News from Britain took a slow, meandering path to Ginny. It drifted on the wind across the channel, fluttered around the major cities and wizarding communities, until it finally, lazily, found itself at Ginny's door. This was why it took over three weeks for Ginny to read the directive from Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic. The worst, most dangerous period was over, but Ginny was under strict orders not to leave her bed ("If you want things to progress satisfactorily, you'll obey," said the Healer, who knew her better than he ought). Nevertheless, Ginny felt like dancing. She mostly felt wan and listless these days, but today, yes, she felt like dancing.
Instead, she wrote a letter to her mum.
I won't rip this one up, she told herself firmly.
Dear Mum, she wrote. Then she was at an absolute loss as to what to say next. This happened often, more than she'd care to admit. But Moody's charm felt like an impenetrable black wall, or a sheet of glass, and writing around it was an exercise in torture. No matter how much time Ginny lingered over the necessity of the charm, it still cut her to think of it. But Kingsley's directive had filled her with new vigor, and she decided – why not? – to have some fun with it. She closed her eyes, and said, "Now where do I want to be?"
An image of the Burrow immediately filled her mind's eye. She shoved it aside.
Ginny was in need of visual inspiration and opened her eyes, and looked around the room – like she hadn't spent days and months inside this room, and needed a reminder, she scoffed at herself. It was painted a pale yellow, was very narrow, private, and quiet. The window was sealed shut – not that Ginny could perform complicated magic in her condition – and the entire place smelled vaguely of Uncle Bilius's home in Pemkowet. It was nauseating.
The air where I am is so fresh and clean, wrote Ginny. It smells like flowers after a rain. You know, those night-blooming flowers, the white ones. You used to buy dried packets of them and put them in my drawers. I never really understood why you did that, but I guess now I do. You were trying to capture this scent. Or dispel Uncle Bilius's, Ginny thought. Her stomach throbbed painfully, and she sucked in a gasp.
I fly often here, there are no Muggles around at all, she wrote: One lie, one truth.
I know you want me to come home, she added. But I can't just yet. I just can't. You said that Bill told you I was wasting the twins' legacy? I am not. I'm certain they'd approve of how I'm spending the money they left me. She stared at that for a full minute, and then crossed out the bit about the twins' money. Instead, she signed her name.
Ginny wanted to write more. She'd intended to, but writing such... fluff to her mother was in no way cathartic. Due to that unfortunate situation in her first year, she no longer kept a journal of any sort, so that was out. She flexed her fingers, grabbed a new parchment, and wrote: Dear twins.
Later, she decided that it was perfectly natural to want to write to the only two members of her family who wouldn't judge her; the fact they were dead was immaterial. They were missed. They were her brothers, and she ended up pouring out her heart to them. It was absolutely freeing, and by the time she was done with it, had rolled up both letters and tied a ribbon around them, she felt mellow enough that it did not at all seem crazy to her that she was addressing a letter to her dead brothers (To Fred and George Weasley, wherever they might be).
The worst that could happen was that the owl the sanitarium used to deliver the letters returned with it still tied to its leg.
Ginny yawned, stretched, and congratulated herself on not think about Grumpy today, no, not even once.
