02 September 2001

The sky was still dark when Ginny woke up. She dressed in the pre-dawn chill, shivering and hopping on one foot. The sleep had been excellent, only marred by Demelza and Emma chattering excitedly about something, but Ginny had blearily activated the charm that blocked out noise, and had sunk down into a dreamless sleep once more. A brief glance told her, as she was leaving, that the other two girls hadn't embraced the total privacy the way she had: their screens were folded open. Demelza's arm poked out of the bed hangings.

Nimbus 2121 firmly in hand, Ginny went down the stairs and crawled through the portrait hole. She was so anxious to get into the air that she was practically running, and the only reason why she wasn't was because she had the presence of mind to keep her speed to a trot. The small bag that carried Arnold and his things bumped against her legs. Just as she leapt down the last few steps, she remembered with a guilty start that she hadn't owled her mother last night like she'd promised.

I'll just fly for a little while, she thought. Then I'll write. It would be simple to write while eating; flying and eating, however, was a bit trickier to manage, though she'd done it when she'd wanted to spend all of her time soaring above the world. Before she'd had Arnold to worry about. The sun peeked over the horizon by the time she reached the pitch, though Hogwarts was still in the shadow of the mountains. She checked to make sure Arnold was comfortable. "I'll be back," she promised.

And then she kicked off and immediately felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She barrel rolled and raced across the pitch. The wind was in her face and she closed her eyes and flew from memory, weaving in and out of the posts. After a half hour of just flight, she practiced some of the more complicated Chaser moves, and (despite the unfortunate name) the broom responded to her every whim. Ginny was free and alive and she didn't have to think or remember.

She touched back down on the earth with great reluctance. Why can't Hogwarts be a school for just Quidditch? she thought grumpily, wiping off her sweaty face and performing a freshening charm (one her mother had taught her, and it was one of the best spells Ginny knew) on her clothes. Arnold was poking out of his little bag and peeping up at her in excitement. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, and feeling the familiar sensation of Arnold's claws digging into her robes as he climbed up her arm to find his favorite perch: her shoulder. By this time, her stomach was rumbling quite loudly.

"Time to eat," she said.

The Great Hall was mostly empty. It was almost an hour until the first class, and generally everyone slept late on the first day of term. She loaded a plate with eggs and sausages, pulled a piece of parchment and a quill out of her book bag, and took a few bites.

Dear Mum,

Sorry I didn't write last night. I ended up going to bed very early; please tell Ron and Hermione thank you for the sandwich -- I didn't make it to the Welcoming Feast. I slept very well, and got up early today to practice Quidditch. I'm really excited about the new season.

Ginny paused to spear a sausage, and glanced around the room for inspiration. The staff table was also nearly empty -- only Professor Sprout and Professor Vector sat chatting over the paper and a cup of coffee. No sign yet of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

I still don't know who the DADA professor is. I hope he (or she) is good, unlike some of my earlier professors. Ask Ron if he remembers Umbridge. But Flitwick has a good record, so I'm not too worried. Robards was decent.

She stared down at the parchment, unwilling to just end it there, but unable to come up with anything else. Just when she was about to give up, an owl she recognized as Bill's dropped a package in front of her. It was Fleur's handwriting on the card, but all it read was: For Ginny. Feeling a bit of trepidation, she opened it and found a long, silky nightgown with short sleeves. Ginny's face immediately turned bright red and she glanced around, praying that no one had noticed. She slammed the brown paper back down to hide it. "Damn it," she swore. Who sends pajamas to people while they're eating breakfast? Anyone might have seen!

At least now she had something else to write to her mum about.

I just got a package from Fleur. Right here at the breakfast table. It's a nightgown; it's very nice, but it looks like it would be far too cold. Tell her I said thanks for thinking of me.

Tell Dad I said hi.

Love,
Ginny

She had just finished writing her letter and was about to seal the envelope when Professor McGonagall swooped down on her. The Head of Gryffindor House (who would have been headmistress, had she not refused) looked uncharacteristically concerned. Ginny had gotten used to those looks, but had thought the professor had gotten over the habit. She must have seen the pajamas.

To her horror and annoyance, the professor sat down beside her, legs facing outward.

"I have your time table," she said, handing over a thick piece of parchment. Ginny barely glanced at it before setting it on top of Fleur's package.

"Thanks," said Ginny. Please go away.

"Are you all right?"

Ginny tried very hard to keep her annoyance off her face, but she didn't think she was very successful. "I'm fine," she said with heavy emphasis.

"You're sure?" she pressed. Ginny scooted away from her.

Does she think I'm so pathetic that I'm going to completely lose my head about a nightgown?

"It's only a little annoying," she explained. "That's all." Don't ask me any more questions.

The professor's eyebrows flew upward and then furrowed together. Her lips compressed in a thin line. She was very intent on studying Ginny's face. Thankfully, Ginny didn't have to put on a mask at all. Fleur's gift was a bit annoying, and it had been embarrassing to receive it at breakfast when everyone could see, but it wasn't that big of a deal. Just when she was about to grab her things and go, Professor McGonagall smiled.

"I'm so happy you feel that way," she said.

"Er -- thanks," said Ginny.

"I was worried," she admitted. "Now -- I'm sure you want to put that away before the class. You don't want to be late, do you?"

"No," Ginny said slowly. She felt very relieved when McGonagall left, robes swishing away. After staring at her back for a few confused moments, she looked down at Eclipse, Bill's owl. "Would you mind taking this to Mum for me?" she asked. "Save me a trip to the owlery?" The regal owl deigned to hold out his leg, and Ginny attached the letter with a bit of string. "Damn!" she said, just as Eclipse spread his wings. "Sorry, Eclipse, I forgot!"

When she'd first gone back to school after nearly a year at home, her mother and father had insisted that she have a symbol to show that it was really her writing the letters under her own free will, as they had been fooled by Lucius Malfoy's Imperius Curse. She didn't even want to think about how they'd react to a letter without that mark. Probably something humiliating. Ginny didn't feel the need for more of that, so she unsealed the letter and drew her symbol, a lightning bolt, at the bottom.

"There, thanks," she said. Eclipse eyed her with disdain. She made a face at him, and he spread his wings and flew off.

She lagged behind the sudden rush to leave, not feeling any particular hurry to put her broom away and head off to class. Adjusting the things in her arms (much to Arnold's delight), she peeked down at her time table. Defense Against the Dark Arts. There could be worse ways to spend the morning. A lot worse. Though she supposed it depended on the professor.

Thirty minutes later, Ginny was very late, and she walked swiftly down the corridor to the classroom. She hadn't meant to let time get away with her, but she'd sat down at the end of her bed, thinking about starting the new term, and it seemed as though twenty minutes had passed while she blinked. Compound to that--

CRASH!

Ginny, Arnold, and her books clattered to the ground. She sat for a moment, completely stunned.

"Watch where you're going," said a snide voice.

Ginny's face burned. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, gathering her things.

"Don't let it happen again," he said. His voice was too close to her ear and she scrambled away, finally looking up. It was a Slytherin in the year behind her; he was short and broad and had a large, fleshy mouth. Ginny met his eyes for a moment as she stood, and then the Slytherin (she thought he might be called Pollux Sennet) let his eyes travel up and down her body in such a way that Ginny wished she still allowed herself to wear the invisibility cloak between classes.

She backed away. Any minute now--

"You're the Weasley girl, aren't you?" he said, as though delighted.

Bending her head over her books, she ignored him and continued on. I'm not running away from him, she told herself. I'm trying to get to Defense on time. But she couldn't deny the fact that the look in his eyes -- and the recognition that some of the Slytherins and even a Hufflepuff or two showed upon hearing her name -- made her feel as though she'd swallowed a potion that made the contents of her stomach froth and bubble.

So despite the fact that she was already late -- on the first day, no less -- she leaned up against the stone wall outside of the classroom and rested her head against it. Arnold, as though sensing her distress, chirped in her ear. Get ahold of yourself, she thought angrily. He was just a stupid boy.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Ginny immediately sought to look for the professor, to apologize for being late. She caught a glimpse of everyone's faces -- they looked eager and attentive which was highly unusual -- and then she saw the reason why.

He looked the same as he always had, though he was taller and had broader shoulders. His hair still stuck up in all directions. Same thin face, even though it was still in profile.

"Try not to make a habit of being late," he said, and turned to her. "I don't think--"

And for the first time in three years, two months, and twenty days, her eyes met the very familiar green of Harry Potter's. Her very first instinct was to flee, but a small, defiant part of her inexplicably seized control, and Ginny watched, as though looking down at herself from above, as her feet carried her to the seat near the window in the back of the room.

And he continued to stare at her, completely and utterly shocked.

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02 September 2001

Later, Harry thought that he ought to have known the day would only get worse. He'd spent too much time flying the night before, and he had slept in so late that he'd missed breakfast. He also hadn't had a lot of time in the shower; his morning wank had to be skipped. Not only that, but he still only had a vague idea of what he was actually going to teach (he figured that he'd just have mock duels with the older classes).

By a happy circumstance -- or so he thought -- he had seventh year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws first.

"We're going to have mock duels," he said. The class appeared more attentive than he ever remembered being, and this made his nerves jangle even more. "The first two weeks of class will be you lot showing me how much you know."

One nervous girl lifted her hand in the air. "What if we don't know anything, sir?" Harry was reminded strongly of Hermione, who had never liked to be surprised by professors either.

"Then we'll start from the beginning," he said easily. "But I bet you'll be surprised by what you do and don't know."

A Gryffindor boy -- Harry delved back in his memory for a name to match the vaguely familiar face and came up with Michael Quork -- leaned back in his chair and said, "Speaking of that... are you going to share what really happened with You-Know-Who?"

Gryffindor indeed, Harry thought wryly. "He died," Harry answered. He looked away from the class and out the window. He didn't want to be rude, but he needed to be firm about his boundaries. "That's all you need to know," he continued. Thankfully, he heard the door open just then: a welcome distraction. "Try not to make a habit of being late," he said, turning toward the door. "I don't think--"

Ginny Weasley.

Whatever he had been about to say died in his throat and he could only stare. Same bright red hair, fair skin, and brown eyes. She looked exactly the same, only older. For a moment he thought she was about to run (her eyes flicked over to the closing door), but she straightened her spine and made her way to the furthest chair from him. And for a moment he was back at Malfoy Manor and feeling a rage so intense that it exploded and bodies had littered the floor. It was as though a cloud had passed over the sun.

But underneath it all, he felt a strange pride in her for keeping her back straight and her chin up.

The rest of the students stared avidly between the two of them and Harry, with great effort, reminded himself that they had left Malfoy Manor three years ago. Has it been three years already?

"Er," he said. "Pair up and practice on each other -- just jinxes; no hexes or curses or I'll hand out detention like the trolley lady on the Hogwarts Express hands out Chocolate Frogs. I'm not looking for what spells you know; mostly I want to check your reflexes."

They obeyed with alacrity, and Harry tried to watch them carefully, but there seemed to be a fog in his mind. He was acutely aware of Ginny; whenever she moved, he seemed to catch it out of the corner of his eye. She should have graduated last year. He'd been so secure in his assumption that she wouldn't be at Hogwarts, that he had not even considered it when he had decided to teach. But now that he actually thought about it, he realized how stupid he'd been. He knew that the Muggleborns who had been forced into hiding had had to repeat a year. And Ginny... she'd been taken. And she would've needed time to recover. She wouldn't have gone back to school right away. Of course.

You're a moron, he told himself.

He moved automatically between the students, adjusting grips and demonstrating when needed. He avoided the group of three Gryffindor girls, of which Ginny was one, and tried to mask this deliberate oversight by being more effusive than he would normally have been. This plan successfully got him through the class.

Ginny was the first to leave. He watched her go and noticed, for the first time, a little pygmy puff peeking out of the collar of her robes. She was still quite small, and seeing her again hurt him in a place he'd forgotten about.

He immediately sought out Professor McGonagall, and paced the corridor his entire free hour between his classes while she taught a group of third years.

Harry shuffled from foot to foot, waiting for the second years to leave the Transfiguration classroom. He grew angrier by the second, and the moment the last Hufflepuff left, he exploded.

"Didn't you even warn her?"

McGonagall gaped at him. She had a moment of confusion before Harry saw comprehension dawn in her eyes. Her brow furrowed. "I presume you're speaking of Ginny Weasley?"

"Yes," he bit off. He was deeply uncomfortable with speaking so to his old professor, but the shock on Ginny's face had enraged him. It was one thing for him; he ought to have known that she'd still be at Hogwarts. But her? A small voice in the back of his head told him that it was his fault. If he hadn't insisted on secrecy... "She had no idea that I was here until she walked into my class."

"But we spoke of it just this morning at breakfast," she said. "She said that it was a bit annoying, but nothing upsetting."

A bit annoying, he thought. Not likely. He prowled around. I should just leave. I should go back to Grimmauld Place and Remus Lupin can shove his pep talks right up his arse.

"Don't you dare think about leaving," McGonagall said sharply. She stood behind her desk, and for a moment it appeared that she loomed over him as she had when he was in his first year, and he and Ron had been late for class. "You can't. You've signed a contract. Besides," her nostrils flared and her lips thinned. "I thought you had more honor than that."

Harry's mouth dropped open. "But if she--"

"Ginevra Weasley is not made of glass," McGonagall said sternly. "She's eighteen years old, and she's in Gryffindor."

Harry heard the words, but didn't take them in. It was true; he couldn't leave without suffering severe repercussions. He hadn't exactly been very attentive to the contract, but even he knew that they were strictly enforced by magical law. Fiddling with the Elder Wand, Harry wished he knew what she was thinking. Briefly, he considered using Legilimency, but he rebelled at the thought. Ginny had been violated enough without him intruding on her personal thoughts.

"If she's upset," he said. "If she can't handle it, then I'm gone."

"I suggest you take that up with the headmaster," she said waspishly. Her eyes flashed behind her glasses. Harry could practically feel himself shrink and become younger. "And I'd wager he'll say the same thing I just did. You have a contract."

"Why didn't you take that post anyway?" Harry asked grudgingly. He'd been wondering for a while, and he was grumpy and unsettled enough not to care.

"Why haven't you been seen by anyone you care about in years?" she countered. She made shooing motions at him, which rankled. "You have first years next, I believe? You'll want to set a good example, and that includes being on time."

Harry looked away, wondering how he could focus on something like teaching a bunch of eleven year olds how not to get killed. Not when he'd just been confronted with the very worst of his past.

"You'll be fine," she said. Her voice had softened somewhat. "Good luck."

It was an unmitigated disaster.

It started out well enough. Harry had slid in when the bell rang; technically, he'd been exactly on time. What appeared to be hundreds of students (though, in reality, it had only been twenty four) turned to face him with tiny, expectant faces. He grimaced inwardly.

"Er, good morning," he said. They replied back to him in high voices, sounding far too eager. One little Hufflepuff girl had auburn hair, and an image of Ginny at that age popped into his head. It had been the year of the Triwizard Tournament, and she'd been a cheering section all by herself.

Harry stared around at them, mind racing. When he'd made his rather vague plans, he had forgotten the fact that first years knew nothing. He'd planned to have them all have a go at each other like the seventh years, but now that he was actually standing in front of them, he realized how stupid he'd been. How could he expect them to know anything? Some of them were likely Muggleborns.

"Now," he said, just because the silence had stretched too long and he needed to break it. "Who can tell me what they know about Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

They all looked around at each other; Harry thought he might've seen one or two of the Ravenclaws start to hyperventilate. One brave boy raised his hand. "It's battling evil?" he said in a tentative voice.

"Right," Harry said bracingly. He paused for a few beats too long. Pretty soon, the first years would know that he had no clue what he was doing. And the large part of him that was still staring at Ginny Weasley in shock did not even care. "Evil is..." he wracked his brain. "It's got a lot of heads," he admitted.

"How can evil have heads?" a Hufflepuff boy asked. He sounded belligerent and Harry tried not to dislike him immediately.

"It's a metaphor," Harry explained. He remembered that it had been Snape who had come up with that particular one, and he felt a burst of the familiar dislike. "There's lots of evil in the world. It isn't just hiding under rocks or only comes out at night. It's there, somewhere, all day every day."

They murmured.

Harry ignored them. He was starting to warm up to the topic. "The reason why we teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at such a young age is because you've got to know how to defend yourself. I came face to face with Voldemort himself at the end of my first year. He was possessing a professor; his head was covered up by a turban..."

He stared around at them. They gaped at him; their eyes were round with shock and fear, and he felt a little tremble of guilt. "Not that you'll meet any dark wizards this year, I don't think," he said. "Voldemort's gone, you know, and the Aurors have done a fine job of hunting down the Death Eaters." He hadn't wanted to make it sound that they would also be facing a two-headed, turbaned professor. He turned around to show him the back of his head. "See," he chuckled a little. "No Voldemort in the back of my head, and the Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers are always the ones who turn out funny. At least in my experience."

This did not help.

Harry scratched the back of his neck, wondering why he had to be so mental. The first years were either staring at him in confusion, fear, or excitement (in the case of a dark-haired Ravenclaw who inexplicably reminded him of Ron). "Listen..." he said. "I think we should all learn how to disarm each other. That's what we'll do. Line up in pairs, please."

"What's the use of learning how to disarm?" asked the eager Ravenclaw. "We should learn hexes! Or curses! What if some mad dark wizard comes to possess one of us? What then?"

Harry groaned inwardly.

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02 September 2001

Arthur, Molly, Ron, and Hermione sat around the kitchen table at the Burrow, pretending that they weren't waiting for Ginny's first letter to arrive. Molly fiddled around with the floral arrangement at the center (the flowers had most of their heads cut off thanks to Teddy Lupin and his pruning techniques), while Ron and Hermione whispered quietly to each other. Arthur stared at his folded hands and told himself that she was all right. The danger had passed, and there was very little chance of her being taken again.

"I hope she liked the sandwich," Ron said, breaking the silence.

"I'm sure she did, dear," Molly said distractedly. She kept one eye on the open window. Arthur frowned. He was glad of his son's thoughtfulness, but he wished that his Ginny could go to the Welcoming Feast. A soft, warm hand patted his. "I think she was better with you this summer, my love," his wife said gently.

Molly meant well, but Arthur knew that his relationship with his daughter would never be the same again. She could barely even look at him, and he couldn't blame her. He was supposed to have protected her. He ought to have noticed that her letters had sounded odd, stilted. They never should have attributed that to her being at a school with Death Eaters for teachers.

"Thank you," he said quietly. He closed his eyes. "I just... I was very careless with something very precious."

"Don't," Ron said warningly. His face was very white; he looked quite furious. "The Death Eaters did it. Voldemort did it."

Arthur knew this. But he also knew that he shared in the blame. Ginny was his little girl, and he should have protected her. Ron did not have a daughter; he couldn't possibly understand the anguish, and Arthur prayed that he never would. No father should have to see his daughter's brutalized body.

Molly abruptly got up from the table and got the family clock out of the laundry basket where she'd left it earlier in the afternoon. "It's late," she fretted. "We should have heard from her by now if she sent an owl last night." She smoothed the worn wood with her hands. And despite the fact that Arthur knew what he would see, he glanced over anyway.

It had expanded over the years. Bill, Fleur, and Victoire were a little cluster pointing toward Shell Cottage. Charlie and Percy were both at work (though Arthur had never imagined that two of his sons could have such different careers), and the twins were pointing at 'Out' (Arthur did not want to know what they were doing). The hands belonging to Arthur, Molly, Ron, and Hermione were at 'Home.'

And two hands pointed to 'Malfoy Manor.'

For a very long time, they had spun around the clock, never landing anywhere. Not even 'lost.' Arthur remembered the day that Ginny had discovered this; she'd nearly destroyed the clock before Percy had stopped her. Molly had hidden it, and another six months had gone by before she'd thought to add 'Malfoy Manor' as a destination.

Sometimes they all -- Molly included -- wished she hadn't thought of it. There was something heartbreaking about seeing proof that neither Ginny nor Harry had ever really come home from there.

"You haven't--"

"No," Ron shook his head. "I would've told you if I'd heard from him, you know that."

After the horrible first week, Arthur had gone looking for Harry himself. But he'd never been found. Kingsley Shacklebolt had said that he'd performed the Fidelius Charm for Harry. Harry did not want to be found by anyone, least of all anyone with the last name Weasley. His seventh son. He wasn't even sure if Harry knew that he had a hand on the Weasley clock; Ginny had snuck into Ron's bedroom and stolen a bit of his hair right before Bill's wedding. Arthur suspected that Harry had no idea how well he was loved, otherwise he would not have stayed away.

Though a small, horrible part of him was relieved that he had. How would Ginny have handled it? Arthur was aware that they coddled her; but none of them knew exactly what had happened or how deeply his presence might affect his daughter. He hated to think that Harry's absence from his family was a blessing in disguise, but he never really knew how Ginny would react to something until she did.

For what felt like the millionth time, Arthur wished that Harry had saved a Death Eater for him to kill.

"Is that Eclipse?" Hermione asked suddenly, standing up and leaning over Ron's shoulder to peer out the window. A moment later, Bill's owl, bearing a letter with Ginny's handwriting on the envelope, soared in and dropped his burden in Molly's lap.

She opened it, eyes immediately falling to the bottom of the page. "It's there," she said in a tone of great relief. Tension was immediately released from Arthur's shoulders. The lightning bolt symbol was their safety net. If Ginny were under the Imperius Curse again, she would not draw it on the bottom of the page. And they would know that something was happening.

Rationally, Arthur knew that it wouldn't happen again, but...

"I wish he knew that she chose his scar as her safe sign," Ron admitted, scrubbing his face with his hand.

"You have to assume that Harry's being rational," Hermione pointed out. "You know how he is about guilt and self-blame. I'm sure he feels responsible."

"Git," Ron said, though there was little heat behind it. Ron hadn't been angry with Harry since he'd seen where his hand pointed, though before that, his rage at what he'd called Harry's "reckless abandonment" had been terrible.

"What did Ginny say?" Arthur interrupted the oft-repeated discussion.

"Fleur sent her that nightgown," Molly said, frowning. "I knew she would hate it--"

"It wasn't that bad," Hermione assured Arthur and Ron. "Quite modest. I'll bet it was the material that Ginny hated."

"It's silk," Molly elucidated. "It's quite pretty, actually." But Ginny was very particular about such things. "She also says that she has no idea who the new professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts is -- how would she? She didn't go to the Welcoming Feast."

"Kingsley said that Flitwick had to really search for someone suitable," Arthur murmured.

"Sounds familiar," Ron said wryly.

"She thanks the both of you for the sandwich," Molly added. "And that's it."

It was Arthur's turn to take his wife's hand. She gazed down at the letter, blinking rather rapidly. "I just want her to come home," Molly said in a voice that shook slightly. Arthur knew that she didn't mean she wanted Ginny home from Hogwarts. "Both of them."

"I want to hear her laugh again," Arthur said. "And I'd like to talk to Harry about Muggle things."

Ron looked sheepish. "I sort of miss the way she used to mock me. She was just as bad as the twins... funnier, too. And Hermione's all right"--he squeezed her shoulder--"but it'd be nice to run off and do bloke things every once in a while."

"I just wish they'd come home," Hermione echoed Molly. She stroked Ron's hand and stared down at the table.

Arthur couldn't help but wonder if they dreamed too big.

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03 September 2001

The invisibility cloak was smooth and slippery in Ginny's fingers. She sat at the end of her four-poster bed and played with it. It represented security. Whenever she didn't want to be seen, she would put it on. Despite the fact that she could accomplish the same thing with a Disillusionment Charm, Ginny never felt quite as, well, invisible as she did wearing the cloak.

Part of it came from the fact that it was his.

Ginny had returned to finish her fourth year after the Easter holidays a year after Malfoy Manor. By that time, everyone had given up hope (and, in Ginny's case, hope mixed with dread) that Harry would return. He'd not even come back for the things he'd valued most: his father's cloak, the Marauder's Map, and not even the photo album that Hagrid had made for him.

She'd felt guilty at taking it, but Hermione had insisted. Harry obviously wasn't coming back, and if he did, he wouldn't begrudge her the use of the cloak. He'd want her to use it. And so she'd had the advantage of a little extra security.

The thought of giving it back, as she knew she ought, filled her with anxiety. It's his, she thought firmly. It was his father's. And Harry had very little in the way of family heirlooms; surely he had been missing it. And she hated that stupid, selfish part of her that wanted to pretend like she didn't have it. It's his, and it was his dad's, she told herself. It had been one thing to use it when she hadn't any idea where he was and he'd made himself Unplottable so that owls carrying parcels couldn't reach him.

But it would be quite another to keep it knowing that he was sleeping in this very castle and she could walk right up to him tomorrow and hand it over.

She flopped back on the bed, cloak dangling over the side and trailing on the floor. The idea of actually going up to Harry -- Professor Potter -- and talking to him was nearly as unnerving as going without a cloak that offered impenetrable protection.

He'd seen her, and she couldn't forget that.