6 October 2001
Ginny trudged up to the portrait hole, every limb in her body trembling from exhaustion, though in the best possible way. An almost dreamy haze had settled over her, and Jeremy Finch's words still echoed in her ears: Damn, Ginny, I've never seen you fly better! When she hadn't been working in the storeroom at WWW or playing with Victoire, she'd spent every free moment on her broom, seeking solace in the sky. The only negative thing about flying was that Arnold was terrified of heights and had to be left on the ground. But she was happy to know that the hours of practicing had paid off.
"You look like you're about to fall over," the Fat Lady said robustly. "Rough day?"
Ginny shrugged. "Quidditch," she said.
Demelza came up behind her, laughing with Finch. "Great flying, Ginny," she said warmly. "Dirigible plums," she said firmly to the Fat Lady, who looked disgruntled.
"Fine," she said sourly. "Treat me like I'm a slave and not someone with feelings."
Ginny ignored the Fat Lady's theatrics and groaned when her muscles protested the contortions required to enter the Gryffindor common room. Demelza appeared to have the same dilemma. "Damn it, Finch, if you don't start giving us a break, we're all going to die before November."
"No dying until after we win the Cup," Finch said cheerfully. "You'll be good to go in April."
It was moments like these that Ginny was fervently grateful she was not Quidditch Captain. Finch had been a decent bloke and Beater before he got the badge; he'd been reasonably well liked by the rest of the team. But it was as though the silver badge had a curse that changed personalities and forced them to become slave-drivers who vacillated from obsessive and scary to determined and scary. Not that she was complaining, but Ginny thought she might've actually been pushed to the limits of flying for the day. She hadn't thought it would be possible, but her bum hurt.
"My bum hurts," Demelza moaned, echoing Ginny's own thoughts.
"It looks pretty good to me," Finch chuckled. It was husky, and Demelza answered it with a delighted, though embarrassed, giggle.
Ginny tumbled out the other side, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the mating dance of the teenage witch and wizard. I didn't even know they fancied each other, she thought, stunned. She scuttled over to the large armchair by the fire and dropped her book bag on top of it. Then she raced up the stairs to her dorm and retrieved Arnold. She probably had about three hours of homework. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn't opened her mouth and told Harry to work on his lessons; he'd begun giving them homework with frightening regularity.
She wasn't the only one who missed the days he'd just make them duel each other or give them a rambling lecture about whatever came into his head. The fifth years were ready to revolt.
Pulling out the thick book they'd never opened the first month (and which she vaguely remembered Harry receiving for Christmas at Grimmauld Place during her second year), she grimaced and began to write her essay. He'd assigned ten inches. And it was due tomorrow.
An hour later, a slight diversion arrived in the form of a large paper crane pecking at the window. Ginny heaved a sigh, glancing over at the other Gryffindors. Some grinned, others pointed and laughed. But everyone knew that it was there for her, and let her unlatch the window and let in. "Let me in!" it squawked. "I'm here for Ginny Weasley -- Chaser extraordinaire!"
"Yes, yes, I know," Ginny mumbled, face turning bright red. Sometimes the twins were a bit too much.
"Say the words!" the bird said in a sing-song voice.
"I know you're from my favorite brothers, the genius Fred and brilliant George," Ginny said sourly. They liked to have their little jokes. If she didn't say the exact words, the bird would start flapping around the room, molting confetti, and singing 'God Save the Queen' off key. She didn't understand how their minds worked sometimes. They seemed to think that any letter delivered without fanfare deserved to be binned. Owls just weren't flashy enough.
"You flatter us!" it trilled in an extremely annoying manner, and ripped itself apart, revealing a simple bit of parchment.
Dear Ginny,
Guess what? The stars have aligned in just the right manner, the heavens have shown down on us from above, and we are finally, finally opening another joke shop in Hogsmeade. Now Scotland can enjoy pranking and fireworks without having to Apparate all the way to London -- we hope they view this as something fun, and not as an invasion.
We've got two options for premises, and we haven't made the final decision. The first building is really wide open and has a decent floor space. The only problem is that we'd have to build a storeroom on the back. The other option is two stories, and has a veritable warren of little rooms. We can already see ourselves filling each room with different things. Unfortunately, we'd have to liquify a few of our assets in order to purchase it fully, and we were trying to save money so that when Ron finally permanently disables himself doing Dangerous Auror Things (as he says), we'd be able to support him.
Alas, Hermione might have to take up that burden, the poor witch.
(And now Fred says that I just need to get to the point, but I'm the one writing) If he wants to do it, he can just shove the quill--
We're coming to Hogsmeade! And we've scheduled it so we can visit you on your day out on the town. You can help us with the decision! We'll meet you at the Three Broomsticks at noon. Or if you want us to walk with you, we'd be happy to terrorize Hogwarts. Minerva McGonagall would be especially happy to see us, I think.
Love from,
Gred and Forge
Ginny couldn't help but smile wryly, stroking a sleeping Arnold with one finger. If she had to have family come and be with her in Hogsmeade, she'd rather it be the twins than anyone else. They were the best at pretending everything was completely normal. And they'd gotten out of the habit of asking if she was all right. Not to mention they'd given her the option of actually meeting her in Hogsmeade instead of insisting on escorting her down the road.
She took a deep breath. Last year she would have had them meet her here at Hogwarts. The idea of walking there with so many variables hanging loose (would she walk with someone else or by herself? How many people would be on the road? Would they talk to her?) would have forced her to accept protection from her family.
But -- despite a lingering unease due to Pollux Sennet and the way he eyed her, even after the Arnold incident -- she decided that she could walk with Emma or Demelza (or Demelza and Finch) and she'd be perfectly fine. And even if she wasn't, she'd do it anyway.
She'd have to warn Harry, though. He'd exerted so much effort to keep his presence at Hogwarts a secret. It would be completely unfair of her to let him go to Hogsmeade (if he intended to go) without warning him that her brothers would be there. But the idea of seeking him out and talking to him again made a little coil of dread grow in her belly. She hadn't spoken to him since she'd returned his cloak, and he hadn't acknowledged her since then, other than to correct her stance once.
I could write him a note on the homework, she thought, staring down at her parchment. But was that too cowardly? She could go to his office again -- if she'd done it once, she could do it again. She didn't want to corner him by mentioning her family, though, and what if he just didn't care? I'll leave him the note, she decided finally.
As though her thoughts had traveled to the others, she heard a particularly loud voice say "Professor Potter!"
Ginny stiffened and looked over into the corner. Three young Gryffindors (second years she thought were called Stuart Method, Aisling Powell, and Elizabeth Barnett) were whispering furiously together, determination lighting their faces. Stuart, obviously the leader, made lots of hand gestures; Ginny wondered what on earth they could be talking about. They seemed a bit too enthusiastic to be talking about homework.
They stopped talking immediately when they noticed her staring, and eyed her with suspicion.
Ginny refused to flush -- she wouldn't let a group of twelve year olds embarrass her -- and turned back to her homework. She gripped her quill with slightly damp palms and swiftly wrote: Fred and George will be in Hogsmeade on the 24th.
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11 October 2001 - 14 October 2001
Harry had discovered that if there was anything he hated more (about school, at least) than History of Magic, it was marking essays and homework. He felt a little wave of resentment at the fact that he'd been forced to assign it in the first place. He'd done his best to at least make it interesting for himself (he'd forced the third years -- despite protests -- to write an essay on the new legislation being put before the Wizengamot giving more legal rights to werewolves and vampires) but it was still just reading the same thing over and over again.
Just assign random grades, said a voice inside his head that sounded like Ron. They'll never know the difference. For a long moment, Harry was tempted. They probably wouldn't know the difference. Harry could write an 'A' here, an 'E' there, and maybe toss in a few 'O's and a 'T' for good measure. It's the best of both worlds. You could get them studying and not have to work at it...
Harry looked around, half-expecting to see Ron standing behind him. But he was alone; his laziness was all his own.
The stack of seventh year essays mocked him. I'm going to have to do it right, he told himself glumly. He was just about to reach for it when there was a rap at the door and he nearly fell off his chair. It pushed open without his permission and Stuart Method, a second year, sidled in. Harry felt a wave of relief; every time he heard a knock, he thought it would be Ron or Hermione or any of the other Weasleys, coming to... well, he didn't know what they would do, but he dreaded it nevertheless.
"Hi, Mr. Method," Harry grinned widely at him, his relief perhaps making him overly cheerful. The sandy-haired boy was taken aback for a moment.
"Hi, Professor Potter," he said. He looked around the office. Harry followed his glance, as though seeing his office for the first time. The walls were bare and blank. The desk was cluttered with essays and parchment and a few bottles of ink and quills. There were no personal effects, nor was there anything that said that the office was used day in and day out. It looked like the temporary retreat of an anonymous professor. Harry grimaced. "Nice office," the second year said, obviously lying.
"Er, thanks," Harry said awkwardly.
"How come you've suddenly started giving us homework?" the boy asked suddenly, flipping his hair out of his eyes.
Because Ginny Weasley told me to work harder at my lessons.
"I -- er -- thought it was time," Harry said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know... I gave you a break for the first month," he said, when Method's eyes narrowed. Harry began to suspect that the second years might mutiny like the fourth years had last week when he'd assigned one too many essays. He wracked his brain.Have I been too hard on the second years? To be honest, he felt like he was doing a better job than Lockhart. At least he wasn't having them act out plays. What would Hermione say? "Working hard is not a bad thing," he said firmly.
"No, no," Method said. "It isn't. Thanks for the explanation. I'll be going now."
And Harry watched him, feeling slightly bemused, as he left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Kids get odder and odder every year.
By pure coincidence, Ginny's essay was at the top of the stack.
In his hurry to get through it, he almost missed the little note at the bottom. Fred and George will be at Hogsmeade on the 24th. He stared at it for a few moments, uncomprehending. She was warning him? He didn't understand why she hadn't told them, actually, and this just sealed his confusion. What was stopping her? He knew that she was the only person in the castle besides him who could tell the people he most didn't want to know his whereabouts his exact location. Why hadn't she?
It was killing him. He had descended so far into paranoia that every time he walked around the corner he expected to see a horde of red-heads milling about just waiting for him. He'd been so dead certain that she'd tell that he never considered that she might not. And now she was warning him. Granted, he'd rather wank in front of the entire student body than go to Hogsmeade where he'd be surrounded by people wanting to see the reclusive "savior" of the wizarding world, but still.
It was driving him mental.
He obsessed over it the next few days, and he took to staring at Ginny more often than he should, wondering what the hell she was thinking. He even almost got cornered by Hagrid a few times. His giant friend had taken to giving him sad looks, but the thought of talking to him made his stomach curdle; Hagrid had ushered Harry into the wizarding world. Harry owed him an explanation, but he just couldn't give it.
Finally, after class one day, he seized his chance. Just as Ginny was about to leave, he whispered, "Diffindo!" and her book bag split open. The stricken, embarrassed look on her face made him feel awful, though, and he kicked himself for not thinking of a better way to do it. The rest of the students filed out. Harry stared blankly at her while she gathered her things.
"Ginny," he said before he could stop himself. His voice cracked.
Her head swiveled around and their eyes met. For a moment his throat was dry and he couldn't speak.
"Why haven't you told them?" he asked. He expected her to look away, but she kept up the eye contact. Her expression was unreadable, though he knew that she knew exactly what he was asking. Ruffling his hair, he looked away. They were skirting dangerously close to a topic Harry had no intention of going anywhere near with her: the reason for why he'd pulled back, and why he hadn't ever returned to the Burrow.
She didn't say anything for such a long time that Harry thought she'd left. Then--
"I heard that you made it so no one could tell that you were here," she said.
"I would've noticed if you were at the feast," Harry told her. Did she think she was under the compulsion not to say a word? "That's when it was done. You wouldn't have any problem telling."
She blinked. "I thought it was pretty obvious you didn't want me to tell them," she pointed out. She didn't need to add that she knew that Harry hadn't done it to hide from the press or from fans (though it was a bonus), but to ensure that those he loved most would have no idea he was so accessible. He turned away from her again; he couldn't look at her with the reason for why he'd stepped away from them thrumming through his veins.
"Thanks," he said.
"Anytime," she said quietly. "I won't tell them. But--"
"Please don't," he said, shaking his head.
The bag rustled as she finished putting away her things. Harry walked over to a random display table and fiddled aimlessly with the jar of pixie eggs brought in by an enterprising first year. "You don't have to split my bag open," she said softly, and walked out the door. Harry kept his back turned.
He could acknowledge that it was difficult to look her in the eyes. Harry was just never sure what he might see; all of it was painful and piercing in its own way. Sometimes he saw her against the backdrop of the kitchen in Malfoy Manor, huddled against the leg of the table to which she'd been chained. She'd been hugging her knees and trembling and she hadn't recognized him for long moments. Other times, he saw the Ginny she'd been. The Ginny who had, in her first year, written a blistering letter to Rita Skeeter after her rude columns; or the Ginny who had blushed whenever she'd seen him and treated him with an honest, innocent love that Harry had never before experienced.
The two images would inevitably change to what she was now: altered and hurt because she'd had a crush on the wrong boy.
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"Remember the last time we were at Hogsmeade?" Fred grinned wickedly, nudging George in the ribs.
George rolled his eyes, wondering why Fred even bothered to ask. "I'm surprised youremember," he said, grinning. "You're the one who was so pissed that you ran around--"
"--in my pants," Fred finished cheerfully. He turned his head, taking another peek at the door. George was luckier; he was facing the right direction and didn't have to keep turning his entire body to see if Ginny had arrived yet. Their mum had been annoyed when she'd found out that Ginny had wanted to meet them at the Three Broomsticks, rather than having them escort her. "Now she probably won't even go and enjoy her day in Hogsmeade," she'd said. "If she's more than half an hour late, I want you to go up and get her." It was fifteen minutes past their meeting time, and Ginny had still not made an appearance.
"You were quite popular with the ladies that night," George said dryly.
Fred ignored him and winked at Madam Rosmerta, who caught his look and grinned back. "Hey there, Rosie, remember me?" he said.
"No flirting with me, Fred Weasley," she teased, one hand on her hip. "I'm old enough to be your mother."
"Surely not!" Fred said, opening his eyes wide with pretend shock. "Maybe my mother's very young sister... a late in life baby, perhaps."
George just shook his head while the pretty (though older) barmaid laughed. "You need to find a nice girl of your own," he said, attempting to imitate their pompous older brother. "Settle down. Have a few children. Make Mum happy. It would have the added bonus of putting Charlie under even more pressure--"
"--much as I would like to put Charlie in a hot cauldron with Mum's desire for more grandchildren," Fred interrupted, rolling his eyes, though he kept one of them on the door, "I don't think I'll shackle myself to a witch just for a prank."
"You've made bigger decisions before just for a prank," George pointed out distractedly, glancing at his watch. Where was she? Had they misjudged and the idea of walking from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade had forced Ginny to stay in her dorm? "Why not this one?"
His twin snorted, draining the rest of his butterbeer. "You've been with Angelina for about two minutes, Gred, and now you're suddenly acting like Mum?" He waved at Rosmerta, signaling he wanted another. George sipped his own, realizing that it had warmed in his hand and was mostly full. "If she isn't here in five minutes, I'm having a firewhiskey," he muttered under his breath.
But Fred's resolution was not to be tested; the door opened with a jangling of bells and loud welcomes from the shrunken heads behind the bar, and Ginny's bright red hair was clearly visible. Another smaller and darker girl was at her side, along with Finch, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. His little sister bent her head, saying something in a low murmur, and then left their side, her feet carrying her to Fred and George. He felt a relief that was more intense than the situation warranted.
A fleeting glance between him and his twin was exchanged, and they communicated silently as they sometimes did. Neither one of them knew if they'd ever be able to stop fretting over her the way they did now. George saw Fred make a quick, aborted motion that their sister thankfully didn't notice. It was better not to even try to touch her. Which was fair. Her body had been so battered when the Healer had brought her to the door that George didn't blame her for shying away.
"Hey there, Gin," George said cheerfully. She had her hair pulled back; Arnold was firmly attached to her collar, and he peered around at the bar with wide, astonished eyes. George hid a grin. "Hi, Arnold."
"Hi, boys," she said, and slid into the booth.
Fred's eyes darted around the room and he leaned forward. "It's begun," he said in a conspiratorial whisper.
"What has?" she said, brow furrowed.
George decided to play along. He dabbed his lips with a napkin. "Our invasion of Scotland, of course--"
"--we could only hint at it in our letter," Fred continued. He sounded quite serious, but his eyes were twinkling madly. "But all the plans are in place. All we need--"
"--is one red-headed witch to help us figure out which store to conquer," George added.
Her eyes crinkled at the edges and her lips twisted in the semblance of a smile. George felt something inside him deflate. He and Fred quite outdid themselves sometimes trying to hear a laugh come from her lips. He'd never fully appreciated how wonderful her laugh had been. Even when she was a tiny girl, she'd had a deep, throaty laugh that came from her belly. But he didn't even need that same laugh. He'd settle for a giggle or a chuckle or even a snort. But the most she could give was a smile, and even those never reached her eyes.
"By 'conquer', you do mean 'buy', right?"
Fred shrugged blithely. "If that makes you more comfortable, then by all means believe that we intend to buy it and not take it with brute force," he said, sounding for all the world like he was about to march right out and lay siege to one of the two locations they'd picked out. He caught Fred's eye and shook his head imperceptibly. They might as well abandon this line of joking; obviously, Ginny did not find invading Scotland funny.
He fervently hoped that Ginny could find her way back to normal.
Rosmerta placed a butterbeer in front of Ginny; George pulled out a few knuts and a silver sickle to pay for it.
"How is everyone?" she asked, after taking a long pull from the bottle.
"That can wait," Fred said, waving a hand. "How are you? Are you still kicking arse at Quidditch?"
"I still think that it's distinctly unfair that the only girl in a family with seven children is better than all her brothers combined," George rolled his eyes. "Though Charlie comes close."
"It's going well," she said. "Finch has really gone mental; I'm surprised he managed to drag himself off the pitch to come here today."
George didn't really listen to her as she continued to prattle on about wind conditions, the chances for the Cup, and how she'd begun to wish that she hadn't screamed at Slughorn once to leave her alone, because she heard that Gwenog Jones, the former captain and now coach of the Holyhead Harpies, had begun attending. That first year had been terrible; Ginny had been either silent or raging, and she'd spent pretty much every day and most of the night flying on her broom. Her adamance at going back to Hogwarts had been a major shock; George and everyone else had had misgivings. She didn't do well with all of them around her, how could she have gone to Hogwarts with so many people there?
But things had gradually eased, and Ginny wasn't quite so fragile as she had been. But George missed the Ginny who laughed, and he didn't think she'd ever really come back. It seemed like if Ginny was going to get better, she would've done so already.
"How are classes?" George asked.
"Need any Skiving Snackboxes?" Fred added. "We brought some just in case."
For a moment, she looked torn, as though she wouldn't have minded having a way to earn more free hours. "No," she said. "No, I don't think I need them.
"How's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?" George asked. A strange expression, one he couldn't quite place, flickered across her face. He clucked sympathetically. "That bad, eh?"
"Dad says that Flitwick must've had to really scrape the bottom of the barrel," said Fred. "Doesn't even know the bloke's name; must be a real nobody."
"Er, yeah," said Ginny. "Listen, I don't really want to talk about school. How is Mum? How are the others?"
George grimaced inwardly. He couldn't really imagine the pain that his dad was going through. Ginny seemed to have focused some of her negative feelings on him -- whether it was rational or not, Ginny couldn't seem to help it. Sometimes he couldn't even be mentioned without her withdrawing into herself to a place none of them but Arnold could reach. And the closed expression on her face told him that the discussion was closed because Fred had misjudged her and mentioned their father.
"Everyone is doing fine," Fred said. There was something in his voice that George didn't like. Of all of them, Fred and Charlie had the most difficulty with accepting the changes that had been wrought in the sister. And sometimes they couldn't help but push, because sometimes when they pushed her farther than they ought to, there was a flash of the old Ginny in the temper she displayed. "Mum just about had kittens last week--"
"Fred, don't," George said warningly.
But Fred ignored him. "Remus Lupin had a call from Harry," he said. "Said that Harry asked about Ron and Hermione. Harry Potter, finally asking about his friends. She thinks it's big news."
George blew out a breath, watching Ginny closely. She did not react precisely as he expected; she generally turned bright red whenever Harry's name was mentioned, but this time her mouth opened and her eyes widened in shock.
"He did?" she said, surprised. "When?"
"A week ago, I think," Fred said. "Remus said it was right out of the blue. In the morning. He was sitting there in his dressing gown and eating a piece of toast and Harry's head appeared in the flames. Mum is beside herself. She's prepared for him to come visit pretty much every hour of the day."
George had no such delusions. Harry had been gone for a long time; he couldn't imagine what would make him come home when he'd avoided it for years. He understood. Sort of. More than Fred did, anyway. His twin didn't blame Harry for anything, but it rankled Fred that Harry had dropped so completely out of their lives. George sometimes thought that he shared his dad's horrible relief that he hadn't returned. There were too many questions as to how Ginny would react. But sometimes he thought that Ginny didn't need to be coddled quite so much; Fred was of the opinion that Ginny would return to herself if she was treated as she had been. Before.
He just didn't know.
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24 October 2001
By the time the day was done and the sun set, Harry thought that he just might have to brave going to Hogsmeade. In disguise of course, and it was not something he would normally do, but a nearly empty castle was not conducive to avoiding people and uncomfortable conversations, and he thought that next time he might actually prefer Hogsmeade.
The pain had begun with McGonagall.
"Good morning, Harry," she said, pouring herself a cup of tea and helping herself to a fair amount of breakfast. The students had already escaped, and the professors were enjoying an empty, echoing Great Hall. She wasn't looking at him, but her lips were pressed firmly together. She was annoyed about something (or with someone) and Harry hoped he had nothing to do with it.
"Good morning," said Harry.
She glanced around exaggeratedly. Harry winced. "I haven't seen Hagrid recently," she announced. "Not this morning. Or last night. Or for the last week."
Harry groaned inwardly. Damn it. He'd hoped that she hadn't noticed. Hagrid had stopped trying to corner Harry and had begun skipping meals. This had never been a good sign; things with the half giant were going to come to a head, and Harry had a feeling that he'd end up feeling extremely guilty and chastened. He owed Hagrid better than what he was giving him, but he just couldn't seem to force himself to do anything about it. "I -- er --"
McGonagall held up her hand. "I don't need to hear it," she said firmly. She finally turned to look him full in the face and Harry found that he could not keep eye contact with her. He looked away and stared down at his food. It was obvious that everyone was disappointed in him in some way. But what exactly did they expect from him? He wondered what they would say if he told them the truth of what had happened and why. "Potter, there comes a time when you need to stick your chin up. You've been a recluse for three years. You've pushed away everyone. I think you'll find that not everyone will push you for answers about what happened; and if they do, it's only out of concern for you. Do you really want to live like this for the rest of your life?"
A part of Harry sat up and cheered. But the sullen, angry part of him held him back. He'd gotten too used to being alone, to not having to answer to anyone or live up to their expectations. Completely frozen, he kept his eyes on his eggs.
She sighed. "Think about it, at least. Hagrid misses you."
Harry left as soon as he could without it making it look like he was running away. He rounded the corner, intending to head back to his quarters when he nearly walked into batty Sybill Trelawney.
Hot blood immediately pounded through his veins, and he felt an irrational desire to grab her and place a permanent Silencing Charm on her so that she could never again utter a prophecy. She greeted him, but Harry heard it through a fog of anger and rage so intense it frightened him a little.
He walked away and briefly stopped in his room for his Firebolt. His hands still shook. It seemed that a day of flying was in order.
The sky and his thoughts held him captive for hours; he was vaguely aware that his bum had begun to hurt, but dusk took him quite by surprise. He looked down at the ground and watched the crowd of students snake their way up the drive. The Firebolt did a few loops, though Harry kept his eyes searching for a bright red head in a sea of black robes.
He flew above her until she was safe inside Hogwarts.