. "You should go now, before Percy comes down," he went on reluctantly. "That one, he will see us and think the wrong things."
"It'd be none of his business, I'm legal now," Hermione answered, still leaning against the curve of his shoulder. He twitched ever so slightly, and a moment later she realized what she's suggested and pulled away.
"That was a stupid thing to say," she shook her head, scolding herself. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have - I mean, not that I don't want -" he stopped her rambling with a kiss, just a quick brush of lips, his large and rather boney hand cradling one side of his face.
"But not now," he finished for her.
"Yes," she said with a relieved sigh. "Just - not now, not yet." He tilted his head to the side, considering.
"Keep the house," he said. "For this summer, for making better things to remember."
Her heart was thudding heavily in her chest, with something other than grief for the first time in days. This summer. It brought up too many conflicting emotions to handle all at once; fear-tinged anticipation and the sensory awareness of just how close they were right now, first and foremost. The cynical realization that he was trying to get her thinking of the future, and gut-clenching guilt at the idea of keeping her parents' house to do something they would surely disapprove. Beneath it all was a tingle somewhere towards the base of her spine that wanted to say she'd changed her mind, she wanted him right now. Hold me. Make me feel alive.
"This summer," she whispered back.
Someone muttered a charm and the living room flooded with light. Hermione flinched and squinted her eyes, blinking at the stairs.
"Good morning," Percy was glowering at her in a way that suggested it was anything but a good morning, looking very official in his Ministry robes.
"Good morning," Viktor returned, and muttered something under his breath in Bulgarian. Hermione didn't catch all of it, but she what she did understand was not terribly flattering.
"How long have you been down here?" Percy demanded of Hermione, tone blatantly accusatory. She felt Viktor tense, and part of her wanted to let him defend her honor - but another part, a part she'd begun to think had died and gone completely, sparked to unexpected life. She stood, brushing a soothing hand across Viktor's shoulder in the process, and watched Percy turn an interesting shade of red at her bare legs.
"Long enough," she pronounced haughtily, and swept past him up the stairs.
It's not okay, it's not going to be okay, but . . I think I might survive, at least. I think I might make it to the summer.
***
Willow entered Snape's rooms with only a brief knock to announce herself; he hadn't yet given her the password, but he had taught the door to recognize her, and allow her in. She paused just inside, lips quirking upward in surprised affection. In one hand she held a plate of sausage and toast, a teacup balance at the center.
"Yes?" he inquired, not glancing up from the ancient tome that rested on his knees, where he sat in the center of his sitting room floor. From the arrangement of the multitude of books, scrolls, and old newspapers that had taken over his quarters, it looked like he'd started at the desk, and migrated to the floor when the desk had been overrun. Various glyphs in phosphorescent hues hung over the different piles of text, apparently denoting their purpose, and there was a partially-rolled scroll on the floor beside him, on which he was jotting notes in bright red ink.
"That's where I left that," Willow commented.
"I ran out of more sensible inks," Severus responded, not needing to ask what she was referring to, "and it was convenient, if rather nauseating."
"No big," Willow shrugged, pulling her robes and skirt tight to her legs with one hand as she picked her way through the maze of precariously balanced books. She sat down beside him, tucking her knees up to her chest to fit in the tiny square of available floorspace. "You'll just owe me for ever and ever and ever." He snorted. "Missed you at breakfast," she went on. "Do you mean that literally, that the red ink makes you nauseous? Like, looking at it makes you all pukey? 'cause that could mean you're prone to migraines, if you get light and color-sensitive."
"I was aware of that, and I do, in fact, suffer from migraine headaches, though they are most often brought on by brainless students, not by brightly colored inks, which I merely find insipid," he responded, scratching a comment on the parchment. "They do not make me physically ill."
"That's good," Willow responded, holding the plate out in his direction. "Brought you breakfast." He looked up for the first time, smiling ever so faintly - she wouldn't have even counted the nearly undetectable movement of his lips as a smile on anyone else.
"Thank you," he murmured, taking the plate in one hand and lifting the teacup to his lips with the other. He frowned slightly when he sipped, then held the cup out a short distance from his face, contemplating it. "What did you add to the tea?"
"The great Potions Master can't tell?" Willow teased. He glared at her, then took another tentative sip.
"A ridiculous quantity of sugar, obviously," he commented. "Cinnamon. Cloves."
"Allspice and orange peel," she finished for him. "It's just usual mulling spices. You know, last day of break and all." He quirked a questioning eyebrow. "Things haven't been very festive, so I'm clinging to the last dregs of festivity I can find. Hence, mulled tea."
"And you feel the need to impose these last dregs upon me as well," he commented.
"You don't like it?" she frowned. He grimaced, and sipped again.
"It's actually rather good," he conceded grudgingly. "You've done something different in the measuring of the spices, the wine always has -"
"- waaaay too much cinnamon," Willow nodded. "Albus has this major love affair with cinnamon in the mulled wine, I noticed. This has more cloves."
"It's an improvement," he nodded. She grinned. He quirked one corner of his mouth in response.
I think I'm getting a little attached to that almost-a-smile.
And he's sitting around in a pile of books on the last day of break. Clearly making with the research. And forgetting to eat. Can't overlook the forgetting to eat. Giles was the only other person I'd ever met who'd get so caught up in research that he'd almost starve himself by accident.
There could be long weekends and lots of books and mulled tea, sitting on the floor, comfy together . . She set her chin down on her knees, watching as he simultaneously attacked the plate of sausage and turned the dusty, crackling page of the book in his lap. I could get to liking this. I could get to liking this a lot.
Which is silly, and stupid - I've known him, what, six, seven weeks? Not even two months. That's way too soon to be feeling more than vague like, and here I'm mentally doing the geek equivalent of picking out china patterns. I'm imagining our shared personal library.
I don't know what kind of fiction-type books he likes . . if he even likes to read fiction, and it wouldn't surprise me if he didn't because he's just all serious and pragmatic like that, but see, the point is, I don't know. All the little stupid stuff that you're supposed to know if you're a couple, I don't. Which means I should not be getting this attached.
And are we a couple? I don't think we're quite a couple. We're just friends.
Who kiss each other.
I'd hadn't known Tara for all that much longer . . of course, that was helped along by the return of a slightly more psycho Oz . . and then there was the conversation with Buffy where she was saying my name way too much and being all shocked, and I think it was the shock factor, there wasn't any room for being not sure. I mean, just liking her in a *liking* her kind of way was a bigger deal than whether I'd found my soulmate.
Though I really thought I had. Found my soulmate. It felt so right . .
. . but if things were so right with Tara, then why am I here? Why are things feeling so right with Severus?
Buffy thought Angel was her soulmate. Her one and only.
Maybe there is no one and only. Maybe it's all just that blue-haired and turning a corner in Istanbul thing . . just random connection . . people who you just happen to find when you're lonely moving in and making parts of your life all them-shaped . .
"And what is so fascinating, may I ask, about my right ear?" Severus inquired drily. Willow jumped, startled back to her present surroundings, and realized she'd been staring.
"Well, it's a nice ear," she quipped.
"Really," he said in a very dubious tone.
"Mm-hmm," she affirmed. "It's very . . dignified, I think. It's an aristocratic sort of ear. So, all this, the books and stuff, I'm guessing this is for Draco's hearing?" she tried to subtly change the topic. Yeah, subtle. About as subtle as a sledgehammer.
"What else?" he answered, turning back to his book; she thought he might have been blushing, ever so slightly. It was hard to tell, as his hair fell forward when he glanced down, blocking his face - and his ear - from view.
"What'll happen if he's expelled?" she frowned worriedly.
"Ordinarily, he'd be sent home," Snape explained, turning another page, frowning, and turning the next several pages. He sighed in evident frustration, and snapped the book closed. It sent up an impressive cloud of dust, and Willow sneezed. "Since that is not a possibility at present, he would be made a ward of - are you alright?" he asked, sounding almost amused.
"Fine," Willow managed to squeak out between sneezes. "Sorry, allergies."
"To dust?" he asked.
"To this dust," she clarified, sniffling, when she'd finally regained some control of her respiratory functions. "I never had a problem back home. I think you've got older, more especially virulent dust."
"There are potions for that," Severus informed her, and to her surprise, it wasn't particularly condescending.
Not, "duh, you idiot, don't you know there are potions for that?" Just, "there are potions for that." Huh.
"Teach me to make them?" she asked. "After the hearing."
"It would be far less trouble to just make the potion myself," he suggested, twisting around and placing the ancient dust-filled tome behind him, and extracting a rolled scroll from another pile.
"I am not *that* bad at potions," Willow protested. He turned and gave her an incredulous look. "I'm not!" she insisted. "Though, you know, if you want to make it for me, I guess that'd be okay." He looked hurried away again, unrolling the scroll. There was just a tinge of pink to his normally shallow complexion, once again.
"It would save time," he said flatly.
"Okay," she agreed, fighting not to grin. "So, Draco will be made a ward of the what? State?"
"A ward of the Ministry," Severus corrected.
"Ouch," Willow grimaced.
"Precisely," Severus concurred, turning the scroll in his hands so the top re-rolled itself as he made his way towards the bottom. He paused half way down, and went to retrieve his quill; the minute he released it, the parchment promptly snapped itself together into two neat rolls, words hidden. "Bloody infernal -" he ground out, tossing the quill down.
"Here," Willow reached out and unfurled the scroll, holding it up for him. He nodded brief thanks, and began taking notes. "But, won't that happen anyway over the summer? Who's he a ward of now?"
"His Head of House," Severus answered, glancing between the scroll and his notes, drawing an arrow on the note-parchment between what he'd just recorded and something he'd written further up the page.
"You?" Willow said in surprise.
"No, his other Head of House," Severus retorted.
"Fine, be all snarky, see if I hold any more scrolls for you," Willow snapped back. "But, really, can I help? You're looking for what, legal precedents?"
"Precedents in the history of the school, actually, and other magical academies," he responded. "And *thank you*, so very much, for your invaluable assistance with the holding of scrolls," he drawled out, voice dripping sarcasm. "I am forever indebted."
"Just so long as you realize that," Willow responded cheerily. He glared at her. She grinned at him over the top of the parchment. "And don't forget that's my ink," she added.
***
"State your name for the record, please."
"Tom Marvolo Riddle."
"Tom? Not Thomas? This is your legal name?"
"Yes Sir, just Tom."
"I see, I see . . you're Head Boy, aren't you, Mr. Riddle?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Quite an accomplishment for a 6th Year."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Now, as I'm sure you know, we're here to discuss this unfortunate business with -" pages rustled "-some sort of monster, you described it as a large spider of some sort?"
"I only saw it very quickly, Sir, but I believe so."
"I see, I see . . and this creature was being kept by a Mr. Rubeus Hagrid, a 5th year Gryffindor?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You're quite certain of this?"
"Completely, Sir. He's . . well, he's always hiding some creature or other, to be honest, Sir. It's all been very harmless in the past, and it truly didn't occur to me that he'd try to keep something lethal in the castle. I would have said something sooner if I'd thought -"
"Yes, I see, I see . . of course, no one blames you, Mr. Riddle. Of course you wouldn't want to get your classmate into trouble, quite understandable, no one's questioning your judgement - but for the record, Mr. Riddle, I'll need you to explain why exactly you're certain this creature belonged to Mr. Hagrid. Things you saw, what he said, if you could elaborate on that?"
"He was keeping it in a closet, Sir, as I told Headmaster Dippet - there was a box with straw in it, and a refuse bin with several dead rats in it, shriveled and wrapped in spider-webbing. I found him in the room, talking to the thing in the box, he'd named it -"
"Yes, quite, thank you, Mr. Riddle, I think that will do. Very conclusive, I'd say."
"I'd like to clarify something." A new voice, female.
"Of course, Hildegarde, what were you -"
"What exactly has become of this creature?"
"It ran off, Ma'am."
"Ran off? Just, what, skittered away? And no one's done anything about this, attempted to find it? That's not very reassuring. I mean, it could attack again, or - well, really, if we don't have the creature itself how to do we know it's responsible? How do we know it *exists*?"
"Well, the testimony of Mr. Riddle here .. very convincing, I think, Head Boy and all . . "
"Of course, Archibald, of course, I wasn't questioning his account, but he is only a student and he did say he saw it very quickly -"
"How big was it, exactly?" A third voice, male, from the other end of the room.
"Mr. Riddle?"
"I'd say about the size of a large cat, Sir, Ma'am."
"A large cat? Like - a lion or a tiger?" Disconcerted murmurs flittered around the room.
"A spider the size of a lion, Merlin, I do suppose you'd have to feed that more than rats, my God -"
"No, I'm sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to be unclear. The size of a large housecat. Perhaps two feet in length, excluding its legs."
"Oh." Relieved sighs followed this.
"Oh, well . . yes, I suppose that's a bit more likely, isn't it . . I don't suppose you could keep a lion-sized spider in a closet -"
"We're getting off-track, here, Archibald. Does anyone here know about giant spiders? Could a spider that size kill a 13-year-old girl?"
"That'd depend somewhat on the size of the girl, wouldn't it?"
"Really, Igraine, is it necessary to be vulgar -"
"It's not vulgar, it's just sensible, if you think about it -"
"Well it *did* kill a 13-year-old girl, didn't it, so doesn't that answer the question rather neatly?"
"That's a logical fallacy, Archibald. Circular reasoning."
"Ginny?"
"Doesn't Uther - Uther, you collect insects, don't you? What do you know about giant spiders?"
"That they're arachnids, for one thing."
"Don't be such a prig, Uther, just answer the damned -"
"Does Mr. Riddle need to be here for this? We're taking him away from his studies."
"I don't mind, Sir."
"Hey, Gin!"
"Are we all clear on Mr. Riddle's testimony? Any more questions for him?"
"Does *he* know anything about giant spiders?"
"Hildegarde, he's a sixth year student, of course he doesn't know -"
"Well, we can let him answer the question, can't we?"
"Mr. Riddle?"
"No, Sir, this was the first I'd ever seen. I do feel very badly about this, I'm sure Hagrid never meant for it to harm anyone, perhaps he didn't know it was lethal either -"
"Right, quite, I see. Well? Is everyone satisfied?"
"You've clearly made up your mind, so I don't see what our opinions matter."
"Igraine, there's no need -"
"Ginny!"
"What?" Ginny yelped, flinching.
"Snack cart, just telling you the snack cart's here!" Ron retreated, holding both hands up in surrender.
"I'm treating," Harry added.
"Oh," Ginny blushed, and gave the irate-looking witch pushing the cart an apologetic look. "I guess I'll have -" she struggled to think of something she wanted, just so as not to offend Harry, feeling disoriented and vaguely queasy. Across the compartment, she saw Hermione staring moodily into a cup of something steaming "- a hot chocolate? Do you have hot chocolate?"
"Dark, milk, vanilla, or mint?" the witch at the cart asked, sounding distinctly bored.
"The mint is good," Blaise commented from her seat by the window.
"I guess the mint, then," Ginny complied, though she thought the vanilla sounded better.
"You should get a sandwich or something," Hermione suggested, sitting her cup down on her knees. "We might miss the feast."
"I hope we miss the feast," Blaise added quietly.
"Do you want a sandwich, Ginny?" Harry asked.
"Sure," Ginny acquiesced, giving her head the tiniest, least noticeable shake she could manage. She felt strange in her own skin, as if everything were new and the wrong shape, and the thought of putting food into her stomach was far from appealing. But if I say no, I'm not hungry, then Ron will want to know why I'm not eating, and I'll have to say something, have to think, and my head feels stuffed with wool . .
At least it was nothing too bad this time.
Right. Nothing too bad. Framing Hagrid and getting him expelled for the murder you committed. But nothing too *bad*.
It was just the things he heard, saw . . that's better . . better than when it's his thoughts . .
"Ginny?"
"Huh?" she snapped back into her surroundings, blinking.
"Which did you want?" Harry asked. The witch at the cart was drumming her fingers impatiently.
"The mint," Ginny repeated.
"We don't make mint sandwiches, love," the witch at the cart said drily.
Sandwiches, that's right, sandwiches because we might miss the feast.
"I guess - the roast beef?" I really hope that was one of the options.
A foil-wrapped sandwich was handed to Harry, who passed it on to Ginny. It was warm and smelled vaguely spicy, and made her stomach roil.
"If we don't miss the feast, I'm still not going," Blaise blurted, not looking away from the window. "I'm not sitting at that table with all the empty seats and listening to Dumbledore try to make a fable out of it, I'm just not, I won't."
"Um, okay," said Ron, looking uncomfortable - Blaise had already heard most of what happened on Solstice before they even got on the train, but Ron had filled her in on the details, and she hadn't looked away from the window much since. Harry shifted awkwardly in his seat, but said nothing. He's not used to anyone thinking Dumbledore is less than perfect.
Ginny took a tentative sip of her mint hot chocolate; it actually was rather good. She tucked her sandwich discreetly into her robe pocket; the parchment already occupying that pocket rustled as she did so. She'd received the letter just that morning, and everyone in the compartment had an identical missive tucked away somewhere.
Miss Virginia Weasley, read the parchment, your presence is required in the Charms classroom this day January 5, 2004, at 6p.m. promptly or as near thereafter is is permitted by the arrival of the Hogwarts Express, to testify before the Board of Governors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, regarding the altercation that occurred between Mr.Harry Potter and Mr. Draco Malfoy at approximately 9a.m. on December 12, 2003. Your testimony will be considered in the Board's decision regarding the possible expulsion of Mr. Draco Malfoy from Hogwarts School.
A thorough written statement may be submitted in place of your attendance with the permission of your Head of House, and with the understanding that the Board may still opt to require your immediate attandence for questioning and clarification of your statement. Failure to either appear or submit a written statement will result in a loss of fifty House points and a suspension of two weeks.
Your cooperation in this serious matter is greatly appreciated.
Sincerely -
Twelve names in a variety of scripts that ranged from illegible to almost childishly tidy took up the rest of the page, and below them all it said 'Board of Governors, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry".
"Didn't you like your sandwich?" Harry asked, frowning.
"I'm just saving it for later," Ginny lied, hiding her face in her mug of chocolate.
"Are you feeling alright?" he asked, and Ginny glanced up at him; it suddenly occurred to her that he was actually paying her a fair amount of attention, perhaps the most attention he'd paid her in four years. And he wants to know if you liked your sandwich, that he bought for you.
Oh, don't be silly. He treated everybody, not just you.
But wouldn't it be just like your luck if he were just noticing you now . .
"I'm fine," she gave him a weak little smile, and he smiled back reassuringly. Her stomach flipped over, and she put the chocolate down on the windowsill, the smell of mint suddenly making her very ill. Ron was watching both of them with keen interest.
"You could just write something, for the hearing," he suggested. "Hermione's doing that. You don't have to be there if you're embarrassed - I mean, not that you should be embarrassed, he should be embarrassed, but - you don't have to be there if you don't want to."
Oh Merlin - I hadn't even thought of that - he kissed me - I'm going to have to stand up in front of the Board of Governors and tell them how Draco Malfoy grabbed me and kissed me.
And if I say I didn't want him to, then Harry will have been just defending me, and the fight won't be his fault, and it won't matter that he started it, and Draco will be expelled.
And if I say I didn't mind . .
I didn't mind, did I? I didn't care. I just wanted him to stop trying to pick a fight, because someone was going to get hurt. But I didn't say that, didn't say anything loud enough to be heard. I just stood there and let Harry hit him.
That was the first time a boy ever kissed me, and I didn't care, and now I have to testify about it before the Board of Governors.
I just stood there and let Harry hit him. Just stood there and let Draco kiss me. Just stood there and did bloody nothing, because that's what I'm good for, isn't it, just standing there like a stupid lump and being someone else's excuse.
"It's fine," she said, turning away towards the window and hoping he'd think she was embarrassed and blushing, and not flushed with impotent rage, all of it at herself.
There's nothing I can say, absolutely nothing, that won't be a betrayal of someone. He almost killed Harry. If I say I didn't mind . . oh, hell, he'll probably be expelled anyhow. It probably won't even matter what I say.
But it'll matter to Harry, and I think it might matter to Draco, and . . it'll matter to me. Harry'd probably tell me to just tell the truth, but . .
. . there's a little more truth to tell than he knows. And no one's asking about that, not even him, and he knows more than anyone.
No one ever asks about that.
***
TBC . .