EDUCATION IN WIZARDING BRITAIN
Spellman survey finds both complacency and dissatisfaction
Once every year, a huge majority of the Wizarding public packs all its children from the ages of eleven to seventeen off to a stately, medieval castle on a hill. Many accept this as matter-of-factly as a goblin banker accepts his weight in gold. But to many others, the first bong of the school bell signals the start of another round of argument and controversy.
The education is either good or bad; It's getting better or it's getting worse, they're spending too much or they're spending too little. Nothing is exactly right.
The arguments are sometimes lofty and often nasty, and this year, with so many now in school, and in light of recent events, they are running hotter than ever.
On 24th June of this year, seventeen-year-old Cedric Diggory, seventh-year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, died while competing in the 1994 Tri-Wizard Tournament. The circumstances surrounding his death are unclear and contentious. Albus Dumbledore, sitting headmaster of Hogwarts insists that the young Mr. Diggory perished at the hands of He Who Must Not Be Named, but his assertions have been dismissed as rash and alarmist, and disrespectful to Mr. Diggory's memory.
One thing that can be said with certainty about the death of Cedric Diggory is that it has once again opened up furious debate on just what Wizarding Britain should do as a nation to educate its children and ensure their safety.
One month ago, The Daily Prophet conducted a nationwide survey to find out just where the people stand.
In general the survey shows that things are good—but could be much better.
Take a general question: Are schoolchildren being taught more useful and worthwhile things than they were 10 or 20 years ago? Many (67%) especially recent graduates are sure this must be so. A remaining 33%, many of them in the older set, do not think so. Another question exposed greater uncertainty: Is the Hogwarts curriculum in need of fine-tuning? 61% do not think this is the case, but 39% think that some adjustment is required. When asked whether the curriculum needed expansion of content or trimming of fat the answer was a nearly even split with 48% in favour of expansion and 52% opposed to it.
The questions gradually veered more into hot-button territory. When asked if they believe their children are acquiring the correct notions about Wizarding Society from their time in school,65% of parents said they believed so, while 35% did not think this was the case. 33% do not believe their children are completely safe in school while 67% per cent believe that Hogwarts is the safest place a student can be in case of any danger. 79% believe that the school faculty administration does what it can to ensure the safety and well-being of its students while 21% disagree.
One question in particular ignited heated debate. That question being; Are children taught well how to defend themselves?
This question opened up the more fundamental and contentious issue; should the children of Wizarding Britain be learning how to defend themselves?
The idea that they should is met with strong opposition by 85% of the Wizarding Public. The British Wizarding Public has had no reason to train it's children to defend itself for nearly fifteen years, why should they start now, after vague threats that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned?
One wonders what the sudden imposition of the notion that they must train to defend themselves would do to our children's' psyches' .One has to wonder about Albus Dumbledore's tendency, when seeing children in danger, of abdicating his responsibility to protect them and leaving them to fend for themselves. One is reminded of the schoolyear in which a Basilisk from the recently opened Chamber of Secrets roamed the school halls, and instead of putting a stop to it, the school faculty opened a "Dueling Club"
Indeed, the common word is, apart from laxity in the 1994 Tri-Wizard Tournament, which led to Cedric Diggory's death, Dumbledore also sat idly by while numerous threats to his school were neutralized by children, and students of his school. It is common knowledge that the attempted robbery of The Philosopher's Stone and the Opening of The Chamber of Secrets were stopped by The Girl Who Lived, Harriet Potter. Harriet Potter and two other students were also held for an extended period by escaped convict Sirius Black, before school authorities got to them. In light of all this The Daily Prophet chose to question the public to see where they stand on the controversial figure of Albus Dumbledore
"It's gone to his head." says Corban Yaxley shortly. "That's the truth, plain and simple. I mean-Order of Merlin First Class, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards—all of that! How could it not mount to his head? He loves the power—despite all of that 'affable gentleman' tripe he feeds us—so he wants more. Of course he's going to start being alarmist at some point! It's so that we think we need him more than we do. He's just looking for another good title, another feather in his cap—and that's if we're lucky."
"Albus Dumbledore is dangerous." says one member of The Wizengamot, who wished to remain anonymous. "I see some people claiming he just wants a bit more glory—but I worry that it's all a lot deeper than that. Most of the younger generation—Those people under forty or so—but many of the forty year olds hardly know either—have all but forgotten what he tried to do in his youth, before he got cold feet. Well it's been years and he's gained notoriety and influence since then—I rather think his feet are warming up again…"
"I don't know why he said all that." Says one anonymous Hogwarts student, who heard the speech in which the Headmaster first made the assertion that Lord Voldemort had returned " He was really great about all that other stuff—he called Cedric kind and brave—and everything—then he ruined it with all that weird talk about—about You-Know-Who. It was honestly offensive—like he was just using Cedric as a segue into his conspiracy about You-Know-Who"
But there are those who still support Albus Dumbledore. The rumour is that his "Order of The Phoenix" has reformed for the first time since 1981, and the number of people who come to his defense are a minority, but a very loud one.
"Albus Dumbledore is right about everything he says." says Elphias Doge, the devoted friend, and some say, follower of Albus Dumbledore "He's been right about everything he's said before, and he'll be right about this too!"
But most are not so easily convinced by Elphias Doge and his—
But Molly Weasley was, and she held the paper away from her like it was infectious, and dropped it into the trash bin.
"Load of rot these days, the Daily Prophet." she grumbled, getting back to her sweeping.
"What are they saying this time?" Ron asked, rinsing plates in the sink, while Ginny leaned at the counter, finishing a bowl of cereal.
It was another summer morning at the Burrow—already sweltering though it was fairly early in the day. All the Weasleys currently at home, just the three of them, were in light, casual wear.
"They promised an article about the state of education in this country, but before even reaching halfway it's became all about 'the controversial headmaster Albus Dumbledore...'
Ginny sighed, while Ron laughed a bit wryly.
"They're obsessed with him." Ginny said, pulling off the counter and heading for the sink. "The other day I was reading the Sports section, and a bunch of the members of the Caerphilly Catapults were talking about how they don't trust Dumbledore, and no one else should either. As if that has anything to do with the rubbish season they've been having."
"They're all just looking for someone or something to lay the blame on when things go wrong."Mrs Weasley huffed. "Someone they get to be suspicious about, and get rewarded for saying all sorts of trash about, when nothing else works out right for them."
Mrs Weasley looped her arm around Ginny's shoulder as the girl came back from the sink. "I wish I could give them a piece of my mind." Mrs Weasley said "Tell them just how much Albus Dumbledore has done for our family—and Harriet Potter too-they're hardly going any easier on her with the lies. I couldn't imagine where we would be without them. We could have lost so much—like you—my only daughter…" Mrs Weasley shook her head, looking teary. She pulled Ginny closer.
"I hope you don't still have nightmares—or—or sleep paralysis…" she said, tentatively.
"No, Mum..." Ginny said, fidgeting in her mother's hold.
"Oh, you brave girl," Mrs Weasley cooed, pulling her daughter closer against her, and kissing her forehead. She smiled at Ginny wryly. "You know, You're getting almost too tall for your mother to kiss you on the forehead now. I'll have lean up the next time I do it." As if to make the most of things before it was too late, Mrs Weasley leaned in for several more pecks on the forehead.
"Muuum…" Ginny groaned, struggling to escape her mother, and scowling at Ron, who was cracking up over the sink.
"Oh, don't go saying you're too old to be doted on a bit by your mother!" Mrs Weasley crowed in mock-despair, letting her daughter go.
"Well you don't have to smother me!" Ginny said, massaging sore ribs. "I'm nearly an adult!"
"Oh, you're right." Mrs Weasley suddenly demurred, leaning on her broom. Then she sprang up, suddenly brisk and business-like. "You're right, I ought to start treating you like an adult. We ought to get you accustomed to adult things. We ought to start with the very adult problem of housekeeping!" she pressed the broom into Ginny's hands. "You finish sweeping down here, the whole bottom floor, I mean, and I'll be working upstairs." she said, at which Ron's snickering dissolved into open laughter.
Ron continued laughing as Mrs Weasley made her way upstairs, clearly exaggerating his reaction, just to annoy his little sister.
"Oh, bugger off." Ginny spat, scraping the broom across the floor in annoyance.
-
Mr Weasley got off work fairly early that afternoon. He paced up and down the garden, making inspection of the new weeds that had suddenly overrun it. Soon enough he called Ron and Ginny down from their rooms to help get rid of them. As they entered the garden Mr Weasley told them to be very careful that they didn't brush against the plants with bare skin—a difficult task, as the weeds seemed to reach out from every direction, like desperate hands.
"Your mother did some research, and she thinks they must be Stingroses." Mr Weasley said, nudging the flower of one of the weeds back with his wand until the stem stretched.
"Very nasty, and usually very rare, I haven't seen one myself in ages, but they seem to be popping up all over the countryside these days, we were hoping they would miss us…"
"What's nasty about them? They're-They're beautiful…" Ginny said, turning on the spot, taking in the whole garden.
They were everywhere, climbing and trailing among all the other plants, like roses if roses had an agenda, like they were determined to grow over the whole garden, their flowers puckered open like luscious lips. They were a beautiful, vibrant red and their smell was sweet, and intoxicating in the summer heat. Their leaves and stems looked sort of rough, as was expected of a stinging plant, but on the whole the plants were wonderfully formed
"The optimist sees the rose and not its thorns, I suppose…" Mr Weasley chuckled. "Yes they can be quite pretty—but they sting—like a dozen wasps at once—hence the name 'Stingroses'. And, I mean-look how they overrun the garden—no order at all—and we had problems enough with the gnomes—though I suppose they must be gone now…"
Ginny looked around again, at the sunlight gleaming on the Stingrose flowers, at the sunlight glittering the hairs of their serrated leaves, as if they had been sprinkled with quicksilver. She was an Imperialist, she supposed. She was fine with them overrunning the garden if they looked so good.
"Right, but how do we get rid of them if we can't touch them? A spell? A potion?" Ron asked.
"No, magic is rather clumsy for this—any spell I can think of would take the regular plants with the weeds—any way, neither of you can use magic, and potions cost money…"He said all this while fishing through his pockets, and pulled out a stringy heaps of old rags.
"Janitor at The Ministry was throwing these out." he said "That's what gave me the idea. We can wrap them around our hands and get to work."
"Blimey Dad," Ron winced reaching for the rags reluctantly, "He might've been throwing them out from the loo!"
"Well Ron, you have to improvise and adapt to things sometimes. It won't always be comfortable!"
Soon they all had the rags about their hands, like ragged oven mittens, and when they made tentative attempts at grabbing at the plants, no stinging came. Soon they got to work, grabbing the plants by the stem and pulling them up out of the ground. They were rather pliable, like softer whips, but not impossible to remove. Ron and Mr Weasley made rough, hasty work of it, Ginny worked as carefully as a florist might, pulling them up as gently as would work and laying them in a growing pile at her feet. She had it in her head that she would save at least a few of them.
"Don't leave them so close to you!"Mr Weasley cried, unaware of her plan. "You'll get stung!"
Ginny made the token effort of pushing them away a few inches with the tip of her toe.
The afternoon dragged on, the sun moving across the sky to the horizon. The work had seemed somewhat easy at first, but fatigue came quickly in the summer heat. Ginny was in a light sundress, but it might have been a heavy burka. Her hair curled at her scalp and her back grew hot like a spotlight shone on it. No wonder the weeds grew so quickly, with so much sunlight. She dropped to a squat when her legs grew weak, and started picking at some of the lower weeds.
She had a naughty thought. She first wondered if the residue of Stingroses on their raggedy mittens might cause some irritation. They did splatter a bit of green liquid each time you pulled them out—it might add up. She then wondered if Ron would notice if she yanked the waistband of his pants back and dropped the soiled rags down them, and what would happen if he did.
Ginny shifted on the spot. Squatting was not really much easier than standing, she realized it took some strain off her back but made her legs do all the work—well, it would work for a bit at least. She thought about Fred and George. They could easily rustle up something nasty with these Stingroses. Maybe if they took the fibres they could make them into stinging clothes—stinging underwear, maybe.
Ginny shifted again, her knees were getting rather sore. You could honestly torture someone with these, she thought. Like a dozen wasp stings, her father said. If that was true, then yes, you could really torture someone. A Stingrose whipping, was her first idea. Her ankles started to tingle. She crab-walked a little to one side to loosen up her joints. Tom, sadist that he was, would have liked the idea of a Stingrose whipping. Ginny felt her chest tighten with the usual impotent rage and sadness she felt whenever she let Tom Riddle wander into her thoughts. She had been doing so well lately. It was her mother's fault. Ginny had been doing just fine that morning, and that past week, too. The memory of him had been hovering in that distant spot of her mind where she liked it. Still present, but like a figure seen from miles away; indistinct, unimportant—ignorable, if she turned herself away from it. But her mother just had to bring it back into her direct awareness. In an indirect way, of course, asking her about nightmares and such, it had been two years after all—but everyone knew what she meant.
Ginny hated questions like that. They were trying to help her, she supposed, but had none of them ever considered that maybe she simply didn't want to talk about what happened in her first year? The way she saw it, she was the type who could forget about something unpleasant if people stopped bringing it up. But they never did stop bringing it up. Right when she thought that maybe the topic was buried, someone brought it up again. Being reminded of how Tom Riddle took advantage of her and used her to hurt others consistently brought on a wave of shame and self-loathing that lasted throughout the day, and ruined whatever good mood she'd been in. If they stopped, that wouldn't have to be the case, would it? The worst part of it all was that she couldn't tell them to stop, because then it would look like the whole thing bothered her still, and it would get worse than ever
Ginny's brow furrowed. By now sweat was dripping into her eyes, her thighs were screaming, and even her hands felt slightly stiff from grabbing and pulling at dozens of plant stems. She had better get up, she thought, or at this rate her legs would burst. She used one hand to steady herself then pushed herself up. She shot up awkwardly on wobbly limbs, which gave out and sent her falling back onto the ground.
Ginny screamed as she hit the ground, making Ron and her father jump. The pain she was in far exceeded what was expected of a two-foot fall to the ground. It was like half her body had burst into flames. The pain seemed to build in her nerves and jump from one body part to another, like a chain reaction, so that in an instant one whole side of her body felt dipped in acid. She realized she had fallen on the pile of Stingroses she had been building up. She thrashed on the ground trying to get away from them, like a fish trying to get back to water, but they spread out on the ground the same way a blanket spread if she moved around on it. It was like she way laying on a bed of hornets. Suddenly a pair of strong hands grabbed her by the back of her legs and the back of her neck and lifted her up and away from the Stingroses.
"I told you not to leave them too close to you! I told you-!".It was her father. He looked as worried as he did angry. Ginny felt tears welling up in her eyes, and squinted them back with a stab of annoyance. Was this all it took to make her cry?
-
Ginny masturbated when she felt frustrated. Or angry. Or embarrassed. Or anxious—or guilty. Generally, whenever she felt negative emotions and she could get by herself for a while, she masturbated. She did it fairly often, and she was doing it right then, to distract herself from the still lingering pain and still lingering embarassment. After she fell on the Stingroses, her father had rushed her into the house, where her mother had been waiting, looking tense. Her father gave the curt explanation of "The Stingroses!" at which her mother gasped. Ron came running in and it turned into a flurry of activity.
"We should take her to St. Mungos!" Ron said
"Where's the Floo Powder?" Mrs Weasley cried
"It would be quicker to Apparate! Just get our checkbook!"
Ginny struggled in her father's grip, despite the flaring pain this caused, and growled
"I don't need 's!"
Then there ensued an argument, both of her parents against her, on whether or not she needed the hospital. She rather thought she knew what would be best for her, seeing as she was the patient under discussion, but they were almost prevailing on her, when Ron burst out suddenly,
"Wait! I think I've got something for this!"
He then ran upstairs, and a lot of pounding and scraping was heard from his room, the sound of Ron making a hasty search. Soon he was pounding down stairs, holding what looked like a tub of cream.
"Remember—that summer I kept getting stung by bees—you gave me this—I don't know—it might work" he explained, holding the tub of ointment out.
"I don't need it!" Ginny bit out. "I wasn't stung by bees!"
A quick referal to her mother's research revealed that for all their sting, Stingroses were not so dangerous, a person who fell on too many Stingroses was not in danger the same way a person stung by too many bees might be. A soothing ointment would help, but was not necessary, and the worst of the swelling would be over by the next morning—which was exactly what Ginny surmised, but of course no one listened to her until the book was consulted.
Despite everyone calming down, Ginny was still handled like a newborn calf. She was carried upstairs and laid on her bed by her father, her mother following close behind them. When her father left the room, her mother undressed her gingerly, and applied the ointment Ron gave her on the affected areas of Ginny's skin, made obvious by their furious swelling. After that, her mother put her clothes back on, and helped her get under her bedcovers, and cooed a few reassurances at her, with a hand on her head like she was a dog, then finally left her alone.
She didn't start masturbating immediately after that. She tried, but her room was like a hotel lobby for a few hours; Ron and her father came in to check on her at various points ,and her mother constantly came bustling in, initially to check on her, then seemingly because she got sidetracked by the apparently great amount of cleaning that needed to be done in Ginny's room "I never realized how cluttered it is in here." she tutted, "You ought to clean up more."
It was only hours later, after Ron had brought her dinner, and her father had brought her a bowl of ice cream, both of which lay untouched on her bedside drawer, that she got the chance. She lay heavily on the right side of her body, her face pressing into her pillow, because any other position sent an itchy, buzzing pain flaring through her skin.
It was an act of frustration, it had been a long day. When her mother had reminded her of first year, it sent her on a slow spiral of unfortunate reminiscence. She remembered Tom She everything about him for the rest of that morning and on through to noon. The weed-picking provided a distraction for almost an hour, but of course that turned sour. He kept intruding on her thoughts, even then, when she tried to pleasure herself.
She remembered when she had first noticed the diary, while going through her things, soon after moving into the Hogwarts dorms. An unfamiliar leatherbound book, newer and cleaner looking than any of her other, hand-me-down textbooks .She thought for a moment that someone had gotten her a gift, but she turned it over and saw the inscription, "Tom Marvolo Riddle" on the back. Of course, she thought, the best looking book she had was clearly something that had just fallen out of someone else's shopping and into hers.
She remembered the first time she wrote in it, one lazy afternoon. There was no Tom Riddle that she knew of, and he probably didn't need the book anyway if there was nothing in it yet. She remembered the way her quill glided along the page—the diary had had very good paper—and she remembered how the paper sucked the ink up until all the words she wrote utterly disappeared. She remembered, after that, how the ink seemed to float back up, like colour returning to someone's cheeks, and spelled out three words.
"Who is this?"
She remembered how quickly they had hit it off. Mostly talking about her, and how she was adjusting to life at Hogwarts. Tom was the perfect listener, and always had the best retort. She remembered how, when she complained about the girls in her class being rude to her, Tom had told her to a spell to use on them. A simple incantation, a wave of her wand, and Demelza, and Cheryl and Hilda, the meanest girls in her class, all screamed as the mucus flew out of their noses, turned to bats, and started attacking them.
She remembered how they hit it off even quicker after that. Mostly talking about her, and how Hogwarts had changed since Tom's day. Tom was the perfect helper. He helped her with her homework, and she started acing all her assignments. He gave her spells to use, so that no one would mess with her, and soon enough no one did. He taught her how to impress people, and helped her develop her biting sense of humour. He taught her how to lead people along, and make them feel stupid if she wanted to.
She didn't remember much after that. Mostly waking up in odd places, and telling Tom about the mounting paranoia at Hogwarts. She would black out for hours at a time, and when she came back to herself, she would find the school in chaos, and her robes covered in blood. The heir to Slytherin was set to open the chamber of secrets, apparently. He wrote the announcement in blood—blood like what had suddenly appeared on Ginny's robes. The school flew further into a panic, while Ginny started to question her sanity. The blood on the walls, the decapitated chickens, the petrified students, he had made her do it all she realized. She had tried to get rid of him, but her paranoia and fear were such that she took the diary back at the first chance. He had almost completely filled her mind and possessed her body when Harriet Potter defeated him in The Chamber of Secrets.
These days her body was safe,(generally),but his grip still lingered in her mind. She fought against it constantly. She fought against it right then, pushing her fingers deeper into herself, thinking about every boy she even half liked. There was Dean Thomas, a boy in Ron's year, who was dark, low-voiced and tall. There was Micheal Corner, a Ravenclaw boy with dark curly hair and high cheekbones. There was Cillian Carroll, her partner in Potions, who rolled his sleeves up every time he worked the cauldron, showing off toned forearms. There was Collin Creevey, who was nothing much, short but lean, and rather cute. He seemed like he would let her take charge. She would like that. Tom would like it too. He'd said once that you should always use such people if you found them. Ginny dismissed the thought. She forgot herself for a moment, and rolled over in her bed, sending pain like a shockwave through her inflamed skin.
Tom, Tom, Tom. Ginny thought, frustration renewed. It always came back to him. She'd thought her captivation with him was just a little girl crush, or maybe an effect of the Diary. She'd thought it would recede with time—become a mortifying but distant memory—but it was as bad as ever. It would get worse too, probably, now that his future self was around as a constant reminder. She tried thinking about it logically before giving in to despair. Her problem was that she simply wasn't trying hard enough to leave him behind. She could distract herself all she wanted with friends, school, quidditch and other basic diversions, but she needed something that could truly wash him from her mind. Masturbation had been useful. It had help soothe her for countless hours put together, but clearly it was time for more.
-
Ron leaned on his windowsill, and watched the last embers float up from the Stingrose bonfire he and his father had started. It was a hot night, and dry heat drifted into his room, carrying the smell of smoke. He was thinking of nothing in particular. Or rather he was thinking about something, but it was so unimportant in the grand scheme of things that it might well have been nothing. The truth is, he was thinking about girls.
Ron had had close brushes with death before, but he'd never really thought about it. There was no time. On the Chess board and in the Chamber of Secrets and in the Shrieking Shack, he had been acting instinctually—too focused on the 'here and now' to actually think about dying or not. Being in a state of "war" made him quite aware of his own morality. At any point in the next few years he could die. He rather wanted a girlfriend before he went out, if he did.
He thought about all the girls he liked. Or the girls at the top of his list at least. There was Lavender Brown, whom he liked to watch in the library, because her sweater always rode up when she reached for the high shelves, exposing a bit of her waist. There was Hermione Granger, who, annoying as she was, was very cute. There was something rather endearing about her strident personality, when it wasn't directed at him. There was Harriet Potter, his best friend, who, as far as he was concerned was near perfect. She was funny, she was pretty, she liked Quidditch probably as much as Ron did, and was certainly better at it. Ron was pretty sure that quite honestly, he'd get with any girl that was willing, but if he had to choose, if he could actually put up the balls to actually make moves on a girl, it would probably be her.
Suddenly Ron heard the door of his room click open. He turned and saw his sister Ginny pushing it shut.
"What are you doing out of bed?" he said, accusing.
"I could ask you the same thing." she said vaguely, crossing the room.
"Oh come off it. Half your face is still swollen."
Ginny pressed her hand to her face lightly, as if she hadn't realized.
"Well it doesn't hurt any."
She came up beside him, looking out the window searchingly.
"Can't sleep?"
"No."
"Looking at the stars?"
"I'm looking at what's left of the fruits of our labour."
Ginny leaned out of the window to see them.
"Bloody Stingroses. Don't know what I saw in them. Other than that they're really pretty."
Ginny left the window, tugging at Ron's sleeve as she did.
"Come to bed." she said "I mean, you can't sleep, I can't sleep—two heads might be better than one for this one."
Ron sniffed at his sister's inferior logic, but climbed onto the bed beside her, pulling the covers up over both of them, before Ginny said, rather quickly—
"Oh-don't bother."
"Cause of the heat or because you're lying that your skin doesn't hurt"
"The heat!" Ginny protested.
Ron let the covers go and lay on his side, and he felt Ginny do the same so that their backs touched.
"We haven't shared a bed in years." Ginny noted.
"Yeah. I think the last time was—after—after—your first year—After all that mess…"
Ginny mumbled something indistinct.
"I know that they can't be as bad as they were back then, but you weren't lying when you told Mum that you don't get nightmares anymore were you?"
"No." Ginny growled, and he heard her roll over. Then she sighed. "I wish you'd stop talking about that."
"Hmm?"
"I wish you'd stop talking about that. My first year—The Chamber of Secrets-what happened back then. All of you. Mum, and Dad, and Bill and Percy, and Charlie and the twins—all of you—I wish you'd stop talking about my first year."
"I-well—"
"You know I barely see Bill and Charlie, right? They're proper adults you know, got their own lives—but every time I see them they always say something like "Not still beating yourself up over it, are you?". You'd think they'd get it, seeing as they've moved out and all—you'd think they'd get me wanting to be treated as an adult. But you know, to them I think I must still be eleven." She punched Ron lightly in between the shoulder blades "I'm probably still eleven to all of you."
"Well if it bothers you that much—talking about it I mean—we can tell Mum and Dad and they—"
"No, don't tell them. They'll turn it into a whole thing. They always do."
"No they don't."
"They don't? Have you already forgotten this afternoon, when they acted like I was dying after a few little stings? All I needed was the ointment and I was alright, and not even that, really."
"That so? Well I didn't exactly see you gallantly returning to your work in the fields once you'd recovered" Ron teased.
"And do more yardwork?" Ginny scoffed. "As if."
Ron heard her edge closer behind him. He felt her breath on her back.
"I just wish everyone'd stop treating me like a kid" she said, tiredly.
"You are a kid." said Ron, growing sleepy.
"Oh bugger off. You're hardly older than me."
"That makes a difference though. When you get to be as old as I am you learn a lot about life…"
There was a silence in which Ron supposed Ginny had rolled her eyes.
"Honestly, I'm not a kid. I don't believe in Santa or anything. I know everything an adult has to know to get along. I can do a lot of things you probably don't even have the guts for."
"Yeah? Like what? Prove it." Ron yawned.
Ginny was silent for a moment. He supposed she had given up, and let his eyes droop. Then suddenly she was breathing into his ear, pressing into his back, whispering—
"Fine."
She pushed her way under his arm, slid her hand along his belly, and slid her hand past the drawstring holding his pajama bottoms open. Ron's eyes snapped from half-shut to wide open. The muscles in his stomach jumped wildly, and she whispered something soft and soothing as she wrapped her hand around him, and Ron wondered when he'd fallen asleep and why he was having this sort of fucked-up dream. Ginny was muttering at him and trying to make his body co-operate, but Ron was swelling up like a balloon, feeling ready to explode, and she arched up to kiss his neck, and Ron felt a plummeting feeling, like he was falling to hell.
Ron cried out and Ginny gasped. She felt Ron heave away from her, her hand slipping suddenly out of his pajama bottoms, and heard a gasp and a thud as he hit the bedroom floor.
Even in the dark Ginny could see her brother's dark scowl, his wide, disbelieving eyes, the way sweat slicked his red face like he had just run a sprint. She expected a screaming fit, but he only gasped;
"Why-?"
"Ron." she said, in a voice that sounded curiously flat even to her "Ron-I'm—I'm sorry—"
Suddenly the door of Ron's room flew open. Their mother stood in the doorway, looking distraught.
"Mum…" Ron croaked.
"What are you doing in here?" she asked, seeming frayed, and far away.
"We—I—" Ron spluttered
"I couldn't sleep." Ginny said, in something like her usual tone. "He couldn't sleep either…We were—we were talking."