IWSC4 round 4 writing school
Beauxbatons exchange student 1
Techniques: perfect people, pronoun–antecedent agreement
Word count: 831
Family Ties
Harry ran his fingers through his dark hair, making it even untidier than usual. You'd think I'd be accustomed to being the centre of attention, he thought, but it's never been like this before. He gazed around the room. The empty plates and champagne glasses stood testament to the satisfied guests, and the buzz of conversation masked his weary sigh.
He looked at Ginny, seated beside him. Above the ivory lace of her grandmother's wedding dress, her hair blazed like a beacon. We're really married. She's Mrs Ginevra Potter. Yet she didn't look any different, apart from the softly up-swept hairstyle and light touches of make-up. She was just the same Ginny he'd always loved.
She broke off her conversation with her bridesmaid and turned toward him. "Everything all right?"
He nodded. "Just a bit...strange, you know? All this fuss, simply to get married—and being the centre of attention for something that's nothing to do with my parents, or me, or Voldemort."
Ginny pushed her veil out of the way and gave his hand a quick squeeze.
"I know, sweetheart; you wanted a small wedding. But you know Mum"—Ginny smiled wryly—"she couldn't resist inviting every member of the family, no matter how distant."
Harry laughed a little. "It makes for an extremely redheaded guest list, doesn't it? I feel very much the odd one out. I think the only other person in the room with hair as dark as mine is that elegant woman seated at the far table. Who is she, by the way?"
Ginny's eyes lit up. "She's a distant cousin, but quite a special one. It's time to circulate among the guests, anyway; come and meet her."
They threaded their way through the room, smiling and nodding to friends as they went, until they arrived at the dark-haired woman's side. Ginny laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Phemy, I'm so glad you could make it. Harry, I'd like you to meet Phemy Stinchcombe. Phemy, this is Harry."
Phemy rose with a polished grace that made Harry feel as awkward as a jointed puppet. Her turquoise dress highlighted her impeccable figure, though its sleek lines contrasted oddly with the unruly strands of hair escaping from what had been a neat chignon.
"Hello, Harry," she said, offering her hand. "I'm delighted to meet you at last."
Despite being about the same age as Ginny, she carried herself with an unusual air of assurance. Harry guessed she'd spent time in a European finishing school.
"Ginny tells me you're a distant cousin, Phemy," he said, as he shook hands. "You must be one of the few Weasleys without red hair."
Ginny twinkled at him. "I told you she was special, darling, but it's not because she's a black-haired Weasley. It's because she's a distant cousin of yours, not mine."
Harry's jaw dropped. "I—you—what?"
"You heard me. Phemy is your cousin. Or, to be precise, your second cousin once removed. Her great-grandmother, Eulalie, was your grandmother Euphemia's twin sister."
Phemy smiled at him. "Now you know where my black hair comes from. And"—ruefully—"why I can never keep it tidy. It's the bane of my life. Fortunately, my mother and grandmother both had it, too, so they couldn't scold me too hard. But my finishing school hated it."
Harry grinned. "We really are related, aren't we? My Muggle aunt kept cutting mine shorter and shorter in an effort to tame it, but with involuntary magic it always grew back again overnight."
"The only thing that keeps mine even vaguely manageable is Great-Great-Uncle Fleamont's Sleekeasy Potion, but even with that—" Phemy shrugged. "Well, look at it. It's not tidy, is it?"
Harry and Ginny looked at her hair, which had become a little messier even in the few minutes they'd been talking. They shook their heads.
"I knew it. I've long since given up looking in a mirror in the hope that for once it will have stayed tidy."
"What I like about the Potter–Stinchcombe untidy hair, though," said Ginny, ruffling Harry's hair as she spoke, "is that I can mess up Harry's hair all I like, and no-one notices any difference."
Phemy laughed. "So I just need to find myself a husband to ruffle mine, do I, and then I can blame him for it being untidy?"
Harry and Ginny joined in her laughter, but for Harry, there were tears not far beneath the surface. He hadn't realised until now just how much he wished he had a family, but Ginny clearly had realised, and she'd gone to tremendous effort to find a blood relative for him.
His instant connection with Phemy was far more visceral than anything he'd known before. It was a deep, inner recognition of shared genes—you can't really understand how much it matters unless you've grown up without it, he thought. Aunt Petunia had always tried to deny their shared blood; with Phemy, he could celebrate it.
