Thanks to all my readers, and my stoic reviewer, nutmeg!
Disclaimer: Erm, forgot about this...So, I don't own Harry Potter, but someday I might pull a Michael Jackson and steal the rights, muahaha.
"Blimey, Harry," Ron Weasley fell onto the sofa in front of Gryffindor tower's fireplace, and Harry followed suit on the nearest chair, "Tomorrow's Saturday, isn't it?" Harry groaned.
"You're right," Harry winced as the bruises on his shoulders connected with the plush armchair, "Quidditch practice tomorrow morning."
"Just what the Healer ordered!" Ron exclaimed, rising to his feet with renewed passion, "What d'you reckon, Harry? A good bout of flying out to lift your spirits!" A cold fear started to uncurl in Harry's upper abdomen as an image of Malfoy's sneering face materialized in the back of his mind. Inexplicably, the Ferret had humiliated Harry in the mens' room; what if, somehow, Harry's innate flying abilities had been similarly compromised? He'd fallen off his broom on more than one occasion, but the thought of being unable to even lift off the ground struck more fear into him than a thousand soul-sucking dementors. And then, there was always the "Ginny Situation;" she was his star Chaser, after all.
Ron stood in front of the fire, lost in his own thoughts. Hermione had nudged him to follow Harry almost as soon as Harry had left the Great Hall, yet Ron hadn't arrived in time to stop Harry from getting petrified and soaked in piss. Something just didn't fit. He felt a headache beginning at the back of his head, which commonly happened when he attempted deep thinking.
Hermione startled both Ron and Harry out of their morose musings by bursting into the common room, breathless. She dumped a stack of library books onto a nearby desk, then took Ron's seat on the couch, looking at both her friends.
"What's happened?" She asked after a moment, judging their dejection within seconds. Harry and Ron exchanged looks. There were simply some things you couldn't share with females, no matter how good of friends you were with them; being robbed of your dignity in a men's bathroom was one of them.
"Hermione," Ron started, ignoring her question and nodding to the stack of dusty tomes, "What's all that? Haven't forgotten another potions essay, have I?" Hermione looked over her shoulder at the books, and her face lit up.
"Well, Ronald," she crossed over to the desk, "Those are every issue of Witch Weekly for the past decade. I figured that Harry might find some insight into his current…circumstances…and you and I could help him," Hermione nudged the stack aside, and hefted the volume from the bottom over to where Harry sat, looking bewildered, "We'd better start at the beginning. If we each read ten articles an hour for four hours a night, we should be done the lot by next Thursday, and then," Ron cleared his throat, interrupting her before she could go on.
"Uh, Hermione," he wandered around to the back of Harry's chair and clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder, rubbing it obsessively, "Do you really think that's necessary?" Hermione's nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. Harry looked up at Ron, and began to fervently shake his head, but Ron blundered on: "Honestly, it's not like Harry's trying to figure out how to charm himself out of impotence, or which potion to use for unruly hair."
"I think it's a great idea, Hermione," Harry cut Ron off before he could dig himself deeper. Hermione crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow at him, "But Ron and I really should be getting up to bed, we've got Quidditch practice tomorrow morning. Let's talk about this afterward, huh?" Defeated, Hermione accepted the thick book back from Harry, and without another word, she went up the stairs to her dormitory. Ron shook his head, staring after her.
"Women," he muttered, "They're all mental." Harry shrugged, and rose to his feet.
"C'mon, Ron, it's nearly nine o' clock," Harry trudged towards the seventh year boys' dormitory, "I've got to get changed before someone smells me." Ron chuckled good-naturedly, and followed Harry upstairs. Within moments of one another, both boys were fast asleep.
The hands of the nearby clock read a quarter after nine when Ginny Weasley stepped through the portrait hole. Someone had let the fire burn low, and an evening chill not unlike that of the Slytherin dungeon filled the tower's common room. As the Fat Lady swung shut behind her, Ginny thought she heard a hiss—"Hussy!"—but ignored it in favor of her mission. Deftly, she crossed to the announcement board, and tacked a piece of parchment onto it. She stood back, surveying her handiwork, and let a gloating smile cross her face. Everything was going according to plan.
As she mounted the stairs to the sixth-year girls' dormitory, Ginny let herself relax. She been unable to think of anything except the details of her extravagant plan for weeks; now, all of her hard work and effort were beginning to pay off. Being the early evening of a Friday, Ginny was unsurprised to find the dorm empty. The other sixth-year girls were no doubt otherwise engaged, either learning the finer points of Quidditch or studying Charms with their boyfriends. Ginny snorted; her "boyfriend" was probably seeking some poor girl's snitch at this very moment.
Quietly, so as not to disturb the seventh- and fifth-year girls above and below, Ginny flipped open her trunk and withdrew a small velvet pouch. Muffled sounds of tinkling glass and ceramics echoed in the empty chamber as she placed it on her bed and crossed to the mantle, where the Hogwarts house-elves kept a silver pitcher of water consistently filled. She poured herself a goblet, and began to set up the contents of the bag on her nightstand.
Out of the depths of the bag, she first drew a tiny, white enameled dish, and then five pearlescent marbles. She'd spent her entire summer's savings on those five marbles from Borgin and Burkes—when the rest of her family had been simpering over the restored shopface of Ollivander's ("Now carrying dragon heartstring wands from THE Harry Potter's infamous mount!")—and had found the "divining dish" in the confiscated items locker of the Prefect's Parlor. The things were quite fickle, used mostly as fortune-tellers for young girls who hadn't the brains or magical ability to decipher social occurrences on their own; however, the specific enchantment Ginny had found required such a dish, for a far more devious purpose.
She filled the dish with water, and swirled the liquid around a bit with the tip of her wand. Once she had a nice vortex going, she muttered, "Cordis Monitor," and the swirling fluid abruptly froze into a gelatinous solid. A ripe smell had begun to permeate the chamber, but Ginny had learned to ignore it: it was an ironic side-effect of having cleansed the dish in diluted Mooncalf dung. The book she was using, "Egregious Enchantments for the Ambitious Adept," had recommended unicorn's milk, but such a commodity was extremely expensive; when she'd asked Professor Slughorn if there were any in the school stores, the old man laughed derisively and told her that when she had several thousand spare galleons, he'd be happy to order some for her. Old fart, Ginny thought as she took a white marble from her bed and plopped it into the coagulated water.
"Cor Lectorum Harry Potter," she whispered, and the mixture turned a hazy shade of yellow. Ginny took note on a spare piece of parchment. One by one, she dropped the five marbles into the divining dish, whispering the incantation and a name each time, and then writing down the reaction. Once finished, she packed everything back into its pouch, and replaced it inside her trunk while drawing out a slim, shining book. She sat on her bed, and flipped through the book until she reached "Chapter 8: Know Thy Enemy." Looking below, she found the diagram that would help her unravel the mysteries of the divining dish.
According to the Magical Law of Psychosomatic Duplication, Harry's color—that hazy yellow—indicated that he was feeling rather jealous and heartsick, for obvious reasons. Ron's color, a dark reddish-purple, meant that her brother was feeling frustrated and angry, probably because of Harry's situation. Hermione, a watery blue, sought understanding while being held prisoner by fear—Ginny smiled, knowing that Nott's devious plan must have taken effect by now. Draco's orange-red reaction denoted both deceitfulness (unsurprising) and sexual dissatisfaction. Ginny laughed out loud at the last interpretation, thinking, even sex-gods don't always get lucky.
Finally, she scanned the diagram in the book to discover the meaning of her own murky green color. Incidentally, her specific coloration seemed to be a sign of intense guilt and malevolent jealousy. Ginny, annoyed, snapped the book shut. Jealousy, indeed! She could understand the guilt aspect of the revelation—it was hard work, abandoning every moral principle she'd developed over years of combating the forces of evil. But jealous?
Nope. Not Ginny Weasley.
At the end of last school year, Ginny had taken part in the epic battle at Hogwarts that had decided the fate of the magical world and had done a smashing job at taking out dark wizards, not that anyone noticed in lieu of Harry's marvelous near-death experience. After the battle, Harry had slept for days back at the Burrow, while reporters, well-wishers, and admirers had stormed the Burrow anticipating Harry's return to the limelight. Of course, once Harry awakened, he was lost in a tornado of publicity. And while the Boy Who Lived disappeared for days on end at various ministry functions, Ginny was left alone to console her greiving parents. Ron and Hermione, unlike Ginny, shared in Harry's glory; it wasn't too long before the media began to refer to the three of them as "the Golden Trio."
The first time Ginny had seen this new title in the Evening Prophet, she'd been helping her mother prepare dinner for their family plus Hermione and Harry (who were pretty much family by now anyway, especially since Hermione was dating Ron and Harry was dating Ginny). As Ginny chopped carrots, guiding the knife with her wand, she watched the family clock from across the kitchen. The arm labeled "Ron" swung precariously between "mortal peril" and "in love."
"Ron and Hermione are at it again, Mum," Ginny laughed. The new couple's lovers' spats had become something of a joke at the Burrow; about once a week, Ron would come downstairs for breakfast, haunted and pale, followed by a red-faced and prickly Hermione. Then, someone at the table would ask how the row went—of course everyone had heard them the previous night—and they would both break down and apologize. Mrs. Weasley glanced at the clock and chuckled softly as she popped open their stove to check on the turkey browning inside.
"Gosh," Ginny sighed, dumping the carrots into a pot of boiling water, "I wish Hermione would stop being such a prude and go and shag him. They're going to drive us all mad." Mrs. Weasley gasped and stared at Ginny, scandalized. "Oh, come on, mum. You know I'm right."
"I suppose," Mrs. Weasley recovered, "We called it hanky panky, back in my day…"
Just then, the old family owl swooped in through the open window and dive-bombed a pitcher of pumpkin juice on the large wooden table. Mrs. Weasley shrieked, rushing to retrieve their fallen pet, with Ginny hot on her heels. After reviving the poor bird and setting him on his perch, Ginny unfurled a rather soggy copy of the Evening Prophet. She scanned the paper for several moments.
"Ah," she said, "They've finally tried Lucius Malfoy; the great prat only got ten years in Azkaban. So did Nott, and Yaxley. Honestly, I don't know if I agree with this whole 'leniency' thing Harry proposed to the Minister. Here," Ginny flipped a couple pages, "It says..." She trailed off as she took in the massive moving photograph splashed across the page opposite the one pertaining to the other Death Eater trials.
The headline above the picture read, "GOLDEN TRIO ATTENDS RED CARPET UNVEILING OF NEW MINISTRY MEMORIAL; POTTER SPEAKS AT LAST TO REPORTERS ABOUT THE YEAR HE SPENT UNDERGROUND." In the picture, a familiar green-eyed and bespectacled face with uncontrollable black hair that didn't fully cover a lightning-bolt scar grinned sheepishly at the photographer, flanked on one side by a beaming Ronald Weasley and on the other by the more demure Hermione Granger, her flyaway hair not entirely captured in a knot on the back of her head. As Ginny watched, the frame zoomed out, and Harry raised his wand to lift a pair of overlarge shears and snip a huge ribbon that ringed something too large to fit in the frame. As he did so, confetti fell upon the three, and someone standing outside the frame levitated thick garlands of flowers over their heads and onto their shoulders. Harry made a formal bow, and behind him, Ron and Hermione shared a brief kiss. The picture reset as Ginny began reading the article.
"Harry James Potter, pictured above at the unveiling of the Wizengamot War Memorial, stood before a panel of internationally acclaimed historians earlier this evening to give a firsthand account of the events leading up to the epic Battle of Hogwarts. Mr. Potter, accompanied by his faithful friends, Hermione Jean Granger, muggle-born magical wunderkind, and Ronald Bilius Weasley, of the heroic and much-acclaimed Weasley Clan, deigned to speak with Prophet reporters before entering the closed assembly outside London's Ministry Headquarters.
Daily Prophet: So, Mr. Potter, how does it feel to be the most famous wizard of our times, possibly in the whole history of magic?
HJP: It's kind of like waking up from a nightmare, really. I've never felt so, unencumbered, I guess. (Harry smiles to himself.)
Daily Prophet: Will you be revealing anything especially important today, before the panel?
HJP: I don't think so. I mean, wasn't the only important thing getting rid of Voldemort?
Daily Prophet: Of course. But you disappeared from the public eye for almost nine months. Everyone's a bit curious as to what happened between your seventeenth birthday and the day Voldemort passed into legend. You must have seen, and done, some pretty extraordinary things.
HJP: Oh, yeah. Definitely. But I was never really alone, at least until the end. Ron and Hermione were with me every step of the way, if not actually, then in spirit. What happened at the Battle of Hogwarts would have been different—really, I can't even imagine it—without them.
Daily Prophet: Do you think your parents would be proud of you, Harry?
HJP: (pause) I reckon they might. I like to think that everyone who suffered at Voldemort's hands—muggles, wizards, everyone—has finally gotten some kind of repayment for their pain. Myself included. I'll never be able to bring my mum and dad back, or Ron's brother, or Hermione's parents, but at least I helped bring the wizard who did them wrong to justice.
Daily Prophet: Speaking of justice, is it true you plan on testifying at the trial of Draco Malfoy?"
HJP: Yes, I…"
Ginny had to stop reading. Her eyes had filled with tears, and she could no longer see the words. Without speaking, she threw the damp newspaper into the rubbish bin and dashed up to her room. When her mother called up for dinner about a half-hour later, Ginny had made up her mind to confront Harry.
Downstairs, Hermione and Ron sat on either side of Harry, while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley faced one another at opposite ends of the table. A pointedly bright and cheerful Percy sat across from Ron, enthusiastically piling green-bean casserole onto his plate; two seats over, Charlie was telling his friends and family about a rather exciting new method he'd developed for subduing dragons. When he heard Ginny enter, however, Charlie turned and offered her a great big smile. Though his face was scarred and pitted from an errant curse, Charlie's warmth poured through the deformity and washed over Ginny like a fresh breeze. She took the open seat between him and Percy, and began helping herself to dripping chunks of turkey.
Ginny spent most of the meal in silence, only half-listening as they discussed bits of news and gossip they'd picked up throughout the day. She peeked up at Harry a few times, and found him either busily answering Mrs. Weasley's rapidfire questions or serving himself seconds—not once did he look across the table at his girlfriend. At last, after everyone was full to exploding, the group began to break up and carry on with their evening activities.
"Blimey, I'm bushed," Ron said, after a moment, stretching in his chair and patting his engorged stomach, "Who knew what a drag it would be hanging around the Ministry all day," He grinned.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley," Hermione chastised him, "Your day composed of making rude impressions of Cornelius Fudge—to his face, I might add—and swallowing several tons of confetti, so don't even start. Besides, you and Harry have got to get started on planning George's bachelor party."
"It's called a 'Stag Party,' Hermione," Ron corrected, "Cos it's a bunch of horny blokes spending a night running about with their unfortunate friend, trying to convince him to change his mind." Harry laughed at this, thinking it rather clever, but Hermione's brown glare of death silenced them both.
"Whatever it's called," she said, her voice venomous, "George left it to you lot to plan the party, and don't you think for one second that I'm going to let you off doing him the way he did Bill." Harry and Ron shuddered, recalling Bill's bachelor party, where Fred and George had waited until the last minute to drag Bill down to the Leaky Cauldron for some butterbeer—which had likely been several years expired, by the taste—and a painfully awkward bagpipe quartet. "Now, hadn't you two better get started?"
"Yes, Miss Granger," they chorused, staring at her, somber as Severus Snape on Christmas. Ron, of course, ruined the moment by snickering, and Hermione chased him upstairs, swiping at his retreating back with an enormous book. Harry stood up as well, making to follow them, but Ginny walked around the table and grabbed his wrist before he reached the stairs.
"Harry," she said, deadly serious, "We need to talk." Concern etched his features as Ginny led him out into the garden. Fireflies floated around them in the darkness, illuminating a path around to the side of the house, where the sounds of laughter and clinking dishes was somewhat softer.
"What's wrong, Gin?" Harry asked, after they finally stopped. Ginny considered her tactics.
"Harry," she replied after a moment, "When's the last time you kissed me?"
"Uh, yesterday morning, right?"
"No," she sighed, "You weren't even here yesterday morning. You, Ron, and Hermione spent the night at Bill's cottage, and went from there straight to London. When's the last time we even had a moment like this, to ourselves?"
"Honestly, Gin," Harry answered earnestly, "I haven't had a chance to spend much time with you since the Battle. There were so many funerals, so many celebrations, so much work to do with the Ministry…" he trailed off, willing her to understand. Oh, she understood all right.
"So, you'd rather attend funerals and spend the night at parties with your friends than come back to the boring Burrow and check up on your boring girlfriend? For Merlin's sake, Harry! You'd rather run laps around the Ministry than take a walk through the garden with me!" Her eyes filled with tears as she pointed an accusing finger at him. "While the three of you were off doing who-knows-what all over Britain, I had to sit at school and wait around for you lot to show up and save the day!"
"Ginny, it wasn't safe. I told you, after Dumbledore's funeral…" Ginny cut him off.
"After Dumbledore's funeral, I didn't expect you to drop off the face of the Earth! Would it have killed you to send me an owl? Even while he was hiding from the dementors, Sirius managed to stay in contact with you! And he had a dirty great hippogriff to look after!" It was a low blow, and she knew it.
"Ginny," Harry explained patiently, "Listen to yourself; It was too dangerous, even to owl you."
"You let THEM come with you!" She narrowed her eyes, "Why did I get left behind? I read the article in the Evening Prophet; you don't even mention me, or what I had to put up with at school because of you! You have no idea what Neville and I went through. I still have the scars from Carrows' 're-education.'"
"I didn't ask Ron or Hermione to come with me," Harry said quietly, "They were both of age, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. Believe me, if I'd been able to, I would've locked them both inside a Gringott's vault 'til the War was over, just to make sure they didn't get hurt. But I couldn't. And don't think," Harry crossed his arms, "For one second that I've forgotten—that I'll ever forget—everything you and Neville did at Hogwarts during the War. There's no need to be spiteful, Ginny."
"Spiteful!" She screeched, "You haven't seen me spiteful! This is me wondering how I ever fell in love with a pompous wanker like you! I might as well have just thrown in with the Slytherins and started snogging Malfoy for all the good it's done me being friends with you!"
"Ginny," Harry said loudly. The redhead plodded on, ignoring him.
"Then, at least I wouldn't have to put up with death threats and insults from all sides…"
"GINNY!" Harry yelled, "WOULD YOU PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, SHUT IT FOR TWO BLOODY SECONDS!" Ginny was shocked into wide-eyed compliance, "Ginny Weasley, I love you to death, but you've got to snap out of it! I want to help you, I really do. But if you insist on being dense, then you may as well bugger off for good, because I'm not going to throw you a pity party!"
And then, having spent days building up to this moment—which was to have been a wake-up call for Harry—and funneling all her doubts and loneliness into what she'd thought was an impenetrable suit of righteous armor—after all that, Ginny broke down and cried. And Harry, being the kind, noble, upstanding soul that he was took her in his arms and held her until she left off sobbing. As she stared, bleary-eyed, up into his warm, green eyes, she came to a realization: She hated Harry Potter. He was simply too good for her, and for that, she couldn't forgive him.
Together, Ginny and Harry had walked back inside the Burrow, and for the next several days, Ginny had been on her best behavior. When the Golden Trio left to take care of their important business, she waved them off cheerily; when they returned in the evening, she welcomed Harry home with a loving kiss. But all the while, she began to put her diabolical mind to the problem of getting revenge on the Boy Who Lived and his two best friends. Ginny had several things working in her favor as the beginnings of her plan took shape: Harry was too busy to notice that she was acting strangely, her parents were often out of the house for long periods of time, and her seventeenth birthday was coming up soon. Once Ginny turned seventeen, she'd be able to use magic outside of Hogwarts without fear of a reprimand from the Department of Underage Sorcery. The day crept closer, and she continued plotting in secret.
The day before Ginny's birthday, she walked downstairs to find her parents deeply engrossed in a conversation with Bill, Ginny's eldest brother, and his wife, Fleur Delacour Weasley. Fleur seemed to be crying, and her voice was more throaty than usual as she spoke in rapid French. When Fleur hyperventilated like this, Ginny had joked once that "Phlegm" had got a frog caught in her throat. Both Bill and Mrs. Weasley had given Ginny a good talking-to after, but the joke stuck.
"Fleur, dearest," Bill said, softly stroking his wife's pale blonde hair, "En anglais, si'l vous plais."
"Eet 'appened so suddenly!" Fleur wailed, "He did not even see eet coming!"
Mrs. Weasley looked at her husband, "What dear? Who didn't see what coming?"
"My Papa," the intoxicatingly beautiful (and eight-months pregnant) Frenchwoman choked, "He and my Muzzer were climbeeng in zee Alps, as zey always do in zee summer, and…and…" she burst into a fresh wave of tears, "A Yeti came out of nowhere, attacking zem! Before he could even get out hees wand, eet…eet…" Fleur buried her face in her hands. The Yeti had obviously NOT invited her father for a cup of tea and some crumpets at its palatial ice-cave. Bill continued patting her gently.
"Mr. Delacour is dead," he told his parents, "And Fleur's mother is in critical condition at a St. Mungo's French branch outside Marseilles. They don't know if she'll last much longer…"
"Zey were told zat zee Yeti were in hibernation!" Fleur cried, "Somebody wanted zem dead!"
"Now, Fleur," Mr. Weasley reached his hand over the table to grasp those of his first grandchild's mother, "You mustn't think that way. Sometimes, terrible things happen for no reason whatsoever. A fluke, if you will, or an unfortunate twist of fate, perhaps. Either way," he assured her, "I'm sure that your father and mother's predicament had no direct correlation to anything even slightly meaningful."
Fleur looked deeply offended, and burst from her chair, moving with incredible speed for a pregnant woman. As she threw open the back door, she began to mutter darkly—in French—through her nonstop tears.
"Ah," Bill said, rising to follow her, "I'd better go see to that. Sorry, Mum, Dad. She's a bit wonky, y'know," He made a round gesture over his abdomen and then whirled around to chase his wife.
After several seconds of astonished silence, Mrs. Weasley began puttering around the kitchen, fixing up lunch for whoever was around to eat it. "What a shame," she sighed, "I rather liked Fleur's father. Too bad she didn't take after him more." Mr. Weasley grunted his agreement, and began shuffling through several piles of envelopes on the worn wooden table. He withdrew one that was a violent shade of magenta, and held it up so his wife could see.
"Molly," he squinted at the address, "What's this?" His wife glanced over.
"Oh, it's for Minerva, from Fleur. She's Gabrielle's legal guardian for the time being, so…Ginny? Is that you?" Blast, Ginny thought, as she proceeded the rest of the way down the stairs guiltily. "What were you doing up there? Listening in?" Mrs. Weasley had raised her wand threateningly; Ginny smiled.
"No, Mum," Ginny lied, "Why would I want to listen to Phlegm anyway? I can't even understand her with that slimy stonker in her throat." She saw her dad's lips curl up at the edges, but Ginny's mum was not amused. However, she had been successfully deflected.
"Ginny," Mrs. Weasley warned, "I don't care whether or not you approve of Fleur, but she's giving birth to my granddaughter in a month, and I would appreciate it if you stopped alienating her."
"Yes, Mum," Ginny rolled her eyes, taking a seat near her father, "So, I thought of a good name for my new niece," Ginny winked at Mr. Weasley.
"Oh, let's hear it then," her mum said from across the kitchen, sounding relieved.
"How about 'Ribbit?'" Mr. Weasley promptyly gagged, spitting coffee down his shirt.
"OUT!" Mrs. Weasley shouted, brandishing a frying pan at her only daughter, "Go do something productive like the rest of your siblings!" Ginny happily obliged, and traipsed back up to her room. She had scheming to attend to, and this new information ought to prove valuable in her plans to completely bring the Golden Trio's reign of terror to a morbid and vindicating end.
In the present, Ginny threw the book back inside her trunk, and roughly grabbed her nightie off the headboard. Heading towards the girls' bathroom, Ginny paused at the soft sounds of snuffling coming from within. Gingerly, she pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the cool room. The noise was coming from the very last stall, and at first, Ginny thought it was Moaning Myrtle. As she drew closer, however, she recognized the choking sobs.
"Hermione?" She queried softly. The sniffing abruptly stopped.
"Ginny?" Hermione's voice was trembling and thin from behind the stall's door.
"What's wrong Hermione?" Ginny asked, feigning concern; inside, she beamed triumphantly, "Is it something to do with that idiot brother of mine?"
"No!" Hermione said, a little too quickly, and Ginny smirked. "I've just got a busy schedule."
"Don't tire yourself out," the redhead advised, "You're the cleverest witch in the school, but even you need to take it easy once in awhile. You'll need all the stamina you can get; I've a feeling that those two," Obviously, Ron and Harry, "Are going to be relying on you more than ever this year."
"Yeah," Hermione sounded put-off, and Ginny could practically hear the wheels whirring inside Hermione's frizzled head, even through the flimsy wooden door of the stall.
"Well, g'night Hermione. Best of luck," Ginny called brightly as she turned to leave. She didn't bother to wait for Hermione's response, and, passing out the door and back into the dormitory, she desperately shoved a fist in her mouth to keep from laughing. Oh, the joys of revenge!