A/N: I've got to apologise for my sudden and total disappearance from the fanfic world. Truth is, I've been RP-ing, and it's been an absolute blast. William Cromwell runs an extremely wonderful RP called Salem Institute for Magical Crafts, and my character Crin Dalmeiier has been tearing it up on the Quidditch Pitch. We're always looking for new people, too! Check it out at

Disclaimer: Characters, situations, etc. seen in this fanfic are owned by the wonderful JK Rowling and Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros. and all of those other fun companies. I'm not here to make money, just to play around and return the toys exactly as I found them.

Chapter Two: Diadem in the Dumpsite

Ginny was lurking.

She was perfectly aware of this; she even revelled in the fact as she lurked, like most people took sick, twisted pleasure from the strangest things. For Ginny, the ability to lurk, and lurk well, had always been nothing but a benefit to any cause she was working towards. This was not to say that Ginny was a creepy stalker, for she usually didn't follow people around, but she could be downright ominous when she wanted to be. It was a talent she had made use of after the fiasco in her first year at Hogwarts.

Now, she was using this ability to its fullest, standing in the shadowed corner of the Leaky Cauldron and, well, lurking. The tiny pub was caught in what was obviously a midday rush, for Tom and a nameless waitress were racing around, taking orders and replacing them with food with surprisingly alacrity. Tom had been injured in the war as the result of some sort of Death Eater raid, but his business had survived to thrive. It was a historic monument by now, Ginny reflected, and wizards from all over the world were here to view the splendour of the Leaky Cauldron. She would have taken a table long before, but she knew that Harry wouldn't want to stay for long. When he got there, that is, she thought to herself.

Harry Potter was late.

Must be all those years he's lived with my brother, Ginny thought derisively, brown eyes scanning the crowd once again. Punctuality had never been Ron Weasley's theme song. Honestly, I don't know how Hermione can stand to go over to 'The Hutch.' It must be a total sty all of the time. In truth, she had never set foot in the house Harry and Ron owned; whenever she was in England, her family tended not to know about it. That was the way Ginny liked life and her family: secretive and separate.

But now she needed her family. Who would have thought a brood of loud, obnoxious, braying Weasleys would come in handy to a woman who was a fashion designer by day and a mercenary by night? Even though they were her own family, Ginny had never thought such a thing could be possible.

She saw Harry before he saw her. The instant he stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, he was accosted by a pair of young wizards, both wearing shirts bearing the logo of England's national Quidditch team. Ginny bit back a smile as he ruffled the hair of the boy on the left as he passed, causing both boys to goggle after him. Harry would never know how he affected most of the population. He spotted her easily and crossed the pub in surprisingly few steps, almost looming over her. She had forgotten how tall he was.

Although there was a smile on his face, it was a bit forced. Of course, she only noticed this when he came within a few steps of her. "What's wrong?" she asked without preamble, seeing the strain between his eyes, mostly hidden by the thick-framed glasses he was never seen without.

The smile disappeared, replaced for the briefest of instants by a surprised expression. However, understanding dawned before long, proving Ginny's theory that Ron had already spilled the beans to be correct. Harry knew at least part of the reason why she back in Europe altogether now. "It's complicated. Ready to go? I've booked us a table at a friend's place. We're lucky to get it—it's Black Jack Thursday."

"But it's Monday," Ginny protested, wondering if she had read the wrong date on the calendar before she had left.

"And it's Tony. We don't ask." Harry led her to the back room and out the side door, which led into a small alley for those who had to Apparate to reach The Leaky Cauldron. "Ron mentioned that you Apparate a lot, so I hope you don't mind…"

"Oh, no, not at all." Ginny shook her head quickly. "I'm usually forced to do Apparation on the spot—as long as I'm not rushed, I'm happy." She shuddered inwardly, remembering one of the last times she had been forced to Apparate in a rush. The end hadn't been pretty. Sure, she had arrived with all of her limbs, but to this day, she was grateful for the bath towel that she had grabbed at the very last moment. Walking around the Department of Investigation in nothing but a towel, and then the prison jump-suit they had afforded her, was probably the most pleasant memory she had of that night. She forced her own smile now, more grateful for the sun dress she was wearing than anybody could know.

"All right. Here's the picture of the place, then." Harry handed her a photograph of a dark alley, with coordinates written on the white space underneath. Ginny studied these quickly, memorising the minor details that always seemed so trivial, and nodded. When Harry nodded back, they Disapparated together. Ginny landed effortlessly, and was incessantly amused to see that Harry staggered upon arrival. He had always had trouble with wizarding forms of travel. "All in one piece?"

Ginny assured that she was. She turned to inspect the alley, immediately gauging all escape routes without really thinking about it.

"Harry Potter! I hope you have a good excuse for just popping in my alley, uninvited and unwanted!"

Ginny whirled, wand out. The largest wizard she had ever seen was standing behind Harry, holding him in what appeared to be a choke-hold. Her eyes widened as her fingers automatically tightened about the wand. "Let him go!"

The wizard barely spared her a second look. "'Scuse us, lady, I got business with this runt."

Abnormally tall or not, Harry looked like a toothpick compared to this polar-bear of a wizard. Tree-trunk arms wrapped around the world-famous Seeker, forcing Harry to shake tremendously. Ginny stared at the duo, aghast, as Harry's face slowly reddened. The large, bald wizard holding onto him didn't appear to notice, though. If anything, he was squeezing harder. Ginny was about to delve into the vast array of hexes that she knew when she realised why Harry was shaking. He wasn't having trouble breathing.

He was laughing.

"S'all right, Ginny," he managed in between great gasps of laughter. "S'only Tony!"

"I'll 'only Tony' you, y'runt!" Tony grunted, lifting Harry clear from the ground. Harry swung about, trying to retaliate, until a wrestling match of sorts was set up. It was clear to Ginny exactly who was at a disadvantage.

"Erm, Tony, sir," she said, subconsciously slipping into the southern drawl that she used to charm gentlemen, "as much as I'm enjoying watching you beat up my date, the fact still remains that he is my date and, er, I'd kind of like him back." Seeing no danger from 'Tony,' she holstered her wand and tried to flash the pair of them her best begging smile. Arthur Weasley was the only one who would still fall victim to that charm, but that never stopped Ginny from trying it on her brothers.

"This ruffian?" For a man that looked amazingly like a thug, Tony had a bigger vocabulary than Ginny had expected. Harry, on the other hand, could hardly talk for laughter. "Well, if you insist…" Carefully, he set Harry back on his feet, patting the wayward locks once like one pets the family dog.

Harry immediately collapsed against the wall, face still dyed red from mirth. When he could finally talk, he straightened and said, "Well, I should probably introduce everybody. Tony, this is my lunch date, Miss Ginny Weasley. Yes, she's Ron and the twins' sister, if you were wondering." Ginny nodded, trying not to roll her eyes at the last comment. "Ginny, this is an old friend of mine, Tony Kandinsky. Tony and I go way back. And displays like the one you were witness to are entirely normal, 'cept I usually win."

"The thing most people don't know about Harry Potter is that he is a pathological liar," Tony parried drolly. Ginny stifled a giggle as Harry pretended to tackle the phone-booth shaped wizard. "Anyway, your normal table's reserved, Harry. Just go on in—Jack knows you."

The front of Tony's little club was not any more interesting than the alley alongside and depicted the place to be just another hole-in-the-wall pub in the middle of a nameless sector in London. Inside was not much different: a bar-top, a few tables, what appeared to be some sort of gambling floor, and a few sleazy patrons. Harry led her to a booth far from any of the windows. "Tony runs some illegal wizarding games here, but it's nothing terribly dangerous. Plus, if the Tunnel ever needs a place to meet, Tony'll volunteer in a heartbeat. Great guy, that," Harry explained as they both sat down.

"He seems interesting," Ginny agreed, looking around. The pub was mostly done in dark, dismal colours, but Ginny could imagine that it really came alive at night. Even though it was high time for the lunch time rush, only a few of the other tables were occupied. "How long have you known him?"

"Three, maybe four years." Harry shrugged and leaned back, perfectly at ease for the first time in Ginny's company. He really must have trusted Tony, Ginny realised. Harry, she knew, only relaxed when either Ron or Hermione was present. "He seemed to like you, which is a good thing. Tony's the best judge of character we've got." By 'we,' Ginny realised, he meant the Tunnel. He really was starting to think of Ginny as part of the group, and she had only danced one dance with him. "So what's up? What'd you want to come here to talk about?"

Ginny shook her head tightly, not quite ready to breach the subject yet. Stop being a coward, she scolded herself. However, she obviously wasn't in the mood to obey. "It's complicated," she said, unconsciously echoing Harry's earlier words. "You start—what's bugging you? You wouldn't answer me at the Leaky Cauldron. You at least get to explain why you were late. I mean, c'mon, it's our first date—isn't there etiquette? I'd hate to think my mum raised you to be impolite."

Harry froze at her words, but slowly managed the barest hint of a smile to take his face. He ducked his head forward rather self-consciously. "You do have a way with words, Miss Weasley," he said in a low voice, more amused with himself than anything. "If I'd known that this was going to be our first date, I might've sprung for at least a decent burger or something…"

"You calling our food bad, Potter? I've got a word for you," a new voice joined them. Leaning against the table across from their booth was a wizard that looked as though he belonged in the Slytherin house. Never had Ginny seen anybody who looked so similar to a goblin before. Their visitor, clearly the waiter by the fact that he held a notepad and wore a grimy blue apron, had long, blond hair that had been pulled into a greasy ponytail. Beady black eyes stared out at the pair, dancing wickedly, from underneath the canopy of two caterpillar eyebrows. A pointed nose completed the ensemble, convincing Ginny that they were either talking to an overgrown rat, or a man who needed a shower or just a good swim in a soapy river. "Get out, there's a good word for you."

"Jack, how long were you in school?" Harry asked, feigning concern. "'Get out' is two words."

"Dropped out before I started. What'll ya have, luv?"

Jack looked first at Ginny, who hadn't been aware that there was a menu. "Lunch," Harry answered for both of them, giving the rascally waiter a mock-glare. "Quit picking on my girlfriend." Ginny wondered if he had really meant to say that, or if it was just an act to get Jack to leave them alone.

There was apparently no need for the notepad, for Jack stuffed that unceremoniously into the pocket of apron, grinning rather pointedly at Harry. "Didn't think ya'd ever get one of those, must say," he commented idly, leaning against their table. "Well, actually, I did, I just didn't think ya'd be daft enough t' bring 'er here, git! You're lucky the usual crowd isn't here—they'd eat 'er alive."

Harry looked around the tiny shop with interest. "Where'd the usual crowd go, then? Decided they wanted some real food for a change?"

"And that's a hardy, and a 'har har' for Mr. Potter," Jack muttered to nobody in particular, his notepad appearing magically in his hand. He pretended to write a note to himself. "And his girlfriend'll have a sorry piece of ars—"

"Do you mind?" Harry interrupted, rolling his eyes. Ginny could tell that he was enjoying the verbal banter just as much as Jack was, despite all of his feigned misgivings. "Aren't you the waiter? Can't you go somewhere else and wait, or whatever it is you do? I'm trying to talk to Ginny here—"

Jack's grin turned positively gleeful. "Oh! Discussing future children, are we? Well, the first one, will, of course, have t' be named Jackson, in honour of moi, but I wouldn't protest t' the second being named Burt, and then maybe a Herman. Then of course, Yancy, Douglass, and Wyatt." He ticked names off on long, white fingers. "If you have a girl, I'm sure you could name 'er Jackie."

"Jackson, Herman, Yancy, Douglass, Wyatt, and Jackie?" Ginny repeated confusedly, looking at Harry for guidance. He shrugged, as lost as she was.

"All of my own middle names!" Jack told her, beaming. "My parents were odd sorts, but I forgive 'em. After all, I was the result, and look how blessed y'r lives are today just because of it!" Before Harry could come up with some sort of scathing retort, Jack Disapparated with a pop!

"And here I was worried about you meeting Tony," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes once more. "Sorry, that was Tony's right-hand man, Jackson Clyde. That's his actual name, but everybody just tends to call him Jack. One of the more interesting characters you'll meet in these parts. Now, what were we talking about?"

"Why you were late. And then I'll tell you why I asked to meet up with you."

Perhaps Harry heard the tremble in her voice, for he gave her the briefest of searching gazes before saying, "Well, I got caught up at—you'll never guess it—Malfoy Manor. Before you ask, no, Draco Malfoy has not got any better since Hogwarts. If anything, I'd say he's worse." He rubbed a hand through his hair, throwing it into further disarray.

Ginny had had a few encounters with the infamous Draco Malfoy during her long days at Hogwarts, the most memorable involving being tied up and a Bat-Bogey Hex, but it was nowhere near severe as her brother and his friends. Sure, Malfoy was a malignant, rat-faced git and he was not above picking on the youngest Weasley, but he mostly stuck around with his older, "more mature" year-mates. Their paths hadn't crossed often, something for which Ginny was still grateful. "I'll believe it," she agreed readily. "What's the little prat up to now?"

"What isn't he up to should be the proper question." Harry looked harassed, as though the mere mention of the name Malfoy was enough to fluster him into anger. "He's in league with Teddy Gingham—"

"The King of Quidditch?" Even Ginny, who rarely ever paid attention to the politics of the sport that dominated her brothers' existence, knew who Teddy Gingham was. After all, hadn't he been on the wireless almost daily when she was growing up? She remembered listening to first Charlie, then Fred and George, and finally Ron, groan at the bad news that Teddy Gingham always seemed to bring. "That can't be anything good, then."

Harry's look was perverse, but not directed at her. "Trust me, it's not." He gave a sigh that seemed to collect years as it hit the air. "The gist of it is that I just got demoted. Somehow, the sneaky little rat convinced Teddy Gingham to put a different Seeker in my spot and—you'll love this part—I'm being sent to start up a new team in Nottingham. Sponsored by Ulysses Davenport. Supposed Death Eater and everything. They're pairing me with Ulysses Davenport."

Being in the Tunnel meant that she was acquainted with a lot of the big names of those who had scraped out of Azkaban by the skin of their teeth. However, Ginny didn't really remember hearing the name Ulysses Davenport in any of the briefings she had attended. "I don't think he's the major part of your problems," she said, tilting her head to the side. "And if he's the sponsor, you won't come into contact with him much. What you really have to worry about is the manager." She knew a lot more about professional Quidditch, and Quodpot, because she had arranged parties for several events before. The hierarchy of a professional Quidditch team was not beyond her.

"Dave Davenport, Ulysses's son." Harry shrugged. "They're probably using me as a cover-up." He looked remarkably unhappy about this. "I'll talk to Ron and see what he has to say about it, but I have a feeling I'm stuck with this. They really need my income in the Tu—back home." He flushed at his near give-away and shook his head. "I can't believe I just did that. Anyway, we'll see how that unfolds. Your turn."

Before Ginny could begin, however, Jack had returned with a couple of bottled butterbeers and two red plastic baskets containing burgers and fries. "Here ya go, then, Mr. Potter," he said snidely, setting the two baskets down in front of Ginny. "Suppose I'll just add this to y'r tab, then?"

Harry collected one of the baskets from across the table, nodding his thanks. "Isn't that what you always do?"

"Only cos I'm told to. If it were up t'me, I'd just charge ya double." Jack shrugged in a classic "what can you do?" move and Disapparated without any further ado.

Instead of blinking after Jack, Ginny just shook her head. "Interesting man, that," she said, reaching for the catsup. "Is he always so…abrupt?"

Occupied with arranging his food and double-checking for any suspicious bits, Harry just shrugged. "He's Jack. Erratic as they come, but if you'll hear Tony tell it, the most loyal man a git this side of the Channel could find. Tony's originally from Germany, you know."

"Is he really?" Ginny absorbed this with her usual half-interested air. "I didn't catch any trace of an accent or anything."

"You wouldn't." Harry's grin, Ginny decided then, was positively dangerous. "Bad for business, he says. He charmed it right out. 'Course, the charm kind of backfired on him for awhile, and he had a bit of an yank twang. We teased him something fierce, but he got it all right in the end." Seeming to remember exactly whom he was talking to, Harry flushed and shut his mouth very quickly. "Not that I'm, er, picking on yanks or anything…"

"Harry, just because I spent a lot of time in Alabama doesn't mean that you can't pick on Americans in front of me." Ginny shook her head. "You should hear my friend Tara go on about it, if anything. But never mind about that—what's the team called?"

"Team?" Harry asked, confused.

"The Quidditch team that you're going to be playing for—if they're influential enough to get England's Seeker to play for them, then they've certainly already got a name. That, and there are only thirteen teams allowed in the League." Harry was looking at her in such shock that Ginny sighed to herself. "Hello, Harry, remember me? I played Quidditch with you at Hogwarts. I even took your spot for a year!"

Harry jumped and seemed to withdraw back into himself for the shortest of instants, forcing Ginny to blink in response. "Oh," was all he said. "Now I feel like an idiot. I'm sorry. I forgot about…you know, you and Quidditch. I haven't been around anybody but Hermione and Angelina for so long—with Angie, it's entirely natural, but after explaining the Bludger to Hermione—just last week…" He frowned. "I'm just making a mess of things today."

"Yes, you are," Ginny observed. "But let's not dwell on that. Which team are they dismantling? The Tornadoes? Ever since they hit that string of luck before my fourth year, they've been going steadily downhill."

Harry shook his head. "They're bringing two teams. One's an Irish team—the Dublin Demented, and my team. A whole bunch of stink was raised about the dwindling number of games they've been having, so the Ministry's decided to throw in some fresh blood, as the term goes."

"So the Quidditch Thirteen is being changed to the Quidditch Fifteen?" Ginny asked, slightly alarmed. "But it's been Quidditch Thirteen for centuries!"

"Since 1674," Harry mumbled. When Ginny looked at him peculiarly, he said, "I did read Quidditch Through the Ages, you know." He didn't mention that when he wasn't practising for a game or working on a Tunnel assignment, he was usually reading something of the Quidditch variety. "With the community expanding as it is, they've developed enough new charms to add two more teams. My team meets the day after tomorrow—we play Dublin Demented in three weeks. Not much time to train, but it's just a promotional scrimmage."

Ginny could see the tightness around his jaw that clearly screamed that he did not like this idea at all, but was going to put up with it. That was just the way Harry was. Years of being a Tunnel agent taught one when it was appropriate to fight back, even if he had dealt with anger issues during his days at Hogwarts. Going against the King of Quidditch was just not something that Harry could do and maintain his safe position as a backer for the Tunnel at the same time. "Is Ulysses Davenport in charge of all promotions?" she asked, trying to divert the topic even the slightest bit. "You know, the ex-Death Eater?"

Harry's frown turned thoughtful. "You know, I'm really not sure. My agent's been in meetings all day, but the instant he gets solid news, he's supposed to owl me. Why? Are you interested?"

Ginny took a bite of her hamburger. "It might be a good way to keep tabs on him," she said slowly, chewing contemplatively. "I can go undercover if it's necessary."

Discreetly, Harry checked over his shoulder, but the other customers were clearly not interested in whatever he had to say. One was holding the other by the chin and pouring Rancid Butterbeer down his gullet, laughing as the victim sputtered. Harry gave them a dirty look, which went unnoticed. When he turned back, he lowered his voice considerably, "What about the person you're supposed to be tracking? Won't this take away from that?"

Ginny froze. Apparently, Ron had already informed him of at least the basic facts of her assignment. When she found her voice, she cleared her throat uncomfortably. "About that," she said, wishing that her voice wouldn't waver. "I'm not openly tracking him or anything. I'm actually supposed to act as bait."

Harry's eyebrows shot up so that they nearly joined his hairline. "Isn't that dangerous?" he hissed. "Risking yourself like that—"

Ginny gritted her teeth. "Bill already gave me this lecture. But he agrees that it's the best way to do—"

"Hello, Ginny."

It took every ounce of willpower Ginny had ever owned to do no more than jump in surprise at the voice that cut smoothly into her sentence.

*

"Hello, Ginny."

Harry, for one, was surprised. Because he'd been looking at Ginny when they were interrupted, he could see that she tensed at the new voice, and not in the way one tenses out of surprise. Immediately, his defences came up, and he slid his hand into his pocket, fingers tightening around his wand. Trying to appear nonchalant, he turned and looked calmly at the next table.

A young man, perhaps a year or two older than Harry, sat there with his legs crossed and a mug of tea in one hand, as though interrupting a conversation like the one Ginny and Harry were having was a common occurrence. Harry instinctively sized the other man up. He had a few pounds on Harry, and a longer reach, but Harry could probably take him in a fist fight. Although he looked terribly thin, Harry was wiry and quite agile. Like Harry, the other man wore glasses, too, but his were gold-framed and quite fashionable. Wavy brown hair and a pointed face with a bit of a snub nose completed the effect.

"May I help you?" Harry asked impatiently.

Across the table, Ginny seemed to relax. Her tone, Harry heard, was still forced, though. "Dermot! I didn't realise that you would be here today!"

The man looked at her. "It was a last minute thing, darling," he said in a thick Irish brogue. "I actually saw you through the window and thought that I might drop in."

"How convenient," Harry muttered under his breath, quite agitated. Whoever this 'Dermot' was, Ginny had certainly had an interesting reaction. He found himself wondering if this character was possibly an ex-boyfriend of Ginny's. Suddenly, he disliked Dermot a lot more. "Well, you've dropped in, now can you do us a favour and drop out?"

"Harry!"

Despite Ginny's admonition, however, Harry did not regret his words. There was something off-putting about Dermot; perhaps his smile was a bit too false, or his chin sat at too jaunty an angle, but Harry could just not place it. For an irrational moment, he felt a surge of general frustration. Maybe he had crossed paths with Dermot before, and just had forgotten how unpleasant the man looked.

"Oh, so you're Harry Potter," Dermot said with a smile of delight that looked more feral than anything. "I'm just honoured to meet you. Tell me, are the rumours true?"

Harry bristled at the tone. "Which ones?" he asked, pointedly ignoring the pleading looks Ginny was sending his way.

Dermot rose gracefully from the table, smirking for good measure. At that smirk, Harry was reminded strongly of Draco Malfoy, something that rubbed harshly against the back of his neck. Warning flags went up all over the place. "Take your pick," Dermot said, showing all thirty-two teeth in his false grin. He dropped a fedora on his wavy hair, but not before saluting Ginny with it. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Potter. Ginny—" And here his pause spoke of dangerous intentions that left Harry bristling. "I'll be seeing you."

*

"Mr. Weasley—the Bulgarian branch representatives have just arrived."

Bill Weasley looked up from the scroll he was poring over with a jeweller's eyeglass, his irritation growing rapidly at the thought of dealing with the fussy Bulgarians and their policies. He was a Curse Breaker, not a bloody negotiator. Before he could say anything, his secretary added, "And a Mr. Potter is here to see you. He says it's most imperative that he speak with you."

For a minute, Bill struggled to remember the name of the petite woman standing in his doorway. He brought himself some time by standing and clearing his throat. "Send Mr. Potter in straightaways, Grace," he instructed. "Donaldson can deal with the Bulgarians today. I'm afraid I have no patience for them." One of the only benefits of having a desk job in Gringotts was the fact that he now had underlings—underlings that he could boss around and pawn off his assignments to. It was a great feeling.

Grace slipped discretely from the room and a minute later, Harry entered, eyebrows uplifted at the sight of Bill's office. The Quidditch player had visited Bill before, but it had been several months before, when Bill had been in a different department all together. "Nice digs, Weasley," Harry teased, looking around at all of the posters on the wall as Bill crossed the room to shake his hand. There were several Egyptian papyrus drawings, intermingled with pictures of family and of Bill's young wife. Harry was only three years younger than Fleur, but sometimes the age difference seemed to be centuries. "You're important enough to have your own office. How's it feel to be legit?"

"Boredom doesn't even come close." Bill rubbed a hand through his short locks, still acclimating himself to the new hairdo. "But I get to boss people around now, and they're paid to listen to me. It could be worse."

Harry pushed his hands into the pockets of the Muggle jacket he wore. He had obviously been visiting the Muggle world again—the Quidditch hero spent so much time there that Bill sometimes blinked at the sight of him in robes. "Fancy a mystery to occupy some of that valuable company time?"

Bill's eyes narrowed as he took a seat and watched Harry walk around, inspecting all of the different pictures. "How dangerous a mystery?" He had priorities to worry about, even though he was an esteemed agent within the Tunnel hierarchy. The others understood; a large portion of his duties had been passed to some of the new recruits. He had a little girl on the way and she came before anything in the Tunnel.

"Nothing too dangerous, actually." Harry smiled lopsidedly and crossed to the chair opposite Bill. The two regarded each other over the desktop. "Just some fact-gathering. You're probably already on the case."

Bill picked up a quill to sign and date a document while he listened. "You've talked to Ginny." It wasn't a question.

Harry didn't bother to deny it, even though they both knew the risks involved in the two meeting publicly. Ginny had even avoided the Burrow altogether, choosing to stay with a Muggleborn friend that provided some coverage. "Took her to Tony's, yes."

That explained the Muggle jacket, at least. Bill was torn between wondering what he was thinking and glad that he was taking such caution. If you wanted to scare a girl off, you took her to Tony's. If you wanted to protect a girl, you took her to Tony's. There wasn't any middle ground to be had. "The details of her case are classified—only Ron and I have clearance, as well as Ginny's partner." It had taken much arguing, but Bill had finally received permission to view the related files. Even having his youngest brother as the Tunnel Director hadn't given him any pull. In fact, it had probably been incentive for the added stubbornness on Ron's part. Owling the American Tunnel Director had been a low bow, but it had convinced Ron to let his oldest brother take a look.

"I'm not looking for clearance. But I do admit that I need to know a few things." Harry crossed his arms, relaxing. "For instance—who's Dermot?" It was said with such a casual air that Bill, in the middle of taking a drink from his water bottle, barely thought to spit out all of the water at the name. Harry watched the reaction, his eyes growing colder. "I thought there was something off about him. Explain." Like Bill's statement, it wasn't a question.

"That requires clearance," Bill said quietly, taking his time in setting the water bottle down.

"He would be the man she's playing bait for, then." Harry stretched and leaned back in the chair. To most, he would look perfectly at ease. Bill, however, knew that the whole subject made him tense up and had to wonder about the change. Was he acting brotherly? Or was it something more? Bill made a note to watch the pair more closely in the upcoming weeks. "Forget the clearance for a minute."

Bill wasn't sure he could do that.

"In fact, forget Ginny and the clearance," Harry continued, not looking at his friend. "Today I met an Irish man in Tony's. He must be a wizard to even enter Tony's, I tell myself. He looks about my age, so I guess he would have gone to school at the same time as me. For the life of me, I can't place his face. That's okay, though. It's not uncommon for people to cross the Channel and go to one of the schools over there. Maybe he went to Durmstrang? Beauxbatons? Either way, I don't know him and didn't know him during school. Yet my date, who I've known for more than half my life, does." He paused in this part of his commentary to steeple his hands, and Bill began dreading where this was going. "We were at school together for a full six years. So that makes me think either she met him her seventh year, which is unlikely because the only students I didn't know by then were the first years, or she met him in her travels abroad. But why would that make her tense up, I have to wonder. He seems like a nice fellow to the public eye. She's admitted to me that she's a spy. Spies don't react, period. It's just their nature. Something this guy did was enough to make her openly uncomfortable. I want to know what he did, why he did it, how he did it, and most importantly, where I can find him to beat him to a bloody pulp. Are we agreed?"

Bill took another long gulp of water. "I think the only thing you left out of that narrative is what you ate for breakfast."

"Bacon and eggs. Your brother was kind enough to drop by and cook. If you ask me, he was probably trying to make something up to his wife. What that is, I have no idea. Stop evading the question."

"I can't tell you. You don't have clearance."

For the first time since the conversation began, Harry looked pained. "Look, either you can tell me now and we can stay on good footing in each others' high esteems, or I can go put your youngest brother in a headlock and beat it out of him." He shrugged and looked aimlessly at the pictures cluttering the wall. "Either way works, but this way is a lot less painful for your brother and myself. The choice is up to you."

There really wasn't a way out, Bill discovered as he turned the options over in his mind. It was obvious that Harry was going to get the information, even if he had to break a few dozen rules to get it. If he was forced to beat it out of Ron, both would be grumpy and hard to deal with for weeks… "If I tell you what happened, you have to swear that you gave me Veritaserum. I have no desire to be on the receiving end of one of Ron's right hooks," Bill said in his sternest impression of Professor McGonagall.

Harry was quick to smile at that. "Deal."

*

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked into the conference room and looked about. There were nine people assembled, so it was obvious that he was the last to arrive. He couldn't have planned it better if he tried, he decided, sitting down in the only chair open. Ten people, grouped around a polished mahogany table. Along the walls of the room were several posters, most of them for minor Quidditch teams about the country. Harry smiled as he recognised a few of the players, but his smile disappeared as he saw the poster at the head of the room.

The Nottingham Typhoon. The newest Quidditch team to come into play, against the Dublin Demented. Already, they were sworn enemies. Harry knew what would happen: this meeting would take place, he would meet his new teammates and probably enjoy a quick cup of coffee with them, and then a whirlwind of activities would take place. There would be photographs taken for all of the newspapers and magazines covering the exciting story. For the next two weeks, they would practice at an undisclosed location, and in the final week, their practices would be open to public viewing. Throughout that time, propaganda would be released pitting the navy blue Nottingham Typhoon against the green-and-yellow Dublin Demented. If they were smart, they would aim the campaign at young blood.

"Are we all here?" the primly-dressed old man at the head of the table asked as Harry seated himself. He had sharp, aristocratic features that made Harry figure him to be the owner, Ulysses Davenport. The younger likeness of him to his left had to be Dave Davenport, the team manager and Ulysses' son. Harry didn't recognise the man on his right, but he figured the other six to be his new teammates. They were all wearing formal robes like he was, most bearing a patch on the shoulder from their old teams. Given the circumstances, nobody looked entirely thrilled to be there, but Harry could tell they were all struggling to look polite. "Good, let's begin."

They started with introductions, and Harry silently memorised the names of his new teammates. Tad Gideon and Frank Greeley were both well-muscled and trim, the perfect moulds for Beaters. Tad wore a friendly smile, Frank an ebullient grin despite the fact that they had been pulled from other places. Harry decided that he would probably like them. He wasn't too sure about the Keeper, a quiet, lanky sort of fellow named Barry Winslow. His old teammates called him the Bear, he told the group. The Chasers were all attractive women in their mid-twenties, not too much older than Harry. Stacy and Tracy Harrows were twins with blue eyes, and brown freckles, and Melinda Warren was introduced as a close friend. They'd all played for the Holyhead Harpies at one point or another, never at the same time.

The man on Ulysses' right, a timid-looking sort who introduced himself as Simon Bates, the agent for both Davenports, began the meeting with the normal discussion of what the Nottingham Typhoon stood for, a few specifics about where the team was headed, how much popularity they hoped to generate, proper conduct, and other things that Harry had heard at every other team meeting he had been to in his lifetime. He listened with half an ear, his attention focused on the sheaf of signed contracts he had brought with him. They were signed in four places—by Teddy Gingham, his agent, Ulysses Davenport, and himself—and those four signatures had all but decided his fate. He wanted to burn the contracts or at least rip them to shreds. He didn't want to be part of this new team at all, but now he didn't have a choice.

The promotional charade began directly after the meeting, when the new teammates were escorted into a set of locker rooms that were done in navy blue, grey, and dark red. The new robes were hanging in each of the lockers, and there was a partition down the middle of the locker room, the men on one side, the women on the other. Harry saw the women stiffen at this, but they relax when Bates mentioned the charms that would keep anybody of the opposite sex from seeing anything while in the locker room. While Bates explained the different charms, Harry walked up to the locker labelled H. Potter and opened the door. The uniforms were pretty sleek, he decided in his first appraisal. At least they weren't orange.

Bates left them alone to change, requesting that they meet outside in ten minutes. Harry watched both Ulysses and Dave follow the agent from the room. "What d'you think, Harry?" asked Bear Winslow, who was nearest him. The tall Keeper was obviously interested in making friends, something that mollified Harry somewhat. In truth, he resembled Dean Thomas a little. Of course, Harry hadn't seen Dean Thomas since they had left Hogwarts, but Bear was a pretty good likeness. "Fancy digs? Or just another ruse?"

"Another ruse?"

"Ulysses Davenport's had his fingers in every suspicious pie for over two decades. He finally decides to buy a Quidditch team and hide behind the Boy-Who-Lived. Doesn't that seem a bit…suspicious…to you?" asked Tad Gideon, one of the Beaters who had a locker on the other side of Bear's. The man almost dwarfed Harry in size, and Harry was by no means short. A shock of blond hair and a thick accent suggested Germanic roots.

"Maybe," Harry said thoughtfully just as a thought occurred to him. "Hey, who've the Irish got, then?"

"Pierce McAnerney and an old schoolmate of yours, rumour has it. Seamus Finnegan."

That piece of news itself was intriguing, but Harry did his best to shove it away for later. Right now, he had appearances to maintain and inquiries to make. Still, he couldn't help commenting. He hadn't even known Seamus played Quidditch. "I bet this Dublin Demented versus Nottingham Typhoon extravaganza is really making him happy." At Bear's questioning look, he said, "The guy and I have a history. He has plenty of reason to dislike me."

It was Frank Greeley, the big black Beater similar to Tad in build and opposite him in everything else, that asked, "Oh? Why?"

"I insulted his mum."

They convened in the hallway, all dressed sharply in the new Quidditch robes. After playing for the national team, Harry was used to playing in lightweight fabrics and flashy logos, but the Davenports were really pulling out all of the stops for the players. The uniforms were the highest quality he had ever worn, and they had caterers waiting in the meeting room. The new teammates were handed schedules, and Harry immediately felt his chest constrict. They had a press conference that very evening. He hated press conferences, hated stuttering and trying to think of something eloquent to say.

There was a Team Co-ordinator listed on the schedule, he saw. He didn't recognise the name Amy Mason. For a moment, his stomach plummeted—the Tunnel was counting on getting Ginny secured in that job. Why hadn't they been able to?

A very feminine throat cleared and Harry looked over, nearly dropping the schedule as he did. Ginny was standing by the food table, chatting genially with Tracy Harrow (the twins were easy to tell apart—one had dyed her hair black, the other blonde; Tracy was the blonde). She looked quite different in the formal robes, but still stunning in a way that made every one of the other women in the room fade slightly. Her hair was still red, just darker and almost classier. There was not a freckle on her face, and her skin was charmed to a warm tan. Harry decided privately that he liked her with the bright hair and freckles a lot more.

"Hello, Amy," he said, wandering over with a glass of water for her. He nodded at Tracy, who excused herself. "I'm glad you could make it. Nice tan."

"Isn't it, though?" The old Ginny still sparkled in her eyes as she grinned at him. "For a few minutes, I wasn't sure if they were going to buy it. A tanned redhead?" She shrugged and took the water. "Thanks."

"So what's on the agenda, then?" he asked even though he had already read the sheet.

"Well, I know how much you love public speaking, so you're first for the press conferences." Harry groaned; it looked like Ginny would do everything she could to pick on him now. One should never be on bad terms with one's social planner.

*

The doorbell rang just as Ginny sent the owl off to Madam Malkin's, requesting an appointment for dress robe fittings in two weeks' time. "Tara! Could you get that?" She needed to write down the order for the invitations before six so that she could get them in by Tuesday. Arranging a wedding in six months was no easy task, but it was a lot less stressful than her other job. She found rhythm in organising, which was why she had originally gone into the field. However, fate had had other ideas in mind for her, and now she was organising very different activities, activities that made the social events she arranged look falsely cheerful and unimportant.

"No!" came the answering shout from across the flat. "I just got out of the shower!"

Ginny rolled her eyes in the general direction of her flatmate and called, "Just a minute!" towards the door. Setting her quill down, she hurried to the door and peered through the magical peephole, designed to read off the intentions of those who knocked on their door. The answering aura was a calm blue—good intentions—so she threw open the door and nearly gasped in surprise. "Harry! What are you doing here?"

He looked good, she admitted silently. Faded blue jeans, a green shirt with the arms rolled up to his elbows, his hair in its normal state of complete disarray. "Friday, right?" he asked, grinning. Ginny's mouth fell open at this; she had completely forgotten about the date! "It's okay. I planned ahead and decided to bring dinner instead of waiting." He held up a brown paper sack as evidence and Ginny ushered him inside, apologising and blushing fiercely. He laughed and waved them off.

"My flatmate's here," Ginny said almost apologetically as she led him to the table that functioned as both a desk and an eating space. Normally, she and Tara grabbed takeout and ate it over various work assignments, so the place wasn't exactly neat. Ginny's blush deepened as she cleared away takeout cartons and notebooks, creating a space.

"That's fine," Harry assured, helping her move the clutter to a kitchen counter. "I figured she might be, so I brought extra." When the table was relatively clean, he unloaded several magicked containers. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I decided I couldn't go wrong with chicken. I hope you're not a vegetarian."

"I ate that burger at lunch the other day, didn't I?" Ginny arched an eyebrow and was secretly pleased to see him look embarrassed. It was an endearing look on him, to say the least.

Tara Riley, Ginny's flatmate, wandered in just then, her blonde hair wet and scraggly. She had dressed casually in jeans and a green shirt of Ginny's (the two were notorious for stealing each others' clothing), attire that suggested she didn't have any plans for the evening. She pulled up short at the sight of Harry, eyes going wide. Her look at Ginny had double-meaning.

"You must be Tara," Harry said, extending his hand politely. "I'm Harry. It's nice to meet you."

Still recovering, Tara said, "Likewise." She hadn't believed that Ginny had actually been to lunch with the Harry Potter, and now he was standing in their dining room. Her awe turned into glee when she spotted the containers he was unloading. "You brought us dinner?"

Harry laughed a bit. "I hope you don't mind sharing with me."

Unfazed now, Tara grinned over at Ginny. "I'm sure we could spare him a roll or something."

"Or something," Ginny agreed, rolling her eyes at her flatmate. In looks, she and Tara were as different as could be. Ginny had unfortunately inherited her mother's height and the Weasley lanky build. She thought her nose a tad too long and her hair a bit too bright, and her freckles were quite annoying. Tara was tall, willowy, and blonde like a supermodel, her movements graceful. She had laughing blue-green eyes and a smile that had dazzled gentlemen for ages. Her skin bronzed at the merest hint of sun, something of which that Ginny would be jealous forever. The southern drawl in her American accent just made men stop and turn their heads to stare after her; for all of her intelligence, she never really noticed.

"Actually," Tara said, looking at Ginny and misinterpreting the eye-roll, "I forgot that I have a dinner appointment tonight."

Harry raised an eyebrow at the obvious lie. "Shame," was all he said. He, too, looked at Ginny, but his expression held the quiet amusement that Tara's lacked. "I'm sure we'll recover, though."

"Good to hear it!" Tara disappeared into the bedroom and emerged less than a minute later in different clothing, her hair dry. She whirled about the flat, collecting her purse and shoes, a blur of motion. Both Ginny and Harry stared as she rushed by them on the way to the door, calling out, "Don't wait up, kids!" after her.

"Subtlety isn't her strong suit, is it?" Harry asked as the door clicked shut behind her.

"I'm afraid we scared my flatmate out of her own apartment," Ginny observed mournfully as an answer to his question. His grin told her that he didn't quite mind being alone with her. She refused to let herself be flustered at that and instead looked down at the food. "We have two options—we can eat here at the table, or there's more comfortable seating, as well as a television set and Tara's collection of movies in the other room."

"She's Muggle-born?" Harry asked with some surprise.

"Nah, the witches and wizards in America just live like Muggles, that's all. She's American, in case you didn't notice."

They opted to eat in the other room and talk through an old movie, so Ginny found Charade, one of Tara's more absurd movies, and pushed it into the DVD player (she was grateful that Tara had finally drummed how to work the machine into her head). "So what did you do today?" Ginny asked as the opening credits began in a rainbow of colours and swirling confusion.

Harry picked at a piece of chicken and considered it for a long moment before popping it into his mouth. "We had our first practice today."

He obviously wasn't interested in elaborating, so Ginny watched him out of the corner of her eye for a minute before saying, "That bad?"

"I really don't know what to think. We all click. Everybody's congenial and we all get along really well. I don't think the Davenports had this in mind when they selected us." At her questioning glance, he shrugged. "Bear and I were joking about something on a break today and we got a frown. We're either not focused enough, or he just doesn't like the fact that we're getting along so well. Bear gets along with everybody, though."

Before Ginny had time to react to that statement, there was a loud coughing noise from the fireplace and none other than Ron's head appeared. He lifted his eyebrows to see both of them there, but chose not to comment. "Ginny, report in. We're going in, full gear, no holds barred." With that, the ginger head disappeared from the flames.

Used to being called in such a cryptic fashion, both threw the chicken back into the bucket and sprang from the couch. "Where do you think you're going?" Ginny demanded, swinging about to stop him from grabbing the bucket of Floo powder. "He called me in, not you. Harry, you're not a Field Agent."

Harry reached around her, undeterred by the evil eye she was giving him. "He didn't say stay put, so I'm going."

"Maybe he didn't see you."

"Was I the only one that saw the look?" Harry stuffed some Floo powder into the flames, shoved her in shocked and all, and shouted, "Fish and Chips!" Still looking at him furiously, she whirled up the chimney and he waited two seconds before throwing another handful in and following her.

The unexpected trip hadn't cooled her temper when they landed in the Tunnel Headquarters, but Harry was saved an earful by Ron, who was waiting there for both of them. As the British Director for the Tunnel, Ron practically lived in the headquarters (he and Hermione had an apartment on the third floor of the building). It was a redone basement to an apartment building, blocked off to Muggles and unwanted eavesdroppers by a hearty network of spells. Hermione had set it up, using several of her Muggle-born tricks to compose a wall-to-wall viewing space, using both monitors and magic. A fractured code listing the statistics of the Tunnel members within their specific quadrant ran continually on a monitor in the corner. Ron's desk, as well as the desks of the four other people that worked at the Headquarters, were stuffed into one corner. There was a planning table or The Glass Table, a work of pure genius (another one of Hermione's ideas) in yet another corner, the smooth glass top untouched for now. As the pair tumbled in, Harry accidentally landing on top of Ginny and pulling both of them to their feet, Ron was pointing his wand at the table, carefully moving it to the centre of the room.

"All right, you two," he said, nodding a greeting at them. "We've got an interesting mission on our hands tonight."

Ginny's dirty look parried Harry's triumphant one. Ron raised an eyebrow but chose not to comment. "It's a hit-and-run job," he said, tapping the table with his wand once. Immediately, the glass atop the surface began to shift and change, expanding in volume. Before long the three in the room were staring at an exact replica of the Shrieking Shack. "Remember this building?"

"Spooky haunted place in the middle of Hogsmeade?" Ginny asked.

"It wasn't haunted," both Ron and Harry said on the same breath. She lifted an eyebrow at them, and Harry looked to Ron to continue. "It was where Remus transformed during his Hogwarts days," Ron explained simply. "Now we believe it to be a hot spot for some old Death Eater buddies of ours that just can't seem to get the fact that Voldemort's dead." He said the name with ease, and patted the tabletop again. The scene changed into one of the rooms inside the Leaky Cauldron. "We believed that they were hiding a stash of Galleons here in Room Three in the Leaky Cauldron, but Scotty just sent us some interesting information. Seems some suspicious types have been hanging around the Shrieking Shack. He had a look around and thinks the stash might be hidden on the second floor. I want you two to go fetch it."

"Layout?" Ginny asked, already assessing the situation.

The glass shifted to show a map. Both Harry and Ginny scanned it, memorising even the smallest details that might save them. "What's the cover like?"

Ron indicated two points on the map. "The Forbidden forest starts here," he said, drawing a perimeter around the backyard of the Shrieking Shack with his wand. The line glowed blue. "Scotty thinks there's an Anti-Apparation zone set up here. Maybe werewolves can still access some of their powers in wolf form, so Professor Dumbledore obviously took precautions." Now his wand traced a red line about the entire space. "Unfortunately, it's open terrain. Thirty feet of uncovered territory."

Both agents had the sense to wince. A lot could happen in ten feet, much less thirty.

"I'm taking point," Ginny said forcefully, glaring at Harry. Through the briefing, they had been slipping on the special vests, leg-guards, boots, and arm guards that would give them as much invisibility as the area allowed.

Ron looked apologetic at that. "Learn to love her shadow," he told his best friend. "She can slip away pretty easily, too. Kind of like a cat. Or at least a very annoying squirrel."

Ginny stuck her tongue out at him for that as she readjusted a strap on her wrist. "You're just slow."

"You stick with Harry. If anything seems remotely odd to you, bail. The Galleons aren't worth losing two of my best agents." Ron suddenly looked weary. "And I really don't want to explain to Ulysses Davenport why his Organiser and his star Seeker died together in an old shack in Hogsmeade, okay?"

"We'll go down in a fit of flames if anything. It'll make tabloids all over the world," Ginny promised. "Hold on, I forgot my helmet. I'll go fetch that from my locker."

She wandered away, leaving the two men studying the map on the planning table. Ron sighed, "Just for the record, I don't know how you got the information out of Bill, but I promise you'll never be able to 'beat it out of me.'" Harry pulled a face, amazed that Ron was so astute as to use his exact words. "I'll have you know I happen to lie well under pressure."

Not to be beaten, Harry pointedly looked behind him and say, "Oh, hi, Hermione, when'd you get here?"

Ron didn't turn to look. "Not very funny, Potter. You're not fooling me."

"What's not funny?" asked Hermione, who had just come down the stairs from their apartment. Ron's face went from pale to white to red very quickly, forcing Harry to stuff his fist into his mouth to stifle the laughter. She narrowed her eyes at the pair of them, decided she probably didn't want to know anyway, and asked, "Where's Ginny? I thought you said she was on the mission tonight."

"She is. She's just getting her helmet from her locker."

"Well, that's odd. The locker room was empty when I walked by."

Ron's face drained for the second time in under a minute and he looked over at Harry, eyes wide. The Seeker didn't even bother to return the look. He crammed his helmet over his messy hair and Disapparated, landing easily outside of the Shrieking Shack. His opponent wasn't even given time to react. Before his feet had even fully touched the ground, he flew into a tackle, and the pair of them went down with an, "Oof!"

In normal circumstances, Ginny might have Apparated to get away from him, but luck had it that they landed just within the Anti-Apparation border. The cover of bushes hid them from anybody who might be watching. Because he had landed on top of her and now had her pinned, Ginny could feel him shaking, but his face looked relatively calm. The Occlumency mask, she realised in that split-second where they just stared at each other. He broke that second before it passed. "What the bloody blazes do you think you're doing?" The fury made his voice break.

Ginny tried to shove him off of her, but he had her pinned too effectively. Furious in return, she glared. "I work alone. If you weren't there, Ron would have sent me on this mission alone!"

His grip on her arms tightened, harsh but not enough to leave marks. He didn't want to hurt her, even if he was furious with her. "Tough! Whether you like it or not, I'm your partner on this excursion, so you'll just have to deal with it!"

Seconds away from telling him what had happened to her last partner, or rather what he had done to her, Ginny stopped. Now wasn't the time to debate such things. Now was the time for action. She nodded tersely to show that she understood and he eased off of her. "I'm still taking point."

Harry was unshakeable. He scanned the area, looking for any signs of movement, and nodded to her. "As long as you understand I'll be right behind you. Clear."

That was her signal, and she took off across the grounds to the back door of the Shack. Her heart pounded against her uvula, but she made it there and crouched out of the line-of-fire, wand out and scanning for any Hexes, Alarm Charms, or "Bogies." A quick check and she jerked her arm into the air twice. Before long, Harry was at her side, checking the door for an unfriendly magic. He nodded at her to get into position and she did, putting her shoulder against the door. "Perpellus!" The door was shoved inward by Harry's spell and she slipped into the inky blackness within. A few seconds later: "Clear!"

"Confutus!" Harry whispered towards the floorboards so that they wouldn't creak. He moved so stealthily behind Ginny that she lost sight of him a few times. He would always slip in at the edge of her vision, nearly startling her into hexing him. They picked their way silently up the rickety staircase, hoping that it wouldn't collapse on them, their movements kicking up dust. The clean streak that Ron had left when Padfoot had dragged him to the bedroom was long covered up by years of dust.

"That bedroom," Ginny mouthed, pointing her wand at the door. They posted themselves along either side of the wall, Harry's wand tracing the detecting charms throughout the hall. So far they had been lucky enough to avoid any untoward magic. Almost too lucky, each was thinking as Ginny readied herself to slip in.

The stash of Galleons would be under the bed in the third bedroom. Ginny moved inside quietly, eyes scanning any shadows and corners for signs of movement. Deeming it safe, she crossed to the bed and dropped to her knees. Her detector charm showed no buried hexes hidden under the bed, so she muttered, "Accio Galleons!" They nearly hurt her hand with the force of the spell.

Her sixth instinctive sense barely had time to kick in before both agents heard the almighty CRRRRRAAAACCCCCKKKKK that could only mean one thing. Ginny's eyes flew wide; swearing, Harry rushed into the room just in time to see the portion of the floor that Ginny was standing on collapse and to watch her fall…

*

"Ginny!"

Sounds of scuffling met her ears. Somebody was calling her name and…shifting things? Why on earth would they do that? Her room was always clean. There was nothing to move. She tried to sit up and tell them that, but pain greater than anything she had ever felt lanced through her middle and slammed her into a dizzy world of colour. She groaned and tried to move, but that only made the colour intensify to painful levels. Taking every last drop of energy she had, she opened her eyes and nearly threw up at the sight that met her.

She had been impaled.

There was a thin piece of wood sticking in her side. Through her.

"Ginny!" There it was again, the voice, calling her name. Worried and rough, probably from the dust. More than worried…scared? Ginny stared at the hands that were digging frantically at the rubble around her, not quite comprehending that they were hands. "Hold on. You're okay, all right? You're going to live."

Of course I'm going to live. I'm a Weasley. We bounce. Ginny didn't say that. Her tongue had forgotten how. Her brain didn't know any way to say it, so she tried to smile at her rescuer. It came out as a grimace, and a pained one at that. But maybe…maybe he knew it was a smile.

"That's my girl. No, no, don't try to speak." The hands wrapped around her—whoever her rescuer was, he had large hands. She liked that, had always liked large hands—and yanked upwards so roughly that Ginny gasped once from the pain and tumbled back into the land of the black.

"Harry…"